In the case of my "male" characters, it's different. They are the kind of confused messes (unable to survive without some strong female, some strong version of me) that are more human than real life human (males). They are.. I guess.. what I want men to be. What I thought men should be like and found out that men weren't after they discovered (at 28-32) that life is too full of pretty girls to be stuck with one (and I am not even pretty) and that they need hardly do anything to be .. whatever it is they want to be (like their dads, friends - and jerks around the world)!! They are, in short, what I believed men were before life, in the form of a reality shock (not check man, not check!), opened my eyes to the truth (life does that to you when you hit 30).
Wait! I know I sound bitter and angry. And I AM bitter and angry! And, yes, I have been scorned. And, yes, Hell hath no fury like a woman such as me. But it would have been ok to be angry if it [this desire to stab at men and society (of men) with a pen; this urgent need to see (male) blood- lots of it; this irresistible craving to make a point that would make me, let's face it folks, too the scorned spinster] wasn't affecting my "work". Is being a good artist ("derasit" for me), a better artist, more important to me than my anger against men (society)? My desire to see blood? My making some glorious point?! (Some thought for the day!)
Still!, the anger would have been ok if Virginia Woolfe didn't think an artist -especially the female artist - should leave his/her anger outside (when entering the room of "his/her" own) to produce a real work of art. But I wouldn't have been an artist if I weren't angry, you see. I won't have wanted to be an artist (a writer---ess) if I were married at 25 and had 4 children right now. I won't! It's not that I regret not having been married at 25 and not having any children. I ain't interested in children anymore and for that one, I'm even grateful (I mean Woolfe wrote none of the Brontës were married, atleast none of them had children). Because you never ask "why" if you think you know all the answers. If you were cozy in your existence, in your situation! You gotta be some sort of "disabled" chap/chick (?) to know life isn't fair. Or, as in my case, you got to atleast feel like the "disabled" (would feel/are meant to feel/am sure feel). So how do I keep the "anger" out of my angry would-be profession (which I'd set about on 2 years hereafter, with a degree in Amharic Language & Literature and a dread lock - tsegure bifekdina ben'nor)? Coz, that woman was right, there is no pleasure that can match the pleasure of being able to tell a story (and be paid for it?). Or do I go out and seek for pleasure? Be unquestioning, un-wondering (like my dumb or "happy" or "content" sex sakes)?! And is that worth it? I mean, happiness would no doubt be the answer, but is it the right answer? Does right or wrong even matter?!
If it does, and if the disabled should come into question (coz they matter, should matter), and if I should bravely face and slay my monsters (most of them in a masculine form) than look for the happy/easy way out, so as to be a better human and a better artist, should I not open my window to let in the fresh air? Should I not go out on a date? Should I not hope for a better day, a better relationship, a better.. self than the sad lonely me?! Should I, in short, sit in my "own room", make my 500 pounds/birr a year and discover what it is to be ... real (person or... artist)?!
*sighs* Never mind!
P.s. And why did Woolfe drown herself?!
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