Okay...
I’ve been in a bit of a spiral.
One of my wisest, most sensitive friends met me there.
I started out this Substack by saying I was “a writer”, and there was/is an investment in that identity. I am/was a writer who never really wrote fiction. A good thing that came out of finding out that I was donor conceived was that I felt like writing for the first time in a while.
Over the last few months things have been slowing down in my relationship with my donor’s family. The brief window of their curiosity, enthusiasm, and desire for connection was intoxicating.
I still get an occasional text from half-bro, and if I feel needy and write to him a bunch (a very careful bunch, of course; I’m no dummy) I’ll get the reply/supply I need. But I am clearly no longer that interesting. And I am still so, so, so interested, as I keep writing here.
After one post I felt really crappy and lame and sad. And my dear friend J noticed that, and messaged me about it.
At first I thought that he was saying that I was a sucky writer and should shut up.
This made me realize or remember that writing about being DC was not just about processing all this but also about having something to write about, a motivation for writing itself.
I felt deflated after one of my posts, and thought that J was telling me to stop writing.
We kept talking; I was unable to ignore our interaction. I COULD NOT STAND the idea that he thought I should stop writing.
What came out of our conversation was that he sensed that I was seeking a plot, a Next Thing, a narrative. And there just isn’t one. There’s no movement, no resolution. Just no thread. It’s not a story.
So thank you, J, for engaging me in this way. It helps me understand part of what I struggle with, and reminds me that writing, in general, matters to me. I may not be able to shape this story, but I long for narrative and meaning.
It was a tough conversation, and it meant a lot.
Yet more appreciation for friends who save lives.