Again with the stops and starts in my postings--I am consistant in my inconsistancy. So what now? I am still here, I haven't abandoned this venture to head back toward warmer and more familiar climates, so I guess I am ok. On time off I've been reading the Plath biography that Lizzie gave me and through that (amidst other events) I've come to remember how much I simply love to write. Her inspiration has give me inspiration, though I hardly plan to end up with my head in the oven or married to a Hughes-type character. I have found my creative candle rekindled. My writing is probably the only behavior that my mother has ever encouraged, so the conversation I had with her yesterday was plesant and almost enjoyable. I was discussing Plath and mentioned that I read "The Bell Jar" last year and she said, quite suddenly, "I read that too--I loved it but I haven't read another word of Plaths; I understood her too well and that frightened me." I was thrown back by my mother's statement; for it was the same reaction I had to Plath. It was disconcerning to think my mother and I have something in common, but in all seriousness it gave me insight into who my mother is as a person. I understand a bit more about that side of her I've never known, and thus maybe a bit of where that darkness in me came from.
(I apologize for the subject's title; it's such a bad pun I had to use it.)
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