It shouldn’t be difficult to guess that as a writer, I much prefer living in fiction. The real world has a rather caustic aftertaste, people die, they desert you, there’s disappointment and loads of other words beginning with ‘d’ which build up, until there really is no other option than to retreat into fantasy. Of course this is just one reality. It didn’t start this way. I’ve just been going through a bad patch. It’ll get better etc.. The truth is, I use my writing to escape from having to deal with complex things in my own life, which I can’t really talk about here. It’s good for the stories, but for the past five years, I’ve been reclusive. Instead of trying to fix my situation, I’ve been skilfully avoiding having to deal with it. *Clicks fingers,* this is your cue, Katherine.
If only I had my very own Katherine De Somme! In my head, at least, she is the earthy and practical solution to Alexand’s airy turbulence. I’ve only ever experienced this sort of love through watching other people. According to a lot of exes I’m remote, and distant (oh another ‘d’) and couldn’t therefore function in a ‘proper’ relationship, be it with a man or a woman. Cats seem to like me though. In fact I’m surrounded by them as I type this, as well as many fictional characters. Maybe I need an Alexand in my life instead? I don’t think Katherine could put up with my nonsense. I need someone who can drag me back into reality, wake me from this perpetual flickering in and out of fiction. Or is this just a dream within a dream? I feel depressed. Too many ‘d’s.