Type

Words are more than reality.

Or so it seems. I'm in love with a woman who is more a creation of type than of flesh. I met her with words, I seduced her with words and I keep her with words. Typed or spoken.

And even the spoken words are type rendered to sound. When I speak, and she makes that sound, it is type, not conversation. Call it rhetoric, call it staged conversation, it is type.

And yet. Why is she only real to me now. When we have been together. skin on skin. lips, tongue, teeth. Such savour in the physical. When I dream I can still taste her mouth, the wet kiss, the sound of her teeth on mine, the texture of her tonge, her lips. I obsess. And these are not words, are they?

When I read the horror that Ann Marie MacDonald sketches with such intimate grace, I feel, for the first time, that I truly do - want - to be a writer.

I don't know if I will ever be string together description like a string of pearls as she does, but reading her work is immersing yourself in the place she creates. You can taste the dust, feel the sun, the texture of the furniture, the sound of forks on ceramic

So so real.

More real than this life. I feel the horror of the characters, and I sit and sip my beer, smoke my cigarette and dream of a life so rich. But am I dreaming of the writer? The character.

I still don't know.