By Dolores J. Nurss

Volume V: Sharing Insanity

Chapter 54




I dreamed that I learned that Kiril had to make herself sick to buy me time, in such a way that it would endanger her to move her.  So then I had to write about it, and Deirdre’s and Kiril’s self loathing then matched well with mine.  Objectively I can see the symbolic and literary sense of it all, but in my heart I feel like I did this to a child.

I dreamed, as Zanne, of learning Belen’s story from her, about the Junkfood Queen being forced to live only on her own food, which had been altered in ways that she had never intended.  I also dreamed of being in telepathic communication with Guaril and Tshura, who were not quite alive, and not quite dead.  (And yes, shortly after this I gave up junkfood.)

I dreamed about the asylum that holds the mother in question.  I wrote this into Sanzio’s thoughts, but it caught me totally by surprise when I typed “we have no brother” as though I just watched it all unfold in one of those observer-dreams, as though I dreamed right there at the keyboard.  Maybe I did–narcolepsy makes it ambiguous, at times.  The obvious and inescapable plot twist–and more twists that must inevitably build upon it, and which made sense of parts already written that I had not examined fully–made me recoil from the keyboard!  I kept erasing and rewriting the  same passage, over and over, but I couldn’t weasel out of what I now knew explained a whole lot more than Sanzio D’Arco.

At this point I started to seriously consider abandoning not just this story, but all of Novatierre, the Tilián, everything.  Soon afterwards I did just that; though I couldn’t escape writing altogether, I diverted it into safe, disreputable fanfic, that turned out not so safe.  Yet, years later, I went back to this story, knowing that I had to finish it, that I could no more evade it forever than Deirdre could just pack up and go home with her mission unaccomplished.

I don't know why.  For some reason that I can feel but not fathom, and despite my lack of skill to do the job properly, these tales of the Tilián are worth more than me, and I don't have to know why.  I'm expendable.  When I give them my all, and have nothing left, someone else will take over.  Probably not with literally these stories, but with what lies behind them, whatever that means.  And probably others write other, thicker threads in the general tapestry, with far more readers than those whom I’m supposed to reach.  We all do our part.

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