I'm feeling anxious today and typically the antidote to that feeling is writing. I've taken liberties this morning at all my normal writing stations and thus far still feel unsatisfied, so I'll dump here for a bit as well, lucky you.
I'm beginning to think nothing will help. I shall blame my current agitations on an extended bout of insomnia, lucky me.
I've been thinking about what Marc wrote in his comment from the below entry.
Marc from Le Trash Whisperer wrote, " I have a similar yearning for the hero's of Jane Austen novels. Of course, the question is, is what makes them so desirable the very fact of their unavailability, in that all-encompassing way?"
Yes. Yes. And *sigh* Probably.
I've been toying with your thought since you wrote it. I blame and credit writers.
A good writer understands that to reach in and toy with peoples emotions is a clear path to our hearts. Through the art of illusion that writers should participate in, it seems only natural to caress the senses of a readers most basic human condition.
~The need to be seen, cherished, protected and loved.~
A great writer will satisfy, usually after toying and teasing it out, all the needs of their fictional characters. Writers can't leave us readers hanging with the realities of life's little slices of loneliness. No one needs to taste that more then we already do.
Since I'm feeling like everyone is lucky today, I'll use myself as an example here for a moment. I'm 36, been married, been divorced, never really been single for more then a month and have had enough lovers to consider myself 'experienced' enough to blanket remark on my life's little realities.
Honestly, I don't feel like any of the men I've ever loved have actually 'seen' me. One I will grant, came close, but that book falls into the Greek tragedy genre. Seen, as in the way a writer can make their character see his leading lady. Truth is, they just never continued asking questions. They have all accepted me for what I gave on the surface, but didn't continue with a quest to know the all encompasssing. To this day I still find it remarkable only one man in my life has ever asked, "Hey, can I read what it is your writing all the damn time...." (Is it just me, or isn't that strange?)
Fictional hero's drag everything out of their ladies whether they want to spill the beans or not.
I don't blame the Men in my life for this oversight, or unrealized secondary pieces of me. The fact I don't believe I've ever felt anything that resembled all encompassing is because I remain in reality. I know love, in it's boundless glory and until I discover something different, I'll simply cherish that gift. It seems to me that people are generally happy and content with surface and sometimes the less they see the safer their own little world can remain. I understand that. Accept it. We all play off what we feel needs to be given or taken, a writer simply forces the issue and completes the whole package (i) deal.
If I was writing my own hero, for my own book of reality, I'd have my hero give me a music box that played Clair De Lune just because he thought that would make me smile. My hero would ask me endless questions and actually listen. He would ask me about what I was writing all the time. He wouldn't throw a letter or note I wrote him in the garbage. He would always put his hand on the small of my back when we were standing next to each other and every night when we slept he would let me rest my head on his chest so that even if I couldn't fall asleep, I could listen to the sound of his heartbeat.
I would think.....Such simplicity...............
Hence, Writers created unavailable Hero's on the seventh day.............