Never assume when it comes to affairs of the heart.
I’m writing this post at 3 a.m. It’s not my habit to write at this hour, but when you have a lover in Paris, you tend to keep bizarre hours. Especially when you quarrel.
I’m tired of hanging my laundry out to dry on my blog; I’m tired of hurting Jean-Baptiste when he reads my posts about new boyfriends; I’m tired of having other’s read my blog then text David and misquote me; and, I’m so, so tired of men Googling me, then read my blog and assume they know me.
Steve Martin once said in an interview (and I paraphrase): I can never complain about my life because anyone would trade places with me in a second.
If I can’t be honest in my writing, it’s impossible for me to write. If I can’t write, I shut as quickly as a tripped bear trap. It’s impossible for me to ignore my heart when I write. Make no mistake, I’m not writing fiction, I’m writing prose.
But will someone tell me how I’m supposed to tell the truth when I’m so tired of the world making assumptions about my bedroom?
I’ve always said that fame is assigned. I always thought I wanted fame. But Charlotte is a tiny place ripe with assumers and gossip mongers. People here have painted a false image of me. And the only way for me to assume anonymity is to flee quietly.