Sometimes too human…

The new book's going to require copious research and, so, research has begun. What research? I've saved most of the emails I've sent and received over the past four years, plus the My Sides, plus all the letters I've written, plus various and sundry… I've only recently started and have already accumulated nearly 200,000 words… We're talking a mountain of research.

Enough to fill a Grand Canyon.

And I've been spending nearly every waking minute thinking about it. There's this chasm that separates me from the man I was, this divide between where I was and where I wanted to be, this division between me and everyone else during those years, this isolation… and all of these things bring me back to the Grand Canyon. A Grand Canyon that separated my fractured selves. A Grand Canyon that kept me from my dreams. A Grand Canyon the divided me from my loved ones… kept me isolated and alone…

And so, we have a working title: A Grand Canyon. One Man's Journey Through Depression.

But, of course, it's so much more than that.

As I pour through pages upon pages, I find out that I'm not only more human that I'd like to be but I'm more of a louse than I ever thought I was. For instance:

• I said the worst things about Rosa in the instant messages Cindy and I sent back and forth in the first days of our relationship.
• Then, I lied to Cindy and used her.
• A year later, while I carried on with Sherryl, I was pursuing DeAnna.
• For the first couple years after we split, I did little else but insult Rosa - often in public.

As I read more and more, this image of myself as selfish, petty, small, and rotten becomes clearer and clearer and all the while I made myself out to be worthwhile, profound, intelligent but I was just a turd. And, again, I've only started.

If you want to get a good picture of yourself, save everything you write and everything people write to you for several years and then, go back, and see if you turn your own stomach. I have.
And, as I face this, I'm forced to contemplate another dilemma. How do I paint these women who were part of my life during these years? At what point does the subject matter become prurient? Or too personal? It's a difficult road. And a play filled with dick and fart jokes would be so much easier...