The voice in my head who writes has returned. She goes away for long stretches of time. Perhaps she hibernates. Yes, I think that’s it. For she never returns more worldly than before, or more enlightened. I think she likes to sleep. I understand this. I like to sleep, as well. I welcome her every time she returns, shakes herself awake, mouth dry at first, hair rumpled, eyes out of focus. She slowly stretches, flexes fingers and toes, brushes teeth, washes hair, sings in the shower, sharpens her voice, makes herself presentable to the world, to me. And I love her, little sweet sleepy creature that she is. She is excellent company.

The voice in my head who writes is very absorbed with me. Were I taking responsibility for the whole situation, I might say I am very self-absorbed. I expect that is the sturdiest definition of an on-line diarist: one who is very self-absorbed (and who writes). Yes, she runs an ongoing monologue as I move through the world. Mostly chronicling my thoughts and my actions, my memories. But all in type. In printable, duplicable, self-publishable form. For example, most of the above and some of the below was composed in my head (as I was eating coconut milk soup tenderly, taking care not to use my front tooth which just underwent root canal) by the voice who writes and hibernates.

I used to be concerned about my self-absorption. When I was younger. And the voice was active. I think she wrote about other things, too, then. At least the hand did. But I know the voice has always been very interested in the corps. As I was saying, I was concerned. I very much did not want to be a bad person (whatever that meant; the definition of “bad” still being malleable and fluxious) or shallow or arrogant or hopelessly boring. But someone told me—probably a teacher or a guidance counselor or a student in a higher grade that I thought was smart (most likely a genius)—someone important, who could speak to the little me with great authority, someone I trusted told me that we were all necessarily self-absorbed. Being the only person we know quite literally inside and out from birth to death, it is natural that one would ponder the thoughts, doings, memories, dreams, and wishes of oneself. One could hardly help it.

I was relieved not to be doomed to a life of exceptional dullness. Now I characterize it with being in some sort of writer mode. I can write when the voice in my head is asleep. Sure, of course, I can. I just don’t as often. I prefer the perpetual story. Even if I am the protagonist. It’s still something to read. To write. To play with.

I think the voice in my head tends to come out of hibernation if I’ve somehow stumbled into a pattern of writing often without her or if I’m reading something that inspires her (“creative output requires creative input,” as Emily Calvo once told me) or if I’m doing both. In this case, both. Deena Metzger’s book having led me back into writing regularly and this autobiographical novel Cool For You by Eileen Myles, propelling my psyche into the state of spinning an autobiographical novel all around my head. When I close my eyes I can see the pastiche of memories in three-dimensional collage all around me, huge. And the voice in my head who writes, narrating the whole exhibit.

I’m not sure this page would be in there. It’s just a little too self-absorbed for comfort. =)