In the previous post, The Dreams of The Writer Lead To The Dreams of The Reader…, I began an exploration of what’s called the Fictional Dream, a state of mind writers and readers enter when either creating or consuming a good story.
I urge you to read that post, as well as its comments, before continuing. I was going to incorporate those comments in this post but life has made physical reality take on the garb of fiction…
I spend much time in the virtual world, Second Life, and I’d become friends with a remarkable woman. She had become mute at the age of 14 yet had written many poems between then and the age she’d attained when I met her. I’d encouraged her to host one of the Happy Hours on Book Island and share her poetry. Due to her being mute, she could only use the texting feature which puts words above one’s head in a little bubble. I offered to read her poems and she would lead a discussion after each was read.
She was already a good friend of mine when the readings began and those who attended quickly fell in love with her and her work.
Yesterday, I received word that she had died…
Her attorney had emailed me and the hours following created many emails and a lengthy phone call.
The attorney was having extreme difficulty getting details of the supposed car crash and the coroner would not release the purported body.
I say “supposed” and “purported” because, until the attorney has taken possession of the body or seen her in a morgue, Jamie will not be dead. It’s still a fiction–a gripping story with drama, mystery, political incompetence, and conspiracy theories centered on a lovely, talented women cruelly cut-down in her 27th year of life…
I’m in too much shock to draw-out all the similarities between my experience of this story and the fictional dream of the writer/reader. I’m in the story…
If she is proved to be dead, I will still face the fiction of grief’s denial.
Some of you may feel that comments on this post might be in bad taste, but I encourage anyone to make any comment that comes to mind. I’m very much alone, inside a story that threatens to be glaringly true; and, realizing my current state, as I struggle with the lack of precise and confirming information, I quiver to think the story is true and need as much companionship as this venue can provide………
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