So I'm beginning a novel. Here are some of the tidbits that are driving me:
Asrai biography
A phase out of step with most people, Asrai grew up under strained environments. Her mother was a caricature of emotions, so asphyxiated by responsibilities that Asrai was left without her. Her father tried his best, but she grew distant from pained people. She liked to explore as a child and constantly read books beyond her understanding. At one point, her father abandoned all hope of sheltering her innocence and allowed her mind somewhat open grazing grounds. She had trouble understanding why people acted so irrationally or hypocritically, but their rhythms inspired her. She often played with frogs and toads and water bugs and other animals that existed in-between. She genuinely disliked television. It never told her why. Asrai was very pretty, but often muddy.
In school, she began to hum slight rhymes about her slips of mind, to the amusement of her friends (but not her teachers) and always with a small drop of honey breath. High school was easy and without rivalry since she never crossed with the competitive people. She kissed a boy, maybe two, and made out once after drinking a beer, but it bored her. She had no incentive, only a flirt. Boys never understood why she always smiled and laughed, but always the same to everyone. Her father’s health declined. Asrai didn’t want anymore room for pain.
From her first morning unpacking at her dorm room, she was well-liked and ogled. I should point out that Asrai was now in full glory, a punk skirt without the aggression. She was a bit tall, but only that people could not avoid her eyes. It can be argued that she was slight in everything. Slightly tall, slightly aloof, slightly amused, and slightly dangerous, although Asrai didn’t know this. Her hair was short and cropped and gypsy dark. Asrai’s jeans were always patched and her one clothing possession that wasn’t disposable was her red leather jacket she received from her father many years ago as a way to single her out in a crowd (as he was very protective). The only make-up she could stand to bear was glitter above her eyes. Asrai liked the distraction it caused in others. Distraction was her hobby, a friend once said. She smiled in such a way that only she suspected it was for an audience and not a guide to her own state.
Asrai dabbled and flitted around many classes, but it was history and art that brought her into herself. She began to perform at coffee houses and small open mics and even dorm hallways on loose Sunday evenings, since that was expected of artists. Once night, and her only night attempting it, Asrai picked up a guitar and sang out her poem, “Another heart’s claptrap.” The strings cut very deeply into her fingertips, causing scars that grew bold with age. She refused to accept that pain is a necessary part of experience. Good things could remain soft and still function.
She became infamous among writers, artists, and drive-by dabblers in the liberal studies. Only half of them were in love with her, the other half understood why they couldn’t be. Her fraternity party occurrences were brief and not repeated, but surprisingly friendly. Among her workshop class, however, there developed a small cadre of folk who attempted to discourage her probes into others through language and rhythm. They thought her dishonest and worse, naïve. They wondered how she could comment on raw emotion and relationships when she was so barren in both. Asrai responded very simply that “our personalities are like oil slicks on water; always beautiful and vocal, but could only survive in one medium.” The mystery she was curious about was why certain fruits were preferred over others. As usual, the teacher defended her, although in his defense he thought only once about sleeping with Asrai, and that was after a long whiskey night over his cross country wife and son.
Because she trusted no one fully, Asrai turned adown housing and roommate offers; instead, she found a crippled house on the shore of the bay to rent and explore. Her father was very scared, but let her go. She was not very scared.
They are all different, and all the same.
