Tug of war

On the subject of blasts from the past, I was looking at Pancho's (Paula's dad) new blog, Legión Miope. His blog, and the links featured in it, also brought back memories. Memories of who I was a long time ago, and the Puerto Rico literary scene. You see, when Pancho and I met we both were "young writers". The difference is he kept on doing it, and I have continued other pursuits.

I never felt too comfortable in the island literary scene, of which I was only a very minor footnote years ago, in the early nineties, when two short stories I wrote were published in an anthology called El Rostro y la Máscara. Those years of my life were part of my existential fog phase; my "I'm in the middle of a breakdown but damned if I'll admit it" years.

I never fit in with the young, Puerto Rican writers. It's not like there was an official group or anything, more like a certain personality profile. I wasn't very defiant. Or I was, but not about the right things. I don't particularly like elaborate prose and I did not particularly want to make a stand or stick it to the man. I just wanted to write about things that came from a very personal place, as a way to help me figure things out. Writers in Puerto Rico are expected to have strong opinions on our island and the status of its relationship with the US. My opinions were not the kind they would have liked to hear. Bottom line, I always felt inadequate, not measuring up. That says something about me if I could not even fit in with the misfits.

So Pancho's blog got me thinking of all that again, stirred up some of those old feelings. I looked at the links he's got, which includes my blog alongside several literary blogs. I'm pretty sure that when people go checking out his links and find my blog they are going to go what the fuck, who let this one in????

But why the hell am I worrying about what this other, hypothetical people think? Aren't I the one who preaches live and let live, be true to yourself and all that other crap? Why am I suddenly feeling guilty for not being edgy enough, for not continuing to write feverishly over the years?

Oh, well.