I have been struggling lately to write, because I am not sure anymore what being a writer means for me specifically, and what it means to the people around me. Am I a chronicler of events, I wonder, is it merely the case that I write down what happens around me, or is it inevitable my perspective on things pervade my every sentence?  If this is the case, should I simply stop writing, because that seems to be the only way not to hurt anyone?  I remember Nelly the Billionaire’s Daughter once told me that I have a “snake tongue”.  And she was right, for all her histrionics and fits of rage (and there I go again, instigating my point of view as I try to retell events) she had a moment of clarity: I do have a gift for being able to reduce a person not only to tears, but also causing them to reevaluate their entire character, just because I know how to spin a phrase. People like Nelly, unarmed as I am with the weapons of language and heightened perception, fall prey to my barbs and I’m left wondering why I have lost so many friends; why someone as kind as I am has a list of enemies that would rival only that of Hitler or Bin Laden, and it’s all because I can write, so I have been thinking perhaps its time to put down my pen and quiet the snake tongue for once and for all.

What sparked this recent bout of self-loathing was the fact that my older sister, the one of the white-blonde hair and watery blue eyes, lost her mind last week, and I am not sure, but her downward spiral might have been sparked by a mention of her in my column a few weeks ago.  I didn’t mean to hurt her, I rarely ever mean to hurt anyone, but that is beside the point, because I brought her up, and her troubled past with her children, and she sent me a message after she read it, fuming that I had characterized her actions as some sort of abandonment of her children years ago, and I was mildly surprised because I was there, at the time, and there is no other way to recount what happened.  I was merely speaking the words out loud, telling the story as it had occurred, even conscious of handling it gently, and it’s as if just reading the words sent her into a tailspin – multiple emails followed, as I quickly backtracked and apologized, and things settled, even seemed loving and sisterly and I glowed into that evening thinking my writing had brought me closer to a sibling I had not communicated with in years.

A week later, my sister lost her mind.  Quite literally, and seemingly sparked by some incident with her husband, who was the best man in my other sister’s Wedding From Hell (at which my Mother had threatened my Dad’s life and there were fist fights and champagne thrown in faces, police called and ambulances summoned), but I am left to wonder if my snake tongue has struck again, and if my role as The One in Our Family Who Writes it All Down has landed my sister in a mental hospital.  It’s a bone-chilling thought, and as I question my part in her breakdown and my self-anointment as Narrator and begin to see myself as someone who is now not just recounting, but possibly causing events to spin out of control around me, the strangest thing is happening to me: I find myself unable to not write about the events of my sister’s past week.  Sense needs to be made of it all, and I realize I am the writer’s equivalent of the Inmate Running the Asylum but there is no way to leave this out of My Story: the tale must be told.  And then, perhaps, I will finally write the two words that need to be written the most right now, because there has to be calm in all this lunacy, there has to be a way to quiet the demons that swirl in and out of my life and the people around me, and the only way to end it might be to simply write, for once and for all:  The End.

D-GIRL was a development girl in Hollywood and New York City for many years. While finding projects for actors, directors and producers to make into movies, she amassed a number of salacious tales of questionable morality that became an internet column entitled “D-Girl Diary.” She left show business to become a full-time writer in 2001.

(d girls image artist Tashina Suzuki)