The Little Writing Demon ...

There once was a philosophy tutorial I was in. It was my first year at the UofT, my first philosophy class and it was quite intimidating: there were plenty of people older then me, lots of richer kids too, with their Macs and their faraway looks. Needless to say, I walked in with my three year old bag, jeans and old Catholic school uniform sweater, and I about died from nerves - though I was also intrigued. All these people had a story, after all. James - the only Oriental in the room (trust, if you knew UofT you would know how rare that is), with his dyed red hair and green contacts; Rick, the typical ginormous WASP with his blowy blonde hair and lashes and these sick looking blue eyes; Benjamin, with his spectacles, briefcase and top hat. The list goes on.


Loren was our TA. She quickly put me at ease when in the first ten minutes, she responded to Rick (who apparently was trying to assert that he was The Awesome) that "Not all of us have little black turtle wearing existentialists on their shoulders telling them all they need to know about the universe."


We all laughed that off then, but over the years, it has become, in my warped
way of thinking, near true. I have two crowded shoulders.

I have the little Historian with her smudged spectacles and unruly hair that sits on one side of me, gently prodding me with a nail bitten hand to look around and appreciate the history of life - the colour that abounded in the past.


Then there's that existentialist - to be honest, my only "Him" - not sure why, maybe because whenever I think of existentialists, I think of Jean-Paul Sartre (aka JPS) with his awkward momma's boy body, and round glasses and balding head. Every time I come to the facts of life - the inevitability of my own existence, he kicks me. Literally, right near where my collarbone meets my shoulder, the little trenchcoat wearing, pipe smoking existentialist kicks me into action.


Of course, I have Tellulah - that's the name of my inner hippy. She sits to the left of my inner go-getter (I call her Beth), and they argue over whether that fiver in my pocket ought to save the whales or buy a blackberry (as if a fiver was ever enough to do either ...)


And then I have my little writing demon. Sometimes she's Ammy Belle - all sorts of bouncy sugar sweet cuddly goodness and support. Other times, her face changes and she becomes A. Isabel - and then she's dark and broody and into highly erotocized steam scenes. And then at other times, she's sleeping and she's just me - out of ideas for the moment, but sure to rock back into action soon.


And that's the thing, I guess. It's like that saying about wearing many hats, or that all the world's a stage - at times, there is always a need for one of my little demons - and I have tonnes more then the ones I just talked about, but all they do is reflect an aspect of me, and I think there is something scary and interesting in that.


Anyways, what do you all think?
Have I made a profound statement on the existence of personality? Or, are these exams getting to me? :P

Ammy