|Light a candle for my lost love
||[Sep. 27th, 2003|01:49 pm]
I miss obsession.
Throughout my life, almost since I can remember, I have managed to be obsessed about something. I remember the introduction to my earliest obsession: Bobby Sherman and Here Come the Brides. Even after this short-lived (and undoubtedly terrible, which is why I avoid reruns like the plague) TV show went off the air and poor Bobby's next vehicle was a lameass show that got aired at 4pm on Saturdays, I was a loyal Bobby-lover. Other girls were ripping down their Bobby posters and hanging up David (he doesn't even get a link, dammit) Cassidy pictures, but I remained loyal. I watched the Partridge Family, but I still searched through every issue of Tigerbeat and Teen, searching for the most minor of Bobby articles, the Bobby footnote.
Eventually they faded away.
I refuse to mention my obsessions post-Bobby because they are so embarrassing (and, hey, if I would admit to Bobby Sherman, you know these were bad), so we can just shortcut to after my highschool years (okay, Neil Diamond was one of them), and the big obsession that owned my life for decades.
As I said in a review I once wrote on Echo Station, the first time I saw a trailer for Star Wars ("It's the story of a boy...a girl...and a galaxy"), I turned to my friend and said, "Boy, that looks dumb."
And then the movie came out. And I was hooked. Beyond hooked. I was obsessed. I remained obsessed for the next couple decades. For a long time I thought I was alone, that no one loved Star Wars like I did. There were no toys, nothing new. Just the continuing saga playing out in my head.
And then one day I spotted Timothy Zahn's Heir to the Empire in a Waldenbooks. And scooped it up. And read. And fell in love even harder (much Star Wars literature is irredeemable crap, but some, like this series, is quite good). And then I typed Star Wars into the search engine at Compuserve and found people just as obsessed as I. I found a community. I eventually found a husband.
Sometime within these years I wrote my fan fiction novel, the one that had been rattling around in my head for decades, the one that had sustained me through the dry periods when my obsession offered no outside material to feed itself. That novel won me considerable acclaim in the Star Wars community (particularly the NC-17 version of it, which is still available for the asking [g]). But finishing the story did a strange thing.
Once everything was concrete, once everything was on paper, the life I had been living inside my head was complete. It drained out of me. My obsession diminished. I've started the sequel, but it is based more on the literary part of the story that I tapped into as I started writing, and it doesn't live in my head the way the first part of the story did.
I feel...strangely empty.
I have had mild obsessions since then: Buffy gave me the pleasure of Spike, but I have never made him my own. Angel suffers the same problem. A general adoration of Harrison Ford just hasn't proved to reach the same level.
I had hopes for Lord of the Rings, what with Viggo being so heart-melting and all, but let's face it: Tolkein already wrote all the fan fiction. There's no where to go with it.
All I have is my own future now, which I occasionally feather nicely whilst stuck in traffic, but there is none of the unrequitable desire, the deep agony unanswerable in reality on which I used to thrive. Nothing has caught me like this did. Nothing sustains my rich inner life.
I'm happy and content, for the most part. But I miss that desire, that fierce imagining. It saddens me that I may never have it again.