Confessions of a semi-ashamed writer.

I suppose it does not come as a shock that I fancy myself a writer.  I mean, I do have a blog so clearly I like to write.  But what you may or may not know is that this love of writing goes way back.  Like to second grade back.  That’s when I first tried to write novels.  Seriously.  There was actually a series based on the lives of these triplets — Erin, Elizabeth & Erica (FYI, I didn’t actually like Erica very much) — who were amateur detectives.  The books included some awesome drawings and vivid descriptions of the girls’ outfits, especially in the one where they took a vacation to Beverly Hills.  At such a young age, my writing lacked originality and the series was Nancy Drew meets Beverly Hills, 90210 meets my weird obsession with twins/triplets (which you could probably blame on Sweet Valley High).

Although the triplets books never made it to publication, the little writer in me pressed on.  In seventh grade, I got in touch with my inner poet.  My then bestie, Mrs. English, and I would spend hours and hours locked in our rooms writing and reading our poetry together.  (Clearly these were my more awkward years.)

In eighth grade, Mrs. English and I branched out into the world of short stories and then novels.  (Don’t worry, we never neglected our poetry.)  I should tell you that since the Erin-Elizabeth-Erica days I’ve never actually completed a novel.  But in eighth grade my family and I visited England and I began one of my more prolific works (it fills 2 entire five-subject notebooks) which was a story about a girl (read: me) studying abroad and meeting and dating and I think the plan was eventually marrying Prince William.

I used to have this pic poster-size in my room. What 13-year-old girl wouldn't want to marry that kid?

I started and failed to complete several novels in high school.  I began my second greatest work (still not complete) during a horribly boring summer school class right before my senior year of college.  For some reason, I finally branched out and started sharing my writing with my friends.  In fact, my then-roommate, KT, typed up all of my handwritten work so it would be easier for me to read to everyone at night.  Yes, you heard me.  The likes of Mrs. K2, Mrs. LR, Miss Dubs, and Mrs. B would often gather in my room in the sorority to house for a late-night “literary snack” from the work that was known as “Abbott & Kennedy.”  (I think part of the reason they loved it so much was because they all had characters loosely based on themselves.)  Sadly (or not?), large portions of the Abbott & Kennedy story vanished into the unknown after a computer meltdown.  Let’s all take a moment of silence to mourn the loss of the infamous “shower scene.”

Since Abbott & Kennedy, there have only been a couple of half-hearted attempts at writing any stories.  I’m not sure why I’ve never been able to actually finish a story.  Maybe I lack a point of view?  Or there really aren’t any original thoughts anymore?  It’s hard to say really.  One of my life goals is to write a novel.  But since I’ve never actually finished writing one before it seems like an ominous goal.

I am contemplating for your amusement and my embarrassment posting some of my writing here — you know, poems, half-written stories, etc. But I’m slightly afraid that you’ll never come back. I’m also terrified to put something out there for the whole world to see. I realize that I do this every time I blog, but sharing a work of fiction or a heartfelt poem from my adolescence feels so much more personal. When I write a blog post, mostly I’m just telling you about my every day life or my opinions on friends or relationships or losing weight. I’m sure that there are people who judge what I say and do based on my posts all the time, and honestly, that doesn’t really bother me. The idea of allowing people I don’t know (and people I do) to read my poetry and my fiction work scares the beejeezus out of me. When you tell people you write, suddenly there are expectations. Expectations I am terrified my work won’t meet. What if it’s boring to everyone but me? What if it completely cheesy or irrelevant? What if i don’t get back any feed back either way? These are the concerns that hold me back. But I know that I really want to write a novel and actually have it published, or at the very least share it with people close to me, I have to start somewhere and I’m starting to believe that somewhere is right here.

So without further ado, just a couple little something-nothings to give you a glimpse of my non-blog writing. If I can’t put it here, I won’t put it anywhere.

Letting Go 8.27.00 [Age 16]

I wanna believe you’ll call, but I can’t.  I wanna hope it’ll all work out, but it won’t I wanna have faith in your feelings, but I don’t.  And as this uncertainty eats away at my conscience I wonder where you are.  I wonder who you’re with.  I wonder if you ever think of me.  And as my heart sinks deeper in my doubt, I remember how we met, I remember how you smiled, I remember how you made me feel.  And as I decide I can’t hold on for you anymore I cry because it was special, I cry because I thought you cared, I cry because I know no one will ever be you.  And I dream of how it should have been.

How do you know? 08.27.06 [Age 22]

Sometimes there are people you meet that affect you in ways you can’t explain.  Or maybe you shouldn’t explain.  But I have found that for this person there are no words.  And yet, even in my own mind, I can’t figure out what, if anything, that means.  Coincidence or fate?  Connection or sheer infatuation?  So far, all I can come up with is that I am so moved.  And touched.  And terrified.  And melancholy.  I just can’t figure out why I feel this way.  Maybe I’m not even supposed to know yet.  The deeply romantic read way too many cheesy books part of me wants to say that there is something there that is bigger than anything else I’ve ever encountered.  The logical, shy, and somewhat cynical part of me wants to say that I’ve completely lost my mind and what I’m feeling is the result of lack of sleep and vivid imagination.  But surely, somewhere in the middle of all of my idiosyncrasies there is something real, or at least more tangible.  I can’t seem to get my hands on it though.  And maybe that’s what makes what I feel so beautiful…the fact that I can’t place it or categorize it or rein it in or control it in any of the ways I usually want to.  It has taken on a life of its own and I should be glad to know it at all.  Even when it hurts, it is still somehow wonderful.

The Prayer 03.05.08 [Age 25]

“I don’t know you but I want you all the more for that…” – Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova

I know that you’re here somewhere.  There is something inside of you and something inside of me that will draw us together.  I know it will not be easy or simple or perfect.  But it will be our story.  I know we will write it together for as many years as it takes for us to get it right.  There are parts of the story that I play in my head even though I don’t know your face.  I know that when I happen upon it, the chapters I’ve dreamed of will come to life.  We may change them or delete them but it will be us together.  I know that when you come into my life I will stop living inside my own head.  We will make a life together.  Somehow that comforts me and sometimes it terrifies me.  Sometimes I cannot wait to know you.  Sometimes I’m not ready for you to know me.  But I know that when the time comes I will let you in.  I will let you know my very soul because I know that you already love me; because I already love you.

* Old works have not been updated/edited in any way.


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