Inspiration

Before taking this job at my family's business, I wanted to be a writer. Since as far back as I can remember that's the one thing I've LOVED to do. It's the one thing I've been good at. I started writing and illustrating my own stories when I was three or four. I was, what B affectionately refers to me as, a "geek baby." I had journals (2 separate ones, one for creative stuff and one for a diary) my entire life and wrote down EVERYTHING. I was always very private, though, and rarely shared any of my writing. I channeled a lot of my creative energy into my school work, especially for my English classes. My 6th grade English teacher, Ms. Nappi, was the first teacher to REALLY push me. I guess she saw something in me and she really taught me to write (school-wise) to my full potential. I think she took a liking to me when I did my Middle School English entry project on George Orwell's "Animal Farm." In retrospect I guess that is a little outrageous, a 10 year old critiquing and explaining a book in which communism and its class-system is represented by animals on a farm (still one of my favorite books of all time).

Anyway, I kept writing and was convinced I would become a short story or poetry writer, publish books, become a journalist, be a freelance writer (yes, all at the same time) and live in NYC in a kitschy retro-decorated loft. Ah, to be a young idealist. I slowly realized how much of a competitive, dog-eat-dog field writing is, and I'm the opposite of competitive. I didn't want to ruin writing for myself by making it my job, so I chose this instead.

I didn't think that a career would get in the way of my writing, but it did. I was always busy and didn't even have the time to stop and FEEL anything, let alone write about what I'm feeling. I started only being able to write when something was wrong. Which was bad, because every time Brian saw me writing he equated it with me being unhappy. Which was bad, because it lead to questions like, "Do you hate me?" I slowly broke out of that and I'm still learning to appreciate inspiration when it strikes me.

I still write on my pathetic.org page sometimes. A poem of mine was even featured as Poem-of-the-Day in May (I might be lame for being excited about that, but really, it's exciting!):

I want nothing more than to be eloquent.
my words to be deliberate.
precise.
pointed.
to cut through the air like a torpedo.

Past the sentences muddled with stammers.
stutters.
wasted breath.
to arrive at the very thought and feeling.
to convey it the way my heart is beating it.

What made me want to write this entry is a book I bought this weekend, "Bang Ditto" by Amber Tamblyn. Yes, she is one of the girls from Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (and yes, I love that movie regardless of the fact that I'm 26 years old), but that's not who she IS. She's so ridiculously talented. Her views are mature and she twists words in a way that make you see through them to what she's actually FEELING. It is SO inspiring.

My favorite so far (I haven't even come close to finishing and it's only 125 pages. That's how much I love it.):

Earthquake

My entire life has been a huge earthquake
I slept through. All I know are the aftershocks.

The sound of glass being swept up
in my lover's bedroom.

A story I don't remember telling is the headline
of every newspaper the morning after.

My blackouts in big lights.
All I see is the damage I've done.

My mother is the news anchor,
never allowing me to escape her natural disaster.

My father is the kindly neighbor
bringing me a candle and asking about my injuries.

I read a diary of old
New Year's resolutions:

1) Ignore the commentary on your comical thighs.
2) Write more than just repeating his favorite song's lyrics.

3) Report every shooting star to Mindy while out of town.
4) Tell him you love him before he figures out that you don't.

My friends lie to me like a government.
They say the wreckage isn't as bad as it seems.

My old flames head up relief efforts,
raising money to help the hurt survive me.

My thoughts are homeless dogs running wild.
I just want to know the truth.

I'd like to take the Richter Sclae
out for a romantic lie detector test

and when the mood's right,
ask what it really thinks of me.

When it doesn't respond, I'll tell everyone
to sleep in their cars, to move to Florida

where hurricanes announce themselves
before destroying everything.