Trying to Keep it Superficial and Light

Most annoying thing about being a writer: redundantly dictating every minor action you take.

She hesitates: grapes or nectarines? She reaches for a nectarine; inspects it before tossing it in the cart. Realizes she's never bought nectarines before. Oh well, let's try something new, she thinks, scratching her foot with the tip of her toe... that girl has nice socks! I wish I could pull off socks like that, she wists. Girl envy... qua sock envy.

She's jerked back to reality - while writing that sentence, the neighbor, possibly drunk, screeches into his driveway and hits the side of his own house. Roommate decidedly pissed. She wonders what this world is coming to.

Remember when you first thought you were all grown up? I do, I remember exactly where and when and why, even, taking the first few puffs of my third or fourth cigarette, realizing that I had all this freedom. Suddenly writing wasn't something I did hidden away in my room, it was something I did in public, with beer, with a cigarette. The cigarette made me a better writer. I could feel it.

The faux french-existentialist that never was. If only I had a hat.

Nevermind that I was sixteen and couldn't write worth a damn. The point was that I tried, I channeled this overwhelming emotional energy into words and pages and more words until I had to replace the plastic inkwell on my fountain pen. It was more than cathartic; I thought I had found myself. I knew who I was. I knew who I wanted to be.

Now, not so much. The certainty of teenagehood is replaced by a nagging doubt that doesn't really take hold until you're well into your twenties. Am I good enough? Before, the "goodness" was just an assumption; you didn't question your obvious and admirable talent. Now - later - you look back over your own writings and seethe with mortification.

I didn't think I wrote like that.

Curse of the critic within.

Segue-that's-really-an-ending: Chris asked me what was up with my cryptic endings to my posts. I stared at him with what I hope was a mixture of how-dare-he-pry and general mysteriousness, but in the end I told him that I've always been bad with endings. I don't know where stories end. Ask my sister: when I was in fourth grade I told her I couldn't end this story I was working on, and she convinced me to add a bit after the Native American boy and his shadow-wolf lean in close to share a secret. (This is the climax of the story, by the way.) Anyway, they lean in close together and the boy is whispering his secret when - all of a sudden! - the wolf jets away into the bleak black of night. (This is the part where the audience is supposed to get really anxious!) And indeed, the wolf soon comes speeding back in a whirlwind of wolflike fury... a pack of tic-tacs dangling from his lips.

Ha ha ha.

You should have seen my poor teacher's face when she read that story out loud to the class. I was supposed to be the smart one - the serious one! But no. Curse you, no endings.