competition is overrated.
I think something is going to happen, something good. I hate this part, though, because now all my insecurities come out from my family, my mistakes, my life in general, and I have to spill them out and hope that nothing is changed and that nothing will make me be viewed differently.
I'm a pretty confident person, I would say. I honestly have gotten to the point where-- for the most part-- I like myself. I think I'm a likeable human being, I think I'm influential, interesting, peculiar to the point of intrigue and not to questionability, and a worthwhile effort. My major insecurities lie in things that I can't control. I hate not having control of a situation, and when it comes to the way my family is or the way my mother does things, I don't have any sort of power. This is going nowhere.
The following is something I wrote a few months ago, but I re-read it sometimes because otherwise, I lose sight of some things.
I love to write. I love to allow my fingers to fly freely over a keyboard and let loose all the thoughts within my disorganized and disgruntled mind, full of overflowing file cabinets and trash bins full of crumpled whims. I would be sure to find happiness in all things if I could write and write and never stop. I would work every day, twelve hours a day, if I could simply release all frustration and joy into a work of art that may, or may not, depending on the day, inspire me or someone else.
And if I could write songs, I would sing them nonstop, and I would sit on a stage and play a guitar -- that is, if I knew how -- and invite you and everyone to watch me pluck through every line. My writing wouldn’t just be descriptions, though; my writing would be just that: a semicolon. Because a semicolon says that there’s so much more that I would like to tell you, but we just don’t have the time nor the energy to review it. And it’s funny that people want to use fewer words to express what they feel today than before, because with a world as ever-changing as ours, there are many more feelings to express.
If I could pass one thing to my children someday, it would be the ability to sit down and read their thoughts, and relay them to a piece of paper. In writing you don’t have to worry about political correctness, or hurting someone’s feelings. Writing is about telling what’s true, and if the truth hurts, then the wounded needs to humble himself. Showing you what’s real is easy when I write. I can show you this world, full of pros and cons, too many to list. I can also show you my life, and the difficulties I’ve faced, the blessings I’ve encountered, and, in the most precious words of young Amy March, “the bearing of the deepest innermost secrets of our souls.”
Freedom is different for everyone; writing is mine. There I go with those semicolons again. What I meant to say is sometimes freedom is painting for one man, and perhaps for another it’s dancing, and that woman on the sidewalk? She loves to sing. She sings lullabies to the invisible children she never got, but always wanted. Not reaching a dream of motherhood shouldn’t keep her from singing her life away. I love to sing, but it doesn’t make me free. There are too many parameters, too many rules. The more I learn about singing, the more I appreciate the untrained voice of the woman on the sidewalk.
My favorite thing in the world-- one of them at least -- is the click of the keys on a typewriter. The classics were written so brilliantly because the authors were able to create them on typewriters, and nothing is more reassuring to a writer than that optimistic tap-click-swoosh of finishing a sentence on a typewriter. And I have to be completely honest here -- keyboards don’t take away the frustration of a long day like that of a typewriter. I wish ours still worked.
Wishing is not as useful as it was when I was younger. Dreaming gives me more hope. Many would argue that the two are synonyms: wishing and dreaming, but I wouldn’t. Dreaming is usually something that’s fairly obtainable, even if it’s unlikely. A retrospective eye would say neither is useful, making and achieving goals are the only way to get somewhere. Thank goodness I’m a writer, and retrospect is not required. But as worthless as the two are: wishing and dreaming, I don’t blame myself or others for partaking in them. I wish I was thinner, prettier, better in school, free-spirited.
I’m so smart. Humility, I have it, but I really am extremely intelligent. What I don’t understand, though, is why my motivation is so miniscule compared to my potential. I’m a loss at chemistry, and I can deal with that. My problem, though, is that I truly believe I was blessed with Ivy League intelligence, but my grades are run-of-the-mill state university. Let me add to that list of wishful thinking: I wish I was a perfectionist. I wish I could paint, I wish I could dance.
I’m glad I can write. Writing is one of those few talents that are actually able to outlive the person. To be of Homer’s prestige, or Thoreau’s influence, or Jefferson’s reputation, any person would die.
Speaking of Thoreau, transcendentalism is worth devoting a lifetime to. Achieving perfection is not completely out of question, after all. Reaching perfection is making harmony: you try all different kinds of notes until you find the right one that blends flawlessly with the melody, not to be overbearing, but to where there’s a balanced union of diversity. That is perfection.
If I reach perfection someday, I’ll be sure to let you know how I did it. I kind of doubt I will, but wouldn’t that be wonderful? Of course, to achieve perfection, I would need to stop wishing for more and allow myself to be happy with what I have.
I wish I could open a school, a minute, humble private school for middle age girls. Middle school is when things go wrong for girls. The focus would be perfecting oneself, and being happy with what you have. I suppose I have a lot of work to do before I teach that. It would be named something thoughtful, and it would be in a big, old house in New England, with a Latin teacher and a History professor, and my girls would learn English and Spanish, Arithmetic and Algebra, even Geometry. We would, ideally, go on trips to places that have changed lives; Auschwitz, the Sacred Grove of Palmyra, the Grand Canyon. I would also teach my girls service, and the importance of doing things for others. They would create art, even if they think that they’re no good. And for those writers like me? They can sit out on the grounds of the school and write on typewriters, creating masterpieces of their own with every click-tap-swoosh.
I’m so thankful I can write. Even if someone someday reads this and thinks it’s the emptiest, meatless three minutes he ever spent, I’m so thankful I can write because I’m not afraid to leave out the semicolons and tell the whole story. The world could use fewer semicolons.
I'm a pretty confident person, I would say. I honestly have gotten to the point where-- for the most part-- I like myself. I think I'm a likeable human being, I think I'm influential, interesting, peculiar to the point of intrigue and not to questionability, and a worthwhile effort. My major insecurities lie in things that I can't control. I hate not having control of a situation, and when it comes to the way my family is or the way my mother does things, I don't have any sort of power. This is going nowhere.
The following is something I wrote a few months ago, but I re-read it sometimes because otherwise, I lose sight of some things.
I love to write. I love to allow my fingers to fly freely over a keyboard and let loose all the thoughts within my disorganized and disgruntled mind, full of overflowing file cabinets and trash bins full of crumpled whims. I would be sure to find happiness in all things if I could write and write and never stop. I would work every day, twelve hours a day, if I could simply release all frustration and joy into a work of art that may, or may not, depending on the day, inspire me or someone else.
And if I could write songs, I would sing them nonstop, and I would sit on a stage and play a guitar -- that is, if I knew how -- and invite you and everyone to watch me pluck through every line. My writing wouldn’t just be descriptions, though; my writing would be just that: a semicolon. Because a semicolon says that there’s so much more that I would like to tell you, but we just don’t have the time nor the energy to review it. And it’s funny that people want to use fewer words to express what they feel today than before, because with a world as ever-changing as ours, there are many more feelings to express.
If I could pass one thing to my children someday, it would be the ability to sit down and read their thoughts, and relay them to a piece of paper. In writing you don’t have to worry about political correctness, or hurting someone’s feelings. Writing is about telling what’s true, and if the truth hurts, then the wounded needs to humble himself. Showing you what’s real is easy when I write. I can show you this world, full of pros and cons, too many to list. I can also show you my life, and the difficulties I’ve faced, the blessings I’ve encountered, and, in the most precious words of young Amy March, “the bearing of the deepest innermost secrets of our souls.”
Freedom is different for everyone; writing is mine. There I go with those semicolons again. What I meant to say is sometimes freedom is painting for one man, and perhaps for another it’s dancing, and that woman on the sidewalk? She loves to sing. She sings lullabies to the invisible children she never got, but always wanted. Not reaching a dream of motherhood shouldn’t keep her from singing her life away. I love to sing, but it doesn’t make me free. There are too many parameters, too many rules. The more I learn about singing, the more I appreciate the untrained voice of the woman on the sidewalk.
My favorite thing in the world-- one of them at least -- is the click of the keys on a typewriter. The classics were written so brilliantly because the authors were able to create them on typewriters, and nothing is more reassuring to a writer than that optimistic tap-click-swoosh of finishing a sentence on a typewriter. And I have to be completely honest here -- keyboards don’t take away the frustration of a long day like that of a typewriter. I wish ours still worked.
Wishing is not as useful as it was when I was younger. Dreaming gives me more hope. Many would argue that the two are synonyms: wishing and dreaming, but I wouldn’t. Dreaming is usually something that’s fairly obtainable, even if it’s unlikely. A retrospective eye would say neither is useful, making and achieving goals are the only way to get somewhere. Thank goodness I’m a writer, and retrospect is not required. But as worthless as the two are: wishing and dreaming, I don’t blame myself or others for partaking in them. I wish I was thinner, prettier, better in school, free-spirited.
I’m so smart. Humility, I have it, but I really am extremely intelligent. What I don’t understand, though, is why my motivation is so miniscule compared to my potential. I’m a loss at chemistry, and I can deal with that. My problem, though, is that I truly believe I was blessed with Ivy League intelligence, but my grades are run-of-the-mill state university. Let me add to that list of wishful thinking: I wish I was a perfectionist. I wish I could paint, I wish I could dance.
I’m glad I can write. Writing is one of those few talents that are actually able to outlive the person. To be of Homer’s prestige, or Thoreau’s influence, or Jefferson’s reputation, any person would die.
Speaking of Thoreau, transcendentalism is worth devoting a lifetime to. Achieving perfection is not completely out of question, after all. Reaching perfection is making harmony: you try all different kinds of notes until you find the right one that blends flawlessly with the melody, not to be overbearing, but to where there’s a balanced union of diversity. That is perfection.
If I reach perfection someday, I’ll be sure to let you know how I did it. I kind of doubt I will, but wouldn’t that be wonderful? Of course, to achieve perfection, I would need to stop wishing for more and allow myself to be happy with what I have.
I wish I could open a school, a minute, humble private school for middle age girls. Middle school is when things go wrong for girls. The focus would be perfecting oneself, and being happy with what you have. I suppose I have a lot of work to do before I teach that. It would be named something thoughtful, and it would be in a big, old house in New England, with a Latin teacher and a History professor, and my girls would learn English and Spanish, Arithmetic and Algebra, even Geometry. We would, ideally, go on trips to places that have changed lives; Auschwitz, the Sacred Grove of Palmyra, the Grand Canyon. I would also teach my girls service, and the importance of doing things for others. They would create art, even if they think that they’re no good. And for those writers like me? They can sit out on the grounds of the school and write on typewriters, creating masterpieces of their own with every click-tap-swoosh.
I’m so thankful I can write. Even if someone someday reads this and thinks it’s the emptiest, meatless three minutes he ever spent, I’m so thankful I can write because I’m not afraid to leave out the semicolons and tell the whole story. The world could use fewer semicolons.
posted by Rebecca at 9:22 PM
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