Why I don't write.

Originally written April 2003.

Let me tell you why I don’t write. The yellow folder is to blame. It is symbolic of my ambition and failure to put pen to paper. I’ve had the yellow folder for three years. How I came to acquire it clarifies how it has held me back.

Since childhood I’ve loved to read. Enchantment with reading accompanied me past my graduation from high school and into my new life away from home. Until then I hadn’t considered writing an option. It was what authors did, not ordinary people like me. I had never thought otherwise until I met my friend F. He wrote not only as required for his major in English, but for sheer enjoyment. He kept copies in his computer of everything he wrote. His files contained not only compulsory compositions for his degree. They also held thought provoking essays, published letters to the editor of the local paper in defense of his views, short stories of various topics, and more. I was both fascinated and jealous of his scholarly talent.

I so enjoyed his writing style that I would often visit him and read his latest efforts. One particular night I read over his shoulder. His computer screen emitted a soft glow through the dim lighting of his basement bedroom. The room was too chilly for my liking but it was worth my discomfort since I was entranced by his skill and had to read on. As I finished his essay I was struck with the desire to understand what it meant to be a writer. Why did he write? Why did anyone write, for that matter? I was certain that if I could pour over his words at my leisure I would come to know not only why others wrote, but how I might learn to as well. Would he mind if I had copies of some of his work? Flattered, he started up his printer and soon the collection was mine. He handed me a folder for safe-keeping.

The folder was made of rutted, uneven yellow paper the texture of leather. Within lay two pockets, one on each side. They were bulging with ordinary sheets of white paper. Upon the pages were written compositions that, I felt, were anything but ordinary. I’ve read and reread the contents of the yellow folder, endeavoring to transcend my perceived mediocrity. I hoped that it would be my key to unlocking the secrets of superior writing. Instead of finding answers, I’ve ended up comparing myself to its author and to writers in general. I have no degree in English, no published works to my name. All I have are words that dance in my thoughts. They form phrases, sparked by everyday moments. These fragments are imaginary literary achievements; they are books that I’ve never written.

The words in my head are constant, yet constantly I deny them formation into existence. They flit about my mind like butterflies, so hard to catch. Do I dare to seize the words? Do I dare to write them down? This course of action seems so daunting. I fear I am not up to the challenge. The yellow folder proves my inadequacy. Its contents are my evidence that words can be caught and pinned down. It is a stinging reminder of all that I have not done. Even though I own it, it does not truly belong to me. It is a testament of those who are able to grasp words and hold them together in print, unashamed.

I cannot continue to be afraid to try. For this reason, I am using writing to explain why I don’t write. If this method manages to render the topic invalid, then perhaps this is a promising beginning. As I catch my thoughts and hold them down just long enough to fasten them to paper, I am freeing myself of my need for the yellow folder. I am no longer searching for excuses to fail. I am not holding back.

A model life.

My foray into the high-stakes world of modeling began at five years of age. My parents signed me up with the local agency. I’d like to think that I learned something other than how to pose but, according to my recollect, being a total poser is the only skill that has carried over into my adult life.

Childhood modeling lasted only for a few years before I had to give up my career for Grade 3. They couldn’t hold me back for long. Twenty three years later, I returned. How did this occur? I’m still trying to figure that out. I do recall attending a casting call in the spring. However, when I got a call back this summer for a photo shoot, it was difficult to put two and two together. 

Perhaps I can explain it like this. It was like getting asked out by that guy that’s too hot to be true. You’re really excited, flattered, and can’t believe its really happening. That’s when panic sets in. When is he going to figure out that, well, he’s way hotter than you, and he could do so much better? You hope that day never comes, but you’re certain it will. Plus, you hate the thought of being one of those un-matching couples. You know, where one is clearly way out of the other’s league and everyone secretly wonders how the heck that happened?

Even though I got the call back that was too good to be true, even though I was excited, flattered, and could not believe it was really happening, panic set in. When were they going to figure out that they could do so much better? Seriously, if I was hiring for a shoot, I wouldn’t hire myself. Not to say that I don’t find myself attractive. (On the contrary, I’m really rather vain.) It’s just that some people have features that don’t transfer well into 2D. I’m one of those people. That’s ok. This fact is balanced by the fact that some people who photograph really well don’t have features that transfer well into 3D (aka real life). I like to believe that I’m attractive in person and...interesting on film. Interesting being a euphemism for not so attractive. And yet I was getting paid to be transferred into 2D. Hence, the panic.

So, now what? I’m not asking for sympathy. I know I was paid to get taken photos of. Shut up and stop my whining already. The fact is, this experience is less about my insecurities regarding modeling, and more about my insecurities in general. I presume I’m a product of my adolescence. After I quit modeling the first time, I entered into a long and painful period of...interesting. Perhaps a part of my mentality has never quite recovered. I suppose we all have moments of an un-matching couple within ourselves. Sometimes you feel like the hot and sometimes you feel like the not. Maybe this is simply a way to put two and two together and realize that you are resplendent, flaws and all, and that’s what makes you beautiful. 

Ice cream as external motivation.

You embody the perfect blend of sweetness and seduction. You personality is just as luscious and irresistible as chocolate ice cream. You have a flirty, melty attitude that's easygoing and delicious. You appreciate luxurious, extravagant things, like the way ultra-soft fabrics feel against your skin. Some people want to hog you all to themselves, but you find ways to make everyone feel special.

An ice cream personality quiz? Sure, why not? Thanks, internet. 

When I first started this blog (was it really two years ago?), I did so with the intent of producing tangible evidence of the odd creativity constantly swirling around in my brain. As mentioned in my very first post, I have a slight problem with procrastination and slobbish perfectionism. There is a certain terrifying freedom in the expose of my innermost musings - the power of the written word is very concrete and yet easily misconstrued. The lack of facial expression, body language, and vocal intones create a wide path for interpretation of meaning. Therein lies my intoxication of words, and therein also lies the danger.

My dangerous liaison with words equals exposing my inner crazy, a risk that I feel compelled to undertake. I feel similar in relation to people. I often feel detached, an observer of social constructions but not a subscriber. Though I don't easily find true connections with people, and count my close friends as far and few between, I love people in general. Fascinated by them actually. I love to be charming and gracious, yet I also love to be alone. I don't have to be alone to feel lonely. I want everyone around me to feel good about themselves. I want everyone to feel joy and be happy. I love to cry. I am a paradox. I suppose I oft times find myself to be sweet, cold, and dark. Chocolate ice cream, anyone?

Label-whore.

I am a label-whore. Not in the conventional sense. I could care less who designed my clothes, as long a I look great in them. No, I devoutly read food labels. I can’t get enough. I believe it began in my early mornings of childhood when I fondly read over all six sides of the cereal box. To know what that box was all about – contents measure by weight not volume, prize inside, part of a complete breakfast, for more information call....so much reading to be had. This was my unintentional preparation for my foray into the nutritional content of all my future food purchases.

I love to grocery shop. Perhaps it stems from a past filled with hand-me-down clothing donated from my cousins as being the extent of my back-to-school shopping, whereas I identify with the grocery store as the place where one can actually SHOP. As I inevitably moved away from home and began to wander those hallowed aisles on my own, my label reading had not taken full hold yet. I still practiced it as a passing fancy at the dinner table, just to keep meals interesting. It wasn’t until I began to pay attention to nutrition that my hobby turned into a full-fledged obsession. Suddenly, label-reading became a necessary tool against the enemy in the war against whatever new thing I had learned was bad for me. It began with sodium. I would do double takes of canned soup if the sodium content was too high. It was soon followed by sugar. Who knew ketchup was so evil? In the food wars, adversary was everywhere, especially when it tasted good. Just when I thought I had it all figured out, it turned out that there were actually good fats. And then I found out that the bad fats were extra bad. Goodbye processed food. Farewell sucrose-fructose-glucose, corn syrup, inverted liquid sugar heaven. Insert more time spent in the kitchen preparing food from scratch to control the sodium/sugar/fat levels. Such is the price a label-whore has to pay for her obsession.

It’s a miracle I can purchase food at all with my newfound knowledge. It directly affects my shopping lists. It filters what I do and do not purchase and or put into my mouth. At the very least, it increases my guilt levels when I inevidebly succum to temptation. Fortunetly, being a label-whore also aids in curtailing temptation. I have lost any and all desire to consume products which I feel are made with the WRONG ingredients. For example, cheap ice cream is made with oil. It’s called ice cream; is it really to much to expect it to be made with ice and cream? Yet sometimes, all my hard work and dedication really pays off. Last night I finally found tortillas made with healthy oil instead of shortening (trans-fat free!). I nearly shouted for joy as I snatched up my find, smirked at my shopping savvy, and strutted all the way to the check-out lane.

Disturbing contemplations on the (non)existance of love.

This occurred on November 06,2003:


Last night I met a woman who said she didn’t believe in love. “It’s just a word,” she said, “It doesn’t mean anything”. She confessed to me her dismay at the thought of mothers telling their children that they love them and asking them to say it back, as though this expression of emotion were some vile form of brainwashing.

I was at the hospital. As a health care employee, I'm eligible for free flu vaccinations. And, so it was that I entered the Children’s Hospital with the express purpose of being injected. After the simple procedure, the request was made to stay in the vicinity for ten minutes, as a health precaution, in case of adverse reactions. I cracked open my latest book and prepared to settle in. However, I was immediately interrupted by the lady in charge of paperwork for the vaccination.

“What’s that you got there? What’s that novel?”

Startled, I turned the cover towards her so that she could read “Cutting” displayed across the top. I explained that I was interested in learning why people resort to self mutilation. She shook her head in disapproval.

“I always wonder, what makes someone do that kind of thing? Why do these people gotta do that? Cut themselves. If they’re stuck in a bad place, whether there is abuse or not, why would they want to hurt themselves like that? If you’re gonna be stuck, why not use that time to study physics or be a better person and wait it out, don’t go start cutting yourself. It doesn't make any sense.”

I replied my belief that it has a lot to do with deep-seated psychological issues and self-harm is sometimes the only way that the victims can numb their emotional pain.

Unfazed, she continued “That’s just the problem. They waste their time hurting themselves. Why? it’s just a waste. Its like that movie I saw on tv the other night. This kid wants his friend to come and do a drive by shooting with him, and his friend says ‘No, you can be anything, you don’t have to do this’. But the kid goes off anyways, and the next scene the police are there, and you see him being hauled off for good. And I just think to myself...I just want to take him and drown him, ya know? Sometimes I just want to poison the drinking water and kill all the babies. 'Cause it’s just stupid, these people.”

At this point, I was seriously disturbed, considering we were in a children’s hospital and an employee had just shared a flippant remark about mass infanticide. I wondered about her deep-seated psychological issues, this elegant looking, middle-aged woman that dismissed love as a lie. What stories did her chilling remarks hint at? Who was she? Why did she seem so polished on the surface, yet so jagged underneath? I felt compelled to tell her something profound.

“I know that you think love doesn't exist, but I promise you that it does” I proclaimed, standing up. Not the philosophical idiom I was anticipating, but somehow appropriate nonetheless. She looked mildly surprised.

“Well, sometimes I think about humanitarianism, and I think that that can exist” she said.

“I believe in humanitarianism too, but I also believe in love. I love people in general and there are people in my life specifically that I love, and that’s how I know that it exists”. A fleeting expression of perhaps crossed her face. “I know it’s easy to see all the negative in the world, but there are good people too. I just wanted you to tell you that love is real. I promise. Thanks for talking to me.”

With those departing words, I left her with, i suppose, something to hope for. She left me feeling apprehension and fascination, as well as dread and compassion.

I obviously needed lip gloss.

I hate rural-bordering urban living. The scenic country surroundings lull me into believing I'm outside city limits where wide open spaces allow for cruising down the highway at fast, yet perfectly safe speeds (in my not-so-humble opinion). Such was this particular morning, whereupon I, with nary a care in the world, had the misfortune to stumble into the proverbial police force cash-cow - the speed trap.

I obviously should have spent considerably more time on my appearance this morning. One quick glance in the rear-view mirror told me that I should not even consider the eye-batting routine, as I didn't stand a chance. I couldn't even manage to well up any pity-tears. Not at the right time anyways. Oh no, not until after the officer handed me my (Gasp! I can't believe it's that much) ticket and sent me on my ever-so-slow way. *sniff*

Let this be an important lesson for all drivers...always look hot.

Procrastinate now.

Yikes. I'm actually accomplishing something. Scary. I have so much creativity swirling about my brain, yet very little motivation. The truth is, I'm one of those sad perfectionists. Not the perfect kind that gets everything done perfectly, or else has a nervous breakdown. No, alas, I am the apathetic cousin of the perfect perfectionist. If I cannot do something perfectly the first time, then I see no point exuding the necessary energy (which will only lead to failure of course), thereby leaving me paralyzed in a brain-freeze stupor. Or, something like that.

So, folks, behold...read the astounding-yet-previously-repressed remarks spewing forth from my typing fingers and be amazed that I actually ever got around to it.