We'd all be on horseback

Sometimes I wish for brilliance. Sometimes I want to be so ruthlessly intelligent I could cut people down with a single word. I want people to be afraid of me. I want to be a hard and sharp and cold as a diamond. I want Emma Thompson to play me in a movie.

Here's who would really play me: Rosie O'Donnell.

One thing I really like is when I'm passing someone I know, and instead of saying "Hi," or "Hey," or "What's up?" we just nod to each other. Not the kind of nod where you smile and nod completely. I'm talking about the kind of nod where you just lift your chin up and are both too cool to smile or say anything. It's my favorite thing to have happen.

I think I'm the least edgy person in my playwriting class. Everyone else is writing this really artsy stuff or gritty stuff or meaningful stuff, and I'm not, actually. I mean, I think it's meaningful. Sometimes. But it's just stuff about people meeting other people and falling in love over and over again before they realize that falling in love isn't a real thing. And then they realize that love is actually better than falling into it. And I don't know anything about anything, so maybe that's just a load of bull that I'm writing. Do I believe in love at first sight, or do I just believe in hormones? Does anyone believe in love at first sight anymore? I believe in a lot of things that are weirder than that. I don't believe in that, though. I don't really believe in destiny, either, but I find myself thinking that things are destined. Does that make me a hypocrite? Or does it just make me human?

Here's the reason I'm not edgy: I don't ever swear. I really don't. I have a foul mouth in my mind, but I don't say it. One time I called my brother a dick, and one time I said I was being a bitch, but that's it. When I try to write characters who are realistic and swear, they just sound silly. They sound like they're trying too hard. That's because they are. That's because I am. Other people can write things where people have no problem cussing, and it's natural and realistic. And edgy. Not I. I want so badly for a character to tell someone to fuck off, but it's not going to happen. I know why it's not going to happen.

A) I can only ever seem to be alternative and awesome, when really I'm vanilla. I might be a poser. I like things that are different and weird, but I myself am neither of those things.

B) I can't shake the feeling that swearing is not the right thing for me to do. I don't care if other people do, but I can't. I can't can't can't justify it for myself. I like beautiful things, and swearing isn't beautiful. It's raw and emotional and honest and real, but it's not beautiful. It's something I can respect, but I'm not enough of any of those things to write and/or do it. It doesn't make sense for me to feel like that, because when other people swear, I get this weird kind of admiration for them. When people create art with vulgarity, I like it. I mean, I don't like all of it just because there's swearing, but if it's good, I like it.

Lately I feel trapped in my head. I wish I could just shrug out of my skin and take a vacation. I'd float around the ocean for a while and not think about anything anymore. I'd come back when everyone had forgotten about me and I could make myself something new.

I think life is a process of becoming something you aren't yet. Smarter. Stronger. Kinder. Maybe that's good. I think that's good. But if that's true, does that mean that contentedness is stagnation? I don't want it to be. Do I only think progress is good because that's society? Isn't trying to get closer to God trying to progress? I'm going to be honest: I don't feel like I'm close to God right now. I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing. I pray, but I feel like my prayers just jostle loose my insecurities, which bounce and echo in my head, and sometimes I think they're God talking, and sometimes I know it's just my own voice coming back to me.

Are all the things I feel are right really wrong? Are all the people I think are hurting people really helping them? Last year I found out that I knew a lot of stuff I didn't think I knew. This year I'm finding out that I didn't really know a lot of it.

Is this just another time for me to grow? I remember when I was 8 or 10 I went to the doctor because my knees hurt and I was tired all the time. Turns out I was just getting taller and older. Growing pains. I thought I had a disease. Maybe that's what's happening now. Maybe I don't have a spiritual disease, maybe I just need to get taller again.

I played some records today. Artifacts are just as good as time travel. I pretend I'm living in the 60s, only computers were around back then and also Snow Patrol, because I've been listening to them more lately too.

Here's another thing I love: coming into my room and seeing Laura crashed on my couch. I love when people are comfortable around me and just act like themselves. And when I come into my room and see that Laura is fine with chilling there even when she's alone, I feel like a real person.

And that's why I'm never going to be hard as diamonds.

Imbued

Ever since I was a tiny child, I have wanted to be a writer. My first book was entitled "Dad's Book," which I both wrote and illustrated, and which featured a drawing of my dad standing in front of a barn wearing overalls. No, my dad had never done that (and still hasn't) but I choose to view that as a sign of my creativity, even at the tender age of 5.
By 8, I was writing my own memoirs, although I never got much further than the titles. A few I remember are "My Great Boring Life," and "Tales of the African What-What Bird," which sounds like it might be about something made up, but was actually referring to the fact that my mom had called me that one time because I guess I had a penchant for not hearing what people were saying and then yelling, "WHAT? WHAT?"
I'm trying to say that I wrote a lot, and have always wanted to be a writer.
Technically, I am a writer. I write on a regular basis. I don't do it for money, but I do it for a living. As in, I would probably die if I couldn't express myself using the written word. Heaven only knows I don't express myself well in the spoken one.
The other day I was thinking about how crazy it is that I'm actually good at the thing I love. One could make the argument that I love to write because I'm good at it, but that doesn't explain why I've loved writing before I could do it well. I loved writing even when I wrote things in my journal like,
"Oct 22 1999, Age 9
Today was bad. Aleks couldn't find his shoehe's so every one exepte him was looking for his shoe, mom calld pop & dad. After that she blue up she yeled at us all including me. Why me? I'm upset."
(Don't ask me how I knew how to spell "including" but not "yelled" or even "shoes.")
Worse yet, my journal also documents the angst and inner turmoil I suffered when, at age 11, I discovered that Aaron Carter didn't write his own music.
This is not the height of literature.
Somehow I managed to break through my hatred of my handwriting workbook (thank God for keyboards) and my inability to focus on anything that wasn't how angry I was at my siblings or how betrayed I felt by the music industry. Somehow I made it to college, where I've discovered that I have become, completely by accident, a writer.
How crazy is that?
How crazy is it that the one thing I want to be more than anything else in the world is the one thing at which I excel? The one thing I'm completely comfortable doing.
I know it's not an accident, obviously. I know it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with this God I worship, but still. I know people who want to be actors but who can't act their way out of a paper bag. I know people who want to be musicians but who can't carry a tune in a bucket. I know people who want to be original but only use worn out metaphors like "act their way out of a paper bag" and "can't carry a tune in a bucket." Seriously, though. Is there anything more torturous than wanting something with everything you've got in your finite little body and not being able to come anywhere near it?
I think I might be the luckiest person alive.

I'd give you everything I've got for a little peace of mind

"I just want you to be happy," he said, rubbing my back gently. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you." He looked at me intensely, and I looked away. He didn't stop. "I love you."
Yes, that was the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.
No, it wasn't real.
Last night I went to an interactive mystery thing, and my character, Gabby Backer, was dating Larry Linebacker. We went to homecoming together before my brother was killed by Cindy Sensational, who wanted her boyfriend, Kevin Kicker, to get the scholarship my twin brother Bobby was about to receive. It was a really fun time: I got into a huge fight with Sally Spirit and Dr. Chambers had to break us up, and then Peter Prez tried to crown himself homecoming king since the actual winner (Bobby) was dead and couldn't fulfill his duties, and Laura and I were two out of the four people who correctly deduced that Cindy Sensational was the murderer, which resulted in our "Smoking Gun" awards.
Still, Larry Linebacker's confession of love was a little unnerving. Not because he was being creepy or uncomfortable. We were both acting out our parts and being silly like everyone else. It just made me think about my own horribly uneventful love life.
After the event, Laura and I started talking about how she and her boyfriend ended up dating and about how my mom thought my dad was going to kill her when he proposed (Spoiler alert: He didn't), and about how Sarah is engaged and all that kind of stuff, and it threw into sharp relief the fact that I have never had a boyfriend in my entire 19 years of existence. To make matters worse, I've never even been pursued. (Okay, one time I was at a square dance and this creepy kid followed me around for a couple hours and ate my pretzels, but I was like 13 at the time and it was a fluke.) And to be honest I'm not THAT upset about it. I don't want a boyfriend just for the sake of having a boyfriend. There are so many great things about being single, really. I don't have to worry about missing anniversaries or spending enough time with my boyfriend, or worry that he's cheating on me, or keep myself from talking about celebrity crushes (although I usually end up going for writers, who aren't that intimidating anyway) or any other things that people who are dating have to worry about. And I heave a sigh of relief.
But there are sucky things about being single, too. Every once in a while I start wondering if I'm ever going to have a partner. I can't help but notice that more and more of my friends are engaged, and that leaves me on the outside looking in, worried about seeming awkward when someone's fiance or boyfriend shows up, completely eclipsing my presence with his charming smile and his cologne.
"What's wrong with me?" I wonder, watching girls my age as they casually touch their engagement rings and smile a little.
I think that's really the part that bothers me. Is there some aspect of my personality that drives people away? Am I a repulsive person? It's the not knowing that's upsetting.
I'm too afraid to let anyone know that there's some little part of me that wants the kind of relationship where people say silly things to each other and fall completely in love. It's like when I'm sitting alone in the cafeteria but I don't want people to know that I'm not sitting alone by choice, so I give my best impersonation of a person who just wants to sit alone for a little bit and doesn't need anyone else in her life. Because obviously letting it be known that there's a romantic part of me is completely pathetic, because who does that? Even writing on my blog about this is uncomfortable. It's too much to reveal. It's weird to confess that I'm pretty sure I'm going to end up a batty old maid living a shoddy apartment in New York writing plays for my cats and keeping a blog about how our civilization has really started going downhill ever since earthquakes shook the midwest into molten lava and California slid into the sea back in 2012 (gosh darned mayans!). For someone who claims to hate romance, I'm sure hung up on the concept.
There are a lot of people in my life who love me. And those relationships aren't inferior to a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship. Those relationships are loving and stable and I appreciate my friends and family so much. And more importantly than that, I have a God who will love me even if everyone else in my life doesn't. That's not something I take lightly, and it's not something I'd trade for anything else.
I just wish I could shake this feeling that there's something wrong with me. Or that I could figure out what that something is.

Things People Say To Me

Yesterday, I got a chance to see my little sisters when we went out to get a dress for homecoming. (I was going to just wear some random clothes I have, but my mom was like, "We can go to Encore and pick up a dress, no big deal.") So while we were there, my little sister who is 6 was trying on the tiaras and making Laura and Sarah do the same. One of the women working there looked at my little sister and said, "Aren't you just gorgeous!" My little sister, who was gazing at herself in a hand mirror, replied smugly, "Yes!" Laura said her self-confidence balances out my complete lack of that virtue.

Just a couple of minutes ago, I was talking to my suitemate Melissa about homecoming, and she said it's her dream to be homecoming queen someday. "You should vote for me, because I'll bring an end to world peace!"

That's a good campaign strategy for sure.

And now for a segment I like to call, "Laura's Words of Wisdom."

Yesterday at dinner, I was talking about how my little brother is having a hard time at school because apparently all the kids he goes to school with make fun of him and call him "The Weird Kid," even though he's legitimately one of the awesomest 14-year-olds I know. Laura's advice was, "If you can't beat them, don't join them. Kill them."

Righto.

After watching Dead Poet's Society, Laura's comment was, "The moral of this movie is 'Don't trust a ginger.'"

Don't trust a ginger, never trust a ginger, don't trust a ginger; don't trust me.

Finally, a word of caution from Laura: "Don't just eat grapes."

Academic Relationship

Last night I confided to my roommate and suitemates that I'm unable to turn my brain off. The thing that makes me a (good?) writer, my ability to analyze the smallest phrase for hidden meaning, makes me a neurotic human being. Accepting things blindly is difficult, even when that's all I want to do.
This is especially a problem in church.
While the pastor is speaking, I'm evaluating his statements for veracity, often too critically, especially if I'm at a new church. It's hard to get into the worship service when I can only think about how similar and uncreative most praise and worship songs are. Church becomes less of an outpouring of love to God, and more of an academic exercise. How does this doctrine fit with mine? How many songs use the exact same language? How many errors in grammar did that woman include in her announcement? Why do Christians have to be so average, so silly, so uninspired, so wrong?
That isn't what church is about. Sure, there's a place for study and consultation and heavy thinking; I believe this unto my very soul, and will never stop thinking that. But there's also a place for not thinking, for just acting out of feelings (a part of life I degrade because I'm too afraid to do it), and that aspect of a relationship with God has to be let in. This constant evaluation and rejection of "just empty feelings" only hurts my own ability to grow closer to God. And guess what: I only notice that I'm really far away when something forces my restless mind back into God's endless one, and I remember what it's like to be quiet and listen. That's when God says, "You don't have to understand everything. You CAN'T understand everything. Stop critiquing the music and the speaker and let them do what they're supposed to do. You don't always have to be a rebel; you don't always have to be cutting edge. You don't always have to put up a front so that people won't see that you do want to sing and be close to Me."

It feels like sleeping, but it feels like being completely awake for once.

Does life get any better? (Also, I apologize for the length of this post.)

Not to be one of those people who constantly talks about how great their lives are, but this past week was just about the best week of my life. Shall I count the ways? Yes. Yes, I shall.

Thursday, I worked at the Writing Center. I love meeting and working with students, but it's also easy to make people feel like crap, since it's kind of a leadership position. Sometimes I feel like if I say one wrong thing, I'll completely ruin writing for the tutee forever. It's difficult to tell if they feel helped or degraded or just bored. But the student I had for Thursday had a great attitude the entire time, and seemed to be enjoying the session. He smiled and asked good questions and laughed when I tried to be funny. At the end, he said something that no other tutee has ever said to me. "Next time I come in," he asked on his way out, "Is it okay if I sign up for you again?"

I'm pretty sure I started glowing. I tried to contain myself. "Yeah, that would be awesome! I always work Thursdays at this time."

He smiled, and thanked me again.

He validated me.

Friday I lazed around and watched Home Alone 1 and 2 with some of my friends. I'd never seen either before, and spent most of the movies covering my face with my blanket and yelling. I really can't take violence, it turns out. I'm too wimpy or sympathetic or childish, I don't know what. Everyone else was highly amused at my shameful display of wimpery. (That is most certainly not a word.)

Saturday afternoon, Laura (my friend), Sarah (my roommate) and I went to Denny's and then to see The Ugly Truth. I don't think I liked it that much. Upon much reflection, I feel like the whole thing was a lie. There was so much emphasis placed on a shallow view of the world, and so little time spent showing the alternative that I came away from the movie thinking, "Well, apparently fakery and promiscuity CAN get you into a relationship. Particularly if you're really hot." I don't think everyone is shallow, though. I think some people are more into personality than sluttiness.

On Sunday I was supposed to go see a play with my playwriting class, but had a conflict. I asked Nick, a friend of mine who is also in playwriting, if he was going to see the play a different time than the rest of the class, and if he would mind giving me a ride. He did. (Give me a ride, that is. He didn't seem to mind.) The play was interesting and different, although I probably wouldn't see it again, and the conversation to and from the show was energizing. We talked about writing and movies and music and most of the things that really matter in life. I feel awkward about writing all about it because Nick is following this blog, and writing down everything we talked about word-for-word would be freakish. So, I'll just say that it was a great time.

Rewind time: Whilst browsing the tweets of those I follow on Twitter on Tuesday, I came across this tweet from neilhimself (aka Neil Gaiman): "Ohio reminders. I'll be talking, reading & probably signing in Cleveland on Sunday."

It's fair to say that I had a heart attack of pure joy. I convinced Laura (the most amazing friend in the world) to take me. My friend Liz ended up coming with us because she saw my status message about Neil Gaiman and freaked out. On the way there we listened to Disney music and talked excitedly about the man we were going to meet.

We got there about 10 minutes after the auditorium filled up but there was an overflow room. Melanie, one of my best friends, texted me: "He has the flu, so make sure to give him soup or tell him to get better. I'm so jealous that you're going." In response, Liz, Laura and I made him a get-well card. It read: "So, I heard you're sick and decided to make this card." It continued inside: "Thanks for coming to Cleveland anyway, and get well soon." Laura drew a bowl of soup and stick figure versions of us, and Liz drew some pretty flowers for a border.

It was a creeper card. It was wonderful.

Shortly after Liz and I had a angsty conversation in which we threatened self-harm if we couldn't meet our favorite author, who should walk into the room but NEIL GAIMAN! He assured us that he didn't want to turn anyone away, and would sign for us as well. He sounded like a less-sarcastic Alan Rickman. He sounded like I was in love with him. He is probably the sexiest writer in the world. I kid you not.

Anyway, he read bits of two of his books and answered questions from the audience. Several times he looked directly at the camera and addressed the overflow room, which sent shivers down my spine. He was delightful and funny and interesting and more than I ever could have hoped for.

Then we waited in line for 2 and a half hours.

The only thing I could manage to say to him was, "Thank you. Thank you." While he was signing, I remembered the card we'd made for him. "OH!" I said, too loudly (as is my wont) and slipped him the card. "We made this for you," I said vaguely, and he looked at it.

"Oh, virtual soup!" he said in his delightful accent, and I wanted to snog him. (I didn't, I didn't.) I said thank you again, and he handed back my brochure.

"Could we get a picture?" I asked timidly.

"Of course. I'll keep scribbling, but you tell me when to look up," he replied. Liz and I positioned ourselves behind him, and Laura snapped the picture.

As we walked out, I said thank you one last time. I was nervous. My vocabulary evaporated. And I really was thankful! I felt deep gratitude to him for signing things for so long. Although, he was surrounded by 900 people who loved him. I'd probably sign things if that many people loved me.

I think the deeper reason I thanked him so many times had to do with how much I owe him. His writing makes me want to write. His writing has opened up worlds to me that I'd never know otherwise. His writing is an inspiration. His writing has helped me cope with life when I didn't even want to. All I could do was say "Thank you," over and over again.

The car ride home was great. We all took turns gushing about meeting him (Liz showed off the drawing of her future gravestone he did in the cover of her copy of The Graveyard Book) and complaining about how hungry we were and how badly we had to pee. Unfortunately, the McDonalds we stopped at happened to be the slowest McDonalds on the face of the earth. The employees were basically wandering around aimlessly while their manager scowled at the three of us for some unknown reason. One employee made roughly 18 trips to the bathroom while we were there. Another stood off in the corner and texted relentlessly.

We got back around 8:30, and I had to do my homework. I had a mini-breakdown (not really, I'm just a drama queen) and spent too much time on facebook, specifically on Compare People. Sarah and I compared rankings. I'm third most likely to be a good mother, which is crazy, and second best listener, which I like to think is true. I'm also 14th prettiest, which is clearly false. I am definitely nothingth prettiest. I'm first most likely to do a favor, though. That's because I'm nice.

Anyway, after I buckled down and read through that thesis I couldn't get my head around, I stayed up and finished all my homework. It was hard to concentrate when all I could think about was plays, encouragement, friends, movies and Neil Gaiman. What a flipping amazing week. What. A. Week. (Thank you to everyone who made it possible!)