Of being left alone. Of loud things. Of lights going off. Of people realizing I’m not as great as they once thought I was. Of people thinking I’ve changed for the worst. Of people losing faith in me. Of people replacing me. Of being compared. Of snakes. Of slimy reptiles. Of awkward strangers staring. Of nightmares. Of fire. 

I always have this fear that one day I’m going to realize I haven’t been who I’m meant to be.

My mom is all about buying me books every week now, for “the course you will take.” So, since I posted before about getting Will Grayson, Will Grayson and Hoot, I am going to post about The Jane Austen Book Club and Angus, Thongs, and Full-frontal Snogging. 

After church this morning (the guest pastor was hilarious), my mom and I dropped by (or, like, walked to) the nearby mall because she had to get something for the person she’ll visit. Then she started her monologue about how I “have to have a constant supply of unread books and read every night before I go to sleep” in college. Deep inside, I was willing to listen to that for the nth time because I knew that she would take me to a bookstore (Booksale was only steps away!). So she left me to my devices and went to the grocery. There’s this thing that irks me about that Booksale, though. It’s that the space is very small and the titles are not properly organized. But, books are books, after all. 

I scanned every shelf (Since the titles are not organized, a Very Worthy read might be in any of those shelves.). And, imagine my excitement when Angus, Thongs, and Full-frontal Snogging caught my eye. I have put the movie version in my list of favorites, and I was dying to read the series, and here it is - the first of the ten. Although I know that there is a slim chance that I would find the other nine, at least I got the first. Not the second or seventh, because that would just be a bad way to read your only chance of the series.

As I was about to give up on finding the Other Very Worthy read, I noticed that there was a shelf I have not inspected. And there it was, sitting prettily, The Jane Austen Book Club. I got my hands on it quickly, which was hard, considering that it was stacked beneath ten plus books. But I did. And I read the cover. Alice Sebold loves it. And so that should be a good sign of its worthiness. 

Thanks Mom! :)

Meanwhile, here are ten Very Vain pictures of myself. While waiting for PBB Teen Edition 4 to start. I know. Why have I been watching it for three straight days now? WHY.

can i just share my excitement at the fact that a writer liked three of my poems and another followed me in my portfolio blog? gah. i am beyond the valley of happy :)

jayarrarr:

Note: A response to this. For what it’s worth.

— — — 

Sometimes it seems we can’t write in a state of happiness, or, at least, that it is more difficult to do so. This misunderstanding has plagued writers for centuries, it seems, but allow me the audacity to ameliorate the feeling that nothing of quality can come from a feeling of happiness — to expound upon the reasons we, as writers, believe this to be so and offer alternatives. I’ll try to keep this organized, but I make no guarantees.

It’s a strange thing, happiness — we can feel it in a brief moment or an ephemeral state. It becomes so overwhelming we forget the subtle layers. Happiness overwhelms us and makes us not want to focus on anything but her (for she is a “her”, is she not?) and we begin to fear that any writing that comes out of her will not be accessible to most people, because most people aren’t happy.

Most people aren’t happy, but they have a desperate hope to be so. Because they’re not happy, their idea of happiness is a pastiche of clichés and rom-com tripe anyone has seen a thousand times. But you’re a writer; you don’t want to write that shit … and yet … because you are one of those people whose idea of happiness is a pastiche of clichés and rom-com tripe, those are the only things you can think of — things that have already been said; songs already sung, luck already spent, pictures already drawn.

The truth is that happiness is just as nuanced as its unhappy counterpart. We see nuance and conflict in sad or angry or depressed; we see shades of gray — but we see happiness in monochrome. Perhaps it’s too bright. Perhaps it blinds us to the shades that lie beyond and ache for exposure.

Perhaps sunlight is as nuanced as shadows and shades seem. The sun needs a writer as much as shadows do.
We don’t explore it because we’re afraid of it.

rakuli:

It is harder to write when your hands are cupping happiness and, far outside the shining barrier of your unconscious smile, negativity is a thing happening to other people. But harder is not a bad thing, harder is not a reason to shake a fist at the challenge and force contentment to escape through tight gaps in clenched fingers. Harder builds the muscles in your forearms, strengthens the tendons in your wrists, supports you from behind and allows you to carry the weight of the comfort in clenched teeth while using fingertips to jot down lines that do not come easily. Ideas do not disappear when elation flashes colour into the world, words simply camouflage themselves so that you must work to find them, so that when found and arranged, the idea they describe comes with accomplishment that glows in unison with the vibrancy you hold between grinning lips. If you find yourself surrounded by satisfaction, do not burst that bubble by lamenting a loss of muse, by cloaking yourself in pity so that words replace the ecstasy you held in your hands. Relish the challenge of chasing what used to be delivered to you and increase your fitness by carrying happiness and inspiration at the same time. It is harder but harder is not a bad thing.