Whispered In The Wind

Whispered In The Wind
Just a fairy blowing in the wind, singing tales to the west wind

Saturday, May 18, 2013

Run Ons/Fragments

I've lost track of the number of times someone's told me "You're going to be a writer." This definite statement I've come to inherit, Mrs. Gibson, 7th grade "Have you ever considered being an author?"

My family, this rolling novella, part saga, part drama-a story of 5 people stuck in a house too small and hearts too wide, brains filled with entire libraries of books, postcards from Grandma, religious debates and sandy forests.

You have so many stories. I know, I know. You're going to be a writer. I know, I know.
I don't know.

I don't know what being a writer entails, if there is a certain cloth I need to wear, if I should use black or blue ink. I'm good at writing because I know my rules, but I'm not bound to them. I like being strategic, but I hate strategies. I know I'm going to be a writer, lived the course of a couple books-13 schools, 7 or so moves, bobcats, raccoons, 30 chickens, a VW bus, some miracles, nail polish/flaking paint hands, bright colors, patchwork people and a 5 3' frame against the backdrop of taller mirrors.

I've always felt marked, known some kind of buzz that comes with a pen, ink dancer, bzzzz. I never was good at ballet, but have you ever watched my pen twirl? You're going to be a writer. I know, I know. 

But I'm not afraid of that, I just know the feeling of a pen against my throat. Pens with arrows attached to them, "This way, this way!" And on the other end, I can't find my way back. I don't know what exactly I'm afraid of-maybe it's myself, maybe it isn't living up to all those voices, the ones that can't see the legitimacy in what I've become. All those be-rationals, be-sensibles, why would you go to college to scribble in your notebook, find a plan B, you'll never make money doing that, you'll never be successful doing that. 

The scariest thing is that most of the voices from me. This cracked creature, my deepest confidant and midnight whisperer. Today I thought, I'm grateful for the ability to love myself, this ability I haven't employed all year-not good enough, not good enough. 

And maybe this is why I entrust so much of myself to page, a page can't judge. It's not like I'm any different from anyone else, rather I seem to have found some find of loophole into an extension of myself that let's me look at my crookedness without hiding. And without that paper perspective, I come to loathe myself. And it's about that, sometimes. You're going to be a writer. I know. I know.

I reply. I hope so. I know so. But I think, I have to be. Not a stone, but rather if I don't write, I'll hate myself. I'll hate the curvature of this earth and its vertical lines. It isn't all about that, but it is sometimes. I just know that at some point writing became the one thing my life lacks-a definite structure, a structure that always knows my weight. Yes, structure, but the one thing I've come to most respect, a free willed freedom to rearrange, clean house, dust or throw glitter. A place for wet and dirty dogs, big black sweatshirts, little hands and grey high heel shoes.

It's a part of me I can't control, and I'm constantly letting go of. They say opposites attract. I've never known who exactly they are but maybe it's ironic. The control freak fell in love with a free spirited pen. I don't know. I don't know. It scares me.

You're going to be a writer. I know. I know. But it scares me. Like I've been branded. Like I've been branded with a recipe for success or a filing cabinet for disaster. Because Lord knows, I don't go for in-betweens.

 I'm a hit the pavement running/bloodied knees/orsmoothsailing/brokenwings/orhighflying/marked with adjectives

exceptional-just a know it all
self aware-just plain oblivious
Lord knows, I don't go for in-betweens.

You're going to be a writer. I know. I know. It just scares me. 

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"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "
"When asked not to make waves, I just smiled and said, don't worry this is just a ripple"