We all have guilty pleasures. What is yours? Mine, of course, is reading...but why have I latched on to the New Adult genre? What has grabbed me about it, and why would I write such a tale now that I'm far removed from being a college-aged student myself? It was a summer morning, and I had been binge reading on the After series (Are you familiar with it?) --you know that summer reading that you don't want to take too much time on or take too seriously? I was at my family camp (which I'm sad to say I no longer have), sitting on the dock, remembering young love and all the angst that comes with it, from years right there on the dock to that present moment, right there reading. And when I went back to the cabin, it just poured out, and I became a college freshman all over again, a young, shy woman trying to find her way, discovering who she was, deciding who she wanted to be, a girl who had been involved with dance and theatre and music her whole life, like the characters who appear in the story and not, and the story just appeared in my mind. I found myself going back there --to first loves and first times and self-discovery and heartbreak--and then the characters began to talk my ear off. Though fictional, the emotions were anything but. At its core, it's just a simple love story. But for anyone who has experienced the highs and lows of young love, you know: Love is never simple. There is something moving about New Adult literature, and there is something especially moving about romance. It's the time in our lives we are realizing ourselves with the freedom that allows it. We have rights and privileges we dreamed of having, without the heavy weight of responsibility, especially if you are fortunate to go to college without having to work full-time. Your mind is open, your eyes are wide, and you feel that inexplicable optimism and hope that anything is possible. You believe in change. You believe in fighting the cause. And you believe in love. Education does that to a person; you're closer to reaching your dreams, even as you embrace your dreams shifting. And love--love seems to happen most when your heart is vulnerable and available to it. We've not, probably, loved so fully before or been able to understand ourselves enough to know love. It's a time in our lives where it's easier to give ourselves, because we're finally starting to know ourselves... And so, Play Only For Me is a bit of that journey, two opposites, one a singer, one a guitarist, who try to find not only each other, but themselves. Thanks for being patient as I continue to write it.
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There is a trend and debate right now about paying college athletes. The arguments are long and make sense—these college athletes are raking in the dough for their universities, and not seeing a dime they, and others, think they are “earning.” Many of the colleges have caved and decided it’s a good idea. After all, these players are working so hard around the clock to practice and play their games, they don’t have time to hold jobs. Without them, many argue, the institutions wouldn’t be making the money they are, so shouldn’t the players see some of it? Some colleges are saying yes. What say you? The real issue lies in how much emphasis we put on sports in my opinion. And money. If that is what we, as a society, value, sports and money, it seems we’re lost. These athletes get free rides to education, including housing and food. Is that not enough? They say no, because they don’t have time to work, and their “fame” and popularity is what is driving the revenue. But what about everyone else? What about the music or art or writing or dance student with no financial aid, who works minimum wage, and leaves in debt, because sports isn’t their thing? Many of the "arts" programs have very little in the way of scholarships. You don’t think their auditions and practices and performances are grueling outside of the classroom too? Okay. Maybe they’re not gonna literally “break a leg” like an "athlete" might, but—yeah—sports isn’t so great on the body--or the head--for that matter. And if it's about the injury or the grueling hours that allow for no job outside that, then there are a helluva lot more students that should be getting paid. Dancers or actors or performers who get accepted into these BFA programs work their asses off too. And a dancer just might, indeed, break a leg. Not a sport, you say? Then you're clearly not a dancer. Yes. There are merit scholarships and need-based loans for others, but the real issue for me is how much people spend on sporting events and paraphernalia. How much sports, above other forms of entertainment, are valued. People won’t even go to college art show unless it’s free, and college drama or performances? Ticket sales are hardly expensive in the grand scheme. What people value. What they’re willing to spend their money on. That is what has me head scratching. We are a society that puts a game above everything else it seems, and certainly education. After all, if you're making money, you're a success. Many argue that sports is a team-building endeavor. It builds camaraderie and loyalty to teammates. But a group of theatre students isn't? How is it any different? If money is the only driving force behind any passion, at what point does passion stop and greed reign? How about, instead, we value all kinds of student passion, level some of the playing fields, and put college education first, where it should be? Never gonna happen you say? You’re absolutely right, because money and success are the new passion. Or perhaps, it's never been anything more...and I’m just late…to the game. “He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have.” ~ Socrates Do you agree with this quote? Is this true for everyone? Is it human nature to never truly be satisfied? I wonder…are we always looking for…more? In one of my classes the other day, a student bragged that she can get all her music at such and such a place for $5, that she needn’t buy the music, that the entire album could be gotten for this cost. She bragged of the money she was saving, and I asked her: “But what of the artist who created it? Shouldn’t they be compensated for the amount of work they put into it? For their art?” And she looked at me like I was crazy. “Who cares,” she said with a roll of her eyes. Ironically, in another conversation I overheard, a physics teacher discussed jobs vs. careers with one of his students, saying that many of the “great” scientists had “jobs” to pay the bills but did things in the arts, the things they loved, on the side to be fulfilled and happy. Are, then, the arts and so forth, something that should be given away for free? Would we all be better off with “jobs,” contributing to society in a well-oiled kinda of way, the arts and music and writing be left to everyone to share with one another more freely? Would we all be happier this way? Of course, this is a more socialist way of thinking, but is money the only validation in life to success or happiness? Or is that only a capitalist's way of thinking?
And it got me thinking too, about selling books, the amount of time and effort that goes into it. Would I, personally, be happier taking all my books off the market, and simply sharing it freely, without the strain or stress of sales? Certainly, there are many writers who make a living off their writing, but the vast majority of us do not. I make, in a year, about what I can make teaching a couple courses. Should, then, the arts be something that is just freely given for the pure beauty of it? I’ve been at this racket for five years now, and some days, I really don’t know if it’s worth it. I’m fortunate that my “job” and my “career” of teaching lend itself to my creative side daily. But I’ve finally accepted that I’m a writer, that I am a poet. It’s a part of me, for better or worse. I do write for the pure joy…so why sell it then? And so, I look inward and ask myself what I asked you all above. With each small step to success, does it only make me want more? Does money, as a motivator, only lead to dissatisfaction? I suppose I’ll have to let you know when I’m famous beyond Papua New Guinea (inside joke—but those of you who have been following me for a while, may understand). For now, I try to find contentment with what I have. I have always been creative, artsy, one might say. From fashion to dance to writing, my mind seems to see the world in images and art. It’s an odd thing, or at least I used to think so. What can you do for a career with that though? Being "artsy" isn't practical. I’d often hear. So when a certificate course of study was offered for high school students to finish with college credit in Interior Design, I jumped at the chance. Of course, nothing is as easy as picking out pictures and furniture or paint colors and style, and so it’s one of those things that never fully took hold. When I dated an older man from a bit of a wealthy background, I found myself dabbling for people, first for free, and then for small fees. I think he just wanted me to have a “career,” but I was only just in college then, finding myself, discovering who I was, making sense of my urges, and growing into the person and career I wanted. What I discovered is there wasn’t much that was creative about it. In fact, it stifled creativity. It wasn’t MY creativity. It was THEIR creativity. I’m sure that brings people much joy, to exact a plan to specifications, perfectly to someone’s expectations, to watch their joy about the completion and fruition of a vision. It can be. Do not get me wrong. But more often than not, it was just frustrating. My taste and style may not be someone else’s, and frankly, it didn’t matter. If someone wanted things I found repulsive, I followed through. After all, that was the job. And more and more, people would say they wanted a particular style or time period, but really what they wanted was a page out of Pottery Barn over and over. This wasn't about me feeling satisfied with art or beauty or creation; it was about basically doing what I was told. And I don't like doing what I'm told (unless maybe in the bedroom. :) But I digress!) This concept is no different when it comes to writing, especially poetry. A creative person needs to create. Not for pay. Not for someone else. But only for herself. There are people who write for others. Some prompts make me feel that way. Write about THIS. But I don’t want to write about THAT if it doesn’t inspire me or touch me or reach me. It’s artificial to me. Instead, I want to write about the sky or the weather or love or my dreams or my thoughts or my fears or my fantasies or my relationships or my experiences or my self-discovery or my stream-of-conscious rants; in short, I want to write about whatever I want to write about or feeling at that moment. It’s a burning urge that is almost impossible to extinguish. I have stopped trying. I create because I can’t do anything else. It comes out of me. It spills forth, whether I share it with someone or not. I write so much, so much of it I’m afraid to share, the darker moments of my psyche for instance, but I have yet to fall prey to writing for what I think an audience wants. Perhaps that is a mistake. Perhaps that is precisely what I’m doing wrong. But for now, I see the interior design of my mind, and I try to convey it with words. Sometimes I succeed; sometimes I don’t. But I never have to paint it orange when I want to paint it black. And perhaps that's not practical. But perhaps practical is overrated. When I lost my aunt in December, my cousins asked me to rifle through pictures to see what I had, and it reminded me of so many things. There is something lost now, isn’t there? With our phones and our i-pads and our video capacity. We seem to lose so much, and one would think it would be the opposite, but it really isn’t. There is something special about those old photographs, much like old letters or postcards we’ve kept over the years. There’s something about holding them in our hands, touching them, running our fingers across the front, flipping them over to read the back, see the year, maybe the place. My mother was forever marking up those photographs. And everything looks so…I don’t know, pretty and nostalgic, especially when in black and white, like some of my mom’s baby pictures or first communion I came across. They somehow feel alive. They feel as if they're breathing right there next to us. The same is true of old letters or writing. There really is nothing that can replace handwriting. I remember holding Emily Dickinson’s work once in the basement annex of Amherst College, wearing gloves, being watched as if I might steal them. Smart. I wanted to. I regret the love letters I tossed or the notes from friends during class. I had a best friend and she and I wrote old-fashioned letters to one another in middle school, professing our “friends forever” in black-ink promises, only to be tossed as I moved or aged. Not enough space. Oh, the regret! A new study I read recently stated that this generation (is that me?) is losing living in the moment. That everyone is so Instagram-ized, trying to take the best pictures possible – oh, look at me eating this; or oh, I just saw this magnificent sunset; or oh, look at my dog being silly—that we’re no longer really living in the moment, or even enjoying it, or even REMEMBERING IT at all later, but instead, living for the moment to take a damn picture. How sad if that’s true! What will become of our memories or experiences if we’re so hung up on taking the picture, not for ourselves, but instead for someone else to say: Oh, isn’t Rosemary the coolest cat ever?
When I came across some of the pictures, it reminded, too, of my childhood and a scene in Edge of Torment I took from my own life, where Patricia, Annabelle’s best friend, has displayed a photograph of the two of them at Patricia's brother Billy’s wedding. It’s two best friends in a pool wearing funky glasses, and I remember exactly the moment I stole the idea from. It was with my cousin, my favorite cousin still to this day, and at the service, I asked her if she too remembered those days in the back yard at 4 or 5 or if the memory was only because of that picture. She remembered it just as I had and, though sad at where we were presently, we smiled and laughed and hugged, poured some wine afterwards, and sat down to reminiscence. That’s what photographs do for us. And I’m grateful I still have boxes upon boxes of them even if I’ve lost so many of the people in them. They are engraved somewhere inside my heart’s mind, far from being lost. And that brought me comfort. Today I ask about vaping, the ever-growing trend that has risen over the last few years to a ridiculously high rate. What say you on this issue? We glamorize or romanticize photography where people smoke. Guys covered in tats smoking on bikes, chicks scantily clad on their backs, puffing out beautiful white images against black backgrounds. The old pictures of movie stars, using cigarettes as props. Sexy. Alluring. The old movies themselves. The artistry smoke makes in a darkly-lit world of cinematography. But that’s art, right? More fantasy. Not real. Not happening in front of us, our lungs, and our environment. Maybe we can argue that. But in real life, smoking is just…well...not only deadly, but nasty. It smells. Kissing someone after smoking is…not sexy. Walking into a room where someone has been smoking makes those of us, who don’t smoke, ill. Renting a car where someone has been smoking cannot be erased with a spray of the bottle. It seeps into fabric. It stays in the air, stale and unappetizing. The verdict is out. Smoking traditional cigs kills us, first-hand, second-hand, and third-hand. But what of vaping? Well…it’s a constant battle in my world, where fighting the vapers on a tobacco-free campus becomes quite contentious, and they make valid points. It doesn’t smell. I’m not ingesting it myself the way I would be forced to do so with regular cigarettes. And it harms (maybe) only the vaper. And this debate isn’t going to get easier as more and more people choose to vape. While traditional smoking has decreased exponentially, the surgeon general states that”e -cigarettes are very popular with young people” and that their use is “higher…than adults.” And it’s even increasing in middle school and especially high school students. 'How? Isn’t that illegal?' I ask myself. But I suppose it’s no different than how we all got our underage drinking gems, right? We were that young once. And these taboo things are still cool. Smoking “real” cigs isn’t anymore. Not by a long shot. But this? Cool AND seemingly harmless. The problem is that the verdict is still out on the health risks. It’s too soon for anything conclusive. Still, early reports are coming out. And it couldn’t be more contradictory. No one can deny that nicotine is addictive though. And so, “no matter how it's delivered, nicotine is harmful for youth and young adults” in regards to addiction. But, further, the surgeon general goes on to say that “e-cigarettes typically contain [chemicals]…that are known to damage health.” In addition, “Some initial research shows it may hurt…arteries. Some brands contain chemicals including formaldehyde -- often used in building materials -- and another ingredient used in antifreeze that can cause cancer.” But even then, there is more conflicting information. And no one can deny that if you’re going to choose to do one over the other, e-cigs are clearly not as harmful. In a 2015 expert review from Public Health England regarding smoking, it states, “Most of the harm comes from the thousands of chemicals that are burned and inhaled in the smoke…E-cigs don't burn, so people aren't as exposed to those toxins.” The study’s conclusion? “E-cigs are 95% less harmful than the real thing.” So I don’t know about you. Have you tried it? Are you a former smoker who quit traditionally smoking as a result? And all these reports I’m reading only mention young people. Does that mean it’s not harmful to adults? And why shouldn’t someone who wants to smoke not be able to do so wherever they are? They are not polluting the air in which I breathe. It doesn’t affect me. In fact, when I teach in long blocks, a student who vapes comes back calm, refreshed, and often able to concentrate again. Common sense tells us that anything foreign we ingest into our bodies that way can’t be good. We know better. But is it any worse than anything else we do to our bodies, both deliberately and by no choice of our own? Bad food filled with chemicals? Pollution we breathe every day? Taking over-the-counter meds to cure ailments and headaches? Milk filled with injected hormones? If e-cigs are legal, who am I to say? I’m on the fence on this one. I, myself, may not choose to do it, but if it doesn’t harm me, personally, who am I to judge? Would I encourage my students to start? Of course not. Would I encourage them to NOT pick up a bad habit? Yes, just as I might other healthy habits they don’t have. But will I NOT allow the donuts they eat on campus daily that we sell? Nope. Are e-cigs any different?
Like all bad habits, it seems by the time they get to me, it’s too late to change, not without them really wanting to. If we’re going to combat addiction, we have to start younger. But there’s the rub, the companies know that and have always targeted the young, from traditional cigs to e-cigs to sugary cereals, it’s the youth that always suffers. And that--THAT is the problem we should be addressing... Has a favorite place of yours ever closed? Has it ever felt like much more than that? Almost like a turning point in your life? The way, maybe your parents or grandparents always talked about? "Things just aren't the way you used to be... " I hear "the end of a an era" in my head...so cliche...and yet--it's how I feel. I’m sitting in one of my favorite cafes where I often go to grade papers or write. The food is healthy and varied, and I dig the Jazz playing right now, 1920s Great Gatsby stuff, that will soon shift into Frank, the click of the CD changer almost audible. It’s hard not to snap my fingers, but I tap my feet conspiratorily instead. The local art on the wall above my head is so expensive and you’d almost want to blow your money on it if it weren’t so damn ugly! But the sun is so warm through the huge ceiling to floor ceilings that everything seems beautiful. I love this place. I’ve been coming here for years. The owner himself works behind the counter. You’ve got to be in the mood, because if you want to be left alone, it’s not happening until the hugs are doled out and the ‘how-have-you beens’ are answered to satisfaction and you finally find a perfect spot to yourself and wonder why you’ve gone so long between visits. I think I’ll continue to stay here a while, even if the couple next to me hasn't learned to find their ‘inside voices.’ I chose to write here today, because I’m not sure how much longer I will be able to. Word is: It’s closing—can’t compete. I didn’t have the heart to ask. I hear a couple people whispering, but I’m not sure if it’s grumblings or rumors. I hear: “I think they’re getting their liquor license,” perhaps as a wishful hope that something will keep it open. I’m not quite sure how I will get through fall, it’s been my place for so long to come after school. But as I look around to a pretty packed room, sipping a smoothie and savoring each bite of my hummus platter, I see the laptops and phones filled with noses while cups are empty. I want to say—buy another coffee! Grab a snack! And it dons on me why such a bustling place, alive with all walks of life and topics, mostly politics (it’s hard not to eavesdrop), may not last. People come in to de-socialize, sink into virtual reality, and shut off to turn on. And a cup of Joe under $5 isn’t going to sustain a place like this. Neither is this pumpkin latte I was just given "on the house" with a wave of the hand that tells me the discussion is over. . “You’re too nice,” I say. And it hurts to know how true that truly is. Maybe nice guys do finish last. But I’d choose the nice guy every damn time. Do any of you women have short hair? And heterosexual men—do you prefer short or long hair on “yo’ woman?” Yup. That is the basic thrust 😉 of today’s #ThursdayThoughts. Hair! But bear with me. It’s going to take me a little while to get there. But you know me by now! Last week, I tackled something pretty serious and slightly profound, so this week I thought I’d take it down a notch. You may be asking what the holy hell I’m talking about hair for? In a world gone Big-Brother mad right now, I stopped and did something completely mindless and without deep thought. I watched "The Bachelor." Yes. That cheesy, contrived TV-show that pits women against each other in a game of wooing and competition to see who can win the man. What ensues is a journey to find “love” but of course we all know, it’s a journey to win, to connive, to become what it takes to succeed, the weaker players easily weeded out early on. It’s all rather foolish and sick and shallow and yet, is it? How is it really any different than any other game or contest? Are we against all contests? Why is this one deemed so ‘wrong’? Does it require stamina? Yup. Skill? You bet it does. Taking risks and overcoming fears and phobias? Hell, yes. I wouldn’t do half those things they are required to do! Intelligence? Yes. On many levels it absolutely DOES require a deep amount of emotional and social intelligence, and even intellect. The smart ones do rise to the top. People look at it and think it’s about looks only. But don’t looks just come down to personal preference? Attraction is so much more than that, and we all know it and often can’t even explain why we’re so attracted to someone (See: the-pheromone-myth-and-online-relationships.html). But I’m not here to defend "The Bachelor." It’s a twisted peek into the human psyche on both sides of this equation, participant and spectator, and some nights I felt a thin sheen of slime on my skin that no shower could remove. But even as I scoffed at its superficiality and complete manipulation by the producers, donning the most butter atop popcorn known to mankind, slapping on a pair of comfortable yoga pants, and inviting my girlfriends under my favorite throw, squished on the couch together, our ridiculous buns bobbing in laughter to the moments of sheer lunacy on the screen, I began to realize the show succeeds not because it may cater to the lowest common denominator in our society, but because it is a contest, a competition, like any other competition out there that people flock to see its champions and losers. Is it really so different than the Olympics? Football? The Greatest Chef? And the like? Make no mistake, it isn’t about love. Not one bit. Not usually. And anyone who wins “the prize” who watches back the utter gluttony and lies told by “the catch” (yes. I suppose a fishing competition is more akin to this than the basest of sports), is inevitably bound to taste the flavor of their own vomit. But what I’m really here to talk about is Bekah M, the Bekah who didn’t win, the Bekah…wait for it…who had short hair. GASP! Funnily enough, some of the major news outlets were “reporting” on this. And some proclaimed: “Are you serious? This is news? Short hair is news? In a time where there is gun violence and immigration debate and the most polarizing president in history at our helm, we’re talking about hair for god’s sake?” Everywhere on social media people were yammering: This is the first time in “Bachelor history” (for those of you who have ever watched the show, you’ll get the joke) that a woman with short hair has made it this far! It is a bit ludicrous, and I chuckle even as I write this, but it really DOES say something, doesn’t it? Hair seems to say something and always has. According to archaelogist, Elizabeth Bartman in Time magazine online: “Even despite the Ancient Greek ideal of a 'bearded, long-haired philosopher,' women in that society still had longer hair than men regularly did. Roman women kept their hair long and tended to part it down the center, and a man devoting too much attention to his hair 'risked scorn for appearing effeminate.' Further, the bible may have started its popularity in our western, Christian culture that quotes St. Paul: “Doth not nature itself teach you that if a man have long hair it is a shame unto him? But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her.” And more, many scholars believe it stemmed from the belief that hair and length was a direct correlation to someone’s health. “In order to have long hair you have to be healthy...You have to eat well, have no diseases, no infectious organisms, you have to have good rest and exercise.” Who doesn't want a woman like that? In an article from the University of Brighton, UK, on women of Victorian times, and we see it the literature I seem to love, “A woman’s long hair, after all, is the emblem of her femininity. More than that, it is a symbol of her sexuality, and the longer, thicker and more wanton the tresses, the more passionate the heart beneath them is assumed to be.” We are reminded of Lilith and Ruth, Ruth even transforming herself by having to have her luscious locks “castrated,” hair being such a powerful symbol of sexuality and wanton sexuality. Even today, as noted in an article in Psychology Today: “There’s an idea floating around that long hair on women is appealing to men—that mass of flowiness and texture supposedly trumpets femininity, adding to women’s appeal as the gentler sex.” But the article goes on to say that many men today are actually drawn to women with shorter hair, saying, “It seems more like a choice, like the woman is more self-determined.” And that this is appealing to the modern-day man. Is that true? I’ve never worn my hair short. As a lover of dance, I wasn’t really allowed that option, my early years in a very strict studio. I also don’t have Becah K’s face to don such an adorable look. It may be because my brother liked to tease me upon first exiting the shower, towel wrapped around my head. “What’s up Moon Face?” Regardless, it seems all this talk about “hair” and “that” Bachelor contestant is much deeper than it appeared. It’s really a study in all three of the great “ologies”—anthropology, sociology, and psychology, if one really begins to think on it, delve, question it. Just why short hair seemed to make ‘news’ makes a bit more sense now under this lens. And revisiting some of the Victorian literature while researching this topic a little bit, I realized that hair is always mentioned somehow. I used to think it imagery for writing sake, which it is of course, but really, it’s much more than that; it's a reflection of culture and even history of the female entity. It is has also made me think about my own writing and heroines. Personally, my hair is the one thing physically I have never complained about. I like my hair. There. I said it. I admit it. I was graced with good hair. And we females are critical enough about ourselves daily not to say so if we actually like something about ourselves. Why is that uncomfortable to do? Perhaps something to tackle in another post. But every single one of my heroines has luxurious, long hair. Some of my minor characters do not--Patricia, my favorite from Natalie’s Edge, sporting a bob, Olivia, the villain in Thorne, also sporting one, and Jennifer, Thorne’s lesbian, best friend dons short hair, and maybe my coolest character ever--but the heroines? No. Not yet.
So to Bekah M. Thank you. My next heroine just may have short hair! There is no question my next heroine will twirl off the pages with grace and sass, very much the way Bekah M did. I’m not sure what my hero (or usually anti-hero) will pull in the bedroom, but damn it, I just may dedicate my next novel to our short-haired vixen. And isn’t it funny? Even as I write this, it still feels slightly uncomfortable in my mind’s eye. We still have a long way to go, like almost everything else still fighting its way out of stereotypes, discrimination, and tradition. And so perhaps that is why a silly, mindless, let-me-shut-off-for-a-few-hours-and-not-think TV show made news about the girl with short hair…There’s much more there than what does, or doesn’t, reach the below the surface of a woman's neck. :) Is there anything you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t tried? Too scared? Or is it that you have no talent in it? Is it too risky? People always say silly idioms like: You only live once; or take a chance; or you’ll never know if you don’t try. Someone once wrote: What if I fail? Oh, but darling, what if you fly? 😊 This morning, when I woke, I lamented that I couldn’t take an adequate picture of what I saw. I wished for much longer than the briefest of moments that I could paint my view with brush and stoke in maybe watercolors or acrylic. To write it is almost impossible for me. The snow is falling as if feathers were let go out of a pillow and the pines…Oh the pines! It’s as if an artist took her paintbrush, dipped it in the purest of white, a white that doesn't exist, and meticulously placed its color just so. I swear. It felt like I was dreaming. I’ve always wanted to be an artist. In my mind’s eye, I see things so vividly. Sadly, those that “BE” decided I would have a recessive gene, and the skill of“art” was not bestowed on me. I’ve always been drawn to art in all kinds of forms. I loved the Degas ballerinas at my studio. In fact, I'd sit and get so lost in the detail that I often entered my class late. (Ha! Being late. It's my forte!). The renaissance painters. A beautiful photograph that no painter could depict. Odd, surreal stuff, like Dali. Depictions of Satan or Hell or fallen angels. I remember bringing one to college with me, I admired it so much. My roommate looked at me like she had just been put in hell herself. I didn't care. Art fascinated me. But I, myself, couldn't draw well. Or paint well. And taking the perfect picture happened once-in-a-blue-moon while. A picture of a sunflower I took graces my bathroom, but ends there. And my watercolors still remain two: A flower and oranges. Perhaps that is why I started to write so young. I had this creative energy inside of me that needed its voice. It was loud and strong and really, I can’t remember a time it was silent. I remember the first time I shared a bit of it I wrote. It was some silly contest in 4th grade. It was a simple bit of verse about nature, something assigned and something that just seemed to flow out of me. I remember thinking I’d probably be laughed at and almost didn’t share it. But I’m glad I did. It landed in the school “newspaper” and it validated, even that young, that it was okay that I had a voice of my own. And that it was okay to share it…sometimes. That idea of sharing work with others still doesn’t feel all that comfortable and sometimes, that’s okay. Some audiences are meant to be one. You’d think I’d be a bit more skilled at it by now, but it still makes my belly a bit too uneasy. Sometimes what resonates profoundly with me, the things I'm most proud of, don't seem to be the ones most people like. I do grow each day. Learn new things. And try to wake and put something down every morning, whether it’s poetry, this mumbo jumbo I share with you some mornings, or fiction, where I let my subconscious reign and roam free with little restriction. And so, I try something I’ve always wanted to try this summer, something I’ve long said I would do but haven’t. I have signed up for an introductory art course. One of the instructors where I work convinced me after we argued vehemently about those “step by step” studios that produce “paint by numbers art which is anti-art by its very nature.” (I still don't entirely agree with her!) Part of the course is photography and it’s the first I’ve seen where I don’t need a fancy camera. That is the next class. Perhaps, just perhaps, it’s never too late to try. What, really, do I have to lose? Absolutely nothing. Oh, but what I might gain!
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I LOVE to write and read. I particularly enjoy reading erotic romance that has tons of emotion in it. I hope you will ask me questions and share your favorite authors and novels. I welcome all feedback.
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November 2022
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