In January

In January

In January,

the world is new.

Confetti and champagne and kisses

mark the natural passing of time,

a rather pointless tradition

if one thinks about it practically,

but January is not about practicality.

January is about symbols and resolutions.

January is hoping, dreaming, praying

to be better, stronger, happier.

January is optimistic.

It is vibrant, fresh, alive.

January is the time to stop and reflect

or rush right ahead into something that shimmers.

It is the time to be thankful that we are still breathing, living, laughing;

because despite everything,

despite November and December,

all those miserable, frigid days,

we have reached the other side.

We may be bruised and battered and broken;

our voices may shake and our hands may tremble,

but we trust that lists scribbled on napkins

and the promise of summer’s return

and the chance to remake ourselves

will save us,

and we are right.

In January,

everything is new,

and we are still breathing.

*****

This is a brand-new piece that I haven't taken the time to tweak/edit/whatever, so I don't think it's a final version, but I'm pleased with what I have so far. I normally don't post anything that I haven't agonized over for awhile, so this is a bit difficult for me, but I hope to do more of this casual write-something-then-post-it-right-away thing in the future. :)

The Truth About Writing

The Truth About Writing

"What inspires you to write?" is a question I get asked too often by friends and neighbors and teachers and relatives. They ask to be polite, to keep a conversation going. They don't actually care about the answer. All they want is a neat little package presented to them with my simple one-word-or-phrase-or-sentence answer. They assume their question is as simple as the obligatory “how are you?”—to which the only acceptable responses are “good,” “fine,” and “great, thanks.”

These people think there is one right answer I can give them, but writing is not math. There are no patterns or reasons or rules. Writing is chaotic, messy, disorganized. It is different for every single person who calls themselves a writer, and no two people will ever be able to answer the question “what inspires you to write?” the same way.

Usually, my response to this question is something polite and predictable like “my life experiences.” I don’t tell them that I’m inspired by the sound of breathing in a quiet room or the promise a sunrise holds or the diatribe spilling from my classmates’ mouths in the hallway. I don’t tell them that music causes my fingers to twitch if they are not wrapped around a pen or that sometimes when I’m driving I create stories in my head about utopias and monsters and the people walking down the sidewalk. I don’t tell them that I can’t imagine my life without words, without the ability to escape into the world of a spiral notebook, without my skin covered in ink that forms random phrases and ideas that I can’t trust my mind to remember on its own.

I could say all of these things, but if I said them, I'd also have to say that I keep a notebook next to my bed because sometimes I wake up at two in the morning when my subconscious mind has something brilliant to share. I’d have to say that I live my life on the sidelines, always observing other people rather than participating myself. I’d have to say that even the most mundane objects—tissue boxes and cotton shirts and shoelaces—have the power to ignite a fire of inspiration in me.

I don't want to tell anyone any of that, because I know they won't listen, or if they do listen, they won't understand. So I keep all of my thoughts on writing to myself, because secrets are fun to keep, and I comfort myself with the knowledge that this secret is mine, mine and no one else's, and it cannot be taken from me.

Maybe the next time someone asks me “what inspires you to write?” I'll just tell them the truth: that it's a secret, that they wouldn't understand, that they don't truly care. Or maybe I’ll answer their question with a question of my own. “What doesn't inspire me?” I’ll respond, and I’ll dare them to come up with an answer.

Lies Your Physics Teacher Told You

Lies Your Physics Teacher Told You

I remember the day you ran up to me in the hallway after Physics and before English. Your face was flushed rose with untold stories bursting at the seams of your chapped lips, and I smiled because I loved it when you talked about the things you were excited about, and I loved you. As we speed-walked to our next classrooms you wrapped an arm around my shoulder and told me about how atoms could never touch each other. Your words leapt out of your mouth and into the air between us, bumping into each other and bonding together, and I marveled at how enthusiastic you seemed about the miracle of humanity and life and existence.       

I don’t remember many of the stories you told me about Physics, but I remember this: you said that the sensation of touch was just a perception, something that only existed in the mind, because atoms never touch but only hover side-by-side. You slid your fingers down my body and squeezed my waist, awestruck at this realization.

At the time, I didn't understand. “But I feel you,” I said, my mind struggling to wrap its wispy fingers around the concept. I put a hand on your chest and said that I was touching you and how did I know? I knew because I could feel you.

But you said no, no, no, it was all a perception, an illusion, nothing was real or solid or tangible and the world was a mess of a place that didn't care about us or anyone at all because the world was too busy being practical for such frivolousness.

A sick feeling spread through my veins but I pushed it away, shoved it back towards the dark corner where it belonged, and I kept asking questions, thinking that if the inquiries stacked up and became a towering pile, it would eventually topple and I would expose the flaws in your logic and prove that this was all nonsense, nothing more than silly theories.

“But if nothing ever touches anything else, how can anything leave a mark?” Your smile twisted into something unkind and your answer was simple: “It can’t.”

And then you kissed me at the door to my History classroom and as I watched you slink across the hall to English I touched my fingers to my lips. The taste of your cinnamon gum lingered there, and if we’d never actually touched, how could such a distinct taste linger on my skin even after you’d gone?

You may think you have science on your side, but I know you’re wrong because when you left I looked down at myself and I saw my clothes and my skin and underneath I saw my bones and you were there; you were everywhere. Your presence covered me like an old t-shirt dotted with holes but more comfortable than anything found in department stores, and you were not nothing, and I was not nothing, and I know that atoms must be capable of touching other atoms because you touched me and you hurt me and you left marks that I will never be able to erase, and maybe I don’t want to erase them because don’t you think they’re a little beautiful?

These marks are evidence of us, evidence of every time your lips pressed into my neck and your hand sweated in mine and your breath tickled my hair when you laughed. These marks are more real than your science will ever be because these marks are the result of loving and losing and loving again, and these marks are the result of living.

Things I Wish I Wouldn't Write About

Things I Wish I Wouldn't Write About

Things I wish I wouldn't write about: Julia.

I wish I wouldn't write about how the sound of her laughter could end wars. I wish I wouldn't write about her adorably-tousled hair or her chipped nail polish or her eyes that told stories of adventure and mischief and never-ending summer nights. I wish my pen would stop piercing the page with words that could never compare to the way her hand feels in mine. I wish my brain would just pack its bags and move on and forget about her.

I wish my thoughts wouldn't find comfort in the blank pages of notebooks; I wish they would settle down into the ears of loved ones. I wish everyone would stop looking at me like that. I wish everyone would understand that I am incapable of seeing the black sky lit up by stars or the red blur of a car passing by or the dingy white of my pillowcase without thinking of her.

I wish the words wouldn't come of their own accord. I wish I could control the things I write. I wish I wasn't bound and gagged and useless while the words knocked me senseless and possessed me.

I wish I wouldn't think about her so much.

I wish I wasn't so helpless and weak and disappointing. I wish I could accomplish feats like those of the heroes she used to scoff at. I wish I could shift tectonic plates to rearrange the earth and make a better one.

I wish I could bring her back.

*****

This is a little free-write I did. A few months ago, I was given a prompt by a fellow writer. The prompt was to start with the line: "Things I wish I wouldn't write about: Julia."

An Introduction

As you can probably tell from the existence of this blog, I have decided to start a blog. I am not exactly new to the blogosphere since I've been blogging on Read. Write. Ramble. for the past almost-four years. That blog, however, was an entirely different experience. Is an entirely different experience. I haven't given up on it yet! But it's a book blog, and book blogs have certain unwritten rules that one must follow. Also, it's a blog with multiple bloggers. I share blogging space with a co-blogger (well, now two co-bloggers) and I have learned that perhaps working with your best friend or friends isn't such a good idea after all. Nevertheless, I enjoy blogging about books, but I also want to venture outside of the book-blog, co-blogger world. So that's where this blog comes in.

At this point, I'm not exactly sure what I want this blog to be. All I know is that I have a strong desire to express myself in a space where I feel completely free, and Read. Write. Ramble. is simply not that place for me. This blog might become a lifestyle blog where I write long, rambling, slightly boring posts about my long, rambling, slightly boring life. Or it might become a blog where I share my writing, since I am a young writer itching for places to share my writing.

Mostly, I want this blog to be me. And since I'm a complex, multi-faceted individual, I think it's perfectly fine if my blog is kind of a mess. It might turn into a place for me to share anything I feel like sharing, whether or not people actually want to read it. And if people don't want to read anything I put up here, that's fine with me. This blog is more about me than anyone else. I've created it for my own selfish reasons.

My goal, I think, is to make this blog somehow different from all my other social medias and internet things. Here is a place where I won't be bound by character limits or square dimensions or even my limited patience with video editing. (Speaking of which, please follow my Twitter, Instagram, and YouTube channel.) I want this blog to be the place where I can go to spill everything I need to spill. I hope that with a fresh audience (or, more realistically, no audience) I can feel more freedom on the internet, a place that hasn't felt free to me in a long time.

So, here I am. This blog is very new, and I'm sure it will undergo a thousand little changes before I settle on something permanent. The design will probably never be something I'm proud of since I have no idea how to design a blog, but it'll do. I'm looking forward to seeing where this blog takes me, and I hope it takes me somewhere good.

If you'd like to follow this blog and come along for the ride, I would greatly appreciate it. I can't promise it will be a fun--or even interesting--ride, but I guess we'll see how this goes.

:)

How Nail Polish Was Invented

How Nail Polish Was Invented

When I was younger,

I used to walk through school with my head down.

Loneliness was a storm cloud hanging over me on the playground,

where I sat on the empty swing set,

hoping someone would say “hi” to me.

But no one ever noticed the plain girl

in her clothes of gray and black and brown.

Boring, quiet, timid;

not an ounce of confidence in her body.

Years later, a trip to the tiny drugstore next to the movie theater

resulted in the purchase of three bottles of nail polish.

Indecision over which color to paint my naked nails—

purple or pink or blue,

all vibrant hues,

all bold choices—

led to the application of all of them.

Ten fingers,

three colors,

one kaleidoscopic mess in the bathroom.

My hands were blindingly bright and smudged and messy,

because of course I didn't actually know how to apply nail polish,

not like the nice ladies at the salon my mother used to take me to.

The nail polish was extreme,

a bit garish,

but when I walked into school the next day,

my bland clothes did not seem so bland next to my flashy nails.

So I smiled at my classmates,

and they smiled back,

and at recess, I was no longer alone.