|Me in Florida, 2011|
I write words for a living.
No, I'm not a writer, as much as 14-year-old me wanted to believe that I could be. Wanted to publish a fantasy novel, one that, had I published it at 14 or at 20, would have followed me as a flaming embarrassment for the rest of my life. I think that would have been okay, but I kind of like what happened better. That I learned to write for myself. That I spent years writing about Tolkien quotes and solo trips, and occasionally my inner thoughts and once about an aardvark (because I'd committed to writing every day and I had nothing to say), and about love (sort of) and finding myself (sort of) and a bunch of environmental posts that I spent way too long researching, the posts that took me five hours and ten people read, the ones that took me five minutes and got thousands of hits. People still read my instructions for riding a Greyhound bus, and sometimes I still miss riding a Greyhound bus, and sometimes I still think about the Greyhound ride to Florida where I stayed up all night and the nervous businessman sat next to me, the one who was supposed to be on an airplane but an ice storm had grounded the flight and his company switched him to the bus instead, and he bribed me with trail mix to sit next to him because he was terrified of riding the bus and he thought I didn't look like a serial killer, and he asked if I liked the music of Sade and gave me his headphones and I listened to her while looking out the dark window. And now every time I listen to Simon and Garfunkel's "America" and the line says, "And the moon rose over an open field," I burst into tears because I think of the moon on the everglades through the Greyhound bus window.
Where was I? That's right, with the words.