"Alright, well then maybe you're not her type. She's into stuff like old school Elvis Costello, she listens to obscure podcasts, she reads Dave Eggers. You know, she's deep, man."
The above quote doesn't come from any of my cherished obnoxiously contemporary novels or more-hipster-than-thou Brooklyn bands or indie-darling film-fest movies. No, in fact it's a line from summer '06's little gem John Tucker Must Die. (Note: viewing is not recommended.)
I've spent nearly twenty two years defining myself by the stuff that I love. There's some snobbery to it, obviously, but I do truly love all the things on these lists I've stapled onto my identity and held close.
In a few months' time, I am set to start defining myself by the stuff that I create. And I'm restless, because it's exciting. And I'm trembling, because it's absolutely terrifying.
Exactly one month ago I found myself standing on a pebbled pathway in the backyard of Ernest Hemingway's house in Key West. My mom was a few feet away, talking to a family of tourists from Norway who were temporarily escaping days of 20 hour darkness they'd left back home. I was bare-shouldered for the first time in forever, and those shoulders were blindingly white. The sun bounced off me. The lawn was covered with six-toed cats named after dead celebrities. I kneeled down to pet Truman Capote. The bitch tried to bite me. And I knew. I swore at the grey furry asshole, and I knew that it was time.
Getting into a Master of Fine Arts program for creative writing seems like a good reason to rationalize starting a blog. Or maybe starting a blog is a good reason to rationalize getting into grad school. Either way, it's the right time for me to stop relying on other people's words and start spewing out my own. Sorry, Elvis. Sorry, Ernie. I'm going it alone from here on in.
2 comments:
Fact check: you had a blog in high school.
you are correct, sir
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