a lot has changed since we first spoke, reader.
meaning to say, we've said alot. i've said alot; on these eight psuedo-pages. which are about fifty-six paper-pages, it turns out– and i don't say that to slight the screen any more than i suppose i already have– i just thought it'd be a nice thing to share.
because it turns out, reader, we've shared a lot, too.
i've shared alot.
the words behind the words
as a rule of thumb, i try not to be too sappy. (though i did profess my love to you in our first meeting. that is beside the point.)
i wear my heart under my sleeve, and keep the world at half-an-arm's length. i feel, of course, as deeply as i'm capable– i wouldn't be much of a writer if i didn't– but i fear it's even more writerly to keep my sleeves rolled down, if you know what i mean.
it's accepted that there are things in life best kept under lock and key. everyone's got their 'thing.' their metaphorical name-scrawled-in-a-diary/sock-drawer. 'secret' is really a loaded word, but few other words feel appropriate.
we, as individuals, are so quick to deprive ourselves of actualization: that is, scrawling in a place where everyone will see– and in everyone seeing, everyong believing, and thus, making the thing– the name, the thought, the thing-worthy-of-hiding, the secret– real. irreversibly real.
this is the kind of thing that can only be achieved through writing. saying something out loud is close, yes, but writing is permenant. it's real, forever, for everyone. and that's terrifying.
but when i was a child, it was the most incredible thing.
i wrote incessantly. it was how i made sense of myself.
it was how i made sense of everything, really.
i'd write myself into reality. tell stories before i was capable of properly spelling them. share them with everybody. baby's first novellas.
a few pictures towards the top are mine, in fact.
i wrote my first book at nineteen, and my first ‘book’ at five and three-quarters– a fraction i once insisted upon including, because every quarter, bottle cap, and piece of yarn in my pocket was something i had to my name. i sought comfort in the things i could control. which, at my size, were the small things. whatever i could pull from the lint tray of a dryer was gold. the shiniest piece of gravel in the parking lot. the last nub of blue sidewalk chalk. heads-up pennies, unstuck-stickers, and ‘naked’ crayons with their labels torn off. (my instrument of choice for my books, which were more often than about these things, in some capacity. i was just writing what i knew.)
and i wrote before i knew how to write about what i knew, and before i knew what i knew, and did not know, despite only knowing what i ‘knew.’ i wrote about mothers and daughters and playdates and birthday parties. i wrote about holidays and spring days and ice cream cones with colored sprinkles. i wrote about being alone. and responsibilities i had. i wrote about cleaning things, and fixing things. i wrote a lot about love. i wrote about myself in love, albeit as a little animal of some kind. i don’t think i knew what love was, either. but i was decent at writing about little animals.
i think we forget about ourselves in relation to the world. that turn of phrase makes it sound more profound than it really is, i assure you. all i mean to say is that as children, we are small. and everything around us is both new and tremendous– and tremendously frightening. we are not just learning how to tie our shoes: we're holding them against our fathers, and wondering how something could get to be so big. not to mention t-shirts and hats. (or governments, or groceries.)
and as we grow, everything else grows, too. neighbors become neighborhoods become towns become cities. our perspectives grow alongside our bodies, but at the end of the day, we feel very small.
i feel very small.
i feel as small as i did when i was a little girl, reader.
and it's why i make books. and write in those books. and share those books, as physical objects. so people can read them. and induldge my inner child, for a bit. make us both feel a little bigger, a little more real.
