I've never really been much good at creating things. I don't have an artistically gifted bone in my body, so works of art are automatically out of the question, I'm not espcially musically talented, I don't build things, I don't cook, I don't bake. I just don't really create. Even when it comes to writing, which has clearly been my thing since I was in second grade, I don't really create well. I have started SO many stories, and never gotten to the end of any of them. I don't think I've ever even reached so much as a middle.
I don't really know that I've ever had an original thought in my life, to be quite honest.
In all honesty, most of my long-term projects are dead in the water before they even begin - it's like they're doomed to failure simply because I was the one who thought them up. They've never really stood a chance. The only stories I write that have any prayer of living are ones I write for newspaper (and the good old Power of the Pen ones), and that's because I have a deadline, and I KNOW they have to be finished.
I hate to admit it, but I'm horrifically bad at finishing what I start.
But I was considering all that, and I realized something. I don't create because I edit. I fix, and tweak, and correct. I am an editor in several senses. The most obvious sense being that I am co-editor in chief of my high school newspaper. I tweak what people have done to make it better and work in conjunction with three other people to make our publication the best it can be. It's about teamwork and collaboration and tweaking what others do.
But when I think about it, I've been editing since before I got that specific title. Think about it. I even consider applying make up to be a form of editing. I take my average face and paint it with colors and powders and all sorts of stuff to edit it and make it prettier. I take what exists and make it better (I hope).
I edit pictures. I use Picnik a lot to do so. I'm not a particularly good photographer, but I'm pretty fair at editing pictures, and I really enjoy doing it. There are at least 220 of my edited photographs up on Facebook, currently. I love taking something that has a life of its own already and giving it a new life as some completely different entity. I love putting words on them. I love playing with the colors. I love making something look vintage-y. I love fixing imperfections.
For years, people have asked me to help edit things they've written, and I could never really understand why. But I think I get it now. I am an editor. I always have been, and suddenly it is so clear - that's what I always will be. Of course. It's always been there. I just never noticied it before.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Maybe I'm Made of Chocolate?
I was not made to deal with heat. I tend to melt. My hair reacts badly to humidity and frequently makes me look like a distant relative of the Cowardly Lion. I hate putting on make up in the summer because it melts off faster that I can put it on. I was just not built to deal with heat.
Neither was my house. I don't have air conditioning. I am melting for the seventeenth summer in a row and it's starting to really piss me off. It's 91 degrees outside, and probably roughly the same inside my house. I hate getting out of the air conditioned car, walking into the ridiculously hot garage, thinking 'Oh, sweet Jesus, I hope it's not this hot in the house,' walking into the house, and finding that IT IS IN FACT, THAT HOT. I hate the feeling of sticky, sweaty skin. I hate the way water bottles and cans of pop and glasses sweat profusely on the table, leaving an obnoxious ring of water that you have to wipe up.
I don't mind the heat at the beach. It's supposed to be hot there. There's a breeze. An ocean breeze. In Ohio, there is no ocean, and consequently, no ocean breeze. But at the beach, I can go from air conditioned condo, to air conditioned car, to air conditioned restaurant, to pool or beach. And it's okay.
Part of the problem too is that I really don't like shorts. I hate my legs. Well, my thighs at least. So I try to avoid wearing shorts. And my arms are nasty too, so I avoid tank tops. And I look weird with my hair up. I LIKE TO WEAR SWEATERS, PANTS, AND MY HAIR DOWN, OKAY?! That's why I like cooler weather. It's acceptable to wear this kind of attire, and I swear I have never craved snow more than I have in the past couple of weeks. And I want to bake. I don't know why. But I do, and it's just TOO DAMN HOT TO BE DOMESTIC.
Okay. Sorry about the ranting, but I'm hot and sweaty and angry, and heat seemed an acceptable thing to rant about without sounding too clinically insane. Schmurrrr.
Neither was my house. I don't have air conditioning. I am melting for the seventeenth summer in a row and it's starting to really piss me off. It's 91 degrees outside, and probably roughly the same inside my house. I hate getting out of the air conditioned car, walking into the ridiculously hot garage, thinking 'Oh, sweet Jesus, I hope it's not this hot in the house,' walking into the house, and finding that IT IS IN FACT, THAT HOT. I hate the feeling of sticky, sweaty skin. I hate the way water bottles and cans of pop and glasses sweat profusely on the table, leaving an obnoxious ring of water that you have to wipe up.
I don't mind the heat at the beach. It's supposed to be hot there. There's a breeze. An ocean breeze. In Ohio, there is no ocean, and consequently, no ocean breeze. But at the beach, I can go from air conditioned condo, to air conditioned car, to air conditioned restaurant, to pool or beach. And it's okay.
Part of the problem too is that I really don't like shorts. I hate my legs. Well, my thighs at least. So I try to avoid wearing shorts. And my arms are nasty too, so I avoid tank tops. And I look weird with my hair up. I LIKE TO WEAR SWEATERS, PANTS, AND MY HAIR DOWN, OKAY?! That's why I like cooler weather. It's acceptable to wear this kind of attire, and I swear I have never craved snow more than I have in the past couple of weeks. And I want to bake. I don't know why. But I do, and it's just TOO DAMN HOT TO BE DOMESTIC.
Okay. Sorry about the ranting, but I'm hot and sweaty and angry, and heat seemed an acceptable thing to rant about without sounding too clinically insane. Schmurrrr.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
"There's Always a Dry Side to a Swing"
So... I accidentally just did something kind of emo. I drove by my grandma's old apartment on my way home from Starbucks tonight.
I know. It doesn't sound particularly emo. But...
She died when I was 9. We were really close for those first 9 years of my life. I would spend a lot of my summer with her. And what's weird is that she wasn't living in the apartment that I drove by at the time of her death. I drive by that apartment almost every day because it's a block away from my house. That one doesn't phase me so much. I think it's because I've gotten used to it.
But I drove by that old apartment tonight for the first time in a long time and realized I couldn't really remember the layout of it. Once I realized that, my eyes filled with tears. How could I not remember something that was a huge fixture in my childhood? I remember the living room and the awful green carpet that used to be in there. I remember the kitchen. I remember the basement, and the time my dad and uncle accidentally flooded it. I remember the back patio and the beautiful gardens we used to work in, but probably mostly from pictures. I remember the hammock. I remember the garage. But I can't remember the bedrooms or anything. I remember a hallway and a mirror but I can't remember the bedrooms or anything. I don't remember how the living room was set up. I vaguely remember coloring in a coloring book while the OJ Simpson trials were going on, and I remember watching 'Fern Gully' and trying to do handstands, and I remember asking her to tape the Oscar's for me once.
That's about all I remember. And that's scary. I pride myself for having a really good memory, but how good can it be if I can't remember such an important part of my growing up?
And then, as it always does when I think about her for a long time, a question enters my mind. It's haunting, really, because there's no way I could ever find an answer to it. But if there's one thing I'd love to know, it's if she would be proud of me. A lot has changed in 8 years. She was the one that got me into acting. I'm sure she thought that's what I'd be doing right now, and what I wanted to be when I grew up. Would she be disappointed that never really worked out for me? Would she be proud of who I am? Of what I've done? Of who my friends are?
Sometimes, I don't know. I really don't know. And I want to. I want to know. Would we still be close? Would I make her proud? What kind of adventures would we have together if she was still around? What would she have been like before my first high school dance? What would she have thought of Power of the Pen?
Would I be different if she had lived longer?
And I know that's a lot more questions than just the one I referenced earlier. But the only one I'd really love an answer to is 'would she be proud of me?' The rest of them I think I can pretty much figure.
I just want to know.
I have to go to bed. I feel sick now. Sorry about all that.
I know. It doesn't sound particularly emo. But...
She died when I was 9. We were really close for those first 9 years of my life. I would spend a lot of my summer with her. And what's weird is that she wasn't living in the apartment that I drove by at the time of her death. I drive by that apartment almost every day because it's a block away from my house. That one doesn't phase me so much. I think it's because I've gotten used to it.
But I drove by that old apartment tonight for the first time in a long time and realized I couldn't really remember the layout of it. Once I realized that, my eyes filled with tears. How could I not remember something that was a huge fixture in my childhood? I remember the living room and the awful green carpet that used to be in there. I remember the kitchen. I remember the basement, and the time my dad and uncle accidentally flooded it. I remember the back patio and the beautiful gardens we used to work in, but probably mostly from pictures. I remember the hammock. I remember the garage. But I can't remember the bedrooms or anything. I remember a hallway and a mirror but I can't remember the bedrooms or anything. I don't remember how the living room was set up. I vaguely remember coloring in a coloring book while the OJ Simpson trials were going on, and I remember watching 'Fern Gully' and trying to do handstands, and I remember asking her to tape the Oscar's for me once.
That's about all I remember. And that's scary. I pride myself for having a really good memory, but how good can it be if I can't remember such an important part of my growing up?
And then, as it always does when I think about her for a long time, a question enters my mind. It's haunting, really, because there's no way I could ever find an answer to it. But if there's one thing I'd love to know, it's if she would be proud of me. A lot has changed in 8 years. She was the one that got me into acting. I'm sure she thought that's what I'd be doing right now, and what I wanted to be when I grew up. Would she be disappointed that never really worked out for me? Would she be proud of who I am? Of what I've done? Of who my friends are?
Sometimes, I don't know. I really don't know. And I want to. I want to know. Would we still be close? Would I make her proud? What kind of adventures would we have together if she was still around? What would she have been like before my first high school dance? What would she have thought of Power of the Pen?
Would I be different if she had lived longer?
And I know that's a lot more questions than just the one I referenced earlier. But the only one I'd really love an answer to is 'would she be proud of me?' The rest of them I think I can pretty much figure.
I just want to know.
I have to go to bed. I feel sick now. Sorry about all that.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
"It Sucks. But at Least It's Raining."
I used to have this crippling, intense fear of severe weather. It was mostly tornados I was afraid of, and the fear was inexplicable. Nothing terrible had ever happened to me during any kind of storm, and yet even the slightest dark cloud would make my mouth go dry and my palms begin to sweat. Rain scared me. Lightning was terrifying. Thunder was awful. I had to go to a child psychologist for this shit. It was bad.
I think at some point, without really noticing it, I outgrew it. I stopped hiding in my safe closet when there were tornado warnings in neighboring counties. I stopped trying to fall asleep whenever the sky clouded over. It doesn't matter anymore. It really doesn't.
I like the rain. The rain is my friend. Sometimes I get upset with the rain when my pants get wet, or my hair gets messed up, or I step into a huge puddle in a parking lot. We have our rough patches, just like any other relationship, but me and rain, we're mostly good. Right now it's thundering too. For all those years I feared it, I find it strangely comforting now. I love trying to sleep through the thunder. I usually don't even mind when it wakes me up in the middle of the night.
There's something wonderful about a thunderstorm. Maybe it's the way the rain seems to wash everything away and give the opportunity for a new start. Maybe it's the way the rain almost always seems to cool off the world. Maybe it's the way the thunder reminds me that there's always something bigger than us. Maybe it's the way the lightning lights up the sky piece by piece. I love the way it gives each corner individual attention. Maybe it's the way thunderstorms seem so violent and scary, but beautiful at the same time. Maybe I'm not quite sure what it is. Maybe it's the mystery of not being able to pinpoint what I like about it.
I think at some point, without really noticing it, I outgrew it. I stopped hiding in my safe closet when there were tornado warnings in neighboring counties. I stopped trying to fall asleep whenever the sky clouded over. It doesn't matter anymore. It really doesn't.
I like the rain. The rain is my friend. Sometimes I get upset with the rain when my pants get wet, or my hair gets messed up, or I step into a huge puddle in a parking lot. We have our rough patches, just like any other relationship, but me and rain, we're mostly good. Right now it's thundering too. For all those years I feared it, I find it strangely comforting now. I love trying to sleep through the thunder. I usually don't even mind when it wakes me up in the middle of the night.
There's something wonderful about a thunderstorm. Maybe it's the way the rain seems to wash everything away and give the opportunity for a new start. Maybe it's the way the rain almost always seems to cool off the world. Maybe it's the way the thunder reminds me that there's always something bigger than us. Maybe it's the way the lightning lights up the sky piece by piece. I love the way it gives each corner individual attention. Maybe it's the way thunderstorms seem so violent and scary, but beautiful at the same time. Maybe I'm not quite sure what it is. Maybe it's the mystery of not being able to pinpoint what I like about it.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
"I Don't Need a Life That's Normal, That's Way Too Far Away"
Sometimes, I take a look at my friends and realize that I'm the normal one. I don't love them any less. I probably love them more after I think about what they've gone through, what they've done, who they are versus who they used to be and how they've grown.
It's scary. It's scary in more ways than one. It's scary because I never thought of myself as particularly normal. I'm weird. I'm quirky. I'm not boring, or at least I don't think I am. But then I look at the people I love and realize that compared to them, I am SO normal. I am so well-adjusted and adaptable that I'm just so average.
It's scary because I learn things about people that I'd never have imagined were true. For example, some of the most amazing people I know were suicidal at some point in their lives. These are people who make me laugh until I cry, people who are perfectly lovely and thoughtful and honestly some of the best friends you could ever have, people who I cannot imagine not having in my life without wanting to vomit. People who would never appear suicidal.
I have learned so much about some of my friends in the past year or so. Some of them have come out of deeply troubled times, which makes them all the more valuable to me. I love them. I'll never stop loving them. I hope they know that, and selfishly I hope they love me, too.
It's important to value the people you love and to let them know how much you value them. Even more important than what I've learned about certain individuals is that people need to know someone cares. You have to hope the respect they have for you outweighs the disrespect they have for themself and stops them from doing something stupid or dangerous. It's important to listen to people. It's important to listen beyond just the words they're saying and listen to what they really mean. It's important to listen to what they really want you to hear.
There are people who are so wrapped up in their own drama that in all likelihood won't even matter in a few weeks. I have never been one of those people. I've discovered I kind of like being the normal friend. It allows me to listen. It allows me to see people and understand them in different ways. It allows me to love them more. I would be missing so much without them. They have no idea how much they've taught me and how much they've changed me and how much I love them for it. It would be impossible for me to express it, so they can never truly understand. But I do my best.
Don't be afraid to love. Tell someone how you feel. And if you don't have anything to tell, listen.
It's scary. It's scary in more ways than one. It's scary because I never thought of myself as particularly normal. I'm weird. I'm quirky. I'm not boring, or at least I don't think I am. But then I look at the people I love and realize that compared to them, I am SO normal. I am so well-adjusted and adaptable that I'm just so average.
It's scary because I learn things about people that I'd never have imagined were true. For example, some of the most amazing people I know were suicidal at some point in their lives. These are people who make me laugh until I cry, people who are perfectly lovely and thoughtful and honestly some of the best friends you could ever have, people who I cannot imagine not having in my life without wanting to vomit. People who would never appear suicidal.
I have learned so much about some of my friends in the past year or so. Some of them have come out of deeply troubled times, which makes them all the more valuable to me. I love them. I'll never stop loving them. I hope they know that, and selfishly I hope they love me, too.
It's important to value the people you love and to let them know how much you value them. Even more important than what I've learned about certain individuals is that people need to know someone cares. You have to hope the respect they have for you outweighs the disrespect they have for themself and stops them from doing something stupid or dangerous. It's important to listen to people. It's important to listen beyond just the words they're saying and listen to what they really mean. It's important to listen to what they really want you to hear.
There are people who are so wrapped up in their own drama that in all likelihood won't even matter in a few weeks. I have never been one of those people. I've discovered I kind of like being the normal friend. It allows me to listen. It allows me to see people and understand them in different ways. It allows me to love them more. I would be missing so much without them. They have no idea how much they've taught me and how much they've changed me and how much I love them for it. It would be impossible for me to express it, so they can never truly understand. But I do my best.
Don't be afraid to love. Tell someone how you feel. And if you don't have anything to tell, listen.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
"This I Believe"
Recently, I've been reading a book my parents got me for Christmas called "This I Believe." It's a collection of essays from well-known people; short little things that detail their personal philosophies on life. It's a pretty cool book, I'm pretty sure it's through NPR, which is how my mom heard about it.
This morning, I was reading it in study hall and I got kind of tired of reading, so I decided to write one of my own. I started thinking of all the things I believe in: friendship; small, lovely, irreplaceable moments; love. Then I realized that there's something that I believe in that encompasses all of that. This was the end product. It's quite a bit shorter than the essays in "This I Believe," but I'm pretty sure I said all I wanted to say:
"I believe in the beauty of idiosyncracies. Perfection doesn't exist. There are no real measured standards for perfection. I love my family and friends because they're weird. It is their adorable quirks that make me like them.
A few nights ago, one friend burst into tears because she couldn't understand why someone would put gummy bears in their ice cream. Another good friend, we have come to realize, does this thing where she keeps taking until she gets a laugh out of somebody. She also deeply fears sticky fingers and awkward social situations.
We all have these irrational fears that we mock each other mercilessly because of. For instance, I
have an inexplicable fear of tomato seeds. I also have a friend with a severe fear of male genitalia, as well as a friend who fears pregnant women. One of my friends refuses to take free samples of anything because he has somehow convinced himself that they are infested with AIDS. This is the same friend who can't eat things in even numbers (I honestly believed he was making that up when he first told me about it, but there are so many rules and exceptions that there's no way he could have just made it up).
It is the imperfections that make someone endearing to me. Their quirks give them individuality and the fact that there is only one of them in the entire world population makes me feel incredibly lucky to have them in my life.
Life shouldn't be about conforming; rather it should be about celebrating and sharing what makes us unique. There are friends I have that I love who have bizarre obsessions with somewhat obscure and often British TV shows. I also have a friend who comes up with really random, awesome metaphors for life that never fail to amuse me or get me thinking.
By hiding our quirks from the world, we are doing everyone - including ourselves - a grave disservice. Part of living is being brave enough to share our idiosyncracies with them people around us. Chances are, our quirks make people love us even more. I can only hpe that my friends love me in spite of my fear of tomato seeds, or my penchant for petting hair, or my fascination with sappy cabaret songs.
I believe it's those funny little quirks that make us adorable, and only the ones who really love us can accept."
This morning, I was reading it in study hall and I got kind of tired of reading, so I decided to write one of my own. I started thinking of all the things I believe in: friendship; small, lovely, irreplaceable moments; love. Then I realized that there's something that I believe in that encompasses all of that. This was the end product. It's quite a bit shorter than the essays in "This I Believe," but I'm pretty sure I said all I wanted to say:
"I believe in the beauty of idiosyncracies. Perfection doesn't exist. There are no real measured standards for perfection. I love my family and friends because they're weird. It is their adorable quirks that make me like them.
A few nights ago, one friend burst into tears because she couldn't understand why someone would put gummy bears in their ice cream. Another good friend, we have come to realize, does this thing where she keeps taking until she gets a laugh out of somebody. She also deeply fears sticky fingers and awkward social situations.
We all have these irrational fears that we mock each other mercilessly because of. For instance, I
have an inexplicable fear of tomato seeds. I also have a friend with a severe fear of male genitalia, as well as a friend who fears pregnant women. One of my friends refuses to take free samples of anything because he has somehow convinced himself that they are infested with AIDS. This is the same friend who can't eat things in even numbers (I honestly believed he was making that up when he first told me about it, but there are so many rules and exceptions that there's no way he could have just made it up).
It is the imperfections that make someone endearing to me. Their quirks give them individuality and the fact that there is only one of them in the entire world population makes me feel incredibly lucky to have them in my life.
Life shouldn't be about conforming; rather it should be about celebrating and sharing what makes us unique. There are friends I have that I love who have bizarre obsessions with somewhat obscure and often British TV shows. I also have a friend who comes up with really random, awesome metaphors for life that never fail to amuse me or get me thinking.
By hiding our quirks from the world, we are doing everyone - including ourselves - a grave disservice. Part of living is being brave enough to share our idiosyncracies with them people around us. Chances are, our quirks make people love us even more. I can only hpe that my friends love me in spite of my fear of tomato seeds, or my penchant for petting hair, or my fascination with sappy cabaret songs.
I believe it's those funny little quirks that make us adorable, and only the ones who really love us can accept."
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Mindless Chatter
Why. Hello, there.
Guess what!
It's MAY.
Guess what else!
I'm kind of a blogging failure.
(For the month of April, at the very least. Which, basically, is a blur that I'm going to attempt to recap here in a moment).
Welcome back to my life. I know you (my 0.04 average readers) have been lost without me.
So let's talk about April. I remember it starting off awesomely, what with spring break being upon us and all. I spent a lot of time at Starbucks (still do, actually...seriously considering taking up permanent residence there...expect a change of address card sometime soon)(also, do people still send those/do they actually exist or did I just make them up in my head?) with really awesome people. There was one night that I was particularly fond of when we accidentally ran a red light, froze our asses off at a playground at 9:00 at night, and sat in the Starbucks parking lot cuddling and eating curly fries.
After the spring break part of April was over, I threw myself into school stuff, which I apparently did a really good job of blocking from my memory, because I don't remember much of it now.
Mid-April is marked by the fabulousness that was our NYC trip.
It. Was wonderful. I may have slept only 12/65 hours we were gone, but I'm okay with that, because every hour I was awake counted as a new memory. There were many pictures taken, many laughs, many new inside jokes, two Broadway shows, much coffee, very little sleep, quite a bit of singing, some dancing, very little sanity, and excessive amounts of cuddling. I loved every second of it. In my mind, I'm still there, and it was three weeks ago.
The end of April... mostly just a smear of time that I don't remember. I remember a lot of studying. I remember a lot of being alone. I remember being REAL tired. But other than that, I don't remember much. I think I was like, roofied, or something during the end of April. But I think I liked it?
Yeah, that was my April. Now it is May, and AP exams have crept upon us (hee - crept upon us) and so has the last newspaper issue, and my Heritage Society old person story deadline, and seniors graduating, and exams, and Editor-in-Chief interviews/applications, and Prom drama, and other drama, and HEY it's almost summer. Thank the non-denominational creator.
It's late now. I'm finally sleepy enough to sleep.
The weatherman promised me a thunderstorm. I'm a little sad I didn't get one.
Wow, that was a little bit profound. Or maybe I'm just tired.
Goodnight. Happy May.
Guess what!
It's MAY.
Guess what else!
I'm kind of a blogging failure.
(For the month of April, at the very least. Which, basically, is a blur that I'm going to attempt to recap here in a moment).
Welcome back to my life. I know you (my 0.04 average readers) have been lost without me.
So let's talk about April. I remember it starting off awesomely, what with spring break being upon us and all. I spent a lot of time at Starbucks (still do, actually...seriously considering taking up permanent residence there...expect a change of address card sometime soon)(also, do people still send those/do they actually exist or did I just make them up in my head?) with really awesome people. There was one night that I was particularly fond of when we accidentally ran a red light, froze our asses off at a playground at 9:00 at night, and sat in the Starbucks parking lot cuddling and eating curly fries.
After the spring break part of April was over, I threw myself into school stuff, which I apparently did a really good job of blocking from my memory, because I don't remember much of it now.
Mid-April is marked by the fabulousness that was our NYC trip.
It. Was wonderful. I may have slept only 12/65 hours we were gone, but I'm okay with that, because every hour I was awake counted as a new memory. There were many pictures taken, many laughs, many new inside jokes, two Broadway shows, much coffee, very little sleep, quite a bit of singing, some dancing, very little sanity, and excessive amounts of cuddling. I loved every second of it. In my mind, I'm still there, and it was three weeks ago.
The end of April... mostly just a smear of time that I don't remember. I remember a lot of studying. I remember a lot of being alone. I remember being REAL tired. But other than that, I don't remember much. I think I was like, roofied, or something during the end of April. But I think I liked it?
Yeah, that was my April. Now it is May, and AP exams have crept upon us (hee - crept upon us) and so has the last newspaper issue, and my Heritage Society old person story deadline, and seniors graduating, and exams, and Editor-in-Chief interviews/applications, and Prom drama, and other drama, and HEY it's almost summer. Thank the non-denominational creator.
It's late now. I'm finally sleepy enough to sleep.
The weatherman promised me a thunderstorm. I'm a little sad I didn't get one.
Wow, that was a little bit profound. Or maybe I'm just tired.
Goodnight. Happy May.
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