A picture may be worth a thousand words, but I seem to be worth only 48. Yes I counted and yes I have few intimates. I’m curious as to how much of me is externally displayed from this list and also how much is internally. It took some creativity yet also a natural acceptance to read about myself. I feel like I’ve found what the inside of my book sleeves will read once I become a sympathetic writer who is married, who let’s her husband decide what types of fonts she will use for her published books since he cares more than she does about it, so she lets it pass.
(by Brittany Reagan)
Seriously add a cup of coffee, a scruffed-face man, musical notes, laughter, the breaking of bread and a typewriter and you have my thought-life.
There are things in life we gear up for in high and anxious anticipation. Graduating from some type of academic program. Moving into or out of a residence. Leaving the country. Starting a new job. Quitting a job. Entering new relationships, leaving old and hurting ones. Growing apart and growing up. There are countless occasions where a party is thrown in honor of such recognitions. It celebrates both the good and bad and most importantly to accept, it is inevitable. And though my friend told me you were going to throw me a surprise party, I was genuinely embarrassed from the high shriek I produced when you all came out hollering, “surpriseeeeee!”
- Starting a new job seems to have me in the mode of, don’t stop, won’t stop, and takes a lot of time away from anything leisurely.
- Leaving school, I seem to have less friends and have forgotten simple multiplication and algebraic equations.
- As I grow older, I feel I would be ok living on my own, away from all friendly faces.
- Everyone around me is getting married and I rarely date.
- My gray hairs may come to life before my school loans are put to death.
The inevitable still surprises me.
And because the parties that celebrate these points above will occur often and forcefully, I will make sure to come willingly and knowingly.
And with the theme of all things inevitable, I hope one day I can add a bullet point that reads:
- I worked on writing a book and now it’s published.
For now, check out an excerpt titled Home from my alleged soon to be published book.
I get spurts of OCD. Organization Compulsive Distresses. I literally feel agony when I discover an army of grime upon my books and records or when one shoe is on it’s side while it’s partner in style is upright and confident. While sifting through my bedroom with a Hefty trash bag and multi-colored duster in hand, not recognizing what they were due to the armor of dust, I stumbled upon old binders from my old days in high school. First point: how amusing it is to see your old writing and the source of your alleged, “hardest times of my life,” via 82% on your Geometry test. Second: I found myself wanting to keep at least a sheet of my past, so I ended up discarding all science related stuff and binding my english grammar sheets—considering I forget where commas go sometimes and I’ve never grasped how to add electrons in the first place. Third: I forgot how much I learned in high school. I miss learning.
All this to say, it is my neat obsession that reminded me how much I appreciate the English language. From grammar to diction and metaphors to fiction, anything related to 1.Klinky’s class’ syllabus, I now realize, may have kick-started my current literary fire.
The fire, though a light orange and lulling, is first and foremost significant because it provides light, though slight. This light represents my pretentious-vibed, yet sincere goal of writing, finishing and publishing a book. I have been racking my brain wondering if such dreams are valid to be had or worth falling asleep to. Then I think anyone can write a book. Then I think shortly after, I can’t just be anyone. I want more 2.twitter followers than Donald Miller is all.
Actual point, aka the 3.“climax,” to this entry. I shot (electronically) my mom’s friend’s author son an email a couple a days ago asking if he had some time to chat to extend any wisdom on matters of all things, “writing.” (Ideally doors would fly open during our conversation but honestly, I’d be grateful for it to even crack). So after hearing each other’s spiel of experiences and aspirations, a question was asked by him to me that made me feel like I was behind a podium declaring an Address on who I am as a person and my passions and that I hope all 45,000+ people watching will applaud and support the Tracy movement.
“What is your book about?” said 18+ published books, author.
(insert confident and enthusiastic answer).
Basically this tops all that was on my, feel productive list that consisted of “laundry” and “help a citizen cross the street.”
I encourage you to seek out your podium moment, look out for clear signs, the dust does a mighty fine job at hiding it.
- Mr. Klinkhammer was my AP English teacher. He drank something out of a mug every morning, but the elixir made him intriguing and also seemed to influence his decision in never passing my comma tests thus denying my membership in The Comma Club.
- twitter.com/tracyleeeee
- I may have to brush up on my “structure of a story,” notes.
