Secrets and Lies

Damn opaqueness and politeness and mess. Damn the heart’s wanton ways. Damn bad timing and impatience. Damn all the ways we hide who we are and how feel and damn how hard it is to want something you shouldn’t want, to be so helplessly imprisoned by complication and impossibility. I wish loyalties never got crossed. I wish time weren’t so linear and I could see something heartening waiting for me in the future instead of being held captive in the static present. But mostly I wish the truth weren’t so hard to tell. Everyone fears knowing what is real because ignorance is possibility. If I don’t know how he feels he might love me. And sometimes things are best left unsaid because then there is no responsibility, no wounded feelings, no blame if you change your mind, no rejection. It’s safe and it’s suffocating. How I hate the veiled, festering feelings that will never be more than phantoms. If only we had the courage to give and receive everything hidden in our hearts. It might be shocking, devastating even, but think of all the affection wasted, all the bitterness never remedied, all the knotty, heavy secrets that lie between everyone. Lying about how much we care. Watching in silent agony as someone we want falls for a friend. Feigning forgiveness while harboring deep, poisonous anger. Wouldn’t it be nice if there were a fairy godmother who could say what no one else dares to? Or a day when no one could lie? Or mind-reading capabilities?

All I Want for Christmas

Santa,

Here’s my heart’s desire: give me heart-wrenching, deep, passionate, pure love. The kind they show in movies. The kind people can’t stop singing about. The kind every teen girl dreams of and most adults dismiss. The kind that promises hard times but enough steadfastness to see it through to old age and death do you part. The kind that makes you want to cry it cuts so deep, but that makes life worth its misery and mess.
Yeah it’s a tall order, a useless prayer. I remember the boundless hope of youth, the way I thought that if I wanted something enough, believed and wished intensely enough, that of course it would somehow find a way to come true. I was special and life was full of joy and potential. I am overly romantic. But I really want magic and if I can’t ask for it at Christmas, then I don’t know when else.


Cheers,
Sarah

The F Word

I am afraid so often and I'm not sure what function it serves. Why should I let such irrational fear stop me from doing so much that could be good for me? Sometimes the fear pretends to be laziness or worry or other things. Shame and inadequacy are its bedfellows. The most sinister thing about fear is its ability not only to cripple you but to make you blame and hate yourself in the process. Deep down you know you're being lied to and taken advantage of, but there's no way to totally get rid of this feeling, one that is so primal and powerful that when you're in its grip it's difficult to imagine knowing anything else. Fear has the peculiar quality of making one forget all the times fear has been proven wrong. It's like a default mode, like gravity or inertia. Of course it has a service to provide, a reason for being, but we give it more power that we should. The worst thing fear does is not hurting us, but stopping us from reaching out to others. Some people happen to be more afraid of being by themselves than being with others, but most of us are afraid of judgment or rejection, so we don't put our feeling on the line. How many people have I loved from afar but been too afraid to tell how much I cared because I thought they'd think less of me in some way or that I'd get hurt? I need to learn how to acknowledge and accept my limitations, such as fear, so I can utilize my strengths and love the best I can.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

The smell of cold night air. An unexpected touch or acknowledgment from someone I think I might be in love with. Poetry. Discovering a new favorite song. Spiked hot drinks. Partiers yelling silly things as they stumble down the street at 1 AM. Movies that make me cry every single time. Christmas lights. Comfortable silence. Laughter and merriment and no pressure to be anything other than what I am. Fond memories. Knowing that there's more than one person in this world willing to take a hysteric phone call from me at any time, day or night. That feeling of relief after accomplishing something difficult. Late mornings in between toasty sheets. Romantic daydreams. Fresh laundry.

Even though I'm lonely tonight, even though sometimes I'm sad and I forget all that I have, I can always count my blessings. And for that I am grateful.

Life Goes Fast

One of my high school friends died yesterday. Isn't it weird how death of anyone in your stratosphere, even people you're not extremely close to, shakes you up and makes you see the world differently? You never know quite how to react. There are, of course, the stages of grief and denial always comes first. How do you wrap your head around something like that? How do you reconcile with the idea that someone who was real and concrete has disappeared forever, that they will never grow or become, that they have ceased existing? And someday you will be gone forever and nothing will be left of you but memory. It's mortality slapping you in the face and it's hard. No matter how much violence is on tv, no matter how much we believe in the immortality of spirit, we are never quite prepared for it when it happens. Death makes things awkward, too. What do you say? A cliche, no matter how sincere, still rings hollow. You never how bad you should feel, how sad is too sad. Your sadness does nothing to help anything, but you can't just go on as if nothing happened. Also, I for one almost feel guilty mourning someone I didn't know well because I feel like the grief belongs to their family and best friends so much more. Maybe I'm just appreciating this person because they're gone and it's appropriate, because death makes someone famous and more precious. People don't speak ill of the dead because the dead become glorified and preserved, become somehow unreal as they are memorialized. But I mourn nonetheless, the loss of potential the most. What could have been? It's not fair. But death is never fair. Youth and goodness and innocence are harder to lose, especially without warning, but does anyone ever want or deserve to die? It's just as tragic when someone dies forgotten and their dying makes no difference. Regardless, all I know is that today I am sad because this person was kind and made me laugh, because I love the people who will miss him most and because I know it could just as easily happen to anyone. Maybe I should have gotten to know him better and maybe there's no real reason for me to be sad other than because of how senseless and shocking this is, but regardless, I will remember him today and hope that when I die I too will be missed.

Rest in peace Eric. You were loved and you'll be missed.

To do or not to do, to be or not to be.

What's with that feeling, when you're supposed to make a wish but you don't know what for, when you make it to the top or the end or whathaveyou and you don't know what to make of it, when you get what you wanted but it's not at all what it seemed? It's stupid really, not nice, but I guess it's rather important. It's at that moment when you pause, wonder, question. That emptiness you feel, it spurs you to stop, which is always something we forget and often loath to do. Time is money. Busy-ness is next to godliness. All those daft and wicked beliefs we hold to distract ourselves make it seem like we're living and working for something when really we're just living and working. That something we're striving to gain, whether it be money, love, meaning, beauty, success--it's all a sham. I don't know who put it in place, who thinks they benefit from this, but we are being robbed of our chance for joy with every day we spend wishing and trying to be productive. I am tired, in so many ways, of worrying and making things happen. Life is not for doing, but for being: being helpless, being surprised, being grateful, being devastated. Sure we do things, many things, but not because we have to, not because we are measured by them. I have aspirations, and I have very strong wants and fears that govern my thoughts and actions, but I am not the want or the fear or the results. I just am, and I'm trying to let it be as best I can.

:(

Some days I’m not afraid of being defective. Some days I’m afraid of not having scars, of being safe and trapped and boring. I know I am not cool and I will never succeed in becoming cool because for some reason coolness is a characteristic of the other and I am too familiar to myself to be interesting, but I think that I wish I were cool because I admire cool people so much and that just makes me even less cool than before. I feel like I am too lucky, that I have lived a life with few bumps and as a result I am formless, I am evanescent and uninteresting. I am certainly grateful for everything I’ve been blessed with, but I can’t help but wish I were grittier, more damaged. Maybe it’s because when I feel inexplicably sad it is so inexplicable as to be inconsequential. Who cares if you cry if there is no reason for you to cry? It’s worthless suffering, the kind of thing people wallow in and demand pills for. The kind people get easily annoyed with. The kind that doesn’t get fixed because nothing bad has really happened and maybe you’re only miserable because your life is so empty that there’s nothing really painful there and that is the saddest thing. That breaks my heart. That is what is bringing me down now. I guess sadness is better than nothing, than days of sitting on the couch absorbing other people’s stories and being numb. Let’s put it this way: life is feeling. If you don’t feel anything or don’t have any real reason for feeling anything, what’s the fucking point? Why have skin and a heart if you’re not going to utilize them? I want to feel alive today and instead I feel demolished and hopeless. I want to have a goddamn reason for my fear and anger and apathy because if not, I will begin to turn on myself and hate myself for my weakness.

Waiting

Story of my life: all dressed up and nowhere to go. I’m always expecting something that never happens, waiting and wondering what’s wrong with me. What IS wrong with me? Why is there so much stubborn, stupid hope fighting inside me and sabotaging my happiness? But I guess the expectation keeps me alive sometimes, holds me up when all my heart can do is fall. Because if I didn’t anticipate being seen and appreciated by somebody, I think I would cease being, fade into oblivion, fade like mist in the sunlight.

Holding on Like It's All I Have

Sadness. It weighs so heavy and yet you're not there. The edges are blurred; you have been erased. Perfect sadness is a delicate balance of blame, honing your suffering into a masterpiece. There is a certain amount of fault that is yours and a portion for others. Just enough of each so you can wallow both in self-loathing and self-pity. It is beautiful and deep. You can get lost. Except, you're trying to survive for some reason, passing as normal. Thus, you must cope instead. Coping hurts a little more, but it gives you dignity. You learn when the waves and stinging come to cup sadness neatly in the palm of your hand. That way you keep it close, but hidden. That way you can manage. Sometimes there are heart attacks. It feels like a knife is being twisted inside. Like nothing can breathe. I don't understand why, but it happens. Deal. When it happens, I stand perfectly still. In this state of inexplicable, unexplainable sorrow, joy sounds like the spinning, shrieking laughter in a nightmare from a movie. Mocking, dreadful. You pity happy people. They're distracting, fooling themselves. No one can keep it up forever. Everyone falls victim sometimes. We're all alone together. That's comforting, at least. That's all sadness is, a comfort. An easy way out. A choice.



But sometimes all you can do is drown.

Set Your World on Fire

O my. I am filled with…longing. A sacred, vital, earth-shattering longing. I feel so ready for something. I want to make a connection, I want to pour some of my soul into someone. I want to live like it's all or nothing, wildly and surely. I want to give and take. I want to have such energetic love for life that I am completely full and empty and heart-broken. I want to make everything spontaneous and quirky and beautiful. I can't even express this in words. I wonder if I could ever dance it, paint it, sing it, act it. All I can do is compose it, write it, say it. Words aren't enough and I can never give them at the right time, to the right people. I feel like no one knows how I feel, truly. I am a dreamy, shy girl to them, awkward and uptight and maybe a little intimidating or haughty. If only I could give them my eyes, my heart. I think you'd be surprised. Now that would be art. My self and experiences literally on display. I feel so much for so many, and they do not know it. I laugh, I watch, I cry, I share and yet feel all alone. It surprises me how much love has to do with transparency, truth. Everyone puts on a face, tones it down, tries so hard. And they're all dying. Get busy living or get busy dying, they say. It's the simple things that make your heart burn. I get so excited for monumental moments and they always let me down, but when I least expect it I am so touched I could melt. May I feel everything, every day til I die. May I expect nothing and find it anyway. May I touch and spread and never ever forget how much everybody needs someone to care about them. May I do and play and not worry. May I be vital and happy, and may everyone find their happiness, too.

Wanted

A boy. He is tall, skinny but strong in all the right places. Dark hair, curly or wavy. Deft, slim fingers. Chuck sneakers are a must. An adorable smile, one that has a way of making people (i.e. me) do stupid things. Irrepressible sense of humor.
Deep, deep eyes that hold mirth and sadness and love. Quick to smile, easy laughter. Make that easy everything. Lips that distract and demand kissing. Perceptive. Tender. Happy-go-lucky and fun. Calm, but has a restless soul like me. Must be open with me and direct. Not afraid of taking what he wants. Enjoys the simple things and not overly ambitious. Dorky and suave at the same time. I want to be able to take care of him sometimes but I want to feel safe in his arms. Spontaneous and creative and silly and thoughtful. Mischievous. Can defuse my worrying and bring out my happiest, most Zen self. Thinks everything I do is fantastic. Clever, bold. Likes surprises and presents. Kind to children and old people. Takes me on adventures and makes big romantic gestures. Has the magical ability to make me feel beautiful around him, always. Comfortable with me and understands without anyone having to say a word. Able to bring me new joy everyday. Loyal and willing to help me grow.


If you find the person fitting this description, please
contact me immediately.

Tell My Heart to Wait it Out

I’m hurting, aching, burning, yearning and crying out for something. I am a yin without a yang, a hole that needs a patch, music lacking melody, an amputee. These days I am a hollow, scooped out melon, heavy and yet empty, looking normal on the outside while desire resounds inside. It’s not so much sadness as a subterranean, weary discontent. I’m exhausted by all the wanting and not getting, the struggling to be satisfied with what I have but knowing that I’m not complete. Sometimes it’s nice to be lulled into thinking that the odds must be with me, that bad things can only happen for so long. That is wrong. That is a naïve remnant from childhood, the belief in the inevitably of your dreams if you beg enough. This stubborn hope, romanticized as it is, hurts us more than the despair ever could because it makes acceptance impossible. I have learned that no amount of wanting will make anything happen. Letting go makes things happen, but of course the irony then is that you only get what you need once you feel you don’t need it anymore. Kind of like manna falling from heaven after you’ve starved to death. There are indeed two kinds of waiting: the patient, voluntary sort and the type that bristles under the oppression of time. I am always at the mercy of the latter. I have no choice but to endure, to continue wishing and hoping and thinking and praying.

Letting Her Hair Down

This is from a character sketch I wrote for my journalism class:

“Aw hell, we'll give you reality,” promises Laura Fortune-Wanamaker, “Artistic Hair Designer and Cosmetologist” according to her business card. Laura is a walking paradox: a raucous wild child who goes on motorcycle runs down the coast and drunkenly dances with paraplegics, and a single mother who spent five grueling years in Milwaukee training to become a stylist.
Laura’s room is at the back of Strandz Salon, next door to G & L salon, in a shoddy plaza with cracked adobe walls, turquoise awnings and a dinky fountain. She shares her room with Nicole, a small girl riddled with tattoos and sporting a rockabilly ’do. The black mats, mirror frames, chairs, tiles and fan are brightened by a pink blow dryer, family photos and a leopard print broom against the wall. Light filters in through a dirty, cracked skylight and a long window looking out on the street.
It’s ten A.M. and Laura’s waiting for her first client. She sits in the chair, sips a cheap coffee, fiddles with her cell phone and peeks out the window. In her mid-thirties, Laura is youthful but not hip. She’s slightly pudgy, dressed in all black with an unfashionable haircut. Her contagious energy though, apparent in her boisterous voice and colorful stories, is what people remember about her. When she spies Jasmine, a twenty-something blond, she rushes out to the reception desk.
“Hey girl!” Laura cries. “How you doin?” Jasmine is seated and offered coffee, water, a magazine, even tequila (with a wink), all declined.
“You’re the one with the Virgo birthday, right?” Laura asks, feeling Jasmine’s hair.
“No, Sagittarius,” Jasmine answers.
“Are you dating now?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re all, ‘Stop asking me questions!’” Laura says grinning.
Comfortable silence ensues as Laura comes in and out of the room, concocting Jasmine’s new chocolate hue. She snaps on black gloves and starts applying the color. As the opening notes of “Step by Step” by New Kids on the Block waft through the room, Laura starts dancing and Jasmine brightens.
“O my god, this takes me back!”
“The eighties were a rough time for me,” Laura says. “O wait, this was the nineties, huh.”
The conversation wanders from boy bands to Hugh Hefner to the inexplicable motherlessness of Disney heroines. Laura weaves yarns about her phone’s tragic demise by minivan despite her heroic efforts, a stranger she greeted in Vegas who threatened to slit her throat and the time she once befriended a homeless surfer and tried to fix him up with her mother. Finally they discuss men. Laura’s giddy about her new fiancé, Harley, a biker she met six months ago.
“I don’t like pretty guys, I like manly men,” she says. “If he’s looking at himself more than me, if he’s using my damn hair flattener, there’s gonna be a problem.” When asked about her ideal guy, she pauses a minute and admits her attraction to Handy Manny, a character from one of her two-year-old son’s favorite shows.
“What does that say about me?” she muses.
“At least he’s nice. I mean he talks to his tools, but hey,” teases Jasmine.
Laura deftly paints in highlights, makes sure the color is even and goes to rinse out the dye. She selects a lavender mint shampoo and her strong hands go to work massaging Jasmine’s scalp. Laura wants to include hand and scalp massages as one of her services. “That’s what people appreciate, the above and beyond,” she says. “Time is money, but I’d rather give each client their time.”
Next is the haircut. “We’re going from a graduated bob, right? But you want to grow it out to here?” Laura frowns in concentration, mouth slightly open as she measures, calculates, snips and arranges. She periodically stops to clarify Jasmine’s wishes and explain what she’s doing.
Laura’s expertise was borne from five lonely winters in Wisconsin. She endured forty hour work weeks on top of technical training, begging people on the street to be her models and suffering under a crazy teacher who would throw combs across the room and scream “this isn’t rocket science dammit!” But she accepts it as part of the process. “You have to hustle in this business” she maintains, “or you end up working at Fantastic Sams.”
Jasmine’s hair is done at one o’clock. The total is one hundred and twenty dollars, but she doesn’t have cash or a check. Laura lets her drive to the ATM down the street to retrieve the money.
“I have a pretty kickback job,” she admits. “Have you heard the riddle about the good hairstylist?”
She lays down the premise: there are two hairdressers. One has spectacular hair, but the other looks atrocious. Who do you choose to do your own hair?
“The one with the bad hair, of course,” Laura says, “because she did the other one’s hair! Or something like that.” She laughs.
“I’m a bad story teller,” Laura claims, settling back into her chair, “but I have fun. And I do damn good hair.”

Damn

I want to have someone to come home to, even though I don’t really have a home at the moment. I want someone to miss me every second. I want someone to make cds for, someone to write silly little notes and long, heart-felt letters for. I want someone to waltz with spontaneously under streetlights, someone to sing with, someone to have random adventures with. I want someone to exchange fun little gifts with, someone to take silly pictures with, someone to hold me when I’m happy and when I’m sad. I want someone who will notice how I look and love each tiny, quirky thing I do, even the annoying ones. I want someone to know me inside and out. I want someone who can’t help but kiss me and want to spend forever with me. I want someone who will argue stupid arguments with me, get mad, and then just forget about it. I want someone who is just as hopelessly romantic as me. I want someone who’ll decorate my room for my birthday and Christmas and sometimes on a random Friday in August just because. I want someone who will make me terribly content, someone who would follow me anywhere, someone who would lasso me the moon. I want someone who isn’t afraid to admit he needs me sometimes, who patiently and intently listens to the fragmented stories that only make sense in my head. I want someone to be there when I’m hurting and can’t explain, someone to tuck my hair behind my ears and whisper comforting things and then make me laugh. I want someone who is just as excited about the future as I am, who wants babies and a house and things all our own, who vows to never ever let life together get tedious or routine, who will grow old and stinky and forgetful with me and love (almost) every minute of it.



I want messy, glorious, imperfect, unconditional love.

The Beach at Twilight

First there's the smell. Usually it’s a pleasant earthy odor, like salt and wind and fish, but sometimes at the zenith of lowtide it stinks of stranded seaweed and sewage. Next the textures of the beach catch my eye: dimpled, restless surf against the glassy sheen left by the retreating water; powdery sand and hard packed sand and wet slimy sand; rocks; foam. Babyprints, manprints, flipperprints, pawprints, webbed feet prints, tire treads and random lines make patterns in the sand. Valentines (Yo amo mi amor, R+L=Love 4ever) and other sentiments are etched in time. Sand pipers tread fretfully along the tide, gulls sit puffy and imperious on the rocks or mini sand cliffs, and gulls dive bomb the waves and bob alongside surfers. I pass houses of every color and architecture, my favorite being a little yellow house, humble and sunny amidst the affected mansions. As the sun descends, it turns from white to yellow to orange and swells, reflected like honey in window panes and waves. After melting into the sea, the sun imbues the landscape with its own luminosity. The whole sky aches with subtle light as the earth turns dark. Eventually the light dies and streetlights, stars and airplanes emerge. The water echoes the light, mutating from fire to ash to diamonds as the moon rises.

Epic Fail

        So I let you all down. All zero of you. I apologize and I hope you can forgive me for my month-plus absence.
       Anyway.
       I am irked that I can't copy and paste entries from my old blog onto here so you could experience my literary excellence in the circumstance where I actually have something lofty and well-written to post. Also, so it will seem like I am always writing when in fact I am lazily composing something every other day or so. I will figure it out.
      So I started school approximately 3 weeks ago. My pad rocks. I live at the beach for free and that is possibly the most amazing thing ever. People are very jealous. And yet my friends have yet to take advantage of my good fortune. Parties will ensue. Someday.
     Classes are good. I like my teachers and what they're teaching, which is rare. My Lit J teacher is like Al Pacino mixed with Robert Downey Jr. He's street smart and smarmy and I thought he would hate my writing but hasn't yet. Promising. Linguistics is covering Phonetics/Phonology, my favorites, and the teacher is Italian and lets us take tests open note and book. Awesome. And last but not least, my Social Science class is about political science and psychology and our lecturers are smart ass old dudes who make tasteful sex jokes.
    Gonna be the best quarter. Ever.
    And did I mention I'm in a Harry Potter club? We're having a Yule Ball in December.
    I am so excited.

IDRCIF (I Don't Really Care It's Friday)

Vacation time does trippy things to your personality. For example, note the title of this post. I actually adore Fridays, but when I'm not in school, Friday is any other day. I love downtime, but vacations are only really fun for the first couple of days, possibly the first week. Then all enthusiasm magically disappears. Plans to be creative and swim everyday and hang out with friends and feed the homeless all summer turn out to be endless days lying supine on the couch watching endless reruns of That 70s Show and NCIS, surfing the net, sweating, getting bailed on by friends and listening to my parents nagging to clean the house or otherwise do something. It's demoralizing when you have enough free time to realize your innate laziness and how meaningless your life really is. O well. I accept that sloth is my deadly sin of choice. A good portion of my summer has been spent at a bar actually. My parents' bar. It's a diamond in the rough, a place that seems like a shabby joint, but has irresistable heart. Plus they have karaoke! And I love singing more than most things. That's what I'm going to do now (usually I only sing when I work and it's slow, but tonight I actually have someone to hang out with!). I even dressed up more than usual. That's how long it's been since I've been out. Jeez. Happy weekend everyone!

Yo Aime Writing?

     Bonjour my amigos. I've been speaking in fraspanglish all day for no real reason. I should learn a smattering of other languages so I can converse in the longest hyphenated pseudolanguage ever.
    I actually woke up at 7:45 in the morning to go shopping for the restaurant...I don't know what I was thinking. Especially since there were no samples. Anywhere. Devastating. The day was somewhat redeemed however because I had jerky and was dressed up in my cute/sexy librarian outfit, complete with a big white bow and fake glasses, which are my new favorite accessory (instant smartness!). People do not dress to the nines enough in my opinion. What are fancy shmancy clothes for but to be worn? Give me a dress, a bow and some adorable flats over jeans and a t-shirt any day. Although if you're going to wear jeans and a t-shirt, at least rock a funny/ironic t-shirt with pig-tails, rainbow-colored nails, a tree frog backpack and a pair of Chuck Taylors signed by members of a washed out rock band. Life is way too fun to be taken too seriously...but more about that tomorrow I think ;)

Bigger is Better: The Warehouse Store Escapade

         It's only day two and I'm already not sure what to write about. I know nobody is reading this and in all likelihood nobody is going to read it, but daily writing is new to me. Usually I wait until inspiration strikes, i.e., when I'm depressed or thinking unusually big thoughts. Which lately is not often. Ok, enough whining.
        Today I went on an "adventure" with my dad. My parents own a small restaurant and we decided to explore a new restaurant depot store. I love huge warehouse stores like Costco and Smart and Final, if only because I like pointing out every single slightly exotic thing, giggling and asking what they're used for. I also take advantage of all free samples, in this case cheese, which made me super excited because if there's anything I love more than toast, it's cheese. By the way, did you know they use cheese in tiramisu? Who knew. Plus the ladies who were giving away the samples were friendly, which is usually not the case. The one downside was that my dad insisted on spending 15 minutes in the hugest walk-in fridge I've ever seen. Now, I would gladly choose freezing to death over anything heat-related, but it was really, really cold in there. Like, 35 degrees. And I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. Interestingly they had jackets you could wear, but they were bright orange and worn by other people. Then we went out for Thai food because my dad totally rocks like that.
      By the way, in case somebody does stumble upon this, I found a bomb diggedy site called fontcapture.com where you can make a font out of your own handwriting.

Day 1

Hi. I'm Sarah and I made this blog in order to transform myself into the greatest writer in the world. See, I'm one of those people who needs all the motivation I can get to do anything consistently. Name anything remotely good for me and I've tried and failed to stick with it: exercising, eating right, not procrastinating, learning to crochet, playing the bass guitar, flossing. A common enough problem. Anyway, I'm a literary journalism major (which is basically creative writing for people who lack the imagination to make up interesting stuff) and I just finished reading Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. The book hypothesizes why depressingly successful people are the way they are. Basically, they work their asses off and happen to be in the right place, right time. One of the chapters is about how you have to practice something for 10,000 hours before you're good at it. So, unless I want to be a world-class sleeper or internet surfer, I'm screwed. If I want to be a writer, good enough to make anything of myself, I need to start practicing. A lot. Right now. I love to write, but I tend to be perfectionistic and self-conscious about my work. That's where this blog comes in. I got the idea from Julie/Julia (see how creative I am? all my ideas come from other books...). The main character is  a loser and decides to start a blog, even though no one will read it, to make herself actually do something and stay with it. I do not guarantee the quality, quantity or entertainment value of anything I write here, but I do promise to be consistent.

Here goes nothing.