I've always loved to read. Learning to read was like being accepted into this elite club where sight finally caught up to sound and meaning. Street signs, magazine covers, advertisements...the little symbols everywhere were no longer gibberish and the world around me seemed to jump to life. I read on buses, at museums, on the living room couch. I began keeping my paperbacks in a maroon canvas case with a handle, the kind old ladies use for their Bibles, so that I could keep them with me at all times. I would tuck my newest read in the inside flaps and stick a pencil in the little loop provided. I thought it was the best invention ever.
I next tried my hand at writing. I embraced it with the zeal I once had for reading. I wrote everything down - dreams, quotes, memories, contemplations. I was a prolific poet by second grade, or so I thought. I loved reading my work aloud, dramatically pausing at my numerous line breaks. Words had meaning - my meaning! I wrote anywhere and everywhere. I kept my thoughts in a little spiral notebook. I would tuck it in my pocket and stick my miniature pen through the looped binding. I thought it was also the best invention ever.
Then something happened. Puberty. My musings about pets and family and old ladies with Bibles on the bus were replaced by diary entries about the cute boys at school. These were replaced by notes passed to friends in class, which were replaced by talking on the phone and painting my nails and seeing Titanic in the theaters four times. I remained a good student in school, but recreational reading and writing took a backseat. Time was short and I simply had better things to do.
Here I am, fifteen years later. I eventually picked up reading and writing again. I majored in English, after all. But I still don't consider myself a particularly talented writer. I often believe, to this day, that my creativity peaked at age eight. I was recently chatting about this with an acquaintance over a beer. He asked why I don't consider myself a "writer" and I said:
"Oh, I don't know. I've tried writing, but all the characters are just like me. Or they're just like my close friends. But then it's still about me and my life isn't particulary interesting."
He thought about this for a few seconds, mulling over what he was about to say. "Well, you know what that means, right?"
"No? What does it mean?"
"You have to be more interesting...and you should probably get to know more people."
And there you have it. This guy, a friend of a friend, had figured out what I've been doing wrong all along. Be more interesting? Meet new people? Write better?
Challenge accepted.
