Long Distance

We are tied together by the modern teenage phenomenon of texting. Hide your head, cover your face, deny it all you want, but we are undeniably and inexcusably
dependent upon it.

We smile at each other through emoticons and laugh together with LOLs. We give up romantic weekends out for late night video chats. You can't kiss me goodnight at my doorstep, so you call me, instead. For what we believed to be the most integral parts of a relationship,we have managed to find substitutes.

I hesitate to tell you, but I do wonder. I wonder what it would be like to not feel this way. To not wonder how much longer I can hold my heart together as it s t r e t c h e s the hundred miles to you.To go on double dates and show you off with more than just a picture. To know you're here when I need you. To see you without busses and trains and planning. To have you.

I am afraid, because I forget. I forget the way your neck smells when I burry my head into you. I forget the scratchy, tickley feeling of your beard when you rub your chin on my cheek. I forget the roughness of your palms when you take my hand. I forget the softness of your lips and how they fit over mineand the slight sigh
you make when we kiss.

But as much as I wonder and as afraid as I may be there is no other way, there is no other choice, there is no other life for us, anymore. My heart has wandered blindly, somehow making its way to you, and I don't think that it can ever find it's way back, without you.

I will smile with emoticons, if you will be the one smiling back. I will lower myself to LOLs, as long as it means that you are laughing. I will skip romantic weekends out, if you will be on the other side of the video. I will give up goodnight kisses, if you will be the one to call, because I know that at some point, no matter how long it may be, these things will come, and I will have you for more than a weekend, for more than a phone call, for more than a text. I will have you.

This Is Me.

          I get it, okay? I’m not meant to be in photographs or on TV, and, honestly, the idea of it freaks me out so I have no problem with this. I get it. I do. I’m tall and freckly and have thick, dark, tangled, curly hair. I’m big boned with big muscles, a narrow waist but flaring hips, thick stubby fingers and inflexible joints that crack when I move. I’m no delicate beauty. I’m no model or prom queen. I’m the too-tall 5^th grade girl in the back row forced to stand with all the boys in the class picture. I’m the only white third grader with an afro, because Mom didn't know what to do with the curly mess. I’m the first to start her period, and the last to start shaving her legs. I’m the nonathletic, uncoordinated, nerd. And I love it.

I love my wild mane of hair. I love that I freckle in the sun. I love that while other girls whine about getting boob jobs, I struggle to find a bikini top that covers. I love that I look like a woman. I’m curvy and sexy, and I’m not ashamed to say that, but having some hips mean having stretch marks from the growth spurt that caused them. Full, thick legs come with dimply, ripples of cellulite. Delicate looking porcelain skin means a sickly complexion, when summer starts, and does about as much good as plastic wrap when it comes to hiding spider veins.

I know that I’m healthy. I know that I push my body. I know that I’m strong. I know that being curvy doesn't mean being fat. I know what I can do. I know, that to have this beautiful shape that I love, I have to be willing to take the whole package, but you don’t. You assume I just don’t run quite fast enough, that I put the weights down too early, that I’m too stubborn to take your advice and change my ways, that one indulgence means I’m a quitter, and that the reason I'm not an Olympian, is because I'm lazy… like it’s actually possible for one person to be flawless, to be idolized in every way, by everyone. I could work myself to death to lose every inch of fat and have smooth, straight legs and an impossibly thin belly, which would more than likely also entitle me to a flat chest, no ass, and the overall shape of a twelve-year-old boy. No thanks.

Everything I do, the decisions I make, how I chose to look, I do it for me. I don’t do it to look like you or your idea of who I’m supposed to be. I don’t do it to win anything or anyone. I do it because I want to. So continue to tell me what I should be doing differently to look more like you, and I’ll tell you that I’m not you, I never will be you, and I have no interest in being you. For every flaw you see in me, I can show you five more things that you wish you had. Criticize all you want, but this is me... every crease, dimple, and bump, and I’d rather be stuck with those last five pounds forever, than to look like anyone but me.

Response to a college literary magazine meeting

            It was clear, from day one, that we wouldn’t get along. They go for subject matter- the abstract, the sexual, the mysterious. To them, topics are key and can overshadow poor writing, as long as the subject is strong. I go for expression. I think that any subject can be made into brilliance, with the right style. I think dark poetry and such is often forced. It’s a pose. People want to stand out and be artistic and deep and they create feelings that they don’t have. I want to read something real.

           Once they realized that I was not afraid to disagree with them, they quickly learned to interrupt and cut me off. It’s kind of a cult-mentality. The group of staff members is a very close community, and as soon as one person’s opinion is stated, it is the duty of the other members to agree. Personally, I think this is a cop-out. A literary magazine should be representative of every type of writing about every kind of subject matter, which can only be done if the editors have different perspectives, to bring out the value and weaknesses in different pieces. I am really the only variety in this group.

            I know that I am not the world’s greatest writer, and it is unlikely that I will ever be. Actually, it is unlikely that I will ever be recognized for my writing, at all, at least in the way that I want to be. This being said, I think I’m good. I know how conceited that sounds, but I do think that I can write. I have to be able to write, and I have to keep getting better, because this is the one thing that I love to do. I have to do it justice.

            I had assumed that they would not enjoy what I submitted. As editors, though, I was sure that they could separate their own taste from their acknowledgment of the value of the writing. My two submissions were at the bottom of the pile, anonymously. When we got to them, everyone fell silent, as they do when we move on to any new piece. Finally, someone spoke up, “Wow. Where do I even begin with this?” Okay… Is this good or bad? Impressed? Disgusted? “I mean, honestly, I am genuinely concerned for the mental-state of this author.”

            It went something like this:

            “Yeah, I don’t think this person knows that we are supposed to be in college.”

            “I know, right? Missing your mom? Okay, how old are we? You don’t write about that.”

            “Exactly! And this other one about the love letter to nobody? God, someone please find this girl someone to go out with. This is just pathetic. If you’re going to write to nobody, at least find someone. Honestly, pathetic. Who is that lonely?”

            “But the one about her mom? That’s messed up. They have medication for that kind of thing, and, I am not even kidding, I really think they need some. It’s psychotic. I truly am worried about this person.”

            “I feel like if I met her in person, I would have to go up to her and be like ‘what the hell is going on in your head?’ Like, what is wrong with you? Please, let me help you.”

            And it continued like that for the next ten minutes. I sat there, dumbstruck and insulted. This is not how it’s done. This is not professional. Where is the grading scale? Where is the mention of my line-breaks and metaphors and symbolism? Did you notice the repetition and the alliteration? I’m sorry you can’t relate to having a relationship with your mom, but does that really mean that my writing is less valuable?

            I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. The editor kept her head down, knowing that those pieces were mine, but she didn’t stop them. It was almost eleven thirty that night when we finished up, and I said my polite goodbyes, picked up my folder, and walked out. I wasn’t more than a block away from our building when it hit me. I sat down, against one of the buildings on Broad Street, and sobbed. I called my mom (exactly what I was criticized so harshly for in one of my poems) and cried.

            There was no piece of me left. The one thing that I prided myself on, the only thing that I truly enjoyed doing, had been stripped from me, completely. On top of this, every aspect of my sense of self-worth, what I loved and what I had experienced had been thrown on the ground and spat on. I was ashamed for, essentially, everything that made me who I was- my family, my relationships, my pride and my weaknesses.

            There is a false notion that, to be recognized, you have to be different. You have to feel differently and see differently and believe differently than everyone else. There is no beauty in the commonplace, because everyone has experienced it. What really makes art is what is not understood- something that leaves you wondering and maybe even a little shaken up. This is not true. To anyone who reads this, please do not fall victim to this misconception.

            Notice that nothing was said to criticize the way I write, only what I wrote about. They chose to create an idea of the me, as the author, to criticize, instead of criticizing the work I had done. I take no offense to someone telling me that my writing is bad. I encourage this, actually, because it gives me something to work with. No one in this group could tell me that my writing was bad, just that the anonymous author was.

I don’t write so that people will be shocked. I write, because I have something to say. I don’t read to be disturbed or confused. I read because I want to feel something, something that I can understand. I don’t admire art because it’s abstract. I admire it, because it says something to me. Anyone can be shocking. Anyone can talk about something taboo. To write about something that everyone knows, that everyone can relate to, and bring out the life and beauty in it... that is good writing, at least to me.

            If you have ever been told that you can’t do something, or that you are wrong for doing it… keep doing it and do it better and harder than you ever have. Don’t let people, who want to be something they are not, try to mold you into the same, confining shell that they have created for themselves. Write what you know is true and real for you, not for anyone else. Never write, because someone wants to hear it. Write because you need to say it. Write something that means something to you, and I promise, that it will mean something to someone else, as well.

Why I Write

It can start with a single word. One, tiny, insignificant, minuscule, word that somehow, sparks something inside you. As soon as that one word is planted in your mind, it begins to grow. It grows and grows, until there is no more room in your head.

It spreads down your arms and into your wrists, tickling them as it stretches deep into your fingers. You twiddle your thumbs, tap out a beat, try writing something down, but it doesn’t die out; it just keeps getting bigger.

Then, that one unclear, undeveloped idea finds its way into your mouth where it turns into words, phrases- sentences even. It’s heavy and uncomfortable to keep inside of you. It feels like a marble sitting on your tongue, and it keeps rolling around, knocking against your teeth, until you just have to spit it out. You try saying the thought out loud, molding it and shaping it, trying to find some hidden meaning in this thing that will not leave you alone, though you have no idea what it is. It floats around awkwardly in a conversation, or on the corner of a notebook, or on the back of your hand, wherever you have decided to keep it, with no meaning, no purpose. Eventually, you put it aside, trying to forget it.

Days later, while in class, while reading a book, while washing the dog, while grocery shopping, occupying yourself with other day-to-day, mundane activities, your mind drifts, and in that moment when you are freed from thought, that pesky idea or phrase or whatever it has become at this point, find its way back in. This little seed has found just the moment it needs to grow, and it grows and grows again, sprouting words you never knew you had inside of you.

The words come so quickly, you struggle to remember them all, afraid to forget anything, and you scramble for something to write with. You don’t know how, exactly, but as soon as that pen touches the paper, it’s as if it takes on a life of its own. A story reveals itself to you, and you follow curiously behind your writing, with no idea as to where it will lead you.

You are thrown into a world entirely your own. You may fight as a soldier at war, run away from home, speak a different language, fall in love, or watch the sun rise from a fishing boat in the middle of the ocean. You can never be sure what will happen, until the story is complete. When it is finished, and you look at it again, it has become something beautiful, coloring the entire page with its vibrant abstractness that you found so unbearable only days before. This long, exhausting, irritating, process has resulted in something unique, something that only you could create.

And then, the most incredible part of it all happens when someone new, a stranger to your adventure, reads your story. You watch the reader’s smile rise and fall, their eyes fill with tears, hear them giggle or gasp, see their eyes widen in wonder at a world you have created, at a life that they have lived, because you have given it to them.

The Boy

Gripping the pencil tightly between his fingers, he presses it against the paper. The lead cracks and crumbles, leaving an ashy trail. His hand glides over the page so gently, and I envy his effortless. Messy gray marks stain the pure white paper. Line after line, movement after movement, each scratch begins to connect. They blend and melt together into brilliance. The world goes on around him, but he does not notice. He does not care.

Determined to stop feeling like a failure, to never see another face disappointed by him, the boy looks up at the chalkboard in front of his English classroom. Lazily, he scribbles down a few notes and begins to work, trying. It never takes more than a few seconds before I notice his eyes wandering about the room. He can not help it. He thinks of other things and other people, and slowly the work on the page becomes his art, once more. It seems as if the page calls his name, and he has no choice but to answer. It is the same everyday, and I watch him.

I watch him let his life blow around in the wind with no direction and no purpose, allowing it to settle wherever it pleases, no care in the world as to where his life is heading. What a shame it is, I think, how he wastes himself away like that on his paper, on a textbook, on a gum wrapper, on the back of his hand. He creates with whatever he has, and his creations scream from the page. They are so loud and force me to stop and look at them. I almost want to talk back to them, to answer them, to reach out and touch them. There are haunted, beautiful faces staring back at me. Sometimes they smile, and sometimes they do not. Sometimes, there is no face at all, only a body and a head ducked down low, hidden. Sometimes, I see creatures and objects and words. I can never help but notice a certain similarity in every picture. I never manage to put my finger on it exactly, as the bodies and movements and faces change from image to image.

There is something about his pictures, as if the same life burns behind every one of them. It is someone I do not know, but I feel as though I am looking through a window into their life. I can see it, especially when there are faces. Yes, I can not help but notice a resemblance in the faces. No matter what or whom I see on that page, it is that same life every time. I see emotion and thought. I see talent and skill. I see wasted brilliance. I watch him live through his pictures, letting reality slowly drift away until there is nothing left but the faces.

When the pictures are about to bounce off of the page with life, the boy sits back and watches them. I wonder what they say to him when he listens like that. Do they tell him a story? Do they make him smile? Are they friends? Do they taunt him? Is that why he is compelled to tell their story day after day? Once their silent conversation is finished, the boy lifts the page and turns it over. He begins to draw a new picture. This picture, however, is different. It is not like the others at all, at least at first. Then again, it may be very much the same.

“Dear James,” he begins. “Sorry for all the sketches on the other side. You know how much I hate English class, and drawing is the only thing to keep my mind awake. I am writing to you now, because you are all I can think about. Even if you never write back to me, I just need to talk to you, even like this.”

The letter starts the same everyday, “Dear James,” and everyday he writes. I catch glimpses and pieces here and there, from my seat behind him. I am too afraid to let him realize that I can see and that I know. I wonder who else knows. I wonder if James has ever read any of the hundreds of letters that this boy writes to him everyday. I wonder if James knows at all.
His secrets are forever rooted into his pictures, and I think that this is what he tells them when they have their silent conversations. They may be the only ones who really know. Until the pictures share his truths, I will just continue to watch every day. I will watch in silence, at the brilliant boy who wastes his life away. I will watch the brilliant boy who has so much to say but keeps it hidden. I will watch the brilliant boy whose only real companions are his drawings. They are the only ones who know.