Anderson Cooper's Got Nothin' on Me...

In the past few months, a number of people have asked me where they can find other examples of my writing. I'm not sure if they're asking to be polite, if they are bored with reading about books, or if they genuinely think that I have some talent (see pic.) Whatever the reason, I'm sad to say that for the most part, the blog's the thing.

There are a couple of exceptions ... I will admit to being a sporadic correspondent with some far flung friends. Quite honestly, I absolutely adore everything about the letter writing process. Picking the appropriate stationery for my mood, striking the right balance between asking and sharing, walking to the park to drop it in the post -- it's just such a wonderful experience. And yeah, I know it's old fashioned and inefficient, but there's something so delicious about receiving notes in well-traveled, slightly tattered envelopes. At least I think so.

The other exception is my journal. Every once in awhile, something compels me to capture an idea, copy out a line of text, or sort out on paper what's going on in my head. Usually, my journal is epistolic and the entries are addressed to an unnamed reader. This implied audience changes from entry to entry depending on my mood. What doesn't change is that as soon as my journal is full, I destroy it. As a kid, I'd have secret burning ceremonies where I'd toss the book into the fire pit at the cottage. Now, I'm a little less melodramatic and just run pages through the shredder. So satisfying.

In fact, the whole idea of this blog has been a little weird for me. Knowing that there's a possibility that someone other than myself will read the post has definitely changed the way that I write, and in some ways, it has made my writing less honest. For those of you that are paying attention, I'm sure some of the real me shows through -- I thought, however, that for a change a pace, I'd give you an uncensored example of that other girl. The one you don't hear from very often. And as evidenced below, probably with good reason ...

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If I were Wordsworth, I would describe your beauty in simple terms
And ask that intercessions by my fervent tongue please you, not make you sad
If I were Shakespeare, I would celebrate our love
And as Capulet and Montague, we would shine brightly for a moment, then blaze across the sky like a falling star
If I were Donne, I would die a thousand little deaths
And ask which quarrels move, though you and I do love.

But I am none of those men and my words are as unfathomable to me as standing stones.
You are the field in which they lie -- trying to find meaning.