i have to admit. i’m a girl who loves a lot of things. i can only count three books i do not like (“emma” by jane austen, “a walk to remember” by nicholas sparks & “the alchemist” by paulo coelho), two people i do not care to talk to, zero movies i do not like (edit: this is a lie, i thought the nickelodeon movie “fred: the movie” could be used for interrogation/torture purposes).
i love words. and books. and the way people use their own diction and syntax to form those words into pieces of art that leave me blown away on sunday afternoons after i turn the last page. and daydreaming about something i’ve written, something that could one day have my name on the book spine, alphabetized in between dave eggers and jonathan safran foer.
i love dancing. and dance parties. and dancing like the awkward caucasian i am. and making people laugh with my jokes and quips and one-liners and weird references. and acting and singing to my captive audience of my…dogs in the kitchen as i bake red velvet cupcakes. practicing cockney accents and facial expressions in my bathroom as i get ready for work. wearing silly outfits chock-full of glitter and googly eyes and doing silly accents and making a living from it fill my dreams. feeling the heat and laughter from an audience, the instant gratification that you had an effect on them. and earnestly listening to the introduction to “saturday night live” and imagining the announcer announce my name in between abby elliott and bill hader.
i love a good argument. i love stumbling upon an amazing word i found in a book and then spending a good ten minutes figuring out its etymology (“somnambulist”, such a good one) . launching into a total linguistic rant with myself about two words that totally piss me off (“intense” and “tense” annoy me. a lot.) debating universal grammar (ugh) and how much i disagree with noam chomsky (double ugh) for hours with friends (typing out this sentence actually made me angry. like hulk-style-rip-my-shirt angry). daydreaming about future masters programs in linguistics that make me drool is not unusual for me. and imagining my name on a list of graduates, in between some future owner of a fortune-500 company and a future dancer at the new york city ballet, or something along those lines.
and this is where i find myself in a position that i do not love. i love all of these things. but am never quite sure of which path i am supposed to take. the path of the writer with the hunger to fill notebooks with characters and mannerisms and adventures until my hands refuse to scribble down anymore notes? the girl who finds herself more at home in rooms filled with fake food and furniture, predetermined dialogue, a new person to become, and eager audiences, than she is in her own teeny apartment? or the hell-bent academic who finds herself comforted by new linguistic theories to dive into, and doesn’t have the time to put on her glitter-laden outfits to perform for a crowd, choosing to debate theories in darkened classrooms?
this is where i find myself right now. torn between piles of glitter scattered amongst my clothing and laughing crowds. between dark corners of libraries and stacks of aged, odd-smelling books written by my fellow annoyingly curious predecessors. and the shelves of bookstores who might know my name on the spine of books. books that would be filled with the people whose adventures filled my head and heart, and i so desperately chronicled for the world to know them too.
and that’s perfectly fine with me. i’m perfectly content with being torn between the glitter, the books, and the hastily written notes. perfectly content.