Okay, so I made peace with the snow on the way to work. There's something so very precious about crossing the footbridge in the morning sun and seeing Harvard covered in a dusting of snow. Sorta sweet -- a puritanical gingerbread village.
Last night, I went on a mission to find my old Polaroid camera for a friend. Digging through boxes in the hall closet, I got sidetracked here and there by photo albums, trinkets and handfuls of useless mementos. I clearly have a problem throwing things away. I got completely waylaid, though, when I stumbled across a black binder that held the majority of my college writing. My first novel, a few scattered poems, my assigned journal for my Writing to Young Adults class. The professor for that class was a really amazing woman. She had an Anne Bancroft way about her -- beautiful but tough. And she left notes in the margins of my journal that when I re-read them last night, made me smile.
I took the notebook into the bathroom and filled the tub. I set the journal on the bathmat and soaked in the tub, leaning out over the edge, reading. I read so long that the water cooled and had to be refilled...twice. When I finally managed to detach myself from the bath, I made tea and climbed in bed to finish reading. The lights went off by midnight, and back on again twenty minutes later. I'm fairly certain I saw the hour of three before I dozed off.
The year I kept that journal was pivotal. Growing up, I had an aversion to shows of emotion. I never felt comfortable crying in front of other people, accepting compliments, giving praise -- that sort of thing. I was a bit on the cold side, plastic, though never intentionally. Theories abound as to why.
But somewhere in that year, I lost the fear of expression, my nonchalant topcoat, and reading my old journal, I can remember it happening. And thank heavens it did. While still not totally comfortable with vulnerability, I am glad to have learned to be open.
And though I'm certain there's something to lose in being too exposed, there's so much to gain from being real.
Posted by This Fish at December 2, 2003 09:40 AMit's for moments like that that i never throw away things that can be re-read. it's like time stands still, but when you emerge from the memory haze you're in the now, and always much better for the journey.
Posted by: sassylittlepunkin at December 2, 2003 11:19 AMi can't wait to read your novel.
Posted by: lizzie at December 2, 2003 12:16 PMi'm glad you got in touch with yourself! :-)
Posted by: snowy at December 2, 2003 12:28 PMgod, that last line is exactly what i needed to hear.
publish a book! asap!!!! i'm fully bated here.
Posted by: julia at December 2, 2003 04:21 PMPlastic is flawless, but no one really grows up without picking up some scars along the way.
We eagerly await the novel.
Posted by: Lex at December 2, 2003 05:03 PMthat's awesome. kind of like Leonardo's journals of sketches.. all written in mirror writing! :D
Posted by: tab at December 2, 2003 10:50 PMI lived for those notes (of praise and suggestion) in the margins a great deal more than the grades (which were easy and sometimes meaningless). I rarely pull out the notebooks now, but I also know I'll never throw them out. It occurs to me that you might enjoy http://vex.diaryland.com who is also destined for greatness in a literary capacity. Her first entry "Romance is dead and I've been taken downtown for questioning" got me hooked.
Posted by: Katherine at December 2, 2003 11:21 PM