Dear Whoever You Might Be,
It's been a while, hasn't it? I must admit that I am having a somewhat difficult time navigating the "Blogger" waters. Believe me, I have plenty of things to blog about; plenty of thoughts to type out in anticipation that they will be read, even if only by one person. But, in consideration of those who take precious time to read all that I have to say, I start to hesitate. How often should I blog? Once a day? Once a week? Once every two weeks? Once a month? Will my posts be threatened by monotony if I blog too often? Will my words evoke yawns, and worse, will I lose readers if I wait too long? Will I be forgotten in the swiftly passing time of life?
Reader, these questions haunt me. I feel like the heroine in Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca. The blogging world is my Manderley Mansion. I became its new resident, full of ambition, youth, naivety, curiosity, and an assumed ignorance of the standards and expectations in place. The mansion is vast in size and occupancy; full of history, rooms, and secrets. Most significanty, it is haunted by the memory of the late Rebecca De Winter:
"Rebecca, always Rebecca. Wherever I walked in Manderley, wherever I sat, even in my thoughts and in my dreams, I met Rebecca. Perhaps I haunted her as she haunted me...I could fight the living but I could not fight the dead...Rebecca would never grow old. Rebecca would always be the same. And her I could not fight. She was too strong for me"
I sound crazy, don't I? I must insist that I, in fact, am not crazy. I am simply making a literary connection. I recognize the fact that it is very brazen of me to compare blogging to one of the prime gothic novels, but there it is. I started this blog with wide-eyes and high hopes. I still have those, but I am starting to feel like the pre-existing expectations and memory of other blogs are pressing down. I feel as though the occupants who blogged before me set up standards to which I am held. I am constantly reminded, when I see others posting, that I have yet to do so. I'll lay in bed for long periods of time thinking, "What shall I write about next? What will capture the hearts of my readers? Will I be compared to blogs I've never even heard of? Do I even stand up next to my young blogging peers? Will my blog be loved and admired?"
It shouldn't matter since my intention was not to be the next Julie Powell and become famous from creating a Julia Child cooking challenge blog. And though it shouldn't matter because these are my words and thoughts, I feel like it does matter. There is a song called Breath (2 a.m.) by Anna Nalick and it is one of my favorite songs. I have listened and sang to it since middle school, but now that I am older, it is much more relatable. Isn't it always like that, though? There are always the songs you enjoy, but as you go through life, the meanings are so much deeper and personal.
Anyways, towards the end of the song, the lyrics are:
2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to
Since I have started this blog, those lyrics seem to tap into how I approach writing. Everything I say on my blog, all my thoughts, feelings, references, mindless banter, can be taken any way you want. I have no control. All I can do it type and type and just hope that it brings a speck of enjoyment to you, my readers.
Now, I might be shunned by mature opinion for my next reference but it is the only thing I can think of at the moment. In 2006 The Disney Channel aired a movie called Read it and Weep. The movie captures the often-used "Coming of Age" theme when friendships and family relationships are tested as the result of the young protagonist's journal mistakenly getting published. This girl, Jaime, keeps her personal journal on her laptop; but it is far from the average "Dear Diary." Jaime creates an alternate world for herself, her friends, enemies, and crush in which she is the heroine of her own story. It's actually pretty creative. But, when her journal is accidentally published and rises to become a Best Seller, she is forced to confront reality and choose real friendships over fake fame.
Sounds absolutely snooze-worthy, doesn't it? Well my logic behind that mini synopsis was to point out the fact that this average girl became a best-seller from merely putting her thoughts and feelings down. That would be a dream come true. What if one day MY words inspired a best-selling novel? What if someone wanted to publish what I have to say? What if my little blog becomes the foundation for something grand and note-worthy? That is what I think of when I start a blog post. That is why it is sometimes hard for me, because I dream big. But hey, at least I dream.
Have no fear though, my loyal readers. I will continue to blog despite my hesitations and aspirations. I will continue what I began with no other expecation than to feel relieved of the words inside of me. And because I do have a pipe dream of becoming known for my witty and thought-provoking words, I encourage you to share them with your friends, family, strangers even. Who knows, maybe one day it will reach a big-shot who believes in me and next thing you know, I will be dedicating my first best-seller to all of you, my readers.
I would like to leave you with one last thing. In my first post I quoted You've Got Mail, and I would like to do so again. In an email to Joe Fox (although she only knows him at NY152), Kathleen Kelly writes:
"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life- well, valuable, but small- and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void"
Nothing sums up how I feel at this moment more than those words. You've Got Mail really is a fantastic movie. It's got something for just about everything, like The Godfather.....now, that statement will only make sense if you have seen You've Got Mail. So go watch it, because I like to be understood.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. I forgot to mention that in Rebecca the name of the heroine is never revealed. Not once. We never get to know the name of the young girl who marries into a twisted past and an uncertain future. How tragic is that? Let us ensure that my fate is not the same as hers.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Call Me Ishmael (2)
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
Did I keep you waiting too long? I apologize for any inconvenience these last few days has left you with if you were just dying to read what I wanted to say next. And I would "re-cap" for you, but this is a blog; just scroll down if you have already forgotten what I wrote.
As I said (which I am sure you just re-read for yourself), it is a wonder to me that Call Me, Maybe
has made such a momentous debut in the music world. And as I thought and thought and sang it and thought some more, I got to thinking about the more classic and, hopefully, the more famous "Call Me" in artistic circles (these circles, I think, include music, literature, art, etc....I just figured I would clarify to relieve any looming confusion).
In 1851 a native New Yorker published his sixth novel. That native would be Herman Melville and that novel, of course, would be Moby Dick. For anyone who has never even heard of this American novel I must say, please, please crawl out from whatever rock you have been hiding under the last one hundred and fifty-some years.
Regarding this "whale" of a novel (remember my really bad jokes I talked about in my first post?), I have a confession to make to you, my dear readers. I started reading Moby Dick one year ago on July 3rd. I took it with me to the Outer Banks for our week of family vacationing. I thought, what better "beach book" could there be? The ocean, whales, ships, waves, sailors, and some of the most beautiful writing about the sea that I have ever encountered. I mean seriously:
But I didn't finish. I still haven't finished. It is a year later and I have about one hundred and fifty-five pages left. I am appalled and ashamed to admit this, but it is unfortunately true. And my reason, you ask, for still not finishing? Well let me tell you, Moby Dick is the hardest book to get through. I do not say that lighty either, believe me. Imagine, War and Peace was easier for me than Ahab and his crew sailing on the Peqoud.
Because it always takes me an unprecedented amount of time to get to my point, I'll try and navigate my way there presently. This novel is more often than not considered The Greatest American Novel. Ever.
***SIDENOTE*** I accept whatever fate my next sentence is about to hand me because my fingers cannot help but move along the lettered keys that so accuratley phrase the feelings and thoughts that construct who I am
Reader, I hate this book. Please don't abandon me for feeling this way. As much as I wish I agree with basically every literary critic, I cannot.
Now, don't get me wrong. It has its moments; just look at the eloquent, thoughtful and even emotional passages I included above. But much to my intense dismay, those passages are rare gems in an otherwise encyclopedic, biological, historical and monotonous six hundred and fifty-five page "classic". There, I said it. About ninety-five percent of this renound novel reads like an encyclopedia on whales, and whale-ships, and whale-hunting, and blubber, and oil, and the spears they use while hunting. Forgive my grammatical errors. This topic just gets me extremely flustered from disappointment. As I have mentioned before, I am a very avid and well-rounded reader, so my opinion is not an uneducated one. I've never really been an aficionado for American Literature, but I do persist in giving the genre multiple chances to redeem itself.
You may be wondering why, then, do I continue to stuggle through it? Why don't I just give up and read Sparknotes? Why even care at all? Because, my inquisitive readers, I am stubborn. I am absolutely, unfailingly determined to finish this book. It will happen. It must. It took Herman Melville a year and a half to write it; hopefully it will not take me as long to finish reading it.
And once again, I digressed from my point. It is an absolute wonder to me that Call Me Maybe is this summer's Number One Single in America. And I bet in about ten years, it will be included in VH1's countdown of this decade's "One Hit Wonders." It will be remembered with nostalgia and appreciation by teenie-boppers when I am old and decrepit. And if I just made a false prediction, then even better.
Approximately one hundred and fifty years ago, "Call me Ishamel" changed literature forever. Those three simple words created a completely new viewpoint on how a novel should begin. You say those three words in consecutive order, and any half-minded person could tell you where it generates from. That simple sentence is now deemed one of the most innovative opennings of all time. Go figure that "Call me, maybe" has created as much buzz and media attention this summer. Carly Rae Jepsen, I congratulate you for using the words that automatically call to mind "The Great American Novel"....or at least that is where it brought my mind...maybe I am just wierd, though.
They do have a few things in common and I promise, I will expedite the explanations of their parallels. Both narrate the adventures of monomaniacs. If you don't know what that means, I am sure Dictionary.com would be delighted to host you for a moment. Both have settings of "hot night, wind was blowin'". Both reference being a little "crazy" and "trading in souls." It is a little bit of a stretch, I know, but these are my thoughts.
You don't know how sorry I am if you are besieged by disappointment regarding what I just wrote. I promised you the wait would be worth it, and I so ardently hope it was. I know this post has been a little mind-numbing and long but I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for pushing through it. If I can fight my way through Moby Dick, than you can certaintly can fight your way through my rambling thoughts.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. I hope I did not crush the desire in any of you to read the tale of Ahab and Ishmael and the hunted White Whale. If anything, you should read it for the same reason I am- the pride of knowing you can accomplish such a daunting task.
P.P.S There is ONE last thing I would like to say. The sentence which succeed's "Call me Ishmael" fills me with the utmost jealousy. The narrator (who by this point is obviously revealed to be Ishmael) says, "Some years ago-never mind how long preciself-having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would saild about a little and see the watery part of the world." Reader, you have no idea how much I long to just take off and see the world whenever I am bored or simply have nothing better to do with my time. How enchanting would that be?
Did I keep you waiting too long? I apologize for any inconvenience these last few days has left you with if you were just dying to read what I wanted to say next. And I would "re-cap" for you, but this is a blog; just scroll down if you have already forgotten what I wrote.
As I said (which I am sure you just re-read for yourself), it is a wonder to me that Call Me, Maybe
has made such a momentous debut in the music world. And as I thought and thought and sang it and thought some more, I got to thinking about the more classic and, hopefully, the more famous "Call Me" in artistic circles (these circles, I think, include music, literature, art, etc....I just figured I would clarify to relieve any looming confusion).
In 1851 a native New Yorker published his sixth novel. That native would be Herman Melville and that novel, of course, would be Moby Dick. For anyone who has never even heard of this American novel I must say, please, please crawl out from whatever rock you have been hiding under the last one hundred and fifty-some years.
Regarding this "whale" of a novel (remember my really bad jokes I talked about in my first post?), I have a confession to make to you, my dear readers. I started reading Moby Dick one year ago on July 3rd. I took it with me to the Outer Banks for our week of family vacationing. I thought, what better "beach book" could there be? The ocean, whales, ships, waves, sailors, and some of the most beautiful writing about the sea that I have ever encountered. I mean seriously:
- "Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure"
- "Yes, as everyone knows, meditation and water are wedded forever"
- "And heaved and heaved, still unrestingly heaved the black sea, as if its vast tides were a conscience; and the great mundane soul were in anguish and remorse for the long sin and suffering it had bred"
- "At such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon the smooth, slow heaving swells; seated in his boat; light as a birch canoe; and so sociably mixing with the soft waves themselves, that like hearthstone cats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy quietude. when beholding the tranquil beauty and brillancy of the ocean's skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang"
But I didn't finish. I still haven't finished. It is a year later and I have about one hundred and fifty-five pages left. I am appalled and ashamed to admit this, but it is unfortunately true. And my reason, you ask, for still not finishing? Well let me tell you, Moby Dick is the hardest book to get through. I do not say that lighty either, believe me. Imagine, War and Peace was easier for me than Ahab and his crew sailing on the Peqoud.
Because it always takes me an unprecedented amount of time to get to my point, I'll try and navigate my way there presently. This novel is more often than not considered The Greatest American Novel. Ever.
***SIDENOTE*** I accept whatever fate my next sentence is about to hand me because my fingers cannot help but move along the lettered keys that so accuratley phrase the feelings and thoughts that construct who I am
Reader, I hate this book. Please don't abandon me for feeling this way. As much as I wish I agree with basically every literary critic, I cannot.
Now, don't get me wrong. It has its moments; just look at the eloquent, thoughtful and even emotional passages I included above. But much to my intense dismay, those passages are rare gems in an otherwise encyclopedic, biological, historical and monotonous six hundred and fifty-five page "classic". There, I said it. About ninety-five percent of this renound novel reads like an encyclopedia on whales, and whale-ships, and whale-hunting, and blubber, and oil, and the spears they use while hunting. Forgive my grammatical errors. This topic just gets me extremely flustered from disappointment. As I have mentioned before, I am a very avid and well-rounded reader, so my opinion is not an uneducated one. I've never really been an aficionado for American Literature, but I do persist in giving the genre multiple chances to redeem itself.
You may be wondering why, then, do I continue to stuggle through it? Why don't I just give up and read Sparknotes? Why even care at all? Because, my inquisitive readers, I am stubborn. I am absolutely, unfailingly determined to finish this book. It will happen. It must. It took Herman Melville a year and a half to write it; hopefully it will not take me as long to finish reading it.
And once again, I digressed from my point. It is an absolute wonder to me that Call Me Maybe is this summer's Number One Single in America. And I bet in about ten years, it will be included in VH1's countdown of this decade's "One Hit Wonders." It will be remembered with nostalgia and appreciation by teenie-boppers when I am old and decrepit. And if I just made a false prediction, then even better.
Approximately one hundred and fifty years ago, "Call me Ishamel" changed literature forever. Those three simple words created a completely new viewpoint on how a novel should begin. You say those three words in consecutive order, and any half-minded person could tell you where it generates from. That simple sentence is now deemed one of the most innovative opennings of all time. Go figure that "Call me, maybe" has created as much buzz and media attention this summer. Carly Rae Jepsen, I congratulate you for using the words that automatically call to mind "The Great American Novel"....or at least that is where it brought my mind...maybe I am just wierd, though.
They do have a few things in common and I promise, I will expedite the explanations of their parallels. Both narrate the adventures of monomaniacs. If you don't know what that means, I am sure Dictionary.com would be delighted to host you for a moment. Both have settings of "hot night, wind was blowin'". Both reference being a little "crazy" and "trading in souls." It is a little bit of a stretch, I know, but these are my thoughts.
You don't know how sorry I am if you are besieged by disappointment regarding what I just wrote. I promised you the wait would be worth it, and I so ardently hope it was. I know this post has been a little mind-numbing and long but I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for pushing through it. If I can fight my way through Moby Dick, than you can certaintly can fight your way through my rambling thoughts.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. I hope I did not crush the desire in any of you to read the tale of Ahab and Ishmael and the hunted White Whale. If anything, you should read it for the same reason I am- the pride of knowing you can accomplish such a daunting task.
P.P.S There is ONE last thing I would like to say. The sentence which succeed's "Call me Ishmael" fills me with the utmost jealousy. The narrator (who by this point is obviously revealed to be Ishmael) says, "Some years ago-never mind how long preciself-having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would saild about a little and see the watery part of the world." Reader, you have no idea how much I long to just take off and see the world whenever I am bored or simply have nothing better to do with my time. How enchanting would that be?
Friday, July 6, 2012
Here's my Number, So Call Me.....Ishmael
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, so call me, maybe?
Call me, maybe?
Call me, maybe?
Maybe?
No one can escape this song. It's impossible because it's everywhere. On practically every radio station known to man. In stores. At the pool. On facebook. Even from the person humming it in line behind you at the movies.
I admit, it is catchy. Once you hear it, even if only for a second, it is trapped in your head for the rest of the day, night, and sometimes even all the next day. Its lyrics revolve around the classic tale of boy meets girl, and girl becomes obsessive. And if you watch the music video, theres a twist in the ending that could rival any Nancy Drew, James Patterson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Hunger Games or whatever your personal "twisted endings" preference may be. Now, if you can't pick up the fact that what I just said is soaking in sarcasm, then there may be a slight problem.
I would sit with a guilty conscience if I pretended to loathe this song with every fiber in my being. Because I don't. In fact, when it first came on Ryan Seacrest's "American Top 40", I loved it. For weeks I blasted it in the car with no fear of being caught singing along on the highway. I sang it at home. In the shower. With my friends. At work (because yes, we are one of the stores where you cannot escape from it). I was a fan, and I am not ashamed to admit it.
But alas, I got absolutely positively unequivocally sick of it. I went from blowing the speakers in my car out every single time it came on the radio no matter how many successive times it was played, to changing the station or even just turning the radio off as soon as I heard "I threw a wish-". I still don't hate the song, and if one of my friends is listening to it, I'll sing along. But I got to thinking about how on earth this song is possibly so popular, and it annoyed me into this post, just as feminist poet Marianne Moore was "annoyed into poetry" in The Grave.
Before you start thinking that this is going to be a "hater" blog post about Carly Rae Jepsen and her one-hit-wonder, you are wrong. If this makes you sad, then just go to Google and I am sure you will find a plethora of "Individuals Against Pop Culture Music" who's goal in life is to open the ears of today's youth and show them how low the music industry has steeped. But, that is not my purpose. It never will be. Actually, I am, in a way, about to jump ship and talk about a different kind of "Call Me". And if you understood the title of this particular blog post, then the "Jump Ship" should have made you laugh. I hope it did... At least, it made me laugh.
And now it is time for the biggest twist yet. I, because I can, am proclaiming this post To Be Continued (cue the shocking intake of breath). You may think that "this is crazy" but I have my reasons. Mostly, because if I continued on to explain my odd yet completely intellectual thought process, this blog post would be excrutiatingly long, and no one wants that. So, reader, I hope I have thoroughly piqued your interest in what I have to say. If I have, then stay tuned for Part 2. I can guarantee it will be worth it. I think it will be, and therefore, it must.
But reader, I warn you, if you are considering leaving my blog without the slightest inclination to return for Part 2, I am going to be forced to ask, "Where You Think You're Going, Baby?"
Sincerely,
Me
I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, so call me, maybe?
Call me, maybe?
Call me, maybe?
Maybe?
No one can escape this song. It's impossible because it's everywhere. On practically every radio station known to man. In stores. At the pool. On facebook. Even from the person humming it in line behind you at the movies.
I admit, it is catchy. Once you hear it, even if only for a second, it is trapped in your head for the rest of the day, night, and sometimes even all the next day. Its lyrics revolve around the classic tale of boy meets girl, and girl becomes obsessive. And if you watch the music video, theres a twist in the ending that could rival any Nancy Drew, James Patterson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Hunger Games or whatever your personal "twisted endings" preference may be. Now, if you can't pick up the fact that what I just said is soaking in sarcasm, then there may be a slight problem.
I would sit with a guilty conscience if I pretended to loathe this song with every fiber in my being. Because I don't. In fact, when it first came on Ryan Seacrest's "American Top 40", I loved it. For weeks I blasted it in the car with no fear of being caught singing along on the highway. I sang it at home. In the shower. With my friends. At work (because yes, we are one of the stores where you cannot escape from it). I was a fan, and I am not ashamed to admit it.
But alas, I got absolutely positively unequivocally sick of it. I went from blowing the speakers in my car out every single time it came on the radio no matter how many successive times it was played, to changing the station or even just turning the radio off as soon as I heard "I threw a wish-". I still don't hate the song, and if one of my friends is listening to it, I'll sing along. But I got to thinking about how on earth this song is possibly so popular, and it annoyed me into this post, just as feminist poet Marianne Moore was "annoyed into poetry" in The Grave.
Before you start thinking that this is going to be a "hater" blog post about Carly Rae Jepsen and her one-hit-wonder, you are wrong. If this makes you sad, then just go to Google and I am sure you will find a plethora of "Individuals Against Pop Culture Music" who's goal in life is to open the ears of today's youth and show them how low the music industry has steeped. But, that is not my purpose. It never will be. Actually, I am, in a way, about to jump ship and talk about a different kind of "Call Me". And if you understood the title of this particular blog post, then the "Jump Ship" should have made you laugh. I hope it did... At least, it made me laugh.
And now it is time for the biggest twist yet. I, because I can, am proclaiming this post To Be Continued (cue the shocking intake of breath). You may think that "this is crazy" but I have my reasons. Mostly, because if I continued on to explain my odd yet completely intellectual thought process, this blog post would be excrutiatingly long, and no one wants that. So, reader, I hope I have thoroughly piqued your interest in what I have to say. If I have, then stay tuned for Part 2. I can guarantee it will be worth it. I think it will be, and therefore, it must.
But reader, I warn you, if you are considering leaving my blog without the slightest inclination to return for Part 2, I am going to be forced to ask, "Where You Think You're Going, Baby?"
Sincerely,
Me
Monday, July 2, 2012
To Whom it May Concern
Dear Whoever You Might Be,
Yes. The name of my blog does, in fact, possess an oxymoronic element. Eloquence versus Inarticulate. The former describes fluent and appropriate speech; the latter, is the unfortunate lacking of expression in ones words. I believe I exemplify both.
But, I must admit, the creativity of such a title was not my own. It is a phrase pulled from Edith Wharton's novel The Age of Innocence. For any of you (if there are any of YOU out there reading this) who hasn't read this classic tale of desire, betrayal, duty and passion, you must. Here's a little quote to surge any curiosity that may be formulating:
"He bent and laid his lips on her hands, which were cold and lifeless. She drew themaway, and he turned to the door, found his coat and hat under the faint gaslight of the hall, and plunged out into the winter night bursting with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate"
When I read that line, I fell in love. Not the Nicholas Sparks kind of love. Definitely not a Bella Swan and Edward Cullen kind of love either. That small phrase became my Helen of Troy. My Romeo and Juliet. My White Rabbit guide to Wonderland. It struck me as one of the greatest truths known....to me at least.
Reader, I suffer from what is tragically referred to as the inability to say what is on one's mind at the exact moment that one wishes to say it, and worse, the inability to say it well. Too often I find myself feeling like Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail...I too get completely tongue-tied when I'm provoked and my mind goes blank. Then, then I spend all night tossing and turning trying to figure out what I should have said...
There is no explaination for my inability to verbally express myself the way I intend to. I am an English major. I've read all the great classics from Don Quixote to Anna Karenina, even the Bible! In my mind I think the most elaborate and witty thoughts. I have an imagination that would put Dr. Seuss to shame. And yet, somehow, there is a fault line in the connection between my thoughts and my words. My friends at school have narrowed the diagnosis down to the fact that my brain just works too fast for my mouth....if this is true, then the only remedy is to write down my thoughts and musings on, well, just about everything.
Inspired by The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, I began writing letters to people; friends in different states, the occassional family member, and yes, to a boy across the country. I found this method much more affective in saying everything exactly the way I thought it. My words flowed perfectly and I finally felt like I was being heard.
Yes. This all sounds cornier than the Mid-West. But it's true. Now don't get me wrong. I do not sit alone, friendless, surrounded by the comfort of my books. I'm Vice President of my sorority. I've been in two of our school plays. I have more clothes and shoes than closet space. I date WAY too many boys. I laugh, I cry, and I make stupid jokes (take the "corny" joke for example). I love hard and get broken down even harder. I spend too much time on facebook and can recite the Twilight movies (don't be fooled by the presumed mockery from my mention of the vampire romance above...it's a guilty pleasure of mine. Don't judge. We all have them). I watch Pretty Little Liars and work at a clothing store in the mall. I am a junior in college who is graduating early. I LOVE travelling. I'm basically your average twenty year old girl...Your average girl who can never get her thoughts across the first, second, or millionth time.
So finally, to conclude, my point in starting this blog is to say all the thoughts that I wish I could have said in the moment. The words that I have to hold back with the risk of offending someone. The words that a lof of people cannot express in an eloquent manner. Reader, I am continuing my newfound passion for writing letters; I am writing them to you.
For now, all I have to leave you with is John Mayer, and I too implore you to"say what you need to say".
Sincerely,
Me
Yes. The name of my blog does, in fact, possess an oxymoronic element. Eloquence versus Inarticulate. The former describes fluent and appropriate speech; the latter, is the unfortunate lacking of expression in ones words. I believe I exemplify both.
But, I must admit, the creativity of such a title was not my own. It is a phrase pulled from Edith Wharton's novel The Age of Innocence. For any of you (if there are any of YOU out there reading this) who hasn't read this classic tale of desire, betrayal, duty and passion, you must. Here's a little quote to surge any curiosity that may be formulating:
"He bent and laid his lips on her hands, which were cold and lifeless. She drew themaway, and he turned to the door, found his coat and hat under the faint gaslight of the hall, and plunged out into the winter night bursting with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate"
When I read that line, I fell in love. Not the Nicholas Sparks kind of love. Definitely not a Bella Swan and Edward Cullen kind of love either. That small phrase became my Helen of Troy. My Romeo and Juliet. My White Rabbit guide to Wonderland. It struck me as one of the greatest truths known....to me at least.
Reader, I suffer from what is tragically referred to as the inability to say what is on one's mind at the exact moment that one wishes to say it, and worse, the inability to say it well. Too often I find myself feeling like Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail...I too get completely tongue-tied when I'm provoked and my mind goes blank. Then, then I spend all night tossing and turning trying to figure out what I should have said...
There is no explaination for my inability to verbally express myself the way I intend to. I am an English major. I've read all the great classics from Don Quixote to Anna Karenina, even the Bible! In my mind I think the most elaborate and witty thoughts. I have an imagination that would put Dr. Seuss to shame. And yet, somehow, there is a fault line in the connection between my thoughts and my words. My friends at school have narrowed the diagnosis down to the fact that my brain just works too fast for my mouth....if this is true, then the only remedy is to write down my thoughts and musings on, well, just about everything.
Inspired by The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, I began writing letters to people; friends in different states, the occassional family member, and yes, to a boy across the country. I found this method much more affective in saying everything exactly the way I thought it. My words flowed perfectly and I finally felt like I was being heard.
Yes. This all sounds cornier than the Mid-West. But it's true. Now don't get me wrong. I do not sit alone, friendless, surrounded by the comfort of my books. I'm Vice President of my sorority. I've been in two of our school plays. I have more clothes and shoes than closet space. I date WAY too many boys. I laugh, I cry, and I make stupid jokes (take the "corny" joke for example). I love hard and get broken down even harder. I spend too much time on facebook and can recite the Twilight movies (don't be fooled by the presumed mockery from my mention of the vampire romance above...it's a guilty pleasure of mine. Don't judge. We all have them). I watch Pretty Little Liars and work at a clothing store in the mall. I am a junior in college who is graduating early. I LOVE travelling. I'm basically your average twenty year old girl...Your average girl who can never get her thoughts across the first, second, or millionth time.
So finally, to conclude, my point in starting this blog is to say all the thoughts that I wish I could have said in the moment. The words that I have to hold back with the risk of offending someone. The words that a lof of people cannot express in an eloquent manner. Reader, I am continuing my newfound passion for writing letters; I am writing them to you.
For now, all I have to leave you with is John Mayer, and I too implore you to"say what you need to say".
Sincerely,
Me
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