Reminiscing...
Friday, June 22, 2007
O ne reason that is equally fabulous and awful about blogging is that you have your entries set in archives. Your thoughts and experiences – the disturbing and humorous ones are set in this little webpage, where you can easily access when needed.
It is fabulous because it gives me a chance to look back at how I dealt with things and reacted to situations and curve balls, which were thrown at me. And blatantly awful because I realize how often I fall into potholes and get fed up with things that really aren’t worth worrying over. I am most, my worst enemy and my biggest fan and probably the worst self-critic. And this is okay, I think, as long as I don’t build myself up too much or let myself fall too far behind.
I always wanted to be a writer. But there is one moment that I remember; clear as day when I knew I could be a writer. (Trust me, there is an infinite body of water between wanting and knowing.) I was in College and I was taking a Magazine Writing class and one of the assignments was to write an article about an experience you had – whether it was a blissful one or a tragic one, but it had to be about you realizing something great about yourself or someone close to you. I remember it took me a mere 4 hours to complete. I remember crying when I was writing it and even crying more when my professor decided to read it to the class. This specific article ended up being published a couple of months later. Till this day, that article I wrote years ago still remains one of my favorite pieces to showcase for freelance gigs. And since the day I sat glued to my computer for 4 hrs I knew then, as I knew now that I wanted to write professionally.
My professor saw something in my story that day. And she read my article and modeled my work and expected everyone to follow my work. I kept my head down while she read each painstakingly prepared phrase aloud, taking in what I wrote and blending it with my soul. She read it anonymously. But somehow, my classmates knew.
I remember everything about this moment – my Professor (she was a nun) and the rhythm she gave the words as she read, the shiny parquet floor squares of the 5th classroom, where I sat, with my back to the window, pride welling up in my chest and a tear in the corner of my eye. I never thanked her properly for this four minutes, when I went from wanting to be a writer to knowing that it was in me somewhere, obscured by uncertainty and immaturity.
I wonder if one day, years from now, when all of this dating and partying is in the past, I will look back on my stories and ridicule myself or cry.
Who knows, probably both.
It is fabulous because it gives me a chance to look back at how I dealt with things and reacted to situations and curve balls, which were thrown at me. And blatantly awful because I realize how often I fall into potholes and get fed up with things that really aren’t worth worrying over. I am most, my worst enemy and my biggest fan and probably the worst self-critic. And this is okay, I think, as long as I don’t build myself up too much or let myself fall too far behind.
I always wanted to be a writer. But there is one moment that I remember; clear as day when I knew I could be a writer. (Trust me, there is an infinite body of water between wanting and knowing.) I was in College and I was taking a Magazine Writing class and one of the assignments was to write an article about an experience you had – whether it was a blissful one or a tragic one, but it had to be about you realizing something great about yourself or someone close to you. I remember it took me a mere 4 hours to complete. I remember crying when I was writing it and even crying more when my professor decided to read it to the class. This specific article ended up being published a couple of months later. Till this day, that article I wrote years ago still remains one of my favorite pieces to showcase for freelance gigs. And since the day I sat glued to my computer for 4 hrs I knew then, as I knew now that I wanted to write professionally.
My professor saw something in my story that day. And she read my article and modeled my work and expected everyone to follow my work. I kept my head down while she read each painstakingly prepared phrase aloud, taking in what I wrote and blending it with my soul. She read it anonymously. But somehow, my classmates knew.
I remember everything about this moment – my Professor (she was a nun) and the rhythm she gave the words as she read, the shiny parquet floor squares of the 5th classroom, where I sat, with my back to the window, pride welling up in my chest and a tear in the corner of my eye. I never thanked her properly for this four minutes, when I went from wanting to be a writer to knowing that it was in me somewhere, obscured by uncertainty and immaturity.
I wonder if one day, years from now, when all of this dating and partying is in the past, I will look back on my stories and ridicule myself or cry.
Who knows, probably both.
but what was the article about!?!
my grandmother passing away, me coming to terms about myself - accepting myself basically and allowing other people to grieve - the old me as well as my grandmother. Coming out and trying to convince myself that I am who I am and I can't change that. Fear of rejection, fear of people dying without knowing the "me".
i wanna read it....
tiff - go to xanga and its under my feb. 10th 2005.
xo