Saturday, December 19, 2009

This nervous energy.

For a while I couldn’t write unless it was typing. Now I’m having trouble typing – I’ve grown quite fond of my composition notebook.

I’ve seen my favorites seeping into my work; The emphatic use of the occasional italic – JD Salinger; The inwardly focused and highly descriptive step-by-step (literally) narratives – Margaret Atwood. Heightened longing and huge build-ups – Edith Wharton (who happens to share my birthday).

I used to wear an Edith Wharton t-shirt to gym class in the 7th grade. On the clearance rack, tucked beneath the Vonneguts and Lewis Carroll’s – there she was. No one wanted her. But she wanted everyone, so I wore her caricature across my quickly developing chest in hopes that someone would see and understand the unrequited passion that was quivering beneath the white cotton. No one did. What a dork.

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