The Real LJ Idol: Week 0
In my junior year of high school, I took an English class entitled Profiles. The stated purpose of the class was to provide a more concentrated study of literature through a handful of books written about defining life experiences; the generally understood aim was to rope in dedicated underachievers like myself who avoided Advanced Placement classes like the plague. The class itself was nothing extraordinary; mostly, I remember reading One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Net and Fallen Angels. Halfway between the two books, we were assigned an essay to discuss who we were--a profile of ourselves, if you will. Probably because the class offered me the chance to slack off, I resented having to spend any time on such a pedantic time waste of an assignment. The next class day, I turned in a poem, in the stylings of Rita Dove, expressing equal parts garden variety defiance of the system and arrogant conviction that I was So Above It All.
My hubris is a source of some embarrassment for me now. It is a thin veneer, masquerading as apathetic armor. Who am I? Who I am is something still open for interpretation. Every year, it seems I learn more about myself, and yet, simultaneously, I am still something of a mystery to myself. This isn't something that I think makes me unique; this is a struggle that I read about often. Self-help sections at old book stores, as it turns out, are my love language. This year, at the ripe old age of 32, I am closer than ever before to figuring out the things of myself that other people figured out for themselves eons ago.
So, what I have figured out is that I'm an Earth-worshipping mother who works as a writer to support her activism habit. I have dreams of owning my own home, fleeing student loan debt, and having a career that doesn't involve receiving a paycheck through PayPal. Figuring out what that career should ultimately be is a good idea more complicated and less easy to discern. I know I want to save the world, a lofty goal that is realized in how I raise my daughter. My childrearing philosophy is a smorgasbord of Starhawk, Dr. Sears, Scary Mommy, and a total rejection of my own childhood.
Outside of childhood, I'm a lousy cook, a semi-talented poet, and a voracious reader. One of the things my creative writing teacher advised understanding was that it is impossible to truly appreciate a good story written by someone else until you've written your own. I've always treated my journal as my story, and I'm excited to share that with you all.
My hubris is a source of some embarrassment for me now. It is a thin veneer, masquerading as apathetic armor. Who am I? Who I am is something still open for interpretation. Every year, it seems I learn more about myself, and yet, simultaneously, I am still something of a mystery to myself. This isn't something that I think makes me unique; this is a struggle that I read about often. Self-help sections at old book stores, as it turns out, are my love language. This year, at the ripe old age of 32, I am closer than ever before to figuring out the things of myself that other people figured out for themselves eons ago.
So, what I have figured out is that I'm an Earth-worshipping mother who works as a writer to support her activism habit. I have dreams of owning my own home, fleeing student loan debt, and having a career that doesn't involve receiving a paycheck through PayPal. Figuring out what that career should ultimately be is a good idea more complicated and less easy to discern. I know I want to save the world, a lofty goal that is realized in how I raise my daughter. My childrearing philosophy is a smorgasbord of Starhawk, Dr. Sears, Scary Mommy, and a total rejection of my own childhood.
Outside of childhood, I'm a lousy cook, a semi-talented poet, and a voracious reader. One of the things my creative writing teacher advised understanding was that it is impossible to truly appreciate a good story written by someone else until you've written your own. I've always treated my journal as my story, and I'm excited to share that with you all.