Logophilia

I used to like to write.

It wasn't so much that I liked to tell stories, though I liked that too.  I really liked the sound of words, the rhythm you could make by joining them together.  I liked to repeat words until I couldn't remember what they meant; it was then that you could really hear them.  To this day, I am in ecstasy over the first line in Daphne du Maurier's 'Rebecca' : "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again."  Have you ever heard anything more gorgeous in your life? 

The first poem I remember writing began "late at night, when the dark grows old".  I was ten.  I loved that sentence.  I love it still, to tell you the truth, because it was amazing to me that I could string together words that hadn't been put  that way before.  (And still haven't, according to Google... :) )

Growing up, I have a certainty (read: baseless conceit) that I would be a writer someday.  The world was nothing to me but blank pages to write on, and I was sure that I would.  I didn't know very much then, certainly not that ambition counts for far more than dreams and love when it comes to things like that.  I have no real stick-to-itiveness, never have had.  I could start and maybe even finish a story or a poem, but when it came down to the brass tacks of mailing it places, or looking up writing contests or anything that would be helpful, I fell short.

I was certain I would be special and creative.  Weren't we all?  We grew up watching Reality Bites and a million other things that convinced us, or at least me, that working hard was for anal, close minded people.  You were supposed to have something to say in the world, you were supposed to be as useless and beautiful as Ethan Hawke, in all his indignation over being fired for stealing a candy bar.  (When I watch that movie now, I just want to throw the greasy little ingrate in the shower, sad to say.)  I thought, I really thought, that some writing thing would just fall into my lap and I'd get on with it, leading to a life of arty people and cities and coffeehouses and travel.

  What happened is this. I got married to a man who also loved to write.  We had a son, then bought a house in a small town, and somewhere in there I became just another person, scrubbing coffee from the new rug early one morning because, dammit, I just paid $39.95 for the thing at TJMaxx. I juggle t-ball and playdates and wonder if it's worth it to pay for private swimming lessons. I make packaged Toy Story mac'n'cheese and then try to make up for it by serving organic fruit alongside. I am too old to be a wunderkind, the way I'd planned.  I work part-time at a school, and it is important work, and I am good at it, but...it wasn't really supposed to turn out this way, was it?

That sounds melancholy, and I really don't mean it to.  On an average day, you'd be hard pressed to find a happier person that yours truly. I like this town.  I like my house and I love my family.

But the girl who loved words is in there somewhere, and I'm going to see what this blog does to bring her out.  We'll see...