When I read, I picture the author sitting at his or her desk typing away. Printing out the pages to review and then typing more. I always wonder what he or she is wearing and what they are thinking as they write a piece of literature that may quite easily bring me to my knees. I only read good books. I kid you not. I’m thankful now that I never got sucked into A Million Little Pieces of Bullshit. But that is neither here nor there. My point is that when I write it’s usually at a desk or in my bed. Cup of tea in my right hand and I play with my favorite curl that is in the back of my head. While I write, I wonder how the people that read-professors, you all, whomever-will react to what I’ve written. When it’s good, I smile as I go and when it’s bad, or I feel that it’s bad, I will spend the remainder of my day wondering to the point where it can distract me from whatever else I am doing. My subsequent thoughts are pretty narcissistic – which should surprise no one I suppose – but it’s more of “I wonder if they are wondering what I look like and what I’m thinking while I write this
No, I don’t have it all together as Marissa suspected (which I might also add was my favorite guess). That comment made me think that my attempts to best encapsulate myself in this have been in vain. Unless by having it together means being the most neurotic person in all eternity who can easily drown her sorrows in a new pair of shoes or a bottle of shiraz; and in emergencies, in a well timed burrito. Then, yes, I do have my shit together. I don’t want people being impressed. It freaks me out. Only because I know that what may impress someone, only leaves me thinking “ok, so what next.” I have this immense fear of talking about the good things that come because I know that inevitably I will jinx myself. It’s not even a maybe. It’s a definite. It has nothing to do with me being happy etc., but more with me never being completely satisfied and what I fear; even more than failing; is that I will never truly be satisfied.
So, without further ado moi:
(I should mention that I really don’t like either of these pictures and the picture that I was to originally post with this was neither of these, but my computer is sucking a big one right now, so this is what you get)
(Oh, and we’ll save the “Why does everyone always think I’m white?” post for another day. I think it’s the golfing and the polo obsession and the upstate NY that throws people off, but then again, my name is fucking Heather)
(here is the post about me meeting Alfre Woodard. I was also forced to meet Cicely Tyson and sat behind Oprah's BFF Gayle at Rosa Parks' memorial service here in DC. And I saw Oprah's Swavorski covered shoes. But I can't find that post, so nevermind)