Look Up

You start to believe that you are a writer when you're lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, thinking, "how can I best describe this moment" ... and the next minute you've got your notebook and a sharpie and you're scribbling furiously away about how the ceiling moved you. Maybe you understand what I mean. You're a writer when you think about things in terms how how you can write about them.

"So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be."

That's from the book Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky. I re-read it this weekend for the first time in a few years, I'm pretty sure, and loved it. So, so much. As soon as I finished, I was filled with an ache to write, and this is what came out onto the paper:

Reading the amazing lines of this book brings no solitude to my loneliness. It makes me think of mistakes that I've made and the people I've hurt and how sometimes I'm sad for no real reason except that there are people who I truly and deeply love, and one day will have to let go of. ... this book makes me want to bawl my eyes out because I miss you so much.

I spent the weekend with Clare Robeck. On Friday night we watched Vanilla Sky with Sam at her house, and Saturday morning her mom took us to a hot springs lodge, near the Columbia River. Between us and my book and emotions and writer's tendencies, it was just one of those times when I couldn't stop thinking about things. I couldn't have taken a walk or even a drive without thinking about the greater meaning and backstory of everything I saw. Consequently, we spent some time contemplating our personal frustrations ... but it was nice, and for the most part, it was a fun and relaxing weekend.

Yesterday it hit me just how right Chuck Palahniuk is: "My point is, if I'm honest, my life is all about me."I could tell you that what makes me happiest is loving my friends Lauren and Tai, and what brings me the most pain is letting down my little sisters just by being away. And you could empathize, you could take part in my joy, but no matter how much you cared, you could not feel just what I feel. And the same from me to you. And I think what love is, is finding someone ... and having all these reasons to be happy, and all these broken hearts, make more sense. Maybe all love is, is finding someone that makes you feel like you -- and life -- make sense.

But I'm just 17. So. You know.

"Please make me not so crazy, make me fall apart.
Make me think beautiful, unexpected thoughts.
I should mean more."
[Jamison Parker]

posted by Allison Francis @ 9:08 PM