Have I ever told any of you that I love to write? I'm embarrassed by the fact actually, and I don't tell anybody. But yeah, I'm a pretty nerdy bookworm and literature geek at heart and lately, I've been finding myself in the pages of a book rather than the pages of the Internet. I've even been writing a story. I'll post the first few paragraphs at the end of this post to prove it to you.
Anyway, I'm personally feeling pretty triumphant and trendily old-fashioned with this lifestyle change. And basically, what I'm trying to say is that I'm taking a step back from blogging and from the overstimulation of the world wide web for now. I've found that running this type of a blog was challenging me in all the wrong ways. It's steered me towards this strange obsession over a lifestyle I aspire to but don't have, which is healthy in small doses, but crippling in large quantities.
Alas, it's time I step down from my platform of shallow albeit stylish delusions and fantasies (which, I'll admit, is really what this blog came down to) and figure out a new direction to strive towards. If anything, this blog just needs a renovation. Until then, you can find me at the local library or coffee shop people-watching without abandon and surrendering to the clichéd isolation of the writer's life .
P.S. I'm on spring break and it's fantastic.
P.P.S. I've just had a sudden inspiration for le blog! Maybe I'll use it as a sort of writer's diary. I'll share projects I'm working on and story notes I've written down and it'll be this great, aspiring-artist type thing that will work as a motivation for myself to keep up with it and an entertainment to anyone who reads it! You know, that kind of a double-life blog by an amateur creative-type? I'm gonna think about this more.
Okay, here's that story I promised you, or at least the beginning of it (it's a rough draft):
Start of untitled short story:
The golden sun, milky and pure, that poured into the road took me by surprise. And so did the skinny ribbon of cracked asphalt, and the wheat fields miles away from any shopping center or subdivision. Something raw and wild crept out from behind the landscape. From the rusty pick up trucks that spotted the curbs, to the creaking traffic lights that swung above the intersections, something was wedged between the cracks of it all that felt blissfully untouched. I couldn’t tell you how, but the world that lined route 463 felt perfectly removed from the rest of the universe that whirled beyond it. It was a beautiful anachronism, the idea of a two-lane road that stretched for miles like a quaint curving stripe. I sped along it with a goofy smile smeared on my face and music pumping through the speaker system. “A Cruise on the S.S. Pharell.” That was the name of the playlist I listened to, a musical tribute to Pharell Williams and to all that was smooth happiness.
Eventually, I reached the hills. They bubbled up and down making the road rise and fall and twist back over itself. I drove right past Mill Road, where I was supposed to turn right. I had to make a looping U-turn through a sparse neighborhood in order to get back to it. Driving on Mill Road was like riding a children’s roller coaster, one of those wooden Gemini Jr. ones that didn’t have any upside-down loops but had plenty of swooping turns and drops. I thought it was a sheer delight. And between the skinny skeletons of trees, when I rounded a bend, I could catch a glimpse of a huge basin of water beyond. It almost looked like a wide river if you didn’t know any better. The hills cradled it into a valley where it shimmered like dull silver.
I drove along Mill Road for 2.7 miles until it brought me to a mailbox labeled 1129. A long driveway stretched behind it leading to a house that couldn’t be seen. I pulled in slowly, rolling along the ashen pavement and passing a carved wooden sign that read “Fantasy Farm” in large, cartoonish letters. The house was made of dark panels of wood punctuated with black triangles for décor. Another big black triangle of a roof sloped casually over everything. It was a squat, horizontal house, only two floors high, and it sat like a solemn wooden dwarf in a forest clearing. The air around it had an evergreen tint, and the grass at its feet was a faded olive. It all felt a bit tired, as if the dwarf-house had been waiting for someone to arrive. But the moment people came, every crease of weariness melted into a warm welcome.