American River Review 2022 - copy - Flipbook - Page 58
blend of nonfiction and metaphor, a sensory story that I didn’t want to put
down. I went back to my own manuscript and added the storytelling element
that Jones captured in his book. I like to say that I am influenced by great works
everyday, that I fall in love with literature too easily. But I am grateful to these
authors who can transcend the page, for this transforms reading into an experience, a catalyst for the next step.
What inspires you to write?
I consider myself a professional wallflower, a skilled seat in the back of the
room. I am fascinated by people in their element. I watch the way they walk, or
how they avert their eyes in conversation. Humans behave in a very interesting
manner, especially when they are unaware of an audience. I look for the “why”
in all actions, for the obvious objective, as well as the hidden agenda. I ask a
lot of questions. Most of my writing is a stream of ponderings and unanswered
queries. I think that there is much we can learn from the quiet, so I find corners of the world and try to camouflage; I try to listen. In a fast-paced, overstimulating society, I think that there is value in slowing down to appreciate the
small feats, the significant moments when truth shines without a filter.
In an attempt to pen an “About Me,” I inadvertently scribbled an entire diatribe about my lack of confidence:
Don’t ask me to describe myself. I am not a heroic tale. I am not exceptionally
talented. This is an egocentric dialogue, a conversation between myself and my
past, because I can’t remember my childhood without feeling lonely, and I can’t
pen a poem worthy of an era. My words seldom capture the state of humanity,
for I rarely feel like a key player (included) in a crowd. Why then do I scrawl
messages on the ceiling? Because yellow wallpaper bleeds better than ivory,
and disillusionment sounds more interesting than depression. Where does my
inspiration come from? In truth, you may find that the darkness is quite loud,
when you allow yourself to be submerged in it for an extended period; silence
is an experienced whisperer, constantly humming lines, implanting rhythm
beneath the surface of my skin. Lend me your ear; if you stand close enough
(for long enough) you may hear the buzzing, the current flowing in my veins;
it’s restlessness. (Did Van Gogh hear it, too?) Please call me ambitious, if you
wish, if it helps you to understand that I am never satisfied. There is always a
better sentence (a superior idea) and I am either trying to grasp it, or find it
in the mouth of another. Is being an author synonymous with living to suffer?
Maybe this ticking exists in all of us, but only a select few answer the summons.
Why do I write? Because Virginia Woolf was my diving instructor, because she
taught me how to hold rocks in my pocket, how to save sickness for later. What
do I hope to accomplish? I want these tracks to set you on a better course; I
want you to find meaning, glimpse a vision, build a house of poetry overlooking
the sea. I want you to paraphrase every sunset, feel my heartbeat (my love) in
each syllable, in each beam of light, reaching in from the outside of a tunnel.
Find the seashell that she left behind (for me); there’s a memory hidden inside,
waiting to be read (to be shared).
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