My father will always baby me. To him, I will always be that chubby, awkward little girl I used to be. When i was a teenager, this was a punishment for being born last. Mom understood that I was growing up, why couldn't he? He would dote on me like a child, bringing me home stuffed animals and small gifts "just because". He still does from time to time, but when I was in my teens, I was embarrassed. Doesn't that sound arrogant? I was embarrassed by my father's affection.
Now that I am officially a 'grown up' I really can't get enough of it. I relish it whenever I am visiting with my parents. I am 23 years old and my dad still cooks me breakfast. There is nothing as comforting as a grilled cheese at 8pm.
My daddy was my idol. Don't get me wrong, my mother is my best friend and I love her dearly, but she was the hand of authority in our home and dad lucked out. He got to be the fun parent. the relationship I have with him as never been tainted. To him, I am still a little fairy princess and when I'm home with him, I am one.
I am, in that when I am home, I can step back from my big girl life and see how far I've come. The buildings in my home town change, businesses open and close, but it is at the heart still the same Westville I grew up in. Faces gather lines, but the smiles are still the same. I haven't changed so much either and Westville really shows it to me. I lost 50 pounds and a tooth, but essentially I am still the same girl, just with a little alteration to the luggage.
The reason I am so comforted by this isn't because I'm scared or unwilling to grow up. On the contrary, it is the reason I want to. Some day I'll decide to get married, and I feel very sorry for the person stuck with me because they have some very big shoes to fill. My parents have given me very high expectations in what to look for in a partner, because I won't accept anything less than a love like that. I am not perfect (let's face it, who of us is?) but my flaws are a part of me and he loves everything about me as a fraction of a whole. Every time I royally fuck up (infrequent, but on a grand scale. Every time.) he never judges me. He picks me up, wipes away my tears, kisses my forehead and assures me that everything will be alright. To say that to him, I do no wrong would be inaccurate. I do get it wrong a lot. I make the wrong choices. I say or do the wrong thing. I do mess up, but it is all forgivable.
The person I am to be with forever must be, above all else, kind. If there is one thing my father has taught me, it is that kindness and generosity are their own reward. Nothing feels as good as helping someone in need. When I am asked to describe my dad to someone, the first thing that comes to mind is his big heart. He may be quiet or standoffish when he first meets a person, but he loves everyone he meets. It takes a lot to change his mind and even after he does, if that person is in a bind, my dad is the first one to offer a hand. When I was a kid, I just accepted it as a fact of humanity. If my daddy was this sweet, everyone is supposed to be. Turns out no. My father is the only person I have ever met with such an eager desire to be selfless, without want or expectation of reward.
I could fall flat on my face every day of my life, and he would still be proud of me, but he has this certain way about him that makes me want to give him good reason to be proud. Even though my parents are 100 miles away and probably have no idea what I am doing at any given time (thank God for Facebook) I still consider them in virtually every decision I make day to day. Would my dad be proud of me for doing this? What would he say if I did this? That isn't to say that in my line of work I am faced daily with dangerous or moral decisions. It is much more simplistic than that. Should I be selfish with my time, or should I use it to help a friend who needs a favour? Always go with helping a friend. Would it be a bad idea to have another beer. Probably.
No one I have ever been with since I decided dating was a cool and fun thing to do has ever been able to stand up to the ridiculously high standards my father has set for me. Kindness, loyalty, humor, unwavering optimism. Sure, my lovers will embody some or most of these qualities. It is what attracts me to them in the first place. The key, I think, is the quality of love that I expect from them. I want someone who will (because I know they will) make my blood boil the way my Dad can to Mom, and forgive them for it just like she always does because love is so much stronger than hate or anger. I need someone who understands my moods the way my father can look at my mother and know what she's feeling just by her face. Sure, he may not always do exactly the right thing, but he does it with the best of intentions. I want a love like that.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Thursday, September 13, 2012
FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION
Today I received my first rejection letter. I tried to submit a very self-indulgent short story about my reaction to reading about Ray Bradbury's death to Asimov's Science Fiction thinking that if anyone would understand this kind of loneliness, it would be my people. Out there, there must exist at least a handful of awkward nerds who grew up falling in love with some little old man who saw everything with a sparkling brilliance.
No one can deny that there is a piece of the author in everything they write. Everything a person writes, even a tweet or a post-it note is a piece of them that oral conversation has a way of hiding. Speaking personally, if I'm writing, I'm verbalizing my inner monologue which is something very few people have access to. I can't say for sure that is the same for every writer, but you can feel it in their work. Bradbury, at least in my mind, is such a lovely, naive, innocent man who had the fortunate luck of being alive and writing when space adventure was still unexplored. When he wrote science fiction, he was pioneering. Like the astronauts in his story, he was colonizing a whole genre. He turned something childish into a habitable style of writing for many of his successors. but what does his style say about him? He's an adventurer! he knows it, and he's so damn excited about it!
When I read his works, I sort of became him. I would spend an hour or so of my day reading about Mars or distopian societies of the future and then spent the rest of that day with my head in the clouds. The world was suddenly new to me again. But what does that mean now that he's gone? When I first heard the news that Bradbury had passed, my first reaction was to read The Halloween Tree and cry my bitter tears. How can he still be talking to me, though? If he is gone, his voice should be gone with him, right? Here he is, plain as day in my hands. his voice hasn't muffled at all.
This is why I chose to write. Or, this is why I've chosen to try to write. As of yet it hasn't been my most successful endeavor. I am the type of person that I want to, have to, be immediately good at something or I don't want to do it anymore. I am a perfectionist and an over-achiever and to not be the best is the greatest sign of my own weakness. So why continue writing? I made my attempt and failed. The automaton rejection letter could not have made it any clearer that I didn't do well enough for them. I just can't give up on it. It isn't like learning guitar or trying to knit (both of which i have failed utterly at and tossed aside), this is a passion of mine and I can't accept failure. I need to write in the same way that i need to feel validated. My opinion must matter, even if it is just to myself.
Over time, my writing voice changes. Everyone's does. It is a fact of writing in the same way that your writing voice exists at all. It can cause a problem with bigger projects because your 'style' shall we say, changes from the beginning to the end which can produce an undesired effect on the story itself. But small things are important. Blog posts are important. Think of it as a breadcrumb trail of personal awareness that leads a writer back to who they once were.
So I failed. I knew in the back of my head as soon as I had finished the short story that I would, but I tried anyway. I don't think it was optimism that did it to me. In fact it may have even been a bit of self-loathing mixed with pessimism and masochism. I had to see myself fail at least once at it. What could possibly motivate me more to move forward? I talk and I talk and I talk about this story or that and about how harrrd it is to write and how harrrd it is to pretend to be a writer, but really i'm just a girl with a big imagination who works a shitty retail job. My failure is my own motivation. FOR ONCE.
No one can deny that there is a piece of the author in everything they write. Everything a person writes, even a tweet or a post-it note is a piece of them that oral conversation has a way of hiding. Speaking personally, if I'm writing, I'm verbalizing my inner monologue which is something very few people have access to. I can't say for sure that is the same for every writer, but you can feel it in their work. Bradbury, at least in my mind, is such a lovely, naive, innocent man who had the fortunate luck of being alive and writing when space adventure was still unexplored. When he wrote science fiction, he was pioneering. Like the astronauts in his story, he was colonizing a whole genre. He turned something childish into a habitable style of writing for many of his successors. but what does his style say about him? He's an adventurer! he knows it, and he's so damn excited about it!
When I read his works, I sort of became him. I would spend an hour or so of my day reading about Mars or distopian societies of the future and then spent the rest of that day with my head in the clouds. The world was suddenly new to me again. But what does that mean now that he's gone? When I first heard the news that Bradbury had passed, my first reaction was to read The Halloween Tree and cry my bitter tears. How can he still be talking to me, though? If he is gone, his voice should be gone with him, right? Here he is, plain as day in my hands. his voice hasn't muffled at all.
This is why I chose to write. Or, this is why I've chosen to try to write. As of yet it hasn't been my most successful endeavor. I am the type of person that I want to, have to, be immediately good at something or I don't want to do it anymore. I am a perfectionist and an over-achiever and to not be the best is the greatest sign of my own weakness. So why continue writing? I made my attempt and failed. The automaton rejection letter could not have made it any clearer that I didn't do well enough for them. I just can't give up on it. It isn't like learning guitar or trying to knit (both of which i have failed utterly at and tossed aside), this is a passion of mine and I can't accept failure. I need to write in the same way that i need to feel validated. My opinion must matter, even if it is just to myself.
Over time, my writing voice changes. Everyone's does. It is a fact of writing in the same way that your writing voice exists at all. It can cause a problem with bigger projects because your 'style' shall we say, changes from the beginning to the end which can produce an undesired effect on the story itself. But small things are important. Blog posts are important. Think of it as a breadcrumb trail of personal awareness that leads a writer back to who they once were.
So I failed. I knew in the back of my head as soon as I had finished the short story that I would, but I tried anyway. I don't think it was optimism that did it to me. In fact it may have even been a bit of self-loathing mixed with pessimism and masochism. I had to see myself fail at least once at it. What could possibly motivate me more to move forward? I talk and I talk and I talk about this story or that and about how harrrd it is to write and how harrrd it is to pretend to be a writer, but really i'm just a girl with a big imagination who works a shitty retail job. My failure is my own motivation. FOR ONCE.
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