I need to be more serious. Expensive shoe wearing, fine leather bag carrying, author portrait where I’m looking over my shoulder in some way, serious. A scarf that’s not fuzzy with every color in the crayon box is in order or maybe even…lip liner.
If I become more serious, play the part, then I will be a better writer. I will write about serious things, real things like far off places, human injustice, conflict or even cultural and world affairs. I need weight, good lighting, titles and letters after my name.
Last night I sat down to write my resume which in my world is tantamount to, let’s say…a public pap smear. Maybe not quite that intrusive, but listing who I am, what I believe, what I write about, my strengths and why I am so super fabulous that people should hang on my every word…not my thing at all.
In my attempt to put together my curricula vitae, which, by the way, is slightly more serious than a resume, I began with my education which was easy and then I moved to a simple list. I started writing down my accomplishments, honors, awards, publications…at this point I reached for the peanut butter as my chest began to clench.
It is startling when you reach that moment in your life when you are not sure what the hell you are doing or have ever done for that matter.
It could very well be that I am rife with accomplishment and accolade, but they are things that don’t translate to paper? Maybe? I will think on this a bit longer after Downton Abbey, but in the meantime, I’m going to start channeling very serious, brooding even.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Strict Curfew.