Writing samples.
Random pictures.
Occasional rants.
Living day by day in this crazy beautiful world.
Random pictures.
Occasional rants.
Living day by day in this crazy beautiful world.
I once had this daydream. A fantasy version of myself as an adult, with long smooth hair, wearing faded but perfectly fitted jeans and an oversized white men's dress shirt. Fantasy-me floated through life, a bohemian chic woman who everyone secretly envied. Real-me was a gawky middle-schooler, with shoulder length hair frizzed out in a triangle, wearing baggy clothes in earth tones, trying to fade into the background.
I've since learned that you can never truly hide. In middle school, I was mocked for my outdated clothes. In high school, I tried harder to fit in. I wore t-shirts I didn't really care for, found jeans that looked like everyone else's, chopped off all my hair and spiked up the front with gel. The only part that was truly me were the white canvas sneakers I bought senior year, which I covered with doodles and poetry. College was experimenting with being butch. Wearing flannel. Keeping my hair even shorter. Counting the number of times I was called "sir" (once while wearing a lace dress--double points for that one). After college was learning to dress both conservative and femme. Defining business casual. Learning how to look like a manager on a filing clerk's salary. And then, finally, color. It started with a sparkly pink shirt (weekend wear only). Then rainbow patterned heels. And slowly, eventually, meeting someone who made color her business. Agreeing to model in vibrant leggings, bold bikinis, playful backpacks. It's not exaggerating to say that ColorVibeCo changed me. I wear mixed patterns now. Chunky jewelry. Leggings and dresses and outfits that show the shape of my body in ways I never thought I would be comfortable with. It's empowering. With every bright choice, every print I never thought I could pull off, every instance of being seen, I become myself a little more. Not the bullied middle-schooler, or the scared high-schooler, or the experimenting college girl, but the real me. The woman I daydreamed of all those years ago. Only I've learned the truth of the dream--the woman who floats doesn't have to simultaneously hide. The woman who floats is the one who is proud to be seen.
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I've been working on myself. On being more open. On being more vulnerable. For years, I've written short imagist poems and long-form fiction. I've added a layer between myself and what I write. Maybe I would let my protagonist say aloud or act out some of my fears, but I seldom put them in my own voice.
I can't do it that way any more. Sometimes life hits you hard, abruptly, exposing all your blind spots. This artificial distance between myself and what I write is one of those blindspots. I'm working on changing that now. I haven't been wrting pretty, carefully crafted little snapshots lately. I still see beauty all around me. I still feel that the best way to capture those glimpses of the infinite is through words. But these days it isn't enough to write about the beauty and ignore the pain. I have to write it all. The universe has taught me that. Sometimes, when you're trying to sing through the screams, it's better to take a deep breath and go hardcore. Don't worry, I'll still sing. Just expect a lot more throat-grinding mixed in. |
Catherine McCabeCatherine McCabe lives and writes in upstate New York, with her awesome girlfriend and her two cats. |