Once upon a time there was a young girl who attended a local community college. Whilst majoring in a little of this and a little of that she discovered that she was not exactly as scholarly as her fellow classmates. When her brain made room for new facts, it pushed out the old ones. Quite truthfully this had always been a problem for her, but assumed if she was talking courses "she was interested in" she would do far better.
Destined for normalcy and averageness, seeped in regularness she accepted her lot as it were.
Funny how most lots don't stay vacant for too long.
Over looking the college, on a rocky, mossy, dried up shrub covered hill was a little old house that was about as cute as the hill. The young girl always assumed it was some old perv's house who refused to sell and insisted the college be built around him so that he could skeeze on cheerleaders. Only to be foiled as the college did not have any sports teams, and the main view from the house was the cafeteria staff dumping out the grease from the fry bins.
This urban legend, that only existed in her mind, was soon dispelled when given the address for her to sign up for the student dental plan....the old house on the hill. Which turned out to be the student services building, and upstairs, the college paper. Pressed against flannel and dreadlocks for which seemed an inhumane length of time gave her the opportunity to read the endless flyer's and adds posted on the walls; "Vegan mandolin playing female looking for roommate", "band that has similar sounds to I Mother Earth, Soul Asylum, Pantera looking for drummer", "writers wanted". The last one, it was the LAST one that caught her eye.
Within a few days the young girl sat in on her first editorial meeting. Not long after she was given her first story. It was not a very interesting story; taxi cabs getting interact machines. But she wrote, well actually she told it in a way that she thought that she herself would enjoy reading it. Her editor gave very self esteem boosting smiles as she read. The girl was given a few more stories and she continued to tell it in the same way; making the best out of a boring situation.
The young girl worried, though. How much longer could she actually do this? Tell a story from her own point of view. It really wasn't journalism and she knew it. The editor knew it too. So she gave the girl who own column. She could write about any darn thing she pleased and tell it in her own way. And she did! For a few years she wrote of her life. The good, the bad and the sweaty. Yes, she wrote about her sweating issues and through several "fan" letters found a super scary, probably not too safe deodorant that seemed to permanently stop her from sweating ever again. She probably should have thought that one through a little better.
For the first time in her entire life she felt like "somebody." As cliche as it was, it was true. Wanting so badly to pass off the attention her whole life and feeling guilty for any she got. This was something that she felt was all hers and she could be proud of. When her editor discussed with her the idea of her column getting syndicated or made into a book she was very excited. What did that mean exactly? The young girl quickly learned that like the Golden Girls, syndicated meant people across the country could read her stories. The thought of this was overwhelming. Very overwhelming.
After a few sleepless nights the young girl decided. It was not to be. She just did not feel ready to share with everyone. She would drown in a sea of talented writers. She only could write one way; HER way! What if people wanted more and she could not make her life seem interesting for anyone to read about?
Why would anyone care about what she had to say about her own life?
Years passed. The young girl wrote here and there. The world changed. Paper turned into computers and everyone was "somebody". It seemed harder to find one's place than ever. But she was going to try.
And here it is.
