“You know I used to be such a boring person,” I sigh. “If I started this blog even two years ago, I’d have absolutely nothing to write about.”
I can tell that this statement piques your interest. You lean in and ask, “How do you mean?”
“Well, for starters, I went to an American public high school which is about as formulaic and monotonous as it gets. The only thing I really could have written about would have been my little…escapades,” I cocked my head with a light smirk.
“You want me to ask you ‘what escapades’ don’t you?” I should have figured you’d pick up on my subliminal cue. It’s no secret that I’m a psychology nerd. “Well, given that you were in high school, I bet your escapades happened during the night?” You waggle your eyebrows, smirking. I place my hand on my chest, mouth agape in mock offense.
“I’ll have you know that I escaped in broad daylight, thank you very much. I’d walk around campus, headphones plugged in, thinking about the meaning of life, social norms, and my mental state during breaks,” I declare.
Neither of us know what to say for a couple moments. I seize the opportunity to drain half my cup of herbal tea, assuming a thoughtful expression to veil the rising tension inside of me.
I notice your eyes on me and almost choke, slamming the cup down and sputtering. “Are you alright?!” Still coughing, I nod and heave several deep breaths before settling down.
“Tea went down the wrong pipe,” I explain with a tight-lipped smile. The frown on your face remains.
“Why do you keep grimacing off to the side after you say something?” Leave it to me to find a conversation partner as observant as me. I had no intention to say it loud but I immediately noticed your inability to keep your right leg still. Half of the table’s practically rattling from its constant movement.
“So you’ve noticed,” I answer dryly. “How perceptive of you.” With that, I turn the conservation on its head. “A lot of people say it’s important to look at the big picture, but I love to look at the small details,” I declare. You draw breath to point out that I just changed the topic, but I continue speaking.
“Art is made of small details. Nietzsche says that humans are art. What does that say about us? Are we just a collection of lesser memories, thoughts, and emotions that culminate into something larger? Is there something larger at all or do we perceive ourselves to be grander than we are?” You peer at me, unsure of what to say.
“This crap is going into my book!” I squeal. I whip out my phone and fervently tap out the lines in my notes app.
“Soon enough, I won’t have to do this anymore,” I declare after putting my phone away. “I found this tutorial on the Internet about bullet journaling for fiction novels and, once I get it all set up, that’s where my book is going to grow.” I swoon at the thought of organizing my chaotic writing process once and for all.
“Oh you’re writing a book? Can I see?” you ask. My vision focuses into a tunnel and our surroundings fade to a blur. What’s it about writing books that people are so hung up about? If I just said I’m a blogger, most people wouldn’t bat an eyelash. If I said I made YouTube videos, most people wouldn’t care. Why is authorhood so attention-grabbing?!
Attention is the last thing I want; especially when my “book” is little more than a page of short-sighted philosophical ventation and a handful of the bare bones of several characters.
“There really isn’t that much to see,” I admit. You raise an eyebrow, but I interrupt before you can implore further.
“You’ll see what it’s about once I make my bullet journal. I’ll devote an entire blog post to it, promise.” This response seems to satisfy you. Leaning back in your chair, you tell me that you only have one more question:
“What makes your life so interesting all of the sudden?” I reach for my tea to allow for time to think. (Real life skill here, lovelies. Always bring water with you and sip it when you don’t know what to say or need time to figure out what to say.)
I set down my cup with a plop and smile before I begin. “I feel that I can express myself more openly now and I’m finally living out my dreams. Including some that I didn’t even know I had.” You nod along, listening carefully.
I stick out my hand for a handshake. “Let’s do this again sometime,” I beam.