But really, it is kind of a "big deal." See, last week I received my bacon in the mail. That's right. My bacon, the one I created in a Bacon Making Class in December. Well, it spent its time in the smoker, and now, it is spending time on my dinner table.
I will say (humbly of course) that it seems I am a natural bacon-making goddess. My bacon, cured with curry, fenugreek, sorghum and dried figs, makes breakfast for dinner an event. Kudos to Tim Peters, to Caw Caw Creek, to the humble cast iron skillet on my stove. This was worth the wait.
You know, I wouldn't blame you if you thought that Pinterest was just a waste of time. In many ways, I agree with you.
The system has gotten a hold of it like everything else. That being said, I don't necessarily mean "the man" or any great consipiracy, just the idea that wow, people do like this, and we can use this for our own good.
But I would attest that I can use it for my own good as well. Case in point -- visualization.
Now, I know that this is the time of year when people such as Gabby Bernstein are showing off their visualization boards on Instagram. I think it's awesome -- I totally endorse this practice, except for one thing -- I have never been motivated to do one. That is, til Pinterest.
Last year, I started an abundance board on Pinterest. I wanted to think about good things, to visualize good things, the things I want in my life. One of the first pins I added to this board was a particular painting by the Haitian artist K. Estigene. I'd first seen this artist's work in a home in Key West, and I had to see it, to sit by it, for at least a while.
Well, through a series of small, seemingly unmeaningful, amazing events, the actual painting from my abundance board is now ... right now ... hanging in my living room.
The painting as hanging in my current residence
I'm amazed, thankful, and above all, love that many mornings find me standing in front of the painting, brushing my teeth. Beauty. And it's not the end all, or the thing that will make me happy. But it is a gift for me, and it is a wish fulfilled.
Now onto the next abundance pin ... or shall I maybe try for one of those pins I have on the board "The Land Beyond McDreamy"? I can't help but smile ... you never know "who" might be sitting in my living room this time next year!
I got a mini-tour of the South for my latest article for The Local Palate, out in this month's issue. I talked to people in Atlanta, Nashville, Virginia, New Orleans and South Carolina, which was a lot for one article!
As a writer, the challenge for this piece was weaving a connection between each of the interviews. Yes, all of these people were using food to help others, but I wanted to try to map how each of them suddenly realized that they had a resource -- food -- that could be used to help.
We so often say, "But what could I do?" Well, these 5 people answered, and we're talking questions that ranged from urban blight to flood victims and more. And they all answered with "I can grow something or cook something."
Read an excerpt of the article here, and then pick up the latest issue and see all 5 stories of change through the catalyst of food. I hope you'll be as inspired as I was.
Today I put a thimble in my finger again. It's been more than 10 months since I last sewed, and I wondered, would I ever want to do it again?
I didn't pressure myself.
I enjoyed the sun, the beach, dinners with friends and late nights in courtyards where the bourbon flowed and friends were easy. But it got cold last week. Not fall cold but winter cold, at least winter for here.
I wanted to sew again, pull a thread through cloth no matter how unsexy that seems. I did it so much as a distraction to my unhappiness. I cried for that woman, the woman who sewed and sewed and sewed so she didn't have to think.
Of course she still did. Think, that is. And that's why I am here.
Here I am, on the other side of things, and the feel of my granny's thimble is still fresh on my finger. I like it. It's like going home again, though not til I was ready. And not frantic or by default or any other such label. Just sewing. Like I have in intermittent ways since I was 7. And I am covered in the quilt I am making, it not defining me or vice versa. Just being.
I am thankful, mostly every day, living here, and, well, living.
I see lengthening shadows behind spanish moss hanging in a tree in the parking lot of where I get my hair cut ...
I really like vegetables, not in a snobby, condescendingly healthy way. I just really like them ...
That being said, cookies are amazing ...
Lana Del Ray is always a good choice for an evening drive, where the sun is setting behind the construction crane on Meeting Street near the Piggly Wiggly ...
Good friends make my heart smile ...
Sometimes, Sonic ice is all you need, especially if it's at the Royal American ...
How can Spotify be free? Shhh. I don't want to know, I just want to keep it happening ...
I say I want a TV but I am too busy or preoccupied to buy one ...
Lavender and roses and the smell of fresh cut limes ...
I can rock it in high heels ...
If I like you, I am mostly likely barefooted at your house or mine ...
Evangelina Jones, publicist for Stephanie Burt, has released the following statement on behalf of her client:
Although I was on the guest list for the wedding festivities of Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biel that took place in Southern Italy this week, Justin and I felt that it would be too painful for both of us that I attend, however thoughtful the invitation was.
It is true that in the past Justin "told me I was beautiful and I dated him on the regular." Our relationship was pretty low key, "going to a flick and stuff," and "meeting in a club," so we were able to stay away from media scrutiny. However, we had strong feelings for each other and cherished our time together. It is best that the past remain the past.
I wish J & J all the happiness and joy in their new lives together. Timbaland has called and asked me to get some carryout, so at this time I will not entertain any further questions on the matter. Thank you.
It's been a wonderful run, running this freelance thing life full-time. But at some point, some point a while back, I got tired. It was more than that, though. I got weary -- beyond tired of having to piece things together every month to make the bottom line balance.
Well, I am happy to say that the Little Desk is spending sometime at a new Big Desk. I have accepted a position as Social Media Director of Momentum Marketing, and so far, it's been hitting the ground running, but I like the people I work with, and the work is promoting local businesses, a niche I understand and enjoy.
The Little Desk is not going away. I will still be here, but I will only be accepting the fun writing assignments and giving myself a little more time to breathe. To see family and friends. To work on my art (yep, it's coming). To watch some football, some basketball. But I will still be writing about it all, so please stick around. I like seeing you.
Every year around this time, my name has started being invoked in print. I mean, I'm not mad about it, but it's been nine years, so I think I can say "invoked" and be happy about it. I am honored, I am smilingly proud, and I am a hometown girl.
I am the Charlotte ghost lady, such as it is.
Ok. It's true that I have moved on personally -- there is no "Williams" any more, but I've also moved on professionally. I've quit writing so much about the subject of ghosts and moved to the more universal subject of food (we all love food!!), but I remember that time long ago when I wanted to be remembered for something. Well, now it looks like I am remembered for documenting that weird shadow on the stairs ... or that stale scent of cigar smoke.
If that's how it is, ok.
It's that time of year, so I am happy to report my little book, Ghost Stories of Charlotte and Mecklenburg County: Remnants of the Past in a New South is once again in the slick pages. Thanks to Charlotte Magazine for your kind inclusion of three of my stories and multiple quotes. There ARE ghosts afoot to be sure this time o' year -- I just hope they are interested in reading about pickles, cause that's what is hot in 2012. Well, that and pimento cheese. So I hope they're hungry.
It appears that I am late to the the party. And a locavore party, at that.
But nevertheless, I have finally made it, and I am positively giddy.
I don't know how I missed other issues until now, but I did. However, when I spied the latest edition of Dirt, Charleston City Paper's guide to local food, I opened it up and had an Alfafa moment ...
You know, Alfalfa from The Little Rascals?
How many goat cheese producers are on Johns Island?!
Yep, that's the expression. I couldn't even process it ... Look at all this great information! Wow, this is exactly what I would want! I want to read every article! I am going to keep this and mark off farms as I visit, etc! I mean ... this thing is perfect!
I have saved it for a treat to sit down with, to read slowly about the local food I love so much. It's not only good reading, it's a useful resource first and foremost, and where City Paper was already my go-to for restaurant gossip, it's now upped its food reporting into a class all of its own.
Get it, and get eating your local food. Good stuff.
Last year this time, my life was a mess. My closet was too.
I didn't know what to do about any of it, knowing that something had to be done, but more often than not, having no ideas of how, or if, to begin.
And then my sister, Courtney, came to town for a visit. I plied her with wine, and suddenly, one evening, she perched on my bed, facing my closet like she was watching a movie. "Just pull everything out, piece by piece, and we'll start here."
How did I know this was the beginning? In short, I didn't. It was just that first something. I didn't balk -- I listened. And we got started.
Sometimes, you have to first know what you don't want before you know what you do, and for me, that first started with clothes. It's about being conscious, thinking not only how other people saw me, but most of all, how I felt when putting something on. Did I love it? Did it make me feel good about walking though the world? Or did I feel frumpy, or blah? Invisible, or silly, like I was wearing some sort of costume?
What I realized was that most of what I had been putting on was about being on hold, being a place holder, not who I was (whoever that was) and not who I wanted to be, but just there.
You can say that it is just clothing, that it doesn't matter, that I am shallow for even considering my appearance. But you are wrong. I am sorry, but that is not true. For me, it was the start of something, the first step that I didn't even know at the moment was a step in living consciously, of living, instead of reacting.
In that moment, supported by a sister who sat on the edge of my bed on a Saturday night, I decided I just didn't want to be someone "there." That night, on a bed scattered with white metal hangers, she helped me put more than 75% of my clothing into garbage bags, to be donated the next day.
It was stuff given to me, purchased on clearance, left over from events, or different sizes or eras. It was just there, filling the space of what I thought I needed.
Now, 75% is a lot, a space between hangers that had never been there, drawers now easily opened where they have been forced open ... but we discovered clothes that I had, good pieces, that I had never worn because I was waiting. Waiting for what, I didn't know, but whatever, wherever I was living, at that moment, did not deserve that perfectly cut dress. It couldn't possibly.
Getting rid of that many clothes is more than just cleaning out your closet. It is about feeling unsafe without a bloated fullness, of feeling vulnerable with fewer choices, of feeling, well, exposed. And in the next few days, I knew it was freedom.
There was no more wading through -- I could get ready much faster. Every time I left the house, it was in something I enjoyed wearing, not just a filler piece. And the lack that was there started to feel like abundance.
Yes, this dress by Ranna Gill was one of the 25%. I was waiting to wear this. No more. Plan to see me still wearing this at 81 years old.
The road I've traveled now is long compared to that day, but I've come to embrace fashion as an extension of my personality. It's not that serious, but I always know that it is still a beginning. At this point, that means a beginning of my day's focus. Do I want flirty? Artsy? Meaning business in black stilettos? Going to the beach?
I answer these questions with the 25% percent that somehow feels like more than 100. What is the 25% of your life that is you? How do you begin to make that your 100%?
I've been in my little house, writing. My current major assignment is a long project, and those close to me have heard me talk about it a lot. But it wasn't until a few weeks ago that I decided to quit pecking at it and get down to the business of getting it done.
So I assigned myself writing boot camp. No more beach, no more putting it off to watch another episode of Mad Men online (but understand that's just because I've seen every episode now). I would really hunker down for a couple weeks until I could get a chunk completed and momentum going. I would go to my part-time job, come home and write, and get up and write, and then go to work. On the weekends I might see people if I could.
I am now here to say that writing is not the most important thing in my life. It is part of my life, yes, and will continue to be. But I am leaving camp. I can't shut my life off from, well, my life. I did finally get down to business, so I know this radical move was needed, but I couldn't completely go into the monastery of work. It's just not worth that kind of long-term worship.
I missed people. I don't really write about people in the project, and that is always my favorite part. And I can't put people on hold, including myself. And when I look back on the last few weeks, for the most part I didn't. And I am proud of that, of not even realizing that my internal priorities will always trump external assignments.
So here I am, still writing, 1.5 months from the big deadline, but I am here to say I am officially back from camp. I needed it, but now, let's just be sensible and write. And then go to the movies, k?
Life is a series of lessons. Here are some of mine for this past week:
1. Dollar store aluminum foil is a waste of money. Even if it's only a dollar, keep that bill and use it for gum or something. This foil is akin to trying to wrap your leftovers by applying gold leaf.
2. I think too much. I even think about overthinking. It's exhausting.
3. If you feel persecuted or put upon, that's your problem. Say, this isn't working for me. Life is a negotiation, and that negotiation doesn't have to be painful.
4. Allergies get worse as soon as you notice them. Case in point: Why am I sneezing so much? Oh, I must be allergic to cats. Five minutes later = hives, then checking in the mirror for more hives.
5. When the ceiling fan is up too high, the sound is blood chilling, like the rattle on a rattlesnake. You're hot, it's dark, and yet, it's better to sleep with it off. Otherwise, it sounds as if you are just seconds from decapitation.
6. If I have an excuse -- even a flimsy one -- to wear a costume, I take it.
7. If more of you out there would take the costume chance, then I wouldn't be the only pirate (besides the man with the parrot on his shoulder) at the party.
8. Good friends are very good for the soul.
9. People never tire of saying, "Have you thought about writing for Southern Living?" Yes, and if you know anyone there, please feel free to send my name along.
10. If you don't learn the lesson the first time, no worries. You'll have the chance to learn it again. It's your lesson, after all.
Through no planning of his own, Jimbo Mathus has been one of my greatest musical teachers.
Jimbo live with Buddy Guy
Back during heady college days, I discovered a band called the Squirrel Nut Zippers (SNZ), where Mathus was a leader, sometimes singer, sometimes writer, musical arranger and more. This was IT, I thought, the thing that made people love music. Suddenly, I had that feeling too. I started exploring, discovered Storyville, Jelly Roll Morton, early Armstrong.
But then Jimbo released Songs for Rosetta, a solo project, in 1997, and suddenly, I was introduced to the Delta Blues. To the source I went, and waiting for me was Charlie Patton, Son House and all the others, standing in a dusky doorway of a juke joint on the edge of a cotton field.
Then Andrew Bird played with SNZ. Whoa! I thought -- violin. And so I discovered him. And then to The Jazz Squad with Katharine Whalen, and there was Billie Holiday. Mathus played with Greg Humphries, and Hobex and the jam-band sound came in to focus, along with North Mississippi All-Stars.
As he explored his varied tastes, I expanded mine. He's spent part of the past 12 years or so touring and playing with Buddy Guy, and then the rest getting back to his own roots, back in the land of his birth, Mississippi, and playing for the sheer fun of it.
He's coming out again, bringing us new stuff, this time the Tri-State Coalition, and we had a chance to catch up via phone in advance of his show here in Charleston this Saturday at The Pourhouse and his 6-song vinyl EP, Blue Lightset to release later this summer.
When you started playing the blues, it wasn't as trendy as it is now. How is playing live the music you love different from when you started?
I think I've been such an underground performer for the last 10 years, that I haven't really noticed the change. I've always been exploring my Southern roots. Back in the SNZ days, when we were having that success, the Songs for Rosetta album was just kind of staking out my claim.
We were having great fun with that band and people were digging it, but I let it be known that my heart was for the Deep South Country and Blues. My heart is in Mississippi.
How has moving back to Mississippi informed your music?
Well, I was proud of what I did with the Zippers, and I haven't been in a real rush. I've been very patient about it.
Moving back here has put me back in the land of my heroes, the land of my constellation, my musical heroes, my literary heroes. I'm living in the county where I was born, and it's very meaningful, to put my thing [the new band] together. Our music resonates here, and we stay busy gigging. We've been entertaining a hell of a lot of people, and we are immersed in it, the music, the land, the nature.
The songwriting has come to a point that is going to get people's ears.
How do songs come to you?
Really one of two ways.
The first is at the Taylor Grocery. It is a catfish house open here a few days a week, and they always have a live entertainer for the catfish eaters. It's great fun, and I play there often. You play for tips, and I'll play some folk songs, get people enjoying themselves, and then I'll just keep playing, playing a song so long that it turns into something else. I write a lot of things up there.
The second is really driving, driving the backroads by myself, those low one lane roads, and just ruminating, looking at the land. I'm geared to remember stuff, and composing, assembling, and getting inspiration for songs has always been second nature to me.
Do you write all the music for Tri-State?
Yes I do. It's Southern rock with a telecaster, a pedal steel, and great harmonies, so we can do the different genres we like to do. But it's 100 percent original material.
Buy your tickets here and get your education. See you at the show!
What? You don't have a fear of birds? Well, have you really looked??! These things are unpredictable, erratic, they have sharp beaks, and well, did you even seeJurassic Park? They are descendants of the crazy scary raptor dinosaurs, remember?
Anyway, I guess I should explain myself. It really all started with this one parrot named Petey. He lived in the pet store next to my university campus, and I occasionally visited to look at fish or figure out what the hell a chinchilla was. Well, Petey had it out for me. It wasn't that I was that special, it was just that he could smell my fear. Why, you ask? Well, he swooped. He would fly the aisles if he felt like it and buzz you like a plane from Top Gun.
End school, end association with Petey, right? Well, no. Years later, interviewing a couple who had exotic birds in their home, once I got past their converted dining room floored with poop-coated paper, we made it outside to discuss birds on the deck.
The husband came out with a parrot on his shoulder and sat down at the deck picnic table. I swear I could almost feel that parrot's eyes narrow at me like, Do we know each other? I continue on with the interview, and, yes, Petey, keeps sidestepping my way, closer, closer ...
"Hey, that reminds me of a parrot that was in a pet store near UNCC," I say casually.
"Oh, Petey, yes, he IS that parrot. We rescued him!" the husband answered triumphantly.
"Well, I think I've got all I need for the article, " I say, closing my pen. "It was great to meet you," I say over my shoulder as I head for my car.
But I know that crotchety parrots don't populate the world. And so I visit a friend's house who has an urban henhouse. I really want an urban henhouse, and I want those fresh, gorgeous eggs. She says, "Pick one up, they're really sweet."
I already have crusty sand in my cute sandals, and these things flap a little as I lean down. "Oh, I can't, maybe next time." We go in and never speak of the recent awkwardness. It. Never. Happened.
Then there was a few months ago when I was housesitting for a dear friend and a female cardinal got trapped in the screened in porch. Armed with a bath towel, broom, and lots of screaming, I attempted to not injure the poor thing while help her out the door. I failed, went back in the house and tried to telepathically communicate to her the way out. Hours later when I checked, she had received the message. Thank God.
I want to think that I can whisper the birds in an empty church into calmness, like the sexy Jude Law in Cold Mountain.
Just imagine this mug, but holding a scared dove. Better than Steve Carell, right?
But I just can't. I am often in White Point Gardens in the early morning, and I hear weird bird noises and flapping in the live oak trees above. I try not to look, but one day, I did. I noticed a full-grown egret taking off from his low-built nest. Have you seen their spearfishing beaks??? Well, I am sorry for the screaming ... I got a hold of myself by the time I reached Water Street, ok?
Fitz and Tantrums played the Music Farm on Saturday evening, and I was there with my vodka-tonic and strappy heels. Both efforts were worth the outing.
Walking in, there was already a band playing. Large drums, great musicality, and suddenly, I was listening more to The Royal Teeth than I was wondering who this was. They were mesmerizing. They were young, They interacted with the crowd. They sounded vaguely like someone I'd heard before, but of course, I hadn't. But that was OK. The hook was already set. I liked them.
But when ZZ Ward hit the stage, I quit making small talk. I quit worrying about people cutting in front of me on the way to the bathroom. She was blues in the backroom, energy, tight lyrics, but an old soul.
ZZ Ward playing The Music Farm. Photo by Holly Thorpe
I've added her to my playlist -- in fact, she's playing right now as I write this. She is my new personal theme music. Don't act like you don't know what that is. You know that soundtrack you have in your head that plays as the movie that is your life plays? Yep. That's the one.
But finally, the crowd favorite came on. Fitz and the Tantrums took the stage, and the capacity crowd was ecstatic. People around me knew every lyric to every song. They held their hands up; they waved their beer bottles in the sky; they cheered at every ending.
The band had just come from Bonnaroo, straight from actually, and while they were musically on their game, there wasn't a lot of small talk, but everything sounded like studio quality -- or better. They are not a movement, or a scene, or anything else. They play music, and lots of people liked their music.
Their sounds is at once modern and retro, and beyond just their hit "Moneygrabber." It's out of space and time, really, the sound of Saturday night when the moon is high and you're ready to leave the house. There is a chemistry there, a promise of something more, something you can't help but notice. It may be shouting or it may be kissing, but there's really not that much difference between them. It was Saturday night after all.
I have had a lot of people ask me about my music collection. Or lack thereof. Or just in general, when something is blaring from my phone or computer or -- yep, even boombox -- "What is this?"
Well, you can blame writing.
There was a time when I listened to Dave Matthews, Paula Abdul, and basically anything on Kiss 102 in Charlotte. There was the same time when I was getting those cds for 1 penny (remember that?) and I checked Dr. John and Enya and even Bjork.
Fast forward a few years: I was working on a huge, semester-long writing project in my first semester of grad school, and I discovered writing to music. I had done that before. A bit. But for this project, I loopedThe Last Temptation of Christsoundtrack. Has anyone heard this work by Peter Gabriel? Does it sound like literary criticism of The Great Gatsby to you? Well, me neither, but for some reason it did at the time. I can still see the color of the carpet of that computer lab when I hear it.
Maybe I've revealed too much, but let's keep going. I wrote a huge paper on Wordsworth and I remember playing "If I Had a Hammer and a Nail" by Simon and Garfunkel for hours on end. On repeat. It reminded me of a 19th century English fair day, for whatever that is worth. My new husband at the time eventually knocked on the office door and said, "Really? Again?" (Amazingly, that romance did not last.)
But mainly what I've learned over the years is that I need either music without words or words not in English. If I listen to too many things in English, I start typing the lyrics instead of what I need to be typing.
So what this sounds like in my day to day life is a lot of jazz, which I will ALWAYS love, and is, to me, the go-to writing music, or music with foreign language singing. You'll hear these often if you come to my abode. I've recently discovered recorded opera (I've as of yet not enjoyed live) and Fado. Oh Fado. You melt my heart.
The best tool ever for all of this is now Spotify. They have not paid me to say this -- I am just that obsessed. Discover. It's worth setting up an account.
Sometimes you don't know what you did to deserve the good luck you have.
That's the way I feel about working with the editors of The Local Palate. Not only are they communicative, supportive and quality-driven, the assignments from them are my version of a free Ferris wheel ride. In other words, it feels like fun a lot more than it feels like work.
This assignment was to write specifically about Sweet Tea (capital letters required). And no, not sweetened tea. Sweet Tea.
Bill Hall drove me around the tea plantation on a golf cart one early spring afternoon, my pulse already slowed by the drive out to the island through live oak shadows and sun on marsh reaching almost to the asphalt. Bill was generous with his time, had the most fascinating way he rolled his own cigarettes, and fed two farm cats while we visited. We looked at baby tea leaves and talked about London in the early 70s, and it was a good day.
It made me dream of warmer weather and summer and sipping in the sweetness. And look, it's here -- drink it in.
People who write often talk about work from other writers they admire. Usually, these are fiction writers, at least for most of us. I'd list Faulkner, Hemingway, Lee Smith, Toni Morrison, and many more on such a list, and give us some time, or at least don't stop us, and we'll tell you exactly why. Until you feel you're in the worst version of talking shop:
"The way he builds the character is so subtle that you don't even notice he's drawing you in."
"I like his use of the color descriptions to illustrate the mood of the antagonist."
"Her work is so multi-layered that it requires more than one reading."
But for me, I admire many others in my field, which, at least for now, is not fiction. One such person is Julia Reed, a writer who used to write profiles for Vogue, but who've I have been reading in Garden and Gun. Her writing is personal, funny, truthful, and well put together.
But more importantly, she has a distinct voice, which in non-writer speak, means that you can "tell it's her." Case in point: I pulled out an old copy of Conde Nast Traveler recently and got involved on a story onRio's fashion scene. The writer was self-depreciating yet still very knowledgeable, and I liked her take on things. Flipping back to the byline, it was Reed.
Well done, Miss Julia. I look forward to reading more.
We like to think that we protect things/people that we care about. Kids. Households. Jobs. Reputations. But pain? We hate pain, right, so why in the world would we want to protect it? Right?
Actually, for most us, there is pain that we don't want to let go. We pet it, ruminate on it, repeat it, check it again and again like that sore tooth that we just can't stop touching with our tongues.
For writers and other people who define themselves as "artistic," this is especially dangerous. For one, we're defining ourselves as something. And two, that definition becomes our story, the fences, the borders of our lives (there's no way I can do x ... y or z). I remember reading about writers' lives in graduate school, really digging into their bios, and thinking, wow, I might not be that good of a writer because I would rather be happy.
Uh .... but then life happened, as it always does. And suddenly, I had my own wounds. Now, before you think that "Nope, this couldn't be the norm. Protecting pain is stupid! Why would I want to hurt?," ponder this. You've been out with a person (person #1) who says they're over someone but just can't stop talking about that person.
Or you're with a person (person #2) who seems to have a deep sadness. They don't want to talk about the past, but they allude to that fact. Instead of it not coming up, they avoid it, keep things surface, etc.
Both of these tactics protect pain.
Person #1 rereads the script over and over, creating a habit, a history, a story that eventually becomes a belief. It's the guy at the VA hospital that grosses out the Candy Stripers by showing his nasty scar and repeating in too much detail how it happened. Note: This is different than processing pain, working through it, sharing with those close to you in order to form stronger bonds. But eventually, those relationships need to grow past the pain, or they will wear out.
Person #2 keeps a bandage over the old wound. There is possession. This is my pain -- you couldn't possibly understand. Note: This is different than "going there" and really looking at something in your quiet time, really shining the light on something in your mind in order to clear out the cobwebs.
Now, if you noticed such a person, well, more than likely you've been that person. I have.
I've been writing a Story of Me for years -- something I repeat to people, highlighting things, but more than that, repeating it to myself. And I have cared about the pain, even though I would've dismissed you if you'd pointed that out. I didn't know I cared about it, but in certain corners of my life, it was still hanging out. And like watching Dirty Dancing for the 71st time, I'd play over that pain again, remind myself of the feelings, the specifics, the whole thing down to the credits.
Here's the real deal. You don't have to drink yourself to oblivion like F. Scott Fitzgerald to be a writer, kill yourself like Sylvia Plath, be depressed like Hemingway, cut off your ear like Van Gogh, or fire people routinely to show your leadership like Steve Jobs. There is no story you have to fill in the blanks to to be a writer or create anything.
Pain is natural, and actually pain is good! It is telling you "Danger! Something is wrong here!" Why would you keep listening to the fire alarm instead of putting out the fire??
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