Existing as someone whose writing consists of the internal process of the world around her and eventually the phonetic regurgitation of such a world, like a terrible game of literary telephone, the thought processes I decide to share with others feel strangely reminiscent of moments I've experienced through others, not what I've experienced myself.
I will give you this: not many other people have written a chapter of a book based on a stranger named Ryan they met at a roulette table during their first, and presently only, visit to Las Vegas. Not many other people have written through dirty salt-covered windows of a Greyhound bus from Richmond to Baltimore to Dover to New York in a haze of excitement, general disbelief, and exhaustion, wondering if this will be the night they decide to get a turtle tattooed on them. I've never thought I was particularly good at writing, just a string of words to the tune of Joan Didion or Cecelia Knapp. It's one thing to be inspired by someone, it's another to blatantly plagiarize what they've created, and I suppose therein lies the desire to cut myself some slack.
As a kid, I always said that I never thought I was ever destined to do something I deemed as "normal." I never wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer or an astronaut or a superhero or whatever it is kids dream about being in their lifetime. Although I don't anticipate many kids dream about being a doctor or a lawyer unless otherwise influenced by their parents, I do not recall thinking "I'm going to be like my dad and make springs," or "I'm going to be like my mom and be a stay at home mom." Absolutely no offense to either of those jobs because that's what got me to where I am today; the moral of the story is I could never reason myself out of doing anything less than, what cannot be any better described as, "extraordinary."
I never wanted to be famous or have something heavily attached to my name by any means, I just never wanted to settle for anything less than what I knew I could be capable of. As I got older, that idea grew further and further from my head, and the only time I referenced "extraordinary" as a chapter in my life was when I'd reference the State Champs lyric "you've got the right to be all that you want to be, and that's extraordinary." And now that I actually type out that lyric, it's scary how much this idea of doing something bigger than myself has remained a constant. I seriously didn't even put two and two together until this moment. I need to sit down.
As I usually do when I don't want the internet to hear the innermost workings of my brain, I sent an email to a friend pertaining to this situation. I begged for an ounce of advice, "That opportunity to do something extraordinary feels like it's out of my reach. This happens in places like Raleigh or Charlotte or Orlando or New York City or Chicago, none of these places being even the slightest bit feasible for me in the current moment, even though I have the hunger to have the hunger to be in these places, creating, exploring, and finding something in myself I can't find here.... Maybe it's because my eyes widen with wonder, maybe it's because it's new material to pull from, maybe it's because all of the greats never stayed stationary."
That was like a punch to the chest. You see, sometimes when I write, I don't always articulate what I'm writing until after I have written it. That's mostly what these things are, if you can't tell by now. So it wasn't until I pressed send and then re-read for errors that I truly processed "maybe it's because all of the greats never stayed stationary," as both a truthful and contradictory statement, coming from the girl who never once considered herself to ever be "a great" anything. I'm not sure I'm even capable of being great, when I barely understand what it means to be good, yet I want to do extraordinary things.
So I've wrestled with this concept for weeks. In the past month in a half, I have dealt with sudden deaths, high stress situations, and "being an adult" coming crashing down on top of me, while trying to maintain my overall mental health, general "not interested" demeanor, and my sanity, above all. How have I let myself become a grain of sand in the normal tidal wave of society with this past notion of doing something incredible lingering within my memory bank? And now that I'm done with the dramatics, I still cannot tell you where this all came from, but I want to talk a little about why this nearly moved me to tears.
Following my quick read of John Green's Turtles All The Way Down, this weekend's singular day off between Saturday and Sunday consisted of me reading a new book in my possession: A Lite Too Bright by Samuel Miller. He's a new author, although he has provided a source of inspiration for many many years. I never once underestimated his ability to write something so all-consuming as this book, but I have a note full of one-liners saved in my phone, serving as a list of miscellaneous reminders. I managed to not be bothered by the stress and overall anxiety of my life for most of the afternoon, and aside from trying not to fall asleep and having to get up and make dinner, like I promised I'd do for the first time in a while, I managed to finish the book in one sitting. However, not escaping without experiencing a stand-out moment that clenched onto my lungs so tight that I slammed the book shut, tears threatened my eyes, and I had to walk downstairs because I couldn't catch my breath.
Really, it isn't that serious. Might you recall in a previous paragraph, my reference to thinking fairly consistently as a child that I didn't want to do anything less than extraordinary? And wondering as an adult where that wonder was lost? There, in black and white, just shy of 100 pages left in this book, held a beacon of reminder as to why I should never underestimate the power of Samuel Miller, nor Sam Miller.
"He didn't mean that sometimes you're lucky and sometimes you're not. He meant that it doesn't matter. He meant that a tanager is an invitation for you to be extraordinary if you just decide that it's time for you to be extraordinary."
Granted, this won't strike you as hard as it did me, and that's okay. Just know that I had a PHYSICAL reaction to it, which means to me that this idea of being extraordinary or doing something extraordinary is far more existent in my current state of mind than I could have ever imagined. I assume knowing when it is time for me to take charge of the opportunity for me to be extraordinary is a lot like hoping if I meet my soul mate, I'll just know. I can't help but feel like this reaction was some sort of visceral one. Like, as if there's not a better time to talk about signs (once you read the book, you'll know), this feels like one in the exact time I needed it. And somehow, whether Sam Miller or Samuel Miller, he always shows up at the right time.