Personal Essays
Alphabet Soup
In the end, I know I'm playing a game on you, just like everyone else who keeps an online journal or posts pictures on the Internet of their books and husbands and living rooms and spectacular weekend outings. I know I'm making up the me I share with the world, carefully picking out particular tiles from the giant pile of letters I keep in my stash and hoping they'll read just right.
I'm okay with that. Because when it comes down to it, I don't want to serve you up a big bowl of alphabet soup, all the bits of me sitting jumbled and juxtaposed in a heap, even if it is more honest.
I may be shy, but that doesn't mean I'm not vain. I'm doing the same thing as everyone else out here: writing the novel of my life every day and hoping you'll stick around long enough to read the rest of my ordinary little masterpiece.
I'm okay with that. Because when it comes down to it, I don't want to serve you up a big bowl of alphabet soup, all the bits of me sitting jumbled and juxtaposed in a heap, even if it is more honest.
I may be shy, but that doesn't mean I'm not vain. I'm doing the same thing as everyone else out here: writing the novel of my life every day and hoping you'll stick around long enough to read the rest of my ordinary little masterpiece.