Inventories.

Back in highschool, I was one of those insufferable literary nerd types who took Writer's Craft classes very, very seriously. I was highly in touch with my creative side in those years, scribbling down free verse poetry about people I'd kissed at an alarmingly prodigious rate. I really miss that state of misplaced and occasionally wavering self-assurance, the absolute certainty that what I wrote was GOOD--so good, in fact, that within five years I would be offered my first contract with a small but reputable independent publisher (I had designs on Anansi, but I wasn't picky.). I spent so much on postage in those days, mailing two-thirds of what I wrote into publications like Seventeen (which used to publish some really great short fiction, no lie. Sylvia Plath once won the short story contest, as did Meg Wolitzer and also Curtis Sittenfeld, one of my favourite American novelists) and Sassy (where I got my first taste of the staggering genius of Blake Nelson). I actually did have a handful of publications back then in decent-ish magazines and journals for younger writers, successes that only fuelled my delusional flames.

But I digress. Anyway.

In a couple of those classes, I remember starting the year with a writing exercise our teacher called An Inventory of Being. The premise was simple, and, I still think, pretty cool. You basically wrote a long, free-form, rambling poem about yourself that began with your name and ended with the year you were writing it. In between you did your best to capture exactly how you fit into the world, exactly as it existed at the time of your writing. During a recent move, I stumbled upon my 1997 version, which contained such gem-lines as "I know I am in love. He told me as he lit his cigarette outside between classes" and "I wish I could be Anglican, and sing hymns, or Buddhist, and do yoga on a mountaintop." (Sidebar: I have since sung in an Anglican chapel choir and done yoga in close proximity to nature. CLEARLY I POSSESS AN AWESOME POWER.) I also talked about bands I liked (Pavement, Sloan, Tori Amos) and books that were important to me (Atwood, Munro, Salinger). I talked about dyeing my hair a lot (I was obsessed with distinguishing myself, a tendency that often manifested in semi-permanent, poorly-executed aesthetic decisions). Reading my Inventory again, I cringed and cried and laughed so hard. There is something so wonderful and heartbreaking about reading a letter from a version of yourself, an exhaustive description of what it felt like to be you at a particular time and place.

A couple of weeks ago, I was filling out yet another online dating profile, and I realized that one of the reasons I continue to subject myself to such a ridiculous exercise is that, frankly, I really love writing about myself. Not in a showy or self-congratulatory way, not at all. It's comforting, is all, creating a document that sums up exactly what you like and what you're like, here and now. In 2012, as in 1997, I talk about bands I like (Joel Plaskett, Wilco, Aimee Mann) and books that are important to me (Coupland, Woolf, Salinger--still). I talk about doing yoga and baking cookies and generally trying to make the world a better place. I actually use the words "non-lame feminist" and "new-agey" to describe myself (still obsessed with distinguishing myself, I guess, although hopefully in a manner less damaging to my appearance). I hope silently for a boy who might someday say he loves me, although hopefully not during a smoke break. Some things stay the same; others, not so much.

So I guess my point here is that you never know what lessons you might learn from the exercises set out in front of you. I may not find true love on the internet (there is a whooooole other blog in my head detailing the many tragicomic encounters that support this possibility), but I am grateful for the chance to check in. I really urge you to start writing your own inventories every couple of years. You will feel so much embarrassed love for yourself, for the worlds you've inhabited, and for the people you've known. And if nothing else, you can pat yourself on the back for always having had such stellar taste in music.

quasi-intellectual.

Being smart is hard. Especially when you find yourself constantly resisting your intelligence.

Case in point:

The new Alice Munro book came in for me this weekend at work. I got super excited about it and chatted like a literary fangirl with all my coworkers about how I couldn't wait to go home and read it and one time my mom saw her on a plane and isn't she frigging classy for pulling herself out of the running for the Giller? I came home all ready for some subtle, poetic fiction-reading.

...And then, I spent the rest of the evening watching episodes of Young and the Restless online, and getting depressed at how confused and disoriented that show makes me now. Gone are the days when you could tune in once every three months and find the plot had only progressed slightly past where it was when you and your grandma used to watch it together. Now it's all Silver Chipmunks and kidnapping and peanut allergies.

...And then, I googled pictures of Lady Gaga and tried yet again to figure out why I think she is so cool. Me liking her makes the least sense than anything, ever.



SERIOUSLY, WHAT GIVES?

Anyway, it's bedtime and I've got some old Sweet Valley High paperbacks to flip through before I pass out, just to round out this incredibly stimulating evening. Watch this video, if you know what's good for you. (Thanks, Harold.)