Hello boys and girls, Luke Maynes here, back from a too long hiatus (love that word). I won't bother with a long, drawn-out explanation of where I've been. Rather, this post is about why I've decided to once again condemn myself to a life of coffee shops and blank pages. This is why I came back.
About three months ago, I put out a thinly veiled request for a girlfriend via Facebook. It read something like this:
Highly intelligent, moderately attractive, and extremely cynical boy seeks best friend with whom he can share his life. Applicants must be female, aged 17-20 and in possession of a sense of humor. The position will consist of, but is not limited to; endlessly co-fangirling over various books and British television series, bike ride picnics with no particular destination, and testing the limits of cliches via stargazing and out-loud reading. Payment will be in the form of attention, excitement, and possibly affection (pending circumstances). Perks include free meals, movies, and a various smattering of awesomeness to be doled out on random occasions. Must be willing to work weekends and holidays, and to put up with all the quirks associated with an aspiring novelist.
Statements of intent may be submitted via Facebook, or through email c/o Lucamilion@gmail.com (resumes preferred).
Unfortunately, the majority of the responses were from guys and/or relatives, and as neither of those are legal options in the Great State of Utah, I resigned myself to believing my father’s take on the post. Namely, “Son, you are too damn arrogant.”
While this may be a valid observation, it certainly had never stopped me before. So I was certainly relieved when I received a genuine response from a girl I hadn’t seen since middle school. Let’s call her Miss Manette.
After a fair bit of virtual discussion, we came to the conclusion that we simply must meet for a figurative cup of coffee sometime. And since figurative coffee is rather bland on its own, we would each bring a book of the other person’s choosing to discuss. She assigned A Tale of Two Cities. While I struggled to find a book she had not read, eventually settling on Will Grayson, Will Grayson. I never did find out if she finished WGWG by the time we met up, but I didn’t finish the Tale. I did, however, get far enough to get the title for this post from Dickens’ recurring theme.
Eventually, I met with Miss Manette for a wonderful date involving a bookstore, Panda Express, horrible driving (because I’d had my license for like two days) and an (arguably creepy) late night sit at a park. Miss Manette is a genius. I’m talking IB, Ivy League, Extracurricular President genius. Needless to say, I was more than a little intimidated to be with someone noticeably smarter than me. That doesn’t happen often. But when I mentioned the phenomenon to her, she pointed out that I wasn’t dumb, I just lacked a certain plucky sticktoitiveness.
While I denied that explanation at the time, I’ve come to realize that she was indeed right. I took the same AP and Honors classes as her leading up to high school. Had I chosen to apply myself, I very well could have done a lot more in high school. When I got home that night I opened and titled a new post.
Recalled to Life. In the book it refers specifically to second chances, to people getting a new lease on life, as it were. For me, it goes a little bit farther. Being recalled to life is about remembering what life is for. A second chance is only worth having if you use it for something better than what you wasted the first chance on. It’s only worth it if you live up to your potential. I realized that night that I could be so much more than I currently was. But I didn’t post it that night. No, it took me a few more kicks in the pants to get me to this point. I’ve never been more happy to be kicked.
Miss Manette has a bit of a journal and planner fetish, one that inspired me to start a journal or two of my own. So, while I haven’t been writing for this site these months, I have indeed been writing. Some good, some bad, but all of it solely for myself. Unfortunately, overly critical and easily bored as I am, I don’t make the greatest audience for my work. These words and ideas have been kicking and screaming at me ever since, demanding to be shown to the world. Or at least to the five-odd people who read this.
The next boot to the butt comes in the form of a book. Specifically, The Spectacular Now. I should put up a Bookworm’s Beret about my love/hatred of that book so I won’t go into it too much here. I’ll just say that I see a little too much of myself in the main character and that’s not a good thing. Flooring the pedal is useless if you’re stuck in neutral.
And then there’s The Future of Us about Facebook and time travel. Admittedly, it’s a little cheesy but the point it makes is a valid one. To be who you want to be fifteen years from now, you have to start being that person now. And so here I am, a future writer, writing now.
But the thing that pushed this post into existence, the straw that broke the camel’s back, the coup de grace to my laziness, was a dream.
I’m sitting in a classroom, a class taught by a crazy fascist art teacher. He instructs to draw a building and a thunderstorm. For anyone who hasn’t seen my attempts at art IRL I would post one here but that might be construed as a form of torture by the NSA. I cannot draw to save my life, much less paint. But this is a dream, so when I make my hesitant brushstrokes, fully expecting more of my usual standard, I’m as shocked as anyone else when I create what can only be described as a masterpiece. Streaks of seemingly random colors combine perfectly to make a picture that is as profoundly moving as well as beautiful. I rush up to the front of the class to show the teacher and...
My alarm blares, waking me from my imagined artistry.
But I can’t just let this go, I need to see the effect of this art that I can only achieve in slumber. So I turn off my alarm and climb back into bed. And it works, I’m back in the classroom just feet from the teacher. I get his attention, demanding he witness my miracle. But when I lift up the paper for him to see, the paint is gone. In its place, remnants of my real life drawing “skills” line the edges of the paper. Needless to say, I am crushed. That is, until I see what’s in the middle of the pages.
On each paper, surrounded by my childish scribbles, is a block of text. Words, not paint, make up my masterpieces.
And that, my dear friends, is why I am writing again. I have the soul of an artist. I have masterpieces trapped inside me. And this...
This is how I let them out.
