Snowed-In?

It's crazy that I haven't updated this entire semester. It's even crazier that I tried so hard so live up to that last post, but found it, quite frankly, impossible. I just don't have the strength and will power. Ironically enough, it's like the equivalent of a cigarette smoking habit. It's so bad for me, but it feels so good that I don't even care. And I'm addicted.

However, London, you will be my Nicorette gum; you will be my patch. I will get rid of this. I will beat it. And I will live a better life.

That being said, this has been the oddest semester. I've been sick for most of it. I've seen my friends a lot less than I would've liked. I took an easier course load that ended up stressing me out just as much. I got more involved in some things and less involved in others. I felt more tension in relationships this semester than ever before, and I'm thankful for that. Tense relationships do nothing but make you more thankful for the ones that come so easily. The ones that make you truly happy.

And although I would've done a million things differently than I did, I'm glad that I had a relatively chill semester and am looking forward to not being in Syracuse for awhile. The truth is, I miss it when I'm away, but with all the sickness and the recent deluge of snow that we received, I'm just ready to be somewhere else. I'm excited to be back in the city next summer, so I'm hoping that happens. If it doesn't -- no, there is no "if," it'll happen. I've got far more confidence in that this year.

I'm hoping that next semester is a little jumpstart of creativity. Quite frankly my writing has been a little stifled, a change of pace would be wonderful. I miss being able to just sit down and write. I'm hoping a whole new world will inspire a little spark of greatness. Philosophical, eh?

Live high, live mighty, live righteously, always takin' it easy.

Better This Time?

Another school year.

As much as I wish it weren't true, very few things have changed since I moved into Dellplain Hall last year to start sophomore year. However, things that did change have changed for the better. This time, I'm going to try to kick the old habits for good. But they die hard. This time I think I'm up for the challenge.

Here we go.

My Wonderland?

My wallet was stolen on the subway on Sunday, which I feel is the city's way of finally opening it's arms to me and allowing me to experience every part of it. And I'm soaking it all in.

That's not how I felt on Sunday though.

I seriously have been in one of those moods lately where everything is out to get me, even though it really might not be. It's not that I have trouble remembering the good things in life - it's that I literally feel like I can't. But now I'm getting over it. I'm starting to remember the good things. And here it is, sports fans, the grand conclusion from the awful few days that resulted from the wallet thievery: Something a lot worse needed to happen to me, so I could remember that it's not that I couldn't see the good things - it's that I refused to.

So over the past four days, I've compiled a short, simple list of the good things that happened only since the incident, so I could remind myself how often they come into my life. Here's what I got so far: rhino, pizza with extra cheese, fudge coated Oreos, having somewhere to go when I woke up scared, being described as "kick ass," long distance pillow hugs, in-person Texan hugs, and my mom.

My blog is very self-centered and I feel very involved in myself when I'm writing it, but isn't that actually the point of it? I write to share what I'm thinking. I write to have a voice. Really, I write mostly for myself. I create my art for myself. And something inside tells me that all artists are a bit selfish. I mean, you have to do it for yourself. If you always do it for other people, you'll never feel good enough. You'll absolutely never measure up. If there's no part of you doing it for yourself, you'll never feel pride. Excessive pride is a sin, but deserved pride - I think that's allowed. I'll track my growth through this blog. One day, when I'm forty, I'll look back on it and think "Wow, I was lame." Hopefully by then I can rewrite some of this stuff into a book of memoirs.

So overall, I'd say thanks, New York, for being one of my Wonderlands. And thanks, if you read this or read my blog at all, for traveling for a bit into my nonsensical world as a struggle to figure it all out. And I welcome you to share your journey with me as well. After all, I hate it when it's all about me. Especially since about half the time, I have no idea what's going on.

"I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!"

Feeling Angsty?

"Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry."

Create art.

Dizzying Lifestyles?

I was right. It has gotten easier to live here and I realized I'm really going to miss it when I have to leave. But those 10 or so days I'll be spending in the good ol' 610 seem like a beacon of light between city living and junior year.

I love so easily. That's not to say that I fall in love easily, but I think that I allow myself to be open to a new experience when I approach it, whether it be big or small. I am passionate about things very quickly; I'm passionate about people very quickly. I love easily. I'm so incredibly busy lately that I feel like I'm in a bad mood more times than I'm not. And it takes a single moment then to realize how lucky I am to be doing what I love in a place I love and be supported by people I love. I love so easily.

I'm taking a slight break from New York tomorrow and I'm going to visit Annie in Jersey. I'm really excited to see her again because I'm never in a bad mood around Annie. She's wonderful and I'm really excited to do "outside" things with her. Mini-hikes, possible kayaking, a little beach-tripping, all things I'm very excited for. Plus, I'm really excited to meet her friends. It was cool when she came to visit me with Jamie in the winter because it's like...worlds colliding. I'm excited to be at a different perspective in that situation.

Some guy at Barnes and Noble today told me that by the way I recommended books and authors, you could tell I was a writer. I took that as a compliment. Then he told me I was wasting my time working at Barnes and Noble. I wanted to tell him that in order to be a writer I have to eat every couple days and Barnes and Noble was a perfect place for me to gain cash flow in order to consume a meal. But instead I just politely nodded and laughed. "Well, it's a summer job for me, so we'll see." He worked for the UN.

Another man, he said he was about mid-80s, was a professor of some sort at UCLA and he was visiting for the weekend. He told me that I gave off some sort of good vibe about the way I presented myself or was attentive to detail or something. I took that as a compliment too. He reassured me by telling me that it was. Another man would only accept help from me and not from the other kid I was working with, yelling at him and telling him that he only accepted help from "people like her kind" while pointing at me. That was not a compliment and that guy was awful. I didn't stick around long enough to find out what that meant.

I met a wide variety of people at Barnes and Noble. I think the time I am most aware of people's personalities and how I am reacting with them is when I have to meet a lot of new people at once. They're all good people. I absolutely love the people that work on my floor. Some people I'm not all that fond of, but I appreciate everything I'm learning from this job and the people in it. It's really something else.

Holy random tangents, Batman! My mind is so frazzled lately, I'm not surprised that this blog post is all out of whack.

Where Am I?

Your life flips upside down immediately. And all of a sudden you're running to Union Square to catch the 4 train in time to get to Port Authority so you can be on the 6:50 bus back to Pennsylvania. Rushed and panicked. Rushing, panicking, rushing, panicking. To spend a weekend at home waiting and panicked. Waiting, panicking, waiting panicking.

I think the weirdest thing was how much it changed everyone. And how different people reacted. I do remember the last time that I was this overwhelmed. And this time I handled it better. I've grown in the past couple months and I'm fixing things. And that's good. And the thing is, I didn't need this to realize that I have. In fact, as a believer in "everything happens for a reason," I am really struggling to see why this is happening. I can't find a single reason in the world, but maybe that will all come later.

I do see myself handling life better than I thought I could in the past few weeks. I am still a sucker for my old habits (one in particular), and keep falling back into same routines. But although I'm in those routines, I see them differently now and I live them differently. More aware of which things I need and which things I want and of the things I have fabricated and the things that are true, I am stronger about this. And my habit seems to be the one that's lost in our tangled, twisted web.

Being home this weekend, I realized how easy it is for me to be home. I really had no idea how emotionally draining living in the city was, but I am fighting through. There's a constant stress lingering in the background of even my most relaxing activities. A stress of having to take care of myself on my own. And being here in Berks County is just so easy for me. Living is easy. I by no means am claiming that immediately life's troubles go away and that no one here is ever stressed or upset, but my life is just easier. It's easier to spend every night during the summer jumping from one friend's basement to the next. It's easy to see the people you hung out with in high school and have very few things change between you. And, Lord knows, it's easier to get somewhere when all you have to do is get in the car than if you have to wait for the subways that are all being difficult because of construction. Constant stress.

But you know what? Once I'm back there, it'll be easier again. And eventually it will become more routine and lifestyle-like. Once that happens, I'm pretty sure I'll be able to take on a lot more than I could've two months ago. Before the strength, before the courage, before the breakdown.

Everything is looking a little more optimistic in Berks County. And I have faith.

New Adventures?

The first time I went to New York City that I can remember distinctly, I was ten years old. My mom and I saw Les Mis. As I walked out of the theater holding my mom's hand she said to me "So, Al, what did you think?" I know now that my mom was so nervous to take me to see Les Mis in general, but also as my first Broadway experience. I looked up at her, smiled, and said "This is what I want to do when I grow up."

For the next eight years, I thought that day was a significant point in my acting career, like one of those moments you see people reflecting back on during interviews on E! News. I remembering auditioning for everything I could, falling in love with every aspect of performing. I remember telling my mom that I wanted to be a drama major in college and she told me that if I was going to do that, she would prefer that I double majored in something else too. I remember thinking that I liked to write, but didn't want to be a novelist. I remember taking a journalism class to see if it was something I'd consider for my double major. I remember auditioning at Muhlenberg College for the drama program. I remember the head of the theater department praising me for 20 minutes after the audition and taking down my name and email address so he could pull my application out of the pile when it came in to request that I be in his program. I remember being set on being a theater/communications double major at Muhlenberg College. I remember choosing Syracuse. I remember being a broadcast journalism major. I remember deciding one day in October of freshman year in COM 107 that I wanted to write for magazines. I remember meeting Greg Hedges and loving graphic design. I remember being so content in my choice to be a magazine journalist that I can't even imagine doing anything else. I remember Bill Glavin passing away and being heartbroken. I remember everything Bill Glavin taught me.

As I sit here and remember how I got to where I am right now, halfway through college and sitting in a living room full of my belongings sorted into "Brooklyn" and "William Street" piles, I wonder how I got here. I remember everything happening, but I'm not sure how it all happened. I have no idea how I got here. I have no idea what I'm doing actually, but I do know that tomorrow I am moving to New York City for the summer. And that scares the hell out of me.

I realize that day in New York with my mom opened my eyes to the city as a whole, not just theater. I remember walking around with her and never looking down. I remember riding the carousel in Central Park with my Aunt Jean. I remember how Aunt Jean always inspired me. She was the performer of the family - everyone said I was "just like Jeanie" all the time. I remember when I was little and I told her that I wanted to live in the city forever when I grew up. I remember her telling me that I could do whatever I wanted and me actually believing her when she said it. I remember the night in December when the phone woke me up and I heard my mom say, "Alright, I'll be right there" and knowing what it meant somehow. I remember being at the funeral and somehow knowing that she would always be there with me, not in the way I felt about everyone who I love that passed away, but some sort of strong, spiritual connection.

And as I embark on this new adventure this summer, I know that I'm taking her spirit with me. I know that I have some of her same brave spirit, and that although I might not know how to use it quite like she did, I'll learn. I know that all those choices I made somehow led me here, and they wouldn't have if this wasn't what was meant for me. I built this for myself and I'm ready to take on the challenges that are thrown at me.

And I'm more excited than afraid.

Fault?

"They say the best men are molded out of faults, and, for the most, became much more the better for being a little bad."

We're not all perfect; we're not all angels. And that's okay.
Even Shakespeare said that it was okay - and he knows what's up.

Yesterday at lunch, my usual lunch crew was sitting around a table. During a brief lull in the conversation, my friend turned to me and said, "So, Ali, what embarrassing things happened to you already this morning?" We all laughed, as I am notorious for my embarrassing stories. As soon as everyone stopped laughing she looked at me and said, "No really, I'm serious."

I embarrass myself often, and she had every right to suspect that by 12:30 lunch, I already had three embarrassing stories to tell for the day. And the more I think about it, the more I like to think of myself as charming as opposed to embarrassing. I mean, it may not be entirely true, but it gets me through the day. Everyone embarrasses themselves, but I just kind of blow off embarrassing situations. It takes a lot to actual kill my ego from embarrassment. Not that my ego is big, I just know that I'm human. Jason Mraz fell off the stage yesterday. He ripped his pants in front of the crowd. He wrote a hysterical blog entry about it. His attitude about it was to just smile and wave. He knew that it wasn't a huge deal. He knows that he's human.

We all make mistakes. We all have some sort of regret. We all have things sometimes we look back on thinking "Oh, dear, I wish that never happened." But do we really wish that never happened? After all, we're better people for having been a little bad. Yeah, there's sin, pain, heartbreak, mistake, imperfection, or whatever other words you can think of, but there are also lessons. There is also forgiveness. And I find that by embracing mistakes, imperfections, sins, and heartbreak, I am happier. I mean we all change and grow. If you only have wonderful experiences, do we really ever learn? Can you name anyone in your life that only has good experiences, who only ever does good? It's not human nature. And for the millionth time, I will remind you all: We are all just human.

Is it easier to ask for forgiveness than permission? I think so. I'm not encouraging everyone to go out and commit felonies, but I am encouraging self-forgiveness. If you mess up, go easy on yourselves. Allow yourselves to live and embrace being human.

Sunshine?

"This city's made us crazy and we must get out."
80 degrees one day, snowing the next day. Welcome to Syracuse, NY.

The unpredictable weather has a way of making stressful situations worse than they are. I spent the entire day in the library the other day. When I walked out of my room in the morning, it was hot and sunny - no sign of rain, none in the forecast for the next two days. I left the library about 12 hours later and encountered the pouring rain. To my dismay, I lacked both a jacket and an umbrella. That was the last thing I needed.

The unpredictable weather has a way of making life a little better. I stood in the rain the very next day and looked toward the sky and laughed. I let it wash away everything I was worrying about for just that single moment. Sweet cliché, Ali. It's true though. I felt lighter.

This time of year is stressful for everyone. There is just so much to do and certainly not enough time to do it. I always think the spring semester ends more stressfully (did I make that word up? I'm pretty sure I did) than the fall semester. I'll tell you how we survive it in Syracuse: the sunshine. Seriously, we let sunny days control us up here. My piles of homework watch me from my dorm room window as my friends and I spend time just being outside, letting the sun just soak into our skin. By the time April comes around, it's been so long since the sun made an appearance in Syracuse that we surrender to it.

I think my energy comes back to life along with the rest of the world during spring. It's amazing how much the weather has an effect on how I look at life. I'm not even one of those people that loves sunshine all that much. To be entirely honest, most times I prefer the rain. But Syracuse gets a little carried away with the precipitation that I am just so thankful to feel that warmth.

For some reason, warm days up here are always good days.

Gratitude?

I hear a lot about gratitude every single day. People are always telling me that I should be thankful for what I have because things could be worse. I don't think that that is a good way to look at it at all. Being thankful because there are others in worse positions than I am seems to be an awful way to celebrate life. "I'm grateful because I have great friends and someone else doesn't." Whoa. That's just not sitting well with me.

So I've decided lately that I will be grateful for things as they are. I am grateful for my friends because they are wonderful. And I'm grateful for each and every one of their individual personalities. Every single one of them.

I'm going to be completely honest with you. The blog post about being grateful for good friends is inspired by one friend in particular. So I'm going to focus on that. I have been through a true test of life this week - a test of myself. It's been pretty much a week that I could not handle on my own. And I haven't had to. I'm grateful that I haven't had to handle it on my own.

But most of all, I'm grateful for you. I"m grateful that I was lucky enough to be granted someone who makes me feel worthwhile. I'm so happy that I have someone who can make me smile so easily. I love smiling with you and laughing with you and hugging you. Let's be real for a second: no one's perfect. You're not perfect; I'm not perfect. We both make decisions and choices that our lives would probably be better without. But with us, there's no judgment. There's no lies or sheltering of real feelings. We're open. We're honest. We're real. We're human.

I heard a song today in class that made me think of you. Honestly, it almost moved me to tears because of how much I wanted you to hear these words coming from me. There was not one line that didn't fit.

Thanks for keepin' track of me.
Thanks for givin' a dang about me.
Thanks for sayin' that you love me.
Thanks, just thanks.

Thanks for lettin' me know you care.
Thanks for always bein' there.
Thanks for making me do my share.
Thanks, just thanks.

Can't thank you enough.
I'm high from you liftin' me up.

Thanks for sayin' what you said.
Thanks for clearin' out my head.
Thanks for givin' me hope instead.
Thanks, just thanks.

Can't thank you enough.
I'm high from you liftin' me up.

Thanks, you left me who I was.
Thanks, you showed me what a smile does.
Thanks, you loved me just because.
Thanks, just thanks.

Thanks for cryin' when I bleed.
Thanks for wavin' when I leave.
Thanks for bein' what I believe.
Thanks, just thanks.



I encourage everyone to take a good look at the things around you. Instead of telling you to be grateful for the beauty, for the people, for laughter, for whatever, I'm going to suggest you discover your own things to be grateful for. Let those things catch you off guard. Welcome the surprise.

Faith Regained?

For those of you losing faith in humanity:

On Tuesday, one of the kids in my acting class was hit by a car. Well, he's not really a kid. He's a senior and one of the nicest kids I've met at Syracuse. He's shy, sometimes a little awkward, and besides that, I know absolutely nothing about him.

When he got hit, he was unconscious. No one in the crowd around him knew who he was. Coincidentally, one of the girls in my class was walking by at that exact moment. She doesn't know him well either, but she recognized him, and stopped to help give authorities some information. Then she rode with him in the ambulance to the hospital and stayed there all day and made sure that all of his professors knew about the incident when she got back to campus.

This was honestly one of the kindest things I have ever heard anybody do for someone who was maybe one step up from a stranger.

For those of you losing faith in humanity: you should meet Paige.

She Writes Poetry?

I stand by the open window,
open, although the rain hits my bare skin
where my clothes hang loosely with heavy weight,

and I, too weak to fix them, stare into the night.

Eyes wide, hopeful,
outlined by dark circles that count the sleepless nights,

I wait. Alone.

Shivering, trembling,
but determined to wait.
Ever loyal. Ever obedient.

Hair stands at attention to the cool wind's whispers,
up my arms,
around my neck,
down my spine.

My eyes are watering from the chill,
from the fatigue,
from the hopelessness.

Branches snap at the wind's hand.
Once so strong as part of a tree,
now fragile.
No match for the might of the storm.

Lightning crashes.

Warmth creeps down my arms
in the shapes of his fingertips.
His comfort envelopes me,
his scent strong.

I begin to give in to his warmth.
His arms hold mine tightly to my sides
and his fingers intertwine mine
connecting us.

Slowly, I begin to step back from the window.
To sleep again, to dream again.
To feel again.

Then I see a glimpse of you.
You've finally come.
The shape of your silhouette,
I'd know it anywhere.

I pull away from him
back toward the window.
Toward the lonely comfort of the open window.

But he doesn't let me. He holds on.
He holds tighter.
I start to slip. He holds tighter.

Sometimes the comfort of the rain
is stronger than the warmth of the sun.

But not this time.

A Little Bit of Object Writing?

So this was a creative writing exercise where you write a short story for about ten minutes at a time. Only ten minutes. They can be fictional, but are supposed to be based on your sense memories of the object. I don't know, I thought it was pretty cool.

Pencil:
The tapping of the point matched the ticking seconds on the clock. My heart was pulsing a beat that seemed to control the speed of the tapping. I nervously bit the eraser, tasting the gritty pink crumbles on my tongue. As I rested my head in my hands out of frustration, I could smell the yellow paint used to cover the pencil that was engraved with “Dixon Ticonderoga.” Freshly sharpened, the smell of wood pierced through the paint. I let my mind wander and placed pressure on the pencil as I drew spirals on the side of my test each one becoming darker than the next. I felt the weight of the small writing utensil as it rested heavily in between my thumb and my index finger. I gripped tightly to its hard edges and tried to focus, but my slightly sweaty hands slid down a few centimeters and it became difficult to write. I heard the scratching of everyone else’s thoughts being put down into symbols on white-lined notebook paper, forming coherent essays, as my mind buzzed with scattered thoughts. That tiny object seemed to become unbearably heavy beneath the weight of my unexpressed words.
Ice:
My fluttering eyelashes tried to make sense of the blurry scene that was in front of me. The smell of the crisp winter air cut through my nose trying to revive my other senses. I felt the damp, coldness beginning to seep through the back of my body, slowing bringing me back to reality. As my vision cleared, the slow whiteness deeply contrasted the instant black I had experienced moments before. Pain shot through my spine, the only part of my body I was fully aware of. Soon, I was able to feel the soft touches of snowflakes falling on my face as I lay perfectly still, face-up on the patch of ice. I could barely hear my friends’ voices over the rush of the wind. It felt as if the ice was sticking sharp needles in each part of my body as I regained full consciousness. I breathed heavily in through my mouth, feeling the dry, bitter, icy air, now very aware of the sheet of ice that was not giving my body weight any slack. I lay there helpless, unable to speak, my entire body frozen. I slid my body across the smooth surface, gritting my teeth in pain, causing me to fill my lungs with the icy winter air. The ice grasped onto my exposed skin, scratching it as I tried to regain feeling in my fingers and toes. Everything, inside and outside of my body, was frozen.
Guitar:
I was sixteen when I got my guitar. I picked it up and traced my fingertips along the smooth, dark wood, perfectly polished. I smelled the wood through it’s shiny treatment, which was also slightly hidden by the aroma of the small music shop on Penn Ave where it was purchased – a trace of old, worn-down carpets and the stale cigarette smoke that the owner always had on him. The harsh strings seared themselves into my vulnerable fingertips as I began to play. They vibrated, leaving their painful mark behind in the form of calluses. The instrument spewed dissonant chords, as I had not the slightest clue of how to form actual music with it. I ran my fingers up the strings hearing the spine tingling screeching sound. As I slipped my fingers around the cold, silver tuning pegs, I was able to feel each curve of the guitar. The curves of the instrument fit like puzzle pieces to my own body. I could taste the dry air in the practice room in the back of the shop where I sat perched on a padded stool. I tasted my own tongue as I bit hard in concentration as the owner’s voice rang through my ears, “There you go, sweetheart, now you’ve got a chord.” The sound grew richer as I dug the strings further into my fingers, thinking that if I cut in deep enough, it would make the instrument play better.

Songwriting?

This one has a lot of fun videos for you.

So I'm taking this pretty sick songwriting class. Well it's like a study of songwriters, the importance of songwriting, and how to songwrite, but there is no actually songwriting happening in class. Let me share briefly with you why this songwriting class is "pretty sick":

1. I find that I'm gaining a new appreciation for the art of songwriting and the people who write songs, those who write their own and the ones who write for other people. For example, my professor asked us if any of us had ever heard of Claude Kelly and we all stared at him like deer in the headlights to which he responded: "Well, tell me if this rings a bell...So I put my hands up, they're playing my song and the butterflies fly away. Noddin' my head like yeah, movin' my hips like yeah." Not only did we realize how hilarious those lyrics are when just spoken, but also that each and every one of us loved Claude Kelly.



2. I think it has almost inspired me to try songwriting. What? Yeah, I know. Every artsy kid with an acoustic guitar or a keyboard "tries songwriting." But it really doesn't seem like something that you actually have to be great at right away. And according to the book my professor wrote (which is also one of the books for a class), I realized you kind of just have to want to be a songwriter and know two chords and you are one. How convenient for me. Also, I also learned that sometimes songs just come to you once you become fairly decent. Tom Petty wrote this little diddy in 3 minutes, legit.



3. My professor is wonderful. He's a songwriter and a music journalist and all this crazy stuff. He's really passionate about songwriting and has interviewed all kinds of interesting people and songwriters. Plus, he plays some of his stuff for us and he's good. :) The class flies by so quickly because he's so interesting to listen to. Plus, we have a slightly similar taste in music, which is cool, because I love the songs he shares in class. I'm currently learning one of them on the guitar.



This one was just hysterical:


And this is my professor's award-winning song (I can't help, but feel proud of him because I think he's just the nicest guy ever):


All in all, I'm super stoked I'm in this class. Maybe I'll be a songwriter? Sweet.

What is an artist?

I don't know that I fully understand the meaning of being an artist, but I'm starting to feel more and more like I am becoming one. I'm not entirely sure that being an artist is really as easy as fitting yourself into a stereotype, but more of a way to live life with full appreciation. I honestly think that that's a big part of it: pure, honest appreciation.

I have been asked in the past who I am inspired by. I have my favorite artists, writers, musicians, performers, etc., but I feel like I'm not really inspired by all of them. However, now I believe that I am wrong.

I think my inspiration to create art or "express" comes from each piece of art form that I come into contact with. Whether I like or dislike the piece plays a part in what I create myself. I take different characteristics, combine it with my own style, and voila: Art.

As of the moment, my inspiration is being pulled strongly from two artists:

The first is David Sedaris. Sedaris' sharp wit and sarcastic writing style really hits my sense of humor. I often read his things and think about how wonderful it might be to be friends with Sedaris and have actual conversations with him. His personality bursts through the words on the page. These are things I wish to pull from Sedaris when writing in my own style. Sedaris is just a great storyteller, which is really an important part of being a good writer.

The second is Jason Mraz. I have never been more inspired by someone's words before. His musical style alone is enough to make me fall in love with him (since I'm a sucker for a boy with a guitar), but honestly, his lyrics are just wonderful. The reason I'm so drawn to them is because Mraz himself is a good writer. I read his blog whenever he posts and he just has such a healthy appreciation for everything around him. In fact, his post today on Twitter was "Sometimes I get too blind to see the beauty in the songs I sing - and I am grateful for the re-learning." I thought that was really cool. Through his blog, I get the sense that, because of his gratitude, he is one of the happiest people in the world. Now I don't know him personally (to my great dismay), but I really feel like you can get a sense of a person by what they write, which I think is pretty cool. This video shows a little bit of where Mraz gets his inspiration:

But again, no set conclusions here about my status as an artist, but I feel like I'm well on my way.