Not a blonde
Not a runner
Not a banker
Not a writer
In eleventh grade, I became good friends with Mione in Latin class by way of notebooks. We scribbled in each other’s journals while Mrs. Wagstaff talked about Roman children picking up "lignum vitaes." One of Mione's first gifts was a lavender spiral notebook, which she suggested that I carry to school. Cheers, Mione, for instigating my practice of carrying a journal with me everywhere.
Even with a journal in my pocket at all times and a bachelor’s degree in English with a creative writing track, I don’t think of myself as a writer. I don’t think of myself as anything. I don’t consider myself a blonde, a runner, or a banker. I engage in these activities: writing, running, having blonde hair, and processing people’s monetary transactions. But the labels are not for me.
My creative writing prof. got me to take this picture of lavender petals in the cracks of the asphalt path when we were on a walk. April 15, 2010.
I am an empty wineglass.