Something Novel

In Elementary and Middle school I was the awkward girl with a pile of books and a constant need to drop them. Misshapen mountains of children’s literature, encyclopedias, R.L. Stine’s newest ‘Fear Street’ addition, and poetry by Sylvia Plath at some point were placed atop my trapper keeper, and have obstructed my view. Unlike those who took out library books and never bothered to get past the cover, I read every one. I vividly remember being incredibly disappointed by The Rainbow Fish, written and illustrated by Marcus Pfister. It had all of the elements of a great children's story, but it was in no way unique besides the holographic finned fish on the cover. My mother, always looking for a teaching opportunity, disclosed the secret that not every book should be chosen by its cover. A lesson I am thankful I learned at a young age.

Remember me?

Not long after the shiny fish incident I grabbed some computer paper from under my Aunt’s television stand, a card table, some crayons, my hole puncher, and a few strands of scrap yarn and “wrote” my first book. It was about a racoon. I think. Honestly I can’t remember anything other than the feeling of satisfaction that came with its creation. I knew then I wanted to write, no matter when or where writing was an outlet for me. From the emotional poetry that came forth after my Great Uncle’s death and the loss of a part time sister, to the stories of love and heartache that arose from my first broken heart, I knew I had something special to share.  

Unfortunately, the increase in hormones and my interest in the opposite sex, correlated with the decrease in my need to write and read. My need for a tangible reality lead me to increase my social life and decrease my alone time. Although my personal reading periods unpredictable, my scholarly reading and writing never left. In my later teenage years I was enamored by British literature (including the wonderful Shakespeare) and dystopian fiction (till this day Brave New World by Aldous Huxley remains my favorite book). My love for the arts remains to battle with my need for information and discovery through logical scientific analysis. For a time the latter won.
Once exposed to the raw understanding of the world around me via the scientific method as discovered by Francis Bacon, I was hooked. I had never experienced this sense of wonder before. Instead of having to create a reality through both fiction and nonfiction literature, I could channel my creative abilities into asking questions about the unknown, and in turn help humanity. Recently I realized this is still how I feel. The eternal research fire under my ass burns incessantly despite recent attempts to starve it of oxygen. However, if one is to be a good scientist one must learn to rationalize ideas without bias.

This stud created the scientific method
              and his last name is Bacon, he wins at life.

My theory based on my introspective observations are as follows: If you could write a piece that uses the facts you have acquired about your reality and the world around you in an extreme and creative way then you could write a decent novel. At this realization my heart takes a tachycardic turn and my mind buries the idea deep within the “you will never be able to do that” file. But in keeping true to my dialectical behavior moderation, in one instant my thoughts changed.
On Sunday at the Providence Flea Market, local author Adam Wasserman noticed my hypothesis plastered on my face as I scanned the books on display. As always, networking and talking to other people calms my anxiety and excitement by turning my thoughts away from my own emotions, and towards another. I chatted with Adam about writing and found my reflection in the shine of the soft cover of his first title,“The Grey Life”. His small words of encouragement reminded me of the let down of the holographic fish, and despite the horrific embarrassment of forgetting his novel with another vendor, I went home and sat down to write.

For the past few months I have been searching for my voice and I am finding it slowly but surely. All I can continue to do is write. I have an idea for a novel, or possibly a series of fiction based on my own augmented reality. What will about to release is my first attempt at starting something. Although I am extremely self critical, and have a long road to go before being able to sit with myself long enough to write such a  worthy piece, I tried. I am, however, intimidated by the idea of working on my own piece of literature without proper training on the process. When my overwhelming emotions get in the way of my achievements I either crumble or walk 5 ½ miles to a used book store and back. Lets just say what I want you to read is only the lacing of my sneakers on a walk towards a self fulfilling prophecy. Thanks for joining, I never liked traveling alone.

What if I told you all of the problems and solutions of life are based on one condition, acceptance? I hope most of you would not take my word for it, but unfortunately some of you will. Acceptance is what has eroded our individual personalities, as well as the society we live in. It is the magnetic force behind our moral compass, because it is what drives the perception of our experiences. A philosophy becomes powerful only when enough people accept it as such. We can find many historical examples to back my hypothesis, but I won’t bore you with stories of Jesus, Joseph Smith, or Gerald Gardner. I myself prefer to focus on the beautiful creations of Carl Sagan.My wonder for energy, “star stuff”, and an endless universe tires my thalamus, also known as the brain's information highway, where my emotions go to cause pile ups of thoughts. The black abyss that is space remains a fascinating voyage for my fellow optimistic earthlings. I admire and appreciate their resilience. Finding a way to escape the Sun’s final days is something I always hoped for humanity, but could never get past the possible life failure of never adding to the space program’s information pool. Instead I decided to become my own kind of martyr instead. My torture of choice, studying the mentally ill. The extremophiles of the human race, all locked together in the same hell, Whispering Fern Mental Hospital.

Maybe you were expecting something more from me than just one paragraph. This blog is meant to hold me accountable for sticking to my goals, but also coming to terms with the idea of opening up my work to critique, something I need and struggle with. Do me a favor and pick it apart. Love it, hate it, grammar Nazi it. I will humbly appreciate anything you have to offer.

-Sabrina

Oops I forgot!

With all of this talk of literature I wanted to invite you to join my book club called Quarter Life Chronicles.
Here is the link.

I am currently raffling off a top secret prize for answering a simple poll question! Yay for participation and reading! Go check it out!