Introvert

I am an introvert. I value my time alone. I do not enjoy attending drunk college parties or hanging out with large groups of my peers. I tend to be quiet and keep to myself in large classes and Saturday nights are spent watching old movies and eating popcorn on the couch. While my roommates feel the need to be around people all the time, chasing tequila with cheap beer and dancing at the club, I feel content slipping past the crowd and retreating to my bedroom. Inside my cave I write, read, or simply be, alone by myself.

The other day I attempted to write a definition poem about my personality type in order to convey and explain my introvertness to the rest of the world, or more realistically,my writing group. However, I got stuck and I got stuck fast. Now, part of the problem is that I was forcing myself to write a poem on a specific topic. For all of you non-artist types this may be difficult to understand. Art, no matter if it is visual, written, or performed cannot be forced. You simply cannot sit down at the table, declare you are going to write a sonnet about the gay community in Los Angles and have it turn out just right. It doesn't work like that. Art isn't linear. Rather, the art needs to approach you. Once this occurs, it is your job to listen to these instincts and go from there.

While I was forcing myself to write, the bigger issue correlated with the definition itself. According to dictionary.com, an introvert is best described as a person who is concerned primarily with his or her own thoughts and feelings. When I read this, I immediately disagreed with the statement. According to this definition, I am a cold, heartless, self-centered bitch. I mean, really? Concerned with my own thoughts and feelings? Looking back on my life experiences I feel as though I put others before myself a large percentage of the time, but maybe this is my personal bias. A second popular definition for an introvert is a shy person. Again, I disagree. Introverts can be social people. Yes, there are always exceptions, but for the most part I like to think that introverts are socialable. I thouroughly enjoy hanging out with friends, meeting new people, and getting to know these individuals on a personal level. However, I like engaging in these activities in an intimate setting. Put me in a room with ten or more people and you lose me. It becomes too overwhelming. There is too much going on, so I withdraw.


But that is the main difference between extroverts and introverts. Extroverts recharge their batteries by being social and by being in the limelight. They feed off others' energy in order to increase their own. Introverts are the opposite. They need to seclude themselves in order to recharge. They don't run off because they are stuck up, snobbish, or believe others to be inferior, they simply need an opportunity to do their own thing. In doing so, they are often more pleasant to be around. So friends, if I do not show up at the party or if I decline an invitation in order to stay home and write, please do not take offense. I simply need a few hours alone in order to be a friendly, happy person.

Barnes and Know Nothing

This past weekend I ventured out to the local Barnes and Noble in order to spend the gift cards that were burning a whole in my pocket and devote some quality time to journaling.  While wandering around the tables and shelves of books I quickly became annoyed. I searched for titles by Abagail Thomas, Anne Lamott, Sherwood Anderson, and Junto Diaz, but could not locate a single one. When I asked the pale, red-headed clerk behind the reference desk if the store had any copies of Winesburg, Ohio, he informed me he had never heard of the title. Though it is an American classic, it is an obscure title. I dismissed his lack of knowledge for confusion. However, when he informed me that they did not have any copies of the book in the entire store, I nearly fainted. How can a book store have Joan River's autobiography and not have Winesburg, Ohio or Glen Rock Book of the Dead? I was appalled. He told me that he could order them for me. I denied the offer and went in search of other titles.

Matters only worsened the longer I explored. The poetry section was smaller than the Bible section. Not the religion section, but the Bible section. A whole wall is devoted to seventy-five differentiations of one book, and only a shelf is dedicated to an entire genre. Now, I am all for spirituality, faith, and religion, but when I see one copy of Leaves of Grass  for every fifteen copies of the American Patriotic Bible, my feathers get a little ruffled. Other aspects that pissed me off include: the graphic novel section being of equal size to the fiction section, the fact that all the Christian fiction books portrayed an Amish girl, baby, or both on the front cover, and that Mr. Barnes and Mr. Noble consider Kim Kardashian's biography worthy to be displayed in their store. Although these things are a disgrace to the literary world, the most horrendous and hideous crime involved another ignorant sales clerk.

Sitting in a plush chair nestled among the international cookbooks, I overheard a customer and sales clerk discussing books. The gentleman asked the clerk if she knew who wrote The Glass Castle. The woman replied confidently that Alice Walker wrote the memoir. I nearly choked on my gum. When the woman looked the information up on the B&N database, she was unable to find the title. She assured the gentleman that Alice Walker wrote the book and this is when I interfered. From my seat across the store, I shouted that Jeanette Walls wrote The Glass Castle, not Alice Walker. People stared,  but I didn't care. I needed to make the correction before the literary world was further disgraced. Satisfied by my good dead, I returned to my journal. The sales clerk called back and thanked me for the correction in which she replied, "Oh, that is right, Alice Walker writes cookbooks." A small part of me died sitting there listening to the dialogue playing out before me. Had these people ever read anything besides Nora Roberts and Nicholas Sparks? Had they ever handled a book? Did they even know how to read? Feeling extremely discouraged and utterly depressed, I gathered my belongings and drove home, where I spent the remaining portion of my afternoon attempting to write poetry,  and amend the tragedies from the morning.

Coffee Date

There is something bewitching about coffee. Not only does this exotic bean energize the body and entice the senses, but it also possesses a power that excites the soul. Whether it is brewed to perfection or a weak homemade blend, this dark roasted beverage is stronger than the fictitious veratiserum. It strengthens relationships and provokes intimate sharing of secrets and desires. Time stands still with a cup of coffee in hand. Hours seem to pass slowly and blissfully.  People sit in coffee shops discussing art, philosophy, and literature. They pour their hearts and souls out over a cup of coffee. The more time I spend in coffee shops, the more I find this to be true.

Today I went for a walk with my friend Lauren. With my hectic schedule and her busy life,  we never see each other, although we live in the same house. In order to rekindle our friendship, we grabbed a cup of coffee from LJ's and ventured out into the blustery afternoon. We wandered down cobblestone streets and poked our heads in various shop windows. We took another lap and discussed our post graduation plans, or lack thereof. Lauren is a talented Greek goddess with the voice of an angel. She is thinking about moving to Chicago or New York in order to pursue a career in performance, but feels conflicted about this prospect. She has a big family. They are close. And as a result, the songs of home are calling her name. She is torn. I, on the other hand, am feeling a strong urge to leave the nest, to fly and follow the wind wherever it may lead me. We continued our walk through the snowy centennial park and around the campus grounds, discussing everything under the sun from faith, to insecurities, to boys. We laughed and walked until our coffee grew cold and our noses turned rosy. It was a perfect way to spend the late morning: sipping our brew and sharing our hearts as kindred spirits.

Proofreading

My proofreading skills are nonexistent. I seem to find typos in every single post. An editor is very much needed.

Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Days

If you are familiar with Judith Viorst, then you are no stranger to her dramatic, carrot top protagonist, Alexander. This little lump of a boy has endured several hardships in his eight year old life. On one particularly horrible day, Alexander woke up with gum in his hair, his mother forgot to pack a dessert, and he had to wear his nasty railroad pajamas to bed.  Like Alexander, we all have our bad days and want to move to Australia in order to escape them.

I have been feeling this way all week. Monday I was grumpy beyond all get-out. I practically yelled at my students for not knowing how to take notes appropriately and for asking me what to do every thirty seconds. On both Tuesday and Wednesday I overslept by a good hour and a half. In a panic to look presentable,  I threw on deodorant and stuck my head under the faucet, but my efforts were not successful. My hair remained greasy near the scalp and static at the ends. Make-up was non existent. Although I tried to look halfway decent, I still managed to look like I rolled out of bed. Not only did I wake up extremely late, but my departure was further complicated when a Mike's Hard Lemonade delivery truck decided to park right behind my car, blocking me into my parking spot. In an attempt to locate the driver, I ran across the  lot, slipped on some ice, fell, and ripped a hole in my leggings. I then had to go back to my apartment, secure another pair, and change rapidly before I could begin the twenty minute drive to school. When I finally arrived, panting and out of breath,  I could not open the doors with my key, so students had to let me in, how embarrassing. Oh well,  I guess some days are like that, even in Australia. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.