I'm a person with a creative brain trying to thrive in an analytical world. I used to be that little girl writing funny stories and journal entries to read to my 2nd grade class, sketching my future clothing line, and practicing my piano lessons. Never mind that I'm much better at listening to music than playing it, and my drawing skills aren't so fabulous either. I quit piano in fifth grade once my mother found out that I had been hiding from the teacher (yes literally hiding) and she was essentially throwing money away every week. Seventh grade art class showed me that I barely comprehend even the most fundamental concepts necessary to creating visual masterpieces. Not that all that is necessary to the sketching required for a designer, but as my teenage years came and went I realized that I can barely keep up with the trends, much less create them.
Somewhere in there is when I decided I wanted to do some sort of writing. Books, plays, poetry, something. I came to Alabama where I took as many communications, English, and creative writing classes as I could fit in my schedule. I wrote short stories and poems. I put together collections of photography and words. And I loved it. Then graduation snuck up on me, and I thought to myself, "Hey girl, you don't want to be a penniless beggar writer living with your parents until you're 40, do you? You're not even all that good, after all." So I made the next logical choice. I came to law school.
And there are things that I like about law school, subjects that interest me, extracurriculars that excite me. I was recently selected for one of the school's two trial advocacy teams, which is a huge honor, and the idea of being a litigant is pleasing to me. I grew up just a few miles from the town that inspired Atticus Finch. But still, sometimes I wish I could be a fabulous female version F. Scott Fitzgerald. I picture a beautiful weirdo buried under stacks of my words (well, fantasy writer me is a Southern gothic author I think) feeling misunderstood by the world, but recognized for my genius. This version of me is eccentric, but lovely, alternating between guzzling black coffee and sipping fine scotch. She has witty exchanges with glamorous friends in the most "it" places, sitting back and observing everyone around, mentally cataloging it with vivid descriptions in mind for the next book.
I wonder if I have that talent buried under here somewhere and I'm too lazy to access it. Or if the reality of the world of writers and the rate of failure just scared it out of me. Or maybe I'm just an Ignatius Reilly, with dreams of grandeur and nothing to back it up. I often sit back, affected by the works of others, and just think "Man, I'd like to rock somebody's soul." Maybe sometime I will. Today I will study the rules of evidence.
