New Year, New You
It’s a week after New Year’s now, but you know what, it’s also my birthday. For me, this is the new year. Maybe not the beginning of 2011, but it is the beginning of year 25.
Someone asked me last night, why Snowflakes in France? And at first I couldn’t remember. Then I thought my summer in France, how it tore apart my safe relationship back home and opened up the possibilities of being single, of being hurt and being proud, of learning what it is to be a feminist, responsible for my own choices even when I want to blame someone else.
Snowflake was a nickname that a boy gave to me in 7th grade. He may have been the first boy to toy with me, flirt with no intentions and no abandon, and at the time I was naive enough to blush and smile and think it was nice. But when I traveled to France in college, I began to grow into a more realistic — and more bitter — version of that girl.
That was five years ago. I’ve grown a lot since then, but people say you should write about what you know. I know a lot of teenage angst, dashed dreams, YA novels and puppy love. (And now I know of happy endings, but for some reason my writing is never very good when I write about that)
So here at my quarter-life mark, I’m going to make a resolution to write about what I know, and not to analyze it in the process. And this time, I’ll try to do it in fiction. I have a hunch that a little writing group in town might be my saving grace in this endeavor.