Hi. My name is Savannah Thorpe, and recently, I’ve become a night blogger – sort of. See, I don’t do the “intoxicate myself in some way and post random senseless things on tumblr” thing. I’ve got more class than that, plus I don’t like the idea of intoxicating myself (you can see my thoughts on that here: http://goo.gl/Ey9RA
). No, I’ve got a whole lot more panache and elegance than that. So I chill in my room until like one in the morning with my cat, my boyfriend’s hoodie, a bag of tortilla chips, Pandora radio, and a space heater as I type feverishly whatever the muses put in my head earlier that day. Oh, and twitter. I have to rant about writing as I write.
Over my winter break so far, I’ve done a few short stories, a monologue, a short script, a few blog posts, countless emails, and a poem or two here and there. And I do it all for no reason. None. Absolutely no reason in the world to do these things except that I can’t help it. I don’t have any winter classes or projects due, I’m not in a writer’s group or online forum, and I’m pretty sure there aren’t a whole lot of writing competitions that college kids are eligible for. So I keep myself up WAY later than I’m used to (during school, I’m in bed by midnight at the very latest) spewing word vomit all over my poor computer and twitter trying desperately to get out a story or plight or something. I’m insane.
So between taking online banking breaks and complaining about my madness on twitter, I’ll occasionally text my boyfriend to see what he was up to and update him on the progress of whatever challenge I decided to tackle that night. Generally, he’s out hanging with friends, and I’m doing my writer thing. More than once he’s admonished me to “get out and life” and “to not be so lifeless.” And I would promptly tell him that I would, except that I can’t help that the muses took a special liking to destroying my sanity. And so, I instead admit to my lifelessness, tear into some left over Christmas candy, and continue to drown myself in Bon Iver and character development.
And then, I got to thinking about what it means to “get a life.” And actually, I do indeed have a life. I go out to coffee with my fellow literature nerds and humanities major friends and draft monologues together. I take my sisters to McDonald’s after school and let them unload about their day. I work at an indie bookstore, the love of my life. I go to the goodwill with my mom and dad and pick out awful 80s sweaters and go-go boots. I bike for miles and fence for hours. I assemble care packages for my friends who have already gone back to college. I read all kinds of books from middle grade fantasy to tear-jerking memoirs to historical fiction. I google hangout my roommates to chat about life and holidays and new music videos. And mostly, I write until my eyes ache and my butt has fallen asleep.
So in my mind, there was this beautiful dramatic scene where I stood up in a packed courtroom with tension so thick you could cut it with a blade and shouted “Objection, your honor! My life is great – just different.” And for a moment, everyone is stunned, but then they erupt in applause for my bravery and perspicacity. Because it is. His life is working and hanging out with friends and watching Pawn Stars, and mine is more literary. I can’t help that it’s such a passion that I should probably be institutionalized.
Moral of the story (and most of the stories I’ve ever shared on this website): Do you. Roll with whatever passion the gods instilled in you. You only count as lifeless if you don’t follow your passion to the brink of insanity.