High school freshmen in Mrs. Li’s Honors English class were offered one thing: Voice. The Voice.
Now that I’ve written my sexy intro sentence, I’ve got bigger fish to fry. I don’t know whether I should have my music low so I can concentrate on what I’m writing or blasting so that maybe some emotional juices will seep into my fingers and create something slightly more substantial than a brain fart. A brain shit? Maybe that’s better. I’ll turn up the music.
This voice, though. My mom told me that Mrs. Li would help me find it; she knew because of the other moms on the sideline not watching my brother’s soccer games. He had also taken Mrs. Li’s class as a freshman, but I don’t remember him caring about the development of his literary voice or his 7th grade sister at the time.
My font choice is bothering me; I started writing in Cambria (Obviously too main stream to inspire my brilliant brain shit.) then went to American Typewriter (Who am I kidding? I’m not that hipster.) and landed on Avenir. I think I downloaded it for a newsletter on Photoshop a while ago. I like it mainly because you don’t know it. Will it be compatible with my blog? I don’t know. But it’s definitely the right look for this pre-teen paragraph.
Okay. Voice. Mrs. Li somehow knew how to help a student craft a voice. I guess she wanted us to have the literary confidence to say something about To Kill A Mockingbird or The Odyssey differently than the next acne-ridden 15-year-old. It seemed like a noble opportunity for self-expression, but looking back it sounds to me like she was just tired of correcting the same papers 50 times over.
Apparently, by the time I graduated that painfully transitionary first year of my suburban prep-school-of-a-public-school, I had found that voice. There was something about my diction and syntax that made my final paper on Romeo and Juliet a unique form of self-expression rather than simply a slew of in-text citations.
But now I’m a 20-year-old college student wanting to start a blog and I’m getting those same first-day-of-school butterflies. I’m searching my mental filing cabinets for the notes I once wrote on Voice and how to do something in some way that makes me and not other. Maybe it’s the music I’m playing or maybe it’s my font or maybe it’s the fact that I probably won’t go back and edit this and just post it like I posted too many of my emotional piano compositions. Maybe this isn’t my Voice at all. Maybe if I’d said instead, “Perhaps this Voice isn’t mine in the least,” I’d have actually portrayed my Voice. Maybe if I just typed slower and thought faster my Voice would find me. Maybe it won’t.
So I guess that’s my intro. This is me selfishly talking to airwaves in hopes that with enough brain farts, I can eventually get to a couple brain shits. Shits made entirely out of the stuff I swallow throughout the day, digest in my wild subconscious, and pinch out in the perfectly unique form of my starry-eyed anus.