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jsnlvBehind this cut is the first half of an essay that describes the circumstances surrounding my worst failure. In other words, I am both the author and the subject of this entry; ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
theferrett's theory of self-presentation applies: "Every incident is written in a way so as to show the journal's owner in the way they want to be seen." Since I'm aware that I'm biased about myself, is the bias lessened? I have no idea. It's just something to keep in mind.
The account I'm about to relate is both true and incomplete. Like so many things lately, I've been putting off finishing it--the trick, though, is to determine exactly how long I've been postponing it. I started writing four weeks ago, but I decided this needed to be written four months ago. If I'd written it four years ago . . . well, that's getting ahead of myself.
Chuck Palahniuk believes that a story written in first-person perspective needs to be subtle about it. If a story has too many I's and Me's too early, it will fail to engage readers. As much as I agree with him, I've been unable to use this technique here. Every attempt turns into a wandering, indirect mess. So, at the risk of being unengaging, I'm going to start at the beginning and go from there.
Growing up, I figured that with my name--Jason Love--romance was pretty much my birthright. Fate had other ideas, instead granting me social awkwardness and introversion. Combined with my latent melodrama and prepubescent dorkiness, I became a gibbering mass of hormones concealed behind a disinterested, scholarly mask. To say that I fixated on my crushes is to take understatement to hitherto undocumented depths. I secretly obsessed over these girls, wondering what contrived situation might allow me to overcome my shyness and admit my interest. 'Dating' was something other people did--I was on a quest for Love.
Or so I thought. Desperation has a way of knocking over your principles. In my case, it was my junior year when my principles scattered like so many bowling pins; I'd been pining over oblivious girls for six years and still hadn't had a date. When a friend admitted she was interested in me, my crushes were . . . not forgotten, but brushed aside for the moment . . . only to return, vigor restored, when I broke up with the girl a few months later.
Guilt is a funny thing, but not particularly so when it's making you break someone's heart. That's a story for the future.
Finally, in my senior year, I decided my inhibitions had gone far enough. I was going to tell the girl of my dreams that I was in love with her.
. . .
I decided I'd start with just flowers, though.
Her name was Christin. In the two years since I'd first seen her in the marching band's flag line, I'd learned that she was a dancer and an artist, she loved the band Hanson, and her website (and writing) was better than mine. I'd also learned her address and phone number. One thing I hadn't learned was whether she knew who I was.
Here's an interesting fact about me: I've more or less always believed that a girl that I was interested in wouldn't be interested in me. While the psychology behind this conclusion would make for interesting discussion, it's only important that you keep this in mind; it'll be relevent more than once before the end.
One beautiful evening in the fall of 1999, I left a small bouquet of flowers on her door. I may or may not have written "I love you" on the card. I certainly didn't sign it.
A week later, I did it again. Again, I didn't sign the card.
Finally, two weeks after the original bouquet, I decided this was getting me nowhere, and I presented the third bouquet in person. It was--possibly--the most stressful moment of my life to date. I don't remember much after that; I think we took a walk around the block. I remember her asking me why I didn't sign the cards. I didn't know what to say, then.
We started dating. Or . . . that might be putting it a bit strongly. Between my shock at this turn events and my absolute conviction that this cannot be happening, my introversion and awkwardness returned, stronger than ever. It's a mercy that I can't remember more of the few dates we had, because on one level, they were beyond miserable. I'd always been convinced that if I could just talk to Christin the first time, all the following times would get easier--but if anything, she became more intimidating, and more inscrutable.
By graduation, we'd been 'dating' for over six months. She hugged me after the ceremony. Just to give you a sense of perspective, that was the first time we'd had that much physical contact.
The night of graduation, our school holds a Senior Celebration at the school as a way to prevent the graduates from getting into too much trouble. It seemed like it should have been fun; both of my parents were involved in the staff, there was dancing, door prizes, casino games, and one last chance to see everybody we'd spent the past four years with, and at the end of the night, somebody would be going home with a new car the community had donated. I was dreading it, though. Christin was, as has been mentioned, a semi-professional dancer; while a school dance is hardly related to ballet, my social awkwardness is magnified tenfold where dancing is concerned. I was torn: she loves to dance! So I should go dance with her! But I hate to dance! And if I dance with her, she'll realize what an incompetent fool I am!
The Dancing Issue was just the beginning of my problems that night, though. I worried my friends felt like I was abandoning them on what was, in a way, the most important night of our high school career. I worried about being myself around my parents. I worried about which of a dozen post-celebration activities I'd wind up at. It might have been a lot more fun if I'd just done less worrying. After several hours of this, the superintendent announced that we'd be wind things up with the door-prize drawings in the auditorium. Chaos reigned as several hundred students and assorted family members clogged the entrances to the auditorium; at some point in the confusion, Christin told me she and her friends were going to leave. I didn't know what to say. When I started paying attention again, I found myself sitting in the auditorium with a crowd of people I didn't know too well; all my friends were elsewhere. It was the end of the end of school, and I was miserable. At least I won a toolset.
The next time I saw Christin was . . . hmm. At least a year later.
That's all I can write for now.
theferrett's theory of self-presentation applies: "Every incident is written in a way so as to show the journal's owner in the way they want to be seen." Since I'm aware that I'm biased about myself, is the bias lessened? I have no idea. It's just something to keep in mind.The account I'm about to relate is both true and incomplete. Like so many things lately, I've been putting off finishing it--the trick, though, is to determine exactly how long I've been postponing it. I started writing four weeks ago, but I decided this needed to be written four months ago. If I'd written it four years ago . . . well, that's getting ahead of myself.
Chuck Palahniuk believes that a story written in first-person perspective needs to be subtle about it. If a story has too many I's and Me's too early, it will fail to engage readers. As much as I agree with him, I've been unable to use this technique here. Every attempt turns into a wandering, indirect mess. So, at the risk of being unengaging, I'm going to start at the beginning and go from there.
Growing up, I figured that with my name--Jason Love--romance was pretty much my birthright. Fate had other ideas, instead granting me social awkwardness and introversion. Combined with my latent melodrama and prepubescent dorkiness, I became a gibbering mass of hormones concealed behind a disinterested, scholarly mask. To say that I fixated on my crushes is to take understatement to hitherto undocumented depths. I secretly obsessed over these girls, wondering what contrived situation might allow me to overcome my shyness and admit my interest. 'Dating' was something other people did--I was on a quest for Love.
Or so I thought. Desperation has a way of knocking over your principles. In my case, it was my junior year when my principles scattered like so many bowling pins; I'd been pining over oblivious girls for six years and still hadn't had a date. When a friend admitted she was interested in me, my crushes were . . . not forgotten, but brushed aside for the moment . . . only to return, vigor restored, when I broke up with the girl a few months later.
Guilt is a funny thing, but not particularly so when it's making you break someone's heart. That's a story for the future.
Finally, in my senior year, I decided my inhibitions had gone far enough. I was going to tell the girl of my dreams that I was in love with her.
. . .
I decided I'd start with just flowers, though.
Her name was Christin. In the two years since I'd first seen her in the marching band's flag line, I'd learned that she was a dancer and an artist, she loved the band Hanson, and her website (and writing) was better than mine. I'd also learned her address and phone number. One thing I hadn't learned was whether she knew who I was.
Here's an interesting fact about me: I've more or less always believed that a girl that I was interested in wouldn't be interested in me. While the psychology behind this conclusion would make for interesting discussion, it's only important that you keep this in mind; it'll be relevent more than once before the end.
One beautiful evening in the fall of 1999, I left a small bouquet of flowers on her door. I may or may not have written "I love you" on the card. I certainly didn't sign it.
A week later, I did it again. Again, I didn't sign the card.
Finally, two weeks after the original bouquet, I decided this was getting me nowhere, and I presented the third bouquet in person. It was--possibly--the most stressful moment of my life to date. I don't remember much after that; I think we took a walk around the block. I remember her asking me why I didn't sign the cards. I didn't know what to say, then.
We started dating. Or . . . that might be putting it a bit strongly. Between my shock at this turn events and my absolute conviction that this cannot be happening, my introversion and awkwardness returned, stronger than ever. It's a mercy that I can't remember more of the few dates we had, because on one level, they were beyond miserable. I'd always been convinced that if I could just talk to Christin the first time, all the following times would get easier--but if anything, she became more intimidating, and more inscrutable.
By graduation, we'd been 'dating' for over six months. She hugged me after the ceremony. Just to give you a sense of perspective, that was the first time we'd had that much physical contact.
The night of graduation, our school holds a Senior Celebration at the school as a way to prevent the graduates from getting into too much trouble. It seemed like it should have been fun; both of my parents were involved in the staff, there was dancing, door prizes, casino games, and one last chance to see everybody we'd spent the past four years with, and at the end of the night, somebody would be going home with a new car the community had donated. I was dreading it, though. Christin was, as has been mentioned, a semi-professional dancer; while a school dance is hardly related to ballet, my social awkwardness is magnified tenfold where dancing is concerned. I was torn: she loves to dance! So I should go dance with her! But I hate to dance! And if I dance with her, she'll realize what an incompetent fool I am!
The Dancing Issue was just the beginning of my problems that night, though. I worried my friends felt like I was abandoning them on what was, in a way, the most important night of our high school career. I worried about being myself around my parents. I worried about which of a dozen post-celebration activities I'd wind up at. It might have been a lot more fun if I'd just done less worrying. After several hours of this, the superintendent announced that we'd be wind things up with the door-prize drawings in the auditorium. Chaos reigned as several hundred students and assorted family members clogged the entrances to the auditorium; at some point in the confusion, Christin told me she and her friends were going to leave. I didn't know what to say. When I started paying attention again, I found myself sitting in the auditorium with a crowd of people I didn't know too well; all my friends were elsewhere. It was the end of the end of school, and I was miserable. At least I won a toolset.
The next time I saw Christin was . . . hmm. At least a year later.
That's all I can write for now.
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no subject
Date: 2004-06-23 09:02 am (UTC)How long ago was this? Was it difficult for you to write? Can you still feel it?
no subject
Date: 2004-06-23 10:21 am (UTC)This took place in and around the latter half of my senior year of high school, which was early 2000. The conclusion (which I hope to post in the next couple days) summarizes a handful of events between then and now. Yes, it was difficult to write, and not just because I'm finding that writing anything longer than two paragraphs is difficult to write anymore. Yes, I can still feel it.
no subject
Date: 2004-06-23 11:20 am (UTC)Somewhat recent, and still close to the heart, so it's probably a great thing that you're exploring it and writing it out. I look forward to reading how you dealt with this experience, whether or not it changed things for you and how.
no subject
Date: 2004-06-23 09:46 am (UTC)That's because this is your story, as opposed to a story that a character tells him/herself. It's story about your behavior, which in a sense you are sharing to get other people's judgement on it, as opposed to writing a fiction where a character does the same. I guess by that I mean that the above is much more personal than that, so the I/me is going to be a greater pitfall.
Besides, I may have nothing to my name to show for it, but I tend to believe writing is something you get better at when you stop worrying about convention, and start writing the way that works for you. You can always work on style after you lay the whole thing out, get a clearer picture of what's in your head. ;)
no subject
Date: 2004-06-23 10:19 am (UTC)too complex, too many big words?
Date: 2004-06-23 04:31 pm (UTC)I find that my problem has always been the other way around: I try to write about things I care about and explain why I care, and find myself oversimplifying the whole thing enough that re-reading always triggers the ball-up-wad-of-paper-and-dunk-into-garbage-bin effect.That's why I hardly use pen and paper anymore, which is turning out to be bad for my hands, apparently
no subject
Date: 2004-06-24 04:52 pm (UTC)But perhaps that's because I have the luxury of making that choice. Did you write this with the feeling you needed to get it out to move-on with and improve your life?
no subject
Date: 2004-06-25 08:20 pm (UTC)Also, at one point somewhere in the middle of high school I thought there'd be nothing wrong with a philosophy of complete openness and honesty, which is ironic since I pretty much did exactly the opposite in a lot of ways from then on. Part of it's a desire to get back to that ideal, and part of it is just seeing a few friends turn their own ghosts into promising writing careers, and while my writing might not be any good yet, at the very least I can start improving it. Write what you know, etc.
no subject
Date: 2004-06-25 08:26 pm (UTC)