I have saved a life. When my cousin leant too far over the edge of the pool in an attempt to examine the jet nozzle and fell in, I was the only one who noticed, and I was the one who pulled her out.1
I am addicted to telling stories — and because I therefore practise it all the time, I am developing a knack for it.
I see no difference between Art and Science, and find my brain lends itself to each of these allegedly dichotomous fields equally. I can talk about stellar nucleosynthesis, the way electrons move around the nucleus, or the intricacies of plot, pacing, characterisation and metaphor. Apparently this makes me a bit of a rare creature.
I get frightened. All the fucking time. By big things and little things, rational things and irrational things. Some times I let it stop me from doing what I want to do — but even then, not forever. Far as I can tell, this makes me brave.
I am loyal — to a heartbreaking fault. I am whimsical. I am plinean in my passions — but you have to do something spectacularly offensive before I'll take it out on you, or even so much as point it out to you, even if you deserved it long ago.
I have been betrayed, and let down, and lied to — and though it has made me a little warier, still I choose to believe there are people worth trusting. I even choose to believe there are people worth taking risks on.
And the absolute last thing I want to do is publish this post — because that's how deep the awesome-killing patriarchy is ingrained in my thought patterns — which is precisely why I am going to publish it.
I? Am awesome.
This post inspired by the most awesome Karen Healey. Go, read her posts, and if you, like me, have a habit of biting your tongue or putting yourself down, or editing your thoughts to make sure they're socially acceptable, tell me why you're awesome. Without editing.
- I was not, however, the one from whom she subsequently sought comfort. This may have had something to do with the fact that I yanked her out of the pool by her scalp. [↩]