Back when I was a wee lass of twenty nothing, I thought I wanted to be an academic. I yearned to stride through libraries with the strength of purpose displayed by Paternal Clause. I loved the smell of books at sunrise. I wanted to sit and write in an office in the middle of a peaceful green campus. I probably wanted the tweed jacket as well, because I’m like that.
But, surprisingly enough, practicality prevailed (if you can call getting an MFA in poetry practical. Ha!). My grades weren’t good enough, my attention span wasn’t good enough, and I just didn’t care enough. Now that I’m a seasoned copyeditor, I see the ways in which my writing style could never fit in an academic setting.
I’m editing a thesis. Again. And I’m realizing that thinking about thinking is not my cup of shade-grown fair-trade stovetop espresso. My style is not linear. When I read my work to a roomful of students they remarked on how well I wove together my thoughts, jumping around, but keeping all the balls in the air. This time. (You will pardon the mixed metaphor. Thank you.)
“How do you do that?” they asked. How could I not? was the answer. Anyone who has spent 2.4 seconds on my blog realizes that I can’t hold on to a linear storyline to save my life. Just read the last paragraph. So this post is dedicated to doing what you do as well as you fucking can.
How do you make your quirks work for you?