i have found my own voice coming through the years, resting in front of my eyes in the pages of a book with a hard burgandy cover.
collin gave me a going-away present today, although he didn't realize what he was doing. he told me that since he knew i wanted to be a writer and i was a college-aged woman (obviously), perhaps i'd enjoy reading the bell jar.
i'd heard of sylvia plath before, but i didn't have any pressing reason to read her work. i didn't know any of her stuff, so whatever. but since i went to the library to work this afternoont, i figured i'd pick up a copy and start reading.
i am so thankful to collin. i'm halfway through the book and completely amazed by what i'm reading.
alright, the suicide bit isn't me, and i'm not as troubled as esther is. but the general thoughts coming through the lines are the same thoughts i've had, and different snippets of words fly at me with a sense of near deja vu. that is how i want to write.
so i decided to research plath. and even her life, very loosely obviously, resembled mine. she viewed the summer before her senior year as one that would be very busy--in her case, a writing class at harvard, in my case, the lovely o'neill. both of us thought our plans were set, only to have them dashed against the rocks (it was a comfort to read her take on it-- truth was, i'd counted on getting into frank o'connor's writing course at harvard, but it seemed that several thousand other rather brilliant writers did, too and so i didn't...) it's almost unnerving, how much of a connection i feel with plath. it's rather odd, the connection i feel, but at the same time, it's a comfort. she was brilliant. i don't feel quite so odd anymore.