Why I Write

As a little girl, I adored magazines. The pictures, the stories about beautiful clothes worn by beautiful people, the glossy glaze which made the pages stick together under just the slightest bit of humidity.

My dad worked in New York city at Time Inc. and would often take my sisters and me into the city for fun Friday outings. I would sit crossed legged on the train, flipping through pages, pages I could not read yet, wondering who in the world found themselves lucky enough to make this type of magic happen. Who got to pick each piece and meticulously flip through pictures taken by the most famous photographers to find the one that fit just right? I wanted to be that person.

This led to me forcing my sisters to play a game I made up called “Vogue,” which I loosely, or maybe not so loosely, based on the movie “The Devil Wears Prada.” I, of course, would take on the duties of editor and chief, Charlotte Doogle, I must have known about copyright laws because I refused to go by Miranda Priestly. My sisters would reluctantly be my assistants or designers. Our largest investor, my mom, bought us little notebooks and clipboards so we could hold board meetings to plan our latest issue, which of course was constantly going through a million delays and missed deadlines making the editor, me, perpetually stressed.

Each sister came into my office, really my dads’ office an “off-limits” zone in our house, and presented their designs and pitch stories. We would discuss how they could improve, or, if it was truly terrible, I would simple reach over and place the little piece of notebook paper into the shredder. Soon my mom put the shredder in the closet and locked the office door, so I had to scramble during out busiest season and move my whole office, a couple of pens, a clipboard, and my binder with the magazine layout inside, into my bedroom. Not as official, but it would have to do.

One day, my dad sat me down and asked why I like to play this game, “I want to make magazines.” The question seemed oddly simple to me, causing my dad to sort of jerk back in surprise at the quickness of my answer. He then told me about journalism. Completely awe struck by the news of this weirdly wonderful career, my dad explained how they got to play the part of writer and detective, going out into the world and telling stories while uncovering secrets. He said, “if you think playing editor is fun, just wait till play journalist.”

As I got older, I never knew what I wanted to do, I still don’t. I just know I like to write, and I am filled with ideas.

I love writing but don’t love direction. I wanted to be a journalist but hate deadlines. I will soon get a degree in Journalism but feel unsure if I still want to do it. All I know if I love to write, and love the feel of a glossy magazine.

A Story for My Bunny

I spend my days waiting. The little bell at the top of the door gently rings, small people holding the hands of bigger people wonder around, the small ones always grabbing at things and the big ones usually putting them back.

I rarely get grabbed by the small ones, luckily escaping the grasp of their sticky fingers. The big ones, they hold me gently. Looking at me with soft eyes and brushing their fingers along the satin inlay in my ears. Every time, they put me back and the wait continues.

One day, the bell rang as usually. A lady walked in, very obviously on the hunt for something. Something very special. Could this be my moment?

We seem to connect immediately from across the room. She doesn’t wander the isles like the others, she isn’t being pulled around by someone small and screaming. She lovingly plucks me from the shelf, holding me softly and brushing her fingers through my satin ears.

The shop owner embroiders a name on the little heart on my chest. Her name written on my heart forever, this small person I just couldn’t wait to meet. Where does she live? What does she like to do? I hoped she wasn’t sticky like the others.

Soon, I am introduced to a tiny person, much tinier than the small ones I used to see in the shop. She’s smaller than me. The woman who brought me here places me over her, she grabs tightly onto my ear, brushing the satin gently. We both dose off, her breathing like a lullaby.

The girl is now 5. I overhear something about “first grade.” She really doesn’t want to go but says she will only if she can bring me. Oh, how fun that would be! But her mother says I might get lost or stolen or dirty. All those things sound very scary, so I guess it’s better I stay in my place on her bed, nestled among the soft pillows, waiting to greet her when she returns. After a little while she does and after the bedtime routine is completed, she crawls into bed, tightly grabs my ear, brushing the satin with her small fingers, both of us being lulled to sleep.

She is now 10 and doesn’t ask to bring me anywhere anymore but comes back with stories of wonderful adventures. She tells me of all the things she learns at school. Her poem was even picked for the winter concert, a poem I was the very first to hear.

The world around her grows busier, she has dance and tennis and piano. I worry I might fall into the background like the other stuffed animals and toys I have seen come and go. But every night when she crawls into bed, squeezes me tightly and gently brushes her finger along my satin ears, picking on the little holes beginning to form at the top, the worries fade away.

She is now 15. Oh, what an age. She was always so sweet, especially to her mother, but now this primal rage seems to follow her everywhere. She slams her bedroom door and flops on the bed cursing the world she once thought was so beautiful. I find myself ever confused trying to follow her new adventures. These stories now include things called “boys,” and “drama,” and some rather nasty words I would rather not repeat. Still, every night, after she sets her little light up chirping box down, she holds me tightly, brushing her fingers along whatever is left of the once light pink satin, her breathing, though much faster, a lullaby.

She is now 20. We aren’t with her parents and sisters anymore. We share a room with someone called “Isabel.” The room is small and full of boring tan furniture. A couple years ago, when I heard she would be going away soon, I became worried she wouldn’t bring me. I thought of all the adventures I would miss and knew if I could cry, I would. And probably scream some of those nasty words. But when the day came, she packed me up in her carry-on. She never packs me in the big suitcases in fear that the plane might crash and she would lose me forever, and we left, together.

Something felt wrong. The sparkle I used to see, seemed to have faded. Dark circles accessorize her deepening eyes. Late night talk of adventures and wonder is replaced with deafening silence broken up with the occasional sniffle. How could a girl once full of so much light be getting dimmer every day?

Though the satin is almost completely gone from my ears, every night, the little girl I once knew so well would come out, hold tightly to my ear, and like always we would be each other lullaby.

The girl is now 22. She lives in an apartment in a place called “East Nashville” and thankfully has her own room. Her eyes are bright again. She comes home telling me of new adventures, reads me her stories, and tells me of her dreams for when she graduates. She laughs much more and cries much less. The sparkle is back in her eyes, the wonder she has briefly lost has been found.

She is much bigger than me now, taller and older than we first met all those years ago. I still worry one day she won’t want me anymore, that one day she will find a love that will replace ours. I don’t look as good as I used to, the stuffing in my arms is long gone, my light pink fur has a greyish tint, the marks of being fiercely loved for all those years. She doesn’t seem to care. The satin on my ears is now gone, rubbed away by each milestone.

I remember waiting on that shelf in that store, waiting for my chance to make someone smile, to be their companion. Now I wait for the girl to come home, hold me tightly in her arms, and carefully brush her fingers through my tattered ears. I wait for my favorite lullaby to play and for us to doze off just like we did the night we met.