Post Format

Day trippin

Leave a Reply

Germ and I

I should have titled this blog: The Adventures of the Gypsy and Germ.

Germ's interpretation of tree hugging.

Germ’s interpretation of tree hugging.

Germ: My hair wont get out of my eyes. It might be the death of us.

Me: Want a hair tie? I like the windows down crazy hair look, but love life even more.(That last thought never made it out of my head).

Germ: Nah, I like my hair to experience freedom.

And thus began our day trip to San Francisco. You see, I had read an amazing book (Hacking Your Education by Dale Stephens). In it Dale mentions a few writers. I discovered that one lived nearby, and I can’t tell you how loud my squeal (scream, feet pounding the floor) was when the said writer agreed to meet up with me over coffee (hint hint for all of you blog fanatics).
I could hardly focus on getting my salad in my mouth and down my throat, partially nervous…mostly excited. Germ sat with her stats homework out, watching me take pictures of anything and everything knowing that I was avoiding my nervous thoughts but caving into my anxious habits. I could just feel it though. I was about to have that “AH Ha” moment. The one that ends with “And that’s how I became a writer” (or fill in whatever it is that you are aspiring to be; zookeeper, crazy neuroscientist, stripper, etc…).
Germ and I packed up our backpacks and headed to a cafe where my world was about to be rocked. Germ sat nonchalantly across the table, informing me that she would be ease dropping on the conversation. I was happy she was content to sit with me while I waited for…well I didn’t even know what. Would M.G. look like she did on her blog, would she be as interesting in life as she was on paper (electronic though it might be), was I the boring one? I didn’t want to come off like I had her some pedestal even though it’s a rather tall and ridiculously posh one (cough, whoops).
The moment arrived when she walked in. We had that “Are you the one?” moment. Somewhat similar to a blind date but without the pressure of an intense first impression being able to ruin or make the rest of our writer’s date. Finally I was the one who got to buy M.G. a coffee. She allowed me to pick her brain about the fears, up and downs and editing tips of writing. I haven’t asked her for permission to drop her name- so for now it’s a mystery.
My first impression? She was so humble. She answered my questions so genuinely, taking time to think and then offer her experiences or advice. But M.G. would constantly turn the subject right back on to me and my life. The over all meeting (I feel like it was more of a hangout thing and I’d like to assume she felt the same) was amazing. I realized how interesting my life seemed when it was relayed back to me through another person’s eyes. It was like I hadn’t heard the story before, hadn’t lived it and yet it’s my story.

So for all of you who think you have no material, think again. Every sentence doesn’t have to drip with witty comments and sarcastic humour. You can share your laughs, adventures, struggles, and heart breaks. People will laugh, cry and think “I’m not the only one.” or “Damn, that shit was funny.” Like M.G. pointed out to me, no one is forcing any one to read what you have to say. They read it or they don’t. Yea, turns out that M.G. is as smart as she seemed.

We also touched on boys, but that’s a whole different post. One that might just stay in my head and never find its way to paper. Unless Germ wasn’t taking stats notes like I thought…crap.

Advertisements

Posted by

Vagabond hearts are thick as thieves and wander freely

Leave a Reply

Required fields are marked *.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s