Arroz con Pollo

Contrary to popular belief, Arroz con Pollo is not simply chicken, rice, and queso. 

Wait, you already knew there was more to it than that?  Do me a favor and pretend you didn’t, that way you can share an aha moment with me at the end of this post. 

Anyways, Arroz con Pollo is actually full of all the good stuff that gets your system going, yet also slows you down.  This slow down has me wholeheartedly motivated to do nothing but lay in bed the rest of the night. 

I write this to you as I contemplate going to the gym.  This would mean a 3 day streak of working out, which is how long it takes to make a streak with someone on Snapchat.  I have a hard enough time committing to sending someone a picture every day, let alone making myself sweat on purpose.  But hey, as long as I can watch HGTV while pedaling away, I guess I’m good to go.

whatrutalkingabout

All of this blabber has actually been a terrible lead up to what I really want to talk about: writing.  You see, someone asked me if I actually wanted to be a writer today— if I’d actually thought about it.  This took me off guard, considering I just spent the last four years working towards an English Writing degree. With zero tolerance for that question and a soft press on the End Call button, my phone screen went blank— but my mind was racing. 

“Have you actually sat down and thought about being a writer?”  (x1,000)

I screamed into the patterned throw-pillow next to me before grabbing my laptop and opening Word.  My first response: how could I incorporate this into a story?  WWVD (What Would Vonnegut Do?)

At first I started thinking up plot points for a bildungsroman— a high-school girl wanting to go to college and major in Creative Writing, and everyone (as is the fate of arts and humanities majors) doubts her.  She would blossom in college, and she’d be an amazing writer at the end of it all.  Who doesn’t love a happy ending?

I had everything figured out— the characters, the setting, and the sub-context all danced in my head— but I couldn’t write it.  I can’t.  Even now, my fingers hover above a dimly lit keyboard, afraid of what I’ll type next.

Needless to say, the encounter was enough to lock me down in Crying Mode.  Panic overcame me, just as it did on graduation day last week— the fear of no one taking me seriously as a writer and of having nowhere to go broke me down. 

But here I am now, presenting myself to you as a writer.  I’ll formally apologize to the Arroz con Pollo for thinking it was so simple; there is so much more to it that makes it a glorious dish, beloved by everyone I know.  Now, it’s my turn to prove there’s more to me than meets the eye.   

Come along as I eat more food, allude to more Vonnegut, and curse about dumb things more than I should.  It’ll be a funky ride, and I want to ride it with you.

That sounds kind of erotic, but I’m going with it.  ’Til next time, y’all.

Lizzie

  

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