"When you hit a wall, just kick in it."

[Warning :::::: I wrote this late at night, and it gets a little too self-reflective, so bear with me :::::: Warning]

To be an artist.
I have always revered the life of an artist. Maybe not the being starved, penniless part - but the part where you are able to create things, and comment on society or mankind or whatever - that is what I covet. To be different, to make a difference, to touch people with your gift.

These lofty proclamations that I make to myself (and sometimes to you) like writing everyday or picking up a paintbrush again or just being someone who can think outside the box - these promises exhilarate and stifle me. My creative soul is at odds with my Type-A personality. I am practical and safe but I wish to be spontaneous.

I like art because it gives me the opportunity to let go. When I took art classes in college I would get paint everywhere and I didn't stress over every detail. This person who made non-stop lists all day long - short of scheduling bathroom breaks - could not be the same person as the one dancing to her iPod in the dimly lit studio at 1 a.m., splashing paint all over the place, could she? Can she?

Just Kids by Patti Smith unearthed all these queries and brought them to the forefront of my mind again. And it validated my persistent want for a creative partner. It's funny because, just the other day I was talking to my friends about wanting someone to help me stay on top of my writing. Someone I could send drafts back and forth to, commenting on each others' work. An accomplice to constructively criticize and praise. I was just thinking that if I did so well and was motivated by accountability with the gym maybe I could transfer that helpfulness to my writing. Yes - I have you guys to keep my accountable - but unless you badger me and give me that "We have to do this! We will feel greatly accomplished afterward! Don't let me down" face - it unfortunately doesn't have the same effect.


Patti and Robert were lovers, partners and friends. They pushed each other to be the best versions of their creative selves. They understood each other on a deeper level. They loved each other through everything. Even when they didn't understand some choices, they were still respectful and supportive. It is this that I crave the most. A creative soulmate.

Soulmates. God, that sounds so cliche and naive. But this is different. I'm not talking about the "soulmates" in movies or books. I'm talking about those people in your life that just get you. There isn't just one out there for you. I think there are a select few who will fit the bill. One soulmate may be totally different from the next depending on where you are in your life. But essentially they all do the same thing - accept you. They never try to change you. What they do is push you to be the best version of yourself  - the one you constantly think about being.

I guess my question is, is this too much to ask for?

Dear Diary,

When I was younger I kept many diaries. It was there that I would go to write out my frustrations and exclamations about the day. These were private "I hate it when..." or "I have a crush on..." notes that I know would never be read by others.

Unless you take one of your journals to a Girl Scout overnight at an aquarium and some, let's just say, nosy girls decide to read it (Ok. It was not the smartest idea to bring it along to the overnight, but you live, you learn.)

Now, imagine those naive, overly dramatic, pubescent entries being read by millions of people?
That is what I kept thinking when I was reading The Red Leather Diary by Lily Koppel. Florence Wolfson, the original diary writer, had kept a daily account for five years in a red leather diary gifted to her when she was 14.

Some entries were full of typical teenage angst, but more often than not I would forget that I was delving into the mind of a girl. Ahead of her time, the Florence from the diary would have been at home in the 21st century. She was an artist and a writer. An independent thinker who did not worry herself with judgments from her peers. I admired her for surrendering to her desires. And it didn't hurt that the New York she described kind of reminded me of what I think Paris is like. Art and sexuality rounding every corner.

What I enjoyed the most was Florence's passion. When you're young, the world is like a blank canvas, waiting to burst with the life you choose. I don't think it's a secret that I am aspiring to be one of those artistic types (lots of fine arts classes in college, but I still can't shed my obsessive need to be organized). But I always have that nagging feeling, "Yea you like to do all of this, but are you any good at it?" I was thinking about this while envy crept in, when Lily Koppel said something that stopped me, "My feelings of uncertainty about whether I had it in me to become a writer, my striving for recognition and search for love, connected me to the young woman of the diary (pg. 277)." I felt relieved. I wasn't alone in my self-doubt.

At 14, Florence was fearlessly reaching for her dreams and succeeding. I really don't think my blubbering diary entries about my mother's injustices of the day or my boy crush of the moment were sprinkled with poignant advice or enticing sexual encounters when I was 14. I think I was still into the Spice Girls, so the only thing you might have learned from reading my diary would have been awesome lyrics or French curse words (they couldn't be Spanish my mom understood those).

Read this book, it is surprising and unique. And maybe go through your old diaries, censor what you must, because you never know who will get their hands on it and make it into a best-seller.