It seems my true nature is one of an outsider, which is why belonging has always been a curious notion to me. I don’t at first appear to be fringe because I’m social and pleasing to the eye but people figure it out soon enough. I won’t put my hand over my heart to pledge allegiance to the flag. I don’t like fireworks and I don’t eat pizza.
I am not afraid to say – or write – what I think.
My first husband knew I was a loose cannon and he was always edgy around me. My second and last husband enjoys living on the edge with me.
Where I belong – or what I belong to – I still don’t know. My sense of place in this world is elusive. This unknown used to cause me angst; now, as I dig down deeper to write about my life, it gives me purpose.
I could call myself a writer or a wife or a mother or a suburbanite but not one or even all the adjectives combined tell me what I need to know.
Leaving Manhattan three years ago gave me license to noodle with this question. Nobody ever thought I’d leave the city – or city life. A move to an old farmhouse on nearly an acre of land in a river town 45 minutes from Manhattan brought the question into focus. That led to a column I write in the New York Post called Burb Appeal, in which I share my musings and experiences of transplanted city-girl living in the burbs.
I have a writing teacher who says I haven’t really revealed myself in these columns. I was at first surprised by her assessment. I thought I’d aired lots of details about my personal life but my teacher is right. The columns are just the revving sound the car makes when you put the key in the ignition. It’s when I started writing my memoir that I put my foot on the accelerator. So far it’s been a bumpy ride.
I am not afraid to say – or write – what I think.
My first husband knew I was a loose cannon and he was always edgy around me. My second and last husband enjoys living on the edge with me.
Where I belong – or what I belong to – I still don’t know. My sense of place in this world is elusive. This unknown used to cause me angst; now, as I dig down deeper to write about my life, it gives me purpose.
I could call myself a writer or a wife or a mother or a suburbanite but not one or even all the adjectives combined tell me what I need to know.
Leaving Manhattan three years ago gave me license to noodle with this question. Nobody ever thought I’d leave the city – or city life. A move to an old farmhouse on nearly an acre of land in a river town 45 minutes from Manhattan brought the question into focus. That led to a column I write in the New York Post called Burb Appeal, in which I share my musings and experiences of transplanted city-girl living in the burbs.
I have a writing teacher who says I haven’t really revealed myself in these columns. I was at first surprised by her assessment. I thought I’d aired lots of details about my personal life but my teacher is right. The columns are just the revving sound the car makes when you put the key in the ignition. It’s when I started writing my memoir that I put my foot on the accelerator. So far it’s been a bumpy ride.
View my new web site at: www.tinatraster.com
1 comment:
very appealing
bk
Post a Comment