In the shop, you watch
my every move; I watch too.
But you never change.
I love this note card. I've loved it since we got them in a few months ago, the new summery cards. She certainly is the epitome of summer with her amazing hat, brightly colored outfit, fantastic shoes. But it's not the colors that make me linger on the note bay, not her shoes that catch my attention as I refill pencil sharpeners and leather wallets. It's her.
Was she real? She had to be, once. The way she's sitting, the curve of her shoulders, the look of absolute contentment on her face; these are signs of life. Her hair is perfectly curled, short and trendy for today's standards (this is a photograph from a real book in the Bodleian, in case you were wondering. 1938), her eyebrows perfectly plucked, lips super red. A friend of mine says that you can tell a lot about a person from the corners of their mouths. Look at hers, they go so far up, like her smile will never go away, perfectly etched into her round face. I bet she even smiles in her sleep. Her top looks effortlessly tied in the back, like she's the kind of girl who just gets up in the morning, picks up a random rag, turns it into a shirt and pulls it off like it's nothing. The way she's sitting interests me as well; she looks like she's in mid position. It's sort of a shy position, her knees up like her shoulders, like she's in mid shrug. Her hands are in mid wring, like she just caught the eye of that boy she's been admiring on the beach for so long. But least us forget; she is just a girl. This picture was taken from the Monster Book for Girls, not women; a book for children. On the back it says it's one of many anonymous pictures, meaning the artist and subject will both be anonymous forever.
So yes, I suppose I have a crush on a note card woman. I think my sanity is slipping.
But really, this is normal behavior, for me anyway. I always tend to be interested in the idea of inanimate things having souls, coming to life and talking. Both my major book projects are about similar things, both along these same lines. My tutor even commented on it in my last class, that I seem to have this fascination with things coming to life, with imaginary friends and split personalities; people who are not alive, who don't exist. I like to make them exist. He's right and I wonder why.
I wrote a story for the course about a girl who still talks to her dead brother (two like that now that I think about it). I wrote one about a boy who decides he doesn't exist and creates an imaginary girl to take his place. I have a novel idea bout a person with a split personality, basically being ones own best friend. I'm a one trick pony.
Oh well. I honestly think that seeing Toy Story when I was 8 (ohmyGodIwas8whenToyStorycameout) had a serious effect on my psyche. Before that movie came out, I was already convinced that my toys were alive. I used to tell all my dolls and stuffed animals every night that even though I slept with Samantha (American Girl Doll) and Izabel (stuffed elephant made of old table cloths) that that did not mean I loved the rest any less. I had a serious concern that some of my toys would feel left out and think I was playing favorites. So no wonder I write what I write. They say to write what you know, and write what you like, and I guess that's just what I'm doing.
No wonder I love the movies Bogus and Heart and Souls. Toy Story 3 made me cry, like, real tears that hurt (ask Nicole, she was there). I talk all the time about the responsibility of YA authors, or anyone who writes for children, and I talk about it because it's so important. I'm living proof; the things I was into as a kid have 100% shaped who I am today. Assuring my stuffed animals of my equal and unwavering love lead to me falling head over heals for a woman in a note card. That sounded a little less crazy in my head. But only a little.
I wrote this blog because Beth told me too. Also, because I won't be around for the next 12 days. First London in an hour, then Paris the next day. On the third we're running off to Vienna to stay at Shobha's house for the rest of the week. I can't wait, and also can't figure out what I've forgotten to pack. I'm sure there's something.