Bloody Brooklyn

-A.B.

Play It Passionate

As a nerdy Jewish high school girl in Livingston, New Jersey, I couldn’t get close to the group of guys everyone else found attractive. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. “It” boys owned the hallways in Varsity jackets and low-slung jeans. I tried hard, but couldn’t see what made them the ones I should want to be with.

When I was a freshman at Tufts University, there was a guy I’ll call Jimmy. 5’9” with thick lips, long lashes, black hair, slight build. He was kind and sometimes funny and socially awkward in an endearing way. A nice acquaintance, nothing more.

Then he picked up a guitar.

When Jimmy played gigs at the campus center, singing his own songs or covering “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” he sounded romantic and full of promise. He became someone interesting. His allure was not the result of my strong Captain n Coke or sleep deprivation from the Philip Roth midterm essays I’d been writing until 3 a.m. He was hot because music was his passion. Eyes closed, houselights dimmed, he spilled his soul. He sang with conviction. Jimmy now works in finance.

I was certain at a young age my passion was to play with language. Post college, I’m trying to discover how to make my passion a profession.

I’m afraid if I follow my dreams, I’ll ruin them. I worry by trying to make writing functional, not fun, I’ll end up forgetting what I loved.

I need to get my voice out there somehow. I cannot imagine doing anything else, but I need to make a living. Hope is fading as I hear over and over that now isn’t a good time. NOW is the only time I have. While I try to forget fear, I wait for someone to realize I’m not fucking around.

=Carly Okyle