Dear Diary,

1 Jul

When I was a little girl, I kept a diary. It held my deepest, darkest, most intimate secret…  
I John Schneider. 
That was it.
I don’t know why I had that declaration hidden away in a pocket-sized book with a complicated lock on it. It wasn’t even a secret. Not in the true sense of the word anyway. I was pretty obvious about my infatuation. I stared in rapture at the television whenever The Dukes of Hazard came on. ‘Quiet Man’ spun eternal on my Fisher Price record player. I had John Schneider’s face on my pajamas, for goodness sake. My love for him was not a secret, but it was intense.
Over the years I have fallen head over heels for the likes of Michael J. Fox, Kirk Cameron, and Tommy Puett. To this day, I’m still actively crushing on a handful of celebrities. I mean, seriously… Ryan Reynolds? The man is crazy-fine. Who doesn’t fantasize about playing ‘The Flight of the Bumblebee’ up and down his magnificent abs? But as incredibly beautiful in his perfection as he may be, if I had a diary today, ‘Ryan Reynolds’ would not be the name scribed behind the ‘I’ and the ‘‘ on the petal-pink paper… Eminems would.
Rest assured, I don’t want to marry the man (though I do have this crazy urge to bake him a cake, and I have absolutely no idea why), and you can say what you want about his vile subject matter, but there is no denying the fact that the man has mad skills. Not only is he a lyrical savant of unmatched superiority, he also exudes a feral, fiery passion that is explosive in its execution. I would kill to be able to harness even a touch of that raw power and wrap it into a character that is so intense, so assiduously alive, that he literally leaps off the page and possesses your soul as you’re reading.
 
The novel I have out on submission right now was born from my desire to capture that essence, though you’d never guess it by reading it. It didn’t quite end up being the story I first imagined it would be, and I only have myself to blame. I had Eminem in my mind and his rage in my heart when I sat down to write, my fingers poised over the keyboard, destined to annihilate all lingering doubts of my literary genius with my prolific prose. However, alongside Eminem’s curse-laden, hate-filled rants, Michael Franti’s happy sunshine was playing in heavy rotation on my iPod as I composed. My main character is their bastard love child.
Scary, I know. But she’s adorable.
The novel ended up being a romantic-comedy, quite the polar opposite of what I’d imagined, but it is, by far, my personal favorite. It might get published, and it might not. Only time will tell. But even if my little ditty is destined to spend eternity gathering dust in my hard drive, it will hold a sweet spot in my heart forever. Illogical? Irrational? Downright, utterly ridiculous? Absolutely! That’s why I love it so.
I think every writer has a story like that, one that they adore above all others for reasons that make absolutely no sense at all. They may not contain your best writing. They may ramble and wander and deviate from the path, but that’s what makes them great. Whether born from an ill-advised celebrity crush or inspired by the erotic dance of a tumble-weed on a deserted highway, a story written from the heart reveals your truth. Cherish the discovery.
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