Literary Devices.

Many of us like to talk like we know what we're saying. Half the time, I don't think we do.

It's a rarity, those who do. What's more astonishing is finding someone who is not only academically on point, but someone who is unaware of her bounty, someone who places little importance on her individuality rather than the information itself. When I find someone like this, it's like receiving an unexpected present that I doubt I deserve. I have yet to master my awkwardness around easy brilliance.

Perhaps it's because of this that I have recently plunged myself face first into books. The evolution of books is a mystery to me. I am fascinated by the writer, and how a writer creates, because I don't understand it. I know that no two writers are the same, they each have their own developed ways of reaching their goals. I also know that usually the journey to the finished product is more fulfilling and eye-opening. I especially know the feeling that many writers probably have thinking a project is done, but never really done. How do you know when to walk away?

I want to believe that writing is extremely intuitive, and I know that in some cases this is mostly true. I like to focus on the intuitive aspect in everything. Intuition is strong in me(clearly, modesty sometimes takes a backseat), and creatively my little driving force has rarely steered me astray. But as lazy as I would like to be, every work of genius is just that: work. Conversely, I eagerly wish to be one of the tireless artists. The artists who eats, sleeps, dreams her work. As I've shifted my priorities in life over the past year, I have seen that part of me evolve and begin to come to the surface, but I have a long way to go still.

I was praised for my academic writing growing up, while secretly feeling like a fraud. Growing up in a household of writers can do that to you, I guess. I knew that I enjoyed writing and despised revision. I felt my literary work was one-dimensional. I left literary research to the rest of my family members, pursuing fine art instead. When my sister and my novelist step-father were in meetings with other young writers, I was off drawing pictures of Victorian ladies. I could blame this on my age, but that would be too easy. My older sister had taken to writing like a puppy to fetch, and it was clear to me that my step-father was happy to take her under his nerdy wing. I went to find my own niche. Was I afraid I wasn't smart enough? Or that there was only room for one of us? Perhaps she experiences the same feelings when she abandoned drawing (despite her undeniably unique style) once I started getting recognition for my impeccably drawn red hearts in kindergarten. Why fight when you know someone is better? It's a sad way to look at endeavor.

My own writing veers towards personal dissection, which quite frankly reminds me of my mother. This, you are allowed to assume, is not a good thing. I am afraid that if I write about my life, it will be obvious how presumptuous and self-involved I am. I do not want to follow in some of the sadder footsteps of my talented female predecessors, who despite their given gifts have essentially disgraced themselves professionally in the eyes of others. I refuse to become a woman who's life's work is piecing together the meaning of her life's work.

That said, does anyone have any suggestions for reading material? I need some easy brilliance...