Personalities in a Bottle

An old man stands behind a hard wood counter. Names are scratched deep into what used to be a flat surface; now, it is a small landscape, or a picture for the blind. But, neither the man, nor the counter is what is really important about this picture. You can picture any old man that you know. It could be your grandfather, or the man you thought looked a little like Santa on vacation last summer. No, those are not important. What you should focus on is the bottles that cover the walls behind him. There are perfume bottles that glow the color of the little sprouts of grass that pop up as the snow melts in spring, mason jars holding a red liquid that reminds people of cherries, and the typical mystical potion vials that are strangely clear. Any shape you can imagine could be found on those shelves in the store in any color you wanted.

You have been down this block of the road almost every day for so long that you can’t believe you missed this old man and his bottles. But there it is one day, and your curiosity wins. You push the door open and the man looks up from the counter.

“Good day, what is it you’ll be needing?” he turns, ready to head down the aisle to grab the bottle you specify. He pauses for a second on his toes before turning back around with a grin on his face. “Or, may I ask, is this your first time here? Ah yes, I can tell, you have that first time glimmer in your eyes. Don’t worry, we will find exactly what you need.” He walks down the far left row, whistling a tune you could have sworn you grew up hearing.

He comes back with a small notebook, bursting with sticky notes, and a black ballpoint pen. “Shall we begin? I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Question one: What was your most prized possession as a child? Now I know, doesn’t seem like it has any relevance, but trust me, these questions have never failed me before.”

As you answer his question he considers a pile of sticky notes in front of him, before grabbing a blue one and drawing a strange symbol on the note and sticking it in the center of the page.

“Where were you headed before you walked through that door?”

Again, his hand hovers over the rainbow of sticky notes before deftly pulling a yellow one off the pile and placing it in the upper right corner with no writing.

“When was the last time you cried?”

This time it is a green note, with a small circle placed half over the blue in the center.

“Final question, what are you looking for?”

His voice makes you hesitate as you consider what he means. Does he know you lost your favorite shirt yesterday? Is talking about relationships? What about money? But, there is something in his eyes that tells you exactly what he is asking.

He hesitates before pulling a small purple note and placing it lightly in the crease of the book. He studies the book and turns it around a few times.

“Now you see, these bottles hold the key to what many people think they need. Over there on the top shelf of the far row, you see those bottles that are a nice bright pink? Most people think that those are what they need, many times they ask for it without even realizing that it’s not what they want. You see those bottles are full of consideration. I know, the color deceives you, you were thinking pure and true love? Well, that’s not what I sell here. I don’t sell feelings here, you can go down a block if you want those. Here, I sell something much better, I sell personalities.”

“Although, now that I think about it, maybe I should go ahead and sell the compassion to those who ask, the world seems to be lacking that these days. Ahh, but that would go against the honesty side of my personality.”

“But, back to the point, personalities are so varied and people are always wanting the change them. They see someone who is intelligent and leading the world in the fight against hunger and they believe that just adding some of this,” he motions towards a perfume bottle shaped like an owl half filled with deep sea blue,” will give them the same success of that person.” He gives a small chuckle as he admires the bottle on the shelf. “No, what they miss is the kindness, and ingenuity side of that particular personality.”

“Personalities are as varied as the bottles in this shop. Everyone has a different mixture of different amounts, but I have yet to come across the perfect ‘recipe’ as I like to call them. So, why are you here today? What do you believe you need?”

A Mango Shaped Space Continued

So I had gotten the wrong book for Christmas. I was crushed. I barely even looked at the book and my parents quickly saw my reaction.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“…this isn’t the right book,” I mumbled. I was trying to keep my disappointment from showing since we had been taught to act like we loved the gift even if we hated it. But, my disappointment was winning.

“What was that?”

“It’s not the right book.”

“Of course it is.”

“No, I said Once Upon a Marigold, not, what ever this is.” I watched as my parents’ faces fell. I had to fix things, I couldn’t stand that look. “But, it’s ok I guess. I mean, it will probably be an ok book.”

“Marigold! That’s it!” My dad said. “Funny story. We were at Barnes and Noble and couldn’t remember the title so we asked someone. But all we could remember was that it was some kind of fruit or flower that started with ‘m.’ The seller suggested that book. She said it was an awesome book and we just assumed that mango was right.”

Then, there was talk about returning the mistaken book and buy the right one, but I was a child of immediate payoff. I couldn’t wait that long for the book I wanted, so I just accepted the wrong book. That was the best decision of my life.

I started reading it a few days later and fell in love. If you haven’t read the book, it’s short and I highly recommend it. That was when my mom caught me crying.

Looking back that was the first book I ever re-read. It’s the book that I always turned to if I couldn’t figure out what to read. Then, Wendy Mass answered my email. I can see now that the book was what inspired me to start writing. I wanted to have someone read what I wrote that many times. I could quote that book, I could tell you every scene and the characters were so unique. It inspired me to look at my sisters and try to figure out how I would describe them. I had to find out their little quirks like dying their hair every week, or keeping track of how many hamburgers they had eaten in their life.

So there you have it. The book that changed everything. And none of that would have happened if my parents didn’t have all the stress of youngish children around Christmas.

What books have you gotten by mistake, or without knowing how important they would be in your life?

New Beginnings

Since Easter was yesterday, I thought I would write a little about new beginnings. Plus, I have a few beginnings that have happened, or are soon. The biggest was a new idea for a story. It came out of nowhere. I went and saw David Mitchell speak at my school and the next day something just clicked and I had a great idea. Now, usually these don’t stick with me. Usually, I realize a few minutes/hours/days later that I don’t really like the story. But, this one stuck. I hit that point where I was obsessed with figuring it out. It felt and still feels like I already knew the story but I just have to coax it out. I realized just how excited I was when I was in class and couldn’t help but scribble five pages of notes down. I created a basic outline, formed a few characters, and ironed out how a few of the mechanisms would work out. It was amazing, and it was until after I had filled the pages that I realized I had felt a build up. All of the sudden, my head felt lighter and I relaxed because everything I was thinking about was down in a place where I could see it. I wouldn’t forget about that one small idea.

 

It was exciting to start a new story, but Easter has also given me the motivation I needed for my old writing. I am recharged (partially, because I am still recovering from getting sick) and ready to tackle the end of school, and my story. I am ready for the challenges that I know are ahead.

 

 

The Best Kind of Inspiration

I love those moments when you find inspiration. This morning, I wanted something to read while I ate breakfast and went into my parent’s study to pick up a book or magazine. The giant bookshelf that covers a good portion of one of the walls is filled with two rows of books. Growing up with this layout I could tell you where a few of my favorites are. The old text books are on the bottom two selves towards the right. The Lord of the Rings trilogy is a little above my head in a box set, spending its life next to The Little House on the Prairie (which I read first) and under the band of bright yellow National Geographic magazine collection. The collection of Edgar Allen Poe and books about King Arthur are about stomach level towards the left. There you can find The Mists of Avalon and The Crystal Cave. If you want something such as Jane Austen, or a Brontë just shift your gaze up.

The point is, I know this bookshelf. I have spent hours in front of it, trying to figure out which book I want to read. But this morning I grabbed one that I hadn’t seen before and rushed back to my cereal before it got soggy (because who can stand to eat soggy cereal?) The book I grabbed was The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield. My mom had gotten it as a Christmas gift and had really enjoyed it, but I hadn’t found the time during Christmas Break to read it. I’m already 100 pages in and loving it. I highly recommend it to everyone! But there was something about the writing, something magical about the way Setterfield wrote about reading a book that made me want to stop reading and start writing something new. The way she described getting lost in a book to the point of falling off of a wall, that made me want to string my own words together to capture someone that way.

Eventually I gave in and put the book down and just started writing. This might not lead anywhere, but at the same time, it could be the start of something new entirely. This is my favorite type of inspiration, the one that comes out of nowhere and forces you to stop what you are doing to create.

This is just a small blurb of what I wrote:

If life were a woman, I imagine she be the one who sits in the corner. Not that she is shy, or vindictive, but because she seems to like to leave things a mystery: Stories untold, feelings unconfirmed, questions unanswered. Her hair would be long, a sheet that flows in the wind, covers a bed, and blocks the light in a blanket fort. She would watch through eyes that were slightly larger, inviting you over to talk to her. Yet, it would be her voice and what she told you that would confuse you. She has all of the answers, but for some reason you can only understand some of the words. Perhaps she switches between languages, and based on your knowledge of different languages you can understand a certain amount, but you can never fully understand everything she has to tell you.