The Observant

I wasn't the smartest kid in school, But I was observant.

I'd watch seemingly ordinary kids play games while I sat on the swings listening to Seal on my bright yellow Walkman. As Kiss From a Rose played through my headphones, I watched as a group played dodgeball off to the left, where the pavement met the grass, where we usually played soccer. The basketball hoop loomed over hard and soft, whereas another smattering of kids played rounds. Another group played foursquare, hopscotch, and jump rope with the plastic beaded ropes we used during PE over to the right of the sandbox where I sat. I would sometimes be there on the swings and not participate because I was the quiet kid. I was always in my head, even when I was chatty, but being chatty was a defense mechanism; I'd make up happy things in my life.

I tried to be normal. 

I wanted to be normal, even though I didn't know what that entailed; I  craved normalcy.

The truth behind my quiet nature, my chatty façade, and the listening to music on a swing and watching others have fun; was that I was lonely. Even on a playground full of kids, I was alone, always in my head, forever hearing the echoes of someone telling me that no one liked me. That the kids who said they were my friends were only sorry for me.

I'd only be invited because everyone else was, too, not because they liked me.

I wasn't smart enough, I wasn't pretty enough, and with every roundabout jab, I truly felt like I wasn't enough.

There were times when I had this fire light up inside me, and I didn't care what the adults told me about myself. Maybe I wasn't bright enough, but I was still me, so that counted for something.

Right?

Then there were the times when I began to doubt myself and my worth and started to realize that maybe they were right. That perhaps I was bugging people instead of them actually liking me.

But then I was back to another turn of shaking off the negativity and putting myself out there.

I would draw, I would read, I would create. I would play sports and learn everything about it. I would lag behind in classwork, mostly because I was bored out of my mind, but if you put me in charge of real-world problem-solving, hell yeah, I was your girl.

I learned I was a hands-on person, so a desk job would never be something I excelled at. The mundane paper pusher life was never meant to be mine until I started writing.

But when I write?

I'm not just at my desk at home, in my studio, at a coffee shop, at the bookstore, or in the car. I'm in New York City sipping coffee in Central Park, watching the joggers jog by while I fall in love again after my husband's death. I'm in Las Vegas trying to crack the code of my father's deception and who might have had my mother killed, and now he's after me. I'm in Atlanta working in homicide, trying to track down the killer I've only seen in my dreams.

I'm living in another world.

And when I was a kid? 

I lived in my head.

I am not the smartest and will always agree with that statement, but I am observant. I am willing to work to achieve something more significant, and damnit, I'm eager to learn.

I'm open to new learning opportunities and will read everything on the subject to overcome the voice in my head telling me I'm not enough.

Deep down, I know that's bullcrap, but I'm still that kid, sitting on the sidelines wanting to be normal. Even though I know I'm much better off being the creative being I've become over the years, there was always that small yearning for inclusion. So with that yearning, I twisted it into my fiction, created friends and families between the lines, and ingrained it in the margins.

In literature, I'll never be alone, my story will be told, and I will forever be full of that sassy shit my younger self seemed to bounce back on that kept pushing me forward and never giving up. 

I may not be the smartest, but I am, and will always be, observant.