Passions, Part 1

Am I an expert at anything? Nothing that I can think of really. I used to call myself, jokingly, a Jill-of-all-trades, but I never excelled at any one thing in particular.

What am I passionate about? I have spent a lifetime trying to figure this out. There are a lot of things I really enjoy doing, but nothing really lights my bonfire, if you know what I mean.

I enjoy baking and cooking, trying out new recipes, creating my own – even though I am an extremely picky eater. I used to enter recipe contests, and even won a couple. In fact, I won the very first contest I ever entered for Kraft Marshmallows, creating a $1,000 cheesecake with a home-made lemon curd topping. Another cheesecake, pumpkin this time, with a spun sugar garnish, brought me a third prize in a Decadent Dessert category.

But the past couple of years, the physical ailments associated with the fibromyalgia – joint pains, lower back pain, headaches, and so on – have taken away some of the joy of cooking.

I love playing the piano. I think I started lessons when I was about five and continued on for many years. But I wasn’t a serious student and didn’t want to take the time to learn the technical side. In fact, I usually only practiced to get out of other household chores such as washing the dishes.

I also struggled with memorization, disliked recitals, and never participated in any of the state competitions with my peers. I did go back for further lessons, in my twenties, and enjoyed the opportunity to learn more involved, intricate pieces. I remember my teacher, Mr. Pisani, saying, after one vigorous session with Beethoven’s Appassionata (Sonata in F minor, Opus 57) that people would have a hard time imagining this “mild-mannered secretary” (as I was then) playing with such intensity and depth.

Looking back at some of the pieces I played, oh so long ago, I wonder how I ever did it. The same pains which inhibit my ability to stand in the kitchen for long periods of time also inhibit my ability to sit at the keyboard and play. And my brain just doesn’t seem to compute music the same way. My fingers definitely don’t move as swiftly over the keys as they once did and complicated fingering patterns and rhythms sometimes leave me befuddled. Integrating the right hand with the left can also be quite a challenge now. I am, however, grateful to my church for allowing me to play during services on a regular basis, because it gives me an incentive to learn new and, oftentimes, more demanding pieces.

I love to write. Mostly poetry, introspective and self-aggrandizing, out of my recurring depression. I like to think of myself as an elegant writer, but don’t really think that my writing is anything special, certainly not up there with the likes of Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Dorothy Parker, or contemporary poet Billy Collins, Ted Kooser, Louise Glück.

Even the poets who inhabit our local open mics intimidate me. Most have self-published chapbooks, springing from their innate self-confidence, or have been published by small, private presses. These are, for the most part, people who graduated with degrees in English Lit or similar majors, many obtaining Masters degrees, who became teachers, counselors, lawyers. I don’t feel that I belong in their world, and it holds me back. So mostly, I write for myself, and for the occasional kudo and pat on the back. I will say that a “well done” from my dad means more to me than anything and quite often brings me to tears.

I used to think I could write novels, or at least, I thought I wanted to. I guess, maybe, I still do. I just don’t think I have any interesting stories inside of me that are dying to get out. I have tried everything from mysteries to science fiction/fantasy, historical romance to spy thrillers – you name it. I have stacks and stacks and stacks of paper and notebooks to prove it. I have yet to finish one.

I take that back. In the sixth grade, I wrote a serialized mystery about a girl and a horse, and read a chapter over the school’s intercom every Friday. That, and the short stories I turned in for creating writing assignments from Junior High through community college were the only things I ever finished.

I guess I just don’t have the drive that other writers have. The need is there, but not the passion. At this point in my life, I’m not sure there’s enough spark left inside of me to light a passion, even if I could figure out what it was.

(to be continued)

© Melanie Turner
July 30, 2009