Monday, August 2, 2010

My Inner Nine Year Old is Screaming at Me

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a marine biologist. I mean, I also had a dog-eared copy of Emily Dickinson's COMPLETE POEMS, and I'd like to think that that part of my Inner-Nine-Year-Old is okay with my career choices. But the part that wanted to go in the ocean and learn about whales? She's none too pleased that I sucked at high school chemistry, opted out of honors physics, and took the liberal arts path.

And during Shark Week, she is seriously pissed. Like, whoa, grown-up-self, you could be out there cage-diving with Mike Rowe and that Survivorman guy with fancy freaking cameras and satellite shark tagging thingies being all like LOOK AT ME I KNOW SOME SHARKS! Instead, you are sitting back on your grown-up sofa with technology no more advanced than your laptop being all LOOK AT ME I MAKE WORDS.

Yeah, whatever, Inner Nine-Year-Old. I know. Every year during Shark Week I sort of wish I wasn't a writer, too. I sort of wish I was a writer-cum-ichthyologist. Ichthyologists freaking study SHARKS and sharks are the coolest things ever. The other night I was sitting around with my boyfriend being all HEY DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHARK CAN GO IN FRESH WATER AND EAT PEOPLE IN JERSEY? BULL SHARK, BABY! And he was all uh...

Watching The Discovery Channel (and The History Channel and NatGeo etc.) is totally inspiring. I got into cryptozoology via television documentaries. Several years later my fascination with crypdits lead to the first draft of a YA novel that I'm working on RIGHT NOW. And Shark Week? Crap, man. That just inspires me all over the place. For example, here is a picture of a mohawked shark plushie I made in 2007.
I am THAT into Shark Week. And to appease my Inner-Nine-Year-Old, I have no doubt that I will one day have to write a shark book. Shark poems (yes, I've written them) and shark plushies won't do. Later this week I'm making a shark dress to wear to a Shark Week-y event at a local theatre. I'm sure this offering will not suffice, either.

In the mean time, I have pulled the book SHARK GIRL by Kelly Bingham from my shelf. I've wanted to read this book for ages because 1. it's a verse novel and I love verse novels and 2. it is called SHARK GIRL, but I just haven't gotten around to it yet. What better time than Shark Week to curl up with a highly-praised novel about a teen shark attack survivor? None, say I.

Anyway, I'd love to know what your Inner-Nine-Year-Old wants from you. Or what sort of shark-related antics you're up to this week. Holy crap, so much awesome!


Cholisose said...

Ah, sharks are pretty cool. Unfortunately I can't really remember much about what I liked when I was nine. Pretty sure I played ice hockey at that point, though I don't recall hoping to make it to the pros. I also played cello by then I believe, though that was just for school. I've been pretty complacent most my life, I suppose. =P

Chris said...

When I was nine, I wanted to be an artist. I was freaking awesome at all things art all through high school. But video games were more fun, and I went that route, programming video games for a living.

Dawn Embers said...

I wanted to be a marine biologist too! That's the first thing I ever told my family I wanted to be. I even remember where I was when I made the decision, my great grandparent's ranch. Something about living in Wyoming made me want to work in the ocean.

Sarah Enni said...

I totally wanted to be a marine biologist. Dude -- the ocean. Done. Please PLEASE share pics of the shark dress!!!

Teh Awe-Some Sauce said...

I wanted to be a marine biologist when I was nine, too. Then I wanted to be an archeologist. I blame Flipper and Indiana Jones for my job choices, respectively.

BTW, I met a marine biologist once. He was the most booooorrrrrrrriiiinnnnngggggg person I've ever met. He spent twenty minutes talking about ALGAE. When I met him, my inner nine year old screamed BOY, WE REALLY DODGED A BULLET.

Please don't tell her about Shark Week. said...

Wonderful post! Writing style, terrific. Thanks for the smile on my face! My inner 9-year-old..hhmmm. Not a pretty picture. Since you like Emily Dickinson, I looked to see if there was a nine-year-old anything. Nada. Not until she was 12. In the first known letter, "...the Hens get along nicely the chickens grow very fast I am afraid they will be so large that you cannot perceive them with the naked Eye..."

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