Twisted no more

Before I landed my dream job as a teacher, I wanted to be Jessica Zafra. Well, not be Jessica Zafra (not counting the dark-rimmed glasses I sported in college), but I wanted to have her job, which combines two of my favorite activities: writing and bitching (and if you've been faithfully reading my blog (and if you have, I thank and pity you), you can probably tell I love indulging in both).

When I saw Tw7sted on bookstore shelves a few weeks ago, I eagerly snatched up a copy and made a beeline for the cashier. Zafra hasn't come out with a book in a while, so I couldn't wait to get my hands on this one. I have all her books, which I started collecting in high school (the bitch in me began emerging around this time, thanks to someone's influence, hehe) and I always read them with a mix of enjoyment and envy (thinking, "damn she's good" and "damn I could be this good" at the same time). So I was disappointed when, after reading the first few pieces in Tw7sted, I found myself sensing a mix of detachment and disenchantment instead.

At first I couldn't figure out if it was because her writing style had changed (but not much, as far as I could tell), or because I as a reader have changed (well, I guess that's the obvious explanation). Ray Bradbury once wrote that cruelty is much more fascinating to the young, and kindness is a preoccupation of age. Perhaps Zafra's nasty appeal gradually lost its charm as I grew *gulp* older and came to terms with my life rage. Why does angst seem to dissipate as a person matures? I suppose as the years creep up on someone, she prefers to spend her (remaining) time on things more worthwhile than anger and antagonism. Like appreciation... like fulfillment... like love.

Passion has always been both the best and worst quality I possess. I feel fiercely, and that goes for positive and negative emotions, which gives me the capacity to get hurt as easily as I can hurt. I don't want to think of myself as mellowing down at such an early age, but maybe at 24 I have already used up most of the scathing cynicism that marked my tweens (for non-Tolkien readers: ''tweens'' refers to the ages from the latter ''teen'' numbers to the early twenties). But then again, my friends say that I was born 30, so that means I'm really 54, which is just about right for cruelty to conk out and kindness to start kicking in.

Despite everything, I would still love to have Zafra's job, getting paid to write and gripe about anything and anyone (but because I've been defanged I think my bark would have much less bite). And I will still buy and read Zafra's books; I just don't think I will enjoy or envy her as much anymore, because damn, I am good... and that's not so bad.