Meredith Turits
A twenty-something, Brooklyn-based writer/magazine editor's chronicle of her first novel, peppered with thoughts on the words and streets that make her heart race.

Twitter: @meredithturits

Every time I walk into a drugstore, or past a newsstand or a hair salon, I’m reminded that my picture—the picture above—is in many, many homes and hands of people whom I’ve never met, and the vast majority of whom I’ll never know. Strange. I think of people I knew eons ago, lives ago, who might pick it up by happenstance, flip to the masthead. Do they flip onto the next page, not recognizing me nor caring to stop? Do they pause with eyes wide and think, I once knew her or I can’t believe how much she’s changed or something else entirely? I know I’ve grown when I can ask the question, and instead of worrying about the answer, keep on going with everything in me. M

Every time I walk into a drugstore, or past a newsstand or a hair salon, I’m reminded that my picture—the picture above—is in many, many homes and hands of people whom I’ve never met, and the vast majority of whom I’ll never know. Strange.

I think of people I knew eons ago, lives ago, who might pick it up by happenstance, flip to the masthead. Do they flip onto the next page, not recognizing me nor caring to stop? Do they pause with eyes wide and think, I once knew her or I can’t believe how much she’s changed or something else entirely?

I know I’ve grown when I can ask the question, and instead of worrying about the answer, keep on going with everything in me.

M

Saturday, July 16th 2011 4:20pm