Blood Tangent | Sarai Nissan
When I was in elementary school, I wanted to be a writer, and I took this very seriously. I proclaimed to my father that I would go to Columbia because it had the best college-level writing program. I was 10. Needless to say, things didn’t exactly pan out.
Around seventh grade my career path started to get really serious. I began signing up for art electives. I went to an alternative school called “Horizons” (I’m gagging). It was a hippie school—in every sense of the word—and I didn’t learn anything useful besides how to draw and paint, so I dropped the whole writing idea and took every art class I could. My art teacher was literally my best friend, and I still have very fond memories of her to this day.
In high school, no surprise, I spent every day in art classes. My art teacher was not my best friend, but I was in the art room every single day. I was accepted into the best art schools in the country. But unfortunately, I wasn’t born to a Kennedy or a Kardashian so when graduation came along I opted for my cheapest choice: the University of Colorado Denver.
In the first few years of college, I rekindled my love for writing while being an art major. I mainly wrote weird poetry or prose that has never, ever gotten accepted to a literary zine that I submit to every year, but that is beside the point. When I began writing for the Sentry, for some reason journalism, specifically music journalism, just clicked with some recessed part in my brain.
I am not a prodigious painter at Pratt or MICA or a prolific writer in New York City; I am a photography major, still in Colorado, working as a music editor for a newspaper. Ten-year-old me would be utterly appalled. Well, not really, I think we would agree it is a compromise.
I am fairly sure I could never write a book—well, maybe a memoir due to the literally endless well of dysfunction I can draw upon. So in the meantime, keep an eye out for my upcoming autobiography: Some Name That Was Witty and Brilliant I Stole From A Song or a T-Shirt and Now I Can’t Remember It: A Memoir