Writing Challenge?

My wonderfully dead fish has done wonders. I have more room for books on the shelf where she was, and I have more time because I don't have to gently drop pellets into her bowl every night. But seriously, the biggest response to that situation was that I wanted to write about it and I want to be more committed to commitments, writing in particular.

I am thinking of doing a challenge, which is insane, I have to say, but very tempting. Apparently there is a National November Writing Month challenge for writers to write 50,000 words of fiction in the month of November. To give you an idea, this is about 2 1/2 single space pages per day. I am happy if I accomplish one single space page in a sitting. Just a thought.

Friends and Fish

I have several reasons for returning to this blog. The most pertinent is that a wonderful friend told me he would kill me if I did not keep writing it--somehow this threat was actually inspiring... Another ironically encouraging event is the death of my fish, who was only a year old. I am not sure whether it was the shadowed location I'd placed her in, the cloudy water (which I've been told beta's can handle!), or a natural lifespan. Regardless, walking exhausted into my bedroom to be greeted by a horrific smell, my dad telling me something in my room must be dead, and finding that it was not a mouse or a cat producing such a strong stench, but my poor tiny little fish who couldn't even float to the top because she was held down by a giant shell, which was meant to be a place under which she could have some privacy, yes, all affected me. As I curled up on my bed wanting to throw up because I just haven't had enough sleep lately to handle the trauma or to refrain myself from panicking to my dad, who graciously transported my fish from the bowl to the toilet (luckily I was sane enough to notice that my dad purposely did not flush the toilet), I recognized the importance of order and the side effects of personal derangement: fish die, I panic, my mom has to learn that fish's eyes often bulge when they die, and my dad has to come to the rescue, in other words deal with his 23 year-old daughter who lives in the basement. And in the chaos, I don't write. Me not writing is disorder at this point, and thanks to friends and fish, I'd like to continue not only to write, but to post on this blog sporadically and often enough that when I don't write friends will threaten, encourage, or a little of both to get me back on track.

Play it as it lies.

This week is a landmark, or at least it will be if it marks anything significant. In my last post, I wrote of how I have cut back my hours so that I can fill in those missing hours with writing. This is the week in which that takes effect. So here I am with my scheduled time devoted to writing, obligated to finish the hours I've required of myself, and I couldn't be happier because of it.

It is not easy to become satisfied with the current occupation we've committed to, nor to discover which one it is that will satisfy us. I have frustrated myself for years, not only longing to write, but longing to do a billion things, and finally narrowing it down to this one thing that should be such a focus for me. And after we do find it, it is not easy to be make it happen. And then when we make it happen, it is not easy to be faithful to it and to wait until we see fruit born from it.

It may seem a stretch, but I am reminded of a scene from Happy Gilmore (not my favorite movie) in which one of the men in the golf tournament grudgingly adheres to the "play it as it lies" standard, forcing him to swing off another very large and gruff-looking man's foot. I kept thinking of this scene as I attempted to play frisbee golf yesterday and repeatedly needed to throw the frisbee from an awkward angle around some plants. What I find frustrating about these situations is that neither the man in the movie nor I could hope to make it into the hole in our next shot, and we likely would have to aim in a direction that is not our goal, but that will bring us closer to our goal.

Now, I can look back at my life and think of every awkward angle that unexpectedly brought me here and have confidence in every one that will bring me forward. That is what will give me the persistence in reading short stories when I really like novels and writing for practice when I really just want to write stories, and it will give me the patience not to try to publish works that aren't ready and to be faithful to the hours scheduled that do not seem productive.

When we look at our golf ball buried under leaves or in a sandtrap, we have to accept one thing: our golf ball is buried, and we most likely need to face that situation before we take the swing that puts the ball in the hole. That is why now is perfect, because I will never get there without being here.

Crazy Life

It was fun to start a blog, but it is difficult to swing back into motion once I've neglected it. I have started a realistic endeavor, though the realistic part might be questionable. Still, I am more likely to accomplish this now than I was before. On my unemployment spree, I had a lovely few weeks of delving into books and writing and dreaming. At the start of my employments, my connection to writing plummeted, as it was reduced to remember when a month ago I thought I'd be writing all of the time. I do not want writing to become a remember when.

Now I've made an important decision. I cut back my hours at work because I realized that I do not need the money now (I might need the money later, but we can only tell so much!) but I do believe that I need to be writing now. Past the point of no return. I now have two choices: work a part time work load and just be lazy with the extra hours or work a part time work load and invest the extra hours in writing. I've set myself up to invest them, and now I am obligated to, because I just significantly cut my paycheck. Last time I wrote about making sacrifices. This time, I need to reflect and solidify the concept that if I am going to make a sacrifice for something, I better take hold of whatever I did it for! If I am going to quit a 9-5 job and change my living situation so much due to writing, and if I am now going to work less hours, due to writing, then I sure better write!

I am thrilled about it, because I have started to think of stories again. I have started to see life in words again, to watch a person and long to write about this person, to describe them, to know them, to make them known. Again, I am picking up the small and unnoticeable but oh so incredible pieces of restaurant decorations, human responses to a rainy day, children's free laughter, a perfect friendship moment. I want to be who I am again, to use my gifts again. And after all this crazy life, there is only so much of it.

Maybe I can call this phase three or something. There was the honeymoon stage, then the falling out, and now perhaps will be the steady plodding that makes anything something. Who can tell? Only tomorrow.

Sacrifices

In my determination to finish reading one short story tonight, I sat indian style on the couch, hunched over my book, asleep. I would read one or two paragraphs, fall asleep, wake up to something (once my dad coming over to say good night), and then read those paragraphs again. Needless to say, it took longer than it should have.
When I was in school, I finished my work. If I had an assignment, I did it, well or badly, and sleep, social activities, chores, and other obligations never hindered my persistence in accomplishing what was necessary to excell in high school and in both of my majors. I remember my first week of high school when I needed to accept that my teachers were no longer concerned with the family event I had had or the stress I was under because of various happenstance, as my mom was in homeschool. After my entire family one by one headed to bed and nonchalantly told me good night, I looked at my science book and the pages I had to read, and I began to cry. I felt like I was in prison. There was no way out, and that is how it has been ever since...I have a strange addiction to thorough achievement, even when it means cutting corners. Assignments and deadlines--give them to me and I will do well with whatever you ask. A vague, self-driven writing career--that is what I need to learn. Tonight I pretended that I was back in college, that I needed to read that story tonight, and that I needed to write this blog, which is why I have been able to do it.
Ultimately, I have to make sacrifices. I was able to do well in my studies because I did not let my urges for ease hinder me. Every time we say yes, we say no. I said yes to school, yes to studying, yes to time investment, and therefore said no to much sleep, no to social times, no to entertainment media. If something is worth anything, worth saying yes to, then it is worth a thousand no's. I was thinking that maybe I should be calling this blog If I will write rather than if I can, since that is probably the bigger question, and the one most at stake. What am I willing to give, what am I willing to give up in order to be faithful to this endeavor of becoming a published and worthy author? This is hopeful, but now I am falling asleep, and I think I have reached my limit.

Before Tomorrow

And so it begins...I think I like to pretend that I am just starting over every time I am not happy with the way things have gone; that way I will only feel bad about what I did since this new fresh start. I wonder how many posts can talk about my beginning to approach writing before I am only a ceaseless starter.
I am not going to pretend that I am starting over, that I have neglected writing for the only days I ever will, that I now am entering into a springtime of promulgating my talent. Now is a time for reflection, time to ask the question where and how does writing fit into my life? When I started this blog, I had just quit my full time job--since I acknowledged it was a passion-deserving job that was passionless for me--and I had just decided I'd move into my family's house--since my precarious job situation did not guarantee I'd be able to pay rent--and I hoped to devote hours to writing. At first I was able to, because I was unemployed, but now I have two jobs. I have two jobs because no matter how hard I tried to squeeze my budget into working with just one of them, it was not realistic. I rejoiced that I would be able to provide for myself without compromising my long term writing goals for short term dollars. Now I am just busy.
Write for the pure fun of it? Write for money? Write for passion? Write for others--write for me? I might write two hours a week. I might write five hours a day (probably not). I actually have no idea how it will fit with my new schedule or when my words will truly be given the opportunity to claim a place here, or if they ever will. Until I know what tomorrow is, I will write somewhere between zero and ten thousand words every day. That is my realistic commitment. Regardless of the outcome, I am enjoying the unfolding of this story.

My Mom and Elephants

My mom always said...a LOT of words that after I patiently heard them have clung to me, shouting wisdom into every piece of my life. How do you eat an elephant?--I thought this was the most ridiculous question--who would want to eat an elephant; I laughed. "One bite at a time," and she insisted that this was wise. I learned and relearned and relearned that it is, and I've found myself quoting it to friends and to myself often. She also told me if I cannot find time to do something as much as I want to do it, don't let that stop me from doing it a little bit. I recently found a letter from her saying that she was going to go ahead and write me a letter, even if it is not a long one, that she was not going to let her inability to set aside time for a long letter prevent her from writing a short one. This is my short blog, because I do not have time to go into the details of the two jobs that I began this week or the sister's wedding I have this weekend, although I'd love to describe all of these things. I promise to seek better devotion to this blog once I have enough time to write long, elaborate, perfect ones every single day...I mean even if it means writing short quick ones once a week and not always every perfect single day.