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.

Hope for Hope

I began to delve into the stack of short stories I'd gathered from the library, only to find exactly what I feared--endings with unwarranted despair. For some reason, hopelessness began to take shape in much recent literature (I would love to do more research on this, which I suppose I will with all of the short stories I will be reading!). I am not sure if the literature affected the culture or vice versa; it is probably both, so many stories end with not even a sliver of room for hope to enter the imagination. Throughout the whole story, you think surely there is some sort of redemption, surely a character will show virtue, or a relationship will stand victorious, or a situation will arise that gives indication something good possibly can happen, but instead the story ends with brutal abruptness, usually a character coming to the "mature" conclusion that they must finally accept life is terrible. This theme is all too common.
When I met with my teacher about writing fiction, he told me that a big difference, other than length, between a novel and a short story is that the former supplies multiple effects while the latter seeks to achieve only one. These stories that have claimed despair the verdict (seemingly as their one chosen effect) teach me a valuable insight into the status of so many human hearts. They've accepted this. I am grateful to these stories which clearly communicate the despondency today faces, but it only further encourages me never to write with the same departure. My stories will end with hope. If every loved one of a character dies, horrifically, I will still leave room for hope. Hope is necessary, and I think that it is necessary in literature, because no matter how unreal fiction becomes, and whether or not it is intended to be moral, suspenseful, insightful, or humorous; whether or not it intends to communicate a message, it always communicates a message. I have committed myself and now do it further, that any story I write will carry the purposeful or accidental message of hope.

On another note, or maybe the same, yesterday morning my two writing friends and I had a promising meeting. We each listed our personal and group goals for writing and announced rules to keep each other accountable. It was wonderful, and I am elated that the pieces are falling into place for each of us to succeed in what we are after--essentially to glorify God in our gifts.

You are here

I ran four blocks today, 3 times, walking in between. I used to be a varsity cross country runner, able to run at least 10 miles, but I guess that was just a long time ago. Lately, I have been deciding in the evenings that I would run in the morning, and in the mornings deciding that it would really be better if I ran that evening. This has gone on for weeks. I finally concluded it would be a great accomplishment if I simply when outside and moved--that is literally what I told my siblings I was doing. And I did. I took that first step towards returning to fitness, because I acknowledged my place as a runner, that as of now I am not much of one (tomorrow I will go to my high school reunion and tell my former teammates that I ran four blocks, and then walked).

Every time we look at the map at a mall we search for the place we are going, find it, and then direct our eyes to the bold red dot: You are here. Skipping that step would make the map pointless, and we would get nowhere when we walked away. How important it is for us to be honest with ourselves when deciding what to do. I wasn't going outside to run, because I am always so frustrated that I am no longer the runner I was in high school. Well, I need exercise, so I need to run anyways.

I am writing this because I am fighting the urge to jump from the wrong position. Today I found that I was published in the Catholic Times--exciting right? I saw a copy of the paper at the library and found my name in print. It felt like nothing. I wanted to tell the librarian that I was published in their building, that I was a contributor to the words that circulated in and out of their hands--I refrained. I am grateful for this, that I have taken this step, that I have an article published that I like. People who do not know me are going to read it, but the interesting thing is how similar it is to that honest red dot, a landmark and a beginning, but also so far from the 8 or 10 short stories I am going to try to publish in a year, the ones I have not written yet. I can look at Joyce Carol Oates and wonder at the 95 books of hers the library holds and compare it to my 1 article in the paper, or I can see that an editor has deemed my work worth putting in his paper, for the first time. I am excited because I am in the library. I did not get paid for my writing, but someone did, which is an exciting start. In the meantime, please check out the article. I consider it an encouragement and a sign of successful efforts.

For the Stories

Yesterday I met with one of the most incredible teachers, you know, the ones who remember your name and care about you a year after you graduate?--that is the kind that he is. He has gotten poetry published and learned a lot about what it means to be involved in creative writing, which is primarily what I want to do. I walked into his office convinced that this was my last hope of concrete direction, and walked out with concrete direction. While I was there, he said, "You look good. You look happy." Of course! I should have told him, that's because I am doing what I always wanted to do. He told me to read short stories for a while, then to write them, and not to worry about sending them in until I have 8 or 10 I am happy with. "If you are diligent, you could be at that point in a year." Maybe that would seem like a long time to people, a long time for an aspiring writer to hear as the length of time between now and attempting publication. I loved it. It made it real to me. I am not blogging and dreaming and having fun thinking about what if I sent in this story or wrote that kind of novel or made money with this sort of quick fix. I am working towards something concrete, and I have a timeline.

Thankfully I've realized that working full time between two jobs (not yet started)--what I envisioned bringing an end to this game I entered--actually gives me the freedom to follow the direction that my teacher has encouraged me to take. I will make enough money so that I can write not for work but for pure passion, for genuine interest of taking what I can and love to do, and becoming great at it. I want to be a good writer, and now my goal does not have to be to write in any area that pays; I can invest my whole heart and energies into those stories I long to write, and I can define myself as a writer before being pressured to sell it to another. This is a relief, but only time will tell the strength of my desires. Maybe I will have 8 or 10 powerful short stories ready to send to publishers, or maybe I will be spending my free time raising an ant farm. I don't know--that's what makes it so exciting.