21 Things I Still Need to Remind Myself of... Even Past Thirty

Life is a learning process. Anyone who doesn't think this, who believes there's some magical age or point you reach where you know everything and have absorbed and retained all the knowledge you're capable of, is certifiable.
However, as you get older, you do tend to think there are certain aspects of life you should know about, that are ingrained in your being, and there are even ones you do know but seem to need reminders of on an annoyingly frequent basis.
These are some of mine...

1. You can just toast/eat half a bagel.

2. Few things will teach you as much about human nature than observing how others treat people in the service industry... and Shakespeare. That man knew people.

3. They stopped making your favorite journal five years ago. Accept it and stop hoarding other notebooks to fill that hole. WRITE. DOODLE. CREATE.

4. You are never going to regret having a pen or pencil with you -- unless it stains your clothes. So make sure you buy sturdy pens and handbags you love.

5. Making food for the week, writing, cleaning, yoga, and goal planning do not make a Lazy Sunday.

6. Lazy is not being present in your own life, and that of your loved ones.

7. Writers write. They also dance, cook, clean, sing, doodle, binge watch shows, play games, and sleep -- to avoid writing. And they live.

8. Unless it's crafted by scumbags or spreading hate/violence, never be ashamed of the music you love. If others judge you harshly on this, blast some goddamn Taylor Swift in their face and Shake It Off.

9. One day, your primary source of income will come from doing something you love. Until then, you do not have to hate your job. If you hate it and it's killing your soul -- quit. The universe will not let you become homeless.
Also, if your coworkers aren't foodies, leave. Leave now.

10. People who are angry often want you to be angry, too. Misery loves company. Avoid temptation, slap on a smile, and laugh when they get angrier that you haven't absorbed their vitriol.

11. Your favorite shows and movies will change over time. So when you get a new fav, immerse yourself in it. Memorize it. Cherish it. And don't be sad when it's time to move on.
This goes for friends, too.

12. Your sexuality and relationship history/goals are an important aspect of yourself. They are not your whole self. If you are being made to think they are, blast some Edith Piaf at those fuckers, drape yourself in a fabulous dressing gown, and float away.

13. Say "fuck." Go ahead. Do it. Did anyone die? Did you get slapped? If the answer to both questions is no, say "fuck" as much as you fucking want.

14. There is nothing better for your body and soul (or more rare), than a great fitting, comfortable pair of cute shoes. Don't be afraid to buy two pairs when you stumble on this miracle.

15. Read more. No matter what you read, or in what format, keep reading. It is never a waste of time. If you give something a chance and don't like it, grab something else. Just read.

16. If a trip to The Huntington won't cure it, a trip to Disneyland will (unless you're trying to cure the measles -- vaccinate, damnit).
A message brought to those of you considering a membership or pass to your favorite places. Just do it. Get one. And don't wait for the 'best time' to go. Just go. Go when you need to, and leave when you're done, and return as much as you can.

17. Keep learning. Cooking, art, music, history, religions, languages, people. Learning any of these doesn't have to cost anything, so find the time.

18. Dishes, laundry, and basic household cleaning are a part of life. Unless you're a billionaire. Employ whatever methods necessary to do these things -- and reward yourself for doing them for as long as you need to.

19. Yoga. Just fucking do it. Don't worry about fat-burning hot yoga, or if you'll ever be able to do inversions, or that you have to modify poses due to injuries. Just let go and practice the damn yoga.

Life Goal: to be Nina Dobrev

20. You made it this long not being someone entirely dependent on caffeine, or alcohol, or cigarettes, or drugs. Keep up that streak.

21. Step away from the screen. Computers, TV, phone, tablet -- whatever. Get up. Don't look at that temptress for at least 15 minutes. Walk around. Stretch. Snack. Make tea. Dance. Sing. Keep your eyes and mind on the tactile, the full body, the present. Breathe deep. Then return to the screen if you must, but always take breaks. Take breaks to live, work, play, cook, eat, drink, be merry, and dance.

A Change is Gonna Come...

OK, yesterday's pity party over. I just needed to get that out of my system. 
A short while ago, I was directed to this short post regarding committing the first 90 minutes of your 'work day' to your passion project, for 90 days (allowing time for it to become habit, rather than a challenge to be met).
I started earlier this week doing what I need to get more 'real job' ducks in their proverbial row. I made it two days before I wanted to give up and cry. Because as necessary as this process is, it's incredibly tiresome to repeat day in and day out. However, the alternative (having my soul die bit by bit every day I'm in this dead-end job) is worse. So while it may not be my passion project, I'm not going to have passion for anything if I don't change the manner in which I spend a 'work day.' And yet...
After three days of reassessing and editing resumes and cover letters, submitting to new sites, applying for 30+ positions, I need a day off to actually live up to the challenge and work on my passion project: writing. As disorganized as my job search efforts had become, my writing is in an even worse state. The chaos of life and other distractions has left me with more unfinished projects and rough idea outlines of projects-to-be than ever before. The act of just writing escapes me. Planning and scheduling have become a joke, not for lack of desire or commitment, but due to the overwhelming fear that to finish something may only tick off that work as 'done' on a checklist and never go any farther.
I've become afraid of the force of my own imagination. I've had my inner puppy kicked so many times it hides in the corner now any time I call its name. The true point of the 'challenge' is to work on your passions first, and the rest of the work later, and the truth is I've been afraid to do so. There has to be a balance for me, in making job searches a passion project of sorts to improve every aspect of my life, not just the creative ones. However, spending too much time focusing on everything that isn't writing is what put me in this depressed slump in the first place. Thus, writing needs to be given priority in this scenario. Now that my resumes are more in order and I've joined more job sites, I'm relegating the job searches to two days/week. The other days are for writing. Period.
It's been a tough week, but a productive one. If it's done anything, it's exposed how easily I can focus on projects if given the freedom and allowance to do it -- and how sometimes you have to give permission for that freedom to yourself because you're the one holding you back.

Following Some Signs

I once wrote a post about there being no map for life, no real signposts that tell you where to go, what to do, how to adult, or why schools don't teach practical skills along with other 'necessary' knowledge. While I still hold to that, and the concept of needing to learn how to read and follow your own life because it will always differ from everyone else's life on the planet, I do acknowledge that sometimes the universe sends you tiny messages sprinkled across time to somehow encourage or discourage certain courses. The key is you have to be open to receiving those messages, and you have to be in a constant state of observation regarding yourself and your life -- a thing which is not easy to maintain.
However, sometimes those little messages don't bother with much subtlety. Sometimes the signs aren't a leaf blowing past you on a cool morning, making you think of times past and inspiring you to start a story you've been mulling over for months. Sometimes the signs are someone walking in the door and saying, "I had coffee with someone today who's looking to fill a position and you should write to them now. Right now." Sometimes you're contemplating your current structure and if it's working, and if your deadlines are realistic, and if you're too overwhelmed with projects, and then a string of online articles across various social media slaps you in the face with tips you didn't even know you wanted and you surmise, for a few brief moments, that The Universe is supporting you in a very small way.
And sometimes you're not in the mood to write a blog post because the list of ideas you have for posts just isn't speaking to you today, and then you become inspired anyway because of life's little road signs.
For this moment, right now, something in The Universe seems to be pushing me ahead down a path. Not sure what the path is exactly, or where it leads, or how long it'll take to reach a destination, but I'm open to pursuing it, and sometimes just putting one foot in front of the other and keeping an eye on the world around you is the best you can do.
Well, that and sending your resume off immediately when someone tells you to.

Acknowledging Small Progressions...

In hopes that I can start complimenting myself on the little victories that lead to better productivity, instead of focusing on what I didn't accomplish. 

Because on the surface, I could tell myself that I spent the majority of my day on the computer, in front of my TV, watching Harry Potter. Sure, that is a summation of what occurred, but damn, isn't that horribly depressing?
(Yes. Yes it is.)

So here's what I actually did today:
Caught up on emails and twitter before really getting out of bed.
Did dishes, cleaned out the fridge, wiped down the counters, made fridge-pantry-cleaning mac n cheese.
Cleaned up the living room, took out the trash & recycling, got and sorted/read the mail from the week.
Arranged to have dinner with my former roomie later this week.
Arranged to go see a kickass movie with a new friend tomorrow afternoon.
Spent time planning blog posts for the book series, put in a bit of twitter and tumblr time on the series' social media.
Responded to 10 inquiries on the writing advice site I work as an administrator on.
Joined 8tracks -- will explore more later, but at least I have the music from Hannibal playlist saved.
Caught up on Under the Dome (Barbie, NOOOOOO!) and Graceland (between that and the series finale of Burn Notice, Thursday is going to be a very intense evening).
Went to the grocery store for essentials and gas money.

So yeah, I think I actually won the day.

Life's Road Signs...

True dat!

Much to my constant chagrin, on this journey of life there are no signs along the road which say truly helpful things like:
Buckets of money over here!
Turn this way for ultimate success in your professional endeavors!
Three miles straight ahead to your perfect human companion!
Satisfaction with the state of your life and acceptance of who you are just through this thicket of brambles on the other side of the mountain!
Free puppies (already wormed, neutered, chipped, and with free food for a year)!

Wait... that last one actually does exist sometimes and is for me, in a brief moment of extreme optimism, always a sign which leads to happiness both for the recipient and the puppies.

You get the point, though. And if any of those other signs has shown up in your life and led to what is indicated, please give me directions to your road... unless that road involves joining Scientology, becoming a total slut, or sacrificing all my ethics in order to achieve my desires (gee, and I wonder why I haven't found success in Los Angeles yet...).

There are, however, signs which alert us to events, situations, traps, pitfalls, and such to avoid -- sometimes the signs are even multiple and give us a way out, if not to a better road, at least a different one with better potential. These signs aren't always obvious, but often they are, and in either instance there are times when we are either too distracted looking for the signs we want to see, or too stubborn to pay heed to the warnings, or too distracted by a drifting plastic bag across the road to notice the signs.
Then, one day, we look around and realize we're on a road we never intended to be with (seemingly) no idea how we got there, nor how to get away. Whatever triggers our realization, we ultimately have few options: stay where we are, accepting that this is where we took ourselves and just deal with it -- or find a way out.
Option one is safe. We may not be in the place we intended, or even want, but we're here now. Why not make the best of it? Accept, deal, and hang out here. Maybe we'll adjust to this place and find some type of satisfaction in it... eventually. Maybe.
Option two is terrifying. Exhilarating. It has the potential to alienate us from those we've been heading down the same road with and formed bonds with along the way. We could crash our proverbial cars or drive them off a cliff trying to get out of this place. We could also find our own road, build it if necessary, that leads to what we really want -- what is good for us.

I'm finding myself currently looking back and seeing the signs reflected on the road where an oppressive heat beats down and causes the signs to gleam in reverse off the pavement. I look at where I am and see how lost I truly am. I'm standing in the center of what looks like an oasis village, and yet I know what it really is. I've known for a while, I just haven't admitted it to myself.
It's a mirage.
That promise of security and balance is an illusion, and as much as I crave those two stabilizers I know I was made for more. I'm not one to run back out into the desert down unknown roads without drawing myself a map first, but I'll be damned if I settle in this little pocket of life and accept it as my one and only inevitable future. The water was soothing at first; now it's growing stagnant and wretched. I'm tired of trying to boil it and tossing in a few additives to make it more palatable.
I don't want palatable. I want savory, sweet, exotic, surprising, and I want it assaulting all my senses.

I'm going to start my own map, watch for the important signs, and build my own road out of this mirage. Anyone who wants out of theirs, let's build that road and head down it together.

When Journals Lose Their Magic

Writing, the act of actually putting a writing implement on paper, seems to be becoming more antiquated by the day. Yet there are still those out there who require at least some of our time spent writing to involve this act. For myself, there are times when not only is typing inconvenient (I have an outdated, though reliable, laptop that does not accompany me everywhere, nor any tablet device -- but I ALWAYS have a pen and a notepad), it lacks a certain connection to the material I create.
I've always been a hands-on creator. I draw. I paint (very poorly). I play piano (or could, once upon a time). I make jewelry. I put together shelving units and desks with the 'help' of the horribly illustrated diagrams of do-it-yourself furniture. I cook -- and while I don't always enjoy getting my hands seeped in ground meat, or chicken guts, or sticky doughs, I understand  and accept it's a part of the process of crafting meals.

The difference between crafting in those other mediums and writing, for me, is that when I get a notebook or journal to write in, I'm not only picky about the ingredients (as I am with any creative project), I also reach a point where those ingredients which shaped my need for the journal lose their power. The whole journal loses its power and ability to spur on my writing. In short, the journal loses its magic.
Yet I cannot bring myself to simply toss aside the book as if it were remnants of silver wire, or a broken cerulean pencil, or an extra wing nut that doesn't fit onto any conceivable part of the rolling shelf unit. I know many who use journals and sketchbooks feel the same. The desire to hold on to the physical evidence and memory of what once inspired you is too strong to discard.
However, this time around I've used the same journal for just over three years and while there are still probably 80 usable pages remaining, I noticed a couple months ago that every time I reached for it, opened it, any creative impulse I had disappeared. The book itself lost the power to draw me into it and furiously write down my inspirations in an encapsulated red-covered parcel of paper. It infuriated me not just because I don't like wasting paper, but because I felt that I had betrayed this loyal companion.
This books contains notes from my time on the Artistic Management Committee at my theatre. It's got the first piece of fanfiction I began that doesn't make me feel like fanfic is a derogatory form of writing. It contains tax calculations, shopping lists, career coaching notes and oh yes, dozens upon dozens of pages filled with writings from two of my (currently) four in-progress novels. How does something that contains that much of your life, that has been the keeper of important notes, dreams, creative bursts you never imagine, suddenly transform one day into a dull collection of pages where each time you set your writing utensil to a sheet of paper all your desire to write melts away?
There's likely some psychological time+overuse=meah-related explanation for it that relates to the amount of time and energy you invest into it and one day your brain just no longer relates to that object as the receptacle of such things. I, however, surmise it thus: one day the magic dies -- whatever you wrote in that journal still carries import, and always will, but the days in which your mind pours itself onto those particular pages is over  -- and until you accept that, put the journal to rest, and find a new receptacle, your ideas will become stagnant and uninspired (if the ideas ever deign to come at all).

So yeah, the other day I posted about my brain missing. And it is still, to an extent, but I have had to force myself to come to terms with the idea that part of my lost mind is due to going far too long without physically writing. I need that type of release for my thoughts and ideas, and by clinging to a magic-less book for too long I allowed that part of my mind to run off in search of I know not what.

Here's to my red journal. I found it in a Borders on clearance for $6 in the early spring of 2009,  and it has served me ever so faithfully. Within it are words I might never have written had I chosen another journal at the time. It grieves me to let go of something that once inspired my mind in new and exciting ways. A part of me will feel lost without it. However, a much larger part may lose itself forever if I do not accept this loss and endeavor to rekindle the magic in a new journal.

What is this place?

How did I get back here?

Well, I'm glad you (the interwebs) asked. Though the more appropriate query might be: why did I leave?
It's not you, it's me. There. I clichéd.
However, that is pretty much the reality. Just like I'm one of those folks with a tendency to not respond to someone about anything and then the guilt complex enters in for not responding, and then I just get so guilt ridden and ashamed I ignore the issue entirely unless it comes back to bite me in the ass... well, yeah, that's basically it.

Then, eventually, you have to pry yourself away from the Self-hate Spiral of Suck and start functioning again.
This lovely blog post was an enormous help in getting me back to the blogsphere. I am this person. Number fifteen, about the books... it's like the guy has lived with me my entire life.

So yeah, I'm a crazy writer. Nutters. Off my rocker. Gone 'round the bend. Koo-Koo for Cocoa Puffs. I'm not alone, though -- much as the isolating voices in my head and natural introverted personality try to convince me otherwise.
I can't blog the crazy away, but I can invite others to jump in the crazy pool and drown with me.*


*I can't swim. So by my logic, we're all drowning.
See. Crazy.

Midway-ish

Lack of updates generally point to one of the following:
- Inability to write, guilt over thus, and fleeing from any chance at flexing the writing muscles
- Lack of time to write due to insanity of life and/or work
- Illness
- Extreme apathy toward life in general and feeling like there's nothing worthy of writing about

Combine issues two and three, and that's basically the reason this time. I'm trying to be a dedicated mentor, passable worker, powerhouse novelist, and quasi-decent friend... and it's exhausting. It's just that time of year.

However, I wanted to take a moment to say that, while stressful, this has been one of my most fulfilling NaNoWriMo years yet. Why? I have an amazing collection of writers around me. In inspiring and encouraging them, I inflict the same wisdom on myself. When I feel like throwing in the towel just to focus on other things (including helping them make it through the month), I get energized by their passion. I'm finally getting a bit of the teaching bug, if you will, though I definitely do not have enough patience for that...
Mentoring, though, is damn satisfying. If I had more time to dedicate to it, I know there'd be even more worth sharing, even more rewards to give, even more encouragement to dole out, even more emails spewing variations of 'don't give up -- you can do it!'
I've always volunteered and given back to causes I'm passionate about in some way, but never with writing. It's such a (generally) solitary and isolating line, but it doesn't always need to be. Crawling out of our dark little writing cozies and chatting with each other, even consoling ourselves when nothing seems to be going right, is great motivation for retreating back into our own little worlds and continuing our journeys.

Also, it's great to be around literate people. Just, you know, for life in general.



Required link to fundraising page for NaNoWriMo for those who like writers and kids and books and reading (it's all tax deductible and I have swanky broke!writer rewards for any size donation. Any.Size.): Click here and show some love.

Writing for More Than Myself

As if completing a first draft of a novel weren't accomplishment enough (or proof enough of my insanity), I have decided to once again participate in National Novel Writing Month.
For those unaware, the probability of my having a first draft without NaNo is... well, zero. Thus, as it's the primary reason for my current ability to tell people, "Yeah, I'm an anti-social mope who spends more time with books and writing implements than other human beings. Well, I've written a novel. What have you done lately?" I've decided this year shouldn't just be about me attempting to scribble another sequel to my ever-expanding series of novels. This year requires a little 'thank you' to the amazing construct that is NaNoWriMo... and maybe a little pat on the back for me.
Ergo, my 2011 NaNoWriMo Sponsorship / Thank-You / Encouragement Program

Here's the scoop:
Me - Five-time NaNoWriMo participant, three-time winner. First draft completed October 2011, with submission attempts by January 2012. Dedicated this year not only to writing another novel, but encouraging/supporting/mentoring a handful of participants. In need of caffeine and writing accouterments.

NaNoWriMo - Non-profit organization started online in 2000, which challenges participants to write 50,000 words in 30 days. Supportive, worldwide community which encourages writers to do what many say they want and few accomplish: write a novel. Also created a Young Writer's Program for students and classes, Script Frenzy (like NaNo, but with scripts), and the new Camp NaNoWriMo.

You - A citizen of the world who wants to support writers, creative types, non-profits, bloggers, arts education programs, and/or show some love for me.

How to Help:
Sponsor my writing efforts by donating to NaNoWriMo at this link. It's tax deductible and the money goes to help NaNoWriMo and their Young Writers' Program (it's for the kids!)

If you don't want a tax write-off, or to help kids (or have already done such and just want to encourage me), you can gift me one of these items to help get me through my fifth year of spending the month of November eschewing all social activity that does not involve writing in order to (hopefully) draft another book.
NaNo Survival Wishlist (leave a comment with your email/site for shipping deets):
Schuil Coffee Full Moon Mocha (auto drip)
Chateau Blanc White Tea
Gift Card to Espresso Profeta
Republic of Tea Wild Blueberry Black Tea
Ashby's Cinnamon Plum Tea


Now is probably the moment where you ponder: What do I get out of this?
Well, I'm a poor person (starving artist and all that), however there are some things I can give you as appreciation for your support. I've even tiered it for people who want to feel special by donating more.
All donations. Even a dollar. Really.
- Timely thank you for your donation on Twitter & facebook.
- End of November email report to wrap-up the successes of the month, as well as that of those I'm mentoring (for those desire it)
- NaNo Wrap-up blog post shout-out

$20 - $40
- All the above
- Dedicated blog entry during November on you and your awesome support (with pimping of personal site / work / project / etc.)

$41 - $99
- All the above
- A handmade thank-you gift of your choosing from the following: necklace, bracelet, key chain, hand-printed set of notecards/envelopes

$100+
- All of the above
- Specialized thank you in vlog post come December. There may be a song. We'll see.
- When published (which it will be, either through self-publishing or other means), a signed copy of Novel the First with personalized message

Donate now!

Kicking Brain Puppies

Editing is hard. Just getting that out there for any and all aspiring writers. Slashing words you've grown accustomed to, and in some cases even grown to like (possibly A LOT), does not lead to great joy until you get yourself in a headspace capable of knowing what you do is meant to make your work stronger. Once you wrap your mind around that and accept it, it can make you stronger, too. After a while you begin to feel that just by deleting passages and correcting spelling and grammar issues for clarity, you have done what is necessary to make your work better.
Oh no, sweets.
There's more.
It's called re-writing.
And it's a pain in the ass.

Your editing mind has finally come to terms with its existence and you have a symbiotic relationship. You cut things out, and change some structural issues, and feel better about yourself, the process of editing, and your work as a whole.
Then you must go back and look at the work as a writer again, to fix plot holes, clarify and/or strengthen characters and relationships, add layering details... and your writer brain hides in a corner like a punished child, neglected by time apart from it and weakened and afraid from having the editing mind push it away while Editing Mode trumped all other needs for the work.
It's malnourished, depressed, and confused as to why you're seeking it out again with such joyful energy when three weeks ago you banished it in favor of the bullying Editor Mind.
Editor Mind doesn't care. It's happy to hang around and wait until you need it again (because it knows you'll come crawling back soon enough). Writer Mind, however, looks at you with plaintive eyes and quiet whimpers of sadness. You coax, you bribe, you get down to face it on its level and ask oh so sweetly for it to come back to you. It's wary, though. You wounded it and it hasn't recovered yet. It remembers screaming to you, wanting to be released while you had it locked in a closet when working with Editor Mind, pleading and begging to rewrite passages. You didn't listen. You needed to edit. You didn't want to shut away the Writer Mind, but you exist in a world of deadlines which Writer Mind doesn't understand. Editor Mind does, though, so you needed its help. Editor Mind is damn good at telling Writer Mind to STFU and mind itself. So good that Writer Mind has just been likened to an abused puppy for an entire paragraph in hopes that giving it the treat of extended metaphor might coax it out of hiding.

*le sigh*

This is one of those times I know I need to be a writer. It drives me, feeds me, pulses within me. Without it I am utterly lost. That ain't to say it's easy, though. Easy right now would be to chuck it all aside and turn to something that is... like knitting, or playing piano, or becoming an expert marks-person. I can't do any of those. I have a puppy to coax out of a corner so I can finish my novel, start writing query letters, and then have myself and my puppy kicked an inestimable number of times until someone coaxes us out of a corner...

There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

So-and-So on…

Thus far I have rather failed in my ‘embrace Fauxbruary’ mantra due to succumbing to my largest time/emotional-suck addiction: theatre.
Now, were I in a divulgatory and supercilious frame of mind, I might expand on a great many reasons why I feel the need to leap into situations in theatre; however, with my current sleep deprivation that would reach Epic Snark levels in about two sentences and then devolve into an intense rant which would probably give people a whole different impression of me.
Instead I will attempt, in my over-exhausted haze, to convey a little message about life addictions and how we use them to avoid engaging ourselves in activities we either should be or would rather be doing. We all have them. Sometimes we call them hobbies, other times obligations… chill-out time, organized social activities… all these things teeter on the edge of a line which, for those of certain temperaments, can very easily spill from leisure activity or enhanced social interaction to obsession. The biggest problem with something you like doing becoming something you do all the time is stagnation (closely followed by over-exhaustion). You become so involved that it consumes your life in ways you never intended for periods of time which far exceed what your dedication was meant to be. No matter what you learn, who you meet, how enriching experiences may be, it will continue to eat away at other areas of your life more and more until what was once a fun and exciting break from mundane life necessities or aggravating creative struggles becomes both mundane and aggravating.
As I see it, you have two options at this point: continue with this obsession in the hope that sweeter waters are around another bend in the road – and vow to take it easy on yourself next time (which is good when you’re committed to something you can’t in good conscience abandon), or take a mother-lovin’ break (which is what to do when option one fails miserably, or when you have a better ability than I do to say ‘no’ to people). Well, after five years of following option one, I’m finally about to stride down the path of option two, and I must say that as exhilarating as the prospect is, it is also utterly terrifying. Why? Peril number two in the extracurricular-to-obsession realm is safety.
Once you find that activity, hobby, video game, travel blog, etc. which consumes your life bit by bit, leaving it (or even easing off in a controlled-dose-of-weaning way) not only equates to the possibility of losing whatever new talents, skills, friends, connections and whatnot you’ve built, it’s a loss of emotional safety. By becoming so involved in this endeavor you have effectively shut off other areas of your mind and emotions to concentrate more on your obsession. Now, reconnecting with those parts of yourself, and the world, can seem counter-intuitive. You’re safe, you know your way around, you like the people, you used to like the obsession… so what’s the point in letting it go for a while (or ever)? Again, stagnation -- AND the fact that the very safety you feel when enveloped by your obsession transforms into fear of doing something new and different (when wanting something new and different is what likely got you into your current obsession in the first place).
So while it is with an inordinate amount of fear, uncertainty, and a dash of reluctant sadness that I take temporary leave of theatre, it’s for my own personal, creative, and professional development that I need to step out of comfort’s loving (and smothering) caress and run headlong into a terrifying blackness of potential. Here’s hoping beyond the black I find new lights, and that one day those lights will lead me back to seeing the light in theatre again.

Ye Olde Monthe of Fauxbruary

February always feels such the odd month to me. It’s shorter than every other month, and extremely short in comparison with the two it is sandwiched between. It’s the only month that fluctuates its number of days, ever. It sits in post-new-year-pre-shitstorm position on the calendar, never accomplishing much other than reminding us that another year is fully underway (and if you’re single you’ve got the first two full weeks of the month for all advertising, retail outlets, and sickening couples to make you feel like a leper). In short, February is the red-headed stepchild of months; everything about it seems to enhance the idea that this month is only a faux-month.
Except February precedes March -- March for me is, historically, the second shittiest month of the year, nearly tied with perennial first-place August. Still, is that enough to work in February’s favor and make it a worthwhile month? Probably not.

And yet… here’s my brand new thought on this month of Fauxbruary: use it, and use it well, like a really good hooker (not that I have experience with that). If this month doesn’t want to make something of itself then it’s up to us to make something of it -- even if that something equates to using this time to reexamine our goals for the new year and instead of burn ourselves out before even getting to the quarter mark, take some time to stop and smell the proverbial flowers. You know, those things buried under two feet of snow in two-thirds of the country right now.
Use this sculpted block of four weeks to take a deeper look at ourselves and life and really contemplate what we want out of it. January typically crashes in with fanfare and demands that a new year means new life and you’d better decide on all that you want RIGHT NOW. February, I now say, exists to take all those aspirations and crazy thoughts and cull them down to a manageable pile of to-be accomplishments AND should be a time where we give ourselves permission to try and fail at life a little bit. January is never perfect, and never will be. Instead of giving up for February, why not dive further in: explore and screw up and pull out unexpectedly to dive into something else. Pause in writing your novel and try writing a play. Cease counting every calorie and try eating one new food every week. Turn one run a week into a more leisurely walk or hike and enjoy the scenery you usually dash past. Treat Fauxbruary like the summer after high school when you get all crazy and wild because it’s your last chance to screw up whatever you want and party like a not-so-grown kid… minus the weekly house parties playing Russian Roulette with alcohol poisoning (not that I know anything about that either…).

So who’s with me?
Use Fauxbruary up like your favorite pair of Chuck’s. Run this month into the ground with use, all the while learning from it what you really want from the rest of this year.

Special Author Days and a Special Planner

In my attempt to organize life, and writing endeavors within that life, I invested in a planner for this year. You know, one of those compilations of paper with printed dates on each sheet and spaces between those dates to write important occurrences in one’s life, bound together in chronological order for the calendar year -- you write in it with a pen or pencil. It’s not electronic and you cannot schedule annoying dinging/vibrating reminders, but you have a physical record of what you are doing, should do, might do, and have done, should you choose to record any of those items.
I bought this planner, because well, I am that kind of ridiculous person who needs more than dates on a page to hold my interest when it comes to planners, and assaulting my eyes with deadlines for writing competitions, fellowships, etc. and helpful prompts and information might actually get my fingers typing something more interesting than a blog entry (not to say blogs don’t have merit, but it’d be nice to scribble out a poem or story one of these days).
Since I purchased the planner a few days into January as it was far cheaper, I didn’t start cataloging my life until last week. The planner includes birthday of what I at first thought were famous writers. I noticed as the planner goes on it becomes more the dates of birth of random famous people that the editors apparently think interesting enough to include (Eliza Dushku, I love you, but why are you in my writing planner?).
Still, last week I noted that two of me ‘hero authors’ had birthdays last week. I do not see this as coincidence, nor do I intend to indoctrinate their births as a time for me to emulate their skills. However, I just wanted to mention, for the record, these amazing authors whom I admire and can only hope to one day emulate: Edgar Allan Poe (1/19) and Anne Brontë (1/17).
Poe is, well, a master to put it simply. Not everything he wrote was great, but this is true of all authors, but what was great was nearly miraculous. To be a master of two (especially now) rather disparate genres and truly be responsible for their rise in popularity is nothing short of genius.
Anne,for me, will always be the most talented and sane of her family. Branwell was a mostly-talentless drunk. Emily and Charlotte were intelligent women with general ideas of strong women... but had a major soft-and-blind spot for Byronic men, who sound great in theory. In reality, Byronic men pretty much equate to the mopey, abusive, narcissistic, drunken lout of a cad named Arthur Huntingdon. Plus, Anne penned my favorite quote by any author regarding gender equality/standards in writing, which is why it’s the subtitle of my blog.

Write, Damnit!

As it’s the start of a new year (January's not over; the year is still very young!), articles like this one pop up all over the interwebs, in addition to the explosion of articles in print which appear like spring daffodils that seem to sprout from nothing, shooting out their yellow-belled cheer overnight. Except cheer and writing don’t always mix. Sure, there’s cheer when you get a new idea, start plugging along with inspiring projects, or finish any work you feel even approaches half-decent, but the process of forming a plan to write consistently, committing yourself to knowing hours stretch before you when you may stare, aggravated, at a blank page or screen... it’s enough to stress you out to the point that even having an idea is a daunting notion.
However, a writer who’s not writing isn’t a writer. As difficult as inspiration is, and as impossible as it is to force inspiring thoughts to manifest themselves, the craft portion of writing only gets stronger with use. Thus, like many others who dabble and drown in the world of writing, I’m attempting to use a new year as a fresh start. So far my concepts and ideas have failed, however in blaming myself (and some pesky germs which knocked me down and rendered me incapable of focusing on anything except breathing and remaining conscious during work hours for two weeks) I also choose to blame technology.
First there’s the distracting nature of the worldwide beast that is the internet. I mean, this place has (nearly) everything and can feed it to you whether you want it or not. That need to feed yourself (usually) useless information becomes highly addictive and counter-productive to doing what you want to and/or should be doing. It can also make you painfully aware of your failings, seeing what others are accomplishing while you’re merely reading about how awesome they are and thinking about how awesome you’re not (yeah, I do this). Lest we forget, technology also gives eleventy-billion more ways to record our ideas and present them to the world. The stream of endless options coupled with global pressure to put out something useful and/or worthwhile can further our own insecurities, and let’s face it, writers are (generally speaking) a pretty insecure lot.
Thus, in addition to that nebulous yearlong goal of ‘writing more,’ which will hopefully soon lend itself to more measurable items within that goal, I’m going to try and stick to a goal of ‘useless internet less.’ This means instead of spending countless times refreshing facebook or twitter to see if anything spontaneously cool, funny, inspiring or random has occurred in the past few minutes (you do this too sometimes, admit it) I hope to use those F5 moments to continue writing when I get stuck, or read a few pages of a book, or (if I must stay plugged into the interwebs) search for something useful and potentially educational or inspiring.

Which prompts me to ask: what are your own writing/creative goals for this year, and what tips, if any, do you have for keeping distractions and that nagging, nay-saying self-doubt at bay?

Anti-Words

Spurred on by this article, and in an attempt to fire some writing synapses in my sinus-addled mind, I thought to give a go to one of the oldest of writing advice columns: what not to write, or rather what words not to use while writing.
Here's the rub, though. Everyone has their own personal pet peeves which turn their editor and reader minds against certain words, phrases, and idioms. Some people swoon when reading about characters becoming besotted with another, while others cringe at the word and feel as if some has run over their reading mind with an old mop when seeing that particular word. Still, writers love to critique, and so we continue to pluck away at others' writing with abandon, usually because by picking apart what someone else writes we can (hopefully) also be guided to flaws in our own writing. I write in a style similar to a Victorian novelist who crashed landed in the 2000s to pick up some colourful metaphors before jaunting to the 1920s for a healthy dose of cynicism and returning again to the 1890s just in time to see all the hopefulness of the industrial age crumble into decadence and decay.
This means I can be very wordy, or very succinct. Vulgar (at times) yet creative. Punctuate with nonplussed indifference to rules. Create my own grammar when it suits me, and yet still cling to a few basic rules of writing etiquette as I see fit. Very often hopeful and sarcastic within centimeters of each emotion... and damn do I love me some ellipses. Where does that leave me with words?
I enjoy juicy, crunchy, snappy words with depth and intrigue, but not when they come across as condescending or perambulating manner that drags on without purpose. Yet I love the Victorians, go figure -- except that when the Victorians wrote what we now consider to be high falutin' sentences they were a) not infrequently being paid by the word and b) using language which was generally common to the public. For people who love Hemingway, there's much to be said for short phrases with clear meaning yet unclear symbolism -- and lots of synonyms for water.


So yeah, maybe one of these days I'll get around to doing one of these oh-so-popular, just-look-how-knowledgeable-I-am posts about words that annoy me with over-usage, 'cause yeah, they're out there. However, I'm still too much of a general Word Geek and Writing Geek to deny people the joy of using words which come naturally to them by calling them out as 'weak' or 'overused' or 'pedestrian' or... whatever.
Write with the words you know, the words that strengthen your writing in a way that fits your style. And read. Read. Read. Read. If you continue to do both these things your writing will strengthen with time and experience. Then one day you, too, can engage in a battle of word wits over what the most boring and unnecessary words are... and sit back and watch as today's 'walk' becomes tomorrow's 'meander.'

Throwaway the Year

"Is 'all right' special Timelord code for 'really not all right at all?'"
"Why?"
"'Cause I'm all right, too."

Agreeing with this post, I would like to offer a big FUCK. YOU. to this past year. January came and went leaving me jobless and stressed with a show. Oh yes, and began a still-ongoing purgatory of not knowing whether I can stay in my home as my landlords endeavor to sell the property. February graciously gave me a new job with friends who have become closer and co-workers who have become friends. As stressful and anti-what-I-want-from-life as it is, I think what I am most thankful for this year is that job.
March acted as March always does - a hellacious reign of suck, topped off by the death of my grandmother, my last grandparent and my closest non-immediate relative. Yeah.
April brought about my largest tax bill yet, which I will likely be paying off for another two years since despite having a steady paycheck filed under the correct status (and including benefits), I'm deeper in debt now than I ever have been before. May brought more suckiness, though for all its failings and being the first year I haven't been home for my birthday, or to my second home up north, my birthday itself begat an awesome party with awesome people. June and July were passable, and I got to see my mom which eased the not going home in May travesty a bit. August through early November saw the most intense, grueling, impassioned theatre project I've ever been involved in... and the following month and a half have been spent attempting to recover from those four months, along with insanely busy times at work and some of the most turbulent emotional issues I've tried to cope with in years.
Yeah. 2010, you sucked. Big time. I will not miss you at all.
Yet for all your screwing me and the rest of the world over, there are a few items I will remember fondly:
Previously mentioned new job and all the new and expanded friendships
This blog
A new Doctor who (very thankfully) is truly fantastic
The Huntington
Celebrations at the house -- and a house to have celebrations in
Friendship
Writing as an escape when I needed it most

So here's what I intend for 2011. Following with long-standing tradition I have a few goals, resolutions if you must:
Write more
Read more
Create more
Find more positivity in life
Trust my instincts more
Plus a couple I won't mention here

More than these goals, however, what I will endeavor to do is shake off this past year. The universe has ever-delighted in playing games with me and continually screwing over myself and those I care most about. What it is about me that carries the target for 'step on me, crush me, screw me over, and laugh all the while' which fate continues to hit with deadly accuracy I may never know. I do know this, though: whatever hell occurs, it can always get worse and instead of dealing with it or ignoring it, next year I intend to act in the form of my namesake, my astrological sign, and my general personality... I intend to fight back. I do not expect anything in my life to get easier or better; I've learned enough to know that's not my lot in life. However, as I've learned with time and progress and experience, being upset, depressed, accepting, etc. for me are unproductive emotions. Being pissed on the other hand, that gives me fire. It gives me energy and passion, planning and action.
2010, you fucked with me like no other. 2011, you're about to get fucked.

Yeah, that's my pep talk.

Happy Fucking New Year!

Planes and Princes...

By a certain point in life, one sometimes believes they know themselves well enough; that random epiphanies and revelations occur only to later turn out as extensions of what we already know. Yet then the right set of ideas, circumstances, emotions and frame of mind align and we experience something we might have begun to think impossible: a new revelation about ourselves.
This revelation, however it happens, can occur due to a shattering life experience. However, though it may be through my own limited experience of the world and the people I know, often these revelations come at the oddest and seemingly most mundane times. One such revelation emerged piece by piece over the past week, though the bulk of it formed over the course of plane trips to and from my hometown for the holidays. While it's too personal a revelation to speak of right now, too close to my emotional core, for the sake of expanding on the randomness of revelation I'll elaborate a tad on what concepts and items of inspiration led to the ultimate realization.
The holidays, as we grow up, fire within many of us deep rooted memories, emotions, familial ties, traditions -- whether good or bad, we constantly grapple with the past and either fight or strive to work towards or against that past. I have yet to meet anyone who treats the holiday season with complete ambivalence, and if I ever do I'm likely to even chalk that emotion up to influences from their past. Combine this with the stress of life, work, money, relationships, adulthood -- all those things we deal with on a daily basis -- amplified by the rush and fervor of the season and it's already a cocktail for examination of our lives.
Flying always causes a certain amount of reflection for me, mostly because I'll think of anything to keep me from focusing on the miraculous and always potentially horrific science and luck that allows us to fly. It's one of those commonalities of modern life which I refrain from contemplating too much lest I go mad with the knowledge of all that can go wrong.
The final unexpected ingredient in the revelation cocktail is reading. As I get older I have this horrendous habit of seeing reading not as a necessity, a productive activity which spurs on my mind and endeavours through enjoyment and enlightenment, but a time consuming activity which yields less than more important activities like paying bills, doing laundry, overworking myself, looking at facebook, and speed-watching TV. Erroneous and ludicrous a concept as that is, it's a trap I find myself in more and more these past few years. Then I pick up a book and invest myself in reading it and I realize once again how insane I've been for ever seeing reading as a chore, or worse, an utterly unproductive activity.
This particular trip I chose the first in a series of novels on Plantagenet England and Wales, Here Be Dragons. An historical and imaginative novel, it chronicles the story of kings Richard and his brother John, their kin, and the parallel stories of Llewellyn Fawr and his kin -- centering primarily around Llewellyn's story and his marriage to John's illegitimate daughter. The story and characters fed into sections of my mind and emotions I hadn't allowed myself access to in a long time, and as a result, in combination with all other factors, caused me to stumble headlong into my newest revelation.
It's comforting and terrifying at this juncture to realize myself still capable of discovering new aspects of myself and the world around me. Even more than that, it's inspiring.

Dreamy Writing

After almost a week of dreams involving nothing but work (grading, proctoring, answering phones that never stop ringing... it's just like being there only worse) and traffic (when you live in a major Metro area with a two-hour daily commute, you will occasionally dream about traffic *sigh*), between 5:40 and 6:30 yesterday morning I experienced the most uplifting dream -- about writing.
I basically got a pep talk from an unexpected source who encouraged me to write and write and write, while said source made me food. I had needs being taken care of by someone other than myself AND encouragement to do what I love. This is something I am so not used to that when my alarm went off I did that thing we do when we want a dream to linger. I smacked the alarm off, leaned back in bed, closed my eyes, sighed and tried to re-envision any and all parts of the dream. More importantly I tried to hold on to the feelings it stirred in me. On the surface those feelings held out until about twenty minutes into my day at work, but in a deeper, more hidden place those feelings took hold. If they had not, I believe I would not be sitting here writing right now.
Whatever theories exist on dreams and their meanings and effect on our conscious mind, the fact remains that when a dream impacts you deeply in any way, you can use that dream and its associated feelings. Channeling those emotions and thoughts can lead to great and terrible ideas and actions, but ignoring the power of them ignores a primal aspect of our emotional and mental make-up. For me as a writer, to ignore the tales my subconscious spins is like ignoring the lighting ideas which strike without warning and the most random times. Inspiration comes in only so many forms and we have to grab it where we can.
So thanks, dream buddy, for instilling a little more writer's courage in me... and for making me realize I deserve (and may even need) someone in my life who is that supportive. There's been far too much 'me' time in my head lately. Time to let others inside there to rummage around a bit.

Open Heart, Insert Fist... then remove and move on.

It's amazing what occurs in our minds when faced with realizations and information to major questions we've been coping with for months. Sometimes what we feel might most damage us when our worst possible (or close to it) imaginings come to pass turns out to, in the end, only make us chuckle, shake our head, think, "I knew it," and prepare to carry on. When you've already prepared yourself for the worst in your mind over and over again and dealt time after time with the emotional beatings of what that final piece of information will do to destroy you, you may have already processed that poor piece of news without realizing. Thus when the time comes to hear and accept that information you're much better equipped having already imagined the scenario, as well as experiencing satisfaction at finally having a semi-definitive answer.
I'm not talking about horrendous life happenings like losing a loved one or getting news about health or any sudden, unexpected wretched news. I mean those situations and desires we build up in our minds and psyches to the point they nearly drive us mad. All we want is an answer, preferably something to give us hope or even more, but you reach a point where the answer matters more than the desire ever did. For me, a curious thing has occurred: I got the answer, not a surprising one yet certainly not the one I wanted; yet while I won't pretend to be happy about it, there's a satisfaction in just having any answer and since I already played out the seeming inevitability of emotional destruction in my mind, repeatedly, instead of feeling crushed (which I do a bit, let's be honest, we never like not getting what we want and believe we need) there's a sense of freedom. Almost power. The situation no longer needs to control me; I can control it and how I react to it from here on out.
I never expected to feel so empowered by devastation, and there may be some lesson on my personal psychology in there, but I've never been much for psychoanalysis. All I know is that I thought I would be broken, and while there will be some breaking and scar tissue formations to come I am sure, right now I feel not just able to cope but to overcome.

NaNoWTFMo

Now that it's November, and the interwebs make communication amongst the (typically) hermitic world of writers, an explosion of thoughts, articles, pep-talks and put-downs flit about the nets regarding National Novel Writing Month.
I've already expressed how valuable I've found NaNo and why I think it can benefit anyone even remotely interested in the idea of it. So this little rant comes about due to several of the nay-saying articles which, so far, have one glaring issue in common: people dissing on the NaNo have not participated in the project -- or at least haven't admitted to it. And really, this is NOT one of those instances where you'd say, "Well, I've never leaped from a tall building to the ground without any safety measures in place, but I know it's a bad idea on principle." Everyone has their own unique method of writing, and a lot of writers nowadays are more flexible in their method because we have to be. It's pretty much a requirement of the digital age to have a basic grasp of most major social media platforms, typing and design programs, and online resources (including marketing tools). With that in mind, I find it in poor taste to degrade a program that not only exposes people to all these tools in one place, but does so much more. Yes, the word count goal can result in a lot of crap writing. Yes, people who start out on this crash diet form of writing frenzy can't all be expected to succeed. Yes, the likelihood that anyone's first draft from a NaNoWriMo project will ever be published is next to zero. However, here's a few items NaNoWriMo provides, in a central place, that NO OTHER WRITING PROGRAM DOES:

A central site where those undertaking this endeavor can not only find resources, advice and fin distractions, they can find SUPPORT.
Those of us nuts enough to participate, especially more than once, understand we're crazy, and so is anyone who attempts this -- but we're crazy and stressed and freaked out and crazy TOGETHER. NaNoWriMo participants are incredibly understanding and supportive, which can go a long way to inspiring you to keep going when you're ready to give up.

Giving up your life for a month to write is not as bad as giving it up to watch TV or movies or torture small animals. You may not be writing the Best Novel Ever, and you may leave things like dishes and laundry and your social life by the wayside for a few weeks, but for people who constantly do those (and so many more) activities to the extent they never have time to write, NaNo gives them the time, and the freedom, to turn on their writing brains. And at the end, win or lose, whatever you've written is more than you had at the start of the month and THAT is something worthwhile.

The idea of NaNo is not to have a COMPLETE novel, but a workable draft.
And you know what? Some people take decades to finish their first workable draft. That's great for those people, but not all of us have that kind of time. NaNoWriMo give you permission to go to town with all your wacky ideas, to vomit all over the page (or keyboard), to create and destroy as many characters as you choose -- and then fix it all LATER. Yes, a lot of crap gets written, but anyone serious about writing knows every draft of any important writing gets revised multiple times. In turning off that little editing voice in your head, you are free to think up the wildest scenarios possible, get them down, and then go back at a different time to make the wildness sensible.

If not now - when?
The most common argument I get from people about not participating in NaNo is, "I don't have the time." (Close second: I'm afraid. See advice next.) Last year I was stage managing a show through all of November. Tech week was the first week of NaNo. I worked 16 hour days for that week, and generally working seven days a week all month. I caught a plague cold which I probably should have gone to the ER for, and even now I don't really remember any of opening weekend for the show. My brain was full of crap about the show and my theatre company and my sucky job. I didn't think I'd ever be able to complete NaNo. Guess what? I did. I almost did not, but I made a push in the 27th hour and made it through. Even had I not 'won' last year, I would still be proud that I took the time and effort to dedicate myself to writing during such an insane time -- because if I hadn't have done it then, I may not ever have done it. The time excuse never flies with me; you have it in you to put as much or as little time as you're able into this project and giving yourself permission to write now will only help you do the same later.

I'm afraid!
Of what? Of not being able to hit 50,000 words in 30 days? So what? Write. Just write. And write. As much as you can, even if you think it sucks, even when you know your plot is not connecting and your characters are running away from you. Keep going. That fear and panic you're experiencing is normal and natural. Embrace it. Work with it. The only person who will ever really suffer if you give into your fear and don't write is you. The words you write today may not be there next month or next year, so stop worrying about if they're the best words and just write them down. You can always change them later. December later. Or much later. Point is, there is nothing to be afraid of except not writing.

Otherwise, you might as well just stop writing all together -- because brilliant writers, editors and publishers know, "There are already more than enough novels out there -- more than those of us who still read novels could ever get around to poking our noses into, even when it's our job to do so."
Thus, as the astute LA Times columnist Carolyn Kelloggpoints out:Well let's just call it quits on culture then, if there's enough. Also, people. There are more than enough people on the planet. Everyone, please stop making them.

Yeah... I'm going to go back to my 'useless' writing now, as I've spent too many words on this Very Important Blog which advises people to be productive rather than tears them down for trying to be so.