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The other day I was sitting at my laptop, writing a for the blog, when I was rudely interrupted by a chirping noise - coming from my ceiling.
That's never good.
I went to investigate and found nothing. However I did discover the culprit of a very obnoxious - albeit entirely separate - tapping noise. Mr. Woodpecker seems to have opened up spare whittling shop directly under the awning of my house. Unfortunately his hours happen to be exactly whenever I am working/writing/sleeping.
Since then I've decided that there is very much a small bird living inside some little space in the roof of my house. Which frankly, I've come to think, is pretty damn nifty. I like to consider him my little pet. He sits up high and watches me write and throws out little chirps of encouragement. Or so I like to believe. I think he's probably yellow and wears a red and white polka dot hat. My little yellow canary bird in a hat. (Apparently I've graduated from having imaginary friends but not pets. Nice.)
This little bird has also become somewhat of a metaphor for the way I've been thinking about my life lately. He has it all figured out. He probably has a mostly stress-free life. The area I live in is pretty wildlife friendly (the house cats tend to be rather tame and most dogs are kept indoors) so I doubt my little bird is having any Jason Bourne like chase scenes in his day-to-day existence. He has a constant food source. I know this for a fact because every time it rains the entire worm population in the tri-state area congregates on my front sidewalk and sings Christmas carols regardless of the season. Rain today? Yea well: BOOM. WORM SONGTIME.
Plus this bird also has an endless amount of entertainment. He can watch Sammy (the puppy) get chased by Little Brother, Little Sister, and Zoey - the evil dog. He can watch my mom have fits when she can't figure out something that's written in her textbook. And he can also while away his hours watching me at various times curse, hug, pet, and stare dreamily at my laptop (the last one is only when there's a picture of John Krasinski on it. Or something shiny. Or a Kindle.)
And all of this got me to thinking. I want a stress free life. My dentist says that I grind my teeth while I sleep - something to do with stress/how I lay when I sleep/my diet/exercise/the air/allergies and basically anything even remotely medical-ly sounding. However apparently if I was less stressed I would have fewer headaches and pointier teeth so that has become my new goal of late. Less Stress = Utopia Based Lifestyle. Or something like that.
Except that lovely God-like command isn't as easy as it sounds. You know just because the booming voice spouts off one day with "BE LESS STRESSED OR I WILL SMITE YOU IN SUCH A WAY THAT YOU WILL BE EVEN MORE STRESSED MWAHAHAHA" doesn't mean I can just magically poof and be all happy go lucky. Because, frankly, my life is a bit stressful.
Not that I'm not completely blessed. Because I am. I'm young, I have pretty great health, I have a family and friends that adore me, and I'm lucky enough to have found an amazing man who cares about me as much as I care about him. So overall I try really hard not to complain. But when it comes to matters like the economy, figuring out how to pay for college, trying to write my book, and ultimately finding some way to move back down to Salt Lake to be closer to the fiance things tend to get a bit overwhelming - and as a result - stressful.
So what I would really like is to be like my little bird that sits up in the ceiling watching things with a detached perspective. It doesn't bother him if maybe my website isn't working one day or if I didn't manage to get up as many posts as I would have liked one week. He's just happy to be safe and warm and able to chirp without anyone getting after him (which I've warned my family away from by threat of using the blender at 6 am on a regular basis - you want sleep? the bird stays).
I think the most important thing to remember is that my little bird also doesn't get stressed about being stressed which, remarkably enough, is something I've been known to do. Because when it really comes down to it I'll figure out how to pay for college. I'll get my website up and running soon enough. I'll find a job and an apartment down in Salt Lake in good time. Maybe it wont work out according to my timeline or the way I planned but it will all eventually work out. And that's what really matters.
I think my little yellow canary in the hat is a pretty good example for how I should try to live my life.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Tug-of-War
Sometimes I would really love for my life to be like a movie. I would love to have some heart-wrenching scene with soft piano music (preferably composed by Philip Glass) punctuated by whispered promises and a few tears followed by one of those awesome kick-ass scenes with the motivational songs where you watch all the trials and tribulations of the main character as she struggles towards her goal (always maintaining her gorgeous hairstyle) and finally accomplishes the impossible. I want all the months of worry, stress, and mild psychosis when it comes to my writing to be all wrapped up nicely in a two minute song with a great drum beat. I see no reason why it shouldn't work that way.
Real life is so much harder than that though. Those kind of inspirational moments only last a few minutes and then whats left is the actual grunge work that you have to do. There's no fast-forwarding to the end - where the sunsets and the smiles are waiting. You have to wade through all the mud and the muck to get there and when you do there is absolutely no chance that your hair will be clean and shiny. And that's where I am with my book.
There's the excited stage where I have my nifty little idea and I lavish for a few days in the sheer brilliance that exists in ME form (not). Then there's a workaholic phase where all I do is write for several weeks and typically stop changing out of my pajama's (and when I do change, god forbid, its just back into another pair of pajama's). But when that's all said and done I end up here. Trying not to look at my storyboard because I swear its making all sorts of condescending faces at me and avoiding my computers' desktop with the folder that reads "The Book You Have Not, And May Never, Finish If You Don't Get Off Your Couch And Write Faster, Better, And More Than You Currently Are, You Lazy Procrastinating Girl."
It's not that I don't want to write. I do, truly I do. I love telling stories, I love making people laugh, and I LOVE looking at a finished piece and getting that feeling that lets me know that whatever I put down actually does make sense and might also sound nice too. It's just the in between part. The part that rests its furry little butt down just after I open my word document and before I close said document in a mad rush to find out who in my house is making popcorn and if they'll share. It's that part that scratches just below my ankle, nips at the tips of my fingers, mews incessantly and then bats its little eyelashes when I threaten to make a small sacrifice out of it in the fire pit, as if it did nothing wrong. It comes in the guise of parents and teachers, family and friends, and essentially anyone who has ever told me that money cannot be made from writing, that what I'm doing isn't work, and that I'm condemning my future husband (sorry Crayon) to a lifetime of poverty if I continue on as I am. It also rears its head under the day to day pretense of school classes, part-time jobs, scholarships, dentist bills, 401k plans, car payments, gas prices, rent, and - god help me - Etsy. I swear Etsy will be my undoing. But when I'm gone all my friends will have an ENORMOUS amount of cute (albeit somewhat unnecessary) paraphernalia to inherit.
I suppose what I'm really trying to say here is that lately my life has become this awful tug-of-war between the things that I Adore doing (my writing, blogging, taking pictures, reading) and the things that I feel like I Must do (school, work, life planning, career building, happiness ignoring). I'm trying to strike some sort of balance but unfortunately it doesn't seem like the world runs on the idea that we should make time for the things we love now instead of later.
I have a feeling this is going to be a stressful week.
Real life is so much harder than that though. Those kind of inspirational moments only last a few minutes and then whats left is the actual grunge work that you have to do. There's no fast-forwarding to the end - where the sunsets and the smiles are waiting. You have to wade through all the mud and the muck to get there and when you do there is absolutely no chance that your hair will be clean and shiny. And that's where I am with my book.
There's the excited stage where I have my nifty little idea and I lavish for a few days in the sheer brilliance that exists in ME form (not). Then there's a workaholic phase where all I do is write for several weeks and typically stop changing out of my pajama's (and when I do change, god forbid, its just back into another pair of pajama's). But when that's all said and done I end up here. Trying not to look at my storyboard because I swear its making all sorts of condescending faces at me and avoiding my computers' desktop with the folder that reads "The Book You Have Not, And May Never, Finish If You Don't Get Off Your Couch And Write Faster, Better, And More Than You Currently Are, You Lazy Procrastinating Girl."
It's not that I don't want to write. I do, truly I do. I love telling stories, I love making people laugh, and I LOVE looking at a finished piece and getting that feeling that lets me know that whatever I put down actually does make sense and might also sound nice too. It's just the in between part. The part that rests its furry little butt down just after I open my word document and before I close said document in a mad rush to find out who in my house is making popcorn and if they'll share. It's that part that scratches just below my ankle, nips at the tips of my fingers, mews incessantly and then bats its little eyelashes when I threaten to make a small sacrifice out of it in the fire pit, as if it did nothing wrong. It comes in the guise of parents and teachers, family and friends, and essentially anyone who has ever told me that money cannot be made from writing, that what I'm doing isn't work, and that I'm condemning my future husband (sorry Crayon) to a lifetime of poverty if I continue on as I am. It also rears its head under the day to day pretense of school classes, part-time jobs, scholarships, dentist bills, 401k plans, car payments, gas prices, rent, and - god help me - Etsy. I swear Etsy will be my undoing. But when I'm gone all my friends will have an ENORMOUS amount of cute (albeit somewhat unnecessary) paraphernalia to inherit.
I suppose what I'm really trying to say here is that lately my life has become this awful tug-of-war between the things that I Adore doing (my writing, blogging, taking pictures, reading) and the things that I feel like I Must do (school, work, life planning, career building, happiness ignoring). I'm trying to strike some sort of balance but unfortunately it doesn't seem like the world runs on the idea that we should make time for the things we love now instead of later.
I have a feeling this is going to be a stressful week.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
A Better Way Of Living
Sometimes I wonder how we got to this point in our society. I wonder how it is that our whole lives came to be built on what seems to be a never ending cycle of stress, worry, and fear. I look around and all I see is how trapped we seem to be. How many of us have to sacrifice things we love, want, or need because our lifestyles, and the methods provided to maintain such comfortable lifestyles, dictate that we must do so. The binds that prevent us from experiencing many of the truest joys of life and continue to push us out of bed to our 9 to 5 jobs each morning are spread far and wide, undeterred by age, race, income, or hometown. They are the school loans, the insurance premiums, the mortgages, the cars, the interest rates, the credit cards, the ever out of reach promotion, and without fail the very comforts of life that we strive so hard for that ultimately end up making our lives uncomfortable.
I have friends that wanted to travel. I have friends that wanted to volunteer, teaching children in impoverished countries. Friends that are now, working part time, trying to put themselves through school. My mother wanted to be a nurse, to own her own home, to retire comfortably, without worry. She's now just barely going back to school, over forty, without any real estate to her name and without a retirement account to fall back on. My father wanted to make his living writing music. He currently works in electronic marketing, writing songs at night, and flying to Nashville in pursue of a dream that's slowly become a hobby over the last twenty years. One of my best friends from high school wanted to be a make-up artist. Now she works at a dealership, selling cars for sixty hours a week. What is it that allows us to write off the things we want, as later dates in our calendar, and things to do - but at the bottom of our list. How is it that we let the most important things fall through the cracks for the day to day sake of "making it", of "surviving"?
I wonder if college tuition was free, if health care was provided without a second thought, and if banks and credit card companies were regulated more closely, would the average middle class worker stand a little more of a chance when trying to build a life? If hospital bills and co-pays didn't force people to sell their homes would it be easier for someone to finance a small business? If not for student loans that keep us tied down and credit cards that never seem to get paid off would there be more people taking a year to go travel and see the world? Is it a lot to ask that we be free to move about and create the lives that we truly wish for? Should our society not be built on the ideas of lifting up its citizens instead of chaining them down for the sake of profit? How did we get to this point? And more importantly, is there a better way of living?
Lizzy
I have friends that wanted to travel. I have friends that wanted to volunteer, teaching children in impoverished countries. Friends that are now, working part time, trying to put themselves through school. My mother wanted to be a nurse, to own her own home, to retire comfortably, without worry. She's now just barely going back to school, over forty, without any real estate to her name and without a retirement account to fall back on. My father wanted to make his living writing music. He currently works in electronic marketing, writing songs at night, and flying to Nashville in pursue of a dream that's slowly become a hobby over the last twenty years. One of my best friends from high school wanted to be a make-up artist. Now she works at a dealership, selling cars for sixty hours a week. What is it that allows us to write off the things we want, as later dates in our calendar, and things to do - but at the bottom of our list. How is it that we let the most important things fall through the cracks for the day to day sake of "making it", of "surviving"?
I wonder if college tuition was free, if health care was provided without a second thought, and if banks and credit card companies were regulated more closely, would the average middle class worker stand a little more of a chance when trying to build a life? If hospital bills and co-pays didn't force people to sell their homes would it be easier for someone to finance a small business? If not for student loans that keep us tied down and credit cards that never seem to get paid off would there be more people taking a year to go travel and see the world? Is it a lot to ask that we be free to move about and create the lives that we truly wish for? Should our society not be built on the ideas of lifting up its citizens instead of chaining them down for the sake of profit? How did we get to this point? And more importantly, is there a better way of living?
Lizzy
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Backup Plans
Sometimes its so damn frustrating to know what you want. There are days when I envy my friends for just being able to do the "college thing". It all seems so ridiculously easy. They all get to go to school for four years, pick a major, and follow their yellow-brick-road of a career path to wherever they want to go. They get to go to med school. They get to apply for the law program. It seems unfair for the rest of us that have "unconventional" career choices. What guidebook is there for us to follow?
There aren't pretty office complexes for writers. We don't get to sign up with big brand names and impersonal corporations. We don't have the job security, the HMO's, the pensions, or the 401k's. There's no set formula to do well in our industry. No guarantee that with good grades and extracurricular activities, we'll graduate with job offers and proud parents, with a sense of where we're headed, or even the promise that we'll like it when we get there. There are no try-outs, no hopeful gateways, and the entry-level jobs that one might work up from are few and far between. There aren't any support groups either - and writing is a lonely affair. Working on a book is nothing like blogging. The blog community has the benefits of instant validation on any and all content. For the lucky few of us that have a small number of dedicated readers we are able to receive immediate feedback, (and most of us survive off of this drip-line of positive reinforcement). Unfortunately with a book you're up against 65,000 words without any kind of a support system. And that can be pretty daunting. It can also make you reconsider what the hell it is you're trying to do exactly.
My mother wanted to be a writer too. She fell in love with words the same way I did, through literature and music, and like me, she never really let go of the idea. She worked hard at it, as she does with everything in her life, and sold a few short stories here and there but nothing further came of it. She's a testament to the reality that the creative industries have more than enough fresh blood each year, to glide over all the Mid-Lister's that didn't make it as big as they had planned. Now, at 44 years old, she's going into a nursing program, finally pursuing her only other passion. She's my reminder of how cruel life can be to those that fall between the cracks and it makes me wonder if I'm not setting myself up to fail.
Now that I'm here I can't imagine really doing anything else - the standard fall-backs of journalism and teaching don't appeal to me very much - but I can't help worrying about what happens if I'm not part of that lucky (but minuscule) percentage that actually manages to get published, let alone figure out a way to make a living off of this writing business. I know that all I can do is try my hardest and hope for the best outcome but it seems like I have so much riding on all this now, I can't help but let my rational side suggest that I might be making a mistake. I have a fiance with whom I hope to build a comfortable (read: not lacking) sort of lifestyle and I wonder if I ought to pursue a more established type of career. I know that he wants me to do what makes me happy but I refuse to be one of those women that stays home and lives off their husbands income. I wasn't raised that way - and frankly I'd probably go crazy. So what it really all comes down to is - if not this, then what?
There aren't pretty office complexes for writers. We don't get to sign up with big brand names and impersonal corporations. We don't have the job security, the HMO's, the pensions, or the 401k's. There's no set formula to do well in our industry. No guarantee that with good grades and extracurricular activities, we'll graduate with job offers and proud parents, with a sense of where we're headed, or even the promise that we'll like it when we get there. There are no try-outs, no hopeful gateways, and the entry-level jobs that one might work up from are few and far between. There aren't any support groups either - and writing is a lonely affair. Working on a book is nothing like blogging. The blog community has the benefits of instant validation on any and all content. For the lucky few of us that have a small number of dedicated readers we are able to receive immediate feedback, (and most of us survive off of this drip-line of positive reinforcement). Unfortunately with a book you're up against 65,000 words without any kind of a support system. And that can be pretty daunting. It can also make you reconsider what the hell it is you're trying to do exactly.
My mother wanted to be a writer too. She fell in love with words the same way I did, through literature and music, and like me, she never really let go of the idea. She worked hard at it, as she does with everything in her life, and sold a few short stories here and there but nothing further came of it. She's a testament to the reality that the creative industries have more than enough fresh blood each year, to glide over all the Mid-Lister's that didn't make it as big as they had planned. Now, at 44 years old, she's going into a nursing program, finally pursuing her only other passion. She's my reminder of how cruel life can be to those that fall between the cracks and it makes me wonder if I'm not setting myself up to fail.
Now that I'm here I can't imagine really doing anything else - the standard fall-backs of journalism and teaching don't appeal to me very much - but I can't help worrying about what happens if I'm not part of that lucky (but minuscule) percentage that actually manages to get published, let alone figure out a way to make a living off of this writing business. I know that all I can do is try my hardest and hope for the best outcome but it seems like I have so much riding on all this now, I can't help but let my rational side suggest that I might be making a mistake. I have a fiance with whom I hope to build a comfortable (read: not lacking) sort of lifestyle and I wonder if I ought to pursue a more established type of career. I know that he wants me to do what makes me happy but I refuse to be one of those women that stays home and lives off their husbands income. I wasn't raised that way - and frankly I'd probably go crazy. So what it really all comes down to is - if not this, then what?
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Writing II
Why is it that in that one true moment of epiphany there are also ten thousand moments of insecurity, self-doubt, calamity, and general fear? It's like sure the sign says to go ahead and feed the swan but you can't because all the bloody ducks keep eating your bread. All you really wanted was for the picture perfect snow-white swan to lengthen out her neck and pluck that tiny bit of bread out of the water, and maybe for her to spread out her wings in an appreciative sort of way but instead what happens is all of the noisy, scrambling, greedy ducks race after the bread, while laughing at you with their sharp little quacks, while the lovely swan turns away from you - miffed that you didn't get the bread to her, and then you realize that not only did you not throw the bread far enough but its now, quite obviously, not the right type of bread, so of course only the ducks will love it, and they clammer for more, swimming alongside your little boardwalk as you try and escape them, hurling bread over your shoulder in an attempt to distract them, which of course they see right through, while the other pedestrians laugh at you for your sheer idiocy when it comes to the bread throwing antics.
I'm having some trouble with my writing, as it were. And even now I find myself more infuriated that I can spend a mere five minutes on paragraph about ducks that will hopefully have a few of my readers smiling to themselves but for some reason or another I cant seem to turn out a decent chapter for my novel. The story is there, the characters are there. But for some reason my pages seem flimsy and see-through. Part of me says that its simply because I'm starting out. That maybe I haven't gotten the flow, the heartbeat, of it all down just yet. That small part is quickly silenced by the rest of me which thinks I'm a hopeless failure and am using up my laptop memory with writing akin to the paper they line fish with at the markets.
There was a time in my life where, should this have occurred, I might have lightly shrugged my shoulders, said "Well, that's that," and gone on my merry way - probably off to buy a pygmy goat or to steal one of those lovely bright traffic cones (which, by the way, for those of you concerned with my crime habits, I haven't done - I did receive two however via a present from my boyfriend J - thank you again!). But now I'm more deeply involved. It's like when someone buys a pet fish for you - a fish that you didn't really want and certainly don't need. For the first few days you're impassive towards this fish. You think of naming it but you also think of frying it up and feeding it to the kitty. You feed it - out of boredom if nothing else, but it doesn't really belong to you yet. Those are the days where you can give the whole thing up, tell the fish you're flushing it and then proceed to do just that. If you wait though you'll find yourself growing attached to the fish. You'll realize that it sort of seems to bob its head approvingly when you talk out loud to it, and that maybe it flicks some water out with its tail when the plants are getting a bit dry. Soon you'll find yourself admiring shiny marbles and little green castles wondering if "Fredrick" would like them and eagerly awaiting your next paycheck at which point you will buy that nice big twenty gallon tank all for your fish that you didn't really want in the first place.
Sadly enough for me, I'm there. Not with the fish -obviously, however if that happens I'll be sure to take pictures as it all goes down, but with my writing. There was a point were it didn't matter to me one way or the other - I could write or not write, whichever way the wind blew, and either way I was happy. I suppose some childish part of me though that it was only my motivation that was the problem - that surely if I just sat down to write consistently the writing itself would come naturally. However now that I've actually done just that I've realized that not only may I be just completely terrible at this whole "Fiction" business but that I also cant live any other way. Where I didn't give even the slightest of a damn before I now have fallen in love and certainly will not resurface. My on and off affair with writing has ended entirely and I am now married to the idea - never to be parted.
Its inevitably cruel that right when I've committed myself to the idea of pursuing a career as a writer I also realize that I'm absolutely awful at it.
Needless to say - this has been a very long afternoon.
Lizzy
I'm having some trouble with my writing, as it were. And even now I find myself more infuriated that I can spend a mere five minutes on paragraph about ducks that will hopefully have a few of my readers smiling to themselves but for some reason or another I cant seem to turn out a decent chapter for my novel. The story is there, the characters are there. But for some reason my pages seem flimsy and see-through. Part of me says that its simply because I'm starting out. That maybe I haven't gotten the flow, the heartbeat, of it all down just yet. That small part is quickly silenced by the rest of me which thinks I'm a hopeless failure and am using up my laptop memory with writing akin to the paper they line fish with at the markets.
There was a time in my life where, should this have occurred, I might have lightly shrugged my shoulders, said "Well, that's that," and gone on my merry way - probably off to buy a pygmy goat or to steal one of those lovely bright traffic cones (which, by the way, for those of you concerned with my crime habits, I haven't done - I did receive two however via a present from my boyfriend J - thank you again!). But now I'm more deeply involved. It's like when someone buys a pet fish for you - a fish that you didn't really want and certainly don't need. For the first few days you're impassive towards this fish. You think of naming it but you also think of frying it up and feeding it to the kitty. You feed it - out of boredom if nothing else, but it doesn't really belong to you yet. Those are the days where you can give the whole thing up, tell the fish you're flushing it and then proceed to do just that. If you wait though you'll find yourself growing attached to the fish. You'll realize that it sort of seems to bob its head approvingly when you talk out loud to it, and that maybe it flicks some water out with its tail when the plants are getting a bit dry. Soon you'll find yourself admiring shiny marbles and little green castles wondering if "Fredrick" would like them and eagerly awaiting your next paycheck at which point you will buy that nice big twenty gallon tank all for your fish that you didn't really want in the first place.
Sadly enough for me, I'm there. Not with the fish -obviously, however if that happens I'll be sure to take pictures as it all goes down, but with my writing. There was a point were it didn't matter to me one way or the other - I could write or not write, whichever way the wind blew, and either way I was happy. I suppose some childish part of me though that it was only my motivation that was the problem - that surely if I just sat down to write consistently the writing itself would come naturally. However now that I've actually done just that I've realized that not only may I be just completely terrible at this whole "Fiction" business but that I also cant live any other way. Where I didn't give even the slightest of a damn before I now have fallen in love and certainly will not resurface. My on and off affair with writing has ended entirely and I am now married to the idea - never to be parted.
Its inevitably cruel that right when I've committed myself to the idea of pursuing a career as a writer I also realize that I'm absolutely awful at it.
Needless to say - this has been a very long afternoon.
Lizzy
Friday, August 8, 2008
To Do or Not To Do?
Here is what I should be doing:
What I am doing (but should not be) is the following:
- Writing.
What I am doing (but should not be) is the following:
- Ebaying.
- Combing through my newly found (and very addictive) site Etsy.
- Contemplating a trip to the store for ice cream (Half Baked!).
- Pondering my favorite color of skittle.
- Napping.
- Watching reruns of The Office (could September be any farther away?).
- Reading things that do not fall under the category of "Research for The Book" (i.e. yoga magazines).
- Discussing Halloween costumes with my mom with regards to my puppy (apparently he's going to be a bat).
I think I need some sort of time management course or something. However that would also take time away from writing. Damn it.
Lizzy
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
A New Face!
Just a quick note here - the blog is undergoing some designing changes so if things get a little crazy for a bit rest assured that the posting will continue, however the previously bad color schemes will not!
Thanks for everyones patience here.
Lizzy
Thanks for everyones patience here.
Lizzy
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Writing
The odds of the average person becoming even remotely successful at what they consider to be a worthwhile pursuit are slim, if even that. We all have a cynical, frustrated, alter ego that frequently reminds us that there are already plenty of brilliant pianists, dancers, painters, and writers, "and why should anyone give a damn if you can do it too?", it likes to say. Why - when so many other decent people have tried and failed - should the red carpet be rolled out for you? What makes you so worthy of the end results we all desperately wish for? I imagine its a combination of things. It probably consists of a mixture of dedication, relentlessness, severe self criticisms and ultimately some prescription drug abuse. It starts with dysfunctional families, grade school disturbances, and an overeager ability to withstand pain. We all have that deep, underground, barbiturate -like desire that gives us something to think about on cold bus rides homes and an excuse to stare off into space at family dinners while making everyone else remarkably uncomfortable.
Mine is writing. For me it's always been one of those things that I'm not really excited about until I'm actually in the process. I'm like that with movies. I'll stand and sway back and forth in front of a ridiculous amount of DVDs claiming all the while that I have nothing to watch until I finally just pick one - whining that I don't really even want to watch this particular one - and twenty minutes later you'll find me immensely enjoying the film that I, of course, didn't want to watch in the first place. Yet, despite my anxiety over the matter, I always come back to writing. Even when I assure myself that I'll be far better off going into medicine or education I cant ever completely shake the idea of writing. I wish I could say I was one of those children that came up with fantastic stories to share at reunions and holidays, impressing family and friends with my brilliant creativity, with everyone nodding their heads in assurance that I would certainly be the writer amongst them all. I wish I could say I was the acclaimed second grader who won the school contests and received gold stars for every little poem she put out. However I really wasn't - I mostly just read and made efforts to be the top of the class when it came to swinging on the monkey bars.
But still, even without these tidbits to reassure me when I'm certain that I'm an absolute failure at it all and should immediately give it up, I find myself thinking that while many writers are destined to do terribly we cant all be - otherwise nothing would ever be written. I still find myself referring back to the legends of how King, Grisham, and Clark got their start. I remember that they didn't go to college to write, that their books aren't the most profound and all encompassing of literature, and that many of them didn't do well the first time around. And I remember the multi-million advances some of them got. Yes, I'm aware of the arrogance of it all, but for some reason or another the starving artist lifestyle has no appeal to me.
I'm quite thrilled that after all the negativity and cynicism that prefaces the decision to become a professional writer there are those of us who are still able to tell everyone else to go to hell - that we will do whatever we damn well please - and then we'll write it all down. When it really comes down to it, even though I know what the odds are of being a successful writer and I'm fully aware of the serious lack of health insurance that is traded in for the obscure (if not dubious) title of writer, I also know that if I don't try I'd never forgive myself. I'd rather write six books - fail miserably at all of them, gain thirty pounds off of cinnamon sugar toast and strawberry cream cheese while seriously contemplating a move to Jamaica than never try to write professionally.
So all in all, frustrating as it may be, and difficult as it remains, writing is really the only thing I want to do.
Mine is writing. For me it's always been one of those things that I'm not really excited about until I'm actually in the process. I'm like that with movies. I'll stand and sway back and forth in front of a ridiculous amount of DVDs claiming all the while that I have nothing to watch until I finally just pick one - whining that I don't really even want to watch this particular one - and twenty minutes later you'll find me immensely enjoying the film that I, of course, didn't want to watch in the first place. Yet, despite my anxiety over the matter, I always come back to writing. Even when I assure myself that I'll be far better off going into medicine or education I cant ever completely shake the idea of writing. I wish I could say I was one of those children that came up with fantastic stories to share at reunions and holidays, impressing family and friends with my brilliant creativity, with everyone nodding their heads in assurance that I would certainly be the writer amongst them all. I wish I could say I was the acclaimed second grader who won the school contests and received gold stars for every little poem she put out. However I really wasn't - I mostly just read and made efforts to be the top of the class when it came to swinging on the monkey bars.
But still, even without these tidbits to reassure me when I'm certain that I'm an absolute failure at it all and should immediately give it up, I find myself thinking that while many writers are destined to do terribly we cant all be - otherwise nothing would ever be written. I still find myself referring back to the legends of how King, Grisham, and Clark got their start. I remember that they didn't go to college to write, that their books aren't the most profound and all encompassing of literature, and that many of them didn't do well the first time around. And I remember the multi-million advances some of them got. Yes, I'm aware of the arrogance of it all, but for some reason or another the starving artist lifestyle has no appeal to me.
I'm quite thrilled that after all the negativity and cynicism that prefaces the decision to become a professional writer there are those of us who are still able to tell everyone else to go to hell - that we will do whatever we damn well please - and then we'll write it all down. When it really comes down to it, even though I know what the odds are of being a successful writer and I'm fully aware of the serious lack of health insurance that is traded in for the obscure (if not dubious) title of writer, I also know that if I don't try I'd never forgive myself. I'd rather write six books - fail miserably at all of them, gain thirty pounds off of cinnamon sugar toast and strawberry cream cheese while seriously contemplating a move to Jamaica than never try to write professionally.
So all in all, frustrating as it may be, and difficult as it remains, writing is really the only thing I want to do.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The Difference
A lot of the time it becomes easy for us to lose focus on the things that really matter. Some people are blessed with the ability to become decisively narrow minded when it comes to the things that they believe make the difference. Others are not so fortunate. We twist and we turn and we let the current sweep us downstream because for so many its easier to do so than to admit that we arent doing, arent getting, and arent being what we want in life. It is so much simpler to be a sheep. There are far too many opportunities for procrastination - opportunities to chew more grass and spit it back out in the form of reality tv, prescription drugs, and the 4 a.m. trips to the freezer for that dwindling carton of double twist brownie frudge that you'll guilt yourself over later. The truth of the matter is that its easier for us to accept that we never really tried to go after what we want then to face the possibilty of doing so and failing. Many of us never even get far enough to let ourselves be open to the things we want. We instantly dismiss any and all thoughts that might condone for even a second that we are capable of having such things. And maybe for some people that works. Maybe for some its alright to ignore that ever prevalent ache that comes with not moving forward. The nervous energy that comes from standing still. But fortunately, for some, its simply unacceptable to let themselves remain idle. These rare individuals among us are the ones who continue to toil day after day, in situations in which they often find no appeal, for the sake of something that holds truer meaning. These are the people who refuse to give up or give in even when if it means they have to push a little harder or hold out a little longer than they would have liked. Yet, when asked about the source of their dedication, you might find these individuals to be as troubled as the rest of us. No speeches about perseverance or the meaning of hard work - just the honest truth that some things in life are important enough to make you get out of bed each day. It's these things, in the end, that truly make the difference and its these people that we all might strive to be a little more like.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Decisions Decisions...
How many chances do we get in life? How many real, true opportunities do we get to have the things we want - to be the person we want? How many of us spend 40+ hours a week at a job we aren't in love with? We give the best 50 years of our life to a bunch of companies with CEO's that spend their time vacationing in the Hamptons - while we try and rid ourselves of cubicle fever with potted plants and magazine clippings of better places. I'm young enough that maybe I cant testify to the true pain of watching years of my life go by while I wonder why I haven't gotten around to doing things I want to do. I haven't had to stop and ask why I haven't spent time traveling yet, or why I haven't bought my dream home, or why I haven't pursued that lifelong passion of mine. Isn't that the reason we start working - to be able to afford that happy lifestyle? Yet when that lifestyle finally becomes a reality (for a lucky, hardworking, financially scrupulous few) its too late to really enjoy it.
How many people spend their lives in a profession they don't have a real interest in because they aren't really interested in anything? The childhood fantasy of what you want to be when you "grow up" becomes a dreaded nightmare for the college student. At a time in our lives when we are still overwhelmed with the thought of cable bills, student loans, and that dwindling box of Top Ramen, we are expected to magically be able to predict our values and interests for, at least, the next 30 years. Choose your occupation - for the rest of your life? How many of us would be happy with the option of one meal or one outfit for the rest of our lives? Maybe that's a bit dramatic, after all doesn't the average person change their career twice now? That might have worked fifty years ago - but it doesn't work now. I at least want more.
To clarify a little here my motivation for writing about this comes from several sources. First of all I'm graduating in a few months - and that's pretty fucking scary. People say it gets easier but I think that if everyone was honest with themselves they'd realize that's not really the case. It never gets easier to stick with something day after day if you don't love it. And as a senior that's the big topic of conversation:
"So what are you going to do after you graduate?"
"What kind of degree are you going to get?"
"Are you looking at jobs?"
"Do you know what you want to do with your life?"
I don't know. I don't know enough about myself, about money, about love, about life, and about the world to have any idea of what I want to do until I'm too old and decrepit to keep playing the game.
Secondly a lot of my worry comes from watching my mother. My mother is such a strong, beautiful, smart woman - but I don't think she's ever been really happy with her career. I've watched her hold all sorts of jobs (often more than one at a time) - but that's all they ever really were. Just jobs. Not careers. Not goals. Not passion's. Just jobs. She worked so hard for my brother, sister, and I and while I respect that and couldn't be any more grateful to her I don't want to follow the same path. I want to wake up every morning excited to do work I love. I want to buy a home with money I've earned doing something that excites and ignites me. Buyers remorse comes from a fear of wasting money - and a fear of wasted money stems from the thought that you have to endure even more to make that money back.
So here's the bottom line. I refuse to be one of those people. I wont spend my lifetime making someone else rich off my time, energy, and creativity. I wont worry about money. I wont dread Mondays and live for the weekends. I will make myself wealthy. I will spend each day doing work I believe in. I will support myself doing only things I love and enjoy. I will travel and have a high quality of life now - not later. I'm going to live my life as I please - and I'll be damned if I don't enjoy every minute of it.
If anyone, and I mean anyone who feels the same is reading I'd like to hear your thoughts.
More soon.
Lizzy
How many people spend their lives in a profession they don't have a real interest in because they aren't really interested in anything? The childhood fantasy of what you want to be when you "grow up" becomes a dreaded nightmare for the college student. At a time in our lives when we are still overwhelmed with the thought of cable bills, student loans, and that dwindling box of Top Ramen, we are expected to magically be able to predict our values and interests for, at least, the next 30 years. Choose your occupation - for the rest of your life? How many of us would be happy with the option of one meal or one outfit for the rest of our lives? Maybe that's a bit dramatic, after all doesn't the average person change their career twice now? That might have worked fifty years ago - but it doesn't work now. I at least want more.
To clarify a little here my motivation for writing about this comes from several sources. First of all I'm graduating in a few months - and that's pretty fucking scary. People say it gets easier but I think that if everyone was honest with themselves they'd realize that's not really the case. It never gets easier to stick with something day after day if you don't love it. And as a senior that's the big topic of conversation:
"So what are you going to do after you graduate?"
"What kind of degree are you going to get?"
"Are you looking at jobs?"
"Do you know what you want to do with your life?"
I don't know. I don't know enough about myself, about money, about love, about life, and about the world to have any idea of what I want to do until I'm too old and decrepit to keep playing the game.
Secondly a lot of my worry comes from watching my mother. My mother is such a strong, beautiful, smart woman - but I don't think she's ever been really happy with her career. I've watched her hold all sorts of jobs (often more than one at a time) - but that's all they ever really were. Just jobs. Not careers. Not goals. Not passion's. Just jobs. She worked so hard for my brother, sister, and I and while I respect that and couldn't be any more grateful to her I don't want to follow the same path. I want to wake up every morning excited to do work I love. I want to buy a home with money I've earned doing something that excites and ignites me. Buyers remorse comes from a fear of wasting money - and a fear of wasted money stems from the thought that you have to endure even more to make that money back.
So here's the bottom line. I refuse to be one of those people. I wont spend my lifetime making someone else rich off my time, energy, and creativity. I wont worry about money. I wont dread Mondays and live for the weekends. I will make myself wealthy. I will spend each day doing work I believe in. I will support myself doing only things I love and enjoy. I will travel and have a high quality of life now - not later. I'm going to live my life as I please - and I'll be damned if I don't enjoy every minute of it.
If anyone, and I mean anyone who feels the same is reading I'd like to hear your thoughts.
More soon.
Lizzy
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Soulful Bangs
Drastic times call for drastic measures. In the last several months I have redefined the very essence of what I consider my purpose in life. So, to commemorate it, I got my hair cut.
Ok in all seriousness I'm not quite that shallow but both statements hold true. I have been reconsidering a lot of things lately. And I did get my hair cut. I've made some serious steps towards a real career as a writer, I've reevaluated some things with my current romantic fascination, and taken on several new spiritual projects. I felt like my hair could use something new. However when I say "spiritual" I mean it in the most loosely defined sense possible. For example, I consider revamping the music on my ipod with exotic new harmonies to be rather spiritual. To some extent I identify bits of myself with the music I choose to listen to and in many ways I make sense of people by looking at the music they listen to. And the food they eat. And how they cut their hair. Maybe that's why, when I make a big change with the intangible dimensions of my life, it feels good to make a physical change to parallel it. Besides - new haircuts are fun. New people are fun too - they are little puzzles to figure out; little pieces of thoughts and ideas, drink preferences and bad facial hair choices. That's what makes life interesting. So I change my hair, change my routine, and open my life up to new possibilities. And there you have it: haircut = spiritual. I took two inches off and I got bangs. Go me.
In other news I've made wonderful friends at work. My coworkers are not only friendly but knowledgeable and intriguing. You never know what kind of people you'll meet. Even more interesting though are some of the customers that come in. I've learned a few lessons from meeting so many people in such condensed periods of time. I've overheard a lot of inspiring conversations and come to realize that the old adage "You can't judge a book by its cover" still holds true. I place no stock in stereotypes and have found that some of the sweetest souls are housed in unconventional lodgings. I urge everyone to look beyond the surfaces we see upon each other. There are amazing qualities within each of us. Also I've been given wonderful gardening advice from a large variety of sources. Can't ask for much more than that can you?
More on its way!
Lizzy
P.S. Spring is on its way too!
Ok in all seriousness I'm not quite that shallow but both statements hold true. I have been reconsidering a lot of things lately. And I did get my hair cut. I've made some serious steps towards a real career as a writer, I've reevaluated some things with my current romantic fascination, and taken on several new spiritual projects. I felt like my hair could use something new. However when I say "spiritual" I mean it in the most loosely defined sense possible. For example, I consider revamping the music on my ipod with exotic new harmonies to be rather spiritual. To some extent I identify bits of myself with the music I choose to listen to and in many ways I make sense of people by looking at the music they listen to. And the food they eat. And how they cut their hair. Maybe that's why, when I make a big change with the intangible dimensions of my life, it feels good to make a physical change to parallel it. Besides - new haircuts are fun. New people are fun too - they are little puzzles to figure out; little pieces of thoughts and ideas, drink preferences and bad facial hair choices. That's what makes life interesting. So I change my hair, change my routine, and open my life up to new possibilities. And there you have it: haircut = spiritual. I took two inches off and I got bangs. Go me.
In other news I've made wonderful friends at work. My coworkers are not only friendly but knowledgeable and intriguing. You never know what kind of people you'll meet. Even more interesting though are some of the customers that come in. I've learned a few lessons from meeting so many people in such condensed periods of time. I've overheard a lot of inspiring conversations and come to realize that the old adage "You can't judge a book by its cover" still holds true. I place no stock in stereotypes and have found that some of the sweetest souls are housed in unconventional lodgings. I urge everyone to look beyond the surfaces we see upon each other. There are amazing qualities within each of us. Also I've been given wonderful gardening advice from a large variety of sources. Can't ask for much more than that can you?
More on its way!
Lizzy
P.S. Spring is on its way too!
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