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.

Feeling Adored

Terribly sorry for the lack of updates over the last few days. I took a mini vacation to spend some time down in the city with Crayon (who was nothing short of adorable the whole time) and somehow managed to ignore both my laptop and cell phone while down there. It was a lovely break from the book writing and I was once again reminded that I'm the luckiest freakin girl in the world (boyfriend wise- that is). Because seriously I had no idea that there were still guys around that would insist on opening every door, holding your bags when you go shopping, and paying for dinner. Crayon, I kid you not, does all of these things and so much more. He's happy to stay home and watch The Office with me (OHMIGODITSALMOSTSEPTEMBER25TH!) or to go see all the obnoxiously girly movies that are playing in the tri-state area and he endures my drunk-sounding-semi-awake-but-still-trying-to-hold-conversations state that inevitably comes about around 10pm. I have this marvelous ability to both fall asleep at the same time that everyone woman over the age of 65 finishes her cross-stitching and decides its time for bed and to believe that I'm still capable of saying immensely profound things while I'm drifting in and out of la-la land. Very attractive I'm sure. And yet this handsome brown eyed guy lets me ramble on about frappuccino's and fire trucks and only teases me the tiniest bit about it the next day. Definitely a keeper.

I've moved over from that group of women that pooh-pooh's romantic movies as society's way of sucking our gender in to their if-i-buy-*random hair care product goes here*-then-i-would-surely-be-in-love-like-that bullshit to the quietly happy group that can enjoy the chick flicks without wondering if I'll ever by that happy and simply hopes that every other woman has the chance to feel like I do and be adored like I currently am. I do wish that our culture wasn't so judgemental - be it on the basis of appearance or money or upbringing but fortunately for us there seem to still be a few good guys hanging around that aren't looking for an airbrushed type A model, but rather a real sort of girl that they can try to build a life with.

Also any guy that willingly lets his girl post about him on her blog under the nom de plume "crayon" has got to be one confident dude.

The Poetry of Love

Love is a difficult subject to present in a fair light. Our modern-day cliches and Hollywood exaggerations make it hard to truly see love for what it is and can be. It teaches us a lot about ourselves and about life. I've heard it compared to a mirror - a way of seeing yourself through the eyes of others. And in many ways that's exactly right.

I've learned my fair amount of lessons, moving in and out of relationships. I've learned to appreciate the flurry of new love and to press forward when it fades. I've learned to give everything I have for the sake of a companion and how, when I have nothing left, to live within the artful postures of love - instead of love itself. I taught myself to appreciate the little things, to create my own happiness. Most importantly though, I learned to take care of myself and to retain a sense of self within a relationship. And for some strange reason it was only when I figured all of this out that I was truly ready for the person I needed to come into my life. And then he did.

It seems unfair, when I have been so lucky in so many other ways, that I should be graced with the presence of such an amazing person. I certainly don't deserve it. In a surreal, movie-like sort of way, he strolled into my life, asked me to dance, and, remarkably enough, hasn't taken his eyes off of me since. The clarity and the reassurance that his presence holds is something I've come to depend on and in many ways it's allowed me to return to that centered, balanced sort of state I've been missing for many years. It's one of the many things that, for me, mark him as a lasting presence in my life. I could sigh over how handsome he is, the way he opens every door for me, refuses to let me pay for even a cup of coffee, and surprises me with presents for the smallest of reasons, but the truth of the matter is that I love him for the purest of reasons I've come to find. That being - that he simply loves me, without question or unsurety, without demand for performance or change. He loves me - just me and just as I am.

The true poetry of love and romance lies in its simplicity and its consistency. Love begins and ends within the same designs and its the dedication of those in love that keep such a cycle in its delicate balance. It's the compromising and the combination of honesty and trust that allow an unfolding of one of life's most precious gifts. If love remains patient, remains kind, we might find that instead of being left empty when pouring our time and efforts into a relationship, we are filled to the brim with the rewards of our labors. We might find ourselves rekindled, renewed, and above all if we allow ourselves to discover the very truth and nature by which life and love exist we might also find someone with which to share it.

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.