Maybe You Gotta Mourn

This weekend was pretty rough. I worked an event that, from the beginning, was a giant pile of mess. And, by the way? I worked that first day, too. This event was screwed on so many levels, and began not so much with human error, but with a technological fail. Hundreds of people were affected, and the people who could make decisions to try to mend what had broken worked TIRELESSLY to do so. And yes, I played a very small role in this. Even if I didn't make any of the decisions, I came in extra hours to help untangle just a tiny part of the enormous knot. I like puzzles and I'm pretty good at them.

So, for about a month we've been doing our best to fix this broken thing. And maybe not everyone ended up happy. In fact, I'm pretty sure everyone was a least a little bit displeased with some aspect or another. We all tried very hard to do something that was not even possible, and we did it while people yelled at us, called us names, made racist remarks, hung up on us, and made up stories about what said or did.

And it's not that I can't understand where many of these folks were coming from. They only wanted to enjoy a special day with their families. This is something I can understand. I openly sobbed at Old Navy when I learned I couldn't get a flight to Hilo to see Noah compete in the track state championships this past May-- an event in which he would never compete again. And when I did get my butt to Hilo, I couldn't even see him run because I had to catch my flight back to Oahu. I remember sitting in the car, the roof leaking (because it's Hilo, hello, and it rains), in anguish, because should I or shouldn't I try to stay to watch? As it was, I barely made my flight.

And then when I got back, I had to miss Lucy's last hula performance. I have never missed any of them, and the one I missed, they actually PLACED. My daughter sacrificed her knees and feet for that hula, and I didn't get to see it. She has danced since she was five and is no longer dancing, and that moment will not come back.

I know what it's like to miss out. I know the intense disappointment and frustration. I know that all these families were frustrated and angry and sad. I would be too.

But I also know how hard we all worked to try to make things as right for as many people as possible, and as quickly as possible. And if it couldn't be done quickly, it could be done in a reasonable amount of time. We all endured the yelling and cursing and insults when it wasn't even something we had done because we understood what it meant to everyone. We tried to be as accommodating as we could because we thought they deserved it.

I had a phone call yesterday from a woman whose verbal assault, while understandable, felt like I was being pummeled by rough surf. Over and over, she repeated her displeasure, interrupting me when I tried to speak. I could not breathe. And then she asked me questions about how I would personally handle the situation, and I could not answer honestly. To have answered honestly would be to have further upset her because no matter how frustrated or angry I might be, I would not take it out on a stranger on a phone. So I really did want to help her because I could totally empathize, but it's not like I have the authority to do what she wanted nor would it have been fair to the hundreds of other people who couldn't be accommodated.

And so yesterday, Saturday, I spent most of my morning being yelled at, which is probably an exaggeration. I got pummeled all morning. I dreaded answering the phone or making phone calls to  people. It was physically and emotionally draining.

Those shitty feelings, I still carried with me today. I hid at home and ignored my phone. I tried to work out my issues through industry. I did laundry, scrubbed my kitchen, did the dishes. Until I couldn't move anymore without breaking down and crying. I just collapsed on the floor and sobbed. I couldn't stop it, I couldn't help it. I was raw and empty. I had no more fuel left to fight.

The conversation Charlie and I had after helped me put this whole thing into perspective. Sometimes, you know, I think I care too much. I mean, this shouldn't have bothered me like this. That job isn't even my primary job, and I get attitude at all the time by kids I work with. I've worked retail before. I know what it's like. And so I think I care too much sometimes. I can hear so many of your voices telling me to let it go, that it's not worth it. And then Charlie tells me that maybe I shouldn't drop it. Maybe I shouldn't just let it go. Maybe it's something I need to feel and mourn. And when he said that, I suddenly felt so much lighter.

It's not your fault for thinking I care too much or that I shouldn't worry about it. I would likely think the same. I was also afraid that if I showed that it bothered me so much, people would think I was weak. That I couldn't handle it. I also didn't want those people to win-- the ones who called us names, cursed at us, and lied about us. But if you can imagine that you are filled with anger and you unleash it on me, then I become filled with your anger. And now imagine that I talked to one hundred people in a couple of hours and half of them filled me with their anger. And now imagine twelve people filled with the anger of hundreds of people every day that they go in to work.

I'm not writing this to get your sympathy or to talk about how wonderful I am and how terrible those other people were. I'm not trying to stir up more anger or resentment or pity. Many of them were venting their legitimate frustration. I write this now to say thank you to the folks who responded to us with kindness and patience. You could have yelled at us, but you didn't and believe me, it made a difference. When I began my first round of calls, so many of you were sympathetic and kind. Not only did it make our jobs easier, it also inspired us to work harder to help you. Your understanding was like a balm, especially since you didn't have to be so nice to us. You chose to be, and I respected you for it.

I write to remind you that we are all human beings just trying to get by and be happy. I think the real reason for writing this is to purge myself of all that anger I've been collecting for others. It's complicated, you know, because I don't have to hold onto it, and I certainly don't want it, but I still think most of the people who vented should vent. I can't explain it.

Anyway, it looks like it was a lovely event. I saw many smiling faces. I'm happy it's over, and I hope we can attend to the issues so that it doesn't happen again. There's only so much you can ask of people to forgive, and I don't know how we will all fare if we have to endure this kind of aftermath again.

Salvageable Gems or They Can't Suck That Bad All the Time

Here's the very stupid thing I did: I deleted all my files when I deleted Scrivener from my computer. I wanted/needed space, I hadn't touched the manuscript in years, I thought I wouldn't care. I didn't know that I'd decide to revisit the work in earnest, let alone finish it for Nanowrimo. I didn't know that though the versions might have sucked butt, I might find salvageable gems that would make me go, "Wow, I wrote that? I did that?" And yet here I am.

See, when I began writing this tale, I'd only recently begun writing again. Not that I was ever really any good at it, but neither had I finished anything significant to figure that out. Can you still be a writer if you don't write? But anyway. The idea for the story actually came from Lucy and Charlie and this scary Halloween wall hanging we put up each year on the front door. Honestly, it only scares small children who are too impressionable to know better, and yet it was the genesis of my work in progress. They came up with the names and their own intricate stories, and I was so fascinated that I asked if I could make my own adaptation.

So there was already this rich foundation upon which to build, and these characters that are both familiar and foreign, and I thought that if I could pull it off, it would be an awesome story. I became a little obsessed. I began with a short story, which I turned in as an assignment, and then ten pages for final paper in my Creative Writing class. That summer, I researched, outlined, and plotted, but ultimately gave up. It was becoming too cerebral. Furthermore, it started to seem too lofty for my skill level.

I'm not saying now that I was wrong then. That Creative Writing class was really kind of the beginning of my recent education during which I decided that I can and that I want to. The rest of the journey (and it continues still) was about honing skill, picking up strategies, and becoming comfortable with workshopping. And that last bit's a bit important because if you're gonna write for an audience, you kinda need one, and you don't get one if you don't let others read your work.

I also had to learn about myself as a writer, which sounds like one of those douchebag phrases I talked about before, but it's what Charlie might call a Truthitude. This self-exploration called bullshit on my typical excuse: "I can write, but I'm not very creative." Because, why? It's a process. Because even though writing can be a lonely process, I'm not alone. I have an audience if I want one who will give me honest, constructive feedback. Because I write as a writer and not a reader. Because I already know what's in my head (usually), and sometimes that doesn't make its proper way to the page. Because the first draft probably isn't going to be the published draft.

My favorite example about process comes from Cormac McCarthy's writing of Blood Meridian. Now, I'm positive I've written or talked about this with you before, so I won't go into it again, but you can read about the process in this Slate article. The author characterizes the prose in McCarthy's early drafts as being "cramped, the voice toneless and noticeably devoid of that deep brassy register" he's known for. And McCarthy's pretty damned successful. If you weren't aware of his literary prowess, perhaps you're familiar with the films The Road, No Country for Old Men, All the Pretty Horses, or The Counselor.

But I'm not trying to toot his horn. I've only read one of his books and seen two of those movies. My point is that he's a successful writer, by many accounts, a GOOD writer, and yet it can take him some effort to get to the point of publication. Why would I assume I bang out one draft and get the same acclaim? I don't think so.

Back to my manuscript. It was inspired by and began by others, and that used to make me feel bad. I know I'm not stealing, and I know this is still my work. My labor of love. I'm the one writing it down and creating as I go. And that's something I've had to grow into. I had to also gain the confidence to know that I can tackle this project, and the time to further develop my style. Ultimately, I don't know what will come of this. Maybe just a finished manuscript that no one will ever read. The really great thing will be that I'll have a finished story and I'll at least know that I could do it.

The Greater Portion of Being Alive

That's what Bukowski said about waiting. And I'm not Bukowski, but tonight that seems pretty right on to me, and probably to the many good people who got caught in presidential traffic today.

There's something about waiting for a bus when you're really set against walking to your destination, especially when the app says your bus is due in three minutes. "Wow!" you think. "What great timing!" And then five minutes pass and you recheck the app and the timeline has moved back another four minutes, and you still think that's pretty reasonable. What's four minutes? You bust out your container of nuts and raisins because that's all you'll have time for before your ride arrives. But it isn't there yet.

You check the app. Another five minutes? Suddenly it ain't small potatoes anymore.

At this point you wonder if it's worth waiting. Because in the twelve minutes you've waited plus the five more in your near future, you could have walked there already. But you also realize that as soon as you get far enough away from the bus stop that you can't just turn back, the bus will pull up to the curb and pass you by. Ugh!

But how we'll wait for things-- we'll kill the time-- when we're too tired to realize or care we're getting a shitty deal. I mean, I know that bus is always late when I get there on time, and it's always early when I'm en route. I know the app is lying to me when it says three minutes, and yet I think, "This time will be different. This time it really will be three minutes." And it never is!

So as I walked home tonight, after I Biki biked home, after I stood up in the theatre for over eight hours, I still wasn't cursing POTUS for making all the buses late. I thought, "Well, at least I can walk over the freeway to get home." What I really should have been thinking about, though, is what I to write about today. And I did. I thought about time as a relative thing. Because if you told me I'd have to wait nearly twenty minutes for the bus to come, I might have just started walking home right then and there, cursing my good fortune. If you'd told me that even after I'd gotten home, the bus STILL hadn't come, I'd feel relief.

And for Joe Bob and Sally, time means very little until they want something. How they each move through time is very different, though both probably feel its passing as slow and arduous if not sometimes as something to ignore and endure. It seems like a ridiculous thing to juggle all these things, these factors that may never come up in the story but affect it nonetheless. I will likely spend very little time talking about time itself, but it's turning out to be one of the things I think about a lot. How would you experience time if you had an abundance of it. Like, really. What if you had lifetimes?

Anyway, I'm tired and sore and exhausted, but I'm pleased I walked home, and not just because I'd probably still be at the bus stop if I had waited. I imagined I worked off at least part of all those donut holes I shoved in my face on Thursday. What an oinker.

It's a Process and Other Douchebag Phrases

At some point you wonder if what you're doing makes sense. Makes sense in the sense that will people read this? Will people enjoy this? Sometimes the question is much simpler. It's not about other people reading it or liking it, but am I wasting my time? Can I do this? I mean, obviously just about any literate person with enough tenacity can write 50,000 words a month, so this is not the question I'm asking. Rather, do I have enough skill and talent to pull this off? Because the end of the month will come and hopefully I'll have something grand to show for it (and by grand I mean hefty word count, and by word count I mean more than just "I don't know what to write" over and over again).

For Nanowrimo I'd decided to revisit a manuscript I began two years ago in my Creative Writing class under the guidance of a teacher who provided the encouragement and space for me to simply begin. Because though I know it sounds a bit ridiculous, but in order to write fiction, I needed to nurtured as a person and writer. My more recent growth as a creator began with this teacher, and because I trusted her, I followed a path on which I learned to accept writing as a process. It's such a douchebag-sounding phrase, right? But it's easy to dismiss the idea that the first draft isn't going to be publishable and instead demand from oneself that it be perfect. It's had to stop editing yourself on the sentence level, and that's terrible when you haven't even hit the paragraph mark. Creating anything becomes an exercise in futility when you're constantly second-guessing yourself and hitting that delete key.

So, anyway, this work in progress. It's interesting because I haven't read it in years so even though I know wrote it, I don't know what's going to happen! It's kind of amazing. Fortunately, I wrote notes to myself so that I remember where it was going to go. During my last semester of school, we had a few conversations about how you need to let a WIP sit for a day or two before going back to edit otherwise you're just still writing. What is editing? That's another conversation. Well, this story's been sitting unattended for two years, and it sometimes seems like another person wrote it. I see some parts are terrible and so obviously need work. I can't believe this was the final version that I turned in! But that's what I'm saying about this process.

On the other hand, I've been reading Raymond Feist's Riftwar Saga. Apparently, he'd gone back to these already successful books to edit them, resulting in "The Author's Preferred Version." I'm unfamiliar with the unpreferred version, but I have a feeling I'd maybe like those better. These newer editions feel over polished-- maybe something like how I've heard people criticize some music as being over-produced. Feist's writing is so immaculate that I feel led to places and conclusions, and I'm ever aware that I'm in a fictional setting. Think about old Tim Burton films like Beetlejuice or Edward Scissorhands or Pee Wee's Big Adventure and compare to the Alice in Wonderland movies or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Not saying one is better than any other, but you can see a difference.

I've given myself permission to use blogging about writing as part of my Nanowrimo word count. This helps me focus. It's like warming up before a race or perhaps revving the engine on a cold, cold morning. It also reminds me that writing is just writing. It's just words strung together and sentences strung together and then paragraphs. And by the end of the blog, I can feel like a writer again. Like a creator. Like I can do this whether or not you like it because I'm simply sending these words out into the void, just like my stories.

Writing is Thinking (And Other Things I've Paid to Learn) OR Don't Believe Everything You're Taught

Nanowrimo is freaking me out. And the good/bad thing is that because other people are doing this with me (rather, I’m doing this with other people), the accountability part says I can’t back out now. But here’s the thing: I don’t have an outline! I don’t have a story, I don’t have a plan, and November is only six days away!

Freaking.

Out.

In a mild-mannered sort of way. Not pulling out hair, not screaming in strangers’ faces, not wearing mismatched clothes (although I did that in high school). It’s a silent fear, coiling around my stomach and brain. And neck and chest. And sometimes my face, so if you see it scrunching up, you can probably guess I’m thinking about (or trying not to think about) writing.

At the very least, I have a couple of works in progress that I can flesh out and work on. I keep saying I will. Joe Bob, Satan, and Sally haven’t gone anywhere in years. London and Mandy are still in limbo. And anyway, I’m pretty good at starting stories. I’m very experienced in starting stories, actually. Not much practice with finishing them, though.

Writing is a process, see. You just write and write and write and rewrite. Don't wait till you're "in the mood" or "inspired," and for heaven's sake, stop censoring slash editing yourself at the sentence level. Get out of your head. Write what you know. Make some lists, do an outline or a graphic organizer, join a writing group. Gah! Just write. That's the point. Just write. Because what's creativity? Are you born with it? Can it be cultivated? 

Some writers say they're not creative writers. When I write fiction, I feel I can do it. It's exciting. And then when I write academic papers, I'm all pumped about that. I think I'm still trying to figure out what I am, writer-wise. I want to be able to write like published academics, but I kind of resent the language sometimes. Creative writing, though, is always that struggle for balance between honesty (realism?) and lovely words (artistry?). It's not like the imbalance feels untrue or like a misrepresentation of me, but it can be boring and barf-inducing.

But in the midst of writing this blog, my Nanowrimo buddy assured me that I’m not the only one who’s starting with nothing. I keep forgetting that writing— especially a first draft— doesn’t have to be GOOD. You just gotta write. If you’ve read McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, try check out what an early draft of that looked like. Very different. And that’s the power of writing as a process.

And I guess that’s what this blog is. It’s practice. It’s like stretching before a run (as if I know what that’s like *slaps knee*). Writing is thinking and now that I’ve thunk, I’m much less freaked out.

To Hit Enter

Here’s where I am where writing is concerned. I can be walking down the street or staring out the window at the Theatre, and inspiration will strike. I’ll know what I want to write and will even have the first two or three sentences composed in my mind. I’ll be so excited and want to start writing right away and then when I get home, I’ll be totally unmotivated. No, it’s more than just unmotivated, it actually feels like I don’t know how to write. I feel like an imposter.

I always imagined writer’s block to be a lack of inspiration. Like surrounding myself with crumpled up sheets of paper, lamenting that “I don’t know what to write!” But it’s more like the words flee before me. I can’t capture them, I can’t tame them, they just flit away like butterflies. Or when I do get them down, they seem either too mundane or overly ostentatious (that's a lot of ostentatious, you see). You ever get like that? What do you do?

I mean, and I’ve been in enough English classes to know that I should just write no matter what because writing is thinking and so you can't write "I don't know what to write" for too long before something pops into your head. Other than social media posts, I’m a little out of practice. And yet I was browsing through the bookstore yesterday, flipping through books of collected personal essays, and thought more than once, "I could be writing these!"

Disjointed thoughts. They connect somehow.

So here’s my writing. It isn’t long, it isn’t clever, but it’s finger to keyboard to hit enter. Can't get it done if you don't start, right? Cuz I really can't see myself writing "I don't know what to write" two thousand times for thirty days, it just isn't going to happen (and that wouldn't really be a novel, would it? I mean, what a predictable ending).

I was supposed to do all this writing over the summer, and that didn't happen. I began a short story, but never finished it. I might yet still. The exciting thing about that is that after all this time, when I pick it up again, the story might take unexpected turns, which is weird, scary, and exciting. This very blog is turning out to be more freewrite. I can take it. I can dig it. As long as I hit enter at the end.

On the Shoulders of Those Who Came Before and Why I Know I Can

I've been looking for a part-time/summer job, and have been on two interviews so far. Neither interview has made me nervous. In fact, I've gone into both with confidence and at ease. Now part of this I chalk up to confidence in myself. I'm smart, talented, and capable. I work well with others and I can follow directions. Also, I've come to realize that I'm all these things and whatever self-doubt I might have about any position I apply for stems from my ignorance of things I couldn't possibly know ahead of time, like company policies and procedures, discipline-specific terminology, and interpersonal/interdepartmental politics. And the confidence I have has been nurtured by so many different people, so I feel all of their support behind me almost in a literal sense, as if I'm standing on shoulders.

This morning, for example, I arrived early to my interview, so I went into Walmart to kill time and cool off. I found myself standing in front of the local/Hawaiian books, and was confronted with some powerful (if not obvious) insight.

These are my people. This is my blood. The people who wrote these stories, who navigated, danced, endured, and sacrificed are my ancestors. I descend from these people. Their blood flows through my body. Their knowledge is my knowledge, their strength is mine, too. This is where I come from, this is my heritage, this is the well from which I draw. And that's powerful and humbling, and also a reminder that I am strong and capable of great things. Which, I kind of have to point out, doesn't make me special necessarily, it's just recognizing that the potential for greatness that lies in all of us is also within me.

Another thing that brings me confidence is my experiences at UHM. I was lucky to have studied under some really great professors that I hold in high esteem. In fact, these professors/scholars are well-respected by people all over the fricken WORLD, okay? And these professors not only know my name, they've nurtured my skills, invested in my work, and have told me repeatedly, "You are absolutely capable of doing these things, you just have to have faith in your writing." These men and women who are respected around the world in various circles BELIEVE IN ME.

Now, if you know me, you know how riddled with doubts I can be. It isn't modesty I'm feigning, it really is this idea that what I have is nothing special. That, as my conversation with one of these professors revealed, I know what good writing can look like, and I don't write like that. But that's not something I can keep telling myself because it just isn't true. I don't write like Brandon Sanderson or Dean Koontz-- authors who make a lot of money doing what they do. I also happen to have personal friends who are fucking kick-ass novelists, poets, and playwrights. And I don't write like any of them. I think so many of them are "better" writers than I, but what the fuck does that really mean? Better?

Anyway, my point is that this line of thinking disrespects the investment of not just my professors, but my friends and family as well. It dishonors my heritage, whether it be my Hawaiian or Chinese or Japanese ancestors. The time my teachers have put into my work, the sacrifices my family has made so that I can pursue my interests and dreams, the flexibility of my bosses and coworkers at Kahala, all for nothing if I keep hiding behind a shroud of denial and fear. It's easy to lose that self-awareness and confidence.

So, while I've been writing this blog, I was offered and accepted a part-time job. I start tomorrow, actually, and the wonderful thing is that it should fit nicely with my gig at Kahala, assuming they have me back. Cuz now that I don't have classes and I've got all this training, I'm excited to apply all of that in my real life. I'm excited to focus on exactly what's in front of me, the moment it's in front of me. I'm excited to learn new things and meet new people and try to see the world a little differently.

Wish me luck.

Scars (or On Being Beautiful)

There's this pop song by Alessia Cara called "Scars to Your Beautiful," and just about every time I hear it I get teary eyed. I guess if you're jaded enough, the lyrics seem at first glance trite. She talks about how beautiful "you" are and how you don't have to change anything, so maybe it's a good message even if it's hard to take seriously in a pop song. After all, there are so many of these out in the world-- from the self-acceptance in Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful" to Daya's song of self-empowerment, "Sit Still, Look Pretty." Why does "Scars to Your Beautiful" do me in?

First, if this song appeals to teeny boppers, then it also appeals to the teeny bopper in me. Or at least the teenager that I once was with all my insecurities and social pinings. If only I could be thinner, prettier, more talented, less awkward then I wouldn't feel so lonely. But being an insecure and somewhat outgoing young woman meant that I had to hide those self-doubts behind a wall of carefree attitude.

In the second verse of Cara's song, she sings:

She has dreams to be an envy, so she's starving
You know, covergirls eat nothing
She says beauty is pain and there's beauty in everything
What's a little bit of hunger?
I can go a little while longer
She fades away

And that's about where I start to get all choked up. Because while I don't remember consciously thinking these things, I did this post-high school. I starved myself. I remember telling my brother this was my weight-loss method, and he scolded me and I shrugged him off because of course he was right and I didn't care.

And I'm not saying that this is how every young woman feels or that my experience is representative of everyone's. I'm not even saying that only women go through this. This is me working through the lyrics. Because Cara goes on in that second verse:

"She don't see her perfect, she don't understand she's worth it
Or that beauty goes deeper than the surface"

I've got tears in my eyes at this point, and it's also the tricky part. Even as a teenager, I knew that "beauty goes deeper," but it did't mean much because no one else seemed to care. I knew I was unique and a great person to know. I was a lot of fun. I was down for adventure and meeting new people. I was a good person, and yet I still felt so ugly all the time, which also meant (and this is the really embarrassing part to admit) that I cared a lot (too much) about what boys thought. Laughably, I thought that any boy who liked me HAD to be special to see through all this external ugliness.

Anyway, I was lucky enough to realize what a crock it all was. And honestly the growth didn't come from a song like "Scars to Your Beautiful," though music did play a huge role. Everclear's Sparkle and Fade album kicked my butt (which is kind of shameful in its own way), as did the Judybats' Pain Makes You Beautiful. But I credit Green Day's "She" for really breaking me out of my own mind with their lyric, "She's figured out all her doubts were someone else's point of view." <enter mind blowing explosion sounds here>

So if you see me getting simultaneously teary eyed and stoic when Alessia Cara's "Scars to Your Beautiful" comes on, now you know why.

My tenth grade self

The Pain and Pleasure

Even though I've been laboring to get through a book I'd chosen to read for pleasure, I'm just happy to be doing fun reading at all. The main characters so far aren't really likable, nor do I feel any kind of connection to them, so if they die or get hurt, I don't really care. The author occasionally writes in dialect, which I normally don't care for, but is surprisingly not entirely offensive to my senses in this particular case. And so while this isn't my ideal first splash into leisure reading this summer, it's my decision to begin, continue, and finish this mediocre book. But it got me thinking about why I haven't just tossed this book into the Did Not Finish pile and start another because certainly no one's forcing me to finish it. What makes this book different from those that were assigned to me in class?

1. I don't have to take notes. If the margins of the book are large enough, I'll write directly on its pages, but more often, I have to keep a sheet of paper folded inside to write down page numbers and phrases or ideas. It's kind of a lousy way to read a novel. It takes time and effort, which sucks even more because you kind of have no choice. You know you're going to write an essay, and you know you're going to need this type of close reading, and when you're done with this book, it'll be on to the next. Yay!

As much as my book sucks, I don't have to later explain character or plot development, I don't have to compare it to another book I've already read, and I don't have to look for related scholarly articles. All I have to do is read one word after the next until the book is pau, and not even that is mandatory.

2. Because I don't have to read each and every word and examine diction for meaning. I learned fairly early on-- most distinctly when reading The Old Man and the Sea in Mr. Martin's 10th grade English class-- that authors make deliberate choices. Check out Chekhov's Gun if you're interested (and that link takes you to a Wikipedia page. Snarf you, academia!). What this translates into when reading to learn is that you must pay attention to details. There are seven characters involved in events that span seven days? Well, what's significant about the number seven? Why does the story take place in Seattle, Washington? Why is this character blind? How are walls and bridges used in this novel? Ugh!

You know what I do when reading a book for fun? I sometimes skip entire paragraphs! *Gasp* I sometimes scan whole pages because they're filled with setting description! Sometimes, I can go through an entire book without knowing who a specific, usually minor, character is because I don't go back to find out. Because to me, the pleasure of reading is in the reading itself. It's in my decision to read over watching a movie or doing a puzzle, and I can do it which ever way I choose.

3. I have no third point, but it's a good number in essay writing. It's generally enough support for a thesis, but not an overwhelming number. Oh! I know. There's no deadline when reading for fun. The only reason for any pressure to read fifty pages a day is to get to the next exciting book on your list or because the book is just THAT GOOD or because the book you're currently reading is a 400-page hardcover and the next is a 200-page paperback and much easier to tote in your beach bag. Of course, that's irrelevant if you're reading on an electronic device (but more and more I've found myself reaching for actual books than e-copies).

Anyhow, now that I've gotten this off my chest, I'm going to try to make a dent in this haphazardly-written and edited book. Happy reading to you!

Blogging and the Summer of No Homework

I've been told and often thought to myself that college is whatevs-- a degree helps, but doesn't guarantee anything. College isn't for everyone, either, and I don't mean that in some condescending some-people-are-too-stupid-for-college way. College isn't for everyone because many paths lead to the same destination, and that destination is personal success, however you define that. Anyway, even though I haven't yet figured out what my personal success looks like, college was for me. It took me a while to realize it, especially because the early stuff-- biology, psychology, linguistics, etc.-- were not really relevant to my interests (okay, linguistics kind of was, but it was friggen HARD, yo) and were required courses. When I met the right teachers and took the relevant classes, though, things improved. And I guess I should sort of point out here that I earned my degree in English and a certificate in Women's Studies.

The really valuable things that my English studies taught me, though, weren't necessarily the course lessons (how to do a close reading, how to use editing marks, the significance of 18th century literature in regards to book publishing and reading as a whole), they were the relationships forged between instructors and classmates as well as discovering who I am as a writer, reader, and even teacher. I really (and not just theoretically) embraced writing as a process, and in so doing, also embraced sharing my writing (at any stage of the process) with other people. I gained confidence in my abilities, learned to value my voice and point of view, and realized that other people (not related to me) had confidence in me, too.

And really where all of this is leading is this: I want to write. I didn't really know if that was where I wanted to go, and if you ask me, I still don't even know WHAT I want to write. I never identified as a writer because I never had those writerly "Oh, I simply must write or I'll die" kind of pangs. And then it dawned on me only very recently that that's not true. I write all the time and I think about writing all the time-- about blogging, about social media posts and comments, about emails to coworkers or professors, about text messages to friends and family. I might not be thinking about character or plot development, but I'm always looking at photographs, movies, commercials, or print ads and thinking, "I can write an entire paper about why this is problematic/beneficial/insulting/racist/sexist/ableist."

So, to that end, I've decided to revamp my blog to get my voice out there-- to be able to point to a body of my own work without waiting around for some website or publisher to decide what's worth publishing (I'm a trained writer and editor, dammit!).  I've been working on it, and when it's done, I'll share that information with all three of you who read my blogs. But it's taking a while because I'm trying to figure out Wordpress and finding the right representation of me, and while I've been doing that, I haven't actually been writing. You know how it is, right? I got to prepare to get ready for the anticipation of my writing. I should just friggen write, yeah? So until that site's shared, I figure I should continue to post here as often as I can so I don't lose momentum. And it feels good to write. I hate this posting already, honestly, but I'm writing so that feels good. I have no homework, no semester to worry about, no reading list to anticipate, no professor to impress. I have time and a list of ideas. Be prepared. I'm going to write whatever comes to mind. It won't always be pretty or make sense or be a medium, easy-to-read length, though I'll try to put an honest effort into it most of the time, but the point is just to write. Maybe you'll see it in a more refined form in the new Wordpress blog or not. I don't know.

The point is just to write.

It's Not Really About Shoes

I got these new-to-me shoes a couple weeks ago from a friend, and I wear them all the time. They're actually a little bit big for me, but other than a few stray gravels getting inside when I walk, the size works. The fact that they're too big is pretty much the reason I like them.

A million years ago when Shani and I were shopping for my wedding dress, she taught me an important lesson: ignore the size. "Just try it on," she urged. So, I did. And walked away from The Gap with a dress that wasn't my size. She's pretty smart, that Shani.

What's this got to do with anything? Well, for years and years I've tried to like Converse. They were so cool! I remember when I was 18 I had a pair of green on green Chucks that I bought from that old Liberty House store in what is now considered Downtown Pearlridge. They were beautiful. I had a pair of One Stars, too. Black. And I must have worn both pairs no more than ten times total before I got rid of them. My enormous, wide feet just weren't meant for the narrow confines of Converse, I concluded, and never bought another pair since.

A few years ago, a coworker gave Lucy a pair of pure black Chuck Taylors, which we both claimed to hate. Lucy has big feet, too, and so we can share shoes every now and then. Anyway, she started off saying she hated them, but then I'd see them on her feet all the time.

I almost didn't take these Converse from my friend. I don't like them, remember? They don't fit my feet right, remember? But I went back for them. And maybe (or obviously) their size makes them comfortable. Maybe (obviously?) if they were the right size, they'd be unwearably painful. I feel a little silly sometimes because my feet look even larger/longer than they really are, but I don't care too much about looking silly, and I really like relieving people of the treasures they no longer want or need.

So this was a good lesson. I remembered to approach old things in new ways, and that things change so I have to change, even if temporarily. In fact, I don't even HAVE to change, I can just test the waters every now and then. Revisit the things I don't like or remind myself why I like or think something.