insert third time's a charm joke here

Rereading these entries feels like talking to a stranger. That articulate, passionate person has all but burned away, it feels like. These last four years have taken their toll.

I won't get into the litany of diagnoses I now live with but the most debilitating of them are bipolar disorder and fibromyalgia, the latter of which has prevented me from continuing school, playing cello, or pursuing any regular work. School and work require you to be able to show up and perform regularly, despite whatever flare ups you may be having. And with cello, there are many days when muscle fatigue is so considerable that I have trouble playing for longer than twenty minutes. Hell ,some days I have trouble of bed. Regardless, twenty minutes a day is not nearly enough to keep up with a music performance degree, let alone a career.

There have been a few personal life troubles, falling-outs with family and friends that rocked me to my core, since I am apparently an oversensitive turd. I faceplanted out of school, once again, except this time my health was gone. I was now disabled. I don't know if you've grown up the way I have, where good enough is never good enough, where only the best is worth anything. With it comes this understanding -- if you work hard enough, you can achieve anything.

Well, guess fucking what. Being disabled takes that away from you. It doesn't matter how hard you work, how hard you beat at that solid wall, you have a physical limitation that you have to work with now, and no amount of effort will ever overcome it. It'll be five times harder for you to accomplish half as much. THAT'S your life now. Can you handle it?

And for a few months, the answer was no. I was at rock bottom. I don't even really remember that time. There was a half-hearted, doomed to fail OD-attempt, more self-harm than anything with a destination in mind. When everything you'v ever worked for in your life is taken away from you in an instant, no matter how hard you try, it's devastating. If it's something you built your identity on, it's nearly impossible to heal. Who are you, now that you're not a real musician?

And it didn't help that most of the musician family was eager to discard me. There are more promising cousins to lavish who aren't washed up disabled failures. They're more fun to brag to the donors about.

I was doing pretty badly for a long time. And then one day I just got ... sick of myself. I don't how to explain it but it was like I felt a spark alive in the pile of ash, not one of hope or optimism but of spite. No, it doesn't end like this. This doesn't defeat me.

I say when.

So, bit by whiny bit, I'm picking myself out of this dump of failure and self-hatred. I still have some fight left in me. I can't study or go to work, sure, but I have constant time to work on my writing projects. I can research nonstop, I can sit for an entire day hyperfocused on an outline, until it is ironclad. And little by little, I'm increasing how many words I can write in a day. I'm learning to stop criticizing myself into a standstill, and allowing something imperfect and potentially even charming to exist.

I even found a concentration of original stuff I want to work on, and it blossomed out of another passion: history. I decided that in addition to speculative fiction and fantasy, I'm going to write historical fiction based on the Civil War and Reconstruction -- there are so many fascinating untold stories from that time and they deserve to be known, I firmly believe that it would help the abysmal political situation in this country if we just had some accurate historical education, for fuck's sake. We'd be able to see the patterns, and know when disaster is coming.

Well, anyway. I've decided things are looking up, lil bloggie. I'm writing my original stories (a secret for now) and a little fanfic on the side to keep me limber, and to keep from taking myself too seriously. I'm working hard, and that's just about all you can do. Good things ahead.

Round Two

So March 2013. I finished my first novel draft. It kicked my ass up and down the block, but I did it. I turned off all distractions for two weeks and wrote 50k words. I sprinted to that finish line, and then ... I had a finished novel draft. I had a physical set of pages with my words on them, illuminating my story. In that moment, with my hands splayed on that brick of a manuscript, I felt like I could do anything.

And then, for almost two years, I proceeded to get stuck.

Pretty disappointing. You figure when you set out to reach goals that the effort won't exhaust your will for further work. It's definitely not supposed to swallow the certainties you've held for granted. Positively clung to, if we're going to be honest.

So, my certainties. In 2011, I figured out that I wanted to be a writer. An AUTHOR. After a lifetime of trying to force myself  to be happy in the family business, I cut the cord and decided I was going to do what made me happy for once, and that's telling stories. Telling good stories with good prose. Yeah, I'm not going to lie -- I get a real thrill when I craft a tight sentence. Something that's both efficient and resonant? Fantastic.

Anyway, I read books, I studied obsessively. I listened to webcasts and took notes, like a Real Fucking Winner. I sunk myself into the future of my goal; I got nice and familiar with it (as familiar as you can get studying an abstract concept, anyway). I figured once I finished my draft the hard part would be over.

Ah, naiveté.

What actually happened was I hit the wall -- hard. I spun my wheels in the proverbial mud of my draft's complete lack of quality. I sent it to a few friends for some opinions, and while they all loved it, I wasn't satisfied. It wasn't good enough, there were too many holes, the writing was too labored, on and on and on. The more I tried to dig in and edit, the more I realized my manuscript was broken. And there's only so much you can do for an irrevocably broken draft.

Basically, I sunk under the weight of disillusionment. I couldn't edit this stupid thing, so what business did I have telling myself I wanted to do this as a professional? I went back to writing fanfic, because it's safe and there's a crowd of people who enjoy my fanfic, and the stakes are so comfortable. It's not my career, I would shrug. What's the worst that could happen? A bad review? If there's concrit in it, I suck that baby dry and use it to make my writing stronger. If it's a flame, I feel hurt and upset for a few hours and then move on. Original writing is a whole ' nother ball game. Getting my original draft rejected? That's personal. 

I freaked out. I didn't do any original writing for almost a year -- Fernando and I moved to Oregon anyway, and it took us a few months to get settled. But then we were settled and I still wasn't ready to start writing original stuff. I started to feel guilty -- as I should have! I was being a piece of chicken shit, and frankly I'm too old for it. Time's a wastin'. I saw something on my tumblr dash, a post asserting that no writing is wasted, and little shit that I am, I gave myself a justification --oh I'm learning right now, I told myself. I'm learning how to be better! This is a practice project, to show myself that I can do it. And since I'm writing, I'm still technically working toward my goal!  

What a load, right?

But it's almost two years after finishing my first novel draft, and I still have nothing to show for it. I stopped my career for an entire year because ... why? Because I'm scared, because I'm fragile. Because rejection scares the shit out of me. Because sinking in my entire earnest effort into something and getting it thrown back in my face is terrifying. But ... I'm going to keep working anyway. It's time to shake off the cobwebs and get back to work.

Back to that broken draft. I love my idea, I love the characters. I have stacks and pages and piles of worldbuilding. I figure why not start from scratch and write it again? I started this book in 2011 and in the four years since then, I've been writing almost nonstop. Even in my depression, I wrote. Safe stuff, nice stuff -- but I was working even then. I had to try to improve, if I was going to justify this whole sabbatical. Anyway, now I'm sitting here at the start of 2015, and I've got another four years of experience under my belt. I know more about what I'm trying to say, and I know better ways of saying it. Now, I'm better equipped to do this thing for real.

So for the last two weeks of January, I am outlining and taking notes. Come Feb 1, I start this again -- and this time, it's not going to take me two years. I'm putting all my other projects on hold until this draft is done. My goal/estimate is May, which will take some real focused work. I'm telling myself that I can do it. I believe that I can do it, which is the smart thing -- what kind of dope hamstrings themselves before they even start?

My point is, I've decided to revive this blog. In a weird way, I feel accountable to it. I started this damn thing four years ago and I'm still working. Still trying. 

Many Happenings

A lot happens in a year.

I finally -- FINALLY! -- finished my first novel. I finished it through a bout of depression so severe that I can hardly remember what the last year was like. I can hardly believe that I'm still here, that I didn't crumple under the weight of it, and yet here I am. And there is a finished book on my computer.

I married my boyfriend in May. In July he lost his job. In October he was hired so we packed our things and moved to Iowa.

I decided to go back to school and learn as much as I can about writing while I'm young, while I still have the chance to do so in a collegiate environment. 

I started my second novel, and have the world building all ready to go for my third.

In other words, I am writing.  It's been a good year.

And this coming year will be ever better. 

--

I decided to resurrect this blog because it's a nice outlet to have. I don't have my places where I can ruminate on the various thoughts and feelings I have regarding writing and my work. It's kind of personal, compared to my other blogs. I almost feel a bit of freedom here. I almost feel like I can say any little thing that crosses my mind.

I could probably complain about some other writers I know here too. That'll be nice, seeing as all I really do well is complain. Heh. 

Anyways. No time for an introspective post today, because I am hard at work on my second novel. It's an idea that just hit me like lightning, and for the last day I've been writing it constantly, feverishly. I stay up all night writing, and when I finally go to sleep, I dream about it. And then the first thing I do when I wake is resume work. 

It's one of those hard stories, where every word I write feels like a thousand miles, but I can't stop -- I won't stop. They cut, they hurt, but I will get it down. I have to. 

Purpose and Sorrow

I'm not going to try and corral my thoughts into a cognizant point today. I've been stewing and mulling over so many things lately that's it's affecting my productivity. Perhaps this is infantile, but I feel like I could use a Pensieve. You know, from Harry Potter? That swirling, nebulous bowl of thoughts and memories, for when the mind grows too full. It seems to me to be something of a meta joke, or perhaps a meta wish; I assume Rowling knows the frustration and pain of having too much circling to properly focus.

Even when writing in this silly blog, I'm still struggling to find the words. I don't have anyone to impress here, and yet I still feel like I'm on display. Contorting to the shapes I hope people will find pleasing, my body like my words, shifting and collapsing like a coat of mirrors.

It's frustration. It's the sense of frustrated purpose. I have a very clearly planned story circling in my thoughts, and when the time is right it is like looking up at the sky; I know the position and path of every star. Every character orbiting each other, the way their paths cross and conflict. If only I could exist in that vacuum where nothing can interrupt this perfect conception of what I want to say!

Of course, it's not like that. The moment I wake up, I'm assaulted by unassigned, unrelated thoughts. My diet, my impending wedding, Fernando, my family. The fact that I am like a satellite myself - unmoored by a job or a tangible purpose or accomplishment.

By this point in the internal avalanche of unrelated thoughts, I'm starting to get angry at myself. Already that perfect picture of what I want to say slips away. These unrelated thoughts obscure the picture so I only get garbled bits and pieces. I sit down to write and the words take twice as long to come as they would otherwise. My characters start to feel like strangers; convoluted and unnatural, flirting the line between authentic and caricature.

It's not helped by the fact that it seems my standards for what is acceptable (read: perfect) do not mesh with what is acceptable and successful in the real world of publishing. There is a very popular, well known series that was released recently; it began as a Twilight fanfic, where it enjoyed very robust success. Sensing a profit to be made, the author essentially edited out the names of the fanfic characters and inserted 'original ones', changed a few places, and then sent the thing off to be published. Where it was fought over by publishing companies. Where it secured a seven-figure deal and also movie rights.

In a fit of curiosity, I bought this book. I wanted to see what it was exactly that created such success. In short, titillation. This book is literally nothing more than a collection of loosely connected sex scenes. These scenes are not deftly written or engaging; they're bland, rote, and in some cases, squalid. And yet it is so ridiculously popular to have gained more success than I can ever dream of seeing in my lifetime.

I'm an idealist at heart, and this does not seem fair. This woman did not agonize over every word. She did not labor of her characters, striving to make them human; both imperfect and sympathetic. The characters that populate her book are detestable; the heroine vapid and dull, the 'hero' cruel, possessive, and frankly sociopathic. She created Barbie dolls and proceeded to bend them in all manner of compromising positions, much to the glee of her readers. She did not seek to capture truth or meaning for her works, only a cheap thrill.

As you can imagine, this occupies my thoughts when I'm sitting down at my computer, struggling to write. The one that comes back most frequently is 'why even bother?' Well, because I love to write, I hastily answer myself. Yet, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to make a career out of this. I don't expect explosive fame and seven figure publishing deals, but I do want to make a modest living as a writer.

Even more to the point, I want some kind of validation. Recognition. I've said this before and I'll say it again, but anyone who says they only write for themselves is a bald-faced liar. Stories are meant to be shared. I have no wish to shout my story in a vacuum once I've penned it. I want to share it, and even more to the point, I want to see it enjoyed. I work hard to see this desire come to fruition.

Of course, when beset by this avalanche of thoughts, it becomes nearly impossible to focus. Today was the worst it's been in a long time. I was only able to write a small fraction of a scene- hardly more than 1k words. For me, that's abysmal. Frustrated with myself and my inability to focus, I put my laptop away, got in the car and went for a drive.

I wandered. I initially sought out a library I'd always wanted to visit; halfway between my apartment and the Whole Foods. I drove around where I thought it was for nearly 20 minutes but it never materialized. Perhaps symbolic? I felt on the verge of tears then. The library has long been my church, my holy place; I am more worshipful with the pages of a book between my fingers than I am with my head bowed in a place of god, knees sore and back straining.

I wanted that library. I needed to be among proof that hundreds of thousands of other writers struggled with indecision and doubt and frustrated purpose, only to ultimately prevail. I needed to be among fellow worshipers of the written word, and perhaps among them find solicitude, if not a solution.

So I went to the next best place; Barnes and Noble. It was particularly busy this afternoon, and not at all the same. The books were new -spines unbent and pages untouched- and cheery pop tunes blasted on the speakers. There was no quiet corner for peace and study. People weaved around me in the aisles, and I felt like even among fellow shoppers I was in the way, without a place.

A woman in the bathroom tried to strike up a conversation with me about a leaking faucet, and I was at a loss; what is there to say to that? 'It's such a shame that faucet is leaking!' 'Yes, quite a shame' End of conversation. No solicitude, no solution. It was as if the thought of silence was unbearable to her, so she seized the first person and thought that she came upon; me and the leaking faucet.

I'm not sure I wanted conversation. I wanted an escape, yes. I wanted a solution. I sought out the library and settled for Barnes and Noble because I was desperate for guidance. I wanted someone to tell me 'here; this is how you silence the noise. This is how you descend into focus and purpose." I contemplated buying books I couldn't really afford, completely sure they held perhaps a fragment of the answer I was looking for.

In the end, I left without buying anything. It's not that I realized I had all of the answers within me, and that all I needed to do was believe in myself or other such self-help nonsense. I just realized that my search was passive; I wanted the answer to come to me. I wandered without a specific goal, I perused without a specific need. If I'm to find that purpose and focus that I so desperately want, it's going to come when I actively leave behind my self-pity and seize it by the scruff of the jacket, rattle it around a little, and ask it why it took so long in getting here.

I came home after my fruitless pilgrimage and sat down with my laptop. I re-read what I'd written in the fits of my wandering purposelessness, and it wasn't half bad. My characters sounded authentically anxious and upset, each in their own ways. Maybe there's a lesson in there; my situation is never as bad as I think it is, perhaps. I'm very prone to overreaction. I indulge in introspection to the point of agony.

So then, tomorrow. Onward to tomorrow, another chance to get it right. I know this veers on the edge of self-help fare, but the thought is somewhat encouraging. Instead of failed and frustrated purpose, in tomorrow lies only potential and a choice; take it or leave it.

After Watching 'Young Adult'

It's a hard movie, for some reason. It features a character that I should hate; a beautiful, tall, slender blonde woman who was the prom queen in high school, forever regressed to the point so that she can't let go of those glory days. She's a wound of a character; spewing her discontent at both herself and the world outward like bile. I read reviews of people who said there was a sort of vindictive pleasure in watching a character so much like the golden, cruel girls of their high school days suffer in such a way, but even though I suffered at the hands of my own incarnation of the golden cruel one, I couldn't hate Mavis.

She's a wound of a character, and I felt that wound. I watched her cling to her past and my heart ached. I watched her lash out with all the fury and grief of a woman abandoned and I knew that pain. She is a vastly difficult character to sympathize with, but I did. Maybe we are alike, and not only in our chosen profession as a writer. Or 'author', as Mavis coldly corrects someone who dared get it wrong.

I'm not an easy person. I have few friends because I can be cold and arrogant and bitter. I'm fiercely judgmental, hard on everyone and everything, most of all myself. I'm don't cling to my past, like Mavis, but I do cling to my hurts. I wear them over my shoulders like spoils of war, forever proclaiming to the world that 'this is me. this is what I've suffered. this is what i've survived.'

Or maybe I'm nothing like this. As I've grown older, I've realized that where once I thought I saw myself so clearly, now I realize I don't. Not at all. The mirror in which I view myself is a messy, garbled thing. Less a vehicle of pure, objective reflection, and more a cubist apparatus; forever boxing and cutting myself up into pieces until I no longer recognize myself.

I watched Mavis pour her struggles into her writing. It was an interesting juxtaposition, because she is a genre writer; more specifically, a ghostwriter for a failing YA series. As she schemes to win back her married high school sweetheart, she fumes in her writing about how others hate her for her specialness, her beauty and poise and confidence, when in reality Mavis is none of those things. Her own mirror in which she saw herself has shattered and now she clings to the pieces and memories of that pure, unbroken reflection she once loved.

But I realized I do the same. I've poured my crisis of identity and faith into a fantasy series (ha! fantasy! what a delightful spin!) My characters struggle with their purpose in life and beyond just as I do. And through them, I find a measure of acceptance and peace.

I can't get Mavis the character out of my head. I watched her shuffle through the movie; all adolescent sullenness and hurt and spite, watching the world from behind wounded eyes. She was stuck, and the realization was so harrowing that after the movie ended, I turned to Fernando and asked him 'Am I stuck?"

He laughed at me (not unkindly). The idea was ludicrous to him. He told me that I'd given up my old home, my old beliefs, my old career choice, my old ways and ran to embrace my new ways head on. I'd been unhappy and changed my course with my own hands. He actually had to remind me of this, because for a moment, I had forgotten I was Jillian, the woman who set her busted ways on fire behind her. I believed I was Mavis for a moment, clinging to better days, stuck in what I felt I deserved.

I'm not that. It may be a struggle to see myself in that shifting cubist mirror, but if there is one thing I know, it's that I don't avoid the hard look; I'll stare for hours if only to catch a glimpse of what is true. I'll continue to pour myself into my characters but not as a means of regression. I'll use them to sharpen my view on the world, to push myself forward, to see in new ways.

I'm not stuck, and I never will be again.

Beyond the Meridian

I'm past the half-way mark, well past it. I've concluded Act I and barreled straight into Act II. My characters urge me forward. I'm typing so fast these days that my hands stumble over words I've typed thousands of times, like a clumsy sprinter. I can almost see the finish line - just a spec in the distance, getting closer every second.

It's thrilling, heady stuff. I've just come out of another 'absorb phase' and dove right into writing, not even stopping to take a breath. It's that fear I talked about before; the one that drives me forward to get as much done as possible while the fire still boils in my blood, still pushes my fingers across the keyboard so fast I actually feel winded.

I'm not fumbling around for words; they come to me almost as if they had formed in some other time or place. I feel like I'm transcribing memory, taking dictation for something I've felt and seen before. It's strange, but maybe I have. I've been dreaming my story, shaping the world so it's mapped and laid bare when time to write.

I get into these manic, compulsive writing phases and it starts to feel like maybe I can finish this book. It's inevitable, it's all there in my head. Maybe I will finish by summer. Maybe I"ll finish in a few weeks. If only I can maintain this efficiency and motivation, this compulsive drive. If only I can keep this fire going, find a way to fan the flames. I don't want another absorb phase; I've had enough of those. I want to keep going onward until the story ends.

At times like these, I start to entertain thoughts of success. Partially because I'm not sure I'll ever experience it in any other capacity, so I'd like to indulge in any way I can. I think about going to a 10-year high school reunion, being a published author. Not that being a published author is the most impressive thing to become after high school, but it's my goal.

In these fantasies, I'm 25 lbs lighter and put together like I never could manage in high school. I'll be working on my second or even third book, preparing for the final launch in the series. People will comment on how they never imaged that I'd become an author, since all anyone really knew me for in high school was the fact that I was a musician. Back then, writing was more personal. I couldn't have begun to imagine sharing my scribblings, much less editing them and submitting them for review and possible publication.

I also think about actually being a published author, how it will feel. I think about getting that letter accepting my manuscript. Negotiating my contract, maybe getting a 3-book deal. I think about paying off all my debt with my advance, maybe buying a decent car. I think about making enough money to make a career out of this.

It's a vain, stupid fantasy, I know. But I think about it because right now I'm essentially I'm a failure of a person. I'm what people make fun of as they pat themselves on the back for their stability. I'm a cautionary tale, the picture of a deadbeat hipster, a drain on resources and oxygen. I've dropped out of college 3 times, I haven't finished a degree. I'm unemployed. Oh, but I'm a writer. Sure, some may scoff. Any schmuck with a laptop can plunk themselves down in Starbucks and proclaim they are a writer, toiling on their novel or screenplay while filling up on sugared coffee products and puffed up with pride at the picture they strike; the very picture of self-actualized, artsy fartsy verve, just oh-so-much smarter and perceptive than anyone else.

Saying you're a writer without having any credit to your name is almost a risk, an invitation for people to discount you and slap that label right on your brow. That's what they see- the poser in the second-hand sweater, preening in Starbucks. That's partly why I avoid writing in public. (Performance anxiety also plays a part). In most cases, it isn't even true. Sure, there are some people that want to be novelists because they think it's glamorous and easy. In my writing workshop, there are some younger students who all say they write because they want to be like J.K Rowling. I mean, come on. Who doesn't want that kind of success? But that's not why I write. I write because I love it, I love stories and good characters and fantastic plot. I love creating worlds and places I wouldn't go or see otherwise.

In the end, all I have is a desire to write and a compulsion to improve. And also an inclination to share- a long time in development.

And then I look back at my manuscript and wonder . . . is it even possible? So many people toil away for years without being published. I know that a lack of material success won't keep me from writing- nothing has yet. Not working in another major, not total depression and misery, not my own immense self-doubt. But still, you want to do something so well that it can support your household and family. I'm lucky enough that Fernando makes enough money to allow for me the time I need to study and write, but that might not always be the case.

I don't know how to wrap this up with a good conclusion. There isn't one right now, as far as I know. I'm still an unknown, working harder than I ever have, pushing myself. That's all the story will be for now. Who can know what will change?