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?

Settling in

It's taken me MUCH too long to get into this, but I've finally established a real schedule. Being currently unemployed, I have tons of time to work and so now I take complete advantage of it. I know some people would balk at the idea of having a schedule (why don't you just take your creativity out back and shoot it?! the horror!!) but I've found that making a routine actually inspires me to be more creative.

Oddly enough, this change completely came about a week or so ago, when I decided to go vegan. I was changing up old eating habits, so old day habits were changed up as well. The results speak for themselves; I'm working harder and more efficiently than ever.

8am- wake up
8:10- shower
8:30- breakfast
9- inspiration hunting (reading articles, finding quotes, hoarding pictures of things that relate to my story)
10:30- warmup exercises (usually poems, free verse, a walk around the complex to get the blood pumping)
12- lunch
12:30- NOVEL
6- dinner
6:30- free period (depending on how things are going, i'll break for the day, or I'll keep writing. ON friday I was writing the last chapter of Act I and I kept at it until about 11pm. That was a good day.)

This schedule is really great for getting actual work done, all the while maintaining the fire and fuel to keep at it. Being that I'm working on the first draft, the best thing to do is just to have at it. Write with speed and fire. The time for editing will come later, and that's when it's best to look over everything with a logical, critical eye. Not now, though.

Possessed

I'm really in it now. I've become consumed by my story, my characters. They're all clanging around my head, desperate to escape. Details emerge every part of the day, even when not writing. A new twist will occur to me as I clean around the house. A facet dawns as I cook. And when I drive, this world pushes aside all other thoughts, gleefully taking center stage.

It sounds like madness when I describe it. Perhaps it is a kind of madness, one that every author develops as they sink further into the story they write. I'm convinced that in order to make the story and the characters live and breathe on the page as authentically as anything in real life, it must become ALIVE to you. It must possess you. And so allow myself to become possessed, I do.

In the idle times between writing and researching, I look back and realize that I've always been doing this. I've always been creating little stories in my head. I lacked the focus to fully realize them as a younger person, but the potential was always there. When I wasn't writing, I was treating myself as the protagonist in every kind of fantasy a person could think of. So it's a bit odd that I still look at my decision to become a writer with so much surprise; I've been doing this much longer than anything else.

On Flaws in Character

As you all probably guessed from my month of silence, I took the holidays off from writing. I didn't necessarily take it off from the project; I continued to research and outline, take notes and scribble down ideas. This story has actively taken over a large part of my brain, so even when I'm not writing, I'm always thinking about it.

It was nice, though, to take a bit of a break. Renewing. Fernando called them 'absorb phases'. I read and observe and take notes, saving it all up for the next time I write.

It actually works, too. I sat down to write a chapter yesterday, and I wrote the longest chapter so far in the shortest amount of time; nearly five thousand words in only three hours. That's remarkable; I haven't written at that speed and efficiency ever, not even in my giant binge this last summer.

I'm feeling pretty good. Confident isn't exactly the right word, because I'm not full of blustering swagger, that almost agressive self-consideration. I'd say I feel . . . calm, maybe. Full of balanced acceptance. This project feels strangely inevitable, and all I can do is continue to do a little more each day. It will happen, in the end. Maybe I won't find an agent or a publishing deal, but the book will be finished. That's a success in itself.

It's a strange feeling after I finish writing for the day. I'm keyed up; I feel like I did after a particularly exciting performance. But at the same time, I'm raw. It's exhausting. I mean, not exhausting in the way physical labor is, but different. It requires focus to channel not only the characters, plot, and relevant detail into a coherent passage, but to tie it all into everything you've done before and everything you haven't done yet.

I wouldn't trade it, though. This is fulfilling work. There is something so perfect about shaping a story. Shaping a world, really. You mold the earth and history, you pepper the stage with characters, breathe life into them with triumphs and flaws. Done right, they play off one another; it's almost as if they propel the narrative on their own. That's hyperbole, of course, but maybe there is a grain of truth; what is a story without good characters?

I was talking with Jesse yesterday about flaws (in characters, and in people). Perfection is boring; no one wants to read about a paragon turning everything he touches to gold. Flaws in your characters create conflict that drives the story forward. It's why 'Mary Sues' and 'Gary Stus' are so reviled in the reader/writer/fan community. More often than not, they're an authors veiled attempt at self-insertion in a life they'd prefer to their own, and it's kind of pathetic. Why is Bella Swan so detested by most? Because aside from some conveniently adorable clumsiness, she's so perfect as to be featureless; a molten lump the author uses to slip into her own story. It's creepy and sad, and the sign of an amateur.

Personally, I love the flaws of a character. And I'm not talking quirks - like clumsiness. I'm talking about aspects of personality that can skew negative. Like selfishness, ambition, pessimism. One of my characters is uncompromising and stubborn to a fault; she sees the world in black and white and cleaves to her ideals. Another character reacts to negative situations with irreverence; he prefers to deflect than to confront. And from these aspects of character, conflict emerges. The old colloquialism goes 'variety is the spice of life' but I'd have to say conflict makes a story more interesting.

So back to work, if you can call telling a story work.