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 |  Periodic musings on whatever topic suits me that day. |
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During my teenage years blogging (via such incredible sites as deadjournal, livejournal, and xanga among others) was a central part of my daily routine. But the older I get, the more afraid to post anything truly personal I became. Jennifer Knapp, in what I consider her "coming out" album, wrote, "Careful what you say / Careful who might hear / Someone else inside the universe could write it down / And you'll be hearing it for years." That's the fear with which I've lived every day, particularly since I began coming farther and farther out of the closet. Because I work in education (collegiate mind you), I always have a twinge of concern anytime I post anything even remotely controversial on any site. Here I plan on working to develop my courage at posting my personal ideas, because at least here I have the safety of a certain level of anonymity. (Pen names can be very troublesome sometimes, but they can also be quite liberating.) We will see what comes of this experiment in returning to blogging. |
| It seemed appropriate that, on Father's Day, a day which I will be spending without my dad, since he lives almost 700 miles away, I should reflect on what he means to me. My perspective of my father is complex. As a child, I feared him. Not that he was particularly scary mind you (his temper is calmer than mine, and that's saying something), but because he was this godlike presence, there always to take care of us, to protect us, and to spend his days working himself to the bone to provide for us. My mother put him up on a pedestal. She loved him, and he adored her, and my siblings and I were never without their unconditional love. For those things, I am grateful. When I was growing up though, I always felt closer to my mother. She oftentimes treated me more like her best friend and confidant than her child, so it's only natural that I felt closer to her than my dad. That has changed somewhat in adulthood, as I realized I am far more my father's child than I am my mother's. I am my mother's friend, but I am my dad reincarnate. In some ways, my dad lacks the ambition I do. Strike that. He has ambition: it's just directed differently than mine was. When I was younger, I wanted to be the most educated, best paid, most respected member of my career field. I wanted my career to explode and I wanted to have the financial stability my parents never did. My dad was in the military before he met my mom (he was honorably discharged shortly thereafter), and I sometimes wonder whether he would have been the same as I, perhaps even had a military career, had he not met my mother. Because then, like he did, I fell in love. I realized my career didn't matter so much in the grand scheme of things, and I chose to risk it to stay with my partner. I threw away certain dreams of academia (which frankly aren't my dreams any longer anyway) in order to try to build a life for us as a couple. The older I get though, the more I realize my partner is just like my mother. My mother loves passionately and dangerously, but she battles demons that have marked her soul more than most. And my father was the shining knight to pick up her pieces. He stood by her when she battled with inner demons and with physical disability, no matter what it took. He denied himself food, comfort, whatever he had to do, if it meant making my mother happy. To this day, he still acts like this, both for my mother and for their children. My whole adulthood, I wanted to be that loving, to be that sacrificing, to have that sort of giving spirit. And in some ways I have become more like him. I do everything I can to make my partner's life better, even to my own detriment. In that respect at least, I am proud to be his daughter, proud that I am strong enough to weather the storms for someone I love. In another, I'm disheartened, because the part of me that is my mother, that loves dangerously, but also has that hint of selfishness, often yearns to be let free. Sometimes I want to forget about my responsibilities and run away, to go lock myself away in a cabin in the woods with Ramen and my cats and write and write until either I become a famous novelist or until I die of starvation, whichever comes first. But I can't abandon her like that. I want her to have more than that. And so I plug away at a 9-5 job that, while I definitely don't hate, doesn't give my life meaning, because right now that's the only security the two of us have. So, on this Father's Day, I thank my father, because from him I learned the strength to put the needs of others before myself. But I also sometimes resent him, because no matter what, I realize I am too unhappy sometimes to stay the kind of person he'd want me to be. I love him, and I hate that I might one day disappoint him, and I wish I had the gall to be someone less selfless than he is. Maybe one day I'll find the balance, and instead of trying to be mommy's princess OR daddy's girl, I can just be me. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
My apologies to those of my loyal readers who actually read this entry. It's much more rambling than usual, so it may be harder to get through than normal. But it's what I felt compelled to write. So there ya go.  Just exactly who am I? It's a question I'm sure almost everyone asks of themselves now and again. Especially when we're younger, when we're just truly beginning to develop our sense of selves. How many times as a teenager or young adult did I just feel completely directionless, with nowhere to go, no dreams to follow, and a total misunderstanding of a path that would really suit me? The teenage years can be such dark times. When you struggle with mental illness it can be even worse. I'm not a teenager anymore (thank God), but in many ways I feel like one again. For those of you who don't know, I celebrated my 30th birthday yesterday. Well, I use the word "celebrate" very loosely. Many people offered me a quick "Happy Birthday," but I spent most of my day at work and most of the afternoon/evening hovering behind a computer screen reading fan fiction. It really kind of sucked. I woke up wishing there were nothing to celebrate, and I went to bed wishing the same thing. I know part of my antipathy towards everything at the moment is highly situational. My partner also struggles from mental illness. I knew this when I met her, and we've been dealing with it the entirety of the years we've been together. This past February, because of how difficult getting through each day at work was becoming for her, I gave her permission to quit her job, stay at home, find some peace in the chaos, and figure out what she wanted to do next. So, since March 1, I have been the sole wage-earner in our household. Add to that a lawsuit (that was settled by my handing over our entire savings) and a realization of just how little I do make, even in a "decent" job, when having to pay for all our bills myself, have left me worn down to the core. Then there's the jealousy and resentment. Oh, yes, ladies, and gentlemen, I have both of those in ABUNDANCE right now. I've spent the past two years trying to get more serious about my writing as an art form, and I'm only slowly coming to the realization that maybe -- just maybe -- I one day have a small shot at making something of it. The only problem is that, as with any art, talent will only get you so far. A lot of your success comes from hard work and from plain luck. And right now, because of the depression and my financial situation, I DON'T HAVE THE ENERGY TO PUT IN THE WORK. I HATE IT. "You are a talented writer. You're just so busy working and living that you don't put the time and effort into crafting it." "You are such a talented writer. I can't wait to see what happens when you have the time to put everything into it." "You are really a brilliant writer. I really think that I'm the one that should be working and you're the one who should be home working on this stuff." Those first two were comments I've heard from members of this site in the past week. The final one was a comment from my partner about a week ago. And the sad thing is that I can't convince myself that any of them are true. Oh, I definitely believe my writing could be worlds BETTER if I had the luxury of spending my days thinking about it, working on it, honing it as a skill. I just don't know if I believe I'm talented enough to make it as good as I WANT it to be. So, whereas yesterday might have been a day of celebration of my entering the "legit" age of adulthood (as one of my coworkers put it), instead I spent it variations of frustrated, angry, depressed, and hopeless. At one point I was sitting at my desk, going through some paperwork, and I looked at all the files surrounding my desk as I got things organized, and I thought, is this really it? Is this what I'm going to be spending the next 40 years doing? Sitting in an office filing papers? What the hell am I doing here? And guys, I like my job, I really do. I like my coworkers. I get bored when I can't go work on the things I have to do for the office. But I wish my life could be so much more. And right now I'm at a complete loss as to how to get it there. Saying goodbye to my twenties has actually made me question a lot about who I thought I was when I turned 21, and how those things have changed since then. Truthfully, I feel like I'm back to square one with my sense of self. I don't know who I am. I know I like to help people, but I like to do it from behind the scenes (which is why I do enjoy my job so much). I know I have the capability to be bright and sunny and cheerful and to brighten everyone's day. I also have the courage to be 100% myself, no matter what anyone else thinks. The problem is that I don't know 100% who I am anymore, and all people are getting from me at the moment is the facade of who I thought I was a year or two ago, and the cracks are beginning to show. There are days I feel like I'm breaking. Days like today. I took off work today and tomorrow to have a long weekend to rest and to recenter myself. And I woke up wanting nothing so much as to cry, to go back to sleep and to never wake up again. I've been through this feeling before. I've gone through several periods of life when I feel this way. Depression sucks. And although every time it happens, I try to think, "You know this will be over in a few months or a year. You just have to keep pushing until then." But then the other part of me thinks, "But you know it will only come back again." And that's the voice that's constantly whispering other things, telling me that it doesn't matter how hard I work, I will always come back to this place, where I feel like I am talentless and worthless and without value. And for those of you who have never struggled with a mental illness, let me tell you: those voices are loud. And they don't go away until the episode is over. So, whether this next statement is my true intention or another coat of paint on my facade (and I'm really not sure which it is), I'll say it anyway. I do fervently hope that these next few days are good for me. I hope I can rest, relax, and find some peace in the chaos myself. Maybe along the way I'll find reminders of who I want to be. Nothing for it but to wait and see. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
I am tired. Most of you have known the kind of exhaustion that I mean. The kind that seeps into your very bones so that they creak and groan in protest with every move. The kind that tries to draw your eyelids down after that thirteenth cup of coffee. The kind that means you spend each waking moment with only one resounding thought: rest. Oh, to sleep, perhaps ne'er to dream, if the anxieties of our life would follow us into darkness. I have never claimed to be perfect, but in many areas of my life I would like to think I am fairly competent. I am fairly good at my job; I'm a decent friend and partner; and I like to think I've mentored a person or two in my time. But there is one area of my life in which I have ALWAYS been woefully deficient: my finances. It doesn't matter whether I'm making $2500/month or $250/month, I still feel like I have nothing, because I am TERRIBLE at managing at finances. And let's just say lately that's starting to catch up with me. I'm really not 100% sure what I will do the next few weeks, particularly since my other half is currently unemployed. I'm at the point where I feel physically sick most of the time, if not all the time, but between those stresses and the stresses of my job (counting down to the end of the semester, let me tell you), it's like I hardly have energy to breathe. You guys are all a part of my family, and I want you to know how much I love and appreciate all of you and all you've done for me. I've not been around nearly as much as I would like lately, but it's because all my energy is gone. Poof. Not there anymore. And I don't really know what to do about it but keep on pushing through. But sometimes, just sometimes, I don't really want to push. I want to sit and cry and let someone rescue me. And the only person in my life who would really want to doesn't have the capacity. Which leaves me just sitting and crying without hope. I don't have any intentions of giving up. But sometimes I want to. Just to sleep, and hope that when I've woken up my the worst parts of life were just some sort of nightmare. But then I look at her. I look at her covered in ink from a day of doing what she truly loves to do. And I look at the way she glows when I tell her much I truly love her work. And I realize the best part of my life is a dream from which I never want to wake. I am blessed. I am grateful. I am sick. I am tired. And Holy Saturday seems to be as good a time as ever to remind myself that I've been here before. I'll undoubtedly be here again. To quote one of the most simple yet powerful statements I've ever heard: "It's Friday now. But Sunday's a comin'." I'm tired for now. But if I can hang in there, maybe one day soon I'll be awake. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Last night, my partner and I went walking down Main Street, for one of our town's weekly "Art Walks." We had never been, and this particular event was supposed to be the biggest one of the year, so we thought we'd check it out. I have next to zero visual talent, but my partner has it in buckets, and I find all of it inspiring, so what could it hurt? I'm not even sure I have a word for how I felt during or after the event. We did not actually interact with many people--and there were a plethora--but we walked around wide-eyed at the number of displays, some by individual artists some done collaboratively. There were a number of arts council sponsored installations that incorporated this theme of the integration of the past and the present. One particular artist had taken what looked like mostly dead tree stumps (to commemorate the "lumber yard" which formed the basis of most of these works) and had knit tiny mushrooms and woven them into the stumps. From a distance they looked incredibly real, like you might see growing out in the country, but the closer you got you realized they were synthetic. It was a very cool look, and I'm not even 100% sure what I think about it yet. Several of the local artists' galleries were open late as well, so we popped in and got to see a lot of great artwork from local talent. One woman's work really had my heart expanding and my eyes welling, and I almost forced myself to leave out of sheer discomfort. And I had this time where I had to withdraw into myself, just for a few minutes, and bask in the infusion of creative energy. What I wanted more than anything in that one moment was to apparate into a quiet coffee shop with a notebook and pen or laptop and write, to paint the page with neon orange adjectives, violet verbs, and purple participial phrases. I wanted to create an analogy on paper that could be worth even a single brushstroke on such an artist's canvas. I felt my soul glowing with the kind of pulsating green that you see in a well-nourished field of tall grass as it ripples in the wind of a warm Oklahoma afternoon. I wanted more than anything to find something with which to nourish that healthy vibrant green. As we continued to walk, and eventually headed back to the car, I remained withdrawn as I pondered what to do with this new creative energy. By the time we made it back to the car I ached, both with tired feet and with this insane longing to drop everything, quit my job, sell everything I own, and just sit in that local coffee shop tip-tapping away, until I had forced myself to be even half the writer I wish I could be. But then the reality of my world crept in. I have responsibilities to my job, to my partner, to making sure we both are able to live as comfortably as we can even within our very limited budget. And sometimes, at the end of the day when I arrive back on my couch, I feel that that pulsating green of my soul has withered to a dull brown, and I'm not sure I even have the energy to water it by spending half an hour writing a blog post. I want to write. I want to inspire. I want to create. But sometimes I'm just too exhausted to even keep that creative spirit inside of me alive. This mental exhaustion is the source of my spiritual angst. How can I tap the creative energies around me and allow them to flow into this dream of a life that I see for myself? I'm not sure yet. But I'm determined to keep trying. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| In the grand scheme of things, I am very new to putting a lot of time and effort into the craft of writing. Until the past year or so, creative writing was, for me, an exercise in self-expression and self-care. I wrote primarily for me, in an attempt to get out feelings of unworthiness, or self-doubt, or emotional turmoil for any other circumstances that might have somehow darkened the light in my life. Things have started changing. I'm writing now just as much for others as for myself. I am caring more and more about how my work is crafted, and am spending more and more time trying to make the pieces fit in a way that's most effective both for my own enjoyment and the enjoyment (or challenge) of my admittedly small audience. Regardless of the time and attention I'm trying to devote to the craft, one particular flaw in my creative process has become central to my thoughts recently. In a short story workshop several months ago, I mentioned that I had a particular problem writing in first person except in personal narratives (such as essays or blogs). Part of my hesitance was personal preference. I like writing in third person (with a limited POV) because it gives me the opportunity to pass honest judgment on my characters more effectively than I might be able to do in first person. However, preference is only part of my hesitance. The rest of my reluctance comes from my own fear. I'm deeply, desperately afraid of really digging deep; getting to that emotional part of myself and letting myself really bleed onto the page. I fear that in first person writing, particularly in fiction, I will cut myself deeply enough that I won't be able to stop the bleeding. As my confidence in my writing grows, so does my understanding that, if I am to write using themes that are important to me, I must be willing to impart a certain amount of authenticity--of honesty--into those scenarios in which they will make the most impact. And that requires cutting down to the bone, exposing myself and my readers to pain that, even in my waking daily life, I do my best to keep suppressed. This difficulty resurfaced for me in a very real way this morning. I've been working on a short story for a workshop on-site that has basically grown into the skeleton for a planned novel/novella (still deciding which it will be). I've basically been writing the story with two different outcomes in mind. In the first, I'm trying to keep the storylines simple and clean, with the understanding that, though the end product will be relatively long (10K or so once I've edited some stuff down), it will still be a simple short story. In the second scenario, the short story becomes part of a much bigger narrative, and will essentially be written as Part I of a tripartite novel structure. I'm EXTREMELY excited about this particular piece. Parts of it are available on WDC, but are locked down to my short story group particularly because, once all is said and done, I'm considering polishing it for publication. I've never ACTIVELY given anything I've started a real look towards eventual submission, so the prospect is thrilling for me. That being said, the story is extremely personal (not autobiographical at all, just personal), in that it's meant to be a story of an escape of a society from patriarchal oppression springing from misinterpretation of religious tradition. It's pure high fantasy (its own ritual and magic system and everything), but the parallels drawn to society in Oklahoma (and even more so in the deep South of the United States) are unavoidable and intentional. I'm working very hard on being sensitive to all sides of the issue even as I plan the story, but it's meant to be a challenging as well as entertaining piece. Today, I drafted the scene I'd most been dreading. It's meant to portray, as sensitively but honestly as possible, an act of socially acceptable sexual violence against the protagonist. I've been back and forth with myself over whether to include the scene at all, and I could likely leave it out of the short story version of the piece. I don't think I can effectively leave it out of the novel-length version, however, because of its implications for later narrative aspects of the story. Part of me wants to find a way around using it at all if at all possible, but deep down I think that'd be cheating the story out of its power. One overarching symptom of patriarchal oppression is the downplay of sexual violence, against all genders generally but more specifically against women. It's a real problem, and when it is deemed socially acceptable within the context of a particular social structure, its portrayal can be used as an effective tool of condemnation of that structure. Not to mention, because of the way I've got the overall novel structure narrative outlined, I NEED for the event in question to happen in order to further a particular storyline. I could always allude to the occurrence, I suppose, rather than give it a full portrayal, but that would likely detract from its power as a narrative device. I think the scene would be hard for anyone to write, but it was particularly difficult for me. Although I admit certain time periods of my childhood and early adolescence are more or less blocked from my memory, as far as I am aware I have never been a victim of sexual violence. I sometimes feel guilty for writing an account--even fictional--of an event of which I have no memory of experience, though I have a great deal of empathy for its victims. Add to that my own predilection for refusing to admit that my darkest emotional problems don't exist (repression of my negative emotions has sent me to a counselor more than once), and I was pretty much a jumbled emotional mess after I finished writing it this morning. I'm not writing this blog entry to gain opinions about the particular scene in question or whether such a thing is ever acceptable in fictional writing. I'm still deciding whether the scene is appropriate within the context of my grander theme, and that's something I have to allow myself to decide as an author. What I am asking is how any of you out there as writers deal with writing scenes or stories that make you emotionally uncomfortable. Do you avoid writing them altogether? Do you write them but then sit them on the shelf until such a time as you can handle them? What sort of coping methods do you use? I have trouble writing my characters into corners, because in my waking life I do everything I can to avoid confrontation. Even fictionalized accounts of such confrontations are uncomfortable for me. This fictionalized act represents a massive shift in the way I'm trying to approach my fictional writing. I'm incredibly excited about the potential this story (and perhaps eventual novel) has, but I need a way to effectively deal with my own emotional experiences as I write them, or I run the risk of shutting myself out from giving the work the full amount of attention and care and love it needs. I realize to really give this piece the power it deserves I'm going to have to allow myself to bleed onto the page. I just need some help figuring out how to keep it from bleeding me dry. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
Oh, what a wonderful week it's been for my writing ego!  I found out Sunday night that my poem "Invalid Item"  won 2nd place in the February 2014 edition of "Short Shots: Official WDC Contest" . It was humbling in a way I can't describe, especially since the GPs attached to the reward lifted the stress of how I will pay for my renewed upgrade in a few months. Then last night my inbox was flooded with well-wishes and congratulations for a promotion I didn't even know was possible for me when I started at WDC last summer. For those of you who have sent your words of support and well-wishes, I cannot even express adequately how much it has meant to me, and I do promise as soon as my guilt lets me stay on WDC for more than about ten minutes at a time (the joys of sneaking on at work ), I will be responding personally to each of you, as well as sending out my own congratulations. Now, for the meat of this entry. It may run a bit long, so if you want to bow out, now's the time to escape!  I've been thinking a lot over the past year about my experiences in writing and what they've meant for me at different times in my life, and I realize more and more that what once was a stress-relieving hobby for me is now burgeoning on full-out obsession. I began reading very early. My mother was still in college when I was small, and she, my father, and I all lived with my grandparents for the majority of my early formative years, and for a few of the years after my younger sister was born. For the first three years of my life, I had a great deal of nurturing and attention from not one but four loving, caring adults, who all lavished me with all the attention I could get. The result? About age three I began reading. My mother loves to tell me the story that, once I had mastered the sounds of the alphabet, I would sit down with her nursing textbooks and start sounding out all the words. I'm sure my pronunciation of "epiglottis" was not what she would have liked, but I was reading, dammit! From there, writing was just the next step in a logical progression. I have in my possession a few pieces of paper stapled together into a little booklet. The front reads (in almost illegible scrawl): "My Jesus Book, Brandy, age 3." In that book, I wrote down the words (very poorly spelled of course, but at least decipherable) of several of the church hymns I knew and loved. Until recently, the existence of the book was something I kept merely as a brief amusement, but now I find it comforting, because it tells me that even then I felt the desire to emulate what I loved in the written word. After my sister was born (about a month before my third birthday), my parents and grandparents understandably had to begin dividing their attention between my sister and myself. I'm really not sure what happened to me as a young child (I imagine my abysmal eyesight and what I saw as "weird" appearance played some part), but the older I get the more withdrawn I became. I distinctly remember oftentimes "playing" under the kitchen table when my parents' church friends came over, because that way I could listen to them talk but not be subject to their attention. When I was feeling bored or lonely, I turned to books for comfort. It seems only natural that this proclivity towards independence and reading eventually led to my writing on a regular basis. I know I began keeping journals at LEAST by the time I was 8 or so, but entries were always sporadic, and usually popped up only when I was feeling particularly down in some way. Then in third grade, something magical happened. My parents bought the family our first computer. It was meant primarily as an educational tool for me, because the woman who'd conducted my evaluation for the district's gifted program told her that if I were going to live up to my potential, I was going to have to learn how to use one. I took to that machine like fish take to water. It ran Windows 3.1, and had Minesweeper, Solitaire, Paint, and some word processing program. The internet was almost non-existent in those days, but I still spent almost all the free time I had either playing those games or playing with that word processor. I had a junior encyclopedia set that became my favorite tool ever. I remember deciding that I loved cats (my parents hadn't brought any with us when we'd moved out of my grandparents house, but there were still plenty of feral ones around), and so I should write a report on them. My first ever essay was a two-page (typed) report on cats. I didn't realize it then, but I was hooked. As I got older and got more involved in extracurricular activities, I used writing less as an exercise in self-education and more as this cathartic thing I did when I was having a particularly bad day. I've suffered from dysthymia and major depressive episodes most of my life, and writing was how I dealt with those feelings. Once our family finally got internet access, I became addicted to online blogging sites like deadjournal, livejournal, xanga, etc. My friends and I all tended to write daily posts on what we did, how we were doing, etc., but I also used mine a LOT for poetry and snippets of short stories I'd begun. By high school I'd actually attempted writing a few novels, but the truth was I had neither the confidence in my skills nor the heart to dive into the meat of working on my writing to actually expand it. Then college happened. I was a music education major involved in countless activities outside of classtime, I was in the honors college, and I had to expend all my energy in writing for assignments. Writing creatively became less important to me than hanging out with my closest friends or practicing my music, so my college years produced little outside of coursework. Once my undergraduate (and first graduate) degree were completed, I moved into teaching full-time. I HATED it. By the second year, I was dating a girl who taught me all about NaNoWriMo , and so I recklessly dove into writing the project. I finished it, but the end product was really quite terrible. I had no idea what I was doing. For me, it was just an opportunity to escape the life that I hated while participating in an interesting project with someone I really liked. I learned a lot about myself during that time, but I was so ashamed with the end result of the project that I couldn't be bothered to pick up a pen again.The years that followed saw me return to graduate school, meet the love of my life, and endure the hardest year of my life when I decided to make a COMPLETE career change. It was in the midst of all of these life changes that I turned back to writing. I discovered that a few of my coworkers had enjoyed writing, and we tossed around the idea of completing NaNoWriMo together. I decided I wanted to approach this attempt differently. The first time I attempted a novel, I had no time to prepare. I found out about its existence in late October, and I dove headfirst on November 1. This time I had months of planning and preparation, and I wanted to get as much outlined as possible before then. In the middle of all this preparation, my coworker directed me to writing.com. She was toying with it a bit at the time and thought I might be interested. I did what I always did when facing a new challenge, and I dove in for the first few days, figuring it would be something I would play with occasionally but never dive too far into. I could not have been more wrong. I don't even know that I have the words to express what this community has done for me in little less than a year. What was once a hobby for me, a way for me to soothe myself when I was at my most depressed, has become an obsession for me. Even at work, I carry around my phone and periodically refresh WDC to see whether I have any new messages or notifications. I always have it open on any computer I have, because this place is where I feel like myself. That's what the wonderful groups and people at WDC have done for me. I've felt mentored, and encouraged, and allowed to contribute to a community in ways I never could have imagined. I won my first (small) poetry contest on site within my first month here Since this past January, I've won two smaller contests, two quills, placed in one of WDC's official contests, helped mentor students through a poetry course, and contributed to causes that are worthwhile to me, all while participating in a poetry workshop AND a short story workshop. I no longer feel complete unless I'm brainstorming for a new poem, short story, or book, and I am getting better and better at leaving my work at work, when I used to be an absolute workaholic. I'm finding myself and who I want to be, and it's all thanks to all of you. I am not in the best place in my life right now. I have struggles with my job, with my family, with my friends, and with my financial situation, and some days I want nothing more than to curl up in bed and die. Yet I feel more alive now than I have in my whole life. My partner took me out to dinner and then spent the night watching a movie with me at home in celebration of my "yellow case," because I was so ebullient with joy that I couldn't focus on doing anything more productive. What you've done, WDC, is transformed me from a hobbyist to an enthusiast. I can look at my portfolio now and see the word "Preferred Author," and for the very first time in my life I can say that a community sees me for who I am. Even more importantly, they've played a part in creating who I am. I could list all of the people on-site to whom I owe a debt of gratitude, but you would all be here all day, and you've taken enough time just to read this thing. To The StoryMaster  , The StoryMistress  , the staff, moderators, and other preferred authors on site: you are responsible for more than just your own greatness; you've given me the confidence to aspire to mine. I am a writer. And I owe that to you. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
I think for a large number of us, this afternoon was quite overwhelming. As a relative newbie to WDC (I've been here about 9 months), I was astounded by the sheer class with which Andrew  and his team produced the entire production of "The Quills" . That the individuals involved have such passion for this community that they would spend WEEKS of time making sure the various ceremonies go off without a hitch speaks mountains for the value of this community. I am sure I am not the only person here who will testify that WDC is THE social network of choice. I check my messages here far more often than I pop onto Facebook, Twitter, or any other social media platform.I could spend hours thanking everyone who has brought me into this incredible community of writers, but frankly, I'm just too overwhelmed by the TWO wins I was granted this afternoon (Best Reviewing and Best Prose: Language for "Invalid Item" ). For those who unfortunately missed the event, be sure to check out "Invalid Item" to get the complete list of winners.This encouraging event couldn't have come at a better time for me. I've been feeling particularly overwhelmed and stretched about as thin as I've ever been stretched before. In my offline life, I've taken on a number of new responsibilities at work after one of my coworkers was relieved of her position. I very much enjoy my job, but with the smallest staff we've had since I began working there, the office has begun to show obvious signs of serious strain. I'm very fortunate to have some GREAT coworkers, but frankly there's only so much that any of us can do to keep us from drowning in administrative red tape--and we're the administrators!  Then of course, there's my responsibility to my fantastic partner, Katherine. She's brilliant and the light of my life, but she's spent the last few months collapsing under the strain of her own job. It was causing a ridiculous amount of strain in our relationship and a lot of strain in her relationships with other people, so after a lot of discussion and soul-searching, I agreed to continue working while she took some time off to work on establishing herself as an artist. As of Friday evening, I'm (hopefully temporarily) the sole income earner in our household. I believe in my partner and her ability to find a new workplace soon, and a new career in time, but for now I'm a bit stressed and freaking out. And finally, there are my responsibilities to myself, to my own art, and to WDC. Right now, I feel particularly broken because of the way I feel I've failed in my promises to myself. I so want to really lose myself in my writing, to dig deep down and extract whatever knowledge and wisdom I may have--and I definitely don't assume much is there--and present it in a way that makes a difference to someone else. But right now I'm feeling so exhausted at day's end that sometimes even interacting with my friends on WDC is a struggle. I've intentionally cut my reviewing back to the minimum to meet my group requirements each month, but even doing those reviews can be a bit of a struggle for me. My performance on my monthly goals set for "Invalid Item" is abysmal at the moment, and although I'm constantly re-reading "Invalid Item" , I feel like I've accomplished far less this year than I would like.That being said, I think I am more stubborn than I am broken, and I am DETERMINED to make of myself someone of whom I can be proud. I am hoping that the wonderful weekend I've gotten to spend at home with my partner crafting and writing while recharging my batteries will help make March a bit more productive than the first two months of the year have been. I'm definitely feeling a lot more inspired after seeing the great variety of talents highlighted at the awards this afternoon, and I'm hoping to work harder in order to find myself more worthy of being their colleague. I can't promise anyone at this point that I'll be better tomorrow, or that I'll fulfill all my promises to myself with flying colors the day after. I'm still incredibly overwhelmed and wondering each day whether I'll have the strength to keep fighting. But I will look back on days like today, and I will remind myself that I am strong enough and I am good enough and damn it, I OWE it to myself to be the best person that I can be. So, to all of you out there in WDC who encourage me and who have taken me under your wings, I am more grateful than you can imagine, and I hope one day to prove to you and to myself that I am worthy of the effort you have expended on my behalf. I love you all, and I am so proud to call you all my friends. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| To my loyal readers: I was digging through my laptop a few days ago for a long lost copy of a resume, and I stumbled upon a blog entry I’d written for National Coming Out Day 2013. I never finished it, so it never got posted. Although the premise is now slightly out of date, I feel just as strongly about it now as I did six months ago, so I figure I’ll make a few edits and go ahead and post it anyway. Maybe next year I’ll actually get the blog written in time for the reason it was written. Why Coming Out Still Matters October 11, 2013, marked the 25th anniversary of National Coming Out Day, a day born from the 1987 March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights. This year’s theme has been designated as “Why Coming Out Matters,” and I would be absolutely remiss if I didn’t take a few minutes to tell my admittedly limited audience why I genuinely believe that coming out DOES still matter. In the small town in Mississippi where I grew up, young people did not “come out.” Older people did not “come out.” The unfortunate proclivity towards non-heterosexual or non-cisgender activities were subjects that were all but completely taboo. In the high school where I graduated (back in 2002), there was only one gentleman who was “out” as a gay man: only one in a school of some 1500 students. I remember the scandal that broke when he brought his boyfriend to the annual school musical (where he was the star of course). Funny enough, I never once saw anyone reprove him to his face. Again, it wasn’t something to be talked about. But boy, oh, boy, was there a lot of “discussion” and disapproval running through the underground gossip mills. Talking privately--behind someone’s back--was considered the “proper” way to discuss such topics. I remember similarly a girl in my class who was a member of our marching band. I never heard her specifically say she was bisexual, but there was PLENTY of gossip about it, always disapproving, and always somehow related to this sense that she was “other,” and therefore to be avoided if not outright ostracized. I was about 16 when I really started to accept that I found women sexually attractive. I wouldn’t have DARED label myself as a gay person or lesbian at that time. I was a good Christian girl, truly devoted to my church and my spiritual walk with God, and as far as I knew this was just another test with which he had chosen to bless me in order to draw me closer to Him. Funny enough, I was absolutely correct in many ways, but I wouldn’t realize that for several years. I had NO ONE with whom I felt comfortable discussing my feelings. I wonder now, if even one or two people were “out and proud” in high school, whether I would have felt comfortable at the very least telling people I was struggling. I met a fantastic ally my freshman year in college who would eventually become my roommate and best friend. He was the first person to whom I ever told I was “struggling.” He was similarly struggling and was completely closeted specifically because he didn’t know ANYONE who could reconcile his sexuality with his intense faith. He was my role model for many years because, to me, he accepted his choice of celibacy and simply remained in the closet while praying INTENSELY that God would eventually allow him to feel some sort of attraction to a woman, get married, and live the life he felt like he needed to live. Fast forward a few years, and things changed PROFOUNDLY. I found an online community of LGBT and allied Christians, and a switch flipped in my head that said “God has given me this wonderful blessing of learning what it means to be oppressed by the very people who claim to bring redemption to the world.” Suddenly my sexuality was not a burden but a blessing, one I enjoyed sharing within a loving community of allies. Unfortunately, the outside world was not composed only of allies, so I still found, as I faced the outside world, that disclosure was a constant dilemma for me. If I was “out” at work (where I worked with junior high and high school band students), I risked my job. If I remained in the closet, I would not be able to stand as a role model for those students who might have been struggling with their own sexualities. I eventually came out as an “ally,” but kept my personal life private. I made sure to stay behind that closet door, but I’m fairly certain the door was transparent. I was one of the lucky ones. I made the decision to move some 600 miles from home and decided to start over as a completely out and open lesbian. I cannot BEGIN to explain how freeing just starting out in a new place as exactly who I wanted to be has affected my day-to-day life. I had a counselor once tell me that I was an extrovert who had been living life as an introvert, and though I scoffed at the time, I realize he was completely correct. ‘ Now I am the token office lesbian. My partner attends my workplace’s annual Christmas party, and I usually go with her when her workplace puts on its annual “Fall Festival.” We hide behind no one, and though we aren’t the social butterflies that many are, we make sure we stand out as role models. For us, coming out isn’t about saying the words “I’m a lesbian.” It’s about living our lives authentically and in the light of day, so that perhaps someday, someone, some poor kid who doesn’t know which way is up, will look at us, and look at him or herself, and say, “You know what? I’m okay just the way I am.” That’s why coming out matters. Shining the light of integrity on others gives them permission to shine as well, and without those shining beacons of hope, the world would be a terribly dark place indeed. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| So, as I was perusing my favorite not-so-reliable news source The Onion a few days ago, I came upon this article: Satire or no, the opening paragraphs punched me in the gut. The dreaded "Impostor Syndrome" is something I and probably close to half (if not more) of the human species deals with on a daily basis. For those of you who haven't heard the term before, here's a brief summary from wikipedia: The impostor syndrome, sometimes called impostor phenomenon or fraud syndrome, is a psychological phenomenon in which people are unable to internalize their accomplishments. Despite external evidence of their competence, those with the syndrome remain convinced that they are frauds and do not deserve the success they have achieved. Proof of success is dismissed as luck, timing, or as a result of deceiving others into thinking they are more intelligent and competent than they believe themselves to be.1 Ladies and gentleman, you have just read a summary of my entire worldview up until just a few years ago. Through high school it was difficult for me to even speak aloud to anyone other than my closest friends and family for fear I would say something stupid or naive. Once, a teacher decided to use me as an example of "introversion" in class, specifically because she knew she could make my face glow red with embarrassment just by saying my name aloud. Back then, to draw attention to myself was to invite criticism, and to invite criticism was to confirm all the deepest doubts I had about myself. Those doubts screamed at me everyday, because I just knew that one day it would be proven that I didn't deserve my straight A's, extraordinarily high test scores, or respectable placements in musical competitions. They were just given to me by circumstances of luck, or timing, or because of my previous reputation. Perhaps even worse, if I didn't get the highest grade in the class, or a perfect score on the test, or first place in the competition, it was because the people who beat me out were obviously inherently better than me. It wasn't perhaps that they worked harder, or had more experience. It wasn't even that they got lucky. I was lucky to even have placed as high as I did. I never held others up to the standards I held myself, oh no. I required much more of myself than I ever would anyone else, and heaven forbid I failed to meet those expectations. I would be lying if I said I was the same person today. Lots of things in my life have changed. I found friends in college who taught me what it meant to be liked specifically for me and not out of convenience. I eventually found the courage to pack my bags and move hundreds of miles away from the only home I'd ever known, and I started a new life without the memories of who I once was pounding against my psyche at every street corner. I was able to truly blossom, and to find confidence in myself. I'd also be lying if I said I wasn't the same person today. It doesn't matter that I am the person in my workplace to whom people are unafraid to come to ask questions, opinions, or to be taught something or another. It doesn't matter that I'm the first person to jump in with a new solution or to offer assistance. No, what matters is the fact that I forgot to copy a particular person on an e-mail trail or that I misspelled the word "misspell." Obviously, those slips are evidence of the incompetent woman who hides beneath a veneer of professional confidence, and I should be fired immediately! So, I had already been thinking sincerely about what this syndrome means for me and my writing life when I received a less-than-stellar review just this morning. To protect the reviewer, I won't republish it here, but it was exactly the kind of review that gets me irritated. It was precisely 261 characters, a total of 53 words (which included "A brief poem based on..."), in which the ideas of the piece were briefly summarized. The only evidence of critique was a brief statement that the themes were not well developed and that the author could not understand a particular metaphor. Now, I love to play devil's advocate when receiving these unhelpful types of reviews, because I understand that sometimes newer members of the site might not understand yet how best to contribute to the reviewing process. I did take a quick look at the reviewer's profile, and nope. Said member has been here almost two years and has close to 500 reviews. None of them say much more than the one I received, and although said member does occasionally make a legitimate critique, I highly suspect most of the reviewers were submitted to meet the 250 character mark. I get all sorts of irritated and upset over these kinds of reviews, and my reasons for disliking them are directly tied in to my experiences with Impostor Syndrome. One of the things that continues to amaze me about writing.com is the variety of writing styles, interests, and skill levels evidenced on the site. At the best of times, WDC is the perfect place for someone who's just dipping their toe in the waters of authorship to be slowly acclimated to the wider community of writers and to receive encouragement from your peers and mentors. Just look at the number of "likes" and great comments left on the recent note posted by The StoryMistress "Note: I am so proud of my little 5-year old. Today's...". At the worst of times, it can crush a writer's desire to ever present their work to a wider audience. If I had received a review like the one I received today when I was a teenager, I would have thrown the poem away and refused to even take a look at it again, and I might have even refused to post anything else, not because the review was particularly brutal, but because it lacked any sense of encouragement or guidance as to what to do next. Back then, I would have felt that this lack of encouragement told me that my greatest fears were true: that I didn't deserve to call myself a writer or a poet, that any comments to the contrary were lies, and that I should hang up my hat and go home. Truth be told, for about three minutes this morning, I felt that way anyway. For a fleeting period of time, I felt like an impostor, and that all of my awards, mentions, positive reviews, or other comments were done out of a sense of pity, or even because my reviewers obviously didn't have any idea what they were talking about.That's why reviewing is so important to me, and why I probably spend more time reviewing than I do working on my own writing. In "The Case for Visual Quality in Your Reviews"2, PatrickB  makes the case that a review (for items on WDC specifically) actually has three potential beneficiaries: The Reviewer - Reviewing, by its nature, offers us an opportunity to gain more experience as a reader, which can directly affect our own writing later. It also provides us an excellent opportunity to sharpen our own writing and critiquing skills, which we can then apply to our own works.The Reader - A reader of a review (particularly of the ones that are made public on the main reviewing page) may be able to make a decision as to whether to read a particular work if a review gives the reader a good indication that it's worth the time.The Author - The author receives direct feedback on a work in order to help in future edits/rewrites or in entirely new pieces.For me, this third beneficiary is actually most important. I do realize that many authors may not need or want the kind of in-depth reviewing I offer, but it would be a breach of my personal integrity if I didn't write a review specifically with the cultivation of the author into a better writer in mind. To me, a review must be honestly helpful. It must point out flaws as well as its strengths, so that the author has some honest feedback on how to continue to sharpen their skills. But it must also be encouraging. It must remind the writer that there is something at the core of the piece -- no matter how poorly developed -- that deserves exploration, and that the writer has an amazing opportunity to discover how to best make that core shine. If any readers out there take away anything from this blog post, I hope that it is this: You. Are. Not. An. Impostor. You deserve to be here, to be present, to be respected, and to be helped, because you have a voice and mind that can be expressed by no one on the planet better than you. Don't let one or two less-than-encouraging reviews stand in your way, but use them to strengthen yourself and perhaps even to prove the naysayers wrong. And to those of you who choose to review, remember that you should not be here only to push people down or to stand on a seat of "impartial" judgment upon them, but to lend a hand in raising them up. You needn't always be glowing and rate everything at 5 stars, but you DO need to demonstrate to the writers here that anyone can exceed their current skill level with a little work, even if they will never be published or make a living as professional writers. If you don't believe that, then get out. You're the impostor. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Footnotes |
| I'd like to consider myself a fairly open-minded person. Perhaps it's because of my natural tendency to play the devil's advocate. With everyone. All the time. No matter what. I have a few friends with whom it's incredibly fun to play a sort of back and forth argumentative scene where, by the end of it, we've reversed the poles of the argument. Just because we can. It's hilarious, and wonderful, and reminds me so often that, most of the time, people have heartfelt legitimate reasons for feeling the way they do, even if what they believe doesn't match up with what you do. It doesn't lessen their--or your--value as a person. Then things happen that remind me that not everyone thinks that way. There has been a great bit of talk surrounding the issue of gay marriage (or as many of us like to call it, "marriage") in Oklahoma this week, as our residents realized that the fight for equality is closer to them than they think. The allies have come out in droves, as have those who oppose what I see as the inevitable march of progress. Whether you or I believe it's for good or for ill, society is changing, and people in Oklahoma are up in arms about its slow march. I, like most of the U.S., am continually glued to my Facebook. I actually don't update all that often, and my profile remains relatively vague. I like my privacy, but I also want to be able to keep up with people I still know and love who I might not get to see all that often. That means keeping my mind open when they post items with which I might viscerally disagree. Sometimes, it's worth a conversation, but many times I choose to allow that person to simply be who they are, warts and all, just as I would hope they'd do the same for me. Then things like this blow up. The issue of marriage equality hits squarely in my bosom, because I am a woman in a very serious, committed, long-term relationship with another woman, and it is our desire, one day, to seal the promise we already made to one another legally and thus protect one another from the outside world who might try to tear us apart. The truth of the matter is that I don't like my relationship with my partner to be defined by sex anymore than most heterosexual couples do. If the intensity and importance of our relationship is solely determined by the type and quality of the sex we have, then this world is already in serious trouble. When we ask for the legal protections of marriage, we aren't asking for anyone to condone our sex lives. (As an aside, we're like any other long-term couple; sometimes it feels like we don't even have one!) What we're asking for is acceptance that our choices and our beliefs aren't your choices and beliefs, and that your beliefs aren't more valid than ours only because they belong to you. We're asking that if we are two people committed to loving one another, merging our existing families, and perhaps even one day growing them, you treat us like the adults we are and let US decide whether that commitment is strong enough to call it "marriage." We are opening our minds enough to your way of living, one that frankly we aren't wired to understand, and accepting that there's something valuable in committing oneself legally to another person. We're hoping one day, other people can say the same. The point of all this is actually about something greater than any political issue. It's about having the compassion and love for your neighbor to see them as people, to understand that their choices and their minds and their beliefs are their own, and you will NEVER change them by trying to force them to conform to whatever your idea of "right" or "good" or "normal" means. I dislike guns as a category, but I see a purpose for them and would never try to deny someone the right to own or use one with legitimate purpose. That's a decision each person has to make, and my personal decision is not to have one in my house. It's also my personal decision to live with integrity and joy in the life God gave me. Realize, readers, that opening your mind also means lowering your shields. You will oftentimes be hurt by those you love, respect, and trust, sometimes without their knowledge, because you feel, think, or even love differently than they do. Do it anyway. Embrace them as you can, and when you no longer can, raise the shields and go about your lives, allowing them to do the same. Even if you have to unfriend them to do so.   Amalie ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
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