The Sad Reality Of A Time Deprived Writer

I've opened Refracted's document on my computer and stared at it blankly more times in the last week than I can possibly count. I have no excuse, really, for not working on it. I have the plot, I know where it's going, the characters are talking to me, I love the story itself...what I lack though is motivation. Or, maybe, motivation is the wrong word. What I lack is passion.

More and more often nowadays I find myself not wanting to write.  

I don't want to write. 

There. I said it...and I'm pretty sure a part of my soul just died doing so. 

That's the sad reality of it though. I want to write. I really, truly do. It's not like I've completely lost my passion for it. I mean, I've been writing since my mom taught me how to form the letter 'A'. By now, I can't not write. My brain gets so cluttered when I don't. My fingers itch for the familiar feeling of an ink pen and the beauty of words on paper. Yet, when I sit down to write I want to cry. 

Why? 

Because I can't bring myself to write with an impending feeling of doom hanging over my head. An impending feeling that I should be doing something else. That's what makes me want to bawl my eyes out in frustration. 

Writing is my coping mechanism. For the longest time, writing was the only thing I thought I was good at. It's what made me me; what allowed me to be me. It's completely me. It's everything I've gone through, am going through, and may go through, It's my life.

Writing is as necessary to me as breathing and, darlings, right now I'm suffocating. 

It hurts so bad not being able to sit down and write without feeling like I'm being a bad student because there are a dozen projects I could be working on in that moment. But then it hurts even more when I think about where my life is going and I wonder if I'll ever have time to write after graduation at all. 

Have time to write...scoff...did you hear what I just said? I just broke one of the commandments of writing. "Thou shalt make time to write even when thou hast none to give." 

My roomate asked me the other night how I could stare at a computer for so long. I didn't say anything, primarily because I was in a grumpy mood,  but I thought, "Lots of practice." I used to be happy to get to the computer and write. I used to rush to it. I'd try to beat my siblings to it. Now I'm on it all the time checking emails, moodle pages, writing papers, doing interviews and research, working on journalistic stories for the school newspaper/my reporting class which no where satisfies my craving for creative writing. 

I'm never on my computer working on my novel or that selection of short stories (which I'm actully in the process of turning into a blog series) I've been meaning to put together, or that children's book series based on my childhood teddy bear that I think would be a great idea, or any of the stories I've started strictly for DeviantArt purposes...and I HATE it. I LOATH it with a fiery passion. 

I just want my characters back. I want to be able to sit down and write without feeling guilty. Even now, as I am writing this, I can name five different assignments I could be working on. The thought of them makes my gut twist in such a way that I'm tempted to stop writing right here and now, but if I did there would be no way I'd be able to sleep tonight. 

My mind is heavy with thoughts and facts that I'm supposed to memorize, and a list of tasks I have to get done, and I fear that if I stop writing I may be reduced to a puddle of anxiety induced tears. 

I've spent the last couple of weeks praying myself to sleep or listening to my detox playlist until I succumb to slumber. And every dream I've had has been nothing near restful. I've had work dreams, school dreams, dreams of horrible scenarios involving my family and friends that literally have me waking up wanting to puke...I'd like a dreamless night. Sadly, stress doesn't grant such requests and instead I just keep putting on a brave face and going about my day trying to keep my complaining to a minimum. 

I mean, I'm dealing. I haven't had an anxiety attack or anything yet, thankfully, but I am more than a little peeved at life right now. I'm especially peeved at certain people who seem to think that I should be doing more or putting more effort in. Yeah, sure, cause you know I came to this school with the ultimate goal to burn myself out before I hit middle age. 

Life demands more time than I have, but I'm trying really hard to make my own sunshine here.

A week ago, nearly two, I was back in Nebraska for spring break and one afternoon I was on my way home from Walmart with my mom and a van full of my siblings. One of my foster brothers said something about life not being fair and I responded to him by saying, "Life isn't fair. Life will give you lemons, but it's up to you to find the sugar to make the lemonade."

Finding the sugar is sort of my goal right now. Staying positive in a stressful time. Because a pitcher of bitter lemonade may still quench thirst but it doesn't completely satisfy and I want a life that I'm satisfied with. I want a life that when I'm old and grey I can look back on and say, "Yeah, not that was some good lemonade."  

I don't even want just the lemonade. I want the whole freaking garden party. 

I'm human and a human's life is as fragile as a candle's flame. It can go out at a moment's notice. It's short lived. Fleeting. It's mortal and I don't want the stress of my life to ruin it for me; to dictate whether or not I enjoy myself writing. 

I've made some pretty big decisions lately. Some decisions that are kind of expected for someone my age but were pretty big deals to me because -would you know -I'm not a huge fan of change. In fact, i despise change and love organization. Lists, cell alerts, calendars, and planners are the only way I can get stuff done. I love time management. Probably a little too much. 

I'll admit that I'm a bit of a control freak when it comes to my time. Which is probably one of the main reasons I'm so stressed lately. Kinks keep getting thrown into my schedules and I don't like it. It makes me irritated.

Just a couple days ago, I was complaining to my roommate (Yeah, I mention her a lot. We live together and we're friends. Deal. With. It)  because I got on Facebook to send a message to someone about an assignment (yes, I was actually doing homework while on Facebook. It can be done) when I received four different requests from people wanting to hang out. 

I groaned and said something like, "As much as I love so-and-so I just don't have time for this." 

My roommate responded, and I applaud her for this because I really did need to hear it that day, by saying, "Yeah, it's sooooooooo horrible that you have friends who care about you and want to go out and do things with you. Friends are such a burden."

I was a bit taken aback at first but she forced me to stop for a minute and think about just how lucky I am. I mean, I do have some pretty awesome friends. The best, actually. And I'd rather hangout with them than stress about that one person that just won't respond to any of my messages but is essential to the assignment I'm working on.

You know what's funny? As soon as I acknowledged that my roommate was right and that I was overreacting, everything worked itself out. 

It worked itself out so well that I actually got a couple hours of free time that day, which I used to play the Lego Batman 2 game I just bought for myself. I wanted to write, but I couldn't, due to previously mentioned reasons. So I opted to spend those two house vegging in front of the TV and guess what else. I even got to see one of my best friends and former roommates who was in town.

Okay. So, yeah. I'm stressed. Yeah, I'm a bit more than peeved at life right now. Yeah, I'm wishing I was doing more creative writing. But you know, life's not all that bad. There still is some sugar left in this life. 

I've made it my goal tonight to not go to bed until I've completely exhausted myself from writing. I've written the whole next part of Refracted and am planning on editing and posting it before I hit the hay. I don't care how early I have to get up in the morning. I'm going to write to my heart's content tonight. 

And that, darlings, is all I have to say for now. 

Every Triangle has a Point...So I Guess this Post is a Circle.

It's 10:40 at night when I'm writing this, though it'll probably be a much different time when it's published, and I don't really know how I feel tonight. So, more than likely you're just going to get some of my rambling. Okay, yeah, you are. There's no real point behind this post. I just really felt like writing.

There's a group of people playing sand vollyball right outside my dorm window and I've spent the better part of this night watching them, because, you know, I have almost zero athletic capabilities. Plus, I learned back in high school that vollyball wasn't my sport. I'm more of a yoga doing runner, who's being forced to learn karate to meet her PE requirement for graduation. I'd sooner learn to swim then play vollyball...and I have a rational fear of water. Retract that. I have a rational fear of drowning. I have nothing against water itself. In fact, water and I are best buds. I quite enjoy showers,  a cool glass of water on a hot day, and a hot glass of water to make hot chocolate or coffee out of on a cold day. However, I've never quite gotten over almost drowning as a child. So there's that. Yet, even though I don't play vollyball I still enjoy watching. The same goes for basketball. Not so much football, unless I'm actually at the field. Football on TV is boring...any sport on TV is boring. I like the excitement of actually being there when it's being played. 

Watching those people play vollyball, though, makes me long for summer. I could really go for a bonfire or fish fry right now. It's been so gorgeous here lately that all I've wanted to do is find a lake with a rickety dock to sit on while I write and sip at a tall glass of supper sweetened ice tea. 

Can you tell that I'm really ready for break? I seriously need one. Thank heaven spring break starts tomorrow. Though, I don't actually get to go home until Sunday because my car decided to give up on life again in the Walmart parking lot. That seems to be it's go to place to die. It really does handle stress a lot worse than I do (Which is saying something because I'm not exactly the best person when it comes to dealing with stress. There's a reason I journal so much.). I wish it'd put on it's big girl panties and just suck it up. I can't slow down to take even a day off. Why should it be able to throw a temper tantrum like a two-year-old? Lame. It's just lame. 

On a side note, going back to our previous topic of sports, I had a karate midterm today. I didn't exactly do terrible. In fact, I found the written part to be extremely easy and the blocks, kicks, punches, stances, and self defense sets were fine...my kata though....yeah...

You see, I've spent the last week working my butt off to get that kata down. I looked it up online, found a diagram of the steps taken in it, made sure my stances were correct, that I was punching correctly, that my turns were correct, and that I was turning in the right direction. I was doing so well, too, on the midterm today...until I looked away from my fist and caught sight of the teacher. I may have also saw a certain guy -who shall remain nameless but has made his way onto my 'threat' list...that is a list of people I find to be threats. Not a list of people I intend on threatening -and I choked. I don't really know how it happened but my mind went blank. Half way through the kata and I forgot everything. 

I was so lost that I ended up literally throwing my hands in the air and saying to the professor, "I give up. I'm lost." And he just nodded at me like he had expected it. Anyway, I'm really hoping that didn't effect my score too badly. I had everything else down. I had that down too, until I actually had to do it in front of him and the class. 

Well, I don't really know what else to tell you, and I kind of want to read some more of Will Grayson, Will Grayson before I hit the hay. So I guess I'll let you go for the night, so I can go read instead of sleeping, which is what I should be doing because I have a 9 o'clock sociology class that I have to go to. I'll go to it no matter how tired I am. Because A) I need to go. Notes are important in that class. And B) I actually like the class. 

Chaos Precedes Change

“All great changes are preceded by chaos.”

~Deepak Chopra

                Friday night, March 6, 2015 started out like most weekends for my roommate and I. Our minds and bodies were utterly exhausted from the week we had just finished and, though we still had a weekend of work and papers that needed to be done ahead of us, we found ourselves sitting down in front of the television. She on her black bean bag chair, me on my lime green yoga ball, both of us with our phones in our hands and only half paying attention to the comedy we had playing on one of the two TVs that sit on our make-shift entertainment center.

             

   Being both mentally and physically exhausted, we talked about nothing while absentmindedly playing games on our phones. Everything from our current relationships to the exams we were currently studying for came up, and eventually the movie we were watching invoked a new topic of conversation.

                I, being bored, had popped my copy of Son-In-Law in the DVD player. My roommate, who had never seen it before, made a comment about co-ed housing. We chatted about our opinions on the idea of it for a few minutes before one of the main characters in the movie, Becky, made a remark about how even though she was at college she wasn’t going to change. Off handedly, I stated, “Something always changes when you go to college. If it doesn’t, then you’re doing it wrong.”

                “Yeah, seriously,” replied my roommate, who was now grinning while she made virtual salads on her phone.

                Being high level college students, we’re able to look back on our last few years here at the university we attend and see just how much we’ve changed. She, in her junior year, and I, in my senior, have experienced much over our college career. We started talking about it. About how we went from those shy, awkward freshmen pictured on our student IDs to the women we are today. How we went from thinking we knew everything and really knowing nothing to thinking we know nothing but constantly amaze ourselves with just how much stuff we really do know from our classes.

                They say middle school and high school are the most difficult times of your life and that college is the best time of your life. Well, let me tell you something, even those best times come with a few rain showers. Not everything is all peachy keen when you get to college.

             

   When you’re in high school you think, “Oh, college is going to be great! It’s going to be like having an apartment and I’ll be able to do whatever the heck I want.”

                The reality of it is that you realize just how much you really kind of liked living with your parents…then you develop a sense of independence. You get used to living away from them and then, when you return home for break –for the first time, and every other time after that –you are conflicted. Conflicted because you feel like you need to check-in with your parents while you’re home but know that you are more than capable of doing what you want, when you please. Knowing that you don’t need curfews or check-in calls…yet, secretly you do actually kind of like when mom or dad calls to ask, “Where are you?” Even though you may be living over six hours away and your answer to that question doesn’t really matter because they can’t really do anything about where you’re at in that moment any way.

                College is a journey. There’s no doubt about it. Sometimes you even feel like you’re Gilgamesh slaying Humbaba, or Odysseus escaping Polyphemus. Other times you feel like superman with a bunch of kryptonite stuffed down your pants.

                When you first enter college you’re like Mike, from Monster’s University, on his first day at campus. You’re in awe. You’re amazed at everything around you. You feel like you just stepped into an entirely new world and, in some cases, you have. The main thing on your mind is that you finally made it out of high school and that you’re now officially a college student.

               

                Going in you have such high expectations. You think everything’s going to be perfect. I mean, you’re away from home. Away from mom and dad. Away from whatever place you’ve been saying for the past four or so years that you couldn’t wait to get out of. How could it not be perfect?

                In your dreams, you see college like it’s your kingdom. You think that your dorm room will be your palace. Like you’ll finally have all this space to spread your wings.  

               

                But then you unlock that dorm door and you quickly realize that it’s more like this:

             

                So you start your job search so you can create that luxury life you want. Yet, between tuition payments, the upkeep of your car, and social events, you’re consistently broke. So you resign to surviving off cafeteria food for as long as possible.

          

      However, you soon realize that eating a sandwich every day for lunch gets old. So you go on an ultimate hide-and-seek game with the spare change you know is lying somewhere in your room and you end up taking everything you find to Burger King/McDonalds.

           

     

                And slowly, over the course of your first semester, you start to change and people back home start asking what happened to you. Some people even seem confused as to who you are at first.

               

                And you don’t know if you should care or not, because you are finally starting to feel comfortable in your own skin.

                You start developing this confidence that you didn’t even know you had before. Suddenly you feel like you could take on the world and become some sort of superstar activist. Felling like you could start some kind of ultimate awesome revolution against ‘the man’.

But then you realize the people you really want to start a revolution against are the ones questioning your major. So what if you chose one of the ‘worthless’ majors? Those people telling you how hard it’s going to be for you to get a job after graduation, how little the content of your classes matter, and keep asking, “So what exactly are you planning on doing with that degree?” are nothing but peasants anyway. They don’t know what they’re talking about and you feel the need to inform them of just how valuable your area of study is. So you shoot off random facts about how it ties into humanity and everyday life and they just stand there like, “Is she crazy?” or “Did I break her?”

                So you buckle down to show people just what you can do and how you’re not wasting your time...

              

                …but then you overwork yourself and get so stressed out that you realize your best friend isn’t your roommate, or that guy you think you might like, but is really the precious cup of coffee that keeps you awake through all those hours of studying.

          

                And eventually you reach a point where you’re just like: (Pardon the cursing in this)

               

                So you reason with yourself that you’ll be fine if you skip that one class or don’t take that one exam. And you end up getting into a funk where you give up and have reached the conclusion that you’re not going to make anything of yourself…and you’re okay with that…but then a friend intervenes and forces you to get your act together.

               

                You create a study group because if you’re going to do this then you aren’t going to do it alone. Besides, you know you’re better at English than that one person, but that one person happens to be better at history, and then there’s that kid that never misses a math problem…and boom, the A-Team of study groups is created.

                

                Then you push through, take your tests, and make it through all those courses required for your major. So you come out like:

            

                And then you blink and you realize time’s gone by faster than you could have ever anticipated and you’ve reached the end of your college career.

                Somewhere between all the pain, tears, late nights, bad quiz grades because you chose to socialize instead of study, and the lost friendships because you chose to study instead of socialize, and the deterioration of your mental state, and all the money you gave to the school in order to go through all your courses, you created a bunch of good memories and came out a changed person with friendships that will last a life time.

                You look in the mirror and you’re like, “Woah, look what I’ve become.” Because you’re no longer that awkward little freshman. You’re not even the same person you were four years prior. You’re not the same person you ever were. You’ve developed into something better; something brighter.

       

        

College is a rollercoaster of a ride, but it’s worth it in the end. When it all comes down to it, and you’re getting ready to graduate, you realize that even though you still don’t have your life completely together you have the means to make it where ever you want to go. Because you’re a confident new creature who knows she doesn’t know as much as she originally thought and is okay with that.

25 Important things My Mother Taught Me

Mother's are important, there is no doubt about it. They're there for our first cries, our first laughs, our first words, and our first heartbreaks. They are the ones to wipe away our tear streaked mascara and they always support us. A mother's love is unconditional and her words are wisdom.

My mother has taught me so many things over the years. She is someone I will always respect and look up to. I feel guilty when I hold something back from her. I have to tell her everything. I'm not capable of not telling her everything. Especially when she has this sixth sense of knowing when something's wrong. I love her for that. And for many more reasons.

Over the years, though, I've learned much from my mother. She's taught me everything from the basics to the complex. She's taught me how to talk and walk, and how to pray. She's a warrior.

There's a little trend in my family -well, among my siblings -where we like to give people we're close to superhero and Greek god names. We try to match people up to who they're most like. My brother's Green Arrow/Apollo and my youngest sister is Flash/Hermes. We each have a superhero and Greek god name, but giving our parents names have always been the hardest. It seems like there is no super hero or Greek god out there good enough for them to have the names of. However, we did eventually settle on a superhero name for our mother.

Our mother is...Wonder Woman. Why? Because she's a strong, confident woman who stands up for what she believes in and protects those around her. She's our hero.

This past weekend I had the opportunity to go to a retreat with my Mother, sister, and a good friend. While there we learned a lot and had a blast. And I got to see my mother at her peak. She out partied my sister and I. She out partied a 23 and 19 year old. Now, when I say party I don't mean drinking party. This was a Christian retreat with no alcohol. But, dang, my mother stayed up so late that my sister and I feel asleep waiting for her. She was a hyperactive social butterfly this weekend. The embodiment of everything she's ever taught my siblings and I...with the exception of when she went to find my hair tie and only 'Kind of looked for it,' When I was a kid, if we 'kind of looked' for anything we would get a lecture on how you actually move things when you're looking for something, not just glance at places. We gave her a bit of a hard time about this, but she took it well and joked along with us.

Like I said, she was the embodiment of everything she ever taught us this weekend and that got me to thinking. I laid awake last night thinking about all the things she had taught my siblings and I and I made a list of 25 of them. There soooooo many more things she's taught us, but these are among the most important.


1. Never lend someone something you expect to get back. If you give someone money to help out, it's a gift, not a loan.


2. Always take time to stop and pray with a person instead of just saying that you'll pray for them.


3. A lady always has tea in the house (whether she likes it or not).


4. It doesn't matter how busy you are, if someone calls or drops by to chat you make sure to talk to them.


5. A woman always supports her man.


6. When visiting someone you always offer to help clean up after the meal.


7. Cookies. If you don't have time for a complex dessert, cake mix cookies are always a favorite go to. It takes 15 minutes and guests will love them. 


8. If you do something, no mater what it is, alwasy give it your all. 


9. The french Braid. It's like a rite of passage.


10. A lady should know how to properly set a table. 


11. If your gut tells you something is wrong, then more than likely it is. 


12. There's no need to pay someone to clean your carpets. A capable woman will roll up her sleeves and do it herself to save a few bucks. 


13. It's okay to treat yourself every once in a while...


14...but family ALWAYS comes first. 


15. If a sister has fallen you don't kick her and run. You kneel and help her up, no matter how much you may dislike her. 


16. Please and thank you are critical words.


17. Make up is not important. Inner beauty matters more...


18...but a lady should know how to properly apply makeup. You're not a clown, dear. 


19. Be kind, but sassy. Don't let people walk over you.


20. Be well read.


21. Traditions are important.


22. Be a pioneer woman. Know how to sew, cook, garden, host, and pray. 


23. Love everyone. Even your enemies. 


24.The best accessory is a smile. 


25. Always be yourself. You're not a reflection, you're the original. 

A Moment of Mortality

I'm not going to sugar coat this. Life has been crappy lately. One good thing happens and then something equally bad occurs. It's been getting really tiring and it's caused my friends and I to partake in the age old habit of talking about it. We've discussed a lot lately. We've talked about mortality, life, growing up...about how all our teachers seem to keep saying, "It doesn't get any better," and how we just wish one person would tell us not that it would get better but that we're going to be alright. 

Anyway, I've taken these conversations we've had and used them to write up a little piece of creative nonfiction, which I've titled A Moment of Mortality. I was particularly alive today and decided I'd use my good mood to create this. Read and enjoy...or don't...I mean, whatever floats your boat. 


A Moment of Mortality 

“We should crossover.”

“But I’m not ready to yet.”

“There’s a car behind us! If we don’t cross now then we really will be crossing over.”

“Aw, but I want to die.”

“I want to die too, but that doesn’t mean I want to die now. I still have a lot I want to do first. A lot of places to see...”

“A lot of things I want to draw…”

“To write…”

“To do…”

“To try…”

“But death would be easy.”

“It really would be. Think about it. If we died now all our problems would be solved. No more Walmart trips, no more scrounging for loose change to buy a pop, no more pain, no more trying to find the right guy, no more heartache, no more tears, no more stress…no more student loans or trying to fight the unknown.”

“We’d be embracing the unknown.” 

“It’s not unknown. I know where I’ll end up…I’ve heard Heaven’s lovely this time of the year…but it’s not time. I’ve got my ticket, I’m just not ready to board the plane. You know?” 

“Yeah. I know what you mean. Can I tell you a secret though? Sometimes I play with my knife and think about how easy it’d be to slide it across my wrist. I bet the blood would look pretty. It’d make things easier….”

“Easier isn’t always better. You really ready to go now?”

“Hmmm, no…not unless I could haunt a few people. That might be worth cutting my time short. You think when we die we’ll get a chance to haunt someone?” 

“I don’t know. Don’t think I’d take it if we do.” 

“There’s a few people I’d like to haunt. A few that deserve it.”

“If I haunted someone it’d be someone I know really well. Someone I like to mess with.”

“You’d pull pranks on them.”

“Yep. It’d be the only reason to stay.”

“What about unfinished business?”

“What about it?”

“Wouldn’t you want to finish it?”

“Would you want to finish a term paper over summer vacation?”

“I guess you’re right…I bet Heaven’s lovely.”

“Mmmmhmmm.”

“A lot better than school. I’m getting really tiered of staring at brick walls.”

“Enjoy it. In a few years people are going to be asking you, ‘What’s next?’ and you won’t have an answer.”

“You really don’t know?”

“I didn’t become a Lit. Major for an easy life. I never really knew what I’d do with the degree but I always knew that writers never have it easy. The history of our career is full of violence, and blood, and alcohol. But we’re needed. We have a job to do, you know? The world needs us.”

“Yeah, I know. You haven’t resorted to alcohol yet, though.”

“I think about it every once in a while. I’ve had wine before, you know. It was actually pretty good.”

“Then why don’t you drink it regularly? Alcohol numbs. It’d make life easier.”

“I doubt that. Besides, there’s history between my family and wine. I’ve heard some horror stories.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“We can’t die…we can’t drink…we can’t sleep around…there’s really nothing we can do to escape, is there?”

“…that’s why I write…”

“To escape?”

“No, because it’s a better alternative. It’s a healthy coping mechanism…some writer once said that you have to stay drunk on writing so reality won’t destroy you. He really hit the nail on the head. There’s just so much bad in the world. So much stress. Someone has to write about it. To let future generations know that there’s still hope. You want to know what’s worse, though?”

“What?”

“We’ll never really know just how bad it can get. I can write about all the crap the world throws at me and I can hope that it’ll help give someone else hope, but while we’re sitting here in a Walmart parking lot, drinking cheap bottles of pop, complaining about how tough our lives are and how easy it’d be to die, there are millions of other people out there that have it so much worse than us. Our problems are kind of petty, in retrospect.” 

“Maybe we just like the idea of flirting with death.”

“Maybe we’re just highly aware of our mortality. I mean, yeah, death would be easy, but seriously…I’m fine with my life right now.”

“Really? Even after all the crap that’s happened this week? This month?”

“Yeah. Even after all that. You know why?”

“Why?” 

“Because I may not know where I’m going in life but I know I have the means to make it. I’ve got a full tank of gas, enough money to make a trip home this next weekend, and I know who I am.”

“I wish I could say that. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Girl, take it from me. I know I don’t have too many years on you, but in my experience one has to lose themselves before they can find them.”

“Endure the rain to get the sun.”

“Exactly.”

“Speaking of rain. Those clouds look pretty bad.”

“Yeah, we should get back before the storm rolls in.” 

“Procrastination party?”

“Can’t afford one. The time’s come to stop loitering in parking lots and to start writing about the impact the Fine Arts has on campus.”

“I hate having responsibilities.”

“It’s part of growing up.” 

“Growing up sucks.”

“Ha! Yes, it does. As much as I’m okay with my life, if I had known it’d be like this, I would have taken sometime to slow down and enjoy all those stupid sleepovers more…all those bike accidents…nights babysitting to buy that new Star Wars book…hey, listen to me, alright? This time, next year, you’re going to be here studying away and I’m going to be back in Nebraska doing God knows what –And that’s not cursing. He’s really the only one who knows what I’ll be doing right now –so listen up. I know you’re not that big of a people person, but take some time to pretend you’re a socialite. Take some time to slow down by hoping into the fast lane. Some of the greatest nights I’ve had here I didn’t say a word during, but sometimes words aren’t needed.”

“That’s real rich coming from a writer. Do you even hear what you’re saying?”

“Do you even hear what I’m saying? The moments I’ve felt the most alive have been the ones where I took time to go out for a good time with a group of people. I may not have said much, but when you’re driving through Kansas City at night and the lights of the Plaza light up the street like a runway, and there’s good music blaring from the stereo, and you’re surrounded by good people, it’s not the words that mater. It’s the almost overwhelming feeling of living. Death might be easy, but I’m pretty damn sure that life’s worth it.”

Sexuality in Literature: Why I've Decided to Write a Bisexual Character

                Diversity is something I have always been mindful of in my writings. I’ve taken time to layout lists of characters and their aspects for many of my stories. I’ve made sure to have racial diversity, religious diversity, language diversity, skill diversity, personality diversity, as well as moral diversity. I try not to write too many stories where all of the characters in them are from the majority or are Caucasian.

                I’ve had people ask me about diversity in my writing’s before. One of my primary readers once approached me about a book I was working on and asked, “Are all of the character’s white?” I politely reminded her of a few characters who, at the point in the story she was currently at, had only been mentioned a couple times. As that story progressed, my African American, Hispanic, and Korean characters became more prominent figures. Seeing as this particular story is meant for publication one day I will not be posting it on any of my social media sites so I therefore cannot provide you a link to it. To be honest, I spent a lot of time on diversity with that story. Racial and class diversity were a couple of the story’s elements that I paid the most attention to.

                In another one of my writings I wanted to make a point of having religious diversity, especially since the subject matter at hand was one that would cross into religion and theology. In this fantastical tale of myth, I have creatures from all sorts of mythology and those creatures each have their own belief systems. My main vampire character is Catholic, the main Siren character is Greek, and another vampire is Atheist (http://writingangel2010.deviantart.com/gallery/50286567/Everlasting-Lie-Trilogy). I also have stories that include Egyptian mythology and the difference between cultures (http://writingangel2010.deviantart.com/art/The-Pharaoh-s-Guard-Introduction-453055286). I like to keep my characters as diverse as possible.

                Lately though, I’ve crossed a new line. I posted on my Instagram a couple months ago about starting work on a story that would contain my first ever non-straight character. The response I got was predictable. Very few people liked the photo and comment. Most didn’t respond to it at all. This isn’t surprising to me. One person, one friend, did comment though and she was someone of the LGBT group. She liked the idea of me writing a character that she could possibly relate to on the level of sexuality.

                To be honest, I had wrestled with the idea of having a character that wasn’t heterosexual before, but I had chickened out and decided to make him metrosexual. In all honesty, I think that was a good move at the time. My writing skill has progressed from that point and there was no way I would have been able to portray that character as being homosexual without feeling guilty. Why? Because at the time I was but a child. I had no idea of how I felt about the LGBT group let alone how people would react to it. I feared that portraying such a character would lead to fractures in some of my friendships. Now though, I can honestly say that I feel no guilt or sense of ‘wrongness’ for writing such a character. 

                Scythe, son of Mortem and Vita, is a new character for me and stands out amongst the other characters I’ve created. He’s free spirited, lost, and struggling with the idea of destiny. And, as I mentioned, he’s bisexual.  I have no regret in his creation. I actually spent a lot of time in prayer and meditation about the impact he could have on my writing.

                I am a Christian. This is something I would proudly proclaim to the masses. I’ve been taught that homosexuality and bisexuality is a sin. I’ve been taught that it’s a choice. These are not matters that I wish to argue over and I respect everyone’s opinion on them. When it comes to this mater I am normally quite. I tend to keep my opinions that I think people will blow out of proportion to myself, but there is one thing I want to say about this mater. No mater your religion and no mater your beliefs on whether it’s a choice or not, it still exists. It’s existed for a long time. And what is literature, my friends, if not a mirror?

                Many symbols have been given to literature, but my favorite is the mirror. Think about it for a moment. Literature, in any form, shows society. It shows humanity. It shows the struggle of the Human Condition and the Human Experience. It shows us who we are.

                The purpose of literature is to teach, to inform, to document, and to let people know that they aren’t alone. If you think about it, every story ever written –every news article, every pamphlet, every book, and every poem –is about humanity. Yes, there are specific kinds of literature that target specific subjects, such as a pamphlet promoting an event or a new business, but literature in every form seeks to unite. It seeks to show humanity as a whole and to teach us that there is help out there, that we’re not alone, that the problems we face every day have been faced and beaten before by others who have gone before us.

                Since humanity is the subject of all literature, and humanity is diverse, why then should literature not be diverse? This, my fellow humans, is why I’ve decided to write a bisexual character. I wish to portray humanity as it is. And to do that I must be diverse in all things.

 However, there are two last things I would like to point out. The first being that I know that some of you who read this will not like my ideas and will be completely against me writing this character, but neither Scythe nor I care. What you must understand is that the characters of a story are the not author. Yes, the story is part of us. Yes, when you buy a book you are purchasing a piece of the author’s soul. But no, the Characters –the shadows on its pages –are not mirrors of the author’s personal life. I am not my characters, and they are not me. To use an analogy I do try to stay away from just as God created man in His own image and man does not always resemble their creator –does not always show or proclaim who their creator is –so characters do not always resemble their authors. In fact, the great play write, William Shakespeare, is a perfect example of this. Nowhere in his works is it possible to point at a character and say, “That’s Shakespeare. Right there. That’s him.”

The last thing I want to point out before I conclude this little article –I guess that’s what it could be called –is that I am a firm believer that every great library has a book in it to offend everyone. Like I said before, one of the main purposes of literature is to teach, and to do so some times is has to offend.

So am I sorry that I no longer have all straight characters? No. Do I feel guilt at having a bisexual character? Do I feel like I am sinning by writing him into existence? No, on both points. I write what I feel I must. I write the stories I feel that should be told. If I start to write something and get a sense of wrongness, I throw it out because A) it either is really wrong to write about it or B) I need to solidify what I personally feel about the subject matter before I embark on the journey of writing it.

Now, I am not going to tell you my personal feelings on this particular subject matter, for the only personal feelings that mater here is the feeling that Scythe belongs in his story. That his story is one that I feel compelled to write. It may not be my best story and it may never be seen on the shelves of a Barnes and Nobel, but it is one I will write. One that I will continue to post chapters of up on my DeviantART site. Because I believe in diversity and believe that as a mirror literature should be diverse. Just like there isn’t just one type of chocolate or one type of coffee there isn’t just one type of person, and literature should reflect that. 

(Scythe's story can be found at: http://writingangel2010.deviantart.com/ Under the titles of: A Weight of a Prophecy and The Callidus Chronicles) 

Nostalgia and Smoke

I have so much I'd like to tell you -so much on my mind -but seeing as it's nearing four in the morning when I'm writing this and I neither wish to start packing for my next semester of college (read last semester) nor wish to think of what these next four months might hold in store for me, I suppose I should write something. After all, it feels like ages since I last updated this blog. Though, in reality, I just posted a collection of original dabbles not too long ago. Still...

The question is, what should I write?

Should I tell you how I doubt myself? How I sometimes have the fleeting thought of dropping out of college that isn't so much as fleeting because sometimes it likes to stay around for tea and cakes? Should I tell you of how I taught my three-year-old foster sister how to play an air guitar? Should I tell you how I had to explain to said three-year-old that Batman doesn't eat people but save them (long story. Cute story. But long)?

Perhaps I should write about sexuality in literature. After all, I've already been working on an article, so to speak, on the subject. Or maybe I should jot down another dabble. Or I could always recite to you some of my favorite lines of the book I'm currently reading. For the record, it's Looking for Alaska, by John Green. 

There's so much I could tell you, but what should I tell you? Hmm? I can tell you anything. Literally. At this very moment you have absolutely no power over what I say or do. I could write about anything. Tell you anything I wanted to, and you'd have no power to do anything about it. I could write about how uncomfortable thongs are and you wouldn't have a say in the mater. How does that make you feel? I'm not going to write about thongs though (Cue the sarcastic awes). I love a good fashion article as much as the next girl but I have absolutely no desire to talk about or ponder on undergarments tonight. Particularly not the thong. I mean, come on. A thong? It's a piece of string, people! It's like a really, really, really, skimpy loincloth. Tarzan wouldn't have even worn that, even if it was the last piece of clothing in the jungle. 

So, since we're not going to talk about thongs (pity since I now feel like I could write a rant article on them), the question still remains, what should we talk about? 

Nostalgia! Now that's a topic. We'll talk about nostalgia. Or really, I'll write about it and you'll read it. Because, let's be honest here, no talking will take place unless you decided to put your thoughts to the keyboard and write me out a little comment on this piece of work I call a blog post. In which case, if you do, I would respond, then you would respond, then I would respond. That's how communication works. Message, sender, receiver, reply...but as much as I'd love to talk about communication and all the lovely little facts I've learned about it from my communication classes, and about how all those factoids are part of a bigger picture us students of humanity like to call the human experience and condition, we have a topic to talk about. 

As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, nostalgia....

Have you ever experienced those moments where you feel nostalgic but you don't know what for? Those moments where you just lay there sucking on a piece of chocolate as images of your life flash behind your eyes and though you don't smoke you contemplate how a cigarette would feel in your hand because, for some reason you can't explain, it feels like the only thing that moment is lacking is a cigarette?

Maybe you have, maybe you haven’t, or maybe I’m the only person who’s ever felt that way. Which I find highly unlikely considering that billions of other humans have walked this earth before me. After all these years, and all those humans, you can’t say I’m the first person to discover this state of being. You just can’t.

Regardless of whether You’ve felt that state or not, that’s how I felt yesterday (And by yesterday I don’t mean like four ago from when I started writing this yesterday…I mean like technically two days ago yesterday), as I lay there on my bright green yoga ball with a piece of Lindor chocolate melting on my tongue. A cigarette right then, I thought, would fit perfectly in my hand. Which is odd considering that I never have, nor do I have a desire to ever, smoke, because of three reasons: A) I can’t stand the smell of cigarettes. It’s just nasty, B) Inhaling a stick of tar and rat poison is not at all appealing to me, and C) I’d like it if my lungs continued functioning as they’re supposed to…thus I was left with an empty hand…which isn’t really accurate because I did end up picking up my ink pen and journaling.

I think it’s the metaphor, the symbolism behind smoking, that’s the whole reason I think about it sometimes. I mean, you could chalk it up to the media if you’re one of those people that think the media are to be blamed for everything. It’d be really easy. Like, seriously. Think about it, the media (particularly movies and magazines) has the nasty habit of portraying people who are nostalgic, depressed, sad, worried, and contemplative with either a cigarette or a bottle of booze in there hand. There you go, See, I blamed the media. But really no…just no…it’s not the media’s fault. At least, as a student of literature and humanity I don’t want to say it’s the media’s fault. But, I digress (Something I’ve been doing a lot of since starting this post. Seriously, someone should count how many times I’ve gotten off topic or on tangents so far….look, there I go again. I really need to stop. But oh well, like I said earlier, you really have no power to make me. Plus its four in the morning, I’m sleep deprived, and suffering from a state that all book worms no very well, called a book coma).

As I was saying, though. I think it’s the metaphor, the symbolism behind smoking, that’s the whole reason I sometimes contemplate how a cancer stick would feel in my hand. I’ve come to realize that John Green uses smoking as a metaphor and symbol in his works. In The Fault in our Stars, Green outright says it’s a metaphor through Augustus Waters. In Looking for Alaska, it’s a symbol. A symbol of what? I’m still working on that. I’ve come up with a list of many possible meanings for it, but I think it all boils down to one single quote from the book, and that quote is:

          “Why do you smoke so damn fast?’ I asked.

          She looked at me and smiled widely, and such a wide smile on her narrow face might have looked goofy were it not for the unimpeachably elegant green in her eyes. She smiled with all the delight of a kid on Christmas morning and said, "Y’all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.”

          I’ve underlined those words in my copy of Looking for Alaska because it feels like there’s something deeply profound about them. Like Mr. Green maybe saying he’s talking about smoking, but really he’s talking about life.

          You see, the characters Pudge, the Coronel, and Alaska smoke a lot in the first half of the story, and they talk about smoking a lot, and they buy smokes a lot, and on top of that they drink and goof around a lot, and in between –as well as during –all those times they talk about life. They go about it in a vague sort of way, the talking about life, where you sometimes have to reread what they said just to be sure you heard them correctly, but it’s absolutely life that they’re talking about.

       

   “Y’all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.”

          What is Alaska saying there exactly? That they smoke for the heck of it while she smokes to numb the pain? To chase herself to an early grave because she believes the only escape for her – the only way out of the labyrinth, as she puts it so eloquently –is death?

          I mean, I know what I believe she’s saying, but what do you think she’s saying? This whole wanting to smoke every once in a while, without really wanting to smoke? What is that about? Does it have something to do with what Alaska said? With what John Green wrote? Maybe it all goes back to pleasure or pain. The motives behind it. In those nostalgic moments, are you feeling pain or pleasure? Are you feeling at ease or like a rat trapped in a maze?

   

       So many questions to ponder over. It’s a funny thing nostalgia. It’s defined as being, “A sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past,” yet it can stir up all sorts of emotions. All sorts of ghosts. I was experiencing wistful affection when I thought of that cigarette, and I wondered what it would be like to hold it between my fingers and inhale its poisonous innards.

          Hmmm….

          “Y’all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.” That’s really the point of it, isn’t it. Maybe the media is to blame somewhat, for portraying the habit as being relaxing. Maybe that’s why the thought crossed my mind.

 Enjoyment. Wistful thinking of the past.

“Y’all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.”

I still feel like there’s more behind those words. More to them. I suppose I’ll have to spend more hours debating their meaning with ink on the pages of my journal. Perhaps, after time, I will come to a conclusion I’m satisfied with.

Can you tell that I’m in a very nostalgic and contemplative mood today? I’ve been like this these last couple of days. Last week before my final semester of college starts and I’m not doing anything society would deem productive. I’ve just been lounging around in my fluffy batman pants and black shirt (not every day, mind you. That’s just nasty. Personal hygiene…it’s important), alternating between reading Looking for Alaska and checking my messages on DeviantArt and Facebook. I don’t really no why I bother checking facebook anymore. It’s gotten so predictable. My entire newsfeed at the moment is wedding, wedding, wedding, wedding, anniversary, wedding, anniversary, engagement photos, baby photos, cute status about baby, status about how someone wants a baby, more weddings, and oh, look, a rant about some sports game. Like I said. Predictable. Yet, I check it. You know, for connections and all that.

My yoga ball’s been my chair for these past few days and I’m convinced that there’s nothing more comfortable than a yoga ball. Except maybe a bed after falling off said yoga ball multiple times and whacking your head on all sorts of random pieces of furniture. I’m going to return to school with bruises everywhere and people are going to ask me how I got them, and I’m going to have to say what I normally have to say when people ask such questions, “I was doing something stupid.” And Then I’ll tell them that I fell off a yoga ball and a few of them will blink unbelievingly, but those who know me will laugh and shake their heads, and say, “Only you.”

That’s my life, folks. I’m a contemplative, nostalgic, Batman loving, yoga ball using, chocolate eating, girl who sometimes thinks about cigarettes even though she knows she’ll never try one because she finds them utterly unappealing.

And that, my friends, is all I have to say.