The Alleged Writer

Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself. ~Franz Kafka

2011-08-16T06:44:00.000-07:00

Well my GRE came and went....

and now it's going to come by again. Yes, I'm retaking it. Why? Because I think if I got any lower on the math section, they would have just written "loser" as my score. And I know that I'm not a math major, and I haven't had math in 2 years, and I'm not going to school for math...but I still want to do well on the entire test. My verbal score wasn't as high as I would have wanted it either. I always feel like I have to keep pushing myself to be better. By this point, I had hoped to be done with the GRE and looking forward to finishing my writing samples and statements of purpose while I dove head first into the semester. Instead, there's only one thing on my mind, and it's far from relaxing. I keep asking myself "What if I don't get into a graduate program? What then? What will I do if I fail?"

I'm terrified that I'm not smart enough. I know this sounds like self pity, which it basically is since I'm pretty certain no one reads this blog. I just have to reach this goal. It's all I've wanted for the last three years. I don't want to be the only one of my friends that can't make it. I don't want to be the only person in my family who isn't smart enough. I don't want to fail. I'm so scared of getting rejection letters from every school I apply to, and I know this is a bad attitude to have. Everyone says to think positive, but it's easy for people to say that who have come out the other side, or who are smarter than I'll ever be.

You're always ready for success, but no one ever prepares you for failure. That huge "What If?" cloud is hanging over my head, and I don't know how to get rid of it. My confidence is at the lowest it's ever been and I just don't know how to build myself back up.

Two months from now, I'll retake the GRE and hopefully I'll have happier news to report than.

A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. ~Thomas Mann

2011-07-27T15:38:00.000-07:00

FINALLY!

I have a working draft of a statement of purpose! I saw down and wrote it all out. Of course, it has to be edited like crazy and I still have to add a section about each individual school I'm applying to, but this is way closer to the finish line then I was in May....or even last week. And the funny part is, now that I'm actually working on my statement, it's really difficult to only write two pages! I have so much I feel like I need to say, and before I know it, I barely have enough room for a conclusion paragraph. I'd rather have this problem then now knowing what to say, but deciding what to cut is terrible. What if I cut something out that was important? What if I leave something in that doesn't matter? There's no question that I will have several different professors read over my statement before it goes out anywhere.

I'm proud that I finally lit a fire under myself.

Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. ~Rainer Maria Rilke

2011-07-25T08:28:00.000-07:00

I was thinking today of all the things I've learned about writing in the last few years, and where I'm going to take all of that knowledge in the next two to three years (five if a PhD is involved). Here are just a few short lessons I've learned.

1. The world doesn't stop just because you can't think of what to write.
How many times a day do writers say "I have writers block, but something will hit me eventually." I know I make this excuse all the time, especially in the summer when I'd rather be hanging out with my friends then sitting in front of my computer writing. For the last year, I've put off seriously writing. I wouldn't finish anything and I would just leave things "open ended" so I could finish them later. Now, with graduate school applications breathing down my neck, I realize that I was making excuses. I would say "I'll do it later when inspiration hits", and then when it didn't hit, I would complain about having writers block. What I've found is that the world went on turning while I was waiting for something to happen. Sometimes you have to make something happen.

2. Writing knows no age boundaries.
For the last three years, I've hesitated saying that I'm a writer because I feel like I'm too young to be a real writer. At barely 21, I don't feel I'm on the same level as others, which of course is probably true. I've never published a creative piece, though I have several school articles online, and I'm not a respected name. Because of this, I often feel like I'm not capable of carrying the title of Writer. I had a teacher tell me recently that you are a writer if you write, but an author if you publish. As simple as that sounds, it helped me realize that I am a writer. I may not have thousands of books in print or be building my dream home with all the money I've earned off of my work, but I'm still writing. This, what I'm doing right now, is what a writer does. I'm young, but that doesn't mean I can't write, and it certainly doesn't mean that I can't be good at it.

3. Writing saves lives, even if it is just your own.
I have friends who are really doing something meaningful with their lives. Some of them are in the military, some of them are going to school to be doctors or scientists, and all of them used to make me feel insignificant. I felt that writing isn't meaningful on a grand scale, even though I've always read vigorously and was brought up knowing how important reading is. Sure, I've read books that have left an imprint on me. Kate Chopin's "The Awakening" taught me to go after what I want, even if no one else approves. "Harry Potter" taught me that love is the greatest gift you can ever give. "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" taught me that sometimes you have to just let go to get by. Despite all the things I've learned, as I've gotten older the feeling of insignificance has grown. But when I step back to look at everything in my life, I realize that writing is what keeps me going. When I don't write, I'm a wreck. Literally. My mind gets too full, and I stay stuck in neutral. This of course circles back to the writers block. Writing helps me stay sane. It saves me. And even if I never get published and no one else ever sees what I write, at least I've saved my own life.

4. The only rule is that there are no rules.
It can be hard going from academic writing to creative writing, especially after having the rules of MLA formatting pounded into your brain since middle school. In my opinion, creative writing is the best and easiest form of writing. You don't have to worry about rules and regulations. There's no limit to what you can imagine once you sit down to write. You could write about a real life experience, or dragons taking over New York. There are no rules. In that sense, writing is the most rebellious thing you can do. Write what you want so you can live what you want, and no one can ever stop you or tell you you're wrong.

5. Criticism isn't the end of the world.
I've never struggled with anything more than criticism on my writing. Writing is the one area of my life that I feel I have complete control over, and I put so much of myself into what I write that when someone criticizes it, even constructively, I get angry. Will this ever change? Probably not, but I have to remind myself every time someone else sees my writing that they will have their own opinion on it.

6. Criticism isn't always right.
Just because someone gives you a critique, that doesn't mean you have to listen. Did they think that your character should have said this instead of that? Did they think that your setting wasn't right? Did they think that you spent too much time describing something? Well, screw them, they aren't the writer. Never change something that you love just because someone said it wasn't how they wanted it. They aren't you, and they aren't writing your story.

7. Rejection is guaranteed.
Every writer has been rejected. It's going to happen. Personally, I think this is the #1 thing every writing class should prepare you for. It's not a possibility, it's a guarantee. Some of us are less suited to deal with this than others, and it's hard to keep going when you feel like you've been slapped across the face. The easiest thing to do is have a melt down. As terrible as that sounds, it's better to just rant and rave and curse the universe for awhile. Eventually, you just start writing again to prove you are better than what someone thinks you are. For example, right now I'm hoping to be better than one of my professors because they irritate me and think they are the end all be all of writing. Rejection beats you down, but then it builds you back up, though the process isn't immediate.

8. It's never going to be perfect.
My main reason for not letting other people see my writing is that it's not perfect. There is always something more to say, so I try to fit everything in before I let go of my writing. Of course this practice doesn't get me anywhere at all. Perfection isn't possible, and that's the mantra I have to live by if I'm ever going to show what I've done to others.

Writer's block is a disease for which there is no cure, only respite. ~Terri Guillemets

2011-07-18T06:25:00.000-07:00

Today I realized that I only have 3 weeks until I take the GRE. I'm no closer to being prepared for it than I was when the summer began. The idea of a test determining whether or not I get into a good graduate program terrifies me. I think I'm more nervous about this than I was about my SAT scores. When I took the SAT, I knew I would get in somewhere, no matter what my scores were. Now, looking into the GRE, I'm scared I won't get in anywhere.

Of course, there are more factors than just my scores that make me feel that way. Yesterday, I thought about what I've read this summer. Well, unless you count blogs, websites, and status updates, there hasn't been much of that going on. I'm a disgrace to the English major. On top of that, this blog is really the only thing I've written this summer, other than two awesome sentences that I wrote which I have no idea what to do with. It's hard not to go into panic mode.

I know myself and how I work. I know that once the semester begins and I have a million other things to do, I will kick into high gear and start writing again, and everything will fall into place. I'll start running on pure adrenalin as I power through my statements of purpose and writing samples. I'll probably turn into some weird creature of the night, living only off of coffee and energy drinks. School work by day, graduate school applications by night. And then, in December, after everything has been sent off, I can sit and wait while someone else determines my fate.

No matter which way I look at it, it's terrifying. Everyone keeps telling me not to worry and that I'll get in somewhere, but it's hard to listen to them when I just keep thinking that I'm not good enough. I read other peoples writing or look at what other people have already accomplished in their lives and I think that I'm just not good enough to match their level of talent. I know success starts with mind power. Think it, do it, win it. Or something like that. But when I try so hard to write, and I can't, I feel like I've lost my gift.

My family keeps saying "Just write!" Or when I say I've got writers block, they say "Get over it!" If only I could.

The more I read this, the more it sounds like an emotional plea. It's more of a rant of terror.

Please, God, bring back my desire to write!

One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment. ~Hart Crane

2011-07-11T07:52:00.000-07:00

VICTORY!

I have finally completed the first paragraph of my statement of purpose!

It only took me three months, but at last, there it was, beautiful and brilliant, staring back at me from its place on the computer screen. The fact that I was able to work out exactly the right opening is a big deal; it's probably one of the most difficult parts of writing a statement of purpose, at least that's what I've been telling myself.

Now I just have to fill up 2 pages worth of writing to create my final statement of purpose...and then duplicate it 4 more times, adding specifics about each individual school.

But the important thing is I have started, finally!

I wish I could say the same about my writing samples.

"An absolute necessary part of a writer's equipment, almost as necessary as talent, is the ability to stand up under punishment, both the punishment the world hands out and the punishment he inflicts upon himself." ~Irwin Shaw

2011-07-05T10:49:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm trying my hardest to break out of the rut I've found myself in.

My problem is I see what I want to have but have absolutely no idea how to get it. I want to write some really great short stories for publication, contests, and grad school applications. Yet, here I am, a month away from a new semester and I'm still not any closer than I was at the beginning of the summer. I want to have a best selling book one day. Let's not even talk about how funny that dream is.

I feel like I have a big disconnect between reality and what goes on in my head. Most writers think something up, maybe spend some time researching, and then put pen to paper, or fingers to keys, and they create what they've seen in their mind to share with rest of the world. For me, however, I seem to be stuck on the sharing part. I know what's in my head, I just don't know how to translate it to others. Then, once I do, it just doesn't sound right to me anymore. To me, as I think it is with most writers, what I write never seems good enough to me. I am my biggest critic, as the saying goes. If I like what I'm writing, two months later I may think it's complete crap. If I hate what I'm writing...well that's what the delete button was made for. I've always had a hard time letting other people read what I've written just because I'm afraid it isn't good enough. If someone likes what I've written, I feel weird accepting the compliment, but if someone doesn't like it, I feel personally attacked.

So, you see, there is no middle ground. I think my connection to my writing is the stem of some of my stress. I worry too much about being a good writer. I keep telling myself I have to be better than thousands of other students if I want a grad school spot, so I pressure myself to be better. I guess it's the same with any profession, but I feel like I'm being drained and I'm not even 21 yet.

I've always struggled with calling myself a writer in the first place. It always seemed too lofty a title to give myself. If I say that I'm a writer, suddenly people have expectations of me that I haven't met yet. I don't have a book published, I'm not famous, I'm not anything special. As always, I spend a lot of time worrying about what others think of me and how I'm framed to them instead of focusing on who I am as a person and a writer. Telling people I'm a writer also makes me feel stupid sometimes. I have friends who are in the military or studying to be doctors; they're doing things that are actively helping others, while I'm sitting here, writing a blog about my writing woes. Sometimes it just doesn't seem good enough.

But then again, what else can I do? I was given this need to write, to share with others what I feel without speaking out loud, and I can't just shake it. Believe me, I've tried. I just feel like I can't give my all to my writing until I understand who I am as a writer. In a perfect world, I could take a month to go to Greece and find myself. Heck, I'd settle for a month in Florida. But I don't have the time or the money, so I have to find myself on the car ride back and forth to work or while I walk from one class to the next.

"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

2011-06-27T09:15:00.000-07:00

Last week, I went on a mission trip and got the chance to get away from all my distractions. There was no cell phone service where I was, so I got to just completely relax and not worry about home or family or anything. I didn't care about what was coming up or what I was going to have to once I got home, I just had some quiet time.

Then I came home and I started thinking about all my deadlines.

All I keep thinking about are the dates hanging over my head. I'm at the point of maximum stress because I've been lazy. That's all there is to it. Goal for May 31st? Still not met, and it's almost July. I realized the other day I only have about 6 weeks until I take my GRE. Have I taken a practice test yet? No, of course not. That would be sensible. All of a sudden, I start thinking:

GRE: August 11
Ask for Letters of Recommendation: October 1st-ish
Compile transcripts: Late November
Send everything off: Early December.

It's just a matter of months now, not years. And before I turn around, it will be a matter of weeks or DAYS even! I sit here and wonder where the heck all my time has gone since I started focusing on my goals! I just can't make myself write what I need to write. Nothing seems to be getting done anymore, and I'm spending my time complaining on my blog instead of doing what needs to be done. It all links back to my drive to read or write, like I wrote about several weeks ago. I want to write, I really do, but I can't. It's hard to explain to others, but it's a hobby and a passion, like running or playing piano. Sometimes I'm motivated, sometimes I'm not. Of course, I should be more than motivated since it impacts my future, but I'm just not. I suppose writing in any form is better than not writing at all, but what good is it if it isn't going to help me with my goals?!?!?!

And now I find out that I may not even have the HOPE scholarship during my last semester. So now I have to look for alternate scholarship opportunities which is one more thing to worry about.

School is going to be the end of me.

I have officially reached my freak out level of stress.

"Easy reading is damn hard writing." ~Nathaniel Hawthorne

2011-06-15T10:15:00.000-07:00

Why is it so important for writers to read? I know for me personally, reading other peoples writing always inspires me. If I'm trying to write fantasy or something supernatural, I want to read as much as I can by others who have written in the same genre. It's not because I want to steal their ideas or anything. I just want to know how they think and what they are saying about the genre.

What does their voice add to the genre that another author's didn't, and how can I make my voice add even more? That's the main question I want to answer when I read. Sometimes, it's hard to get through a novel when writers block hits, and I believe the two are connected. When I'm in my prime writing zone, I read a lot and write just as much. Reading inspires me, so I write. Writing makes me crave more information, so I read. It's cyclical. However, when I'm not writing, I'm stagnant, and I don't know what it is I want, which makes it incredibly hard to pick up a book and read.

If I read something that doesn't inspire me, I stop immediately. What good is a book if it doesn't make you feel like you want to do something? My favorite books are the ones that I hate to finish because I know the story is over. That's the kind of writing I crave to emulate. I want someone to only put down my book because there is absolutely nothing else to read; the acknowledgements satisfied the need for more for a split second, but now, the reality that the story has ended is setting in. The ability for authors to pull readers in is something that I am trying to capture. If someone puts down a story and says "What next? How do I possibly go back to my life after reading this book?", then that's a successful book, whether it was a best seller or not.

Can books change your life? Yes. Personally, "The Awakening" by Kate Chopin literally moved me to tears. The book is sad, of course, but that's not why I was so emotional when I finished the book. It was one of those novels that pained me to put down. If anyone or anything interrupted my reading, I would get visibly angry that I was ripped out of that moment and had to settle back into the flow of the story. After I finished the book, I realized that it was more than another depressing novel set in the past. It wasn't a story about death and sadness, but rather a story about self realization and discovery of dreams. Putting the novel down was life changing for me because I realized that, if the main character was brave enough to go after what she wanted, I had to go after what I wanted, no matter what. Sure, I've read plenty of books with this same moral or lesson, but this one seemed to strike so deeply in my heart that I couldn't ignore what it was calling to me.

Now, someone else may hate the book. They may have a completely different outlook on what I took away from it. That's the beauty of reading; no one is right and no one is wrong. We can all have our own opinions and draw our own conclusions from what we read, and that's what makes reading the ultimate happiness. Reading inspires thought and creativity, and what is more perfect that that?

"What a writer wants to do is not what he does."~ Jorge Luis Borges

2011-06-14T09:42:00.000-07:00

If having several paragraphs that don't connect, have no point, and all basically repeat the same information counts as having a working Statement of Purpose, then I'm well on my way to perfection.

If not, then I'm nowhere near being half way to the point of being almost finished with a rough draft...

Life always seems to get in the way, whether good or bad, and the last few weeks it seems like one thing after another has interrupted my writing. Now, I will be the first to admit it's not that I haven't had time...I've just filled my time with other things, like solitaire or mahjong. Even my reading has suffered; nothing I bought to read over the summer has been touched yet. I think my subconscious doesn't want to focus on the fact that I will be applying to grad schools before the year is out.

My goal was to have all four of my statements of purpose started before May 31st.

Let's just go ahead and say that never happened.

Now, my goal is to have them all started before the end of June. I have to get serious sometime, right?

Creative wise, I haven't been churning out brilliance either. I don't think I've written anything constructive since classes let out. I find it ironic that when I have all the time in the world to write, nothing comes to me, but during finals or midterms or any other ridiculously busy time, all I want to do is write. My brain is on its own schedule when it comes to my writing. And not only do I need creative pieces, but for some programs I need to send analytical writing. Yes, that means I have to write essays. Even reusing one from a past class won't help me much because I still have to lengthen it to the requirements, and that doesn't exactly make me want to do back flips out of glee.

I guess it's back to work, though it's hard to make myself actually do what needs to be done.

"Boots"

2011-05-17T09:32:00.000-07:00

The girl with the bright red cowboy boots hurried down the rain soaked sidewalk, clutching her handbag to her side. It was already hot that morning, and the scent of the rain that fell the night before was still clinging to the air. Steam was rising off the wet pavement and the humidity was clogging up the girl’s lungs as she hustled her way toward her destination. Her shiny boots clicked loudly, and people turned to investigate the sound as she drew closer to them, but she didn’t pay them any attention, not even the men who took the time to give her a once over before going back to their routine. A strong breeze cut through the southern sky, and the girl silently scolded herself for wearing a dress as she slapped her hand to her thigh to keep the stark white fabric at bay. The outfit was too much of a contrast to the gray sidewalk and the faded blue of the sky. All the buildings and people around her were void of color. She was walking through a blur of gray and brown and stuck out against the monotony of business suits and shiny black loafers. It was over the top, and she knew it, but that morning, her appearance was the least of her worries.
That morning, she had woken up with tears in her eyes as she thought about what was going to happen. She tried not to think back, tried not to remember why she had to make her decision, because if she let her mind wander, she would break down completely. Not all things in life are bright and beautiful which was something she learned eight weeks ago. Sometimes people take things from you that you can never get back again. When a robber comes into your house, he may take a radio or a brand new television, but those things can be replaced. What was taken from the girl with the red cowboy boots couldn’t be replaced. There was no store to go to where you could buy back your security or your self-confidence. No one sold dignity. Those had been stolen from her, and she would never see them again. Walking down the street frightened her; she hadn’t been outside in weeks. She couldn’t bear to show her face to the world. Growing up, she always heard people tell others “it’s not your fault”, or “you shouldn’t be ashamed”. How different it was when it actually happened to her instead of strangers with sunken faces.
Her eyes stayed locked on the sidewalk, glancing up only to check the street signs. It wasn’t far away. She used to pass it every day on her way to class. Back then, she would turn her face away from the building, judging those who went inside. Now she was the one going inside; she was the one who would be judged.
As she glanced at her surroundings, she realized she had arrived. The small brown building was shorter than the office buildings on either side. As she looked at it, a feeling of relief fought against the fear that welled inside her stomach. Its large sign stared back into the girl’s eyes, but she looked away quickly, hoping to block out reality for a few more moments. There were drapes in all the windows, closed to keep out prying eyes, and the front stairs looked like the same wooden steps that the girl used to walk up every day at her parents house. The front door was the same red as her boots, and she finally felt like she blended with the scenery. Three quick leaps and she was on the door step ringing the bell. It took several moments for the door to be swung open.
The small woman who was holding the door jerked her head to indicate that the girl needed to come inside quickly. Once the girl was inside, the woman shut the door, blocking out what little light had flooded in, and securely locked it back into place. The thin bars that spanned the length of the door’s window rattled as the lock clicked. The woman who opened the door lumbered behind a large wooden desk that was beside the door and picked up a clipboard.
“Name?” The woman asked in a thick Russian accent. She was dressed in grungy scrubs that had seen too many patients and not enough soap. A pair of bright pink horn-rimmed glasses hung from a black string around her neck and her bleached blond hair was almost blinding in the dimly lit entry way.
The girl mumbled her response with reluctance. She hated giving out her name to this woman, though the nurse seemed decent enough. She didn’t want anyone to know who she was. It was too much for her to remind herself who she was. For the last few weeks she had begun pretending she was someone else and that this wasn't her life.
The Russian woman smiled at the young woman as she leafed through the papers on the clipboard, finally landing on the proper piece. The nurse found what she was looking for, motioned her forward, and led her down the narrow hallway toward the back of the house. The hallway had more light than the entry way, and the walls were a light blue color. There was no noise at all in the house, despite the small waiting room on the right where three other women sat, all at varying stages of grief. The Russian woman didn’t seem unsettled by the silence, so the girl did her best to act brave as they neared a large black door at the end of the hall.
The door was pushed open by the Russian and she stood back to let the frightened girl walk in first. As soon as she stepped over the threshold, she noticed the difference on this side of the door. It was much brighter; the linoleum floor reflected the fluorescent light that shot down from the ceiling. Phones were ringing on a large white desk that stood in the center of the room in the muted way hospital phones buzz so they don’t disturb the patients. Two receptionists sat patiently behind the desk, answering frantic calls with their soothing voices and doing their best to calm down the callers on the other end of the line. Several women in nurses uniforms were walking around carrying files or moving equipment and trading the newest gossip, small smiles stretched across their clear skinned faces. The girl wished she could smile.
"This way," the Russian sighed. It wasn't that she acted disinterested; she just seemed tired. The girl with the red boots could relate. The early morning hour was something she wasn't used to anymore. Two years without a job or having to go to class made waking up early a pain. Her money was running low since her boyfriend left, and she didn't have enough for payment. But this was her last hope.

Slowly, she followed the nurse past the eight examination rooms. They approached a more inviting wooden door that was slightly ajar and the Russian let her walk inside. She waited for the girl to take a seat in the overly plush leather chair.
"The doctor will be with you momentarily," she said, her voice full of sympathy. "If you need anything, let me know." She shut the door quietly and the girl listened to the nurse's footsteps recede down the hall.

The office wasn't anything unusual. All of the highly educated elite had offices that looked the same. The desk was large and ornate, stained a dark mahogany. There was a gold name plate on the front of the desk. Dr. Andy Grant. The diploma on the wall behind the rolling desk chair was from one ivy league school or another and a silent reminder that the scared young woman had never finished her college education. Bookcases lined the other walls and medical practice books were lined up in descending order. Some kind of low jazz was being piped into the room from a hidden radio, and the girl could feel her heart rate rising. She didn't want to be in that office. She didn't want to explain her story to this man who knew nothing of her struggle. How could he? He wouldn't be able to, not in a million years. She sat with her legs crossed, humming quietly to herself to keep from thinking about where she was. Any thought was better. Her mother always said that thinking about something happy would make bad things seem less upsetting. But what did her mother know? She had washed her hands of her daughter last year. It wasn't that the girl could blame her mother; the girl's life wasn't exactly praiseworthy, and it had to be hard for a mother to watch her daughter spiral down a dark path. But she didn't have to disown her only daughter.

The girl shook her head and bit her lip to keep the tears from falling. “Those aren't happy thoughts,” she said to herself sadly. She didn't have much to make her smile anymore. Her ex had taken everything when he left the apartment, except the bed and the dog. She was two months behind on rent and wouldn't last much longer without a job. That's the only reason she was at the doctor’s office.

The door opened and footsteps filled the silence of the room. The sound of heels on the floor made the girl turn her head. Doctor Andy was tall for a woman and her red hair was tied up in a tight bun and her smile was comforting. As she watched the doctor enter the room, she felt that she may just cry. A woman, she thought, thank God. She couldn't have been much older than the girl was, but she seemed so much more elegant in her movements.

"Good morning," the doctor said in a smooth voice. "I'm Dr. Grant." She reached out and shook the young woman's limp hand quickly. "I have your file right here, but how about you tell me a little about your situation before we get into any details." Dr. Grant moved around to the other side of the desk and sat down, folding her hands in front of her and adopting a listening position. It was the girl's turn now.

Taking a deep breath, she said the words she had been barring from her mind for weeks.

"I need an abortion."

Statements of Purpose? More Like Statements of Stress

2011-05-16T09:13:00.000-07:00

Today I decided to start my statements of purpose...at least in theory. I actually had NO idea where to begin. Most graduate websites with admission requirements simply say "write a statement of purpose no more than two pages long".

Hmm...

Well, the first thing I had to was figure out what the heck I'm supposed to write about. Whether it's creative writing or writing for a class, the most important thing to have is a focus. If you don't have focus, you wind up with a big fat "F" on your essay, or a short story that feels a lot like an episode of "Lost". When I was applying to college, I never had to write an admission essay. I applied to a state school that (though growing...yay football team!) didn't require a lot of extraneous materials. It was short and sweet: transcripts, application, click "send". So, now, as I labor toward yet another level of education, I have to go back to square one and figure out what admission officers look for in a statement of purpose.

So what did I do?

I turned to Google.
A quick search for "statement of purpose" pulled up a pretty expansive list of resources. The main thing the websites say is to be sure to give educational goals, explain why you want to attend graduate school, and be sure to show how you stand out among other applicants. The last point is kind of difficult since I have no idea who else is applying to the school. But, out of the five school's I'm applying to, only four of them require a statement, which take a little pressure off of me. For my programs, my statement is basically my resume, since none of the schools are asking for one. It's difficult to narrow down what I've done in the last few years, not to mention I hate bragging about what I've done, so these statements are going to be a bigger pain than I thought.

Which is why I'm sitting here, eating junk food and staring at a screen full of generic answers to the age old "why do you want to go to school here" question. What I need is a little more brain power and a few less Oreos.

3 months until the semester starts
7 months until I mail off my grad school applications

The Mean Reds

2011-04-26T09:14:00.000-07:00

Breakfast at Tiffany's is one of my favorite movies. One line that always sticks with me is Holly's line about "The Mean Reds".

"The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?"

I had The Mean Reds for a long time. I was worried about my writing and wondering if it was good enough. Now, I've had a pretty horrible day and I'm wondering if I should even be writing. My Mean Reds have turned into something much worse. I messed up a deadline. A Deadline. The word itself is terrifying. I tried to apologize, but I'm the one who slowed down the printing schedule. Both my editor and my assistant editor are really angry with me. I'm pretty sure I've ruined my reputation, and I don't know how to fix this. The reason I didn't get my article turned is was that my subject for the interview never got back in touch with me. It was my responsibility to let my editor know that I wasn't hearing back from my subject, but other things just kept piling up and I kept putting it off. When I got around to telling them, it was too late. They told me that I had ended my internship on a bad note, and they are exactly right.

So what, right? It's just one time. Take it in and move on.

Well, I decided to go for the panic attack road instead. The e-mails from both of them came through at the same time, and I lost it. While I was at my other job. I couldn't breathe and I couldn't stop crying. People probably thought my dog had just died or something actually worth crying over.

As I was staring at myself in the mirror while I tried to compose myself, I realized that I'm weak. I can't handle the pressure of journalistic writing. I'm not strong enough to hear criticism. As a 20 year old, I am still terrified of people not liking me. I'm in this place right now where I'm doubting myself and everything I've wanted for the last few years. Maybe that's part of being a writer. I don't know if I even consider myself a writer any more. If I can't handle this, what am I supposed to do? That's what scares me.

My Mean Reds have reached a new level.

Creative writing piece

2011-04-07T11:42:00.000-07:00

For my writing class, I had to come up with a scene from a story I had already written. The assignment was to take a character that wasn't developed and flesh them out. This is the scene I wrote but I think it stands alone as its own story. Not all my writing is depressing, I promise. It's still a working draft.

"Death of A Family"

Henry’s entire life changed the night his wife died. He refused to say she killed herself; that was just too much for him to handle. Running into the house and seeing his daughter crouched down on the floor, clinging to her mother’s limp body had been like watching his own life shatter around him. Nothing made sense after that. Up until that day, he had been a decent father. He tried not to yell or scream too much, though sometimes the strain of work sent him over the edge. Trying to support two kids and a wife was more work than anyone had ever let on. His wife hadn’t been able to help by getting a job since she’d been declared emotionally unstable after their son was born, so it was up to him to bring home the income. It was all they could do to afford the cheap excuse for a house they had. Still, Henry had done his best to put on a strong exterior and push on with his life. But when his wife died, he felt like he couldn’t keep up appearances anymore.

Suddenly, his children were a burden he didn’t know how to bear. It started two weeks after his wife’s death, when Anna-Leigh came home from school.

The screen door swung shut and Henry heard the light steps of his daughter as she crossed the floor of the kitchen and quickly appeared in the living room. She didn’t like to be in the kitchen anymore, not after her mother’s death. When she did venture to the back door, she kept her eyes away from the sink, probably afraid she would see a blood stain, or worse, her mother’s body.

“Daddy,” Anna-Leigh said, raising her voice to be heard over the television.

Henry looked up in response, but didn’t say a word.

“Grandma called this morning after you left for work. She wants me and Timmy to go stay with her for a few days.” Anna-Leigh took a step toward her father, kicking an empty beer can into the side of Henry's chair. Her foot knocked against a beer can and she froze from the noise. They both watched the can ricochet off the chair leg. Henry looked at his daughter intently, trying to make his eyes focus on her, and then he returned his gaze to the television.

“No,” he grumbled. “I don’t want you leaving to go to that house.” His speech wasn’t impaired. He figured that after drinking heavily for two weeks straight, his body had adapted to being drunk.

“But, Daddy, she sounded really happy about it. She misses Mommy, too.”

Henry’s eyes ripped away from the screen. He realized for the first time how much he loathed his daughter as she stood there next to him. Nothing about her was lovable to him anymore. Her dark hair was too much like his wife’s had been and those bright green eyes were the last to see the woman he had loved alive.

“We all miss your mother,” he growled, his voice slowly getting louder with each word. “But if you had stopped her from blowing her brains out, she would still be here!”

Anna-Leigh’s face froze in a look of horror. The eight-year-old's lip began to tremble and Henry saw her eyes fill with tears, but he didn’t care. He felt triumphant, like he used to when he won a poker game. It was time she heard the truth and understood how he really felt about her. All she ever did was cry about her mother's death, when she could have stopped it. She could have taken the gun away, or yelled for a neighbor.

“You disgust me,” he sneered at her. Slowly, Henry raised himself out of the chair and sauntered into the kitchen and toward the back door. As he began to step outside, he stopped, turned to face his daughter’s back, and called to her.

“On second thought, go to your grandparents’ house. How about you just stay there. I want you and your brother out by morning.” He slammed the door behind him and he walked down the dilapidated wooden stairs that hung off the back of the house. As he dug a cigarette out of his breast pocket, he looked up at the fading summer sun. He knew he was doing the right thing. He cupped his hand around his mouth to protect his cigarette from the wind as he raised his lighter. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to love his kids, he just couldn’t anymore. What was his motivation? His wife was gone, and it wasn’t just another trip to the hospital like she used to take for a week or two until her depression got under control. This was permanent. He couldn’t just pick up the phone and hear her voice, or take flowers to her hospital room to make her smile.

The children were why is wife had been depressed, anyway. Why should he keep them around? The depression had hit after Timmy was born ten years ago. She started crying for no reason, and would even neglect Timmy when he was screaming because she couldn’t handle the pressure. The doctors told them she would get better as Timmy got older, but she didn’t. She had told Henry that having another baby would make her happy, and while she was pregnant with Anna-Leigh, she seemed cured. She didn’t cry for nine months straight, and she took better care of Timmy than she ever had. But after Anna-Leigh was born, the depression came back, stronger than ever. Eight years went by and she never got any better. Eight years of trying to get by. Eight years of telling the children that she was fine, she just needed to sleep.

“Dammit, Bethie,” Henry whispered out of the corner of his mouth into the wind. “Why’d you have to leave?” He felt his head spinning and he fell to the ground with a heavy thud. The mixture of alcohol and emotion brought him down to his knees as he cradled his head in his hands and began to cry. “I’m nothing without you,” he whimpered into his hands, his cigarette falling out from between his lips and landing in the red dust. He reached out to pick up his lost lifeline, but it was already covered in dirt. Lost, he thought as he watched the smoke being carried away by the wind. Lost, just like everything I’ve ever loved.

His hands began to shake with anger and he shot to his feet, steadying himself on the side of the house before he stomped toward his truck. He threw open the rusted door and slid inside. He shut the door loudly and dug around in his jeans pocket, trying desperately to find his keys. When his attempt failed, he slammed his hands on the steering wheel and cursed Timmy under his breath. His son would hide the keys so Henry wouldn’t drive off while he was drunk. He leaned back in the seat and sighed as he came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going anywhere.

The sun was shining directly through the front windshield and he lowered the visor in front of his eyes. As the visor snapped into place, a small piece of paper fluttered down onto his lap. Snatching it up, he gazed at the paper for a moment before realizing it was a picture of Anna-Leigh and his wife. They were sitting at the kitchen table mixing a bowl of cookie dough, and they were both smiling. Neither of them were looking at the camera but were wrapped up in each other and the work they were doing. That had been the only time Henry remembered his wife smiling with their daughter.

Henry stared at the picture in his shaking hand for a few seconds. His whole life had been reduced to nothing, and the only happiness that remained was stuck inside that picture. The passing of time meant nothing to the two figures frozen at the kitchen table, smiles spread across their lips. They would never feel the pain of old age or the sting of death. Mortal life meant nothing to the inanimate picture that sat in his palm. Slowly, as if he might hear an objection, Henry curled his large fingers into a fist, crushing the picture in his hand. Why should he torture himself with images of his past? Why should he try to remember a time when they were happy? His family was destroyed; his wife started it, and now he was going to finish it. She had taken herself away, so Henry was going to do the same. He looked up at the small white house and shook his head. That wasn't his home anymore. It didn’t matter how many times he tried to tell himself that he could make it through this, he would never be able to look at his children the same. He wasn’t going to take the same route as his wife. That would be the coward thing to do. Instead, he would make sure that for the rest of his life, he could live in peace and quiet with his own thoughts. If the two kids stuck around, he would have to go to ball games and dance recitals and pretend he was the happy, supportive dad. With them gone, he wouldn’t have to pretend anymore.

The thought of his children living with his wife’s parents sent a chill through his body. They had hated him since their daughter first brought him home. He wasn’t good enough for her, and everyone knew it. He was fairly sure they blamed him for their daughter’s suicide. Nothing would give them more satisfaction than seeing Anna-Leigh and Timmy running to them for comfort. His mind was made up, though. The children couldn’t live with him anymore. There were too many memories that jumped out at him whenever he saw either of them. Of course, he would move, too, just in case Anna-Leigh tried to come back. She was the needy one. Timmy would survive.

It was his final decision. His daughter, a murderer as far as he was concerned, and his son couldn’t be in his life anymore. If there were papers to sign to make it official, he would do it, as soon as he sobered up. If he sobered up. He had to get them out and as far away as possible. They weren’t his anymore.

“I’m doing the right thing,” he whispered to the crumpled ball of paper in his hand. Slowly, he cracked the door of the truck and hung his torso out of the cab, hovering over the dirt driveway. He flicked the picture out of the open car door and into the dust, watching as the wind carried it away.

Beginnings

2011-04-05T10:01:00.000-07:00

         Everyone feels inadequate at some point in their lives. Maybe you believe you’re wonderful at something, or your family tells you how talented you are, and once you hit the real world, everyone hates you and your work. Maybe you never had that family support and you’re desperately seeking the assurance that you have a gift, that you’re meant to do something spectacular with your life. Or it could be that you defeat yourself before you even start. You see a challenge and say to yourself, oh, no, I could never do that, it’s much too advanced for me. You may be too competitive and believe that you shouldn’t have to practice something to be great at it, so you try once, fail, and throw in the towel. It could be that you spent the last few years considering yourself an expert in your field and you find out that everything you’ve been working toward doesn’t amount to much. Whatever the case, once you get knocked down, you feel like you can never get back up again.
        In my case, the feeling of failure comes from my family. It’s not that they don’t love me. It’s that they love me too much. Is that really something to complain about? So many people don’t have a loving home environment, and here I am, complaining about the fact that my family loves me and I have never lacked the essential things I need to succeed in life. Except a backbone. My family spent so much time building me up, and telling me it’s alright to cry, that when someone criticizes something I’ve done, suddenly, I feel like they hate me. It’s hard to get past that.

My whole life, my family told me I could do anything I set my mind to. I personally don’t believe this. At three, I wanted to be a ballerina, until my older sister told me their toes bleed. Who knows, maybe I would have been the world’s best dancer if she never told me. I could be wearing a tutu right now. Isn’t it amazing to think that because of something one person says to us, we change our entire life goal? In any case, I turned five and no longer entertained the ballerina idea. After my ballerina phase, I wanted to be a vet, because my big sister wanted to be a vet. Veterinarian's were cool because they got to play with puppies all day, and what kid doesn’t love puppies? When I started Middle School, I realized I was horrible at math and science, so dream number two flew out the window.

I never really cared about growing up, so I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about my occupation. Then college hit. I had to make a decision and fast. All the kids around me had dreams of becoming doctors or lawyers. Ever since they were little they knew their calling. I had never done much of anything, except read. I loved reading. No bookstore was safe when I walked in, hell bent on finding the perfect book and taking it away with me to discover all the secrets inside its pages. Authors were my rock stars. Anyone who could sustain a story for more than two hundred pages was alright in my book, no pun intended. I could become friends with characters or cheer on a hero as he rode off to rescue the maiden, or laugh when the maiden had already rescued herself. Reading was my calling. Unfortunately, one cannot major in Reading.

Since I could read, I decided I could write. The two go hand -in- hand, I deduced, and I never made below a B on an essay, so I turned myself into a writer. My family supported me one hundred percent. My father was a writer, and so was my aunt, so we figured it was in my blood. Of course I should be a writer. It was obvious!

It turns out, writing isn't as easy as sitting down in front of a computer.

Over the last few years, I've been trying to do my best to hone the art of writing. There are probably 80 to 100 different started manuscripts on my laptop that have never been, and probably will never be, finished. I love to write and I spend most of my days daydreaming about different story lines. If a see a particularly interesting person, I make up a back story for them and soon enough, they are in my work. Of course, that doesn't mean that story ever goes anywhere or sees the light of day.

As a college student, I've started taking different writing classes. Up until this year, I've been doing really well. My teachers liked what I wrote, my peers liked what I wrote, and I generally felt alright about what I had written. This year, all of that changed.

During a writing workshop, my teacher told me "Your story is good, but..." and than proceeded to tell me every possible thing I did wrong. Most people would be able to take this kind of criticism and apply it to their lives to make their work better. Not me. I instantly felt horrible. For the last four years, the only thing I have felt really passionate about is my writing and for someone to tell me it isn't any good is like someone telling a woman her baby is ugly: it may be true, but it's still going to wreck someone's life, and possibly cause a person to turn into a raging alcoholic. Currently, I'm at the point where I am struggling with who I am as a writer. That sounds a lot more terrible than it really is. I know what I want and where I want to go, but I can't see how I can ever get to that point.

My blog is going to be an open place for me to rant and rave about the injustices delivered to writers as well as a place for me to post some of my creative writing. For the people who may actually read this....bless you.