Denying Distractions

Yesterday, I spent most of the day with my eyes closed and covered, trying to fend off the worst of a migraine.  I sat in my chair listening to podcasts and folding paper airplanes (much to my cats’ amusement) and longed for sunset so I could return to my usual pursuits—that, or at least go to bed.

This week, the city is repaving the roads in my neighborhood.  I can’t park where I usually do, so I’m resorting to pulling onto the lawn, a tight squeeze between my roommate’s struggling hydrangea and the telephone pole.  Every time I inch the car into place, I mutter and grumble about when I’ll be able to pull in without thinking about it again.

I’ve been meaning to schedule a doctor’s appointment and purchase new tires for the car for several weeks now.  I forgot, again, to dig out a timer that I was supposed to bring to work.  My cat is rubbing against my ankles, reminding me that in a moment I should go and feed her.  Maybe it’s just me, but I find myself most bothered by the things that require my attention when I don’t feel that they deserve it.  

I dream of the days when I’ll be able to lose myself in my writing, when jobs and bills and smaller obligations will sort themselves out.  But this is just a study in denial.  There will always be something to distract me from daydreams—for one thing, if I really do mean to make writing my career, I will have to put some work into selling those daydreams on an actual market.  For another, I don’t think this cat is going anywhere anytime soon.

Life is messy, and it demands our attention.  Once things get back to “normal”, something else happens to upset the status quo.  And I need to teach myself to be grateful for these interruptions, for without them, my own life would vanish under the fog of dreams.  How else would I come up with anything to write about here?

Every Four Years

I turn thirty this month.  It’s not something that bothers me—I’m proud of my years—but it has made me rather introspective in the past few days.  This is not the only milestone I will hit this month, either, as I step into a new role in my work life.  New beginnings and their accompanying endings always make me think back over the time that’s passed, and I’ve come to a realization.  Ever since I was fourteen, there has been some big change in my life every four years: high school, college, first job, second job, and now this change.  So now I’m wondering what characterized each of those periods in my life, and what I learned about myself in each one.

I was very quiet and awkward in high school.  I knew for the most part what I wanted to do with my life, but I was also absolutely unsure of how to do it.  Writing was my focus and my passion, but it didn’t come easily—I remember a few heartbreaking moments of computer failure where a novel vanished into the ether, and my one chance to give my writing to a professional resulted in his scornful tirade against my chosen genre.  My social life was all but nonexistent.  I think the most important lesson I learned in those years was the comfort that can be found in music—I sang in two choirs, learned piano, and ended every school day in the refuge of the band room.  Music was what got me through.

My college years, however, were an explosion of joy and transformation.  Though for a while I remained quiet and awkward, soon I learned a bit of my own self-worth and formed friendships that last to this day.  I expanded my mind and started to look more carefully at people around me, seeing their troubles and concerns and not just how they impacted my own life.  I traveled to Europe, climbed mountains, and continued to sing.  Most importantly, I found joy in writing, both in poetry and prose.  It was during those years that I built a foundation of understanding my own craft that would serve me well later on.

The years post-graduation were off to a rocky start, as the only job I could get was waiting tables.  There was a lot to dislike about serving, but it did force me to manage uncomfortable situations and really learn how to talk to strangers (something other people maybe learn much earlier, but not one of my skills at that point).  I also learned the hard way how to be an adult—managing finances, keeping my apartment clean, finding my own happiness.  I remember this time as a time of struggle and worry, but it was in these years that I met the friends who have been the closest and most loyal ever since, and I also started on the first novel project that I really believed might be successful someday.

Almost four years ago now, my restaurant shut down, and I moved instead to a small local business as a manager.  These last four years have been happier, but they’ve had their own troubles, most of those coming from my relationships (or lack thereof) with specific people.  This period of my life has been the first that I’ve really encountered anyone I couldn’t reconcile our differences or get away from.  I’ve been fortunate (?) enough to deal with two such people long-term in these years, and I’m learning (because I don’t think I’ve fully internalized the lesson yet) that you can’t please everyone.  I have a lot of faith in people, but there comes a time that for the sake of your own well-being, you have to draw a boundary and say, “Enough.”  Fortunately, I have that opportunity now.  Meanwhile these four years have taught me to look inside myself to really understand why I do what I do.  I’ve accepted my own limitations and found ways around them, and I feel more confident than ever.  Maybe that’s a gift from those difficult people, who forced me to think a little more before I spoke and consider how I wanted to respond to them.

Looking forward, I’m taking on a role with more responsibility and independence than ever before.  I’m excited rather than nervous, although I’m certain that the nerves will come.  I feel sure, however, that I will be able to establish a good atmosphere and make my workplace a positive, friendly place.  And once it begins to feel normal, I’m hopeful that I can turn to my writing again in a way I haven’t been able to in the turmoil of the last few months.  With an established routine and a tranquil spirit, I am optimistic that I will be able to build on the crumbs of success I’ve received so far.

At almost thirty, I’m still awkward, but not really quiet anymore.  I know what I have to say and how best to say it for maximum effect.  I call myself a writer and don’t feel like I’m lying.  I comfort myself with music and with poetry.  I’m learning more about the world every day, seeking out new knowledge and new perspectives.  And I know that the world is struggling right now and that nothing can be certain, but I think that these next four years will have good things for me, or at least good things to teach me.  So I’m looking forward to revisiting this idea in 2024, to see what changes will come in the next phase of my life.

An Angel's Perspective on Pandemic

Writing is how I figure out what I'm thinking.  Whenever I have a confusing problem or I don't know what to believe, I reach for a pen or turn on the computer.  Not only does it calm me to see the words taking form on the paper, but the process of getting them there helps me untangle my thoughts.

COVID-19 is one of those gnarly problems for me.  Should I be worried?  Should I be upset?  Is the physical danger more important, or the financial one?  If I'm not worried, am I a bad person?  If I choose the wrong thing to be worried about, am I a bad person?  What can I do to make things better?

For myself, I don't quite have the answers yet--I'm really just going with the flow at this point, reserving my judgment and my panic for a later date.  But I did think that someone else might have something to say about this.  Asa'el, my angelic narrator of Tales of the Stolen Earth, weighs in with the advice he was given and the wisdom he has chosen to follow in the days to come.  Check it out in Silver Linings.

A Sobering Realization

Those who know me may or may not be surprised to know that I have anxiety.  It’s never been diagnosed (outside help? in this economy?) but I feel that I’ve done enough research on my own and, you know, lived my life long enough to know what I’m dealing with.  And I’ve always taken pride in and been relieved that whatever is going on in my head is not enough to keep me from living my life.  Now I’m not so sure about that.

I had a long conversation with a coworker today.  This conversation has been coming for a while and was one of those times when everything that has been bottled up for too long comes out.  We went over all the ways we’ve clashed in the past months and tried to explain our very different viewpoints.  I admit that I went into the conversation thinking I was the only wounded party, but I hope I’ve moved all the way past that now.  But even as I was trying to defend myself without excusing myself, I realized that my explanations for my actions all went back to anxiety.

I don’t communicate well with others because it makes me anxious if I think someone is upset or angry with me.  I imply that I don’t trust others because I really don’t trust myself.  I do things myself because it’s easier than asking someone else to do it and maybe having to confront them.  All these things—most of my failings at work, in fact—come out of my attempts to protect myself from that sick feeling in my stomach, from the tightness in my chest, from the frantic racing of my thoughts.  And it makes me wonder what else in my personality is formed by the fear that is never far from my mind.  Do I write letters because it’s the easiest way to reach out to others?  Am I so eager to make it as a writer because the only safe job seems like one in which I can stay home?

It’s a hard thing.  Everyone wants to think that they’re in control of themselves, if not of their whole life.  And it’s miles easier to blame others than yourself for your problems.  But I can read over my arguments in the texts—and yes, this conversation happened over text, which is also telling—and I can see the repetition for myself.  Everywhere that there was a problem, it came back to just one thing.

It’s disheartening, and it scares me a little bit.  I do think that good things come out of my anxiety—it makes me sensitive to others, and it teaches me to be careful.  Too careful?  Too sensitive?  Maybe so, though I never thought so before.  But what worries me most is, does having so much of myself built by a weakness, make me weak, too? 

I hope not.  I’m learning as I get older that the more one knows oneself, the more positive of an impact one can have on the world.  I’m hoping that this is just one more step in my education about myself.  I’m hoping that having seen the faults in my own personality, I can tread more carefully and work around them.

I have a prayer for this that I’ve been repeating more and more as time goes by.  It’s very simple: “Let my words and actions be governed by wisdom, not weakness.”  And it has helped me, a few times, to do the right thing when it would have been easier not to.  I still have a long way to go, of course, but maybe if I keep at it, I can build up a part of myself that isn’t touched by fear.

Reflections on 2019 and 2020

The turn of the year is always strange to me, and this one has been stranger than most.  Between stress from changes at work and a few other factors, I never did feel very festive over the holiday.  I kept waiting to be excited for Christmas—though I can be somewhat of a Grinch in the weeks between Halloween and Christmas, usually my mood has turned by the time the shopping is done.  That didn’t happen this year.  All the way up to Christmas itself I remained tightly wound and wishing it would all be done.  Even on Christmas Day I was ambivalent.  I take from this a lesson not to let myself get too worried about Christmas traditions—cards and gifts are all very well, but not worth the sacrifice of my peace of mind. 

As for New Year’s, I was a little wiser, and chose rest over my traditional trip to Richmond to visit friends.  I did stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve, but not to watch the ball drop or to celebrate—I only knew the new year had come by a glance at the clock from my reading chair.  And now 2020 is here, and only now am I beginning to feel thoughtful.  What will this new year—and this new decade—bring?

Normally I take a searching look at the previous year around this time, and perhaps I’ll do that again, but this year I don’t quite feel up to it.  2019 was fairly innocuous.  I’m not ashamed of the fact that I spent most of the year at home reading books.  I’ve set myself a solid reading regimen that I have kept to faithfully, and I use it to educate myself both in general, with books about society and history and psychology, as well as in my craft with classics and bestselling works in my genre.  Allow me to take this moment to strongly recommend Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice, as well as Illuminae by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff, both excellent and beautifully complex science fiction stories.  In addition, I completed my own science fiction epic, the Youngest series, which I hope to push hard towards publication this year.  And speaking of publication, small pieces of my own work were featured in “From the Depths” out of Haunted Waters Press, as well as on Typishly.  It’s a small start, but a start nonetheless.  For all that, I would gladly trade several adventure opportunities.

I did get out of Roanoke a few times, mostly at the end of the summer.  I took a road trip to Syracuse and Boston in August, and at the end of the same month I went to my cousin’s wedding in Nashville.  And music keeps me busy almost as much as the written word—the Roanoke Symphony Orchestra performed first a concert of Russian classics, then its typical holiday Pops concert, which continues to grow in both size and extravagance.  I’m also ever more proud of my children’s choir, further proof of my deep appreciation of small things.

I write all this mostly as a way of keeping record, so that someday I can have it for reference.  In this way I suppose that my looking back is a way of looking forward.  Usually that’s the only kind of looking forward I do at the new year, but I find myself thinking more and more about what’s to come.  2020 is, after all, the year I will turn thirty, so I suppose it’s natural that I should expect some big changes this year.  But I hope I can remember not to be disappointed in myself if those changes don’t come.  I’m happy with my lot, and more and more I’m learning not to compare my life to that of others.  I have my own timeline to follow, and no one knows it but me.

With that in mind, I continue on with my day and my month and my year.  Time continues on, fast and slow all at once, and we can only follow.  Happy 2020, everyone.

A Picture of Quiet

The house is quiet.  My roommate is out of town, so her room is dark, the spinning chairs empty—or at least they would be, except she uses one of them to hold things like laundry between dryer and drawer, or books that she’s reviewing.  The other chair is overflowing with so many cushions and blankets that I’m a bit amazed that she can fit in there, too, regardless of how small she may be.

The kitchen is quiet, too.  There are a few dishes in the sink I haven’t gotten to yet, and I’m not sure that I will today.  Stranger things have happened, I suppose.  I also need to refill the sugar bowl.  I’m more likely to do that, especially if I make myself a cuppa this afternoon.  The floor is slightly sticky in places from where I overflowed water and lemon juice the other day, trying to descale the tea kettle.

Since both windows are open in the living room, it’s not quite as quiet.  The rush of cars on the street, the faint buzz of someone mowing their lawn, the distant hum of an airplane overhead, all are made welcome in this space.  Still, the noises make themselves at home in the concept of quiet.  The sunshine has moved away from the books on the back of the sofa and now shines on the covers of the books that wait on the arm of my reading chair.  A small gray and white cat sits in the corner of that red chair, glancing up every time I go by. 

My bedroom is the least quiet, but I still wouldn’t call it loud.  The pattering of my fingers on the keys is nothing that would disturb anyone.  The music that plays from behind my word processor shifts from cool saxophones to deep-voiced storytellers to Hotel California.  Perched over a tealight, the wax cubes I got for my birthday melt silently into puddles and let off the scents of oakmoss, yuzu, and ambitious plots.  I take a quick break to google ‘yuzu’: a Japanese citrus fruit.  Condensation beads on the side of my water bottle.  My hair is almost dry.  I have one entry in my journal already on the page I use to track my writing, and it’s only one o’clock. 

Madeleine L'Engle's Mrs. Whatsit declares that wild nights are her glory.  Quiet days are mine.  In the quiet, my books hold their stories in wait for me, while I spin my own across a white screen.  In the quiet, I am at home.

All I Ever Wanted

I just got back from “vacation” this week.  (I’ll explain the quotation marks in a minute.)  It was one of those just-because things: I had wanted to go and visit my friend in Boston sometime this summer, and it just so happened to work out the best that I come and see her right after her job ended and bring her back to our hometown so she could spend some time with her family.  I also took the opportunity to run up and see my sister and—equally as important—meet my niece-cat and nephew-cat.  So it was a week of visits, board games, lots of driving, and me finding ways to entertain myself while my hosts were busy.  For some reason, I find it hard to call this a vacation.

It fits the definition—“an extended period of leisure and recreation, especially one spent away from home or in traveling” (which Google tells me is from the OED).  I was away from home, and I was at my leisure most of the time.  But when I think of vacation, I think of glamorous, exciting places—white sandy beaches or gleaming snowy slopes, or else cobblestone streets and ancient monuments and people walking by speaking other languages.  I think of it as a time to move out of what I know of the world and get a different perspective.  The amount of time I sat in my sister’s house, doing exactly what I would have done in my own, seems to serve as a disqualifier.

But “leisure” in the above definition only touches lightly on something that I think every good vacation needs: rest.  Yes, it is good to go new places and learn new things, but what good does it really do to leave the daily grind only to beat yourself into a frenzy trying to get from place to place?  My mind may not have been particularly expanded by this past week, but my spirit felt the benefit of it.  I had time to have a good long talk with my sister, to sit with a purring cat in my lap, to sing through musicals with my friend, to write and to sleep in and to read.  In short, I could do precisely what I wanted to do, and that was truly a delight to me.

Maybe my next vacation will be an education to me, and maybe it won’t.  Either way, no matter how ‘lame’ it may seem to have spent so much of my vacation in my pajamas, I was very glad to have it.  And if I get the chance to have another restful week like this, I will definitely take it.