January—I
spent the month working on my thesis, “The Nine Lives of Snapdragon,” though I
hadn’t yet decided on the title yet. I
took a look at the story of Puss in Boots with the idea of what really happened, without the magic and
the talking animals, etc. Puss became a
young woman who had been an assassin, on the run from the mistakes she
made. She had such a strong voice, the
story almost wrote itself. I enjoyed the
freedom of an entire month to work on this story. I also spent time polishing my music and
working on an article for a local magazine.
(The article didn’t really work out.)
February—Nothing
very particular happened in this month, aside from beginning my final semester
of college. I had a lot of work to do,
with both my thesis and my senior recital looming. I was beginning to gather together several people
to perform in my recital of original compositions in March—scheduling
rehearsals, hunting down performers. It
was both stressful and stimulating to work with so many different people, to
bring all the details together and plan for one moment.
March—My composition
recital was March 13 at 7:30. I had
written nine pieces of music—three voice-and-piano, one for woodwind trio,
three for choir, and two for solo piano.
Thirteen performers helped me with the recital, friends and acquaintances
and strangers alike. They helped hold me
together through the stressful last days before the recital. On the morning of the event, I woke up in my sunshiny room and stretched, and then the realization of what I would have to
do that day hit me like a ton of bricks.
I bought two dozen roses that morning to give to my performers, ate a
sushi lunch in the five minutes before class, baked cookies and made punch and
had my hair styled by a friend. At 7:25, I was
backstage in my blue gown and red shoes, panicking. At 7:32, I walked out onstage and suddenly,
all was right. It was delightful to hear my music performed, and though it was far from perfect, I felt wonderful about it all.
April—Once
the recital was done, I had time to relax.
I had been clever enough to schedule myself lightly for the end of
college, taking only the classes that were absolutely necessary to finish
up. I had time to breathe, time to
appreciate my wonderful, beautiful school and all the wonderful people in it.
May—I turned
in my thesis, 525 pages and my proudest accomplishment. A few days later I went to see the
performance of my best friend’s play, Decision
Height, for which I had written a few short themes of music. And on the 20th, I graduated
second in my class from Hollins University, which will always be, to me, one of
the best places in the world.
June, July,
August—Here my calendar goes blank. I
had no plans, really, no prospects. I
went back home with my family, and for several weeks I camped out on the
sofa. There were a few different job
opportunities I had, but not terribly many, and none of them panned out. I spent the time writing, working, and trying
to figure out what I wanted to do with this period of my life, which I had
always wanted to reach but never actually planned for.
September—Finally
I screwed up my courage and made the jump.
With the help of my father and mother, I looked for and found an
apartment in Roanoke, VA, the same town where my university is located. I was familiar with the area and the people,
and so by the second-to-last week in the month I had moved into a tiny studio
apartment, basement level, one room, kitchen and bathroom. It had white walls, brown carpets and
old-fashioned green bathroom, and it was dim and ugly and to this day I
absolutely love it. I call it my foxhole.
October—For
a frightening few weeks, I watched my savings disappearing to rent and bills
and things that I had never really had to deal with before. I tried a few places looking for a job, and
finally I walked into a place where they were willing to take me, despite lack
of experience. Hired as a server at Ruby
Tuesday, I had to admit that it was less than I had expected for myself, and
probably less than others had expected of me.
But my family had the grace not to say anything, and so I started there
with a light heart.
November—The
primary focus of this month was a new writing project I began, part of the
National Novel Writing Month movement which I had avoided for all four years of
college. I decided, however, that I
couldn’t run forever, and so I chose one of my old stories and buckled
down. The novel I chose was one which I
had tried several times to write, a complicated and detailed fantasy story
involving a cursed princess, a long journey, and a young man who has no idea
what he’s getting into. The latter is an
important element in any good story, I think.
NaNoWriMo was terribly helpful to me, in teaching good writing
habits. This doesn’t mean, of course, that
I kept up with those habits after the month was over.
December—This
month is always about Christmas, and it’s true in this case as well. I had planned carefully to allow for as much time
off as possible for the holidays, but it still was a bit of a shock to have
only four days to spend with my family.
I suppose this is being an adult.
Despite all the time-crunching, all the most important traditions were
accomplished, and I returned to my foxhole thinking of the years to come, when
I might celebrate Christmas on my own, with new people whom I love. That time, however, has not yet come. I still look back to the blue mountains and the
hills dotted with horses to find home.
It was a landmark year, full of firsts and lasts, and certainly the first year of a new chapter of my life. Looking into the new year, I see nothing that is certain, and that is both exciting and terrifying. I can’t wait to get into the rest of my life. Happy New Year, everyone!
