This Bridge Will Only Take You Halfway There

I got a skype call from a friend of mine last night.  She’s recently decided that she can no longer live in her current home and is moving out by Friday.  I was surprised to hear of how quickly this decision had been made—I talked to her just last week and she gave no indication of this.  But it was almost immediately clear to me that she’d made the right choice.  It was also deeply evident that she was absolutely terrified at the prospect of the change.

I can understand that feeling.  At this point in my life, I’m in a situation that I’ve never once before had to deal with, and that is having no options except those that I make myself.  All through school and college, I had decisions of my own to make, but they were ruled by the expectations and requirements of others.  Go to school, go to college, get a job for the summer, figure out something to do for the holidays…  I always was aware of what I needed to do, and I had plenty of people more than happy to help me do it.  Now, however, I’ve reached the end of the path laid out for me, and my parents and teachers and friends have left me with a few tools and a bucket of cement to build the rest of it myself.  And I look at what I have and what I still have to do and I think, oh no.

Of course I was excited to get out on my own.  Everyone is.  I’m still excited, though I’ve been in my apartment for three weeks now.  Everything is new and stimulating, even buying cooking supplies and groceries, even paying rent (though I’m sure the shine on that one will fade very quickly).  But I remember the weeks at the end of summer, when I still didn’t have an apartment, still needed to look online and make phone calls and plan trips to look at apartments.  And I remember how for days on end I avoided thinking about it, put it off, told myself I had plenty of time.  I was scared of taking that step.  In fact, I spent several nights lying awake, trying desperately not to think of how very terrified I was.  And sometimes I still feel some of that anxiety.

Shel Silverstein wrote a poem, “The Bridge” that explains this time of life beautifully.  It tells of a bridge that is only half-built, and to complete it, to reach “those mysterious lands you long to see,” you have to finish it alone.  This is exactly how I feel.  We who are starting our lives now, we are that small person standing alone at the end of the half-built bridge, staring out at the lands we want to reach, down at the long drop.  And while standing here is exciting, the beginning of our chance to prove ourselves to the world, it is also absolutely terrifying.  The sooner as we accept both of these feelings and learn to use them both to our advantage, the sooner we can get to work on the rest of that bridge.

Credit photo: http://shel96326.pixnet.net/blog/category/410776

Subtle Fiction

"Fiction is nothing less than the subtlest instrument for self-examination and self-display that mankind has invented yet.” John Updike

There’s a lot of talk in the writing world about fiction and what it is—how much of it is true, how much of it relies on truth, whether or not it’s worthwhile, etc.  This quote caught my attention the other day, and I think it strikes closer to the truth than most of the other talk.  As a fiction writer, I spend a lot of time making up things, often to the point of leaving my entire world behind in favor of another.  Why do I bother?  The writing of stories doesn’t improve the economy or persuade anyone in favor of world peace.  My stories don’t teach anyone how to do anything, or help them understand how the world works, or give them any kind of useful information for their lives.  At best, it makes them think a little bit, but even that isn’t life-changing.  So what’s the point?

According to John Updike, writing fiction is done more for the sake of the writer than the reader.  Well, this is nothing new—there are dozens of quotes from authors that can testify to that.  What does interest me in this quote is the idea of subtlety: the proposal that we write to explore ourselves, and we don’t even realize we’re doing it.

Now that I’m thinking about it, many of the things I believe, I’ve discovered through my writing.  Things like personal freedoms, political options, and questions of ethics are all explored in my alternate worlds, the stories that I write.  I put my characters through problems in their lives and always somewhere in the back of my mind I’m thinking, what would I do in this situation?  In most cases, the characters are doing what I would do in that situation, and so in a strange way, I gain experience through writing that I might never get in my own life.

But it’s not only self-examination that Updike talks about: he also mentions self-display.  The vast majority of writers are a private lot.  We don’t like to be out and about, making statements about who we are and what we want from the world.  But everyone at some point needs to declare themselves, to say what we believe and try to explain who we are.  The avenue of fiction is a very safe way of doing this.  We can say “oh, it’s just a story” but deep down we know better.  The stories we tell are our declarations of self to the world, and we don’t even have to know that we’re doing it.  It is through fiction that we make it known who we are.

Not All Poems are Poetry

Yesterday, I put together three poems to submit for a poetry prize this month.  I did so with a certain kind of rueful amusement, as if a part of me didn’t believe that anyone but myself could ever enjoy my poetry.  I’m proud of all three poems, and I think they’re well-written, but something tells me that no one else would ever agree.  When it comes to poetry, I’m braced for the careful, stiff compliments that people give when they’re trying to be kind about something that’s awful.

I’ve been writing poetry for years.  In my rambling journals, which I began when I was thirteen, a poem appears on the very first page—that is, if one can call it a poem.  But for me, poetry is not so much an art form as a way of thinking out loud, of playing with words as I put them on paper.  It’s also intensely personal, as I usually found the easiest way to deal with strong emotion was to write about it, and poetry made it more palatable for me.

When I got to Hollins, I was surprised and a little skeptical about the idea of submitting poetry for criticism in my writing classes.  As if poetry were serious writing!  Of course, I understand that as literature, it is very serious indeed—how could I not, with Yeats, Shakespeare, Frost, Oliver, Neruda, and so many others playing a vital role in my education?  But my poems were nothing, tidbits of words and thought cobbled together like a child’s collage.  They weren't for sharing.

I’ve slowly changed my tune over the years, but still I don’t give my poems the attention that I give to my novels and my short stories.  I think I’m a better poet than most people on the street, sure, but once I enter the honored company of true poets, I lower my head and step into the corner.  My father always says the operative question of life is “compared to what?”  And in comparison with the work of my peers, I don’t have any good things to say about my own poems.

I realize now, though, my own outlook is most likely what holds me back.  Who can take me seriously if I do not?  No one is ever going to take me by the throat, give me a good shake, and shout into my eyes, “If it’s so bad, then make it better, you idiot!”  So here I am, submitting my poetry to the same editing and revisions that I give to my longer works, and even more nerve-tingling, actually sending it off to be judged by others.  Who knows?  Maybe I am my own worst critic, and maybe when it comes to poetry, I know more that I think I do.  It would be a fitting irony if that were the case, don’t you think?

Train of Thought: Assessing an Assessment

I am currently stuck in the briar thicket of looking for a job.  This is my third career assessment in two weeks, and it certainly will not be the last.  You know, those tests where you answer what seem to be pointless questions with "agree, disagree" or sometimes "slightly agree, strongly agree" etc.  I was getting a little fed up.  So now, I give you a running commentary on a career assessment.

• First question is “Low pay can cause honest people to steal.”  Huh?  You really want to start out with that one, guys?  Okay.  Well, I disagree.  I think low pay causes honest people to look for another job…
• No one is never in a bad mood.
• “There are seven days in a week.”  What the hell kind of people fill these things out?
• “You like to look beyond the facts of a situation to see the underlying cause.”  Um, what.  This does not make sense to me.  The facts of a situation will lead you to the cause.  You can’t look beyond them.
• People should not have to understand that you can’t do all you said you would.  If you said it, then do it.
• I guess it’s true that there’s no point in trying to anticipate things before they happen, but damn is it fun.
• Doesn’t everyone make decisions sometimes that they later regret?
• I really hate these because they tend to state things in absolutes.  “Never”, “everyone” and “always” are all over the place.  No, I can’t say that “everyone” I know likes me, but then if I put “disagree” to that, it looks like nobody likes me.
• “Criticism never bothers you.”  Criticism bothers everyone, even if they are able to put it aside later.  Who writes these things, and for what kind of people?
• “At work, many people are up to no good.”  This makes me laugh.  Up to no good?  What are we, marauders?
• I think the writers of this thing are determined to catch the bitter, cynical people in the world before they come for an interview.  “Everyone lies.”  “Everyone is up to no good.”  “The world sucks.”  Well, that last one wasn’t in there, but I’m assuming it’s implied.
• They’re also trying to catch the arrogant.  “Everyone likes me.”  “All of my decisions were the right ones.”
• Hmm, do I err on the side of perfectionism, or carelessness?  Again, there seems to be no room for middle ground.
• I kinda wish there were a little meter in the corner that says “We’ll call you in ten minutes” on one side and on the other “Go back under your rock, scum of the earth.”  It would be nice to have an idea about how I’m doing.
• Welp, now they know I’m an introvert.  Inching over towards “scum of the earth” there.
• And no, folks, there are not fifty hours in a day.  Unless you’re speaking metaphorically, as in “I get so much done in a day that it feels like there are fifty hours”?  Well either way, it’s “disagree.”
• You know, listening to Train during this is deeply comforting.  “You make everything all right.”  Thank you, Train.  I’m glad to know that I do something right.
• Being nice to people is a sign of weakness?  Talk about ultimate paranoia.
• NO ONE NEVER LOSES STUFF.  NO ONE.
• They don’t expect me to know the number of days in a month, either.  Oy.
• Yes, seventeen years of education and I can count to ten.
• I agreed with “People who always follow the rules do not advance their careers” when I remembered the well-loved Hollins quote, “Well-behaved women rarely make history.”  Of course, I would much rather make history than advance my career.
• These things tend to repeat themselves, too, with different wording.  I see what you’re trying to do there, guys, and I promise my answer hasn’t changed.  I still don’t really care what people think of me.  Well, I do a little.  But you don’t allow “a little”, do you?  DO OR DO NOT, THERE IS NO TRY.
• Oh, excuse me, I have to rock out to “If It’s Love.”  Okay, now I’m back.
• Why do people assume that emotions “get in the way” of important decisions?  To me, emotions are a big part of every decision I make.
• MORE “NEVER” RAHHHHHRRRRRRR.
• “You can read well enough to complete this survey.”  If I couldn’t, think I would have made it to question 88?
• Now this one is interesting.  I think I am indeed the type of person who makes others feel like talking.  Maybe I just put out a “listener” kind of vibe.  I like that; I like to listen for people.
• No, I do not take the time to check my work, because usually I am confident in the quality of my first effort.  But do you have a “fill-in-the-blank” section where I can explain that?  Noooo.
• Hahaha.  “How do you feel about a job where you will be asked to develop an extensive knowledge of wine so you can educate our guests?”  Why, I “would do it and enjoy it.”  Most honest response I’ve given all through this thing.
• Ooh, role play, this is interesting.  Okay, a group of guests say they had bad service.  Should I tattle on their server, run for the manager, ask them to fill out a survey (SURVEYS ARE FUN), or ask them to give the place another chance, despite the reams of restaurants in the area?  Tough choice.
• Next question: on a busy day, should I be obnoxious, point out the obvious, cause confusion, or be helpful?  Again, tough choice.
• Apparently, “smile and have great eye contact” is not a request, thank you.

Whew, that was rough.  But in its own way, amusing.  Making fun of something frustrating is cleansing, somehow.  I suppose I have a little bit of cynicism in myself, too.  Maybe a little.  Stay tuned, sports fans, to find out whether or not I am the scum of the earth.

Everyone Takes Something for Granted

I am sick this week.  My head is stuffed up, and today I’ve left my sore throat behind for a dry, gritty cough.  It’s not serious, just enough to be irritating.  But then, I don’t usually get sick.  My immune system is one of those expensive programs that downloads updates all the time and can catch almost anything before it causes trouble.  So when I get sick, I tend to notice it.  A lot.

I’ve actually been running at less than one hundred percent for a while now.  Last week, before I became infected with viral plague, I was recovering from the removal of my wisdom teeth.  I’m told by my dentist mother that I healed very quickly and cleanly, but it didn’t entirely feel like that to me.  It didn’t help, I suppose, that usually I believe that medicine is for the weak, so once I was taking pain pills and antibiotics three times a day, my body was thrown off its normal rhythms.

I was complaining about this to a very good friend of mine last week.  She has a long-term illness that makes it hard for her to function sometimes, a fact I had forgotten in my need to whine.  When I remembered, I felt bad about it, but she waved it off.  “Everyone takes something for granted,” she said.

It was a simple statement, but it caught at me.  Everyone takes something for granted.  We’re human, and we don’t always focus on the important things.  Even when we do, sometimes something else important slips through the cracks.  Obviously, one of the things I take for granted is good health.  I expect it from myself, and when I do get sick I resent it and complain about it, probably more than I deserve to.  Whereas my friend, who is currently in the hospital, takes serious illness like this in stride and appreciates the days when she can be up and walking around.  Who has the greater level of grace?

Now I know I’m only thinking along these lines because I am currently sick.  Once I’m healthy again, I will probably go on my merry way without even remembering this post.  I’m human.  But for now, I will do what I can to not take my health for granted.  I will let this little head cold—and the memory of my friend’s wisdom—remind me that hey, it could be a whole hell of a lot worse, and I will be grateful that it isn’t.

PS--this was the first link on my dashboard, and was too providential a coincidence for me not to include it.  Read here for someone else who exaggerates the anguish of a bad cold.

A Slacker's Confession

Well, here I am.  The young writer slinking back to her keyboard in shame.  Excuse me while I blow off the dust.  That’s a metaphor—my keyboard has been used more than once in the past month, but not in a way that makes me any less guilty.  I’ll explain that in a moment, but first I have to confess a truth about myself that I haven’t wanted to admit:

I, Eileen Michelle O’Connor, am lazy.

I’ve been very good at rationalizing this.  I’m an excellent worker, I tell myself.  Once I’ve made the decision to do something, I do it, and do it well.  For example, when I moved into my apartment, I decided that Saturday would be my cleaning day.  Having made the decision, I held to it.  Saturday I woke up early, unpacked some of my boxes, cleaned my kitchen and my living room, and put things where they belonged.  It took me a couple hours, but I did it.  Now, however, there is more to be done—I have new furniture now and more places to put things.  But Saturday is my cleaning day, and so I’ve decided that I don’t have to clean now.

Continue rationalization, aka making excuses.  But in school, I protest, I never ever sent in an assignment late, and most of the time it was longer than the requirement.  Yeah, whatever.  So maybe some of the time it was longer than the requirement.  I was a college student, and yes, I did that thing where the five-to-eight-page requirement has me writing a five-page paper.  We’ve all done it.  And my assignments in college were different from my own writing.  Those, I had to do.  I did them not for myself, but for others, so it was easier to get my butt in gear and get down to work.

Now, however, there is no one to tell me what to do.  There’s only myself, and as I sit here thinking about what I’ve done in the past ten days since moving here, I have to concede defeat.  I haven’t done what I should be doing.  I haven’t worked on the writing projects I should, only on the ones I feel like working on, the ones that are easy to write.  I haven’t worked as hard as I should on finding a job (though trust me, the pressure on that one is building).  And let’s not go into how long it’s been since I touched this blog.  What I have done is tool around on Facebook or on Stumbleupon or on Pinterest, all virtual tourist traps if I ever saw them.  Oh, and I'm three seasons into an old sci-fi show I used to love.  Not exactly accomplishments of which to be proud.

Self-discipline is hard.  It’s really hard.  Whenever I don’t really want to do something, I’m really good at coming up with excuses to put it off.  Some of it is fear—I’m uncomfortable with strangers, and just the idea of looking for a job is frightening.  But some of it is just plain old laziness.  Let’s see, I could work on some music, or write my blog, or edit my novel…or I could watch videos online.  ‘Stargate SG-1’ it is.  I’m sure many of you have been in the same position.

Fortunately, I’ve gotten to know myself over the past few years.  There are some things that will help.  For me, the most difficult thing is getting started.  Therefore, if I plan something in advance, I’m much more likely to do it.  Saturday is cleaning; Monday is laundry; Wednesday is errands.  I also find that if you space work with play, the former is less mentally draining, and the latter is less guilt-inducing.  I’ll spend an hour writing this morning while a video loads up online.  Then I’ll watch it, and probably at the same time I’ll flip through my recipe book to decide what I’m going to make on Sunday: multitasking is great, too. 

These tricks are useful, but in the end it comes down to knowing what has to be done and just doing it.  To borrow from the endless wisdom of the internet, I have to “quit slackin’ and make shit happen.”  Because after all, I’m on my own now, almost entirely.  Who’s going to make my day if not me?

Inside the Egg

"Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

This quote comes from a fascinating story I recently discovered on Stumbleupon (which is a wonderful invention, really).  It is called The Egg written by Andy Weir.  It tells the story from the point of view of a Creator speaking directly to a person addressed as “you”.  This person has just died, and the Creator is patiently explaining what is happening and what will happen next.  The person is not going to some spiritual destination outside this world.  As the Creator explains, the only way to go is back into the world, to live another life.  This is because there is only one identity, one person, with many incarnations.  Everyone in the world ever, has only been one person, and every time this person dies, he/she returns to live anew in the world.

This is a very heady thought.  The person in the story seems to think so, as well:

            “Wait. I’m everyone!?”

            “Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.

            “I’m every human being who ever lived?”

            “Or who will ever live, yes.”

            “I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

            “And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.

            “I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.

            “And you’re the millions he killed.”

            “I’m Jesus?”

            “And you’re everyone who followed him.”

The point of all this is for the person, the child of the Creator, to grow and learn.  With each life, the person gains new knowledge and perspective about the world and about the self.  The universe, therefore, is an egg, and when the embryonic person has lived every life there has ever been or ever will be, he/she will be “born.”

It’s a lovely story, and there’s a great deal of truth in it.  One of the things I like very much is the way it is written.  It is dominated by dialogue between the Creator, “I” and the child/embryo, “you.”  This first- and second-person device neatly sidesteps the need to give these two characters an identity.  Not only can the reader step easily into the shoes of the child, but the Creator can be any god-figure that the reader chooses—Allah, or Zeus, or Buddha, or Mother Earth, for the use of first person also eliminates the requirement for a gender.  In addition, with the dialogue, there’s no need of time or place, which are, after all, human ideas that would be of little use outside the world we live in.  So simply by making good choices in his methods of writing, Weir creates the perfect “space” in which to present his idea.

I’m not saying that I literally believe that every person in the world was, is or will be myself.  But metaphorically, the idea that every human being is every other human being has merit.  If we consider the child/embryo identity to be, not a single entity, but the ideal of mankind, then the story takes on a new truth.  Every cruelty we inflict on others undermines the whole of humanity, while every kindness we offer strengthens that ideal and makes it more real.  The only way, then, to really make ourselves into what we could be is to experience and understand the lives of others.

Now, unless the universe really is an egg—and who knows?  Maybe Weir is onto something here—managing this kind of empathy and understanding will be next to impossible.  But I believe that everyone is capable of it.  I believe that the mankind is maturing, that gradually we are learning to look beyond ourselves and discover what it means to be better people.  Maybe, in a hundred years or a thousand, we will have grown enough to be “born.”  And when that happens…well, who can imagine what kind of wondrous things will be possible for us then?