Rantings

So, its Sunday night and I'm in a mood. I wouldn't categorize it as bad, but it's leaning closer that way than it is to good. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's just the daunting prospects Sunday nights usually bring. I have to begin thinking about my week. Ironing my clothes. Planning dinners. Making lunch. Setting up coffee. Trying to get to sleep at a reasonable hour. All those minute tasks that seem to take up so much of my evening.

This Sunday marks the close of a very pleasant weekend. The weather was stunning. Bright blue skies and 70 degrees. I cleaned out my car and drove around with the roof down. There might not be a better feeling than the first convertible ride of the year. It reminds me of waking up after a very long, very boring sleep. Today was spent outside, watching Tom coach soccer. The first win of the season and a delicious lunch. Not too bad.

Kristen, one of my oldest and dearest friends, came up for dinner Saturday night with her boyfriend, Brian. Kristen is a fellow writer-actually she's a big part of my writing roots. We found our voice at the same time, sitting on the floor of Mr. Azarch's writing class, junior year of high school. We liked to think we were defying authority with our dirty stories that could have gotten us into heap loads of trouble. (I think my innocent reputation and quiet appearance was always our saving grace.) Back then, we went for the gut-spilling our teenage angst on the paper.

Kristen followed her dreams to opening her own shop in Jersey City, and like myself began to loose sight of her writing goals. Through my blog and Facebook, we decided to start a small writers group to get our writing back on track. Right now, it's just three of us: Kristen, Melinda, and myself.

I'm hoping having the ideas and inspiration of two fabulous writers and friends will push me forward. I know I need writing as much as I need books and air.

Back to my mood. Tom and I are moving sometime in June. I know this is a major part of my cranky spells. I am a planning-addict. I like to feel like I know what's coming a year in advance. We don't have any sort of plan. We have a lot of ideas, but nothing that feels stable. I know it'll come together, it's just the waiting that kills me. Just like work.

With all the talks about cuts, budgets, and riff letters, its pretty hard not to loose sleep. I'm not tenured. This is technically only my second year. I think I've been doing a pretty good job of looking calm, but really, it would be impossible not to worry a little. There's nothing I can do about it. I do the best I can every day. I try to go above my average duties. I try to make it count. But if it all comes down to money, well, that just makes me sad.

There's so much uncertainty in my life right now. I'm o.k with changes. I feel like I need them at this point, but I want to be sure I'm making all the right changes. That I'm in control of these changes. I'm hoping that the writer's group helps me-gives me a more concrete outlet for my creativity, a little purpose outside of work. I guess we'll see.

I'll keep you posted.

Writing Woes

I'm slowly beginning to over come my writing fears. I started a narrative project and, for the most part, I am enjoying the slow, arduous task of piecing my ideas into story. I do love the feeling of rereading a paragraph I constructed and thinking "wow, I wrote that". However, I don't always elicit such reaction.

Over the years, I've become acutely aware that, at times, I am my own worst enemy. I beat myself up over the smallest failures. Just last night, I was brought to the verge of guilty tears because I had scorched the rice. Often, I hold the guilt for my students failing a vocabulary test, or forgetting to hand in a composition, whether or not it was my fault. I burry myself under tasks and expectations-to be the best possible teacher, girl friend, daughter, friend I can be, and then feeling defeated and injured if I make the slightest mistake.

Writing fits in with these perimeters.

In high school and college, writing was a release. I wrote long winded poems about the winding Pennsylvania roads or cold, New Jersey beaches. I emptied out my broken hearts on the pages of my journals. I felt pure bliss as I wrote beautiful, non-sensical proses on pieces of loose leaf. My favorite nights were spent at an open mic with Melinda at The Uptown Coffee House in Kutztown.

But, like everything else, my feelings towards writing has changed since I've gotten older. Back then, it was like a whimsical love affair. Romantic, passionate, head spinning. Now, well, I'm not sure just how to describe it.

Writing is not as easy anymore. I spend a lot of time scrutinizing my words, obsessing over my unknown readers, and wondering if there's a chance in hell I could get published. It feels impossible to write just for me anymore. I find myself thinking about a market, wondering if the three pages I just wrote are worth anything, if I'm kidding myself completely.

I find that I write slowly these days. I'm working on a young adult story now, and I haven't been able to get past page 4 in a few hours. Truth be told, I've never finished any story I've ever written (except for one or two I wrote for Karen Blomain's short fiction course). When I was 18, my only goal was to publish a book. How am I supposed to do that if I can't even finish 10 pages?

Deep breath. Writing has been my passion as long as I can remember. I just have to remind myself that this isn't about anyone else. I have to remind myself that there's no use in bruising my own ego over a case of writers' block. And sometimes, you have to stop thinking about who's going to read it, and just let the words do their job.