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.

Hours Off

My ultimate goal, right now, is to repair the pot holes and roadblocks that are dirtying up my happiness journey. I will admit that it's been a struggle. If I'm to be perfectly honest, I know that I have a hard time handling any stress. I'm overly emotional. I'm not a good fighter. And sharing my feelings usually ends up with me broken down in tears. I'm impatient. I'm stubborn. I'm a complete worrier.

On the other hand, I've never claimed to be perfect. It's so vital to know yourself, to be truthful with every little particle, hormone, and flaw that come together to make you who you are. I tend to believe, that despite these little quirks, I am a good person. Good deeds make me feel inner joy, so I try to do them often. I think of others before myself as much as I can, especially concerning the ones I love.

It might be because of these traits (both good ones and not-so-lovely ones), that I often neglect my own needs. So tonight, I reclaimed myself.

I went to dinner by myself- indulging in green tea, miso soup, seaweed salad, and a delicious caterpillar roll. I treated myself to a pedicure and manicure (which really I needed-- I'm in my roommates from college's wedding this weekend). I read my book. And thought about no-one and nothing.

Suddenly, the fog that had settled in my mind feels lifted. My shoulders a tad lighter. The knots in my back loosened.

So maybe, as I struggle to clear the road ahead, I need to remember to take a few hours off from my own brain and try to enjoy myself.

Birthdays

I turn 27 tomorrow. Birthdays have always had a strange effect over me. I think it's the very concrete notion of change- even though nothing ever really changes, at least not within the few hours from going to one year to the next. Yet, just knowing I am one year older, one year further away or closer to what-ever, leaves me feeling unsettled.

One of my favorite short stories is "Eleven" by Sandra Cisneros. In it she writes, "What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when

you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four,

and three, and two, and one...

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk

or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one.

That's how being eleven years old is."

So here I am, on the cusp of turning 27, but all of my other years are still nestled inside of me. As a writer I always seem to go back to my sixteenth year and the time I spent in the coffee house in Belmar. Or when I was eighteen, ready to leave for college, feeling like I was already gone, and the hours thinking, staring at the ocean.

I read a poem with my class the other day. The poet said something about writing about the time in your life that was the vividest. Could that be those years I spent trying to figure out who I was and where I belonged? In memory, they always seem black and white, sepia toned and washed out. What about now?

Now. It seems sometimes between working, worrying about money, taking care of a home, trying to rush the next stages, that I loose sight of who I am. Overly emotional, overly sensitive, creative, loving... I need to paint this time, make it vivid.

Where does happiness fit in?

This is my happiness journey. The changes I fear are now the ones I want to embrace. I don't know where the next years will take me and the unknown is unsettling. But there's comfort in knowing that my sixteenth year is still inside me, like the rings inside a tree trunk, helping to shape the years to come.

Another post about moving

So I know I've been on this moving kick for a few blogs now, and I'm sure some people are thinking "Sam, stop with the moving- crap! We know you're not going anywhere!" And this might be true. However, something keeps making me browse move.com, comparing what I get in my beloved state to what I get else where.

The more I think about it, the more I begin to believe that buying a home here might be the dumbest thing we can do. I keep weighing the odds. Friends? Room? Taxes? Schools? Stable job? What are the most important things? I'll let you take a look at what I'm comparing.

For 200,000

3 bedroom, 3 bath 2,724 square feet in Noblesville, In

1 bedroom, 1 bath in Westfield, NJ

I know what my New Jersey friends are thinking: "Sam, that's Westfield!" Of course, Westfield is a super expensive area but even down in Howell I'm probably only going to get a small townhouse, or a single family home with repairs that'll double the cost of the house. I know friends in Jackson spent much more than this on a townhome, though beautiful, has no yard and astronomical taxes. (Ang, coming with me?)

If we buy what we can afford in New Jersey, we'll have to move by the time we have more than 1 child. That is if we can even afford to move. In Indiana, we might be able to buy home and just stay. Not having to move again? That's also pretty tempting.

I know, I know. Pipe dreams right? Maybe, maybe not. The more I think about it, the more tempting this move sounds.

Rules of Engagement

My new years resolution was to stay positive, stay in the present, and stop trying to measure myself to other people's standards. I don't understand why this is so difficult. Really, my life is pretty good. I have a great career, a loving and attractive live-in boyfriend, a big apartment, and a fabulous group of friends. Yet, at times it's as if I'm only capable of seeing what's missing instead of what's there. I see the gaps, the weak spots, and I press on them so hard that they begin to cave in.

I see every other girl in the universe engaged. My left hand remains ringless. And no matter how many times my friends tell me it will come in time- no matter how many times he tells me it'll come in time- all I can see is my bare finger. It's stupid. Ridiculous. I have a boyfriend most girls would kill for. I'm not saying he's perfect, because of course he's not. However, if I'm having a bad day he's the first to tell me to sit down and relax. He always tells me how much he appreciates my home cooked meals, and my attempts at making our first apartment feel like home. And at the same time, when he knows I'm burning out, he's the one making dinner, cleaning up the apartment, doing a bit of laundry (all without being asked). He listens to my detailed accounts of everything. He brings me flowers just because he saw them in Shop Rite and thought of me.

We can talk for hours. We can sit on the couch, tied up in our own worlds, without saying a word and I feel comforted and safe. He can look at me and know my feelings. Touch my neck and measure how I tense I am. At times, he's the only person who can talk any sense into me at all. Yet, still there are days when all I can see is what's not there.

I hear you, it'll come. So I won't be part of the slew of engagement announcements that have decorated this years faculty room. And that's ok. As Tom continues to remind me, we'll have fifty years to be married but only a handful to date.

To Write or Not to Write

I used to consider myself a writer. In high school and college, I always knew I'd create a book-- it was my one goal, my dream. How could I give up on that?

But then, things change. I grew up. Got a job. Realized it takes a lot of time to take care of an apartment, cook dinners, create lesson plans and grade papers- and some how still find time for a social life. And with those realizations, writing began to slip away, slowly at first, and before I really had a chance to think about it, it disappeared completely.

Tom's been getting on my case. "You have a book in you," he tells me, "you just have to write it."

I'm reading this mediocre best-seller. The story is "eh", the writing so-so. It's mellow dramatic and the characters are only half way developed. Laying on the couch with Tom, I look up every few pages to complain. "I could do this," I say.

"So do it," he responds.

But it's not that easy. I recently read The Kite Runner. This book blew me away. I've heard arguments that the story was somewhat cliche, with the smart, noble servant and the weaker privileged boy. However, I feel if you were focusing on the cliche than you missed the point. Khaled Hosseini crafted an amazingly intricate, well woven story. The plot was so rich it stayed with me weeks after finishing it.

Same with To Kill a Mocking Bird. I've read this book so many times that the cover of my paperback copy is starting to rip. I know the story almost by heart, yet every time I delve into it I discover something new, something that amazes me all over again.

And then I think, could I do that? Could I create something so robust, so powerful it clings to the reader? Could I write something so moving it's read over and over again until the pages are almost falling out of the binding? If I can't, if I don't have that sort of talent trapped inside of me, is there a point to even trying?

I know, I know. I'm going against everything I teach. I'm constantly telling my students the only way to get better at writing is to write constantly. If one of my students told me they didn't want to write because they thought they'd never be good enough, I'd lecture them on the benefit of positive thinking, motivation, and the importance of practice. I would never let one of my students just drop their dream for fear of failure.

So what am I doing? Maybe I'll never be Harper Lee or Ernest Hemmingway. But what's stopping me? I'll save you the cliche- you know what will happen if I never try.

The same thing will happen that's happening now... nothing. I don't think I can accept nothing as good enough anymore.