Hypocrite

Artists are hypocrites. This is my most recent revelation.As mentioned in my previous posts, I am having great difficulty following a writing routine. All the books and course concepts say the same thing. Write everyday. Practice makes perfect. Consistency is craft. In fact, these sayings are repeated dozens,if not hundreds of times and then are immediately revoked with a counter argument. Artists will say that you have to make your craft your life, that you need to immerse yourself fully in order to create meaningful art. They will then tell you to ignore this rule and go with the flow. Follow your heart. Take a nap, make pancakes, or watch a sitcom, if you aren't in a creative mood. While I adore my artsy friends and mentors, sometimes their flighty nature can be difficult to underestand. They say one thing and do the opposite. Maybe artists and politicians are more closely connected than previously thought. I guess in the end, the only true way one can be successful in anything she does, is to find what works for her schedule and personality. There is no magic formula. Go with the flow and creativity will come to you. If it doesn't, make pancakes.

Bookworm

I first realized I was a reader in Mrs. Ladd's first grade class. While my commrades stumbled through Arthur books and Frog and Toad, Mrs. Ladd gave me a challenge. Though I no longer recall the title of the book she presented, I do remember it was about a salmon and his trip from stream, to ocean, and back. Knowing I completed and comprehended a chapterbook on my own, at six years old I felt like hot shit. I liked reading and I was good at it. By second grade I was enrolled in a semi-accelerated reading program. I was allowed to leave class and meet my reading group in the hallway to discuss our assigned readings. We read several chapter books, but my favorite was about Harry Houdini. Not only was I encouraged to read fascinating literature, but I also got to work in the hall for twenty minutes a day. If any of you remember your elementary education, you know that working in the hallway is only the most fun thing ever! As I entered upper elementary, I continued to perform well in Reading and Language Arts, but my enthusiasm for books began to slip. I was no longer challenged in the classroom and as a result, my motivation to read outside of school decreased. I was your run of the mill, A/B student who like so many children in this country was neglected  because I was doing well academically, and I was not disruptive in class.

It is important to note that this is all my mother's fault. I know what you are thinking, "sure play the mother card, blame all your failures on her," but this time I am serious. I recently discovered, per my mother, that my third grade teacher (whom I love dearly) suggested that I be placed in a talented and gifted program. My mother, and I guess my father too, decided against it. When I asked for her reasoning over a decade later she told me, "I wanted you to be normal." While I do agree that TAG students can be too mature for their own good, I can't believe my parents didn't want to give me a leg up when it came to education and my ACT scores. I will keep this in mind when choosing their nursing home.

Anyway, the point is that I was not reading for pleasure. The only things that kept me reading were assigned school books and Harry Potter. Bless you J.K. Rowling! Once I got to High School, things didn't improve. The only things that kept me reading were sparknotes and Harry Potter. Bless you J.K Rowling! It wasn't until my senior year of high school and even the beginning of college that I really started to read. At first, I dabbled in your typical beach reads by Jodi Picoult and Nicholas Sparks. Though highly preditable, these repeated plots kept me turning pages. I was reading, wasn't I? That was a huge accomplishment and besides, sometimes you just need a guilty pleasure book. Though I hate to admit it, I must say that Hollywood also deserves some credit for my reading transformation. Since the movie making industry is extremely uncreative, filmmakers are turning beloved books into movies. And because film makers often botch these lovely stories so horribly, I read the books so not as to be dissapointed by the film.

Now that I am a college graduate, I frequently read for leisure. Not only do I read, but I read truly wonderful books. These books come from diverse writers and genres, they are a mix of fiction and nonfiction. They are classic, modern, and everything in between. I keep a book in my bag, a few on my desk, I am never out of reach of a book. Though bookworms often get a bad rap for being, introverted and odd, I adore these compliments. There is nothing more refreshing than sitting on the train, sipping coffee at the local cafe, or curling up in your overstuffed chair with a book and being noticed. It makes you feel intuitve and sexy. When you are a fervent reader, life is good.

If you want to be a fervent reader, and are having great difficulty finding books you enjoy, please consult my list of books read in the last year (in no particular order other than my memory):

1. Bossypants, Tina Fey
2. The Perks of Being A Wallflower, Stephen Chobansky
3. The Hunger Game Trilogy, Stephanie Collins
4. A Long Way Gone, Ishmael Beah
5. Macnolia, A. Van Jordan
6. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith
7. The Glen Rock Book of the Dead, Marion Winik
8. Safekeeping, Abigail Thomas
9. A Three Dog Life, Abigail Thomas
10. You Don't Look Like Anyone I Know, Heather Sellers
11. Reality Hunger, David Shields
12. The Boys I Borrow, Heather Sellers
13. Drinking Girls and Their Dresses, Heather Sellers
14. The Glass Castle, Jeanette Walls
15. Mennonite in A Little Black Dress, Rhoda Janzen
16. Drown, Junot Diaz

Rust

Once again, I have been neglecting my creative craft. I cannot even tell you the last time I sat down to actually write for pleasure. Actually, I can. I am pretty sure my last real writing attempt occurred sometime during the month of May while I was sprawled out like a happy drunk on a bench in Adams Park. Back then, I didn't have a care in the world, and by that, I mean an agenda. I was a freshly graduated, unemployed, and therefore I had time to write. In fact, I devoted whole days to writing, reading, and drinking coffee at the local hippster cafe. Life was bliss. Creating a writing life was not as hard as my writer friends claimed. I was thriving. I had ideas for books, short stories, poems. They came to me in the middle of the night, on bike rides, as I was composing other works. This writing thing was easy.

Eventually reality caught up with me and things started to get complicated within the realm of my writing life. I won't go into great detail, but if you are at all curious please review my last two postings in which I rant about the stresses of life. Although I am reading a fabulous guidebook about writing processes, the truth of the matter is that the guidebook lied. The book claims people can have a really great writing life if they make time to write. That, in the midst of all the crazy they have going on in their lives they can still have it all, but only if they really want it all. Here's the problem with that statement. If you are entertaining children for ten hours a day, coaching for two, preparing and cleaning up meals for three, taking the dog for a walk, and requiring eight hours of sleep so that you  are recharged to start the process again the next day, those remaining ninety minutes are sacred. Sure, I could use them to write and activate the dendrites in my brain, believe me I have tried, but in reality you are so tired from the events of the day that your brain turns to lime jello and you end up falling asleep and drooling all over your journal. This writing thing is hard.

However, there are times during the craziness of life when I get inspired. Even though I have endured a long day, I am determined to write something. This largely has to do with the insane amounts of Irish-Catholic guilt pulsing through my bloodstream. I write because I feel guilty. I feel guilty because people inquire about my work and I have nothing to show for myself, Others complain I have not composed anything for weeks (cough cough...Jake) and I feel like a failure. This feeling of inadequacy is only hightened when I remember that I fell asleep (for the fifth time) while trying to do exercise 36 out of the guidebook. With guild as my inspiration, I am ready to write. This is good, until I sit down to write. Writing is like athletics, you have to train yourself in order to build up endurance. Since I have been taking a couch potato approach to writing, my endurance is lacking. No longer can I sit in Adams Park for hours on end, scribbling away in my journal. Instead, I am tired after ten minutes. Sometimes I don't even make it that long. I am rusty.

When it comes to my current writing life, I feel like a parent trying to relive her glory days when meeting other writing types. My highlight reel goes something like this,  "Oh, you write? Me too! What's that you ask? Am I working on any projects at the moment? Well, no, but when I was younger I sent things for publication. Were they ever published? Well, no, but there was this one time I  performed my poetry for an audience at an art gallery opening, I was hand selected by an award wining author. Oh crap, I pulled something. Will you be a lamb an fetch me some BenGay?" And that is a pretty acurate image of my present self. I guess it is time to light the fire under my butt and wipe the cobwebs away. I gotta get myself back in shape. I have to start writing again, because well, I like to write. So, where is the WD40?

Miss Popularity

I am currently living life in the fast lane. I became popular overnight. The best part about my instant popularity is that I didn't have anything plucked, tucked, or laser beamed off my skin in order to obtain  this superior status. Popularity is actually very simple. The one thing a person needs in order to popular is to refrain from saying "no." If a person is always agreeable, never argumentative, and never looking out for his own interests, he too will be popular overnight.

I am a people pleaser by nature. As a result, I try to do it all, to have it all. I don't like to let people down. I work hard to be a good daughter, a thoughtful friend, and encouraging mentor, a selfless volunteer, and a supportive sister.Unfortunately, in this struggle to be well liked, I neglect my own ambitions and desires. While I was living away from home, I was able to balance my popularity. I frequently said "no." While my actions occasionally let people down,  I was rather content. I did the things I wanted, when I wanted, and I put myself first, for the most part. I was free.

Now, I am stuck back in my old routines. I never say "no." I am agreeable, I am never argumentative, and I am not looking out for my own interests. I do not do the things I want to do, when I want to do them. Rather, I am self sacrificing. I put others before myself.  I am popular. I am what everybody wants to be. But now that I am at the top of the social pyramid, I don't see what all the fuss is about. The view isn't that great.

Amish Nomad

For the past month I have been living like an Amish nomad. With my parents' house on the market, my family is cutting clutter and cutting costs. As a result, our worldly possessions are boxed and stacked in the garage, many items that are still very much used. Posts and pans are packed away along with the toaster and various sweatshirts.  In addition to kitchen appliances and cold weather gear, I am also living without modern conveniences. No television, no internet, and an illusion of air conditioning. What is the point of having AC if it is set for the same temperature inside as outside?

Usually, I would not mind these sacrifices. I am a minimalist by nature. Less is more. But, my crankiness is heightened because I am homeless. I work over forty hours a week, I coach at night, and by the time I am ready to crash in my bed, Dick, Jane, and Spot want to stop in for a viewing. This leaves me to drive around the neighborhoods for an hour, or bum on a friend's couch until I receive the "all clear." Even when I am able to retire at my house, it doesn't feel right. With all the pictures and murals stripped from the walls, I feel like I am in a museum, not a home. My voice echos off the walls. It is not natural. This is not a life.

Reality Hunger

Last year,  David Shields visited my college campus as part of an annual writing series. While attending his lecture, I tried to be an attentive audience member. I scribbled notes in my Moleskin, jotted quotes, and wrote down a few of his publications. After fifteen minutes, my notes turned to doodles. Shields' dry and pompous personality was too much to bear. The more he spoke, the more I wanted to gorge his eyes out of their sockets. He was a complete and utter asshole. When his lecture ended, I thought I was done with Shields forever. But, when I saw his name while prosing the library shelf, curiosity got the best of me. I wanted to know what Shields' was like as a writer and if the whole "asshole" bit was an attempt to seem intellectual and untouchable by the common man. I ended up taking his book, "Reality Hunger," home with me.

"Reality Hunger" is Shield's manifesto about modern culture's desire to experience reality through artistic media. As I read through each lettered section and numbered manifest, I developed a bipolar relationship with Shields. At times I loved him. I wrote down his little quotes about art evolving, telling stories, embracing an artistic life, and making interesting choices. I laughed out loud and praised this man. Then, there were other times I hated Shields, his bluntness and cocky nature. He wrote exactly what he thought, no matter how rude or outrageous. He hates novels due to their "predictability." He names certain writers incompetent. He believes nonfiction rules the literary world. Not to mention his frequent use of the "I am better than you" tone. I wanted to punch him in the face, purely for being a dick.

But, despite my loathing for the evil-pessimistic side of Shields, I have to give the man some credit. He is living his manifesto. He writes what he thinks without filter. He challenges people to defend their opinions. He doesn't make excuses. He values intelligence and beauty. Maybe that is why I hate him so much. He pushes boundaries in ways I cannot, or think I cannot because I am young and inexperienced. Though I have my apprehensions and uncertainties about many things in the world, I will say this: "Reality Hunger" is inspirational and eye-opening. I praise the book unconditionally. However, I still think David Shields is an asshole.

VBS

The twenty-first century woman has a wide variety of contraceptive options  at her fingertips. From spermacides to prescription drugs, modern birth control is all fun without the hassle. At least, that is what the drug companies want you to believe. Contraceptives and birth control are not full-proof. There is always a chance that something can go wrong. After all, these products are man made and therefore imperfect. Though many sources claim abstinence is the only sure-fire way to prevent unwanted pregnancy, these sources are misinformed. Rather, there is another method of birth control that proves to be one hundred percent effective and that, of course, is VBS.

VBS. Vacation Bible School. This week-long program has shared the Holy Gosple with universal youth since the late 1890's. In addition to sharing the good news, VBS programs implement Bible themed games, crafts, and songs within a three hour chunk, five days a week. The best part of VBS is the price. Because the program is a church sponsored event, enrollment is usually free or relatively low cost. This means one thing for parents: cheap babysitting. As a result of  this once-every-summer-deal, VBS programs flourish. Children flock to churches like a wild swarm of locusts. That is, a wild, savage swarm of locusts.

With one hundred pudding smeared faces under one sacred roof, things become a living hell for the suckers registerd as volunteers. Children bounce off the walls, loudly sound their battle cries, and run up and down the hallways without tire. The children mirror the fictional castaways from Lord of the Flies with an added edge of ADHD. After spending fifteen minutes with  a group, volunteers are drained. Children lose their "cute" appeal and transform into demons. Everything becomes a chaotic blur of bright colors and LA Gear light up shoes. Baby teeth turn to fangs. Eventually, prayers for comas are whispered as little, sweaty bodies hang from grown-up limbs. Time ticks slowly. Minutes last for eternity.

When all hope seems lost, the blessed time comes. Twelve o'clock. Noon. Depature. The tykes are wrangled, wresteled into their appropriate booster seats, and whisked away by parents who never worked a VBS. Waving goodbye to the caravan of minivans, volunteers cross their legs and prepare for a chaste life. There is no need for shots, YAZ, or the patch. Volunteer at a VBS and you'll be good for life.