9am-5pm, Serendipity, and Being an Adult

It's been a really long time guys, but please forgive me. I took an unofficial hiatus to clean up the mess that had become the inside of my head. More talk about this later, though, because right now I want to talk about Serendipity and Being an Adult.


Blog written on 5/9/12

So right now I'm sitting in the computer section at Staples waiting for Bee to get lunch break and I'm having one of those moments of clarity where everything that didn't make sense on their own suddenly come together into something whole and the create a very clear picture.

I'm reading a book right now called Boy Meets Boy by: David Levithan and I think the main character Paul explains this moment of clarity the best. He called it Serendipity: "When all the random pieces come together in one wonderful moment."

I got my first real adult job last week at a call center. When I say adult job, I mean that it was a Monday-Friday, 9am-5pm, I-have-to-go-buy-professional-clothes, they have coffee in the break room kind of job. And I got a cubicle.

If you're like me and you've never had a cubicle and you've watched way too many sitcoms based in offices, then you can imagine how exciting the idea of getting a cubicle is. It was like the ultimate validation that I was in fact an Adult, capital A (much more validating that remembering to buy toilet paper and pay my cell phone bill).

But this is where the excitement stops. There's a reason that most people who have a 9-5 and a cubicle look so depressed and tired when the weekend is over and they have to go back to work. Cubicles are tiny gray prisons and the idea of one is more wonderful than the reality of having one can ever be.

Maybe I'm being dramatic. Not everyone who works out of a cubicle is depressed. I'm sure some people love their cubicles. I'm sure some people love the jobs that they do in these cubicles.

Anyway, I worked at a call center. I was the telemarketer that calls you in the morning and harasses you, trying to convince you that "I'm only trying to help you." You don't believe me, I don't believe me. It's like we have an understanding: you'll tell me to go to hell and I won't take it personally.

I think I underestimated this job and how much it would take from my mentally. I mean all I had to do was recite a script. It wasn't that hard. Right?

Wrong. In the week and some that I worked at this call center, I became one of those depressed, tired we just talked about. Too tired to write, too tired to smile or eat, too tired to do anything but cry.

It got to the point where I was sitting in my cubicle, staring at the gray walls through a film of tears and wondering if I could make it through one more call. Just. One. More. Call.

And that leads me to the computer section of Staples.

Quitting my job was easy. It was the part where I was sitting on the bus heading home that was hard, because then I had to think about how I was going to tell Bee and how I was going to have to call my parents and tell them.

I could already hear my dad's voice in my head telling me "You don't have to like your job, you just do it." And when you're a broke young person living on your own this statement has some merit. I couldn't explain to him that it wasn't a matter of liking or not liking my job but a matter of what I was willing to sacrifice for this weekly paycheck.

Was I willing to sacrifice my happiness? 

Maybe. But then the thought of being able to afford my own apartment without roommates and a bed that looks like this makes me happy. Candles make me happy. Books make me happy. Yoga makes me happy. Bee and my friends make me happy. There's so much happy influences in my life that this one unhappy thing seems very tiny in comparison.Suck it up.

Was I willing to sacrifice my time?

Sure. Did it really matter that it takes me 2 hours on public transportation to get to and from work and I go to bed by 9 and am up by 5 and never see my sister, when I have this weekly paycheck that will eventually lead to my own apartment and a bed that looks like this? Okay, so I can't write. I know you have a point, but my roommate turned up the fridge again and my organic-strawberries-that-I-really-couldn't-afford-to-buy-once-much-less-twice are frozen. If I had my own apartment and my own fridge, I'd be eating organic strawberries right now.

Was I willing to sacrifice myself?

No.

I would not compromise on this. No amount of money in the world is worth doing something that feels like it's stealing pieces of you or turning you into the kind of person you don't want to be. When anything you're doing feels like it's chipping away at your spirit, it's time to start doing something else.

This realization was the serendipity that Paul talks about. That one wonderful moment when I understood that this job was like most things in life: an opportunity for growth, a lesson waiting to be seen. The world would not end if I quit. I would not end up living on a park bench and the fumes of my failure if I quit.

Sure, my dad might be disappointed and not understand why I left my job, and Bee would never get that expensive dinner I promised her, and I wouldn't be getting my own apartment as soon as I'd hoped. Not to mention I'd still be eating frozen strawberries.

But you know what, I learned that Being an Adult (capital A) is not about having a 9-5 and a cubicle, it's not about dressing professionally and drinking coffee in a break room and needing these things to validate your independence, it's about making the hard decisions and being able to live with the outcome.

So when life hands you frozen organic strawberries, make a smoothie.

Music: River by: Civil Twilight

Writing For The Sake Of Reading.

I've always loved and hated in equal measures every part of the writing process: the beginning, the end, the editing, the drafting, the plotting, and everything in between. But something has changed for me. I don't love and hate all parts of the writing process in equal measures anymore.

When it comes to working on final drafts, the scale is tipping precariously close to despise/despair.

 I was talking to a friend the other day about how my writing process has changed and even as I said that I didn't really know how true it was. The more serious I become about my writing, the less indulgent it seems.

In the beginning of the story when there's only a few characters and an idea and I'm stumbling through the dark it will always be completely indulgent, only because I know I can fix it later. I don't think that part of my process will change.

The final draft, though, has changed. It's that promise I made in the beginning to fix the story. And unlike my other books, with BIB I now feel compelled to actually fix it. Now I have to trim away the excess and make a story. Suddenly I find myself laying face down on my bedroom floor, listening to Fleet Foxes and thinking about things like  "Plot" and "Character Motivation" and "Pacing" and "Structure."

Words like that make my head ache. The size of my book makes my head ache. The thought of both finishing and not finishing this book makes my head ache.

Part of me wants to go back to writing the way my earlier books were written: full of needless and excessive details and letting my characters kiss in the rain even though it's cheesy and doesn't make sense since it's summer. Part of me wants to go back to writing for the sake of writing. Writing because my sanity depended on it, because I couldn't do anything else, just because.

Another part of me, a much smarter part, the part that's thinking about "Plot" and "Character Motivation" and "Pacing" and "Structure" is shaking her head because she understands and accepts that I don't write for the sake of writing anymore. I write for the sake of reading.

I write the books I want to read and hope that someone else will want to read them too.

What do you write for the sake of: writing or reading?

Food for the brain. I want to hear your thoughts. Happy Almost-Friday everyone. I'm going to turn off Fleet Foxes now and get to work.

Music: "Helplessness Blues" by: Fleet Foxes BIB book one playlist.

Bullet Points for 2012

Today is the only day in the week where everything moves super slowly, even me. Today I can get away with waking up and 11:30AM (not guilt involved) and I can split my one giant cup of morning coffee into two small cups of morning coffee. Plus, Julia Roberts movies and Nora Roberts movies (that were once books) come on in abundance on this day. It's great.


Gray is so sexy.

But this post is not about all the reasons why I love Sunday, nope. Instead it's the first post of the new year (Happy 2012 everybody!) and I feel compelled to start it out right and there's no better way to do that than bullet points.

• First, I have to say sorry. There is a long list of open-ended projects and part 1-but-no-part-2 posts that I never got around to finishing and novel months that ended in failure. And I'm neglecting my blog. How can I call myself a blogger when I don't blog?
• I will fix this. Starting of course, with this post and a not-open-ended promise of more. I may even revamp the blog because really this background is starting to hurt my eyes. 
•  For those of you that loved Where I Go, it is not gone. WIG is simply on a short hiatus because it requires more attention that I have give at the moment. It will be back as soon as I get my act together and it will be great.
• 2012 will have more book reviews because I like books and I like to talk about books and so I should probably stop being lazy and start reviewing books.
• Did I mention that there's an abundance of Julia Roberts movies on Sundays? Runaway bride is coming on right now and I've probably seen this movie 30+ times because when I was little I did not want to be like Barbie. I wanted to be like Julia. Specifically, I wanted to smile like Julia. But poking yourself in the cheeks with unsharpened pencils will not give you dimples, just saying.
• And Richard Gere gave me a certain fondness for guys who go prematurely gray.
• And my favorite playlist at the moment.

I'm almost done with small cup of morning coffee #1 so that's all for now. Happy Sunday.

Creative Research

*Note: this post was written sometime last week when I got a job working with a bunch of petition people with too much energy. You know those people who knock on your door in the middle of dinner and ask you to sign their petition because it's for a good cause? That's them. And you know that person standing behind them with the pained expression? That's me.

I'm dreading going to work today. I started yesterday. I know all the reasons I should be grateful to have a job, the biggest one being that it's so freaking hard to find one nowadays. But it's hard to remember to be grateful when I'm standing on top of a hill in the cold, at night, with a big sign in hand and a heart attack looming.

This reminds me not only how out of shape I am, but that I'd rather be at home clicking through my DVR recordings than power walking up a hill. But I had a revelation standing on that hill. As I stood there thinking about my DVR and mentally writing my will in case my heart really did combust in my chest, a train zipped by on the tracks a few feet away from me. If you've ever stood close to an ongoing train (a fast one), you know what it's like: like the world is shaking and screaming and ending and that question about if the world will end in fire or ice is suddenly redundant because you understand it will end in lights.

It only took a few seconds for the train pass me, but it left me with a thought, a moment of clarity: I had two choices. One, I could stand on top of that hill, huffing and puffing, and hating my job. Or two, I could follow that train with my eyes until it disappeared and then file the whole experience away for later. In fact, I could make my night one big experience to file away for later.

Sure, it was cold and I was tired and I couldn't breathe. But I was also in a part of town I'd never seen before and there was so much to see. There was the train, and over there was a tiny forest of trees, and over there was an alley and an abandoned warehouse.

It's not that hard to figure out which I chose, the huffing and puffing or the "seeing." I'm a writer, and among the many gifts we have or acquire is one gift that I think supersedes the rest. I call it creative research. It's different from regular story research, where you take notes on things like how long rigor mortis takes to set in (three to four hours, and twelve for maximum stiffness; just in case you were wondering. Maybe you weren't.) or eighteenth century weaponry. Creative research is the taking notes on life, usually as it happens.

I can't be the only person who has ever walked into a hospital and started taking mental notes of everything I see: the people staring vacantly at magazines in the waiting room, the kid running up and down the hallway, the really cute male nurses who smile shyly at you when you check out their butts. I can't be the only person who opens the cupboards and drawers near the beds, like I'm taking inventory. So I might press a button or two on the computer when the doctor isn't looking, just to see what's behind the screen saver. Don't pretend like you haven't done it.

The writer part of my brain will milk as much creative research out of a situation as it can. It isn't concerned with the fact that Bee is lying in a hospital bed, drugged up and covered in dirt because she fell off a mountain while biking. I am concerned with this, but the writer part of my brain is not. The writer is wondering how much pain Bee is in and if it can be conveyed in words.

Sometimes I'm ashamed of this. Sometimes I forget how useful it is. Sometimes I love it. But regardless of how I feel about this part of my brain--the part that will try to spin everything into a something that I can use in a story-- I need it too. My writing is better because of it.

I'll probably never enjoy this job, and I'll never smile while I power walk up a hill, and I'll never enjoy carting around a sign as tall as me. But when I think about the train and the alley and the forest and the abandoned warehouse, when I think about how I now have the pictures in my head of what these things look like and can come back to them later, I don't dread tomorrow so much.

Happy Wednesday everyone!

Music: "Chicago" by: Sufjan Stevens

Thoughts on Jellicoe Road by: Melina Marchetta

*My first book review! Tell me what you think!

Book Summary:

"What do you want from me?" he asks. What I want from every person in my life, I want to tell him. More.

Abandoned by her mother on Jellicoe Road when she was eleven, Taylor Markham, now seventeen, is finally being confronted with her past. But as the reluctant leader of her boarding school dorm, there isn't a lot of time for introspection. And while Hannah, the closest adult Taylor has to family, has disappeared, Jonah Griggs is back in town, moody stares and all.

In this absorbing story by Melina Marchetta, nothing is as it seems and every clue leads to more questions as Taylor tries to work out the connection between her mother dumping her, Hannah finding her then and her sudden departure now, a mysterious stranger who once whispered something in her ear, a boy in her dreams, five kids who lived on Jellicoe Road eighteen years ago, and the maddening and magnetic Jonah Griggs, who knows her better than she thinks he does. If Taylor can put together the pieces of her past, she might just be able to change her future.

My Thoughts:

This book kept me awake until 4 AM, huddled in the corner of my bed with my book light, which was dying so fast I had to keep tapping it and squinting at the letters on the page. At some point, I got to page 380 and I just had to get up and dig around my handbag for some AAA batteries because I knew I wasn't going to sleep after a few more pages like I'd promised myself an hour before.

When I picked up this book, I didn't think I'd be sucked in. In fact, I felt a little left out. Between the italicized passages, the lingo, and the territory wars, I couldn't figure out what was going on. The only things that kept me reading were:

 1.) I loved the first line: "My father took one hundred and thirty-two minutes to die. I counted." 

2.) I needed to figure out what was going on.

The first line is provocative (you love it too!). And I needed to figure this book out because it confused me so much. The story of the five kids who lived on Jellicoe Road (Fitz, Narnie, Tate, Webb, and Jude) is so complex that I almost didn't want to understand it, but it was like I didn't have a choice. I needed to understand who these kids were so I could understand Taylor and her life, because those five kids lives' and Taylor's and Jellicoe Road are intertwined; that part is clear from the beginning. It's the why that's unclear.

Melina Marchetta is a genius. The simplicity of her writing is breathtaking. There's no adornments, she is talking about the past and the present, and pain and rage and she's doing it in a way that doesn't make it pretty, but real. Her dialogue is quick and funny, and you might want to be careful reading this book in public because there will be times when you literally throw your head back and laugh (I'm telling you this from experience. People will look at you like you've lost it.) Then there will be times when you want to cry or slam the book shut and never pick it up again.

All this to say that this book is worth buying and reading and should get its own pedestal above your bookshelf. It's one of those books that you don't get, you know it's a good story but you don't get it or why it matters or what's going to happen next. For most of the book you don't get it. Then everything starts to fall into place and when this happens, it's freaking amazing. Honestly guys, I'm still thinking about this book and I finished it a week ago.
 

The Characters and Some Memorable Quotes:

• Anyone who has ever been disappointed one too many times can relate to Taylor Markham. Her character resonated with the cynical side of me, which I loved because sometimes I read books and I don't relate to the character at all. When that happens I always feel like I'm pressing my face up against a glass, watching the story unfold from there.  Anyway, Taylor has issues with wanting more from the people around her and not wanting anything at all, thinking that caring about someone or something was too dangerous. It's understandable, considering how her mother abandoned her at the 7-Eleven on Jellicoe Road.
• Jonah Griggs is a refreshing change in the male leads I've been reading in books lately. Or maybe refreshing is the wrong word. One doesn't think "refreshing" when they think of Jonah Griggs, a Cadet perpetually in his uniform and boots. I doubt anything I can say would do him justice, so I'm going to let him do the talking. Here's a quote from the book, Jonah is basically calling Taylor on her shit:

"If you want romance, go be with Ben Cassidy. Maybe he'll fawn all over you or play a beautiful piece of violin music. I never promised you romance. And stop finding a reason to be angry with me...I just asked if you ate at restaurants."

Where I Go #5: The Zone

by: Maggie Skye

I love The Zone. That moment when reality vanishes around me, and there's nothing but the sights and the sounds of my world. All it takes is a rustle in the room to bring me back to reality, realizing once again how I've totally disappeared.

This is where I go when I write.

Okay, maybe it's not always that picture perfect, but that's a true scenario that happens to me a lot, particularly when I'm drafting.  It’s one of the best things about writing; the ability to not only create a world, but to step inside of it, and leave your own life and problems behind. Just for a bit.

My writing journey began when I was 10. I sat down at a round, wooden table with a sheet of paper and a pen, and proceeded to write the beginning of a story, starting with a princess waking up and getting out of bed (which after about one page, I discarded in favor of a typed-up novel). That’s where it started, and I haven't stopped since.

Most of the time, when I write, it doesn't really matter where I am in person, since ultimately, I'm going to be in my own world. (Well, unless I’m revising. Then I’m probably questioning my decision to be a writer, and likely my sanity.) Living in a family of seven, you learn how to create a space for yourself basically anywhere that's quiet, and (preferably) comfortable.

My spot of choice is usually my bed. It's right by a window (hallelujah! I can’t live without windows!), it's comfortable, and it's mine. I'll also rotate between my desk, the kitchen table, the bonus room, a coffee shop, etc. Wherever I can be that's reasonably comfortable, and reasonably quiet.

When it comes down to it, I think where I write (and why) depends on my age and current living situation. Right now I live with my family, and I'm used to finding the quiet nooks and crannies. Eventually if I go to college, I imagine I'll learn to grab even five minutes to get some writing done. Headphones might become extremely important. (They are already, in cases of coffee shops with obnoxious music or evenings when the family's all at home). One day when I have children of my own, I'll probably write while dinner's in the oven, during nap time; any time I have, really.

The one thing I know through it all, no matter where I am, is that I. MUST. WRITE. It's not a choice. I'm always brimming with ideas and inspiration. It makes me happy, and it makes me feel complete. So wherever life takes me, even if it's by hand in a notebook, I'll ALWAYS be writing one way or another. I'll make a space for myself wherever I am. A space to be comfortable in, until I ease into The Zone, and leave the world behind.

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Maggie Skye is a 17-year-old writer, photographer, and tea-drinker. When she’s not writing or lost in some book or another, she spends her time taking/editing pictures, having adventures, and enjoying anything sweet. She helps run Write On!, a blog for teen writers and readers, and blogs personally HERE. You can always catch her on Twitter (@DancinTravelbug) or via email (lizzy.skyeATgmailDOTcom).

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For more info on this guest submissions series, visit the "Where I Go" submissions page

Choosing To Write

Some writers say that they chose to be writers, that it's not possible for writing to choose them. I've never agreed with this because, quite frankly, writing is hard; so hard that if I'd had a choice, I probably would have gone with something that didn't make me want to poke pencils into my eyeballs, something a little more glamorous.

Maybe I would have been a rockstar, I know at some point I wanted to play the guitar and be in a band. Or do something adventurous and humanitarian like be a philanthropist. I could see myself trekking through the Amazon jungles, looking for exotic plants to cure the common cold. But I'm not. I'm sitting on the floor of my bedroom thinking about my characters even as I type this.

I am a writer.

I don't believe it's that clean cut, just getting up one day and saying, "hey, I'm going to be a writer." But then, it also is, to an extent. That's where it gets confusing. All writers, ultimately have to decide that they are going to write. In fact, I think we have to decide twice.

First, we decide to write.

Then, we decide to keep doing it.

Two choices.

I decided to write when I was nine and sat down to pen my first story. I decided again when I was fifteen and had about 95 half-completed stories under my belt. It's that second decision that counted the most, it's what got me through my first completed novel, as crappy as it was it was done and it was mine.

That second decision drives me everyday. It made me finish a second book and start a third. It keeps me going when I'm sitting in the dark, staring at a blinking cursor with no idea of how to make it move.

With that said, I believe that writing chose me, as it chose you, Other Writer. The ideas come--in the early hours of the morning when we're half asleep, they come during a phone call from a friend asking us to hang out--most of the time when we want nothing to do with them. We don't ask to be nagged by persistent characters caught in love triangles and century old curses, we don't choose that.

What we do choose is the part where we roll out of bed and stomp to the computer before we've even had coffee, where we tell our friends "not today, I'm writing." This is the choice we make, even as we're thinking "Good God, man! Couldn't this damn idea wait until after my alarm went off/after dinner with *insert friend's name* ? They were gonna pay!!"

The writing chooses us, but we have to make the choice to choose it back.

Where I Go #4: Dark Sky, Bright Stars

by: Ellen Faith

The night’s always been mysterious to me. When the sun goes down and the moon takes its place, casting a white glow over my backyard. When creatures scuttle out of their home into the world. It’s like a whole new world after seven pm for me. So I suppose that should explain why I always find it easiest to write at night.

Because when I’m in the dark and I can’t see three or four feet in front of me, my imagination runs wild. Even swimming in the pool at night with its light turned off has me terrified, imagining that there’s going to be a croc stalking me there since it’s a pretty normal thing to happen where I live.

But if the atmosphere isn’t right then the words don’t come out. It’s as simple as that. To write I have to be in the right frame of mind. I have know my characters before I can sit down and write their story, or else their personality is all over the page (seriously!). I have to know where the story is heading each step of the way, or else I go off track. Getting into the right frame of mind is hard sometimes, though when I put these boundaries in place. Especially recently since I haven’t felt like writing at all, even though I know I should be.

Then, one night while I was sitting outside on our swing, I ended up writing almost a thousand words. It felt great. The words kept coming out—like word vomit, but nothing embarrassing. I was writing again and the atmosphere—snuggled in a blanket with my Dalmatian Luna against my legs—was simply perfect. And an owl hooted. That was very much the second highlight of that day after the writing that I did. I love the sound of owls hooting. It truly does add to the atmosphere.

Since I journeyed into writing professionally I’ve learned that even the smallest of sentences about atmosphere can change your story. One sentence about if the air was hot and thick, if the lights were flickering, or even if the street was completely empty can change a scene’s atmosphere. Every little thing affects your writing so it’s important to make sure that when writing you’re not only in the best frame of mind, but that you’re in the right place. At least for me, that is.

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Ellen Faith is a sixteen-year-old Aussie writer, reader and blogger while completing grade eleven (which makes for an interesting schedule). Ellen wants to be published, become a lawyer (in case she doesn’t get published until she’s 80) and travel/live in Europe one day. With her loony Dalmatian and her sanity by her side, she hopes she one day succeeds at all three.


Vist Ellen's blog at writingsmydrug.blogspot.com

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For more info on this guest submissions series, visit the "Where I Go" submissions page



Great & Terrible Things & Making Cupcakes at Midnight

Great thing number 1: I got front bangs.

Terrible thing number 1: I got front bangs.

I've had mild variations of the same hairstyle since middle school; straight and parted a little off the center. Up until recently, I've never had a problem with it. It had been dubbed Brittany's Hairstyle. But then, I started thinking about all the weight I'd lost in the past few months and wouldn't it be great if my hair was as different as my body and my mind suddenly were. I could be a whole new person. Let me just warn you that if you ever find yourself thinking "Wouldn't it be great if I didn't look like old me anymore. Maybe I'll hack my hair off..." you should stop right there, stop before you actually hack your hair off.

The great part in this is that I got what I wanted. I look different. When styled right, I look like someones first grade teacher or that girl next door who will bake you cookies when you're sick (I'm not proud of this, but Bee says it's cute). The terrible part is that my forehead is hot 80% of the time and when my hair is not styled right, I look like an frightened peacock.

Great thing number 2: I have my own apartment!

Terrible thing number 2: Technically, it's not wholly mine because I have roommates!

The great thing about this is pretty self explanatory; I have my own space that I'm paying for with my own money, and even though I finally understand the appeal of Top Ramen to a broke college student, it's still my own place (read: There's nobody to tell me to make my bed!) And my roommates are probably the best roommates I could ask for. One of them is always gone and the other one is too sweet to question why I sit at the kitchen table in my pjs with my laptop for hours.

Great thing number 3: It's my birthday!

Terrible thing number 3: I made my own birthday cake/cupcakes at midnight.

When you make cupcakes and birthday cake at midnight, expect everything to start out wonderfully.

Expect to sing Three Little Birds a total of fifteen times before the first cake is finished mixing. Expect to shove that sucker into the oven whistling in a very arrogant I've-done-this-a-dozen-times-and-it's-gonna-be-awesome way. Expect everything to go downhill from there.

The whipping cream you bought will turn out to be crappy so there will be no coffee almond filling that rivals clouds. You'll move onto plan B and make coffee almond butter cream icing instead. This will taste nothing like you expect it to. It may taste like toffee, it may taste like the butter in your butter cream wasn't whipped out enough, it may taste like a mystery; you haven't figured it out yet.

The cupcakes will look like this:

but taste better. If you close your eyes and eat them, you will almost be able to convince yourself that the $65 you spent on ingredients was worth it. You will not be ashamed of your epic failure, but you also will not offer anyone a piece.

Then, at some point, maybe around 4am you'll be reminded that you are lactose intolerant. Expect to wonder if you should kill the birthday tradition of making your own birthday cake.

But don't be discouraged, one thing you cook today will turn out perfectly:

It feels good to be 18.

Listening to: Boy With A Coin by: Iron & Wine

Where I Go #3: How To Be Alone

by: Becca Christiansen

The question of where I go to write is more complicated than a matter of physical location. It has a lot to do with my age and what stage of my life I’m at, and the steps I’ve taken to get here.

I wrote my first novels when I was twelve, and at those ages I would stay up until ungodly hours in the morning, typing away madly at my dad’s computer in his basement office. I wasn’t allowed to be down there, but since I was so gripped by stories I had no choice but to pound out the words any time I could grab a spare moment alone.

I started writing seriously when I was fourteen. I’ve been a writer since I learned how to form words with a big, red Kindergarten pencil, but fourteen is the age I began to commit to it. No more stolen hours at Dad’s computer for me. I stopped writing by computer and started writing longhand. When I think back on that, it boggles my mind. I wrote seven novels by hand, on loose-leaf paper borrowed from my school binders. Seven! While my hand aches just thinking about attempting this now, at the time it made sense. I had to write whenever I could, and writing by hand meant it was portable.

And so I became The Girl Who Writes Stories. I had a yellow folder full of pages of scribbles, and I never went anywhere without it. I wrote underneath my schoolbooks in class, I wrote on buses to field trips, I wrote all the time. Only an hour or so after school would I really sit down specifically to write, but the words accumulated anyway from my stolen moments during the day.

My schoolwork suffered. I almost failed a few courses in grade nine because I spent all my time and energy writing. I also was a whole lot less social than most kids my age. Instead of going out to parties with friends, I stayed in and played with the people inside my head.
If you want to be a serious writer, that is one skill you have to perfect: the ability to be alone. No matter whether you’re writing in a coffee shop, library, or in your own bedroom, you have to have the drive, determination, and focus to be able to be by yourself for long stretches of time.

There’s a reason most of us writers are introverts. We draw our energy from our time alone, rather than from socializing, and writing is the perfect opportunity to close a door and tell the world, “I’m busy, don’t bother me.”

These days, I write and live in a tiny, messy bedroom in my family’s home. I’ll be turning twenty next month, but I’m still living with my parents, and plan to for some time yet. At my age and income level, living on my own would mean living with roommates, and with roommates, I’m not guaranteed the time alone to write that I can get now. Roommates may not understand my need to be in solitary confinement for large portions of the day. They might worry about me and contemplate calling the local psych hospital. At home, with family that understands my strange habits, I’m safe to close the door, retreat into myself, and create.

Because even though the ability to be alone is crucial, it’s also important to have a family that is there for you when you need to socialize -- and understands that socialization, for crazy writer-types, tends to happen in manic bursts of desire to play board games all night long.

**

Becca Christiansen is a 19-year-old YA writer and blogger. She is Canadian and, by default, a rabid hockey fan. Visit her blog at nerdgirlreadsandwrites.blogspot.com

**

For more info on this guest submissions series, visit the "Where I Go" submissions page

A Week of Silence

It feels like a year since my laptop died, but really it's only been a week. The other day I asked my mom what she did back in her day (she hates when I call it that) when they didn't have computers and dinosaurs roamed the land (she hates that one too). She said, "I read."

I don't get it. I read too, but no matter how much I love books (which is quite a lot) they couldn't replace my need for blogs or twitter or email! I need a daily consumption of all--preferably in that exact order--to get by. And don't get me started on Word. Really don't. I miss it too much and the thought of it makes me want to cry with longing. Whoever invented pen and paper should be slapped.

But, this post is not about writing longhand or my vendetta against it or about how much I love the Internet. I'm dropping by to let you know that I haven't forgotten you. My week of silence has given me a lot of thinking time which means I have a lot of goodies to post, including (but not limited to) my first day of college, novel month, and 2 Where I Go submissions that I'm insanely excited about.

Novel Month Day 6

Day Six

10:35pm

I'm having a hard time balancing my writing life and my regular day-to-day life. Usually, this problem is very familiar and kind of expected, and I deal with it. But lately, this problem seems amplified by a million. There's a cruel balance between writing life and real life, and even though I know this I've seemed to lost the knack of getting it right.

The last time this happened to me, I was working on the final draft of my first completed novel. That was December of 09 and I started querying in February of 2010. I remember spending nine hour days working on that novel. I was writing in a bathroom at the time, sitting on the toilet with my laptop on a plastic hamper between my knees. I spent all day hunched over that hamper, breathing in my own stale air, lost in the words on the page and a dozen tea cups by my feet. I was as obsessed with my story and getting it done as I'd ever been.

I feel the same way now, like I'm more grounded in my story than in the real world. And if I could carve out nine free hours, I would spend them sitting in my hotel room with my back against a wall and my laptop on my knees, writing until I reached "The End."

This seems to be my process when I'm getting close to the end of a book.

So, my point is a question: When you're close to the finish line, does your writing process change, and if it does, does it conflict with your everyday life?

Novel Month Day 3

Day Three

9:35pm

Have you ever written a scene for your characters that you knew wasn't really for them, but was for you? That's the problem that I'm facing right now. I know that in the end, this scene will be cut but I really want to write it. A part of me feels like I need to write it in order to get my mind caught up to where my characters are. But another part of me feels like that sort of indulgence is just that: an indulgence, one I can't afford today.

Every single word takes a little more out of me today. All my energy has been poured into packing and more packing and then registering for classes and a whole list of other things that I don't have the energy to get into. So, only 475 words were written today, all of which have substance and are not indulgent. My characters are happy but I'm still thinking about that scene like it's a cake batter ice cream cone on a hot day.

I think I'll indulge myself on the car ride back to Southern Cali. Or maybe when I get to the hotel. Or maybe I wont.

Music I'm listening to: "Home" by: Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros

**If you haven't read Aleeza's "Where I Go" submission, go read it now!! It's inspiring and full of pictures.

Where I Go #2: Writerly Spaces

by: Aleeza

So, writing spaces. I’ve always wished for one of my own—an actual writing space, where I sit down every day to write, where I store all things writerly, notes and books and whatnot. In my mind, it looks more or less like this:

But since I’m a teenager living with my parents and three siblings, that’s exactly what that is: a wish. Instead, I don’t actually have a specific writing space. I write mostly wherever I can, which most of the time includes one of these three places:

My little brother’s room (we call it his room, though all of us are always lounging there), where the desktop is located:

My own bed:

The drawing room:

Yeah, not exactly ‘luxurious.’ But that’s the thing: when I write, where I write doesn’t matter that much to me. It’s what I’m feeling while I’m writing that matters. Happy, sad, angry, etc. I find it incredibly important to be in the character’s head while I write, and as long as I’m doing that, it doesn’t always affect me.

That’s not to say it doesn’t affect me at all. The weather, for one thing, is a really important factor. Here’s one thing about me: I do not function well in heat. In fact, I turn into a monster-version of myself when I’m too hot. As I live in Karachi, Pakistan, which is really humid most of the time, combined with the fact that my apartment doesn’t have air-conditioning, this can become a bit of a problem at times.

When it’s cold, though, writing becomes a lot more fun. Winter just creates this atmosphere for me, one of comfort, one that just always boosts my spirits.

All in all, I have to say, when it comes to writing spaces, I’m pretty choiceless. But I still keep on writing, because that’s just what I do. I could never let my surroundings limit me—unless if I lived in some jungle and always had to be on high alert, maybe. Jokes aside, though, one day I hope I’m able to carve out a neat writing space for myself, that, even if not high-maintenance, is at least organized and, well, writerly! Like this one, for example:

(If you’re wondering, yes, I do have a bit of an obsession with author’s writing room. I just find it very interesting, and I like dreaming of owning a place similar to it.

**

Aleeza is a 17-year-old Pakistani-American YA writer & avid reader. She loves libraries, cricket, Pepsi & Gatorade, long drives, NEW ZEALAND!, among lots of other stuff. She's aiming to become an accountant in case her novels don’t bring in sufficient income. 

To read more from Aleeza, visit her blog Aleeza reads and writes

**

For more info on this guest submission series, visit the "Where I Go" submissions page 

Novel Month Day 2

Day Two

10:02pm

I've spent most of today packing and cleaning. I am officially moving out, going off on my own, starting a new chapter of life...or any other cliche you can think of that emphasizes the fact that I am leaving the nest.Tomorrow is road trip day and I'm excited, even though I know that means I'll have to wake up extra early if I want to get my writing done before we leave.

I haven't written anything today besides this blog post. I keep thinking about how I should be writing, but I can't seem to make myself actually go do it. It seems like there's so many other things, more important things to be doing. If I'm being honest with myself, I can admit that most days there are a million other things (sometimes "more important" things) I could be doing instead of writing, that I probably should be doing instead of writing. The days where there's absolutely nothing that demands your attention but the story are few and far between.

Most days are about sacrificing something for your writing; an episode of True Blood for one chapter, exercise for a few hundred words, a day on the beach with your friends for one sentence of utter brilliance. Sometimes, even food gets pushed to the back-burner.

So, if I'm being honest with myself, I can admit that today is no different than yesterday or the day before. The only thing keeping me from writing is me. Tonight, I think I can sacrifice that hour I was going to spend watching Suits for a few hundred words.

Novel Month Day 1

Day One

2:05pm

I'm going to finish my novel this month. That sounds more profound that it actually is.

I've been working on The Book That Wont End for over a year. This is the longest it has ever taken me to write a book and maybe that's why I'm starting to get a little antsy. I was hesitant to start this book because I knew how hard it would be to write. And it is. It's hard every single day. Writing this book is new on so many levels. There are so many things that I've learned or am learning. I'm a Contemporary writer writing an Urban Fantasy. The doubt that I'm cut out to write this book never goes away. A part of me wishes I could give it to someone else and let them finish it; another part of me understands that no one would be able to write TBTWE the way I will, not because I think I'm the epitome of writerly brilliance, but because this is my story and no one else can see the vision of it that I do.

I'm starting Novel Month with 38,000+ words and hoping I'll be able to get to 90,000 by the end of the month. Okay, maybe it is a little profound, for me anyway. That means I'll be writing a minimum of 1,500 words a day. I'm not sure how I'll manage to do this, I just know that I have to try.

Music I'm listening to: "My One And Only Thrill" by Melody Gardot



Things to Think About

1.) How to Become a Writer Or, Have You Earned This Cliche? by: Lorrie Moore.

2.) Amy Winehouse. Enough said. I haven't listened to Back To Black in years and I've spent most of today  playing all ten tracks on repeat, feeling like crying because I just realized how much I wanted the next album, the one that will never come.

3.) I'm gonna need you to fight me on this: How Violent Sex Helped Ease My PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) by reporter Mac Mcclelland.

4.) "On Being Paki-American" by: Aleeza

Have a great weekend everyone.

Where I Go #1: Everywhere

by: Gracie

I went for a bike ride the other day.

As I rode down the streets behind my dad and brother, tires whizzing along the pavement, I soaked in my surroundings (along with the raindrops that had just begun to fall from the sky). We rode on the winding path next to the creek in the area near my house. I marvelled at the large cattails that grew in large patches in the mud next to the creek. They were beautiful stalks, bending gently as one in the wind. We rode past a once completely flooded field, now dried up to a large puddle and dead, yellow grass. I breathed in deeply the distinctly swampy scent that the field gave off. It reminded me of the marsh at the lake I went to for a week each summer.

I took note of all these thoughts, feelings and senses as I pedaled, soaking wet, up the driveway to my house.

Out in the world. That is where I write.

I know that, technically, I’m not continuously scribbling endless paragraphs of stories everywhere I go. But I am gathering scenes, characters, bits and pieces of stories, everywhere I go. And that’s the important stuff, anyway, the stuff that is the clay I mold my writing out of.

I’ll be sitting in the car, waiting for my mom, and across the parking lot I’ll spot a man in an old, pale yellow truck. My imagination starts up and my brain is filled with questions: Is he waiting for someone? His wife, maybe? What’s his wife like? Why is the hood of his car up? Is it broken? Later, this scene will be incorporated into the actual words I type out on my computer.

For me, where I go to do the physical act of writing (or, typing, really) doesn’t matter as much. Usually I’m just on my bed or at my cluttered desk in the basement (or “dungeon” as I like to call it).

The magic really happens when I’m out in the world, living life. Taking people, events and places and then, from that, creating my own, unique story. With just a little bit of complete imagination thrown in too, of
course. ;)

**

Gracie is a 17-year-old writer, reader and blogger who likes using pennames on the internet. ;) She's dreamed of becoming an author ever since she can remember, and has been writing since then along with trying to get published in teen writers' mags and win writing contests. (She has been successful twice so far). She lives in Canada with her quirky family and two cats.

To read more from Gracie visit her blog at I Am Writer...Hear Me Roar

**

For more info on this guest submissions series, visit the "Where I Go" Submissions page.

Online School vs. Traditional Schooling Part I

"When I told my friends I was going to online school they were confused. They couldn't understand why I would want to subject myself to that type of isolation..."

This quote was said by the valedictorian of my high school during the speech she gave at our graduation. She was standing in front of the podium in the shapeless navy blue gown that we were all forced to wear. The graduating class of 2011 formed the backdrop behind her as she smiled at the 70-something parents and family members sitting in the auditorium seats below the stage.

There was a sense of kinship between the graduates that day, and not because we were wearing the same cap and gown. We'd never seen each other's faces or sat at a table together to eat lunch. We'd never gone to parties together or passed notes in the back of a classroom. We'd never done any of the things that "normal" teens were supposed to do with each other during those four years of high school that seem to last forever and not long enough. But despite that, we knew each. All of us were bound together in a way that only similar experiences bind people. We understood what sitting on that stage in our cap and gown meant and that was enough to make us into a secret society.

I started out high school in the traditional way: I went to public school with the kids I'd known since middle school. My Freshman year went by in a flurry of Taco-Bell scented ignorance, peer pressure, and a big shrug to all things related to homework or tests or good grades. I was caught up in the new sense of freedom that high school provided, and spent too much time (more than I like to admit) ditching school to do things I shouldn't have been doing.

I've come to think of my Freshman year as all four years of high school packed into one. Every single perk and downside of traditional high school that one can experience, I experienced then. If I didn't have Bee to keep a leash on me and rein me in when I got out of control I don't know what kind of situations I would have gotten myself into. She was the voice of reason.

The summer before Sophomore year, I started to dread going back to all of that. I didn't want to get sucked back into a world that seemed separate from reality. I wanted to slow down, to understand...something, some part of a bigger picture I was missing; or maybe just my place in it. I would never have thought online school was an option because I didn't even know it existed. The idea of going to a high school based solely on the Internet seemed too good to be true even as the idea of isolation from my friends was cripplingly lonely.

It was Bee who found it out about it just a few days before school was due to start back up.

My family likes to joke that Bee can sell ice to an Eskimo. She probably could, too. She convinced my mom that we needed to give online school a try on the day we were shopping for school supplies to go back to school. This was a pivotal moment. My mother could have easily said no, and I still don't completely understand why she didn't, I just know that it was the best decision she could have made. It was the best decision I could have made by signing up.

Sitting on that stage, that's what all of us knew, me and Bee and our classmates. We knew that going to online school was the best decision we could have made. We weren't isolating ourselves, we were making the decision, for whatever reason(s), to give ourselves space; space to grow, and think, and learn. We were finding our place in a bigger picture.

Music I'm listening to: "Misguided Ghosts" by Paramore

Tomorrows: Endless, yes. Scary, maybe.

High school ended for me on June 14th, and since then I have been sitting in my living room watching all the Hulu my little heart (and eyes) can take. I've fallen in an obsessive love affair with Glee, I've taken a trip back in time to Grey's Anatomy's season one, I've been pulled deeper and deeper into the mystery that is Lost.

This is what I do. In the midst of all this, there is a shower, maybe even a hair brush if I'm feeling lucky, and a little writing on the side. I am okay with this routine...or, I was.

A few nights ago, I was meditating, searching for some burst of latent inspiration when I found something else. Often times when you look that deeply into yourself, you never find what it is that you're hoping you will. I know this, but I was still surprised. Instead of finding the solution to a tricky scene in my story, I found fear. A crippling, paralyzing fear. The kind that looms over you, and you just stand still, knowing it will hit any minute now but hoping like hell that it wont.

So what was I afraid of?

I sat in my dark, little office for an hour, legs crossed half lotus, thumb and index finger touching in wisdom, eyes closed. I separated myself from the nonsense chatter in my mind, and waited...and waited...

...and waited...

Eventually, the tension fell out of my neck and hips, even as my legs fell asleep. But that pain was secondary to the fear in my chest. It's instinctive to want to push that much fear away from yourself. Who in their right mind would want to sit down in the center of it?

Obviously I wasn't in my right mind, because I was pointing my finger at it and saying "Yeah, you, c'mere!" 

It did come come, right when I was ready to give up. And again, it just wasn't what I expected. I'm always afraid that I won't succeed, not just in my writing, but in every aspect of my life; that I won't live the best life I possibly can. I'm also afraid of spiders, and heights, and drowning.

But I didn't find any of those fears. I found a fear of change, of how fast everything in my life was changing, faster than I could comprehend, faster than I'd thought possible a month ago.


 Before graduation, I was insane with anticipation. I was going out into the real world, it was finally my time. Post graduation, the possibilities stretched endlessly before me. And I was, am, afraid; of tomorrow, of the day after, of making my next move, of not making it, of making it too early or too late. The fears of my future are endless, and it was these fears that had me hiding away.

Uncertainty was suffocating me.

When I opened my eyes and uncrossed my legs, I felt like I was waking up from a really long sleep, weeks of deep sleep. I was still scared, but today when I looked at myself in the mirror, I told myself that it was okay. Yes, everyone, I did talk to myself. I said, "It's okay. You're afraid and it's OKAY." I also told myself to stop looking at the uncertainty of the future as something apocalyptic and daunting. Those same endless possibilities that frighten you should excite you. You can make a mistake tomorrow and fix it the day after. You can cry like your world in ending today and tomorrow you can smile until your cheeks snap in two. There is no telling what tomorrow brings, and it's so exhausting to spend today stressing about it. In fact, it doesn't even make sense.

So, instead of slapping your hands over your eyes (like I did) and hiding away, you should embrace tomorrow with wide eyes and open arms. Give it a big hug and a sloppy kiss.

There's someone out there right now who is just as scared as I am, or was, and I'm not telling you that you need to meditate for an hour in order to recognize this fear and deal with it. I'm telling you to take it a step further: get off the couch, brush your hair, and smile, carry on with your day instead of hiding from it, know that it's okay, that you'll be okay. That's all it takes to make the most of today. And if you get up tomorrow and do the same thing, you'll be making the most of that day too. That's the future: endless, yes. Scary, maybe. But one day at a time, it isn't so impossible to comprehend.

PS: Sorry for staying away so long.