Did I mention that I was quitting my job? Well, yesterday was my last day. After two years of surprisingly physically demanding work with little to no confidence about the amount of hours I'd earn each week, it's finally time for a change.
So today is officially my first day of freedom! Yesterday after work nearly everyone I knew from our project came to celebrate with me at the bar. It was a brilliant evening, and I pretty much wanted to cry the entire way home afterwards. I love my (former) coworkers beyond measure. They are beautiful, wonderful people who made every day I spent with them better. No exaggeration. I couldn't have lasted at that job nearly as long without them. Thankfully, I only live an hour away so it's not impossible for me to see them again.
Plus they got me this awesome present:
Foxes! They know me so well.
So what have I done with Day One?
Woke up late feeling surprisingly okay considering what I drank at the bar. Lounged around then went and got a huge breakfast with The Boy. Did some shopping because - haven't you heard? - the Frankenstorm is coming. (Yeah right.) We came home and watched some of a Harry Potter movie. Then I made dinner (hahahaha! yeah, I made ramen) and now he's playing D&D and I'm blogging.
Don't I have the best life EVER?
Well, it's about to get a lot better. There will be ongoing reports - unless Frankie, er, Sandy knocks the power out. Ciao, bellas!
Gloomy weather today. I'm glad for it because it means I'm not currently staggering through the woods on little sleep and wondering when the day will be over. (Wow, that sounds weird if you don't know the context.) So I get to write all day! Good, because I haven't been doing as much of that lately as I'd like to be.
This week has sucked. Feeling physically horrible - though yesterday things turned around a bit. And Wednesday night in particular my brain decided to do that INTP typical torture itself thing. So I pulled out my typewriter and decided to use it to write in bed for awhile to figure out exactly what the hell my problem is. It didn't go great. I covered a lot of white space with words, but I don't think it really meant anything. I hate when that happens.
Today though, I am swimming through my fictional worlds with my muse at my side. I love it when he decides to grace me with his constant presence. So I thought I'd make a little update so you all could know what I'm working on.
Luca has trained with the Southern Sun Sages for as long as he can
remember. Someday soon he hopes to become a full member of their order,
pledging his life to the service of the ancient and eternal Sun God.
Kai is the oldest of seven brothers and sisters. Living on the edge
of the Sun Lands, all her family has ever known is strife and the
struggle to stay alive in a harsh landscape. With her parents and
extended family tending to their failing farm, Kai does all she can to
bring in food from hunting in the nearby forest - a place few dare to
venture.
When Luca shares his vision of a young peasant woman, his masters
reveal that his destiny is much different from that of the priest he
hoped to become.
With her family's lives in the balance, the Sun Sages convince Kai to
accompany Luca on a journey to the ruins of the Moon Kingdom. All they
know is that they seek a grave... The grave of the Moon Goddess.
That would be the basic introduction of the YA fantasy I'm working on right now (The Grave of the Goddess - shocking title, I know). And here's a little summary of what I plan to do for NaNo - a chick lit novel called Solemn Vow:
Melanie Fitzgerald is perfectly happy. And why shouldn't she be? She has
a loving husband, plenty of friends, and a great blog. But when she
strikes up a friendship with a one of her fellow bloggers, suddenly
she's questioning things she thought she decided long ago. As the
friendship moves toward something more, Melanie's perfect little world
starts to crack.
I've got all kinds of characters for it so far, but not much in the way of a concrete plot. Of course, I've always been more of a "flying by the seat of my pants" NaNo-er, but I've also only won 3 out of the 7 times I've played this game, so..... No, this is my year! I'm gonna rock it out. I've even considered working on both this and Grave of the Goddess next month. I'm so embroiled in the fantasy right now, that I can't imagine it all just evaporating on the first.
It is definitely my favorite time of year. All of the trees are exploding with color. Fog and rain are normal weather. I can wear jackets and curl up in oversize sweaters and wear scarves again. Soup is back on the menu.
And all of the novelists on the Internet are gathering in one place.
I'm so happy that I got my writing mojo back before this season hit. Now I'm fully geared up for National Novel Writing Month (November!) in addition to writing a pretty little YA fantasy this month.
Anyway, just dropping by to say - NaNoWriMo 2012: do it up!
Thursday night. Here I sit. Cheap desk. Cheap white wine - Simply Naked Pinot Grigio. Notebook, paper, and purple pen. Laptop. And loads of books. Poetry, philosophy, books on writing, books on names, books on tarot, books on depression. This is what I choose to be closest to me.
Cat scratching at the door. But I've locked her out because in here is my world of fantasy and there's no room for tigers like her. I only have room for loud music and words. Piles and oodles and heaps of words. Glorious words. Melodramatic words. Poignant words. Enthusiastic and insane words.
So, no, I'm not cool. I'm not at the club. I don't have a roomful of friends laughing at something I just said. I'm not drinking beer in a bar and watching the ball game. (Though I do have the updates flashing on my phone!)
Instead, I'm the slave to a vulpine muse. I'm tethered to a lighthouse full of people only I've met. And I'm happy.
Now that the boy and I are all moved in to our new place and I've gotten used to commuting two hours a day, I have been trying to focus more on my new fitness goals. It's difficult, but not quite as difficult as I thought it might be. Reason number one for that might be that I decided to give myself some rewards to work toward. More about these later.
My wonderful mother also sent me a FitBit Ultra! This little device is an amazing resource. Wear it during the day and it tracks how many steps you take, how many flights of stairs you walk up, how many calories you've burned, and how many miles you've walked. Wear it at night and it will tell you how long you slept and how many times you woke up during the night (a.k.a. how much you really slept). The Ultra model even gives you personalized messages (No donut!) as well as working as a clock and giving you a progress bar during the day to let you know how active you've been.It keeps all of this information so you can review it by day, by week, and by month. The FitBit has been a great motivator for walking a bit more than normal... Taking stairs instead of escalators... Get to bed earlier... I love it and can't recommend it more, although it is a tad bit pricey.
I've been keeping a food journal as well. Writing down every bite I eat, and as much of what I can drink that I remember. (Honestly, it's harder than you think to remember every glass of water.) I started out doing this on my phone with the FitBit app and the MyFitnessPal app - both of which will count the calories of food you enter. This has proved a bit too cumbersome for my tastes however and I have switched to using my aforementioned Star Wars moleskine. Another great motivator for leaving food on my plate and not reaching for the cookies I know are in the cupboard. It's also been a good place to keep track of my various moods, headaches, and work outs. I'm starting to see a serious relationship between how active I am and how good I feel. And I've noticed that starting my day with protein usually goes a lot smoother than starting it with carbs. Innnnnnteressting.
Today I discovered a local rail trail. Since it rained like the dickens this morning (and work got canceled) I went to check it out and ended up walking three miles through beautiful woods both rural and urban. Even shared a few nice words with a cute elderly couple. It was glorious! I think I'll start walking it every day. Maybe bring my bike down. Eventually start running on it. Tomorrow I'll go check out the other half and see if it's just as good.
If my scale can be believed, I've lost at least one pound so far. That's one down and many to go. My first reward comes when my scale reliably puts me below 170 every time. I'm going to post a separate page to keep track of my progress and rewards. Feel free to drop by with any input and/or encouragement!
Holy dairy cows, the past couple weeks (read: two months) have been crazy.
I went through the whole moving process - that took about a month total of looking for a place, signing a lease, packing, moving, and now we're still in the process of settling in. I've given up two hours of my days to driving back and forth from work which is just fun.
And I'm still struggling to write. I've been journaling a lot more... though not in my usual detail or with any of my usual - a-hem - flair. And obviously I've been neglectful of this blog (as well as two others). It's an uphill battle as they say.
At least I'm up in New Hampshire for the weekend. Wonderful family times can't be beat. Good for recharging, etc. I need it after this week in particular. I got stung by a bee for the first time in about twenty years. No anaphylactic shock, but my finger did swell up to a glorious size for three days. Cue me going into a Benadryl induced coma and losing a bunch of time. No writing. No working. No exercise. Zero progress - unless you count healing insect damage.
My motivation for everything in still high, though I feel pretty frustrated. I've been quite good about keeping my food and fitness journal (it's a Star Wars moleskine that I titled "How to Become a Jedi Like Luke Skywalker"). I've been writing something... almost every day. Even when it's only 100 words. And I've been thinking about my writing almost non-stop. I pulled out a couple of old books: How to Write A Damn Good Novel by James Frey and Bird By Bird by Annie Lamott.
They both, of course, have sections addressing the problem of writer's block. Typical stuff, but good to hear. It happens to everyone, blah blah. Don't let it stop you, blah blah. If you're a writer, you'll figure out a a way through it, blah blah. Mostly it's a matter of hitting your head on the keyboard until something falls out.
Anyway, that's what's up with me for now. What up with all of you? Any of you who stop by and read this at point or another, that is....
Ever since I graduated college, I feel as though I've been on a bit of a downward spiral in terms of my health.
I've always had (what I consider) stupid-weird health problems. I have anxiety-related nausea that can be crippling. I have poor blood circulation. My feet are flat. My eyesight, especially in the dark, is much less than perfect. I get migraines. I am prone to random bouts of depression. Two winters ago, I had vertigo for three weeks. Stupid-weird problems. I can deal with all of them with various degrees of success, but there is one issue that I absolutely refuse to put up with anymore.
My weight.
Looking at my BMI right now, I'm definitely on the dangerous side of overweight where you don't want to cross into the next territory. This number aside (which, after all, is just a number) for the past two years I have been feeling the awful effects of being overweight. I'm tired more often. My clothes don't fit. I hate how I look in pictures. I feel bloated. I have regular digestive issues that I had never had to deal with before. Etc etc. This is the first time in my life (since I was maybe 12 or 13) that I don't like the way I look, and I tend to go out of my way to avoid facing that fact.
The worst part of all of this is, of course, that it's entirely within my control and of my own doing. I mean, for the first year or so that my metabolism evened out from its post-teenagery blaze, maybe I could have a pass for figuring out what my new normal is. But now that it's two or three years past that? No more excuses. This is now a matter of self-control.
So here it is. I want to lose forty pounds by the time I turn 26 next March. I think this is a pretty reasonable goal. And I'm going to do it smart. Focus on eliminating the bad parts of my diet (Wendy's, I am looking at you!), and adding in a hell of a lot more exercise. That's my biggest problem, I think. I eat relatively well most of the time - though I could use a lesson in portion control. But I do not go out and sweat my ass off nearly often enough. I have blamed this on my job for a long time (which is peculiarly exhausting), but I don't want to do that anymore. There really is no excuse in this century with all of the infinite resources at our fingertips for not doing something about a weight issue if you have an issue with it!
Our new apartment complex has a pool - blam! I can do laps and other fun pool things without breaking a sweat. Good for after work too. There's also an awesome rail trail nearby that I can use for walking and running. I want so desperately to be one of those toned women running in a sports bra and compression shorts. I need to take advantage of my yoga and tai chi and bellydance dvds too. I might even give in and buy Zumba for my Wii.
At any rate, I stating all of this here because I want this to be a real and alive goal. I plan on focusing most of my energy on this as soon as we get through our move to western MA. I figure by setting a goal of losing forty pounds by my next birthday... that's August to March. I will be blogging about my progress at least one a month until then. I have all the confidence in the world that I can do this - but obviously I often have trouble adhering to lofty goals. I want this to be something I'm thinking about and trying to do every minute of every day.
My computer is a less than satisfactory tool right now. The battery is completely dead, so it runs only when plugged in - and with just a little tug,,, beeeeeeooop. Laptop down. Highly annoying. I have been wanting to buy a netbook as my primary writing tool for some time now (like a year or more), but I can't justify the purchase right now when we're about to move. Damn these less than well-paying jobs D and I have!
The past two days have been peculiar. I came home from work on Wednesday with a painful and incredibly itchy welt on the inside of my left knee. Benadryl didn't do anything but knock me out, so we went to the ER around midnight. Docs gave me a diagnosis of cellulitis, but preferred to give me a lon antibiotic regime just in case it's Lyme disease or something else unexplained. It was very painful to walk so I stayed home the past two days. Today things are looking up, swelling going down and redness finally retreating, but I still have a million other itchy bug bites to deal with so I guess I don't begrudge myself some time to recover.
(Though taking time off work is certainly not helping my financial woes.)
My sleep schedule has been all out of whack since the Benadryl/ER. That always leaves me with an odd feeling of unreality. I've also been a reading a book (which is very good) in which one of the main characters seems to be suffering some kind of mental breakdown - and all of the other POV characters have various levels of paranoia and flashbacks to abuse. Spending so much time reading that story has probably not helped my feeling of unreality.
I don't know why, but I definitely slip more into the minds of characters who have some degree of crazy going on. I find it compelling to read, and even more compelling to write. I suppose it might be because all of my darkest moments have consisted of me "losing it" in some way - feeling a slip on the grip of what's real, wondering if I can control my thoughts or actions, watching the world spin around me without me.
Today I'm having that feeling in a disconnected sort of way. Trying to gauge what my reactions to words and experience should be rather than just having them. Spending too much time in meandering thought. It's nothing that I can pin on a particular incident. I don't feel like there's anything I can do to make it stop. I just have to drift through with it until normal feeling floods back in.
I've been struggling with getting words out of my head lately. I'm not sure why. It's frustrating and depressing to feel like my voice is gone. I don't think it's a permanent thing, but it's definitely been affecting my ability to finish Wings of Destiny - an unfortunate fact that is causing everyone I know to constantly ask me that horrible question: "How's your novel coming?"
Okay, okay. I know I told everyone that I would be done with this book by now. I know I promised myself to buckle down and finish. But here's the thing: I am buckled down. I am trying to finish. I am stuck in Luke Skywalker's head apparently. Too much trying, not enough doing. But how is a writer sans her voice supposed to finish her damn book? If my muse was tangible, I'd throttle him. For realsies.
I guess most people would say I have writer's block. I'm not sure that's true. I can brainstorm easily enough. In fact, in the past two weeks, I've come up with grand and wonderful ideas, plots, and characters for at least three of my other books. I even had a small breakthrough with an issue I've been having with the plot of Wings. However, none of that plotting and world-building did a lick of good for my actual writing. I just came back from spending the weekend (mostly) with my best writing friends, usually an inspiring atmosphere for getting words down, and I got approximately five sentences of real writing done the entire time. On the other hand, I also reread an entire manuscript of mine, gave it an entirely new plot, fixed a conflict with another manuscript, and wrote a new and improved antagonist into another. Not to mention, I brainstormed a new story with said best writing friends.
Sigh.
Bigger sigh.
Sigh with a (headdesk) thrown in for good measure.
This is the time when I try going back to my lighthouse. If you're new to this whole thing, or just don't remember all of my crazy-weird methods of keeping sane (or is it insane?), my lighthouse is where all of my characters from all of my stories go when a) I am not using them or b) they are hiding from me. I wrote a post describing it awhile ago: http://mysticalminx.blogspot.com/2011/05/subconscious-theater.html So on my laptop I have a document called "Subconscious Theater" that I write in as a therapeutic way to figure out what's going on with all of these clamoring voices inside my head - and perhaps why they're not coming through clearly.
P.S. I'm also big into running as a new way to clear my mind of reality and immerse myself in my own worlds.
I'm going to go try that now.
P.P.S. It sort of worked? I feel like blogging more at least. -_-
The boy and I have been vacationing down in Metro DC for the past five days. (We've only got a couple left - boo, hiss.) It's nice to relax, of course, and we've had a lot of good food and drink and company already. We've also been to tour Gettysburg, gone through some Smithsonians, had an afternoon in Leesburg... All fun. All good.
I should sound more enthusiastic, but I woke up this morning with a sore throat and cramps, so I'm not exactly in love with my life at the moment.
Every time I'm down here visiting my family, I always find myself sinking into a preoccupation with my future and how to turn myself into the person I want to be. The stupid thing is that the things I am preoccupied with are materialistic and image-heavy. Like I want to present a more polished version of myself to the world - makeup and nice clothes and an impeccably clean apartment. I want to own nice things that make me happy to look at them. Or thinking about how much I should maintain a schedule of calling my relatives once a week, writing to my faraway friends once a month, getting together a list of things the boy and I should go and do before we get old or have kids.
I can do all these things. I keep trying. I keep doing them in half-measures. These days everyone is hung up on adult ADD and kids who can't concentrate enough to learn how to read, but I feel like I have life ADD. I can never finish the things I start. I need to find more of a sense of satisfaction in the END rather than the BEGINNING. How do I do this?
...last and final random thought relates to my perpetual love of music. New music. I need to listen to more. If I get with the program and start blogging more, I'll share more music too.
This whole post perfectly reflects the scattered mundanity of my thoughts these days. But you know? I love it. I love the mundane. I delight in my own mediocrity. Screw you, Salieri, you should be celebrating being on the sidelines. There's a lot less pressure.
"Now you're telling me you're not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague
Because I need some of that vagueness now
It's all come back too clearly
Yes, I loved you dearly
And if you're offering me diamonds and rust
I've already paid."
- Diamonds and Rust by Joan Baez
Wish I'd had my notebook with me last night. D dragged me to a friend's party in RI. I say dragged because I have never been enthusiastic about parties. I've been rather hung up on how introverted I am lately -- for good reason, I think -- but in no way is it clearer how horrible it can be than when I am at a party. The stupid thing is that it seems completely illogical. I love being with the people I know who are there. I always have a good time with them. I'd like to spend more time with them. But whenever I'm at a party everything is completely overwhelming for me.
Last night was particularly bad for other circumstantial reasons. I've been struggling with slipping back into depression lately, and then with the end of this week came the dissolution of a years-long friendship that I thought was going to last forever. Can't say I've been feeling particularly great lately. Understatement of the year implied. D and I already planned to be going to this party though, and even though it was pretty much the last thing I wanted to do, I agreed to go. Better to get out of the house etc.
After stifling a potential panic attack or two beforehand, we get there. Lot of people. Small space. But there are people I know. So far everything is okay. I drink one beer. I drink most of another. By this point I'm starting to feel a little like maybe things are not so okay again. Hard liquor might help so D procures me a rum and coke. Halfway into that, I'm perched on the couch watching everyone else be happy and crazy, and all I can think is Fuck, what is so wrong with me that I can't just relax and enjoy this? I'm on tenterhooks. I feel like the ceiling is going to fall in. My nerve system is buzzing - not in a good way.
But it was at that point that a mutual friend came over with a suggestion that made me get up off the couch. Instant connection. I guess that's all it takes. I needed to throw my mind in some direction that still held a measure of passion, and talking about music with a fellow enthusiast always does it for me. Reminds me of talking to my brother.
So now it's the morning after. I had a good time. I'm glad I went. Much better than the alternative of staying at home on the verge of another breakdown. (Fucking Friday night was one of the worst nights of my life.) And D and I have plans for today too.
I think I can keep doing this. Reaching out. I love my melancholy, but I don't want to drown in it. I'm not Sara Teasdale. I'm not Virginia Woolf. I really don't want to be Sylvia Plath. I just want their spirits.
Meanwhile, I'm still sifting through the chaos and heartbreak.
"You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness - like resignation to the end, always the end..."
"Somebody That I Used To Know by Gotye
I want to journal in earnest now. My spinning thoughts drive me out of bed. My grasping hands keep finding the lifelines set out long ago by all the women who came before me. The poetess locked in her tower. The novelist who feels damned by her own skin. Always searching, never finding. We're all locked into this endless dance with ourselves. Our lives disintegrate around us and all we can do is sit in the middle of the mess with a pen and paper, writing and writing and writing. Revolving around the moment of truth in which all of it ceases to matter.
I would say that my body is here, and here I must be, but it isn't true. I am in pursuit of time-events-spaces that will bring me back to this place. But I am sitting in the far corner of my own forever. Watching my life spin out. Scrawling across my chalkboards, and then simply erasing them again. Damn these inchoate thoughts.
But here I am. Tied to these stars. Seeking out my perfect moments with the passion of an addict.
I haven't thought of that in so long. Perfect moments. Perfect clarity. Perfect emotion. Perfect stillness. These things that used to mean everything to me, these things which haven't existed for me in ages. The last perfect moment I found came in the strength of shaking climax. The long, slow breath of shimmering existence. Something that teeters on the edge of not quite sanity. Putting my hand flat against a flannel pillowcase and watching my fingers come back to life.
I'm trying to crawl back. I'm trying to stand up. Smothered by thoughts of merciless fate.
What else can I do but apologize for all this repetition? These things happen. Time is cyclical and we're all fighting a losing battle.
Everyone knows I love David Bowie. And I do. Love him. I mean, he's still number one on my "celebs I'd do" list despite the age difference. It's more than just lust though. I think the man is a genius - even when he's denied it. He KNOWS music. He knows pop before it's pop. He has always had some weird prescient knowledge of what would describe a decade best during that decade.
So I naturally own nearly all of the music he's ever put out under his name. I have several books written about him. Photos of him and his wife and various cohorts over the ages take up a healthy portion of my harddrive.
(I feel the need to add that, no, I am not some addled fan who thinks The Bowie is the be-all end-all of my life. I just worship him for what he is. A brilliant pop-rock musician that figured in a great number of my formative years for figuring out my life.)
This evening, I decided to finally upload all of those wonderful albums to my laptop. (I know, how have I never done this?) In doing so, I was reminded of another great love of my life that I have not paid nearly enough attention to lately - letter-writing.
Believe me, these things are actually related.
When I was a teenager, we moved from Virginia to New York and I left behind a friend who at the time was a very good friend but who managed to become my very best friend. For whatever reason, we started writing letters to each other. Becoming closer and closer as those pieces of paper crawled up and down the east coast to each other. When I discovered David Bowie at fifteen, she was the first person I shared him with. It became a mutual infatuation and only served to strengthen our bond.
So the other thing I've been doing this evening if going through all those letters we used to send each other. And wishing with all my heart that we had never stopped writing them. (Our words petered out - not entirely but mostly - sometime while we were both in college.) And, honestly, is there anything more glorious than two teenagers pouring out their hearts to each other?
The written word has always been my choice way to communicate. (See my first relationship which was based almost entirely on IM conversations.) And letter writing is so personal. The ink and paper and waiting for the postal worker to come... It is glorious. And gloriously ignored these days. And perhaps destined to die entirely seeing as how underfunded the USPS is about to be! All I can say is, there is nothing quite like getting a letter in the mail. Try it and see. You'll make someone's day, if not week or month.
I have other things to report on, but this seems sufficient for now. I leave you with my favorite Bowie song.
