Lauren in Waiting

A New Perspective

2011-10-13T08:54:00.001-04:00

A few months ago, I consistently commented on the Lady Bloggers Society, SITS Girls, and "marketed" my blog like crazy among other bloggers in hopes to increase my readership and gain followers. I'd normally be disappointed because I couldn't seem to attract more attention to my blog, even posting every day and commenting on others' blogs until my fingerprints rubbed off. Summer for me was all about upping my website and trying to recreate myself. The problem is that I wasn't actually recreating myself, I was just trying to recreate the way people perceived me through my blog's medium, which I guess is a form of deception - making people think one thing of you when you're another. I never really thought of it that way until this precise moment, actually.

Since classes started back, however, I've - like I said last week - dropped off the scale a little. A year ago, this would've bothered me. I would've probably dedicated more time to blogging than my school work just so I could keep a consistent schedule and maintain readership. This semester, however, I feel differently about blogging. It used to be something I tried to make a job of, but now it's something I come to as a release from everyday life. I look at my blog less as a business and more as an outlet for thought, something that I'd been trying to switch gears with for a while, but never could get myself in the right mind frame. It's funny how when you're not trying to do certain things they work out the way you wanted to when you were actively trying to do them. I wanted to view my blog as a place to get away to and less as a place I had to keep up with like a job, and now I do.

I credit this somewhat to my new schedule with full-time classes and work hours, but even before I started working full-time I could tell my perception of my blog was changing. I prefer it this way, actually. Some people can make a job of blogging, and at times I wish I could, as well. Blogging, writing, crafting new ideas for story segments would be so much fun, and even when I was looking at my blog as more of a job than a hobby, I liked pumping that creative thinking into an outlet where people interacted with what I was writing. And, who knows? Maybe I'll get back into that mind frame later on. Right now, though, I'm glad to just have this place as a foundation of thought and comfort, and not so much as a place of duty and obligation. When I think of not having posted something new on my blog in a while, I actually get excited to write up something new. Whereas before, I'd post all the time and cringe at the thought of trying to think of something else to write about.

What about you? How do you view your blog? Do you treat it like a job or a hobby, or have you treated it like both? Which way do you prefer to view your blog?

The Want of Something More

2011-10-12T08:30:00.000-04:00

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Yesterday was a bad day for me. I mean, not really bad, bad, but I was in a mood. At least while I was on campus. I began to harbor those freshman-sophomore feelings again, where I yell up at the sky and ask what the point is of all this crap. Not that it's crap to some people, but I've been sour about school since I had my senior check done last Tuesday. Not only was I told that my science labs didn't get recorded on my transcript because my then adviser failed to tell me that the astronomy courses I took required that labs be registered for separate from the class, but then my newest adviser led me to believe that I had to focus on one area for my cognate, so I've been taking a lot of unnecessary library science courses that could've been used for required courses, meaning I could've gotten everything done by the end of this semester. But, no.

So, then I have to explain all of this twice, because we have to have two senior checks, and meanwhile I'm thinking, "What the crap is up with all the misinformation or lack of information? This is people's education, you boneheads. Get it together!" That just put me in a mood. I'm taking unnecessary courses that I didn't even want to take in the first place, because I thought I needed them, and then I find out I don't. Marvelous. And maybe it was just my mood from all that fabulousness, but then I started questioning if I even wanted to go for three more years of school to get my MFA, which prompted me to think about what exactly I would do after graduation if I didn't go to grad school, which in turn, made me think of Bakari, a friend from my freshman year who lived in the opposite wing of my dorm.

He'd updated his Facebook status to tell his friends he'd just finished a new play, and was looking for feedback. I offered to read it, and wrote up a critique for him. Now, I don't know a whole lot about critiquing plays, but I did my best and applied what I knew of writing fiction to critiquing what he'd written. It was actually fun, and gave me a sense of purpose. I was helping someone hone their skills, and - hopefully - making them think more about the situation going on within the story. I liked helping another writer, which was something I'd never felt before. Maybe it was because the critique wasn't required for a grade. There's something about keeping score that's always rubbed me the wrong way: grades, dance competitions, bad friendships.

It's like when I was taking dance classes, and I'd done years and years of competitions, and then one year I got the part of Clara in my studio's version of the Nutcracker, and enjoyed it so much more than I enjoyed our competitions. Competitions made me want to throw up; performances made me want to shine. I kind of see school versus jobs that way, too. In school, people are keeping numerical tabs; at work, not that people aren't required to keep numerical tabs for statistical reasons, but there's more comfort in knowing that you were hired because you're qualified and know what you're doing. You're still learning, but it's just not the same as the classroom. Unless you're in law or medicine, it feels less intense.

But, anyways - back to the original point I was trying to make. I thought of what it would be like to be an editor, or even an agent - but mostly an editor. I've read that editors who want to be writers have a hard time actually writing after a day at the office, but I think it depends on the person. Now, maybe I'm the kind of person who could spend a day reading others' work and be able to go home and do my own writing. Then, maybe I'm not. But I'll never know unless I try it. Or, at least seriously consider it.

My only qualm is that I'm not a city person. I hate going to downtown Columbia, much less having to actually live in a place like New York City where all the literary hubbub is going on. Not to mention, I don't know if I could deal with myself that far away from the life I have here. Maybe Charleston or Charlotte - even Atlanta - but NYC might be a bit of a stretch. So, then I read an article in one of my writing magazines about a guy who was a proofreader for a law firm. I said, "Hm...that would be interesting." Still somewhat like editing, even though I wouldn't be reading anything that actually interested me.

Heavy sigh. I don't know. I'm just trying to gauge my options in coordinance with my interests. Even though I passed my mom that whole, I can climb the rankings of the financial institution, I really don't want to do that for the rest of my life. I don't want that to be my career, my big life's plan. I want something more. Something I'm happy with, where I feel like I'm giving or adding something of value and importance to the world; something that holds meaning for me, and gives me purpose.

The Writer's Life

2011-10-02T09:00:00.000-04:00

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My blog has really taken a hit since August. Like I was telling Stephany the other day, I knew my blog would take a hit after classes started, but I just didn't realize how big of a hit. But now that I've started working full-time it's probably going to be worse. I don't want to give up on blogging. That's not what I'm saying. I'm just not sure I'll have a lot of time for it, as you've probably already noticed. Like Stephany, any good posting ideas I get tend to get lost within the fray of my daily schedule. If I were still able to have my personal computer at work, then I'd be posting like crazy, but when I have to wait until the end of a day's worth of classes and customers and homework, I'm really just not in the mood to blog. I wish I could say it'll be better next semester, but I just don't know that I can make that promise right now. One exciting bit of news I got about classes for next semester is that I'll actually get to take an advanced fiction workshop class - yay! I wish it were being taught by The Professor, but it's not. :( Sad. However, the guy who is teaching it was recommended by my first year English professor, so I have high hopes for the class. But back to my blogging efforts.

I really am going to do the best I can with getting posts up. Recently, I've just done a lot of downward blabbing about being detached from the blogosphere - like now, for instance - but I actually have some other stuff I want to post. Now that I found my planner (or, my mom brought it to me from the house after I moved), I have records of past ideas I never got to write for my blog.

And another thing I've been thinking about is my blog's appearance - once again. Don't get me wrong, Ashley did a really fantastic job on the design, and I think it aligned perfectly with what I wanted at the time. But - something I've been wanting to blog about for a few days now - I'm going through some emotional and mental changes right now (not, like, split-personality/bi-polar changes) that are affecting how I perceive the world, and especially, myself. I wish now I had a more serious looking website with a blog attached. You know www.laurenwriting.com/blog, or something along those lines. (That's not a real URL, so don't try it - well, I mean, you can, but it won't work.) I wish I had a more professional looking picture of myself, and actual writing credentials to add. I feel like these are unwarranted wants, though, because I don't actually have any credentials to my name. No short stories published, no novels, no essays or articles popping up in magazines. I want these credentials, but I find that I'm not doing much to obtain them. I keep telling myself that after school and work and then homework outside of both, I don't have the time or the energy for the writing, and while that is somewhat understandable, I also feel like I'm not really trying to make it work, either.

The reason why I don't push myself with my writing like I should is because I don't want to wear myself out now that I've gone full-time at work. In the past, if I went for a long period of time without getting enough rest, my immune system weakened and it made me sick - low blood sugar, hypoglycemic tendencies, fainting spells, migraines. I got a migraine earlier today, and I'm still feeling the aches in my head, and it's giving me neck pains.

Unfortunately, my writing always falls against the back burner, and I struggle with trying to keep it from burning up into hopeless ashes. "It's the nature of the beast," Ms. Nobles told me. And I get that, but how do I tame the beast? This is a big reason why I want to get my MFA - to learn how to structure my writing, myself. To learn what tools are necessary to live the life of a writer and live it well. I don't mean to confuse "the writer's life" with a romanticized viewpoint, but the genuine, active life of someone who successfully and consistently produces quality work. That is what I want. And I wish, now, that my blog better reflected that, but until I get that part of my life in order, it should probably just stay as it is - me...in waiting. Constantly in waiting.

But I wonder if me renaming my blog with the theme of waiting and transitioning hasn't stalled me somewhat. I mean, I put on this big show about how I'm in this transitional phase of my life, and I'm waiting for the next big thing, as they call it. It seems like a passive title, a passive way of showcasing my blog, and a passive way of perceiving my life. It's just all so...passive. I'm passive. I always have been, so I guess it makes sense that I'd fall into this passive mind frame both physically and virtually. But should I have? It's something I've been thinking about on varying levels since I had my blog redesigned, actually. I wonder if it wouldn't be better to recreate my blog into what I want it to be - a more professional place for me to come to as a writer, and not just as a meandering doofus constantly searching the meaning of life. So I don't have any credentials. Maybe jumping right into the writer platform is the aggressive change that I need. Something that will help me get a handle on my writing practices and help kick-start my career.

It's a thought worth having, anyway. I'd have to simplify my blog's look since I'm no pro at all the fancy code, but Em has killer photography skills, and could snap a photograph of me that would fool you into thinking I had them done professionally. Yes, she's that good. It just makes me laugh, because I've actually been reading articles about jumpstarting your author platform and whatnot in my writing magazines, and I just breezed by them, thinking they didn't apply to me because I didn't have a published piece to my name. Now, I'm starting to see what I missed out on. I will have to actually go back and read the articles. You'll have to excuse me. I tend to be slow when I get stubborn.

Discover Instapaper

2011-09-27T07:30:00.000-04:00

When I purchased my iPad, I thought I'd be happy with the Wi-Fi-only version. For whatever reason, I didn't foresee myself needing to get online while at work (stupid, stupid thought), and decided to save the money on my investment. I am kicking myself in the teeth now, however, for not going ahead and getting the data capable iPad. I mean, I'm making the investment, right? Why not further that investment by getting the one that will actually behoove me? (Stupid, stupid girl.) At the time, I was wary of spending more than I already was on the iPad 3G, especially when I'd have to spend more money per month for the data plan for two years. I worried that I'd struggle to keep up with the financial commitment, which was the biggest reason why I opted for the simple Wi-Fi version.

Because of this decision (and I really can't blame myself for making it - I had my reasons), I needed something where I could keep track of everything I wanted to read offline. I'd downloaded an RSS Feed app on my iPad some time ago, and noticed on the share button a little thing called Instapaper. I'd seen people blowing up Instagram on Facebook, and thought they might have something to do with each other. Still haven't figured that one out, but what I discovered about Instapaper sent me into a fit of glee!

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Other than not being able to view some articles on WriterMag.com because the feed on Instapaper won't go through my account's subscriber-only content, I'm enormously happy with the quality of this new semi-social-media-reading invention! All I have to do is browse through all the sites and blogs I like to read while I'm at school where there's an Internet connection, and save them to read later when I have some down time. I can even organize them into folders after I've read them - save the ones I want to keep and delete the ones I didn't much like. If I want to leave a comment on someone's blog post I've read through Instapaper, I can do it on my phone, or later when I get home. Instapaper is perfect for those of us schnobs who got the Wi-Fi only iPad's. I had briefly considered exchanging mine for a data capable version - and still may change my mind not to - but I decided to wait for the iPad 3, barring Apple doesn't hold it hostage like it is the iPhone 5, and get a data capable iPad then.

This website/app is even good for people with a data capable iPad since the Safari browser will only let you keep up so many tabs at a time. Not to mention, it won't get clogged with feeds like your RSS app will - you can "finger-pick" which ones you want to read and group them together. If you are familiar enough with the blogs you follow and your feed reader, it shouldn't take long to swoop through the updated posts and pick out which ones you'd like to read later. This is most helpful if you have a "Favorites" or "Must Read" folder in your feed reader.

I'm giving the whole idea of Instapaper 5 stars, but that could be due in large part to how much it's helping me keep up with all of the things I want to read because I didn't feel comfortable getting the data capable iPad. It was the perfect things to fall in my lap, and right when I needed it, too. I would recommend this to anyone who has a bunch of blogs, websites, newspapers, magazines, etc. they like to read online.

A Season for Change

2011-09-25T11:17:00.000-04:00

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Last week was crazy. I had a Spanish test and two papers due on Thursday. Except one of them we had until Friday morning at 8:00 to turn in, so really I had one due on Thursday and one due on Friday. But still... It's Sunday and I'm tired, and I start my full-time schedule tomorrow, which means I'm going to remain tired until Lord only knows when. But...I'm not going to complain. Instead, I'm going to try to get all of my homework done in a timely manner, so I can go to bed at a decent time every night and hopefully rest well. I'm just incredibly glad that last week is just that...LAST week. Hopefully, I'll get some downtime in assignments before midterms start. That way I can recoup and not be so tired when it comes time for the exams.

Is it just me, or does it seem like September is taking forever? We still have one week. ONE WEEK! Get on with it already, I say. I'm ready for October. And then I'll be ready for November, and finally, December, and then to be done with my finals and be finished with the first half of my senior year. If I can just get to Christmas break... It's like I'm strapped in a car seat reaching for the coloring book slid in the pocket behind my mom's seat and just not able to reach. Sucks.

I'm glad that fall is here, though. I just wish I was having a better semester to make it more enjoyable. I mean, grade-wise I'm doing fine. That's not what I mean. What I mean is the content of my classes. Other than Shakespeare's Comedies, I'm really not into anything else I'm taking. Spanish is a thorn in my foot that I'd like to jerk out any time now, Business Writing is just a bunch of rhetoric gibberish I could really do without, my library science class - storytelling - was a big mistake (if it weren't for me needing an online class, I would've dropped it - not what I was expecting, at all), and my other library science class is okay. I actually kind of like it, but SLIS just isn't something I'm interested in anymore, and I really wish I was taking a creative writing class this semester. I'm sure that would've made the semester much better. But, as it is, I've already taken all of the writing courses offered in the English department, except for Professional Writing, which they never offer, and Lord only knows if I'll actually get to take that class.

Anyway, sorry, I'm complaining. Like I said, I'm tired, and I keep getting distracted by the Golden Girls on TV. In better news, my apartment is really nice. It's shaping up well. I finally got my furniture, although the living room still looks a little empty. I'd love an ottoman to put on the rug my mom bought for me - something to prop my feet up on - and Target is having a sell on them, but I don't have the money right now. See, I was going to return the bookcase I got for my living room to Target, get a cheaper bookcase at Wal-Mart, and use the leftover money to buy a desk. But then I had to get the money back on a gift card, because I went through PayPal to pay for it - so much for trying to shop safe online. So, then I just exchanged the bookcase for the same kind in a different color to put in my room, and mom split the cost of the desk with me, so I don't have enough now to buy an ottoman. Sucks.

All this sucks-ing is reminding me of the conversation I had with Em Friday night. We were on our way home from a night out with friends, and, well, I was feeling it. I wasn't tanked, by any means, but I'd had two drinks, which for me is just enough to feel really, really good. I sighed, leaning my head back against the seat. "I wish I could feel this good without having a drink," I said. Em smirked. "You can," she said, "It's all about the mindset." I sighed again and closed my eyes. "I know, but I can't get myself to think right. That's why I was feeling so crummy today, because I was feeling down on myself. I hate worrying so much and not being the person I want to be. I think I need to go to church."

She laughed. "You probably do, but it has to be the right church."

When we pulled into my apartment, I shifted in my seat and looked at her. "How did you get to be the way your are now?"

"I am the way I am now, because I got beat up (metaphorically, speaking)."

"Have I been beat up?"

"No. Not like I've been. You deal with a lot from your parents, but that's not the same."

"I don't want to get beat up," I said.

"You don't have to be. You just have to change your way of thinking." We sat there for a second - my breathing heavy, my mind contemplative. The mind is the scariest and hardest thing to go up against, especially when it's your own. I'd tried changing my ways before, and always found myself slipping back into the water. "Come on, let's get you to your room."

So now I've been doing a lot of thinking about myself and how to change. "It's like I'm wrapped up in this cocoon and I can't push my way out," I told Em. It's occurred to me that maybe I'm just not ready yet, but I'm tired of myself. I'm tired of being tired of myself. When I ask the question if I love myself, I don't want to bite the inside of my cheek - my chest sinking back - and feel like a horrible person. I want to be proud of who I am, I want to know who I am, and I want to be able to count on myself. When I make a promise, I want to be able to keep it, and I don't want to not make promises because I'm scared I won't keep them. I'm tired of feeling like a child. I'm tired of being a person who lets herself feel like a child. I'm not talking about childishness, I'm talking about feeling like a scared, powerless child.

I don't know what to do with myself. I can read the Bible, I can go to church, I can pray, I can read self-help books or something, and hope that I find some answers. If anyone can change me, it's God.

Why I Think I'll Get into the MFA Program

2011-09-17T09:00:00.000-04:00

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My parents, more than anyone I know - barring other members of my family whose opinions I just haven't heard - are most concerned with me applying to the MFA program at my school. When my mom and dad found out that USC received 90 applicants last year and only offered positions to 16 people, they became increasingly doubtful about my chances of getting in. On the one hand, they've never read anything that I've written (except that one short story in high school my mom accused me of copyrighting - no, I will never let that go), I can kind of see why they may be a little doubting. On the other hand, I'm really tired of them always seeing the glass half empty, and it would be nice if they could just look me in the eye and say, "I believe you can do it, and even if you don't get in, God has something better planned for you." But, whatever. Other people have told me that, so that's what I focus on.

I'm about to tell you why I think I have a good shot at getting into the MFA program, and I'm not trying to be boastful about it at all. I'm writing this post in part to gather my thoughts on how to execute the application, but also to show other people who may want to go for their MFA, a format for constructing their own application. And, also just because I wanted to share my plans with you. :-)

I'm going to approach this application as though it were a book proposal, and while my niche will be fiction - and I realize that book proposals are really only necessary for nonfiction titles - I feel like the application needs to be looked at that way: a book proposal. I think of myself as the book I'm trying to sell, and the acceptance committee are agents, editors, and/or publishers leafing through piles of queries trying to find the best fit for their company. Here are the reasons why I think I'll get in:

1. I already know what I'm going to do for my thesis: book-length novel.
a. Not only do I know what I want to do for my thesis, but I have the whole story planned out (due to working on the plot and storyline for the past four years).

2. I'm using the opening chapter of my book/story/thesis as my sample for the application.

3. My statement I have to write as part of my application will explain that I am eager to join the MFA program at USC because I feel like it is the best place to learn how to live, not just do, writing.
a. I will then explain that since I already have a foundation for my thesis, I will be working on it throughout my time in the program and not just the last six hours of my degree required for thesis writing.
b. Also, this book will require research in journalism, nonfiction, and law that I can take as elective courses for my degree.

4. Lastly, down to my very core to what it means to me to exist and be human, is writing. I've always loved it, but have struggled with self-discipline and actually living as a writer, instead of someone who just writes on occasion. I know that I am meant to be a better writer than that. My problem is that I just don't know how to be a writer, if that makes any sense. (Obviously, I will have to find a better way to phrase this part in my statement.) I am not too proud to say that I am desperate to get into the MFA program. I am eager to learn how to correct my flaws as a writer, and I feel like USC is the place to learn how to better develop, not only as a writer, but as a person, too.
a. Basically, if I get accepted, my entire three years in the program will be dedicated to writing this book. I will take everything that I learn from all of my classes and apply it to the betterment of my thesis. If you think that getting my MFA is just a big, fat excuse for writing this novel, well then, you're absolutely right.

I don't know that I could put into words just how badly I want to get into the MFA program at school. I think I'll be devastated if I don't get in. I'll get through it, somehow, if I don't - but oh, how I hope I do. I don't even like thinking about the possibility of not getting in because right now I know that I can't handle that thought. I feel like I'm meant to be in that program, and while I don't know what God's plans are for me after graduation in May, and that it is entirely possible He may not want me to get my MFA, I just don't understand why - after spending my entire college career, up until now, disdaining the thought of getting my MFA - that all of a sudden, it's my greatest desire in the world, next to meeting the man of my dreams and having an endless supply of Dip-n-Dots constantly at my fingertips, to get a graduate degree in creative writing.

Seriously, though, I was against getting my MFA up until this past summer. I've thought about doing everything from quitting college, to not pursuing a graduate degree, to getting my Master's in library science, to being a professor of writing. Honestly, I don't really know what I want to do, as far as a long-term career goes, outside of writing this book, and I believe that the MFA program would greatly benefit my efforts in getting it done, and also helping me decide what I want to do with my life. I mean, these people just don't know. I will kiss their feet and dance a jig in a meat suit (I'm looking at you Ga Ga) if it means they'll let me into the program.

Okay, so, getting past all of the dramatics, I genuinely want to write this book, and in my mind anyway, I feel like the best way for me to write it is through my experience with the MFA program. I'll learn how to structure, outline, prioritize my time, etc. through their classes, which is where I need the most work. Not to mention, I can research things for my book by taking particular classes as electives, and in doing so, I can gain connections and start networking with people in my field of interest. It's all just so endearing and exciting, I can't stand it. The only thing I'm struggling with right now is deciding if I want to do the graduate assistantship if I get accepted or if I want to continue working full-time. There's no way I could do both. I'd have to either do one or the other, or go back to part-time and do both. While I'm really excited about going full-time at my job, I was really wanting that teaching experience just to see what it would be like to be a professor - you know, all in deciding what I want to do with my life.

There's really nothing I can decide on right this very second, however. The best thing for me to do is just get my application in, wait and see that I get accepted first, then see if I get accepted for a a graduate teaching position, and if all of that works out, do some serious soul-searching and praying as to what would be the best route for me to take. I really want to do what's best for me, and I know I'm going to have to make some tough decisions down the road if I get accepted into the program. I really just need to take this time to work on my application, pray, write, and focus on my classes.

Wine and Love, but Mostly Love

2011-09-16T09:00:00.000-04:00

I know I'm a little late on this, but I've been wanting to participate in this meme for a while, but I didn't think about it until late last night. I first saw this meme at Stephany Writes, and being that I love wine (okay, well, sweet wine - I don't do the dry stuff), I thought this would be fun to do, even though it doesn't have anything to do with wine - unless a good bottle of vino was a big highlight in your week. W&L is a weekly meme hosted by Nora every Thursday at Walking with Nora.

Wine-ing About:

Honestly, I don't think I have anything to whine about this week. Apart from a test on Monday, two English papers due next week, and a reading assignment due next Friday, things are pretty good for me right now. The biggest whiner about my life right now is actually school. Like I said in previous posts, the semester snuck up on me - I wasn't prepared for it and still haven't gotten into a comfortable groove. This semester is nowhere near as enjoyable as other semesters. Last semester I at least had a creative writing class to tease out other less interesting classes, but this semester there's really nothing for me. I'm taking Shakespeare, business writing, Spanish, and some library science classes. None of these are really my specialty nor hold much interest for me. I have to snap myself into some kind of persevering mode, though, because I need to do my absolute best being that it's my last year. I don't want any mediocre grades because I let myself get slack and didn't whip my disorganization into shape - which reminds me...I really need to find my planner. That would solve a lot of problems, right there.

Loving:

I have my own place! It's official, and I'm so happy I don't have to share living quarters with strangers anymore. Being on my own feels so liberating - there's a certain freedom in having your own place that boosts your independence level up a notch. The rate for my apartment was daunting there for a while, but all of that uneasiness has smoothed out since I went full-time. I would have placed the full-time job thing under the wine-ing tab, but honestly, I'm thrilled to finally be full-time. I've been wanting a full-time position for a while, and I never thought it would happen while I was still a full-time student. Some of you probably think I'm nuts for doing both school and work full-time, but I only have one and half semesters left to go. I saw this as a perfect opportunity being that I graduate in May, even though my job doesn't have anything to do with having a BA in English. I still plan on applying for the MFA program at my school, though, so hopefully I can do that and keep my full-time position next August if I get accepted. That would be a dream. But it's like I told Em last night, "I feel really blessed right now." And even though I can't imagine not getting accepted into the MFA program, I thought the full-time position was a good idea in case that didn't work out. Hopefully, I'll get into the program, though. I still think I have a good shot, and I'll talk more about that tomorrow.

What are you wine-ing and loving about your life right now?

At Some Point...

2011-09-13T09:00:00.000-04:00

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Yesterday, I mentioned that I was starting to question whether or not I wanted to get my MFA after graduation next May. This was the thing I wrote about in my journal and also discussed at length with Em. It was a scary question to ask myself last week after I'd been so certain that getting my MFA was what I wanted to do after I graduated. "I think I have a defective personality," I told Em. "You think you have a defective personality?" she asked. "Yes, and here's why I think that. I think, because I've lived so finicky my entire life - unable to make a clear decision, and not really knowing what I want - my subconscious was taken aback by my determinate decision to get my MFA." I could hear the silent - whaaaat? - peeling through our cell phone connection. "You think you have a defective personality?" she asked. "Yes, yes, I do."

Another reason why I think I randomly threw this question of whether or not I wanted to get my MFA in my face was because, initially, I had thought the MFA program would be a nice three-year stint from real life. I'll be 21 when I graduate. That's not old enough to go out on my own and be a serious adult. I need at least three more years in college to find myself and figure out who I'm supposed to be. That was my thinking, anyway. I think maybe this question was supposed to jar me - I mean, is it really healthy for your main drive to stay in school to be because of your fear of the adult world?

This is not to say, however, that that was the only reason why I wanted to get my MFA. As I drove home, talking to Em about the whole thing, I quickly realized that I did want to go to school for three more years and learn more about the craft of writing. "I just feel like there are things that would benefit me to know about writing if I were to get my MFA," I told her. "Plus, I really want to have that teaching experience. I want to know what's it's like being a professor." But, as I went on to explain to her, I'd seriously romanticized the role of a professor, and knew I'd probably be in for a lot more than I'd expected in that area of grad school. "I just don't want to jump into it thinking I can handle it, and make a total belly flop." Me? As a professor? Really? Could I do that? Am I seriously capable of being a professor? The thoughts were frightening. What if I sucked at it? What if I walked into class and watched all the students talk among each other, and not be able to squeak out an - excuse me, hi, yeah, let's start class - for fear that all of their eyes will be on me waiting to learn something I wasn't even sure I could credibly teach them.

But then there's this other side of me that's like - Lauren, really? Shut up, and get over yourself. You're completely capable of handling a classroom of 20-odd students. You're not giving yourself enough credit. And I know I'm not - and I know that as long as I let myself cower in all the paranoid questions, I'll continue to deprive myself of growing into the person I'm meant to become. I desire to be so much more than that scared little wimp who fires off a string of grisly, pessimistic questions. That is not the person I want to be. I grew up around pessimism, and that way of thinking is not what I want for myself. "I think you need to just take some time and think about everything," Em said. And so I thought, and I still stood by my strong feelings of wanting that MFA degree. I wanted it, damn it, what was so hard for me to comprehend in that desire?

"Defective personality," I echoed in my head as I hung up with Em. I'd read the word "defective" somewhere, and thought it was a great way to describe myself. But in doing so, I hadn't considered just how degrading I was being. I'm not defective. I'm just young. And, yeah, maybe I'm not used to being so sure of myself and what I want, but that's no reason to quail away from it. And, yeah, maybe I'll be a little rusty as a professor, but that doesn't mean I won't figure it out and become more confident in my teaching ability. At some point you have to move on from the past. I can't be a blubbering 12 year-old for the rest of my life. At some point, I will need to grow up. At some point, I will need to start believing in myself. At some point...

I wish I knew where that point lay, so I could find it and wear it on my head and carry it around with me - a person who knows who she is, what she wants, where she's going.

Monday's Musings: My Writing, Myself, and My Lack of Self-Discipline

2011-09-12T09:00:00.000-04:00

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My freshman year of college, I was taken with the idea of journaling. It was something I'd tried to do in high school, but couldn't keep up with. College was exponentially different for me from high school - it didn't taken up practically my entire day; I didn't have a job my freshman year, so I had a lot of extra free time aside from studying; and spent a lot of time exploring campus, perusing bookstores, and reading. I led such a chic life, right? I didn't really care about joining clubs. When I finally found a job, that took up pretty much any extracurricular activity time. But, I preferred it that way. I did not set out to have the typical college experience. I detested living on campus while I was there, and I wrote in my journal about it a lot. In one way, I actually miss campus because I took to my journal so keenly while I lived there. When I moved into an apartment my next two years, I kept a journal, but not as religiously as before. In part, I believe this was also because I grew closer to Em. I shared everything with her, and as the months passed, I confided less in my journal and more in her.

Just a couple of months ago, though, I tried to write in my journal about one of the most - if not THE most - horrible weekends I'd ever had in my life. I wanted to recount every miniscule detail about the weekend, wanting to work on my skills of remembrance and description. I didn't make it all the way through, though, and I hadn't written in my journal again until this past week. The entry before had been written in July, and over a series of days. But I cracked my journal open again last week to quench an insatiable thirst to write in it because I'd been feeling uncertain about applying to the MFA program. I both liked this and was concerned with it. I wrote in my journal some time before the summer or shortly after during that I didn't want to only write in my journal when something was pressing my thoughts. I wanted to write in it about anything - pressing thoughts, yes, but also what I did during my day and highlighting on important scenes from my life. Sometimes there are things I want to write about so badly, but I never end up recording them in my journal for one reason or another, and then when I have an opportunity to write it down, I've lost the feeling to transcribe, so it never gets written. I don't want that to be my way. It's already my way with my book, I don't want it to be my way with everything I want to write.

I think my problem is that I'm a horrible writer - not in the sense of technique, but in the sense of consistency. To be a writer means to be a lot of different things, and not just to be a good creator of writing, but to be self-disciplined. Writers are self-disciplined - they have to be. I'm not self-disciplined. I've always struggled with it. I mean, yes, to a certain extent I'm self-disciplined, else I'd have lost my scholarship long ago and would've flunked out of college by now. What I mean is, if there's no grade involved, if I'm not being academically threatened by ignoring my work, then I'm not self-disciplined. This has bothered me my entire life, and will continue to bother me until I get it sorted out. How to become self-disciplined? Maybe I should do an experiment and write an article on it, and sell it to Redbook magazine for fifty kagillion dollars. That would be nice.

I'm serious, though. With my extracurricular writing, I wish that I could be more self-disciplined. It just worries me, especially with applying to the MFA program. I'll do great there if I get accepted. I know I will. It's just the afterward. What do I do after the degree? I might get published, I might not. Do I get job at another university? Will I be self-disciplined enough to write? Will the MFA program teach me how to do that? What will the MFA program teach me? Should I go if they accept my application? Do I want to go?

To be continued...

Book Review: The Help by Kathryn Stockett

2011-09-08T07:30:00.000-04:00

The Help by Kathryn Stockett
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

In 1960s Jackson, Mississippi, Kathryn Stockett introduces readers to Aibileen, Minny, and Skeeter, three women whose lives become intricately woven when Skeeter decides to write a book about the colored women who raise and look after white families' babies and houses. With this idea, Skeeter Phelan starts a subtle revolution in this small southern town to change the system of life regarding blacks and whites. Reluctant at first, other women agree to help Skeeter with her book and expose the tales of working for the towns' white families. Filled with scandal, heartache, joy, and inspiration, these women bond to create a time-changing piece of literature that rocks the small town of Mississippi to its core.

I could relate to Skeeter in that she pursued something she was passionate about, and she went after it determinedly. She is also misunderstood by her family and friends, which is something I can empathize with, moreso when it comes to my family, though. For all the trouble Minny had with keeping jobs, I think her quips at her white bosses were actually brave. I couldn't see myself taking crap from someone who thought they were better than me, and especially to look at me with such a racist eye. Aibileen, though, she's the way I should be - collected and mindful of her situation. Although, there is that gray area she starts to see, which is what Skeeter begins to see, and what I think Minny has seen all along, that tends to blur the lines between whites and blacks, the help and the bosses. It's like what she says at the end of the book - there are no lines between people, not really, we just create them and let them control the way we perceive the world.

I really liked the way Katheryn played out the mysteriousness of her characters in regards to what was going on with Ms. Celia, what the Terrible Awful Thing was that Minny did to Hilly, and what on earth happened to Skeeter's mother's help, Constantine. Those secrets tugged readers along through their unveiling, and she exposed them right when I was about to explode with impatience. And that Terrible Awful Thing was terrible indeed. All through the book I kept thinking, "Now, she couldn't have done anything that bad," but, boy, was I wrong. The Terrible Awful Thing was...ugh...yeah, it was terrible. I mean, you'll stop reading and get this mental image and then your face will cringe up, and you'll be like..."No...oh my God, really?" Yeah, it's that bad. But Hilly had it coming.

I've seen in several places where other readers try to accuse this book for trying to be another To Kill a Mockingbird, and failing miserably. I thought that was harsh before I even read the book, and I think that's especially harsh after experiencing these characters' stories. This book is still highly relevant, and I would know - I live in the south and I still see racism every day. Growing up, I've been surrounded by people who still clutch tightly to their old south beliefs, and I could share in the disappointment Skeeter felt surrounded by the ignorance of her family and friends. So, I think this book is incredibly important, especially for people of the south and who were raised in southern culture, and even for people who travel to the states from other countries.

I think this book will be like To Kill a Mockinbird in that it will be timeless for the same reasons Mockingbird is: where there are different types of people, there will be racism, discrimination, etc. just based on cultural differences. While, I will say I see less of it at college, I saw it a lot in high school and still see it when I visit home. The issues that Stockett brings up in this book consider a wide variety of people and not just blacks and whites. That may be the races this book is centered around, but I think it stands for everyone struggling with, not only ethnic, but any discriminatory differences between people in relationships, good or bad.

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Book Review: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

2011-09-07T09:00:00.000-04:00

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society is the story of Juliet Ashton who receives a letter from Dawsey Adams inquiring about a book that has somehow made its way to the island of Guernsey, and bears the address of Juliet's residence. From this letter arises a series of conversations between Dawsey and Juliet that leads to her writing an article, then researching for a book, on the Potato Peel Pie Society founded, quite by accident, during the German Occupation. Through these letters, Juliet makes a cast of charming friends she will come to cherish for the rest of her life, and who will impress upon its readers a taste for Guernsey long after the last page.

This is a marvelous book, and reads just like a classic novel. Shaffer and Barrows did such a wonderful job on the book, and I easily decided it was going on my favorites list before I was even halfway done reading it. Books written in the format of letters between the characters can be very tricky, but these ladies formatted the scenes seamlessly and pulled it off without a hitch! Juliet Ashton is a woman after my own heart; I felt myself relating to her on so many different levels - she envelops that childlike demeanor that is so important to hold onto once you become an adult, and she never loses sight of who she is. What I found admirable about Juliet was her determination not to settle in a marriage in a time where that was common. She was a woman who knew what she wanted, and even if she faltered every now and then, she always righted herself before falling over completely.

The moment I put this book down, I wanted to pick it right back up and start reading it all over again (and I still haven't decided if I'm just going to leave it sitting on my dresser or if I'm going to actually go through with a back-to-back-er). Through Juliet's letters with the islanders of Guernsey I felt her same pull to visit the people there. Even though they're wholly of the author's imagination, they feel so enchantingly real. It feels like one of those stories that you want to read back-to-back just so you can relive and better understand everything that's going on.

As I read, and especially when I turned the last page, I felt taken with the way Shaffer and Barrow wove this simple, yet intricate, plot. This was a heavily character-driven book, though, but for this story it worked. This story wouldn't have worked, actually, if the characters weren't so endearing. And I especially liked being able to relate to Juliet on an authorial level, being that she was researching to write a book, which is something I'm doing now, too. I almost wish that Barrows would write the book of Guernsey characters and publish it as Juliet writing. That would be a treat!

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Reading Broadly May Help My Writing

2011-09-05T12:43:00.002-04:00

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One of the things I worry about with my writing is that for every story I write, I'll use the same words to describe things happening across my stories. I've noticed myself doing that before. I think it's because, since elementary school, I've gravitated towards the same types of books, so I haven't really been allowing myself to see how other writers write. There was a quote I came across in, I think it was the August issue of The Writer Magazine, where Chuck Leddy, one of their regular columnists, wrote an article of 9 things he's learned from reading nonfiction. In one of the last bullet points, he said, "Word choice defines you as a writer, so choose carefully." I don't think I choose carefully enough, but at the same time, I don't think I've read broadly enough to be able to choose wisely, either.

I remember skimming through books in my high school library one year and turning down anything that seemed weird or out of range of what I typically read, which was either a bubbly, teenage romance or something a little darker, but still about teenagers. I was never really interested in reading anything ethnically different from myself, because I didn't think I'd be able to relate to it, and I was so incredibly small-minded in my reading choices that it embarrasses me to even admit it. I consider my senior year the year I started to break out from my typical book selection. I went out on a limb and bought Jane Eyre at the bookstore because it sounded mildly interesting and was only $5. I wasn't cheering anymore, I had a job I went to several days a week, and I was only taking one dance class on Wednesday afternoons. I had plenty of time to read. I remember reading Jane Eyre before Government and Economics one day and feeling immensely proud of myself. I was reading a classic of my own volition and actually liking it. Loving it, really. Jane Eyre easily became one of my favorites. But then when I started college I started reading more out of my comfort zone. I read A Scarlet Letter, The Cellist of Sarajevo, Walking on Water, To Kill a Mockingbird, Their Eyes Were Watching God, A Lesson Before Dying, The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating, Flight, Monster, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Uncle Tom's Cabin. And, yes, okay - some of these were assigned for school, BUT - I still liked them. And considering the fact that I actually read them instead of relying on class discussion to keep up with the plot, I consider that reading by my own will.

This is not to say, by any means, that I've widened my reading choice enough. I still want to widen it more. I want to read e.e. cummings and Wordsworth, The Color Purple and The Joy Luck Club, Hemingway and Faulkner, a book of short stories and an entire book of poetry (I have a few), and Harry Potter! I want to read stories about other cultures, and learn new ways to tell my own stories. I feel like there is so much experience I need to have through life, reading, and writing in order to do my best. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, maybe I'm just not writing enough. I still think I need to read more, though. It's funny. I used to read all the time. I'd venture to say that I was just as busy, if not busier, when I was in high school, and I still found loads of time to read. I think now my biggest issues center around laziness and obsession. I say obsession, because you don't see what I do to wile away my time at work. I obsess over numbers - financial numbers. MY financial numbers. It's like a game to me. And not only has this financial obsession kept me from reading, but it also can keep me from homework. It's something I'm working on. I worry too much about stuff as it is. I'll worry about anything.

I think the biggest thing I need to do right now is pray for peace. If I have peace, I may be able to better structure my time, because I wouldn't be fretting over finances that I've already figured out 100 times already.

It's not about geography or happenstance. You need to fly and take a chance. You don't need to soar to emptiness. And float on high and forever dance alone. You're scared. -- Rachael Yamagata

2011-09-03T05:30:00.000-04:00

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I've been thinking a lot about my story lately, and even though I feel like I finally realized what's been holding me back from producing good writing, that realization in itself continues to entrap me. It's like my mind is holding my creative process hostage, and I can't really find a way to tell the story I want to tell. I'm falling back into the same traps as before, where I think too much about structure and format, and keep myself from writing. I'm afraid of getting through that first draft, and I don't know if that's out of fear that I won't get the structure right the first time and have to - heaven forbid - revise it all, or if it's something else. I really think it's the former, though.

It's interesting. I have actually written a book before. I don't really like to claim it because it was a stupid NASCAR romance novel I wrote when I was really into the sport, and I think it's cheesy. I just don't understand how I was able to make myself write that story, though - one that I didn't even really care about all that much, was just writing it for the fun of it and to see if I could do it - but I can't make myself write this story that encapsulates my heart and soul. I've thought that maybe I struggle writing it because it's my first serious piece, and I'm just going about it in the wrong mind frame. I just bought Marina Oliver's The Beginner's Guide to Writing a Novel to help give me some direction. It seemed like a good starter book for someone like me. I mean, I know pretty much everything I want to happen in the book - so I basically have a good foundation - I just struggle with the execution of it all.

What really bugs me, though, is that I'm getting in the way of myself. I can feel it every time I hesitate in sitting down to write, every time I avoid the computer and occupy myself with other things. I've always had a problem with self-discipline, but this is ridiculous. If I could make myself sit down every night Spring semester my senior year of high school, pouring over my Pre-Cal Honors textbook to ensure that I made an A in the class when I am supremely bad at math, then I don't see why sitting down and making myself write a novel that I actually want to write is such a problem. Sometimes I think I need to see a therapist. I obviously have issues if I am more self-disciplined with a subject that I hate than a subject I love. I'm trying to figure out what that means, psychologically, for me. I mean, there has to be some reason why I fear doing something that I really want to do.

I think what it is, essentially, is that I am an indecisive, insecure person who has struggled with low self-esteem since elementary school. I'm used to being told what to do, rather than making up my own mind to do something, and it's only been within the last few years - since I started college - that I've really had to learn how to make my own decisions without someone definitively telling me what's going to happen. I think my old ways of living and the way I'm trying to get accustomed to now are fighting against each other, like a brain struggling to communicate with itself. Instead of the right and left sides speaking to each other in tandem, one side isn't responding and it's making the other side freak out because it doesn't know how to deal.

All I know is that, even though a new semester has just started, something has got to give with me and this book. I need a breakthrough, but I don't know how to attain one. I think part of it, too, is that I have everything laid out before me, but I have so many parts I a) don't know where to begin and b) don't know how to use any of the tools, and everyone knows how hard it is to build something with the parts and the tools, but no instruction manual. I'm hoping that Marina Oliver's book is going to be just that - an instruction manual - and will at least help me get going so that I know how to get the first draft completed. We will see. I hope to write again with more positive updates on my story. I hate feeling knotted up with doubt and constantly talking about this discomfiture. I want to be able to talk to you about the process, and right now this is just a dead-end road. Hopefully, things will get more exciting when I figure out a way to bust through the trees unscathed.

Revising Myself

2011-08-30T23:15:00.000-04:00

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I'm supposed to be studying for Spanish, but I'm taking a break to write to you, because I've been wanting to write a post for a few days, but an ongoing revelation I was having had to pan out, and I think it's pretty much there. Over the weekend, I received my first critique on the MFA sample I sent to one of my professors. Unlike when I was in her class and I felt like she had more good comments to make on my writing than bad ones, there were more corrective comments on my sample, and I got this immediate feeling that she was probably disappointed in what I'd written, even though she said the writing itself was strong. I was horrified, though, because immediately I felt horrible about the sample, and regretted sending it to my other professors. So much so that I seriously contemplated tagging them in a Facebook status requesting they just completely ignore that first draft, because I was rewriting and it was going to be exponentially better. But before we get to that I want to tell you about my process in getting to the mind frame I'm in today.

So, Saturday morning when I received my professor's critique, I was really bummed. I even went so far as questioning whether I was really all that great of a writer and if I'd actually have an honest-to-God's shot at getting into the MFA program. I sulked. I helped my mom sand down the footboard and headboard of my late great grandmother's old bed for my apartment. I sulked some more. But as I pushed against the wooden frames, trying to smooth out their surfaces, I felt myself shaving off some of that doubt until by the end of the day I felt like I wanted to jump into revising. And I did. Only it wasn't for my MFA sample. Instead I revised the short story I entered into the Marguerite McGlinn Prize for Fiction contest that didn't win. And then Sunday, I sanded and revised some more, feeling good about my short story, but lost with my sample. I actually sat down to revise it, and I rewrote the first few paragraphs, but I just wasn't feeling it. Something was missing. And that made me worry. What was missing?

It wasn't until today at work when I realized what it was. Sometime over the summer when I wasn't writing (and that could be exactly what ailed me), I lost my flair for lyricism. I think that realization had been hovering over me since I got back my critique, because my professor kept saying that my sentences were too short and choppy, and I was sacrificing lyrical elements. I haven't been playing with my words, I thought. And I know that sounds weird, but you know how some people rave about how well certain authors can play with language? Well, that's what I like to do - I like to play with my words; I like to be lyrical; I like my sentences to have a nice, poetic flow. And don't tell The Professor I used the word flow, because he would probably scoff and roll his eyes. No one's allowed to use the word flow, he told our class last semester, if you do, you lose points.

I'm going to share with you what I wrote at work, but only because I know it will be copyrighted in this post, and I did a separate copyright for the document itself. So, hopefully no boogers will try to steal it. ;-) I was thinking of several things while writing this opening:

1) Their Eyes Were Watching God - Zora Neale Hurston wrote an opening paragraph that would resonate through the entire novel. I felt like that is an appropriate thing to do for any book, but especially literary ones.

2) Play with words - I wanted to get back in touch with one of the reasons why I love to write in the first place, and that is being able to find new and interesting ways to describe things, and to construct a particular image with the words I use.

3) Honesty - I wanted to be honest with myself about the characters, my writing, and the structure/style of the story. I wanted to "show" people what I was trying to create and not just tell them, which is what I think got me in trouble before. I wanted something more bare and true to the characters.

Okay, so it's not perfect, but it's getting there. I'm really just glad that I discovered what my issue was, and how to fix it.

Childhood, like most walks of life, is charted through athick mane of woods. Our heads are overcast by canopies of branches and leaves;we’re surrounded by tall bodies of chafing bark; the most secret things,crouching behind us like cats, somehow get infiltrated through the crevices ofyouth. Then somewhere through that thin vein of life, just as we’ve chartedpaths to either end of what we know as true, airplanes shoot missiles into ourhovering shelter, and the branches open up like arms, and suddenly there’s alight beaming in that we’ve never before experienced.

I don’t remember my mother. When I woke up after thecrash, strapped in a gurney in the back of an ambulance transporting me to thehospital, Maria was the one holding my hand. She was thirteen, and from thatmoment on, she’d entrusted herself with our mother’s role. I’d like to thinkthat if our mother were still alive, she’d tell me that what I was doing wasjustified – that I had every right to tell my own story, and if others’ livesgot in the way of that, then oh well. But I never knew her. She is and alwayswill be a blank face with long, dark hair. Iknow what Maria would say, I think as I tighten my scarf around my throat.I finger through my bag to make sure I have the right folder. It is thin, brownand leather with a buckle over the edges. Growing up, I’d always wanted to keepa diary, but was too afraid because I could never find the ones I wanted withthe lock and special key I could wear around my neck so no one else could openit.

Today, more than ever, I wish I had kept one anyway. It would’veimpressed Professor Cartwright more if I had a guide to follow. But I tellmyself, as I slip a long, velvet clip through my hair and roll it up into asmooth bun, that it would not be logical for a professor to be impressed bywhat I could not change. My retention isimpeccable, I’d tell her. That would impress her more.

I slip on my gloves, gather my bag and coffee, and headout to the parking lot. The wind clips my ears, so I flip the hood of my coatover my head and bend my chin against the gnashing air.

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The Start of Another Semester

2011-08-27T06:00:00.000-04:00

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This past week has been incredibly tiring. I've woken up at the crack of dawn more times than I'd planned from changing my schedule around at the last minute, and I am just flat exhausted. I wanted nothing more than to sleep in this weekend, but today I have a meeting at the library with a professor who's teaching my online library science class. Yeah, don't ask me why we're meeting up when this is supposed to be an online class. I seriously hope the meeting doesn't last too long because I have some errands to run (i.e. books to ship, books to buy), and if the feeling hits me some time in the afternoon, I'd like to be home and within a few feet of the couch when I keel over and fall asleep from exhaustion.

Going back to campus, though, has been nice, and since I'm at my parents' right now, I have this nice, long drive to school. Of course, sometimes I feel harried because I think I'm going to be late and I speed and the ride to campus is a little less enjoyable, but it's still somewhat relaxing. The thing I love most about USC's campus is that there's a lot of shade, so I can wear jeans during the day and not feel like I'm about to faint from overheating. I was coming out the back way of one of my classes the other day and actually felt a little nostalgic. There was a long brick pathway I used to walk from the dorm my freshman year to history, speech, and English. I remember listening to my iPod on the walk to class and feeling like I was walking through a movie listening to the soundtrack playing live from the sky. Then the Daily came out with an article about how students plug up on the walk to class and become less perceptive of their surroundings. I was an advocate of either side, but these days I prefer not to wear my earbuds on the trek to class. I prefer the quiet tones of morning to the revving volume of music in my ears.

I was walking from my last class the other day, though, when I tried to imagine what it would be like for me to be on campus as a graduate student - a professor. What does that feel like? Is it any different than walking the campus as an undergrad? It was this thought that started me on thinking about the MFA program and how badly I want to get in. I saw on USC's website the other day how our MFA program just cracked the top 50 in MFA programs throughout the country. They said that this was good for the program - that it would attract, has attracted, attention both nationally and internationally - but I felt threatened. There are people out there better than me, I thought. How would I compete with someone outside of this country? How would I compete with someone inside this country? I shook my head and told myself to stop. I will get in if it's meant to be. But of course, then, I felt that bitter taste of desperation coat my tongue, and I felt like I would do just about anything to get into the program.

"It's not really up to you," Emily told me, "you just do the best you can and let God do the rest."

I knew this, but it's not what I wanted to hear.

"It's just, I liked that I was so confident there for a while," I told her, "because I'm not good at being confident in myself about much. I just want this to be the one thing I can count on myself to be really good at, and I just want to be able to feel that confidence again."

"You need to pray for peace about the situation," she said. "That's all you need - knowing that everything is in order for your good, not harm."

So I prayed - well, if you want to be accurate about it, I guess I begged. I prayed for peace, but I also prayed to get accepted, and while I was at it I prayed for both the graduate assistantship and additional fellowships. I mean, if you're going to pray, you may as well pray big, pray for all you want, not just what you think you deserve or what you think is reasonable in your eyes for God to give you. Pray for everything you desire, and let God decide if, when, and how He's going to give it to you. That's my thinking.

It's like Em was telling me the other night - all I can do is put together the best possible application that I can, and let God take care of the rest. Fingers crossed.

Puzzling

2011-08-24T06:00:00.000-04:00

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I was in one of my library science classes yesterday when I started thinking about my blog. It's a class on storage and information retrieval, and our professor was talking about this project due at the end of the semester on organizing a database. He said that some of his previous students used blogs as their final projects, and I thought, "Cool! I don't have to do anything!" But it then made me think about my blog and how...distant I've felt from it. When all this stuff was going on with the apartment, I lost my footing. I wasn't thinking about school or the blog or writing or reading; I was thinking about where I was going to live, if I was going to have to live with my parents, and how I would fare if that ended up being the case.

Now school has started back and I feel like I've gotten off to a rocky start. I'm trying to recompose myself, especially now that I know I'll be moving in somewhere mid-September. But my mind is disjointed. Last semester, even with the unplanned snow storm that pushed the semester back a few days, I felt like I had a better grasp of my classes from the start. I can't say the same for this semester. I'm hoping things will settle down when I actually get a permanent class schedule. Right now, I'm still trying to rearrange it - dropping and adding classes, switching sections, trying to construct the perfect academic itinerary. Right now it's almost perfect. Close, but not exactly how I want it. It being perfect is contingent upon one of the other Spanish classes opening up, so right now I'm waiting to see if I'll be able to switch sections.

Even trying to write this blog post makes my brain feel fuzzy and dangerously unorganized. My thoughts are choppy, and I can't recoup. Could this whole mess with my apartment have thrown me off that much? I guess so. I mean, there's a reason why students generally move in before the semester starts, I guess. And I'll be moving in to mine during the throws of fall. I can only hope that I get my act together before then. Because right now I keep staring off into this blank white space on my computer screen, not able to keep my thoughts strung together. I keep thinking about my last four semesters and how perfect they were, how much I enjoyed my classes, and I how well I did in them. I keep wanting to go back to the ones that are familiar to me, the ones I already know I like. That's the thing I hate about new semesters. They're new. You have to reconfigure your brain for them and wait for the familiarity to come, which won't be until they're already over.

I know I'm not making much sense. Or, maybe I am, but it's a disorganized sense-making. But, to answer my own question, yes, I do think that I am just this thrown off by things going differently than planned. My first three years at school, I was moving into or already moved in to a place where I would be living at least for the next school year. I was settled. I had time to prepare because there wasn't anything else to worry about but getting ready for classes. But, now... It concerns me that my world can shift so drastically from an unexpected turn of events. And when I say "my world can shift," I mean that I can let it affect me so much. My response to all this has been brimming with worry, anxiety, uncertainty. I've never really been good at going with the flow. I mean, I guess it really depends on the type of plans I had and how much they changed. I'm not so OCD that I have to kiss a doorknob five times before leaving a room or have it out with my best friend because she invited someone to eat with us for lunch. But to have my entire life packed up in several different cars only to end up back home...that threw me. And when I say "threw," I mean Tom Brady catapulted my butt all the way out to the Mediterranean Sea. It was that jarring.

While I hope that I can get my studies under control and my brain organized before mid-September, I hope that everything is settled after I'm moved into my new place. It's like I had just one more piece to a puzzle to insert into the picture when my idiot brother (hypothetically speaking) came and swiped his hand over the table, sending everything askew, and all I can do now is look at the pieces scattered all over the floor in total shock. A couple weeks ago, all I could do is stare. Now, I'm slowly bending down to pick up the pieces, getting ready to organize them so they can be placed back together. I'm hoping that I will soon be able to stand back, observe it, and feel familiar again.

When Things Don't Go The Way You Planned

2011-08-22T06:00:00.000-04:00

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It occurred to me sometime last week that I hadn't written on my blog in a few days. Then a few days turned into more days, and those days turned into the whole week. Now, it's a new week, and I'm just now writing a new post. My blog has been put on the back-burner as a result of recent events. I was supposed to move into my new apartment last weekend. That didn't happen. My parents and I walked into a room of nastiness. I'm talking dog hair all over the floors and couch, carpet that was supposed to be laminate, tile that wasn't even supposed to be there, dried nail polish on my bathroom sink, and dried dog crap by my washer and dryer. My parents, not thrilled about being led into a lease under false pretenses (we were shown a completely different looking model where the couches were leather, not cloth, there was absolutely no carpet or tile, and no mention that there were upgraded apartments and then not-so upgraded apartments). The girl who gave us the tour presented the model as though all of the apartments looked that way. We thought we were upgrading from my last apartment, which I'd always talked crap about, but would've given anything to have back once I walked into, what was supposed to be, my new place.

Well, to sum things up a bit, I ended up not moving in. Thankfully, another student was in need of a room and agreed to take over my lease, so I was cut from any ties to that complex. There are several things I derived from this turn of events: a) I'd had an uncertain feeling about that complex to begin with being that I had to sign the lease last minute or else live at home, b) I was totally thrilled that I wasn't going to be staying there because it most likely meant I could get my own place, c) I was a little less thrilled when I found myself living with my parents because we weren't sure what we could afford and if living on my own would even be possible.

While my mom tried to reassure me that living at home wasn't as bad as it seemed, I felt unhinged. My life was spiraling into unbounded terrain, and I didn't like it. The weekend passed, and then my last few days of summer were upon me. Classes were the LAST thing on my mind at this point. I needed a place to stay that wasn't at my parents' house, and I needed to figure out where that place was going to be pronto. I searched and I calculated and I prayed to God, begged really, that He would do something to get me out of this mess (not that my parents' house is "mess," per say, but the whole thing was just a total avalanche of unexpectedness). I freaked out about it so much that even Emily finally had to tell me that she needed a break from it. And when Em says she needs a break from something, it must be pretty bad, so I made myself regroup and take a step back. From this, I derived a few more things: a) this is all happening for a reason, b) it's not like I'll be staying with my parents' forever, so I need to chill out, c) remember that important life-lesson you learned at the Mother's Day sermon?: if you're going to pray, don't worry; if you're going to worry, don't pray. I had to constantly tell myself that God was in control, this was all happening for a reason, I would be out of here soon.

Look, I know what you're thinking? Do I have to be so hard on my parents'? Well, it's just that, once you've been out on your own for several years doing things your way, and then you have to move back in with your parents, it's not exactly the same type of lifestyle you had before. You have to surrender bits and pieces of your independence, and suddenly there are two more people who want to know where you are and why you haven't come home yet and will you pick me up some more Diet Tonic Water, please? Fine. I get it. They're my parents'. It doesn't mean I have to like it.

I had some friends go out of town this past weekend who offered to let me stay at their house until they get back, but I don't know if I'm going to stay. There's an apartment complex I like that has a room opening up in a few weeks that we're looking into, so I'm hoping that works out. In the meantime, I'm sticking it out at home repeatedly telling myself to be patient. And I think I'm getting there. At first, I was really strung out about the whole thing and wished (and still somewhat do) that I'd just renewed my lease with my previous apartment. I wouldn't have had to move any of my crap. I could've just stayed right there where I was, and none of this mess would've happened.

But, like I said before, I believe all of this is happening for a reason. A blessing in disguise is what my friends are calling it. So, that's what I'm trying to see it as. I've definitely simmered down since I first moved back home, but there were nights where I wondered if I'd be here until graduation. That was inconceivable to even think about. But now I'm just really hoping that this one place works out. What I'm not looking forward to is buying furniture. Shiver. I don't even want to know how bad that's going to hurt.

The Meeting

2011-08-15T08:30:00.009-04:00

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So, I told you that I would be meeting with a former favorite English professor of mine on Friday to basically just catch up with her, but also to talk about my plans for getting my MFA. Well, the meeting went great! It felt odd to be back on campus already, but it was a beautiful day and all the brick outlining on campus against the backdrop of beautifully green vegetation made me miss the place. Ms. Nobles graciously bought us coffee and we sat down in the corner of the cafe and had a great time catching up with each other! I practically gave her a synopsis of the book I'm writing and provided her with the sample she asked for. She sounded very enthusiastic and optimistic about the story and my chances of getting into the MFA program. She's agreed to right me a recommendation and said that I sound like I have everything in order! I'm really excited about applying, although I think my mother is somewhat nervous about my confidence on getting accepted. Em is the same way - not nervous, but she thinks I should at least consider the possibility of not getting in, because it's not impossible that I won't. And I understand, and it's something I've thought about, if not fleetingly.

I guess the way I look at it, I'm getting three recommendations (two from former MFA students in the program and one from a professor who teaches both undergrad and graduate creative writing classes and really liked the short story I wrote for his class). Plus, I've spent four years working on the story I'm using as both my sample and thesis for the program if I get accepted, so I have a very strong handle on the way it develops, especially from the beginning. Two of these professors have already read earlier samples of this story, and I'm about to email the third professor my sample for my application, so two out of the three are familiar with my primary work, and have a lot of good things to say about it and my writing in general.

I'm not trying to be overly confident in the way that comes off as arrogant or too self-assured, but I honestly believe I have an enormously good shot at getting an offer for the program. Plus, if they need any more assurance that I would be good for the MFA, I can go ahead and give them a syllabus of what my first year as a graduate instructor would look like. Yes, I've already been brainstorming! So, it's not that I'm in denial about the possibility of not getting in, because I know that could happen, but I'm just extremely confident that I will get in, and I'm praying, praying, praying that I'll get an offer.

One thing I was sad to discover, though, is that apparently USC doesn't like to "inbreed" as Ms. Nobles called it. They generally don't hire their former students as full-fledged professors unless they go off, make something of themselves (say, publish a few books), and then try to come back. But, hey, who knows, maybe I'll be an exception. ;-) Okay, probably not, but I can dream, can't I? I'd love to stay at my university to teach as a professor. I wouldn't have to move! That's always a plus, right?

Meeting up with Ms. Nobles again, though, made me realize how much I miss her, not just as a professor, but as a friend. She's just one of those people who really cares about her students, and I have a lot of respect for her as my former professor, writer, and friend. She's always been an advocate of my writing pursuits, and she really believes in this book I'm writing. It's a slow process, but she knows I'll get it done. And I know I'll get it done. She can empathize with students trying to be students and do recreational writing on the side. She has been one of my biggest supporters on this project, and for that I am very grateful.

I'm looking forward to working more on this story, especially since Ms. Nobles showed me some samples to use in outlining my book. I told her that I have everything in my head, but I'd like to get it all out on paper just to have it structured and in order for me to see. She pulled out some outlines she'd used when she was in the program, so I'm hoping to get those started soon. Even though classes start back this week, and I probably won't have as much time to write like I have over the summer, I'm still going to make it a point to work on this book throughout the semester. I may not get to work on it as much as I'd like, or make a scheduled time for writing, but - like I said in an earlier post - I will try to take advantage of opportunities presented to me to write. I love getting to work on something like this! It makes me feel like a real writer.

And I don't mean that to try to undermine other writers who aren't working on a book. I mean that more as a personal jab to myself. I've spent a good portion of my young writer's life trying to convince myself I was writer when I wasn't putting in the time. It didn't feel right because I wasn't trying, and I knew writing wasn't just a hobby for me. Writing was something I wanted to take seriously, but wasn't, and I knew that needed to change. I struggled with feeling like a writer because I knew I wasn't taking it seriously, so in a way I felt I didn't deserve to feel like a true writer, but now that I've developed more over the years and figured out which direction to take this book, and also what I need to do to get it written and have actually been doing it, I feel good about calling myself a writer. It's not just a hobby. It may be something I have to do on the side, but it is more than just a late-night fling. From this point on, I will constantly be seeking the next level of this process. And it feels good to say that I am writing a book, something that I hesitated calling it for a while, because of its non-book-like form. But this is definitely going to be a book-like project, and deserves to be looked at as such. Everyone, my name is Lauren and I am a writer writing a book! :D

"This Moment Keeps on Moving, We Were Never Meant to Hold On" --Jack Johnson

2011-08-11T00:10:00.011-04:00

Before Reading:
I might suggest playing the video at the very bottom while reading this post. It might help you picture my life as a series television drama.

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I'm ready to leave my parents' house. It's not so much that I want to get away from them, although it will be nice to regain my independence, which I don't care what anyone says, as long as you're living with your parents, you sacrifice a little or a lot of that right depending on the type of parent(s) you have. For the past week, my grandmother has called my mom to talk about The Family Drama of which my mom relays to me directly following her phone conversation, which I'm left to stew with for the rest of the night. I feel bad that I see my mom is dealing with it every day when she comes home from work in the middle of making supper, doing laundry, and getting herself ready for bed, but I will be so glad when I'm away from it all. I just wish certain members of my family would try to leave others out of the debacle. Especially when said members won't do anything to really help themselves.

I'm listening to Jack Johnson's Adrift tonight on You Tube, and, yes, I keep playing it over and over again. I'm switching between Jack's actual version and an instrumental cover of the song, which sounds really nice and lyrical. It puts me in another Grey's Anatomy, your-life-as-a-series-television-drama, type mood. Over the last three years, I've come to realize that I don't really feel like myself in my parents' house anymore. When I come home I feel like an old version of myself, like I get swept into who I was before I left for college, and can't seem to bring who I've become back with me. I don't like not feeling like myself.

Before my grandparents sold their house and built their new one, literally, right down the driveway from their old house, I used to dream of inheriting it one day, or buying it if I had to. Their house set the standard for all houses for me. It's a two-story home with an upstairs that cuts off into a balcony. I used to sit up there and swing my legs through the banisters watching the large TV that sat in the downstairs living room. The small balcony that hung off the side of the upstairs balcony displayed an idyllic view of the runway my grandfather cleared out when they'd first bought the land in the eighties. He also cleared out trails in the woods through which my cousins and I would ride our bikes and four-wheeler's. My grandmother would take daily walks through them, their late dog BJ trotting along beside her. They kept horses for a while, and the stables stayed long after my grandfather sold the last one: CoCo, who was really bought for me, and who stepped on my foot when I was seven. They sold him because my grandpa couldn't ever get him calm enough for me to ride - at least not without feeling that I wouldn't be safe doing so.

There is just so much space out there, and further off to the side of the stables is a water hole that fills up whenever it rains a lot. Before they sold the place, my grandpa wanted to install a full-time pond there and build a bridge over the water. But then they started riding the family from Florida around on their John Deer, showing them the land, and eventually selling it to them. Those last few months grilling out on the patio were some of the worst times I'd had at my grandparents' house - knowing that soon I would not be going up there ever again. And when The Family Drama started and my mom started wishing we all didn't live so close to each other, I felt that hope for one day buying the place wash right out of me. I didn't want it anymore. I hadn't been in the house in three years. "It's not even the same place," my grandma said to me one day. "You wouldn't even recognize it." Part of me still longs for the house and the land, if only because I never quite severed the relationship I had with my memories there, but then another part of me thinks of The Family Drama and wants absolutely nothing to do with it. I'd stay here and just feel sucked into the turbulent downfall that's taking place.

It's hard not to cry as I type and hear the notes of Adrift trill through the air. It's the type of song that makes me cry, right up there with Coldplay's Fix You and several songs by Iron and Wine. But I think it's good, you know, to cry, because it releases tension and pent-up anger, and silently says all the things I wish I could say. I know it might not seem like I'm crying right now, but I am. Promise. It's one of those moments I'm glad you can't see, but it's also one of those moments I think is important for you to know is happening. Especially, after my spill about being a more authentic person and writer, and all-around blogger. People don't generally see these secret crevices I have inside of me. I even try to hide them from Em, but she knows they're there. She's seen them when I've been at my most vulnerable and just couldn't find anymore strength to hold it back any longer.

"I just feel like the whole thing is about to fall apart," my mom said last night in the kitchen. I don't know how she means. Hasn't it already fallen apart? Isn't everyone already ripped at the seams? I think at this point everyone's just trying to do their best to hang on to the end of their rope if they haven't already lost their grip. Maybe everyone's just focusing too much on trying to hang on and not enough on trying to climb back up. Maybe some of us are testing fate, swinging too far left or right to really keep a good grip on anything. I was never good at rope climbing, but sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who's really trying to make my way back up the thick, rigid threading. It hurts like hell, but I just don't want to keep hanging there like a limp fish. I want to get away from it. Far away. As far as I possibly can. Maybe I actually need to let go...