Hi all - in my writing and freelancing endeavors I have finally embarked on starting my own website. So from now on my information and posts will be moving to:
kcaguirre.com
Please see that address and follow to continue reading about what I'm up to, writing activities, and any various other homemaking, spiritual, and career advice I might realize and thus share with you.
I will leave this up for now but may soon be taking this blogger down so as not to promote duplicate information. (I did work in SEO for a time, afterall!) And duplicate content is a no-no.
I hope to continue sharing information and inspiration with whoever has decided to follow my journey and please feel welcome to share any comments and questions you may have - I'd love to hear from you!
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
The Struggle is Real: The Challenge of Writing after the Writing Challenge
The 30 day challenge is well over now, but I sense its complete purpose in the fact the fire that was lit during that time continues to burn strong. I have actually thus started my own website where I hope to log my published work. At the very least, I can keep an expectation for myself as to what my true purpose is. I continue to work on my novel (which I have since deleted and rewritten). But it will now remain under wraps until ready to see the light. All small steps directed at a seemingly impossible goal of starting a writing career, in this new generation of limited attention spans and information overload. Yet the writer's life still exists and I will continue to chase it.
I do hope to maintain a certain public presence with my writing and have something to share with the digital presence of my kindred spirits. Toward my goal of becoming a more aware and insightful author, I have invested in The Making of a Story: A Norton Guide to Creative Writing.
Progress has been slow, but hopefully will remain steady. I love that this book reads like a self-help, laymen's terms guide but includes exercises to help spark intuitive thinking. My answers to such exercises I will try to include here. But I still very much recommend the book given what I've read so far!
1: I don't know why I remember...
I don't know why I remember an adventurous afternoon with a friend. This is not a tale about how I first met my lifelong bestie, or the fallout that made me lose faith in others. In fact, we have perhaps one of the most mundane sorts of friendships. Distance and time brought us together on the long bus ride to a magnet school, and by distance and time we were parted when I moved away. But I will always remember her whimsical and fiery spirit, unlike anything I had known or expected. As a quiet and reserved girl, raised in a complete and traditional family, I never broke the rules. I was born and raised with parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents all within minutes. Yet here was this unbridled energy, hailing from across the ocean. It seemed she didn't know how to erase a smile from her freckled, Ukrainian face. She had a love that was intense, full of hugs and laughter at every turn. In my family, we hugged our parents for sure, but it was a thing more reserved for hellos and goodbyes, a public display of familial bonds. For her, it seemed to be a life source. No one was exempt.
She once had a hamster. The hamster also seemed to have a zest for life that was simply too much for its tiny body. It escaped from its cage and into a bowl of chocolates. No need to tell the rest of the hamster's tale. She grieved as a child would, but that was not a process to which I was privy. But even some time after the initial loss as we played and laughed at her home, she had the sudden notion to take a trip. I had been taught never to leave the house without supervision, but how could I deny a girl on a mission. I followed as we frolicked out the door, locked up, ran down the street, around a moat-like ditch and jumped the fence into a playground. I was nervous, looking over my shoulder as if my mother should pop out from behind a tree and send me home. I was excited, my breath quick from the sprinting and the cool autumn air. I wondered where we were going and how far. I didn't ask. My words would betray my mother in asking where to, or my own desires by asking to turn back. We ran past the playground, and jumped the opposite fence out. We slowed to a walk, following the length of the man-made ditch that lined the road. This I surely knew my mother would disapprove of, two girls walking near the road to no where.
We jumped a chain fence and crossed into a small cemetery. My curiosity was truly piqued at this
point. Why on Earth should we come here? I watched her pale figure slow to a purposeful walk and continue on, as if she were a ghost who had lived here all along. Her long blonde hair blew back as she knelt by a bush in the corner of the lot. We were not there for a person it seemed, but a much smaller grave. She had buried her hamster here under a cross made of twigs. She began speaking out loud, her voice nearly mimicking a sad lament and I wondered if that was as much as she was capable of, the fire and joy never more than a breath away. She was loud and theatric, her words for her lost friend overlaid with drama her new one. She ended with a quick, but heartfelt "I'll miss you, Goodbye." After which we frolicked back home just the same way we came.
I do hope to maintain a certain public presence with my writing and have something to share with the digital presence of my kindred spirits. Toward my goal of becoming a more aware and insightful author, I have invested in The Making of a Story: A Norton Guide to Creative Writing.
Progress has been slow, but hopefully will remain steady. I love that this book reads like a self-help, laymen's terms guide but includes exercises to help spark intuitive thinking. My answers to such exercises I will try to include here. But I still very much recommend the book given what I've read so far!
1: I don't know why I remember...
I don't know why I remember an adventurous afternoon with a friend. This is not a tale about how I first met my lifelong bestie, or the fallout that made me lose faith in others. In fact, we have perhaps one of the most mundane sorts of friendships. Distance and time brought us together on the long bus ride to a magnet school, and by distance and time we were parted when I moved away. But I will always remember her whimsical and fiery spirit, unlike anything I had known or expected. As a quiet and reserved girl, raised in a complete and traditional family, I never broke the rules. I was born and raised with parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents all within minutes. Yet here was this unbridled energy, hailing from across the ocean. It seemed she didn't know how to erase a smile from her freckled, Ukrainian face. She had a love that was intense, full of hugs and laughter at every turn. In my family, we hugged our parents for sure, but it was a thing more reserved for hellos and goodbyes, a public display of familial bonds. For her, it seemed to be a life source. No one was exempt.
She once had a hamster. The hamster also seemed to have a zest for life that was simply too much for its tiny body. It escaped from its cage and into a bowl of chocolates. No need to tell the rest of the hamster's tale. She grieved as a child would, but that was not a process to which I was privy. But even some time after the initial loss as we played and laughed at her home, she had the sudden notion to take a trip. I had been taught never to leave the house without supervision, but how could I deny a girl on a mission. I followed as we frolicked out the door, locked up, ran down the street, around a moat-like ditch and jumped the fence into a playground. I was nervous, looking over my shoulder as if my mother should pop out from behind a tree and send me home. I was excited, my breath quick from the sprinting and the cool autumn air. I wondered where we were going and how far. I didn't ask. My words would betray my mother in asking where to, or my own desires by asking to turn back. We ran past the playground, and jumped the opposite fence out. We slowed to a walk, following the length of the man-made ditch that lined the road. This I surely knew my mother would disapprove of, two girls walking near the road to no where.
We jumped a chain fence and crossed into a small cemetery. My curiosity was truly piqued at this
point. Why on Earth should we come here? I watched her pale figure slow to a purposeful walk and continue on, as if she were a ghost who had lived here all along. Her long blonde hair blew back as she knelt by a bush in the corner of the lot. We were not there for a person it seemed, but a much smaller grave. She had buried her hamster here under a cross made of twigs. She began speaking out loud, her voice nearly mimicking a sad lament and I wondered if that was as much as she was capable of, the fire and joy never more than a breath away. She was loud and theatric, her words for her lost friend overlaid with drama her new one. She ended with a quick, but heartfelt "I'll miss you, Goodbye." After which we frolicked back home just the same way we came.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Writing Challenge: Day 23 - Off-line additions and back to school delays
Schools have begun up again this last week and I found myself, like many, wrapped up and distracted by the preparations and work involved in the drastic routine change (including both roles of student and teacher). I also spent the last weekend away, helping my family move my brother into his first college dorm. I am happy to say, however, that I did use the car trip to get a little bit of writing in and hope the same carries over for my trip next weekend.
Here is what has been added to the story over the last several days.
Just as I should assume on a day like this, the tea was bitter and my porridge showed little more promise. My moment of self-pity was interrupted by an abrupt knock at the door. I willingly abandoned by breakfast, intrigued by the surprise guest.
Here is what has been added to the story over the last several days.
“Good Morning, Goody Martin! I have brought a gift to warm your new home. I am Goody Smith and I am the lady of the house just across the way, there.”
“Yes, thank you kindly. Please, do come in. I have just had a small bite for breakfast but would be glad to start a new kettle if you should like some tea.” This small woman at my door beamed a smile in response and followed my lead into the house. We only just sat down at the table when she quickly started up again.
“We are so pleased to meet you, the other ladies and myself of the township, that is. In such a small town it is quite exciting to have the opportunity to add to our quaint little group. That is, of course, if you wish to join us.” At this caveat, she leaked a quick smirk. Of course, I would wish to join them. Why shouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t I? What could I possibly have better to do alone that I shouldn’t do with the other woman?
“Oh, it’s great fun. We bring all our sewing and embroidery over to one house, it changes every so often mind you, to be fair. We work on our chores and have the most interesting discussions. The ladies would be most pleased to help you get started in your new life here and are happy to help with whatever you need. Should you have any concerns at all we have quite the range of experience set out amongst us. Why, Goody Rand has been midwife in this town for nearly forty years and seen many children, her own six included, grown into valuable members of the community. Oh we talk about most everything together and are just giddy with excitement at the chance to hear the perspective of someone outside our town.” She just seemed nearly to vibrate with excitement of my novelty. I kept my eyes down, a little bit intimidated by this sort of attention. I set a fresh cup of hot tea in front of her, along with the cream. I smoothed my skirt and sat down in the chair catty-cornered to hers.
“Discussions, you say? I’m glad to have such an enthusiastic support group here. It’s been quite a journey for me and I know there’s plenty for me to learn. I still don’t quite feel like a wife, but only a child in this new place and new life. What sort of things do you discuss together? I should very much like to discuss readings and such. As an only child in my home, and very far from the central town I really only had reading to keep occupied.”
“Oh yes, dear. Don’t you worry. We certainly discuss readings each week. In fact, why don’t you host this week’s meeting? We meet every Monday, so I could let the girls know to come by tomorrow morning. I would arrive a little bit early, of course, to help you set up, being your first time and all.” She grinned as sweetly as possible, as if preparing for something. “Although, if I may suggest... Perhaps I can bring over a little bit of beet juice. My goodness, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost. I hope you know I don’t mean anything by it, being your first day as a married woman I’m sure we all know now we may lose sleep now and then.” She let out a pitiful chuckle. “But for first impressions sake, perhaps a little color here and there might do you good.”
I blanched even more, if possible, at the comment. I knew that I noticed a change in myself this morning. However, I had quite hoped that the hot tea and porridge may have started my blood flowing again. My hands shot up to my face, and I was still quite chilled as well. It was almost as if there simply hadn’t been enough blood there to warm.
I started with a stutter, “Y-y-yes, of course. My goodness, I apologize. I am most grateful at your warm welcome and acceptance, Goody Smith. Thank you, I’d be glad to have you over in the morning. As well as the others.”
“No need to apologize, little one. I’m happy to help! I will leave you to become better acquainted here on your own terms for the day. I shall return in the morning, then.” We rose and I walked her toward the front door, my knuckles still grazing my cheeks, surprised at the lack of flush in embarrassment that usually occurs.
“Until then, my dear.” She passed through to the porch.
“Thank you, Ma’am for your kindness. Until the morning.” I watched her shuffle on down the steps, turn to smile, and continue around the bend. I was unusually tired for so early in the day. Without chores completed, it seems that my nightly transformation into this new world and a single interaction today had double the effect as a whole day helping on the farm. I could only guess at the effect a day spent with strange women in my home would have.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
30 Day Writing Challenge: 12-13
I have too many ideas and pathways going through my mind now, and the writing is definitely coming in bursts between cooperative and not so much. Additionally I am realizing I need to switch to some dialogue at some point and just found my greatest fear - realistic and interesting conversation! I am accustomed to periodically writing short bits, cleverly worded to describe my day, people I meet, or things of the world around me. But to invent true interaction between characters that don't exist is going to be my biggest challenge. Luckily - that's a challenge for another day. (P.S. - paragraph below separated because I haven't decided where I want to put that yet...)
Days 11-12
Listlessly, I cleared out the used linens and poured fresh water into the bowl. I glanced down on the glassy surface as the ripples calmed and caught the eye of a shocking creature. My mind flashed briefly back to the dream, the vision. Nearly like a memory, my mind flashed on gold-flecked, mossy green eyes, then returned to realize the pale face I saw with dull eyes was my own. I had been told of the often harrowing experience that awaits a young woman once the wedding ceremonies ended and thought I had endured as best as could be expected. Yet the pallor and weariness of the face that looked back at me from my vanity told a different story.
Quickly, I thrust my hands into the water, ineffectively banishing the zombie like image and washed. With smoothed hair and my best dress, I pinched my cheeks in vain to bring the color into my face. I laced my boots and made my way down to the kitchen.
The evening’s developments should not be misconstrued as cruel, by any means. Yet I feel as if they should. I was made full aware of what was in store for me. I should be no less than glad at the happy union as was arranged by my family. As is my purpose, my actions and life forthwith should be dedicated to protecting the honor and pride of our lineage. With this ceremony we have wed more than two hands. But I cannot but feel that my actions are not my own, and my success in securing continued promotions for those of my maiden name by means of my new station will leave no room for joy.
Monday, August 11, 2014
30 Day Writing Challenge: Days 10-11
Today's post includes edits and additions I made to my story yesterday and today. It's increasingly difficult to continue the thread, especially with the few moments I have each day to re-center my mind and try to find that place. I can definitely see the role of a writer as a full time job, as I end up taking much longer to produce much less each day. But hopefully this is still reading cohesively! I welcome any feedback in the comments. The post includes the story from the beginning since some has been edited.
________________________________________________________________________________
I. The dream
The morning sun is just coming over the horizon and begins to spill over the windowsill, casting an amber sliver of warmth over my cheek. Consciousness is slowly returning as I open one eye and then the other. With heavy eyelids, I blink the fog away and try to focus my sights on the mundane objects scattered about the space. A blur of white slowly takes shape as a porcelain wash basin. My sight sharpens on this beautiful object, embellished with gold and green branches, and I can’t help but think on the clean, smooth surface glimmering with reflections of all it can see. The curved surface shines with what small portion of the room is visible in the early morning light. A large, rich mahogany armoire stands tall and looming on one edge. And then myself, mostly a mound of blankets and long hair spills over the other.
I’ve always loved my long, strawberry blonde hair. To think, my own bit of golden sunshine must now be hidden away each day, my maiden status officially gone. In this moment, I wish only to hug my pillow tighter, closer. I need the warmth and comfort, to feel like someone’s arms are around me on a morning like this. I can’t clearly recall the previous night and I’m realizing this morning haze is not entirely lifting. Visions begin to resurface, but I can scarcely tell what is real and what is not.
Aggression, fear, surprise, forcefulness. I feel myself completely enveloped by a darkness. I see a face. Wait, two faces. They morph from one to the other. But there is something more there. One face looks very familiar. As his receding hair line and round, plump nose come into clarity, the lines and wrinkles on his face and that sneering smile shift into focus and I know it. The face comes into view as a demon coming for my soul. I can nearly smell the sweat and whisky emanating from his overly porous skin. I want to turn away but I cannot. He is holding me here. I am half pinned by his weight and half by my own anxiety.
My breathing quickens and the room spins about me. The demon laughs, but doesn’t remain. As if being overtaken, his visage is dissipated by that of another. The amorphous blackness condenses and expands like a black cloud until I find myself staring back into dark eyes. Like staring into the mass of leaves atop a great oak in the middle of the night, shades of deep greens contrasted with golden specks of moonlit earth. I knew not this man, but found only relief in his presence.
I blink my way back into reality once more. The sun has long been risen in the sky, settling into it’s daily chores of igniting the lives of the town and I, too, must take my new post among the congregation as the magistrate’s wife. I peel myself up and walk over to the basin to rinse my face and seek a momentary reprieve from the cold water. The white bowl gleams like the white in the eyes belonging to my midnight visitor. But my day dream is clipped by the image in the bowl. Where I hoped to start my morning clean and refreshed to start my new life, I was instead struck with a harsh reminder of the previous night and loss of my maidenhood. Bits of garment and rags were lumped sadly, striking up over the surface of the shallow water. The water was now pink with swirls of crimson, remnants from that evening and who I was.
The morning sun is just coming over the horizon and begins to spill over the windowsill, casting an amber sliver of warmth over my cheek. Consciousness is slowly returning as I open one eye and then the other. With heavy eyelids, I blink the fog away and try to focus my sights on the mundane objects scattered about the space. A blur of white slowly takes shape as a porcelain wash basin. My sight sharpens on this beautiful object, embellished with gold and green branches, and I can’t help but think on the clean, smooth surface glimmering with reflections of all it can see. The curved surface shines with what small portion of the room is visible in the early morning light. A large, rich mahogany armoire stands tall and looming on one edge. And then myself, mostly a mound of blankets and long hair spills over the other.
I’ve always loved my long, strawberry blonde hair. To think, my own bit of golden sunshine must now be hidden away each day, my maiden status officially gone. In this moment, I wish only to hug my pillow tighter, closer. I need the warmth and comfort, to feel like someone’s arms are around me on a morning like this. I can’t clearly recall the previous night and I’m realizing this morning haze is not entirely lifting. Visions begin to resurface, but I can scarcely tell what is real and what is not.
Aggression, fear, surprise, forcefulness. I feel myself completely enveloped by a darkness. I see a face. Wait, two faces. They morph from one to the other. But there is something more there. One face looks very familiar. As his receding hair line and round, plump nose come into clarity, the lines and wrinkles on his face and that sneering smile shift into focus and I know it. The face comes into view as a demon coming for my soul. I can nearly smell the sweat and whisky emanating from his overly porous skin. I want to turn away but I cannot. He is holding me here. I am half pinned by his weight and half by my own anxiety.
My breathing quickens and the room spins about me. The demon laughs, but doesn’t remain. As if being overtaken, his visage is dissipated by that of another. The amorphous blackness condenses and expands like a black cloud until I find myself staring back into dark eyes. Like staring into the mass of leaves atop a great oak in the middle of the night, shades of deep greens contrasted with golden specks of moonlit earth. I knew not this man, but found only relief in his presence.
I blink my way back into reality once more. The sun has long been risen in the sky, settling into it’s daily chores of igniting the lives of the town and I, too, must take my new post among the congregation as the magistrate’s wife. I peel myself up and walk over to the basin to rinse my face and seek a momentary reprieve from the cold water. The white bowl gleams like the white in the eyes belonging to my midnight visitor. But my day dream is clipped by the image in the bowl. Where I hoped to start my morning clean and refreshed to start my new life, I was instead struck with a harsh reminder of the previous night and loss of my maidenhood. Bits of garment and rags were lumped sadly, striking up over the surface of the shallow water. The water was now pink with swirls of crimson, remnants from that evening and who I was.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
30DWC: Day 9
Back on track, as difficult as it is. I am posting for the second time today, but the first time truly as the 9th day. I have added some to my previous story, as I hope to continue going forward. It's almost more difficult to continue as my only instinct is to re-read what was done and attempt to improve it. However, I am trying (and struggling) to remember that generally, we are never entirely content with what has been done. There will always be an instinct to nurture and, as with a child, always hope for more and better. So hopefully I can learn to separate a need to reread for clarity and the like from a temptation to re-write entirely. The task here is to come up with a continuous thread for the remainder of my 30 days and I am determined to finish!
Continuing the dream:
My breathing quickens and the room spins about me. The demon laughs, but doesn’t remain. As if being overtaken, his visage is dissipated by that of another. The amorphous blackness condenses and expands like a black cloud until I find myself staring back into dark eyes. Like staring into the mass of leaves atop a great oak in the middle of the night, shades of deep greens contrasted with golden specks of moonlit earth. I knew not this man, but found only relief in his presence.
Continuing the dream:
My breathing quickens and the room spins about me. The demon laughs, but doesn’t remain. As if being overtaken, his visage is dissipated by that of another. The amorphous blackness condenses and expands like a black cloud until I find myself staring back into dark eyes. Like staring into the mass of leaves atop a great oak in the middle of the night, shades of deep greens contrasted with golden specks of moonlit earth. I knew not this man, but found only relief in his presence.
Writing Challenge: Day 8
Preface: Yes, I know it is the 9th. But I usually write at night and thus am currently at my computer in the morning due to the fact I did not write yesterday. I had various end of the week commitments yesterday ending with a great night with a friend who is soon to leave the country and embark on a new life as an ex-pat.
But, alas, in the words of fellow writing challengers, this is not a failure. In fact, my friend and I spoke about this very challenge last night. As also stated by fellow writers: We do not 'fail' in not writing one day or another, because we are always writing - just in our heads. By her suggestion I have shifted my goals in this journey toward attempting to write ideas that I could potentially use as a novel. In an ideal situation, I could slowly begin to write this novel over the course of each day. So after this development, here is my commitment to text of what I "wrote" in my head last night.
Day 8: (written on day 9) in reflection of Day 8: Novel beginnings
Aggression, fear, surprise, forcefulness. I feel myself completely enveloped by a darkness. I see a face. Wait, two faces. They morph from one to the other. But there is something more there. One face looks very familiar. As his receding hair line and round, plump nose come into clarity, the lines and wrinkles on his face and that sneering smile shift into focus and I know it. The face comes into view as a demon coming for my soul. I can nearly smell the sweat and whisky emanating from his overly porous skin. I want to turn away but I cannot. He is holding me here. I am half pinned by his weight and half by my own anxiety.
But, alas, in the words of fellow writing challengers, this is not a failure. In fact, my friend and I spoke about this very challenge last night. As also stated by fellow writers: We do not 'fail' in not writing one day or another, because we are always writing - just in our heads. By her suggestion I have shifted my goals in this journey toward attempting to write ideas that I could potentially use as a novel. In an ideal situation, I could slowly begin to write this novel over the course of each day. So after this development, here is my commitment to text of what I "wrote" in my head last night.
Day 8: (written on day 9) in reflection of Day 8: Novel beginnings
The morning sun is just coming over the horizon and into my window, casting a glowing sliver of warmth over my cheek. My consciousness is slowly returning as I feel one eye open and then the other. I just want to hug my pillow tighter, closer. I need the warmth and comfort, to feel like someone’s arms are around me on a morning like this. I can’t clearly recall the previous night and I’m realizing this morning haze is not lifting. Visions begin to resurface, but I can scarcely tell what is real and what is not.
The dream
Aggression, fear, surprise, forcefulness. I feel myself completely enveloped by a darkness. I see a face. Wait, two faces. They morph from one to the other. But there is something more there. One face looks very familiar. As his receding hair line and round, plump nose come into clarity, the lines and wrinkles on his face and that sneering smile shift into focus and I know it. The face comes into view as a demon coming for my soul. I can nearly smell the sweat and whisky emanating from his overly porous skin. I want to turn away but I cannot. He is holding me here. I am half pinned by his weight and half by my own anxiety.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
30 Day Writing Challenge: Days 1-7
A friend of mine shared with me the Rebelle Society's 30 Day Writing Challenge last month as something I may be interested in. As our business relationship thus far as included my writing a blog article for her, this was quite fitting and a welcome task. I have talked with her and others about my interest in writing, and my husband has only all too often heard my rants about wanting to disappear and live in a wooded glen, cozy in my stone cottage with books, paper, and pen. If only there wasn't that pertinent need for food, health care, and other various things that imprison us with the mossy green colored paper balls and chains, which we pretend to be happy to have.
I realized I had a rocky start, and attempt to blame my hectic schedule for the lapses. Granted August will be particularly heavy for me, I took heart in the FAQ's provided by the challenge - a reminder that we never have time. "Does anyone really? Time is a funny and evasive bastard. It’s an illusion, it’s not something you’re supposed to have (or get), but something you ought to MAKE."
So I decided to up the ante. I will attempt to post each day my writings on this blog for the month of August.
First: To catch us up...
Day 1
I walked the streets, shimmering increasingly so from the growing damp. All was dark and silent aside from the steady pace of my own boots on the pavement, striding between areas of light and dark as I passed under the amber glow of street lamps.
Day 2-3: FAILED. (But not really, because I have not given up...)
Day 4
Drifting through life. I have no idea what I am doing. Then again, does anyone? Life is a journey. But I'm strapped in the plane and there's no turning back. Infancy, childhood, and those horribly awkward and stressful adolescent years all worked together, slowly guiding me to my seat. Then I put on my graduation robes, strapped on my seatbelt. I was ushered across a stage and directed to the exit. Assist yourself before helping those around you.In case of emergency, the minor under your seat can be used as a flotation device.
The take off is always the most thrilling. A plan is in motion. The plane is in motion. This may have been years in the making - course plans and itineraries drafted and redrafted. A dream continuously imagined and developing in ways never before anticipated. The kind of dream that sets the scene for an unpredictable and world shattering conclusion.
It started with excitement, as the turbines rumbled and the cabin shook and I was pressed into my seat with the weight of the future. But now I sit, strapped. Trapt. And I realize I am confined to the flight I booked to a destination that I only now come to understand was sorely misunderstood. What if it's not as I researched, planned, and imagined? Well, of course, how could it be?
Ding. The light is on. Where is the attendant? Where is the advisor? I think I need a drink...
Day 5 (Ugh, fail again).
Day 6
Time management is my biggest challenge within the challenge.
Mornings filled with anxiety and pressure of the day to come. Accidentally got a late start (today and everyday) and then feel the need to scurry about, tossing to-do lists, grocery bags, appointments, logging in hours of freelance work, walking the dogs, lesson planning, and running off to teach my evening class. What happened to looking forward, starting new projects and dreams, exploring and adventures? What happened to the hope of school - wondering where you will be next? What happens to curiosity, novelty and excitement?
Days are scattered and nights end too quickly. All to start again. If ignorance is bliss, what happens to the bliss when ignorance is gone?
(And yes, I currently count writing that intro and compiling all of this as my Day 7 :P )
I realized I had a rocky start, and attempt to blame my hectic schedule for the lapses. Granted August will be particularly heavy for me, I took heart in the FAQ's provided by the challenge - a reminder that we never have time. "Does anyone really? Time is a funny and evasive bastard. It’s an illusion, it’s not something you’re supposed to have (or get), but something you ought to MAKE."
So I decided to up the ante. I will attempt to post each day my writings on this blog for the month of August.
First: To catch us up...
Day 1
I walked the streets, shimmering increasingly so from the growing damp. All was dark and silent aside from the steady pace of my own boots on the pavement, striding between areas of light and dark as I passed under the amber glow of street lamps.
Day 2-3: FAILED. (But not really, because I have not given up...)
Day 4
Drifting through life. I have no idea what I am doing. Then again, does anyone? Life is a journey. But I'm strapped in the plane and there's no turning back. Infancy, childhood, and those horribly awkward and stressful adolescent years all worked together, slowly guiding me to my seat. Then I put on my graduation robes, strapped on my seatbelt. I was ushered across a stage and directed to the exit. Assist yourself before helping those around you.In case of emergency, the minor under your seat can be used as a flotation device.
The take off is always the most thrilling. A plan is in motion. The plane is in motion. This may have been years in the making - course plans and itineraries drafted and redrafted. A dream continuously imagined and developing in ways never before anticipated. The kind of dream that sets the scene for an unpredictable and world shattering conclusion.
It started with excitement, as the turbines rumbled and the cabin shook and I was pressed into my seat with the weight of the future. But now I sit, strapped. Trapt. And I realize I am confined to the flight I booked to a destination that I only now come to understand was sorely misunderstood. What if it's not as I researched, planned, and imagined? Well, of course, how could it be?
Ding. The light is on. Where is the attendant? Where is the advisor? I think I need a drink...
Day 5 (Ugh, fail again).
Day 6
Time management is my biggest challenge within the challenge.
Mornings filled with anxiety and pressure of the day to come. Accidentally got a late start (today and everyday) and then feel the need to scurry about, tossing to-do lists, grocery bags, appointments, logging in hours of freelance work, walking the dogs, lesson planning, and running off to teach my evening class. What happened to looking forward, starting new projects and dreams, exploring and adventures? What happened to the hope of school - wondering where you will be next? What happens to curiosity, novelty and excitement?
Days are scattered and nights end too quickly. All to start again. If ignorance is bliss, what happens to the bliss when ignorance is gone?
(And yes, I currently count writing that intro and compiling all of this as my Day 7 :P )
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Loose Lips Sink Ships: But Then, How Do I Call the Coast Guard?
I was thinking recently about secrets. We all have secrets, some more than others. This is neither good nor bad, simply a fact of life. Otherwise, it would be like a scene from the Invention of Lying. But the interesting part is the decision process. When and why do we make the decision about what should be a secret?
In observing the people around me and comparing with myself and others, I notice a plethora of differences in mannerisms, morals, values, and general perspectives. Namely there can sometimes be a vast difference in the social habits of people in regard to how much information they share. The tricky part about this is that, based on what we tend to do with our information, our decision is often affected (or possibly affected by) our expectations about what a social partner should do in return.
A conversation works thusly - I supply an utterance. You respond. I respond. We continue along merrily until time is up or we become tired. Within this pattern, if I provide a certain amount of information, generally I expect a somewhat equal amount in return. If I am a person who shares great amounts of information, I may begin to develop a vast array of ideas on why you are not contributing as I do. The reasons do not matter so much as the fact that I'm now in a position to question our interaction and possibly even our relationship.
So what would cause one to share more and another to share less? Certainly it could be the dreaded basic fact that the other does not wish to participate - you're just not that interesting. Please go away. On the other hand, believe it or not, some people are simply not prone to sharing. It has little or nothing to do with their valuation on the friendship, but rather, the information.
I realized that I have been raised in the context of a certain sub-culture that values quantity over quality. [I'm only now beginning to realize the extent of this dynamic - keep an eye out for my memoir on that.] But as far as secrets go, this means that there must be a good, solid reason for me to keep a secret. I can keep them - this is not an issue of trustworthiness. But, I generally require an explanation or a logical reason that said information needs to remain confidential. This is because if I were to interact with my family and close friends, or even any friends for that matter, I have been led to believe that a proportion of silence to communication is a signal that the interaction is unfavorable. When it comes to social relationships, the rule is "just keep talking." If you value the relationship, then you value their opinion. Even if you know it will be to the contrary or disagreeable. Yes, even if you know they will attempt to disarm you with largely uneducated "facts" until they are blue in the face. You bring it up anyway because the act of sharing is caring. If the other were to find out you are keeping information (in the case of awkward dead end conversations where one abruptly answers a question with "We don't need to talk about that") then the interrogator feels slighted and offended. We don't want that.
Here's where my world has been forced to expand. I used to be that angry interrogator. I'm sure sometimes I still am. Then I began to notice what sort of information was being kept either by myself, or in a case more prominently behind my discovery, was meant for me to keep from others. I can't know much about the information kept from me. But I noticed a trend in the information that someone told me to keep a secret. Many times it was not information that I felt needed to be secret, at least I saw no logical reason for it. In fact, the information was the type I would most promptly share - the type of things you would be proud of even if currently incomplete or in the air. Then I realized that this person fears for themselves the uncertainty of these potentially great tidings. In a way, they were attempting to shield their information. It was about the information itself and not who it was shared (or not shared) with. The information may be promising new projects, potentially good results, possible life paths that had not yet solidified and this person simply did not want to open the door for either Negative Nancies, or Happy Harries. Allowing unnecessary negativity in would be simply that, unnecessary at this point. Too many sets of "Congratulations" would be hell to return if the news did not follow through. While there were no ships to sink in this case, it just seemed silly to discuss the idea of an iceberg emergency plan with no ship to sail. This person believed, and often rightly so, in the power of words and thoughts. By hoping for the best turn out, they wanted to shield the plan/event/news from potential bombardments of negativity, competition, jealousy, and even ill-founded joy. They wanted to continue living in neutrality until the news was confirmed. And that is their right.
I certainly can attest I have participated too long in too many conversations. Like with a child who continuously asks "why" from sun up to sun down - a few responses can be instructional, but after a time, you realize they were just trying to bait you for no reason at all. I'm sure we've all been sucked into arguments that found no resolution and only left each party more aggravated than when they went in. We've often found out "TMI!" about people in our lives that is now permanently and utterly seared into our brains. These are the risks I take as a sharer, and these are the risks others avoid in selectivity. But our intentions are generally good either way. I share to show pride, interest or concern about information. Others keep secrets because of pride, interest, or concern about the information. Things to remember the next time you sit with a dubiously silent comrade.
In observing the people around me and comparing with myself and others, I notice a plethora of differences in mannerisms, morals, values, and general perspectives. Namely there can sometimes be a vast difference in the social habits of people in regard to how much information they share. The tricky part about this is that, based on what we tend to do with our information, our decision is often affected (or possibly affected by) our expectations about what a social partner should do in return.
A conversation works thusly - I supply an utterance. You respond. I respond. We continue along merrily until time is up or we become tired. Within this pattern, if I provide a certain amount of information, generally I expect a somewhat equal amount in return. If I am a person who shares great amounts of information, I may begin to develop a vast array of ideas on why you are not contributing as I do. The reasons do not matter so much as the fact that I'm now in a position to question our interaction and possibly even our relationship.
So what would cause one to share more and another to share less? Certainly it could be the dreaded basic fact that the other does not wish to participate - you're just not that interesting. Please go away. On the other hand, believe it or not, some people are simply not prone to sharing. It has little or nothing to do with their valuation on the friendship, but rather, the information.
I realized that I have been raised in the context of a certain sub-culture that values quantity over quality. [I'm only now beginning to realize the extent of this dynamic - keep an eye out for my memoir on that.] But as far as secrets go, this means that there must be a good, solid reason for me to keep a secret. I can keep them - this is not an issue of trustworthiness. But, I generally require an explanation or a logical reason that said information needs to remain confidential. This is because if I were to interact with my family and close friends, or even any friends for that matter, I have been led to believe that a proportion of silence to communication is a signal that the interaction is unfavorable. When it comes to social relationships, the rule is "just keep talking." If you value the relationship, then you value their opinion. Even if you know it will be to the contrary or disagreeable. Yes, even if you know they will attempt to disarm you with largely uneducated "facts" until they are blue in the face. You bring it up anyway because the act of sharing is caring. If the other were to find out you are keeping information (in the case of awkward dead end conversations where one abruptly answers a question with "We don't need to talk about that") then the interrogator feels slighted and offended. We don't want that.
Here's where my world has been forced to expand. I used to be that angry interrogator. I'm sure sometimes I still am. Then I began to notice what sort of information was being kept either by myself, or in a case more prominently behind my discovery, was meant for me to keep from others. I can't know much about the information kept from me. But I noticed a trend in the information that someone told me to keep a secret. Many times it was not information that I felt needed to be secret, at least I saw no logical reason for it. In fact, the information was the type I would most promptly share - the type of things you would be proud of even if currently incomplete or in the air. Then I realized that this person fears for themselves the uncertainty of these potentially great tidings. In a way, they were attempting to shield their information. It was about the information itself and not who it was shared (or not shared) with. The information may be promising new projects, potentially good results, possible life paths that had not yet solidified and this person simply did not want to open the door for either Negative Nancies, or Happy Harries. Allowing unnecessary negativity in would be simply that, unnecessary at this point. Too many sets of "Congratulations" would be hell to return if the news did not follow through. While there were no ships to sink in this case, it just seemed silly to discuss the idea of an iceberg emergency plan with no ship to sail. This person believed, and often rightly so, in the power of words and thoughts. By hoping for the best turn out, they wanted to shield the plan/event/news from potential bombardments of negativity, competition, jealousy, and even ill-founded joy. They wanted to continue living in neutrality until the news was confirmed. And that is their right.I certainly can attest I have participated too long in too many conversations. Like with a child who continuously asks "why" from sun up to sun down - a few responses can be instructional, but after a time, you realize they were just trying to bait you for no reason at all. I'm sure we've all been sucked into arguments that found no resolution and only left each party more aggravated than when they went in. We've often found out "TMI!" about people in our lives that is now permanently and utterly seared into our brains. These are the risks I take as a sharer, and these are the risks others avoid in selectivity. But our intentions are generally good either way. I share to show pride, interest or concern about information. Others keep secrets because of pride, interest, or concern about the information. Things to remember the next time you sit with a dubiously silent comrade.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Live the Life You Like
Ever enjoy a random morning watching reruns of that show you enjoyed all throughout your most developmental years, and find yourself noticing things now that you are watching with a very different perspective? For me, Gilmore Girls has always been one of those key shows. I used to watch with my mom, our relationship reminiscent of the closeness and friend-like air that exists in the dynamic between Loralei and Rory. While I did grow up with both parents, and a younger brother, there was still much that we could relate to. Additionally, neither of my parents went to college the traditional way. My mother has just now completed her Bachelor's (Congrats, Mom!) after years dedicating herself to part-time jobs and Stepford-like duties while my father worked full-time and went to night school. Once I was old enough, she began working full-time herself, still balancing the cooking, cleaning, and various tasks for the entire family and our pets. My point is that, as their eldest child and the eldest grandchild on either side, I had quite the set of expectations - or at least hopes - to live up to. My parents, and grandparents, saw in me the American dream at the thought of my going away to college, living on campus and discovering myself with the aid of scholarships. And I saw in myself the image of Rory every time I watched Gilmore Girls. I read for college level creative writing courses during high school, while my mother would read People magazine. I would daydream about my future, high-power career in all its glory while my mom dreamt of the same.
In reality, college came and went as I graduated from one of the best universities in the state with my Bachelor's in English. I followed Rory's similar development on her path to journalism with a passion for literature and writing. However, I did not participate in the university newspaper and was unable to land that idealized publishing career. I found odd jobs after returning home and realized I wasn't sure what to do with myself. I discovered linguistics and lucked into an assistantship at the local university, spending the subsequent two years finishing my Master's. Still - no luck. No full time work but only a brief stint working for near minimum wage (yes, with a Master's) at Barnes and Noble, and picking up hours here and there teaching ESL courses. I decided the market is competitive and set out to do whatever it took for a 9-5 job and enrolled in a second Bachelor's for Computer Science. This did help, and I found a job willing to train me in SEO. Great office, great people, great opportunity, great pay.
Odd thing - my first week on the job my side job (perfectly suited to my background in English and Language studies) offers me a significant jump in hours. What was a once a month consulting phone call turned into weekly contracted hours, freelance style. What do I do?? Steady, stable, good pay at a trusted company as most dream of - the same that has been planned and plotted for me since birth behind door one. Unsteady, unreliable opportunity for linguistics work, that I can do from the comfort of home, for a higher rate per hour, with an even more well-known company behind door number two. Classic follow your heart or your wallet situation.
This year has been a whirlwind to say the least. I feel that I have been on a merry-go-round between finishing my Master's, getting married, traveling to Europe, balancing 3-4 part time jobs at once, switching back to two jobs and a Bachelor's in Computer Science, withdrawing in favor of the idolized 9-5 office career, and then leaving it all behind to freelance from home in developing materials for language education. So much for falling into the plan. But then, this morning I found myself watching reruns yet again of my beloved Gilmore Girls.
I watched with new eyes as Rory couldn't keep up with the curriculum her grandfather had taken at Yale. She was deterred from school by a runaway romance with a smooth-talking young man. She got mixed up in complete misunderstandings resulting in court ordered community service and suspension from college. She managed to find her way back into Journalism but distressed at the idea that her contacts got her the job and not her merit. She wavered back and forth constantly on what to do with her life. And I realized, now more than ever, I am still Rory. Nothing is perfect. There is no perfect. There is life. Life happens. And a great family will love you no matter what path you chose as long as you are happy and healthy. You can like the life you're living, or you can live the life you like. And I am living the life I like.
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| Mom and I in my college apartment |
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