Zombie-Land (aka ‘NaNoWriMo Ate My Soul’)
There’s something easy about ignoring homework for the sake of NaNoWriMo. Priority is a no-brainer–I’m a writer!–and studying for finals is unimportant (note: it actually is, so disregard this if you can’t see the sarcasm)
But I didn’t ditch homework this year, because I’m a ‘College Graduate.’ Instead of homework and finals, I have work, which is a lot harder to flake on, especially when you depend on that weekly cheque for food and gasoline.
A fine line exists among priorities for a writer. On the one hand, work is crucial–any work, as long as it pays the bills. On the other hand, for careerist writers like myself, lack of sufficient time to focus on the craft is one of the biggest stressors imaginable. Writing consumes my mind to a point where I break down if I don’t get in a daily or weekly quota.
The result? November has come and gone, but I don’t feel recovered. The balance between work and craft still fights to be found. It’s tough to have writing as a priority when it’s not a reliable source of income.
Priorities
Exhaustion over-powers my mind and body. Going on three months of early mornings, recently added [yet another] job to my chaotic schedule, which leaves me with three-to-four hours of “free time” in the evenings. Use for winding down, and writing.
Supposedly.
The past few weeks remind me why it’s best to leave the genie alone and not request a “normal, busy” lifestyle. For a hypersensitive, needing space to relax and be alone is a necessity. Denied that, the soul grows weak. Brain function fails. Eyes droop and drool dribbles down to the desk from which I’m currently typing.
Despite my mood, the moment I get back from work, the one and only thing on my mind is urgency. Not mere desire, but obligation to write/revise at least a few hundred words of “Weekend Funeral” before crashing. No questions, nothing else matters. The day is incomplete without that quota.
Then I wonder:
October awakens and the National Novel Writing Month‘s boards reset for another year. Excitement builds, writer families start their month-long reunions.
Does my sudden motivation steam from the atmosphere? Perhaps. On some level, though, I believe the answer is exhaustion itself. Everyone must work; it’s how bills get paid. True writers get their extra, unpaid work accomplished in the bits of spare time picked up around day jobs. Down time, social lives–wait, what’s that mean?–typically crucial elements of life get put on hold for the sake of revising last week’s chapter, or crossing the 20k line. We all do it as we race against the clock. Sleep waits till December because hell, we have a deadline that MUST be met.
I’m not a slacker. What I seek out, I achieve. I played the quitter card as a child, but I’m over that. Excuses are juvenile in the face of reality. People make time for the things they need. I need writing. Creativity. They’re my blood. The energy that pumps through my veins, fuelling my life.
Is sleep deprivation, then, the secret to NaNoWriMo success? Should it be channelled into a regular routine outside the month of November? At what cost?
Open Water
Solitude, by circumstance if not by choice.
She wakes before dawn, stacks her kayak on the car. Once satisfied the boat’s strapped and secure, she crawls behind the wheel and pulls out onto the road. Ten, fifteen minutes. A familiar over-pass comes into sight. 
The car slows as she turns into the gravelled parking lot. One car greets her. Probably an older couple out for a brisk stroll around the preserve. Or perhaps another solo-explorer, hiking with her dog.
Providing company to she who hath none.
A yawn stretches across her face. Why am I here so early, and alone? she wonders. The kayak splashes as it’s placed against the river, waiting amongst the rocks while she packs her bag and snaps the paddle in together. Shoes stuffed snug behind the seat. She pushes from shore and climbs in, lowering herself inside the cockpit. The chilled water dribbles down, forming a puddle by her toes.
Tranquillity envelopes her.
Nature’s morning show broadcasts: Insects buzz through overgrown vegetation. Ahead, the beaver glides through the gentle river. He spots her and freezes, still as a rock. The kayak floats closer. She holds the paddle still in her lap, but her presence disturbs the rodent. With a tail-slap, he dives under.
The dam blocks her entrance to the lake. As she collides with stacks of woven twigs, the kayak stops. The impact pushes her away, but she climbs out and drags the boat over. It dips into the other side and she reaches out to stop its escape.
A breeze greets her as she flows onto the lake. Open water, 
surrounded by trees. No hums or cheerful screams; too dark for motor-boats. She follows the shore line, paddling against the wind. It holds her back–challenges her strength.
Naught but wind rips past her ears. A deep inhalation brings satisfaction. Joy. Paced to her standards, not a race against another.
Solitude. A communing, easeful circumstance.
Act Up! The World’s A Stage
I’ve always admired the ability to handle anything, conquer fear without broadcasting a lack of confidence. I don’t possess that ability. Unless I know exactly what must be done and how, I’m lost. Freak out. Implore others for guidance. Or at least take the time to calmly think of a solution.
No more.
Stress and instantaneous responses to tough situations. Both are expected and guaranteed in my new occupation. Without confidence, my job will shatter me. Not for a moment, but for the rest of my career with this particular group of individuals.
It’s tough knowing the goal is to be confident or fall. Anxiety licks my heels until I recall the idea learnt in my cognitive psych class: use all knowledge and experience universally. Do I have prior hands-on experience working in a field with individuals who have disabilities and behavioural difficulties?
No.
Can I project skills gained from animal care, behavioural studies, martial arts, and observation to create a personae that isolates weakness and ushers strength to the foreground?
Of course!
Psychology; theatre, film, acting; writing. Fields which rely on various behaviours and personality. In the correct mind-set, it isn’t hard to succeed. The trick lies in the hindrance of fear.
No confidence? Who cares! Pretend you do. Create an alter ego. Bury the fear behind a wall of cement and ignore its screams as it dies. Count to five. My personal favourite is singing from The Sound of Music:
Life dishes out bites which we swallow and digest before we get our next meal. Life knows when we’re ready for the next bite, when we need extra flavour. Life knows when we’re full.
Before my next meal, fear will be traded in for confidence.
Did I Listen?
There’s a reason for the wide-known saying “Be careful what you wish for.” Pity I didn’t listen.
I’ve wished for many things over my life. One item on that list is a busy-ish lifestyle to keep my mind happy and occupied from ennui. A friend texted me today, asking exactly how many different occupations I currently hold. Well, there’s the twice-a-week intern-ship, the once-a-week cafe job, my regular artistic vocation of novel-writing, neglected online freelance, assisting online non-profits and my new perma job. Eyes rolling yet? I’m still looking for more work to save towards The Burbank Fund.
And those are just professional-oriented occupations! Factor in the extracurriculars–dojang, knitting, enjoying the beautiful warm weather, hanging out with friends–and required tasks like laundry or cooking… It makes me wonder how anyone can balance such chaotic lifestyles.
I find myself growing mad and feeling guilty when I’m too tired, too frustrated to think about my writing, which doesn’t make facing it any easier. After all, how can I focus on a scene where my main character and her Aussie warden are shopping at the mall chatting about guys when my mind’s fixated on how it’s almost time to begin the Never-Ending Monthly Burden of College Loan Repayment. I’m tweaking my budget every chance I get. That eats a lot of time, especially given its extreme importance.
Being the reserved individual I am, I get frustrated when I’m not allowed time to vegetate in isolation, free to geek-out alone with my knitting and a good film. But again, the guilt rises up. I shouldn’t be knitting; I should be writing. The novel won’t get finished if I don’t get through the second and third drafts. Knitting requires little thought, though, so it’s more alluring when I want to be productive without worsening that tension headache.
Just when I think I have things figured out, I remember how much needs to get done, how much I want to do and how little time I have for it all. Is it a curse for having too many and too diverse interests?
I take pride in the little tasks that get accomplished. Keep my centre on short-term responsibilities while setting deadlines and making lists. Never imagined how helpful lists could be till my cognitive psych professor taught us the benefits of prioritising. Keep life as organised as possible to make room for the baggage of chaos.
My schedule continues to fill, but that only challenges me to a new level of balance. As long as I’m enjoying life regardless what gets done today or put off till the weekend, it’s still a good day.
Crash/Burn…And All That Jazz
Avoid cliches like the plague.
Those who construct language (aka writers such as myself) heed this warning well. After all, cliches are unoriginal. Overused. Exaggerated at times. There are occasions, however, when I agree with Mrs. Who that quoting the wisdom of others is the best way to express something otherwise “too difficult to verbalise” myself.
The weekend presented me with many rejections. Opportunities that I’ve patiently waited weeks to hear back from, only to crash-and-burn when follow-up conversations brought sour news. Why do I continuously set myself up for such disappointment? I’ve grown used to the concept over my life (it’s been my middle name for so long). Why not accept failure now while hope has been kicked to the ground? Take the “easy street” and accept as my home the pathetic pit whence there’s no escape.
Perseverence. Indomitability. Big words to describe a simple state of stubbornness. The inability to give up because allowing failure to define the self contradicts the personality lingering inside. I like to see it as martial arts invading my life, enriching it by dissuading defeat.
Regardless of the determination that’s developed in me over the years, I can’t help but cave to momentary bouts of discouragement from this Dense Fog. Many people offer kind words. Few actually add fuel to the fire (unintentional cliche usage). Neither aids my emotions during these times, which often reflects poorly on my attitude, pulling me deeper into the shadows.
Thankfully the years have also taught me how to rise up from the flames. Several methods cause that brief loss of hope to drain from my blood: quotes from people I admire, sparring/exercise, forcing productivity.
The best way to drag myself out of a slump is to work through that slump. Okay, so I’ve been rejected. I give myself a moment to cry, then tackle the fifteen other applications on my list. I’m still frustrated by the lack of visible progress, but look! the frustration made the pile of others disappear.
I’m behind the rest, but I’m still in the game. Still fighting for survival and waiting for that fight to pay off.
While all manner of quotes continue to lift my spirits, I rely on one specifically these days: “People told me, when I was coming through the ranks, that a mark of a great [actor] is one who deals with the period of unemployment as well as they deal with the period of employment.” (Claudia Black) Wisdomous words! Though they speak of actors, I see it as a reflective statement for all artists, including writers.
Why waste time being negative? There’s always that lapse, that bout of pity that rushes through the veins, but it’s in the act of returning to my feet with my head held high that proves I’m the worthy victor.
Rather than moping around, I choose to take advantage of not having a career (for the moment). Lots of free time and plenty to do. Staying busy keeps me focused on my goals.
Writing is a time-consuming process. If I wish to succeed, I must wake up every day with the intention of getting something accomplished. One word, one sentence, one paragraph. Doesn’t matter as long as it’s something. Writing cover letters for jobs, e-mails to friends, forum messages, status updates. Doesn’t matter, as long as my fingers type and words appear. Brain spins, mind turns.
Exercise. As a martial artist, getting in shape and staying in shape is crucial to performance. It’s also one of my 2010 goals to maintain a healthier lifestyle. I’ve done well so far, especially since ditching my biggest vice.
Occupation. Volunteer-work, internships, part-time jobs. Experience and pocket cash trump pessimism in my opinion. I have goals, I’m just taking baby steps to get to those goals. Until then, I’m learning what I can and saving what I can while doing what I can to speed the process.
Don’t Be Afraid To Get Your Hands Dirty
The other day, a thought came to me as I cleaned Jay’s cage: to get any job done, you must be willing to get your hands dirty. It’s unavoidable. Things don’t happen unless action takes place. You can’t find employment by sitting around doing nothing all day.
You have to get out there, fill in applications, call to check up on said applications. You have to work to get work. It’s more than just that, though. You need knowledge, experience. How do you get that? By being active. Doing something. Anything. Take action, jump at any opportunity to gain skills.
For this reason, I’m glad I’ve always had a thirst for learning. I love to keep my mind occupied with fresh ideas and new challenges. It’s through this aspect of my personality that I find myself constantly motivated to trudge on, even when things look dim.
Novels don’t get read unless their author writes down words. Any words. All words. Their quality shouldn’t matter in the rough draft (it’s called ‘draft’ for a reason, after all). It’s a process. We take ideas and we etch them out. Transfer them from mind to screen (or paper) to uncage them. From there, anything’s possible. A foundation is set and the next step is making sense of it.
Truthfully, there is no “easy street” for dreamers. Things don’t happen unless you make them happen. The world’s a confusing place unless you make the effort to survive one day at a time. Often, that means baby-steps in the mud. What’s wrong with that, though? It may be galling, it may not be what you want from life. But if you work through the challenges, you’ll come out better and stronger than the person who sailed over the mud. You’ll know what you’re capable of doing under the worst conditions, with the worst stress.
There’s a level of risk in everything, but unless we take that risk, we’ll gain nothing. The only risk we shouldn’t take is that of not taking a risk. O.o
And That’s How I Survive(d)
Bullies. Peer pressure. Parents. Academics. Nagging bosses.–Stress exists in many forms. Equally various are the ways in which to deal with tough situations. I used to think my imagination was merely a mechanism that further separated me from my classmates. With several psychology classes behind me, the more logical answer is that my imagination became my shield. My method of survival relies solely on that which gives me life.
Maybe I waste too much time with my head in the clouds, refusing to grow sessile in the place we deem “reality.” The reasons aren’t as important as the efficiency. It is because of my imagination that I conquer the challenges life deals me. In elementary school, the problem was bullies and lack of confidence in myself. Being the avid reader that I am, I buried my soul in the books that fed me, pretending the problems my favourite characters faced were the same problems I had to face. One example comes from the children’s sci-fi series Animorphs. In the first book, the five main characters discover their world is being invaded by Yeerks, a parasitic alien race. It was rare to distinguish if another human was being controlled by the aliens, but one thing that helped was any unusual behaviour from the characters’ friends or family.
Where does this play into my elementary education, you ask? Well, I told myself that my bullies had no choice in their actions. They had Yeerks in their brains. I admit that confessing this sounds a bit pathetic, manifesting E.L. Doctorow’s quote that “Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia” and therefore writers merely channel the disease through a creative filter. But it worked. Besides, isn’t that the point of books? To carry us away to other worlds where characters confront difficult situations that result in changes and growth so that by the end of the book, we’ve changed as much as any of the characters involved by allowing ourselves to share said experiences.
This defence mechanism probably more deservingly fits into the thespian category, given how it utilises the traits of others. I like to think the commonality of actors and writers is the chameleon skin we wear. Honestly, what other careers exist that allow a person to literally do whatever or be whatever they could imagine (and beyond)? They’re the two “best” careers because, within them, every other occupation is achievable. I can wake up tomorrow and decide I want to be a lawyer. Do a bit of research, come up with a story, and I’m there. But I’m not stuck there if I decide next week to vacation on Coruscant, Middle Earth, or Alagaësia. Painstakingly, they’re also among the “worst” careers (what art isn’t?) because of the precarious dedication required to succeed.
I guess I’m trying to convince myself that I’ve chosen wisely in my pursuit of writing. Here I can survive because it is my oxygen, my blood. My soul.
Thoughts? Advice? Shrink recommendations? 
Rewind, Hold Up! Start Again?
Learning never ends. A concept I’ve grown fond of over the years. Regardless, my career in an academic setting is finally at an end (unless I pursue graduate school). So much time and money invested in a collegiate education, yet it’s only now as graduation looms that I catch a glimpse of where I want to go.
Is that right?
Idealistically, the “Big Revelation” should’ve happened when I was a freshman. In need of a clear head and eager to pursue classes suited to my needs.
Too late, time’s up, trod on.
As freshmen, my peers and I had a “welcome to college” class requirement. One assignment asked for a self-description of our lives in X-years. Even though I didn’t have specifics, there were vague ideas that had developed over the years. College was my ticket to the world, the step between branch and sky. A home, a job, and hopefully a family. Realistic enough, I suppose. Except four years later, I sit in a fog denser than I ever imagined.
What happened to my childhood certainty of being a veterinarian? Doing something I loved by working with animals. (okay: that dream left when I realised I’m too emotionally sensitive for such a field)
In Disney’s The Kid, Bruce Willis’s character holds a conversation with Jean Smart’s about childhood dreams. They talk about how people grow up and dreams evolve into a more realistic sense of what must get done in order to make a living. The astronaut, the prima ballerina–they get stuffed in a closet to collect dust and be forgotten. But why should dreams suffer for the sake of an income?
Chase it! Make it work!
That’s how you evaluate success. Fight for what matters, and enjoy the journey. It’ll be rough–depressing at times. But it beats falling into a routine and rotting with dissatisfaction.
Before college, I was full of certainty. Now I don’t even know where I’ll be in a couple of weeks. I don’t know what’s in store for my future, but I’m open to whatever comes my way. Ideas stampede toward me, and I continue writing.
Always writing.
Focus! (and don’t forget to exhale)
My sensei first introduced board-breaking to me at my white-belt graduation ceremony. As if I wasn’t already terror-stricken by the event itself, I now had to split wood with a hammer fist. In front of the Grand Master! >.<
The coincident parallel between graduation and promotion to Blackbelt demonstrates my love for martial arts. The concept of a Blackbelt is that, after gathering all basic knowledge and skills, the student must practice and hone those skills as her primary concern in addition to learning new techniques. The same applies to university graduates: everything has been acquired and must now be applied towards life in the adult- and working- worlds.
Weekly sessions at the dojang are my cure-all for stress. Exercise is said to remedy depression, and I vouch for that truth. Alas, academic conflicts often invade my dojang time.
My lost weekly work-out wasted no time revealing its impact on me. Stress overpowered me. Attacked from every corner, through every angle. At the time, it never occurred to me that stress levels increased because of the lack of routine exercise, but now I realise there are reasons I appreciate the weekly social hour.
The parallel between life and sport.
Two crucial elements make board-breaking easier than it looks: Focus and Breathing. Those two elements work well outside the dojang, particularly when juggling tasks with deadlines.
Closed your eyes, relax. Think of naught but breathing. Watch yourself calm down, and notice how your concentration magnifies.
Evolution Of A Niche
Being somewhat new to the concept of blogs, I’ve spent time researching the benefits they bring to writers. Results concur that successful blog management is difficult and time-consuming, but the potential it donates to a writer’s career may be worth the effort.
So hi!
My biggest concern is choosing a focus–a niche with enough influence to fuel motivation. True to the writing process, the most important thing is to get start. Let things flow; the niche will evolve with time.
Still, I struggle with how best to start, bogged down by the stress of everything going on right now.
That’s when it hit me: I’m a 20+ want-to-be-published writer who is graduating university in approximately two months. Years of loan debts await repayment. I join the ranks of homeless graduates seeking any and every way to save money. My focus is writing, but my responsibility is winning a job. In this economy, that spells stress-overdose.
The unknown fills me with anxiety. The world holds many opportunities, however, and I’m going to do what I can to handle the stress in a positive way. After all, freedom from the classroom = freedom to fill the days with writing. Résumés, cover letters, general fiction. At least writing removes some stress from my life.
