Grace, Boats and Neil Gaiman.

I spent three hours today on a boat by myself with sixty or so strangers, two books, and a notepad. The situation was a kettle, a few teabags and a deep mug away from perfection, let me tell you. I live for long trips. If, in the rare case that I’ve neglected to bring some sort of reading material, I can occupy myself by exploring the many corners of my brain. I can’t even begin to tell you how many characters I’ve dreamed up on family road trips; most of them I use right away if I feel that I can’t get to know them well enough for a full-on novel venture. Sometimes though, sometimes I’m introduced to a boy or a girl that just won’t go away. I’ll get a funny image, and blow it up, and stretch it until I’ve got some more information, and by the time I’m satisfied, I’ve got a fully rounded– usually obnoxious, loud and mouthy– person in my head.

I swear I’m not crazy.

Gracie was one of those characters. I’ve had her hiding in there for awhile; long enough for family and friends to start joining the pack, and by the time I clued into what was happening, I had the tools to bring every single one of them to life. With three hours to kill, I started getting to know Gracie and the five-odd people that came with her. I had a blue ballpoint and a little Marvel-themed pocketbook (I keep my grocery lists in there… desperate times call for desperate measures, right?) and as the boat took off from the dock, I sat in my chair and I bled as much of them as I could onto the tiny little scraps of paper I had left. When I was satisfied that enough of their story had been told for the afternoon (also, I was running out of space), I put them away for a bit–I’m sorry, I’ll let you all back out later, I promise— and picked up someone else’s brain babies.

I’ve not had a chance to read much of Neil Gaiman, but he’s an author I’ve wanted to check out for a very long time. I picked up American Gods at a used book store where I live months ago, but without time to read, I put it away for a little bit. This week, a friend lent me another of his stories: The Ocean at the End of the Lane. It’s only about 180 pages or so, and I ate it up in two, hour and a half long sessions. Talk about a haunting tale. The beauty of this man’s words mixed with the fog swirling over stormy waters that looked green from where I was sitting, and all I could think about was how perfect my surroundings were for a story of that magnitude. For a small book, Gaiman’s narrative really packs a punch. If anyone is interested in a review, I might do one, I loved it that much.

A final note on public transport: there was easily over a hundred people in total on the boat today. No one gave any notice to anyone that they hadn’t known before. There were many, but each acted as though they were all alone. I find this to be the case on other modes of travel, too. Except for planes. Planes bring strangers together.

I wonder what happened to making friends on the bus?

Am I the only person who enjoys people-watching, or is that weird now?

I watch people like most people watch “Grey’s Anatomy.”

 

Down With the A Grades: I am Going to be the Right Kind of Selfish.

It’s been an interesting year. At this point, I’m not sure where to begin, and before anyone with good intentions tells me that “it’s best to start at the beginning, dear,” hear me out, because the beginning isn’t so easy to pick out. I suppose I could start with last April, but if I’ve got to jump all over a timeline, don’t start picking this apart like you would Slaughterhouse Five if you get confused, okay? Okay.

About this time last year, I was convinced that I was stark, raving mad. Not because I’ve got a fantastic imagination– I believe everyone who writes is insane to an extent, but that’s a good kind of insane. This time, I was sure that there was something wrong with me. I’m not going to go into everything, because I haven’t quite come to terms with things yet, but to put it simply, I got sick. Not the kind of sick that you can sit in bed for a few hours on a Sunday and sleep through classes on a Monday and feel better, but the kind of sick that eats at you from the inside and since the outside is okay, then nobody knows anything is wrong until its too late.

From the latter half of 2012, to the first four months of 2013, I suffered from something I didn’t even know I had. See, the beauty– and I mean beauty in the most sinister of ways– of mental illness is that it tricks you into thinking that the things going on in your head are your fault. You’re trapped, afraid to tell people that you need help for fear of judgement, hospitalization, the whole shebang, and so you’re stuck, until someone who’s got enough know how catches you with your guard down and convinces you that you’re OK, and that there are ways to fix what’s going on.

I got lucky. I’ve got a family that supports, loves, and knows me better than anyone on the planet, and eventually, I got the help that I needed. A year ago in May, I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and I began the journey towards being healthy. Let me tell you, kiddies, it ain’t as easy as it looks. There was a period after I began treatment where I did feel better. I started at a new school with a new outlook on life and a new plan to move forward with the things that I loved. Except, other stuff got in the way.

Ahh, the age old excuse. “Life got in the way.” It’s like you’re sixteen with stars in your eyes, ready to take on the world, and suddenly ten years pass and you’re working at an entry level office job with a degree you busted your butt for, hoping for a promotion and wondering why you didn’t pursue marine biology like you had hoped. And almost every person who asks this question to themselves comes up with an answer that directly translates to “life got in the way.”

Old friend #1: “What ever happened to that detailing business you were going to set up?”

Old friend #2: “Ahh, man, I got offered this summer job at the firm, and they keep asking me back. It’s money, and a stable job, so why not? Besides, I have Dad’s old T-Bird in the garage; I’ll fiddle with it on my spare time. Next week, they’re thinking of moving me to head office.”

Dude, it would have saved you like, five breaths had you only said “life got in the way.”

As I was working on healing myself, without realizing it, I had fallen into the same old routine of working as hard as I could to get straight A’s, and nail all of the extra-curricular activities, working on massive projects because I had myself convinced that I was doing good things for people who deserved it. I’ve got OCD. I’m a perfectionist. If I don’t have all of the best grades, the best body, the best of myself, then I feel like a failure. It’s a messed up cycle of hope, trying to put too much on my plate to achieve my dreams, and then a full-on crash where I lose all energy and motivation and sit depressed for three weeks. Then the whole thing begins again. The sad thing about the cycle I’ve been in since I realized that good grades and involvement got you stickers and certificates, is that it draws me further and further away from the things that make me happy. I lose sight of me, tricked into thinking whatever I’m succeeding at is going to help me be happy and healthy and free.

I think I realized that something had to change after my adviser for Honours History told me my thesis topic was a one way ticket to Law School. Well wouldn’t you bet I took to the internet, had my mum buy me LSAT books (which I still do for fun, because, man, those brain puzzles are addicting), researched different programs and had my bearings set for a new adventure. Of course I had to tell everyone, and they were all so proud. Not to mention that this happened after I made the decision to stop writing for my school newspaper, something that gave me great joy, because I didn’t have enough time.

That’s it. I’m done. I’m not even proud to say I pulled straight A’s this semester, yet again, and have a GPA of a 3.97. Why? For awhile it was because it wasn’t a 4.0. Is that not sick? Does that not make you want to slap me? If I were into violence, I’d totally give my ears a box. No, right now, I’m not proud of that because I finished out my year unhappy. I finished out my year lost, and unsure of where to go. So I turned to the only thing that I knew would make me happy and healthy. I turned to the bare-boned, base level of anything that has ever made my heart swell: my God, my writing, my books, my runs, and my want for adventure. The only thing that will make me happy is a day of sitting in my little sunny nook writing my stories and my poems and my scripts and my skits and scribbling out the tickles of my imagination until I’m empty for the day. Then, I would get up from my chair and making myself a meal of fruit, water and other cool, juicy, simple things that you can get at a store down the road. I’d go for a run to clear my head and drum up new ideas for the next day. I’d meet up with friends and laugh until my belly hurt, and then go home, read a book, pray and thank God for giving me another day, and then sleep so I could do it all again tomorrow. There will be curve balls, as there always are, but I’ll be able to take them on, because I’ll be on the right track, and when you’re on the right track, you’re motivated to take on things as they happen.

This summer, I can do these things. I’m still pushing myself to get up and start my day and do the things that I love. It’s hard, but I’m doing it. And then come September, I’m going to say no. To everything. To things that I don’t want to do. No more head of societies, no more tutoring sessions (though most likely I’ll keep doing those; I love watching people learn), no more staying up till three to finish a paper two weeks before it’s due. No more straight A’s. If I can pull off a year where I feel good about myself, where I sleep, where I have my disorder under control, where I write and read what I love and still manage to keep my grades, fantastic. If not, it’s not a big deal. I’d rather peace of mind and my imagination intact than letters of congratulations from the Dean.

I’m going to write for the newspaper. That’s it. I’m going to go for my runs, and take creative writing classes. I’m going to sing in the shower again. I’m going to like getting up at eight, just to see the sun. I’m going to fall in love with my degree, and eventually get a job that I love, without sacrificing my need to write. And I’m not going to law school. Then, I’m going to get published. I’m going to get published so much that I’m going to be able to quit that job and write for myself. I’ll write what makes me happy, and I’ll feed my family and I’ll love everyone and everything with the passion of a child, because even though this sounds way too pretty to be a plausible goal, it’s mine, and I’m going to get there because I owe it to my brain and my body to do something for them for once.

In a way, working myself sick for the wrong things is selfish. I think I was heading down a path I shouldn’t have been on because people told me I was good at it, and since I didn’t feel good about myself, I lived for praise like that. I told myself I was doing it for other people, but I think it was justification for something that made me feel less… gross. The high, however, is only temporary. It’s time to do the things I should have done all along.

Yesterday, on my Facebook page, I asked my friends what they would do with their lives if nothing stood in their way. The response was staggering. I know so many inspiring people; and I hope that someday, they will push life to the side of the road and start living. I hope that they get to do the things they told me they’d do, and I hope it makes them happy. Until then, I’m going to work on getting my happy back. And you know what? It’s going to be difficult, but it’s also going to be lovely.

I have my parents, my little sister, my loved ones and friends to thank for helping me get here.

So here’s to another April to April year mark. This one, I’d grade a C.

Let’s push for the only A that matters, shall we?

Now that’s the kind of high I’m looking for.

 

The Second Someday

I’ve spent most of the last four months wishing that I could blow the dust off of this corner of the internet so I could put some sort of effort into my blog– poor, lonely, little blog– but you know what they say about good intentions: you can wish to do something all you want, but if you don’t actually start it then–

Though there hasn’t been much in the way of updates since August, I’ve lived a life worthy of posting; I just spent more time doing than I did recording. Which, if you’re like me, is positively depressing. But what would a good story be without some sort of experience behind it, right? In the four months since I unintentionally left my internet footprint alone, I’ve learned quite a few things about what it means to be me, some wonderful, some uncomfortable, but regardless of the nature of the whats, whos, and whys I discovered on this mini adventure, I have not escaped unchanged. I am now more sure about who I am than I have ever been before, and I know exactly where I want to be. Between new friends, learning to live on my own, and an existential crisis (the ghosts of which still haunt me), I think I can honestly say I’m okay with where I’m at. It’s the “get up, get going” part that scares me.

It’s easy to have goals. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a Paediatric Cardiologist (say that five times fast, Mum); the idea of it gave me such a thrill that I could barely contain myself if someone ever made the mistake of bringing it up. I told anyone who would listen that I was going to get there someday. 

Someday. What a funny word. Based on my experiences, it can have one or two meanings depending on the context that it is used. In the first instance, it appears with a positive connotation; it is chalk full of childlike optimism, and hints toward a successful outcome. The second situation comes with a similar tinge of yes, but often results in the disappointment of those silly enough to wait for it to happen– for example’s sake, it’s used most frequently by one too scared to say no.

ex: “Daddy? Dad? Can I have a pony? It’ll make me the happiest girl in the world                        andifyoudontillscreamuntilyoucaveandbringonehome.”

“I’m not so sure about right now, babydoll, but someday, for sure.”

Nice save, Dad. In the short term, that “someday” might soothe some inner desire, but, in the case of the pony example, unless Pa decides to save up, buy a bigger house, build a barn and actually make the effort to look for and purchase a horse good enough for his little princess, then babydoll can hope for the pony ’til she’s blue in the face, but she’ll never get it.

As you can probably tell from all previous posts, the Cardiologist dream was lost amidst the waters of the second someday example, and I’m completely okay with that. For one, I’m not a fan of blood, or Chemistry, and as I found out rather quickly, I lack the emotional blockades to deal with sick children calmly in dire situations. And, of course, I realized that I’d rather swallow a live jellyfish every day for the rest of my life than support myself with something that doesn’t involve writing creatively.

And here we have the problem that I’ve been trying to combat since I left for school in August. With classes and committees and scholarship work and volunteer hours and exams, my dream is in danger of being trapped in the dangerous web of the second someday. Of course, with dreams like this, it’s all a matter of knowing what you want, and believe me, I know what I want.  But I figured out pretty quick that I can talk about it, dream about it, and dabble with it all I want, but just thinking about it all the time isn’t going to get me any closer to doing anything about it. I’d be lying if I said I’ve picked up a pen to write anything creative since I’ve last been home, and I’d be two seconds away from burnt legs if I said it didn’t bother me.

I don’t need inspiration; that stuff is everywhere. I don’t need drive; I’ve got lots of that, too. I’ve just been pushing to move forward in the wrong areas. Maybe it’s time to stop striving for classroom praise and scholarship winnings; maybe it’s time to do what makes me happy. And so I’ve promised myself that I shall. Hell, I’ve even moved a step further than that, and started doing it. The next challenge is keeping it up, but that’s a story for another time. I’ll tell you when I get there.

If you’re reading this, and you’ve found yourself in the same boat that I’ve just docked and climbed out of, whatever your dream is, don’t let it disappear into the vault of lost somedays. Work for it, grab onto it, and get going. Make someday today; it’s possible, and with a little elbow grease, it’s probable. You’ve just got to move.

So get going.

“You can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will.” — Stephen King.

If I’m Going To Waste Time, I Might As Well Do It Here

Welcome to the twenty first century, where instead of beginning diaries and giving up after the first three entries, we start blogs and eat up URLs only to abandon them later on. I myself have attempted three. The first was launched when I was in the tenth grade and thought it would be hilarious to start a joint-venture with a good friend at a slumber party (we made a painfully cliche post about body image and left it at that). The second made a short appearance during the summer following my graduation from high school. At that point, I was riding on a wave of hormones and nostalgia so high that I could have passed for the fifth member of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants heading into university that fall.

If you’re reading this, (bless you, stranger) then you have managed to stumble upon my third attempt at keeping up something serious. Now, this thing isn’t a diary exactly; it’s more of a log book, so if you’ve already begun rolling your eyes at the thought of having wasted forty seconds scanning the thoughts of an eighteen year old, relax. It isn’t that sort of blog. I will not be describing angsty situations with my non-existent boyfriend, who will not be mentioned again, not even if he steps out of my imagination and into the vast realm of “IRL.” I will not be dishing out any juicy secrets, or teaching girls how to contour their faces with mineral highlighter (what does that even mean?), and I will not, I repeat (in capital letters, no less), WILL NOT be writing fanfiction because that stuff scares the hell out of me.

I will be keeping track of what has become a very large part of my life as of late. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a story-teller. My mother still has some of my earliest works (four page epics written in crayon on word-processor sheets and construction paper) stored in keepsake boxes above her closet, for heaven’s sake. Creativity is in my blood. Before I could print, I performed, dragging others into the worlds that I had created with an insistence only a three-year-old could be capable of. Eventually, when I discovered that pencils didn’t go up your nose and could be used to keep stories locked in place, I began writing them down. When other kids were telling their teachers that they wanted to be astronauts or lion-tamers or President of the United States (because even in Canada, that seems to be the coolest job in the world), I was imagining myself sitting at my desk with a tea watching the sun come up over the final pages of my first novel.

And now, that image has become my reality. I never expected to seriously want to write one. I mean, every teenager today wants to be the next Stephen King; hearing someone say that they’re writing a book isn’t exactly a rare occurrence. Hell, I even tried to do it at fifteen but got bored a hundred pages in. This time, though, The Big Idea has wormed its way into the corners of my brain, and it won’t go away. It’s massive, it’s lofty, it’s The Big Kahuna. This is it. The story that’s been building up in my head for years has decided to make an appearance, and my goodness, is it ever huge. I think, like the blog situation, the number of those who have attempted to write something like this is great and many have left their work unfinished. I don’t want to fall into that category. I’m ready to squeeze into the smaller, successful margin.There’s something about the magnitude of this idea that makes it seem different (says everyone, ever). This isn’t just a hobby anymore. This is my life.

I started writing with the intent to publish eight months ago, fitting in small intervals of plot here and there in between term papers and exam prep, unable to contain my excitement for summer because it meant that I had time to write the whole thing down from start to finish with no distractions. Except, now that summer is here, the list of distractions is not only endless, but self-created. I’m like the Queen of Procrastination. I’ll write a sentence and reward myself with an hour of Twitter or video games or another person’s novel. I’m one hundred and twenty two pages into this baby and I just don’t have the attention span to keep it up.

If you haven’t figured out the significance of this blog title by now, let me spell it out for you: I really should be writing that book, but instead I’m screwing around on the internet, doing things that will get me nowhere. One can possess all of the God-given talent that they want, but success won’t come to them unless they work at it, improving their skills by practicing their art. I don’t just want to be a writer; I want to be an author, and I’m not going to make it to that point if I don’t start working at it in earnest. So, out of a massive session of frustration and self-loathing, came the decision to turn my work-induced ADD into something productive. If I’m not working on that story, I’ll be working on getting my thoughts somewhere for someone to read. This blog marks the first day of that mentality; day one of “The Great Journey Toward Authorhood” (I promise, that’s the last time I’ll make up a word). In it, I’ll be writing about looking for agents and researching publishing houses. I’ll be recording struggles and triumphs and talking about my experiences as a young writer in over her head. Who knows? When I make something of this (I’ve decided to eradicate the word “if” from my vocabulary) this blog could become a tool for people like me.

I just have to write that damn book first. Wish me luck.