About being a writer.

Being home, you are sure to run in to people from your past, and they're sure to ask you what you're doing these days. Similarly, you meet new people, maybe friends of your parents or acquaintances from the coffee shop you've curled up inside. These people will want to know what you do. When I tell these people I am a writer, they soon divide themselves into two categories. The first group is puzzled at such a vague and historically non-lucrative career choice and they look at me with a sense of pity in their eyes. "Oh, cool," they say. And I decide to leave it at that, because they aren't worth the trouble. The second group light up with enthusiasm and are excited to hear more. I like this group, clearly. But either way, both groups end up asking me the same follow-up question: What do you want to write about? And it's at this point that I fall apart and I say something like, "I don't know, a lot of things," or "Well right now I'm freelancing but I want to be a journalist." I feel cornered, because I don't know yet what I want to write about or what kind of a writer I am.

Last week two of my friends asked me that question and when I couldn't respond directly, they took it upon themselves to diagnose my writing style . I suppose they were accurate with their diagnosis, and I've been making a conscious effort to write every day, even when I don't want to, so I can better understand my own style and my own objectives. My friend Rick said that the way you write is the way you live your life, and the sooner you understand the way you write, the sooner both of those things will be easier to do. I do a lot of second guessing myself. I think something is a worth while thought and so I write it down and then I don't know where to go with it. Similarly, in life, I have a lot of lofty ideas and I pitch them to myself and others and then don't know where to go with them.

Maybe when I write something that makes me happy I'll know how to do things in life that make me happy. Maybe when I write something that takes me somewhere I'll go somewhere in life.

Just a thought.

Why It's Easy

When I look at my life from the outside, from the perspective of a spectator, watching through picture frames and such, I realize it’s quite charming. The kitchen table, where I sit and stare out the window onto the cornfields leading to the Wabash River, is so quaint in the sunlight, adorned with flowers in their contemporary vases and salt and pepper shakers sitting far enough away from one another for you to know my dad recently picked one of them up and dusted his single and hastily peeled hard boiled egg with it.

I sit there every day and look at the squirrels that, despite my father’s greatest efforts and most miraculous scare tactics, still climb into the bird feeder and steal all the feed. My fridge is covered with pictures that have not moved in years but have only been overlapped partially by new magnets and new family members. The wood paneling that supports the kitchen counter is covered in tape leftover from Sara’s and my accidental art projects.

It’s all so charming, and maybe that’s why I find it so easy to stay here. We are far enough away from the town that I feel cocooned and comforted, and Lafayette does not tempt me. Nothing here tempts me. I hunger for nothing. And whether I ask for it or not, this charming little house gives me everything I need to survive and find a little bit of beauty in my days.

However, it’s never enough and I have to be careful or I am stuck. Stuck at the table, mesmerized by the simplicity of the life my father made for himself and his wife. Sucked into the ease with which everything happens. Rounding another corner in a cycle that never ends, day and night, between episodes of Jeopardy and the nightly news hour. It’s all so easy and predictable. And that’s why it’s easy to be here. And that's why, when I have the money or the job, it will likely be hard to leave. But I’ve never really wanted things to be easy. I’ve always believed one must struggle to find beauty and fulfillment. There is no struggle here, so I feel I’m cheating. Then again, there is little fulfillment here, either, so the only thing I’m cheating is myself.

All the President's Men

This reminds me. I know who I am and what I want to do. It's always nice to be reminded.

"Woodward, Bernstein, you're both on the story. Now don't fuck it up."

Alone and content in a blizzard

I'm not sure how I'm so content here in Lafayette to stay home all day instead of venture into town. It's so different from who I used to be when I actually lived here in high school. I never wanted to be left alone. I was desperate to have a social life.

Now, in the blustery late winter that has settled over these two cities, I am fine to sit at home and watch the flakes fall all day long. My days are peppered with snacking and sleeping and the occasional flip through the channels, but mostly I just write. My complacency would make sense if the writing fulfilled me, but it doesn't.




It's bad writing. It's public relations, it's fluff; meaningless words meant to make someone look good who's really not. And yet, it's all the work I can get right now. Before I graduated, I had never written a press release or worked in public relations. I graduated with a degree in journalism and a relatively strong portfolio of news clips. I even have an award for one of my stories.

I've applied for hundreds of journalism jobs. I'd estimate I've sent resumes, cover letters and clips to more than 125 publications, both online and print. I've been called back for two interviews, which would make my success rate below 1%. But consider the fact that the only two jobs I've been interviewed for are in copy writing and PR, fields I have no interest and even less experience in. So if you feel like being a huge pessimist, you could say that my success rate in almost landing a writing or reporting job is at 0.

Moreover, I applied for fewer than 10 copy writing jobs and maybe five public relations jobs. That means my success rate at landing interviews in careers I have no experience in is 13% higher than in the field I studied and excelled at.

How's that for a picture of the economy? It doesn't help that my field is slowly losing momentum.

Maybe my complacency stems from knowing my unemployment is not for lack of trying. Maybe it's because I've given up. But I don't think so.

At night, I eat dinner and I sit and watch Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune with my dad and his wife, Lori. Maybe I've just slipped in to an easy routine that has been handed to me on a silver platter, one that requires little effort. The company is good. The wine is cheap. The room is free and the house is warm. And responsibility evades me, whether I like it or not. Maybe I'm just trying to enjoy my free time.

But I miss my friends and adventure and challenge. I feel like I'm retired, or something.

Just waiting for the next step. But I'm starting to wonder how long I'll wait.

Movement

So, I've moved back home to my dad's house, and this is the room I'm sleeping in. It used to be my sister's room, and it's since been turned into a guest room. So, I'm a guest. But I've added my own touches, like the hanging lamp and the dozens of pillows that tend to follow me into whatever bed I'm on.

It's strange being here; coming back to the place you spent most of your childhood can make you feel like you are that child again. I spend a lot of time at the house, which is okay for now, because I don't yet have a job. If I go out, I wind up spending money I shouldn't spend, and so I'm better off here. I'm doing a lot of writing. It's much less artistic than it sounds. I'm doing freelance work for AuthorHouse out of Bloomington. So, I read the books they're publishing and write press releases to accompany them. It pays well, and it makes me feel productive. For my first assignment they gave me three weeks to finish three press releases. I've already finished two in five days, so I'll probably have a new assignment by next week. I make $75.00 a release, which, after taking out taxes (since they don't, I have to), it amounts to roughly $50.00 a release.

I'm actually not doing much personal writing, but I'm trying to fix that. I think it's really hard, once you've been away from a pen and paper for long enough, to pen things out again. It's like working out; once you stop, it's hard to get yourself back into the routine of lifting and running (which I'm also trying to do).

I have an interview at a local restaurant on Monday. I hadn't wanted to work in the food industry again, but I will if I have to. I've also applied at a bead/music/book store on campus, and it would be nice to have two jobs for a bit.

So, I'm making progress. Despite all my doubts and worries about coming home, I am starting to think it's the right place to be at this time. Since being here I've gotten two writing opportunities (the other is with HELEN Magazine here in Lafayette). Let me repeat that: I've been home less than a week, and I've gotten more writing "jobs" in that week than I've had in the last year. I don't know if this is because of my not being in Bloomington or, more cosmically, my decision leave Bloomington, where I was emotionally and creatively (and monetarily) stifled. I'll keep you posted.

My hope is I'll be out of here by the summer and on to my next adventure elsewhere.

One cop out after the next

It's so easy.
It's so easy to lose hope when you have been trying so hard to reach just one of your goals.
And keeping faith is so hard.
I've compromised so much lately just to ensure a better chance for myself.
Or maybe I've compromised because I'm scared of making a decision for myself instead of having it made for me.
If I had been offered a job somewhere, anywhere, I'd go there.
But I haven't, and so it's hard to go anywhere.
And so I've come home.
And it's not that I don't like it here.
But this is not where I want to be.
Of all my choices, I've chosen the one that is the safest and the least fulfilling.

This is not who I wanted to be.
I want to be brave, fearless, adventuresome.
No more of this playing it safe.

If I don't have a job by the summertime, I'm doing one or more of the following things (I'm telling you now because I have to write it down somewhere or it will never be real, it will never happen. It will be as though I never thought it, at all):
1. Making a huge road trip to the west
2. Moving to New York City
3. Moving to Chicago
4. Making plans to go back to school

So, in the mean time, my plan is to make as much money as possible. I'm stuck here until I save money, anyway. But while I'm here I need to make a point to do things that make me feel happy. Coming back home has a way of making me dull, smothering me. It's like I'm 15 again, looking for myself and completely unaware of my wants, likes, abilities, passions.
I don't want to just survive. I don't want to stay afloat. I don't want any of that barely living but still living bullshit. I want to live so hard that I could die tomorrow.

So, I'm welcoming change in to my life. And tomorrow I'm going looking for an adventure. My mother would ask me, "What is it that scares you the most? Find it and do it." I'll have to think on that one.

I hope I wake up before noon tomorrow.

Do we ever really become who we want(ed) to be?

Freshly cut. Adapting.

My friend Malorie cut me some lovely plants the other day and delivered them to me as I was leaving work. She pulled in just as I was pulling out and waved urgently for me to stop. Aren't they grand and unassuming and winding? The post card below the jade green bottle is from my friend Catie. She was one of my two blessed roommates in Rome. I miss her and Liz both so much sometimes.

These plants will make the move with me. I leave in a few days. I'm not going far - not yet. Just home. But that's the first step in my escape. I think as their roots extend, mine will too, and eventually I'll plant them wherever I decide to plant myself. That will be a good day.

Droplets.

You ever sit at
the base of what you feel is the world
and you're looking up at it
with wide eyes
full of tears
begging for the world to let you drink her up.

I feel that way
often
And I can't decide
if it's me
or the world
who's holding herself back
but I'm utterly thirsty. Parched. Gone too long without
a damn
drop.

Feeling in the weather patterns

It's been raining for three days
and the weather drips from my cheeks
in my own sort of downpour
you know Mother Nature and I
we're women
and we feel
and so we cry.

An old poem I wrote a few years back. I kind of like it.

Meditation, kind of

So, tonight I went to a yoga class at the Vibe Yoga Studio, where I've spent at least an hour of my life for the past three four nights. I've attended two hot yoga classes, already, as well as one pilates class and tonight, a meditation class. I've never been very good at meditation. I have trouble steadying my breath, and it doesn't help that I have sinus problems. A day with a clear nose is rare for me. But sometimes it happens. And there have been a few precious times when I have tried to meditate and succeeded.

Once was in the living room at my old house on Grant Street. I lived there with my dear friends Stacy and Mike. I was sitting on the shag carpet after a series of yoga poses. When my legs crossed and my eyes closed, it took no effort. I suddenly slipped into a deep, quiet trance in which I felt I was sinking into my own gut, hovering there warm and mystically suspended. I couldn't hear anything but my own breath and the hum of the blood in my veins. It's a feeling of being completely detached and tuned in. Those things may seem contradicting, but I mean detached from the world, tuned into myself.

Another time occured in the same house, in the same living room on the same shag carpet when Stacy and I sat across from one another and attempted some energy work. I placed my hands face up and she hovered hers face down above them. We could feel the flow of my energy into her, and vice versa. Suddenly I felt like I was being pulled gently by a string from between my shoulder blades. I was floating up and out. A feeling of weightlessness took me, and I heard Stacy say, "It looks like you're floating."

Tonight I sat with five others in a dimly lit room with white walls and hardwood floors. A giant gong sat at the front of the room next to the teacher, who wore all white. She was full, strong, like a tree trunk when she stood, and when she sat. She seemed to glow a light purple. Her brown hair was held back by a chopstick. The class began with breathing exercises, a lot of rapid inhaling and exhaling - again, not easy for me with nasal problems. During the last twenty minutes we lay on our backs and she turned down the lights and she beat on the gong softly with a padded mallet. It echoed through the room with such force and resonance that I didn't think it was real. And while I tried desperately to let the waves of sound to wash over me and lull me into a deep trance, it only lulled me to sleep.

ZZzzzZzZzzz.

I wondered if anyone else had fallen asleep, too. No matter. It felt good.

Shambles

I am trying desperately to find comfort and content in my mess of an apartment. Usually it is tidy, warm, welcoming and just cozy enough to wrap its arms around me while I settle in with a book and a tea.

But now. Now I'm packing, and everything is in shambles. The pictures are off the walls, the bed is unmade and covered in all the things I can't find an empty space for, and there are boxes everywhere. I can't so much as change my shirt without banging my elbows on things, leaving little bruises everywhere. I hate this phase of the moving effort. Nothing has a place and so it is all over. Aesthetics are so important to me. I feel almost incomplete and unhappy if I cannot sit down at the end of the night and be calmed by my environment.

Oh well. It's all part of the process of moving, I guess. So I'll deal with it and light a few candles to take the edge off. Maybe a bottle of wine will help, too.

Green and yellow Summer

What I would give for a little bit of Summertime.

Wicklow Woman

Oh woman
a ways away where I have only set foot once
from a distant land
you pull me

Your world, all lights aglow and children pitterpatter
your world of ocean waves and creeping sunrises
of crisp winter winds and
foggy, salty coasts

it pulls me.

I want to die and be reborn
in your home
in your tub

I want to walk barefoot through your old house and listen
as the boards creak like the trees in the deep forest

I want to sip coffee at your table
across from you
in the morning
and laugh with you
over dark red wine
at dinner parties

Your world is magic
and it pulls me
like the ocean pulls you
and I know it does.
To me, you are the ocean, oh Wicklow woman.
And I want to meet your shores.