Where to begin?

I regret that I can't offer an apology for not frequently updating the blog. Instead, I ask for a small portion of your time for me to explain myself and why things are beginning to change.

For the last few weeks or so, I've been languishing in the summer, doing whatever I felt like doing (well, other than going to work). I learned the hard way that I should've updated my parents about my job aspirations. For the sake of things, I cannot disclose these matters here. Yet, my parents told me that sitting around and waiting wasn't the solution. That meant getting out of my comfort zone. So here I am, putting together a resume and cover letter for a possible internship. Atop that, I'm assisting at my current job at planning an event. I have to do things that require me to take some serious risks.

But if things transpire differently, I may have to find another job. I hate to do that, but I desire to move out into the world on my own. This won't happen unless I do something, whether it is push for a promotion at my current job or seek employment elsewhere. To most, what I'm going through sounds like nothing. I always prided myself in being able to handle change. But I lied to myself, sort of. I could handle change, as long as it didn't push me past my comfort zone. I've played safe for far too long. I ain't living. No, don't expect me to go do daring things, like skydiving or herding hippos. I need to start moving forward, going out there to do what I need to do. I have few major lifelong goals, but one of them still holds true: become a writer and make enough to live off of it. While the goal is unlikely, I need to try.

~

Things are going to be different around here. I have decided to do something that I had never done for this poor blog: post on a regular schedule. Starting at the beginning of August, I will post something every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I don't know what, but it will be something. It won't be apologies for sporadic postings and lack of novel updates.

Oh, the novel... it seems that I've stopped. I may have to make a serious decision with Invisible. Maybe I was wrong in thinking it was this story's time to shine. It may need to "sleep" for a bit longer. That or I have to break for the rest of the month and re-gather my senses. There is a part deep in me that wants it tackled, most of it down on bytes and Word documents.

I'm gonna rely less on platitudes and more on kaboom. Kaboom is action; in a word that has the risk of drawing out the meaning in favor of a few giggles.

To those who ask, I am fine, thank you.

I think the alarm clock just went off and hit me hard on the head for good measure.

This is me as a sad panda... on writing and social situations

(written earlier this afternoon)

I’m feeling like I have no interest in doing anything other than staying home and reading. I know it’s getting closer to the time that I rather not do any more schoolwork. No more of those deadlines (of course, in my future field, these will be commonplace). No more dealing with teachers that annoy me. No more writing workshops or literary groups that make me feel that my style of writing is inferior and not clever enough for consumption. My whole being feels drained of energy. I’m dreading my last two papers. I have a feeling they will go wrong (as my last one had done). I’m forgetting tasks in my internship.

One big thing I’ve been dealing with is this feeling that everyone treats me and talks to me as if I’m inferior. Back in the earlier days, I would accept this and believe I was inferior. Now, my long-awaited arrogance and stubbornness has risen and I refuse to accept that I am an inferior person. However, why is it that people still treat me like I’m ignorant?

I should note that about 90% of the time when I talk and interact with people... if I act or say something awkward, that doesn't mean I'm unaware of the situation. I don't always have a snappy comeback or always the more appropriate response. I'm trying to fix this and perhaps, this is where these feelings stem from.

Back in my fiction workshop last semester, I had never felt so left out. Sure, the professor and a couple of friends reassured me that I was fine (writing-wise); yet there were a few times I got criticism that called my writing "commercial fiction", which tore at me. I mean, I'm not trying to go completely into genre fiction, but I don't thumb my nose at it. I know I should take criticism, which I do with gusto, but then there are times I know something just isn't true. This was one of those.

I'm a rare breed: I don't want to write poetry with clever language for the sake of it. I'm not striving to be like Vladimir Nabokov and have writing be art and nothing more. I can't. I want to write stories with engaging storylines, realistic characters, and important issues and points (note: no morals). Language still is important, but not on the pedestal it seems to be on right now. The same goes with all other writings I do.

I guess, to compare my intentions with those of Camus and Nabokov in terms of writing... I'm a Camus. I can't help but be a little political. I want to write about big things and share them with people. This will be a struggle as I go into grad school and even the world of literary magazines where genre fiction is an unwelcome pest and pretty prose stands out more than the context.

Maybe I need something to eat or a drink to bring myself out of this funk. But it can't be blocked and I can't keep doing that anymore. I owe to myself as a writer to just say to this whole thing:



But change the "home" to "the bar". Or whatever will be my future happy place.