Agonies of a Young Author

If you haven't yet gleaned to what it is by all my previous ramblings (I forbear to backlink; it would take the rest of forever; just click the tag at the bottom for others) HERE IT IS AGAIN:

I AM MADLY OBSESSED WITH SEEMING "PROFESSIONAL."

Maybe it's my age, my relative inexperience, my own insecurities about being perceived as a "grown-up" or a need to be seen as a "working writer" when the label "student" is more accurate-- whatever my hangups, they translate into an unhealthy paranoia.

I think about my query letter more than the pieces I submit. (I know, this is backwards. But true.)

So it's FANTASTIC that I just got complimented on the DIRECT QUOTE "wonderful" cover letter I sent in. The editor was impressed that I tailored to the publication and read the archives both, so I guarantee that cover letter is the reason I got accepted to this publication. (YAY!!! Another new market wants to publish me!)

So I Present!
Shelly Holder's Formula to "Wonderful" Cover Letters

1) find out editor's name
2) check gender of editor- twice (website, personal website, social media sites)
3) read archives- ALL of them
4) read editor interview at Duotrope's Digest
5) re-read interview at Duotrope's Digest
6) re-read it a 3rd time
7) read website submission guidelines
8) re-read guidelines
9) read a 3rd time
10) compare with Duotrope's submission quidelines
11) start FIRST DRAFT of cover
12) personalize to market
13) mention author from archives that you identify with (legitimately! don't make this a gimmick)
14) add why you submitted to this market
15) re-read submission guidelines
16) read some of the editor's work if available
17) re-read DD's editor interview
18) re-write cover letter
19) make it polite & professional
20) send and die of brain hemorage

And then hope and pray and burn little offering of crumpled balls of bad drafts until you hear back, and try not to slowly turn into a mewling ball of despair.

I just sent out another submission last night, so I'll let you know how that last sentences goes.

But I currently have not showered, am gorging on junk food, and have a blanket over my head while watching Iron Chef America in the dark without my glasses. And there's ice cream in the freezer calling my name. YES ITS TEN A.M. DON'T JUDGE ME.

Write Now:
What I'm listening to: the wonderful narration of Alton Brown on carrot frosting
What I want most: DO YOU REALLY WANT ME TO ANSWER THIS QUESTIOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNN?

So today I want to talk about a chance compliment I received back in spring that has really motivated me in the successive months.

I had submitted to a publication on campus that was a little out of my comfort zone, one that focused on expressions of female sexuality. I was unsure about contributing to something so risque, especially with my conservative background growing up. Still, there was some poking and prodding instinct to go ahead and risk it! So I sent in two poems and a personal essay, and was published.

The magazine was released a few days before I attended a job related BBQ. I was the new hire, and unfamiliar with most of the people around me. As I sat down with my burger and my beer, all out of the blue, a male co-worker I never inner-acted with before asked me "Did you write such and such piece?"

Me: (stunned) um, yes?

I really liked it, he replied.

I couldn't believe it. One, that he read the magazine. Two, he read my pieces, three, associated them with ME, and four, remembered long enough to bring it up. What kind of alternative reality was I in? Was that really non-alcoholic beer, or had something else been slipped in?

But as I continue down the road, I realize more and more how wonderful a compliment he paid me. Here I had taken a huge personal leap of faith into a world I was not familiar or comfortable in, and yet someone still found me not only competent but qualified.

If that co-worker had never said anything, I'm not sure that I would have had the courage to continue submitting to that particular magazine. I probably would have left it as a one time fling with the wild side. But because of what he did, I find that I have the strength to embrace this new world. And guess what? I love talking about female sexuality. Not because I'm some uber-radical, or because I represent the conservative side of the argument, but because it's a part of my humanity. Not some stereotype, but just simple human experience.

Because of him, I was excited to write a second personal essay for the upcoming fall 2010 issue, which has been accepted. In fact, I'm working on a third I hope to squeak in under deadline (18 days!). And I want to pursue these topics to other venues, other magazines. I want to see where this can take me. I want to see how I grow and learn and mature in life and in writing. I want to surprise myself. I want to challenge myself. And I don't want to stop because of some excuse like "that just isn't who I am." I don't know yet. I'm not defined. I'm not fixed.

All I know is, part of me has changed for good because of a chance compliment.

And if sometimes I write with him in mind, well, maybe that's not such a bad thing either.

Write Now:
What I'm listening to: "Sand in My Shoes" by Dido (Somehow it's so apropos...)
What I want most: the Kris Longknife book that comes out tomorrow! Squeeeeeeeee!

Oh noes! I got dissed on public webspace, so now I'm goaded into pulling out the big guns. Be ready, o' friend my friend. This writer is about to deliver a novel reading experience. I shall not suffer in silence!

Most of the poems that I write are in some way individualist; meaning the focus is on a single individual's experience of a situation. However, despite the use of "I" and "me" in these works, and despite some auto-biographical elements, these poems do NOT necessarily represent me or my feelings.

I remember a particular conversation that I had with my freshman roommate about a year ago. I was sharing some poems that I was submitting, and she stunned me by asking if I was truly that depressed. Depressed? I echoed back. Depressed? Where did you get that from? (I was, at time, although not on top of the world, at least very very happy to be where I was) She replied, From your poems.

My work from that day and from now may reflect an emotion that I experienced, but the narratives are never so cut and dried to say "Oh, that stemmed from this in my/her life."

I do like to write in this manner of individualist poetry. Poetry and creative writing are so subjective that addressing yourself to anything other than the individual seems a waste of time. I actually wrote a poem on this very topic!

I know that I was influenced on the use of "I" in poetry by my favorite poet Wislawa Szymborska. She was the first to really open me up to the wonders of poetry, and even now that I have read and been exposed to so much more poetry since "The Discovery," she remains the most beloved and the most influential.

Czeslaw Milosz, another famous Polish poet and Szymborska's mentor at university wrote in an essay called "Our Common Heritage: On Wislawa Szymborska" that

Szymborska's "I" is an ascetic "I," cleansed not only of the desire to confess, but of any individuating features, and yet it is linked to the "I" of all others who share in the human condition...

To explain this all better, I'll simply leave you with an example of Szymborska's poetry.

Under a Certain Little Star 

My apologies to chance for calling it necessity. 
My apologies to necessity in case I'm mistaken. 
Don't be angry, happiness, that I take you for my own. 
May the dead forgive me that their memory's but a flicker. 
My apologies to time for the quantity of world overlooked per second. 
My apologies to an old love for treating a new one as the first. 
Forgive me, far-off wars, for carrying my flowers home. 
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger. 
My apologies for the minuet record, to those calling out from the abyss. 
My apologies to those in train stations for sleeping soundly at five in the morning. 
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing sometimes. 
Pardon me, deserts, for not rushing in with a spoonful of water. 
And you, O hawk, the same bird for years in the same cage, 
staring, motionless, always at the same spot, 
absolve me even if you happen to be stuffed. 
My apologies to the tree felled for four table legs. 
My apologies to large questions for small answers. 
Truth, do not pay me too much attention. 
Solemnity, be magnanimous toward me. 
Bear with me, O mystery of being, for pulling threads from your veil. 
Soul, don't blame me that I've got you so seldom. 
My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere. 
My apologies to all for not knowing how to be every man and woman. 
I know that as long as I live nothing can excuse me, 
since I am my own obstacle. 
Do not hold it against me, O speech, that I borrow weighty words, 
and then labor to make them light. 

*Glint*

*Glint*

*Glint*

No, that's not the sunlight bouncing off my sunglasses, but rather the gleam of vice in my eyes. Coming from holding a Poet's Market 2010 in my hands. 

Mine. MINE. My precccccccccccccccious.

I would add either a "*strokes lovingly*" or a *maniacal laugh: bwahahahahahaha*" here, but I DO want my readers to come back to the blog, and have promised to keep it in line. Somewhat.

I was happily gifted with the Poet's Market 2010, and have been equally as happily pouring over it since then. It's used, but since we're actually STILL in 2010 (unlike my first gifted Writer's Market 2002 back in 2004, but that's another story) I figured I could easily live with the highlighting. And I've been adding my own highlighting ever since.

I've mentioned before that I have become somewhat dissatisfied with my successes-- a horrible, ungrateful thing to say, but one full of hopeful ambition-- and have settled on my need to publish outside my local, campus magazines. They were a huge help in establishing my credit with myself and with the next stepping stone level, but now I do need to leap-frog to another, larger lilly. The Mandala Journal was a HUGE, miraculous increment. So I'm looking for others.

My poetry professor, who has been vital in the poet that I'm becoming, brought up in class the need to graduate beyond local publications. She very accurately said that a resume full of the same journals, all from the same town, actually discredits you rather than viably building a reputation. Being in this very painful position, I asked the question "When are you ready to submit to prestigious magazines? How do you know?"

Now, I don't remember what she said, but I believe it's along the same lines as my personal answer:

You're never ready. You'll never know. You'll just feel that you HAVE to.

One of the hardest things to submit to as a writer is the insubstantial nature of it all. We're in a subjective field, based on 10% technique, 40% personal opinion, and 50% experience.  Even as the writer, sometimes we have no clue what we just did or why we did it. The Muse, as much as I playfully personify her here, is in my belief INSTINCT followed by a shooter of INSPIRATION (which could be argued as nothing more than internalized, instinctual knowledge based on experience observation and perception.) So being able to vocalize 1) why I'm dissatisfied, 2) what I need to change, and 3) why I need to change is hard enough, without taking on the new conviction that I need to expand professionally without sounding a) conceited, b) arrogant, or c) delusional. Or any combination thereof.

I'm not able to. I'll never be able to. I just fell that I HAVE to. 

And I'm willing to live with that. So I'm off to highlight some more.

Write Now:
What I'm listening to: "All the Things She Said" by T.A.T.U.
What I want most: bookcases!!!!!! =)

I have recently been trying to type up all my random scraps of paper in anticipation for The Big Move over to the new apartment-- with it's lovely lovely bookcases and heart-stopping file cabinets-- so I don't just transfer my crap from one location to another but actually DEAL WITH IT.

It's a process. I am currently losing.

But what struck me as I was typing up another fiction WIP is that my openings have become remarkably similar. Compare this paragraph, written 10 months ago:

  with this, written a week ago:


and this, written two days ago:

           I thought friends' boyfriends were safe. That was my trouble. I thought since they were so obviously taken -- dating my best friends for goodness' sake!-- then a friendship with them wouldn't be misconstrued. Joking, teasing, etc wouldn't be seen as flirting and simple happiness to be around them wouldn't be seen as anything more serious. But I was idealistic, and that was my trouble.  


I find it intriguing that I used a dash to indicate a interjected thought in the opening paragraph of two recent works, when ten months ago I was doing nothing of the kind. Although my fragments are a very integral part of my writing style, the dash trick is new. I wonder, if I tried to sell both, would one or both of my stories get rejected because they are TOO similar? 

But that's a low priority. First, I need to finish both of these-- or rather, all three of these. Then I worry about sending them out and publication and rejection and all the strategies that plague too much of my time. 

For now, I'm just focusing on finishing. And developing my "voice." 

What trends do you see emerging in your recent work?  

Write Now:  
What I'm listening to: "She's Trouble" by Frou Frou
What I want most: snacks!  

I had a conversation with The Maternal Figure the other day about the books I read as a child, when I read such and such series, when I moved on to such and such author, when I fell in love with such and such book. It rather saddens me that I have no clue when I read Pride and Prejudice for the first time, or when it officially became my favorite book. I have no need for dates like that-- there's no real world applications other than having interesting tidbits to whip out at cocktail parties or on a blog. However, I've always had a fascination for what I will call The Chronology of a Writer. When I was younger (no exact date, but maybe 9/10/11/12?) I thought the coolest thing that I could do in my life would be to invent a software program that tracked the changes an author made to a manuscript.
          I had it all planned out. The device would be similar to a tablet or PDA, with a touch screen and a stylus. I would approach various famous authors, and ask them to use this program for a loan period of 2 months or so. Anything they write would be theirs, of course, but I would get permission to print the chronology of the work in a magazine, much like an interview. And it would show the progression from the blank page to the fully finished book/poem/short story.
      Later, in high school, I was discover that Norton Anthologies had similar sections in their appendixes, and that library kept early copies of famous works. Still, the idea of being to visually track the changes-- like a slow-mo version of the video game demos, where Mario jumps the mushrooms and grabs the coins, over and over and over again on endless repeat-- was enticing. Not *just* a static comparison where many mental changes have resulted in a few written ones, but the actual progression of the author's mind. How many second between writing words, how many times each word is crossed out, the pressure of the stylus on the screen, the flipping back and forth between words that ends up with the original one anyways. That sort of over-detailed analysis fascinates me.

Which is one of the reasons that I think I love Goodreads so much. I can add not only what books I read, but WHEN I started them, when I finished then, and what I thought along the way.  I may not be able to remember when I switched from picture books to chapter books, or when I moved from the kid's section to general fiction, but at least now I know a few more things about my reading habits.

It also explains my extraordinary Excel submissions tracking worksheet. I have date created, date finished, date modified, date submitted, and date accepted/rejected/modified/re-submitted.

I have a thing for details.  

Maybe someday I will become friends with a computer programmer, and we can make my software fascination a reality.

Right Now:
What I'm listening to: Nothing. Headache.
What I want most: More books. Bad Shelly! Read what you have first.

My default conference position is black.

I did laundry in anticipation for tomorrow's conference, and found myself reaching for my "professional Young Author" outfit- black coat, black embellished tee, dark wash jeans, black pointy toed suede ankle boots. If I were sixty years older with a wart on my nose, I would resemble a witch. Maybe I still do, in the Sabrina the Teenage witch way, or the Sandra Bullock in Practical Magic way.

In any case, I wear black to be "professional chic." Always have, always do, always will. I may overshoot a little, but at least when I go, I can feel confident about my wardrobe.

Now, if I could just maybe to be confident about my writing...

Right now:
What I'm listening to: I might or might not be talking to myself. Maybe. Possibly. It might have to do with conference to-do lists. Or not.
What I want most: More black shoes. And black blouses. Preferably silk.

A few weeks ago I interviewed for the writing consultant position at campus Writing Resource Center (which I got! Still excited.) One of the questions I've mulled over a few times since then:

What is your greatest writing strength?

At the time, I was unprepared to answer that particular question, and rather than let the silence stretch longer than the taffy it was already resembling, I spoke about how I had a "natural" voice. A debatable point, but moving on.

Now I wish that I had spoken of how my greatest strength in that I put writing first. Writing is essentially the number one priority in my life (I'm not counting God and family here) and it's foremost in my thoughts. It's the quest that I've chosend, the one that involves life and death and all things in between. It's a one way train ride, with no stops along the way.

So I should have spoken of my loyalty, of my dedication. I should have explained my focus, and my drive. I should have explained that this is a passion, a hobby, a career, and a life calling, all tied up into one black hole of a package. It sucks you in, and you don't know what kind of person you might come out on the other side.

But you can bet it's gonna be one hell of an experience.

Right Now:
Where I am located: hotel room in Tutova, Romania
What I want most: Cappicino. I've become addicted since I got here.

I am suffering from a slight case of the writing doldrums. It's not fatal, I've been assured, but it has the potential to knock me out of commission if I don't combat it with a good dose of Vitamin C... c for confidence.

I wrote the other day glancingly of my submission that was my first submission. I'm still in shock over that discovery, and have been racking my mind for the cause of my illusionary feelings of success. I figured out this check-list of literary magazines on campus:

Winged Nation: X
The Review: X
The Gallery: n/a
Beacon: n/a
Lips: n/a

So I have a 2/5 success rate of sending out materials, but still. It was my first submission outside of campus (other than vanity publications; see website bio for more details). Why? Tell me, why?

My first story I ever wrote was a class assignment in 2nd grade about a magical cat. It currently languishes. Certainly I would have to update it, but I could use it for a children's story at least. Why haven't I?

The next story I wrote was in the 7th grade. A substantial lapse of years, but ones well spent I suppose, since the sophistication of my writing (rather obviously) increased. Why can't I use that one?

The next was a few weeks later, another assignment for my honors science class (again, see website bio), It too has been lost to the ravages of time. A third story that year for English, then two more quickly followed, all of which were published in the English department magazine to my combined horror (now) and pride (then.) Those too could be resurrected in some way. In fact, one of them I consider my most descriptively evocative of all my prose. Why haven't I used it?

After that, my memory becomes fuzzy, and I highly doubt that anything much was written. I went through a novel phase, and have the many versions of several opening chapters to each of these manuscripts, but nothing was completed.

I made a foolish promise to myself, declaring that I would be published before my Xth birthday. The 16th came and went, without even an attempt, and the 17th hastily researched and submitted before the midnight "deadline." Thus began the rise of the vanity publications, which occupied the next 6-8 months before the disastrous conclusion (once more, refer to the website bio).

Then came college, and a singular poem published freshman year, and a rejection sophomore year. A short story contest. Several poems over teh summer, another abandoned novel attempt.

It surprises me sometimes, how much I consider myself a writer, and yet how little I actually have to show for the years spent thinking this way. I don't want to spend another semester throwing out half-heartened attempts. If I am a writer, then I need to be a writer. Otherwise I will end up 60 years old, wondering where the time went and having nothing to show for it all except the scattered pages of a few chapters. If I end up 60 years and still unpublished, but with 20 trunk novels and reams of rejected poetry, that's another thing. I would still be a writer, even if I was unpublished. The age is not the issue, but the attempt.

I am a writer.

Right now:
What I am listening to: nothing.
What I want most: breakfast. or a shower.

How does one, I wonder, achieve the cultural status of an author? I don't mean just my name listed on the NYT bestsellers list, although that would be an amazing achievement of its own. But how does one gain the reputation of being literary?

I am fascinated by the idea of the french salons, run by elegant ladies and populated with eccentric characters and brilliant thinkers. But these have passed away by several centuries.

I am fascinated by the idea of Bohemia, and the establishment of city quarters like Montparnasse, or Soho, or Greenwich Village. These all exist, but some of the "the glow and the glamour" has washed away with time. I read a very mournful elegy several years ago on the death of the American bohemian lifestyle, and I positively cried in sympathy.

I am fascinated by the idea of literary establishments- the clubs, and famous writer's groups that some authors establish, like ... well, see, even I can't even remember which ones I mean, and Google has no clue what I'm talking about.

So how does one recreate this sort of atmosphere in modern America? How does one achieve that sort of reputation beyond the words on a page and into the realm of personality? When writing is not an occupation or an obsession or a career or a hobby, but a lifestyle?

Well, I certainly don't have any answers from my two years of pondering, and I suspect that it will take me more than twenty to achieve anything definitive.

But, then, one never knows.

Right now:
What I'm listening to: n/a. The roomie, Long-Suffering One, is asleep. Shhhhhhhhh....
What I want most: To start Flesh Circus, the newest Lilith Saintcrow that I just bought

Hello!

So the other day I opened up the blog to questions about me the author and my writing habits, etc. Not a lot of comments came in (sad face) but flightsofwhimsy (aka, MlleDiabolique) asked:

Do you base your characters off of people that you've met, television characters, other novel characters, somewhere else, or an amalgamation of these all? Do you find that you tend to be autobiographical in your fiction?

So my characters do tend to be an amalgamation of all sorts of inspiring quirks and personality traits from many many sources, but every once in a while there will be a specific person or literary character that I just have to play with. I mention this because right now there is a fellow student that I would love to base a character on, and I'm trying to pull off as much direct observation as I can without crossing into the land of creepy Stalker McStalkerpants. Television characters, not so much, but literary figures all the time (although usually it's along the lines of so-and-so does this, but what if they are actually X-Y-and-Z, what does that make them do now?)

I find that I am extremely autobiographical, in fiction, in poetry, in everything. I didn't realize how prevalent this was until this semester's creative writing course (Life Writing, which is based on all forms of autobipgraphical writing, from letters and journals to creative non-ficition and memoir and everything in between) and I found certain subjects creeping in where I had no intention of placing them.

There's also a quote that I really enjoy, and I cannot remember who said it, that "All writing, in some way, is emotionally autobiographical." I could not agree with this more. Distilled down, why would writers write, if not to express something that they feel important? That "something" will have a basis in some reality- and that is always autobiographical. The details don't matter. The actors and the setting and the period don't matter. All of those considerations can be changed without detracting from the essence, the truth of the occurance, and without detracting from the truth that it holds in writing.

Sometimes, I think we get too caught up in verifiable facts, and miss the point that the author is trying to make. It doens't matter if it IS true, but does it ACT true? Does it resonate within you, the reader, and does it pull at a little corner of your heart or whisper through your mind late at night? THAT is truth. Not something that can be listed on a Wikipedia bio page.

But that's another blog post.

Right Now:
What I want most: a nap, or leftovers? Decisions, decisions...
What I'm listening to: n/a

I want to write.

I really, really want to write.

I have scraps of papers and ideas floating around everywhere, on my phone, post-its, scratch paper, corners I tore off, journals, and different journals, envelopes, napkins, not to mention my computer and THREE blogs. Yes three. (Four, if you count LJ, which I don't.) How did I think that was ok? Argh. Too much. I need to go full-time freelance. I should just up and quit and not look back, because school isn't conducive to writing anyways.

Screw college. I wanna be a professional writer.

I'm obsessed with names.

Sometimes, people will write or use "obsessed" in a way that means fixated on, but not necessarily in a detrimental manner.

I am obsessed with names.

So when it comes to creating character names... I'm a tad beyond obsessive. (My poor CritPartner! She has to put up with my lengthy rants on the subject)

So when Jocelynn Drake was a Dame for the Day over at Deadline Dames, my head was nodding so emphatically that a headache was a serious risk factor.

I don't know where the whole thing came from. Maybe a slightly complicated relationship with my own name? (I hated it growing up, and had thought I would only publish under a nom-de-plume, and creating several pseudonyms for each genre; now I like my name and I'll only publish under Shelly Holder, no matter genre or style)

But I have a superstitious belief that names really do have power, and that the naming of a child is actually really important. I have a superstitious belief that you have to live up to your name, and that at some point in your life, you'll either conquer or be conquered by the power of your name. Yes, it sounds wacky; yes, I read too many fantansy books as a young child; however, yes, I will probably continue with this belief and this obsession for the rest of my life. And it's ok. I think in the end it makes me a stronger writer.

When I create a character, I usually come to the drafting table with a name and nothing more. The name is the starting point, and it is a fixed point that all aspects of personality radiate out from. Physical description, attitude, dress, patterns of speech- all of these stem from the character's name.

And when I choose a name, the right name, I hear that internal click that is universal agreement with my decision.

So yeah, I'm obsessed with names.

But I'm proud of it.

Right Now:
What I'm listening to: "Dead and Gone" by T.I. and Justin Timberlake
What I want most: food!

As this week is, unfortunately, mid-terms week for my school, I have been diligently studying, and not minding the blog as I should have (although, my priorities seem to lie with the blog... in thought AND deed.) In my readings (and re-readings, and triple readings) I came across a delightfully delicious word: charivari.

In context the sentence said "Some fights, among the most successful kind, are crowned by a final charivari, a sort of unrestrained fantasia where the rules, the laws of the genre, the referee's censuring and the limits of the ring are abolished, swept away by a triumphant disorder which overflows into the hall and carries off pell-mell wrestlers, seconds, referee and spectators." (cultural theorist Roland Barthes)

Doesn't the exploding fantasia and spice of charivari just envelop you with phrases like "unrestrained freedom" and "triumphant disorder"? The dictionary definition is not nearly so evocative, because it rests upon an old French tradition instead of a mood.

cha-ri-va-ri [ˌʃɑːrɪˈvɑːrɪ], shivaree esp US, chivaree n

2. a confused noise; din

I also looked it up in my dictionary of etymology, but no luck there. It wasn't even included.

But the Barthes interpretation of the word is so delicious! Indeed, my first thought after I read the quote was "Can I change my blog title to this?" Someone else has probably done it before me, but I still like the concept. A lot.

I would like to think that my writing aspires to the nature of charivari, to the unrestrained fantasia of disregarded rules, a beautiful sort of literary irreverence. I know that at this point, I'm too traditionally bound. I'm still mastering the conventions, so that one day I can break them all.

However, I have decided that if I ever open up a coffee shop, I'm calling it charivari.

Right Now:
What I'm listening to: Some group of students talking -loudly- right outside my room.
What I want most: food! om nom nom

As a necessary by-product of doing a lot of really interesting activities comes the over-whelming sense of being ... well, overwhelmed. Sometimes everyone needs a moment to just sit down and think- to organize their thoughts outside of a planner or calender, to organize those thoughts like goals and ambitions that do not translate well into a simple check list.

So I removed myself today, removed myself utterly from my dorm room, from campus, and ventured away from all pressures associated in any way with school- whether it's homework, or extracurricular, or even school social events like the game night I should be attending right now (no worries, I'll go later.) I needed to physically remove myself from the mental hustle to sit down and just think- to organize my bookmarks, to read through the blogs that I follow, to check out the myriad websites that I found during the week but couldn't read, to follow up on correspondence... each and everything that will take me away from the mentality of "student" to "writer." I can be a writer during the summer, and during the breaks, and sometimes I even achieve "writer" on the weekends, but rarely, rarely do I go through the day as a writer. The mentality is all wrong, there isn't enough time to indulge myself, and by the time I have a spare moment to take a breath in the few minutes before I collapse into bed, I have no neurons left functioning enough to be able to truly write.

Sometimes, I really mourn the days that I am a "student."

I'm trying this semester to infuse my live with more writing, and writing on a regular basis- whether it's this blog, or Wordsworth Station (for even thinking of prompts makes me want to write their response), or with critINK (my writing group on campus) or with a writing class. I'm searching for fast turn-over contests, whether on a weekly or monthly basis. And I'm succeeding at all this, I am. I'm just... not quite there yet. Where "there" is, I don't really know myself, but I feel that it's possible. Possible with one more blog, or one more contest, or one more writing activity. Possible. But not quite there yet- a "there" where writing is not a hobby or a side interest, where writing isn't a passion or an addiction but a way of life. To a "there" where people can walk by me and recognize "Oh, she's a writer."

Then, then, I have made it.

Right Now:
Wht I'm listening to: Whatever weird thing Barnes and Nobles is playing on the sound system.
What I want most: A nap

Last night I had one of the most frustrating clash of wills against the universe, in the form of a recalcitrant dryer that would not accept my quarters, and which did not dry my clothes after I had forced the $1.50 down its mechanical throat. It was one of those moments that I could have sobbed in anger. Not just cry, but sob.
After my epic 30 minute battle, I retreated to my dorm room, thinking to hide under the covers and not come out until morning, or possibly later. But then, I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote it all out in the form of a short story.
I can't describe the feeling of peace that I get every time I do this. Even writing this post continues that process of healing and cleansing and reviving.
A few weeks ago, I read the original Greek definition of "daemon," meaning (paraphrased) something that accompanies unceasingly. I have heard the phrase "exercise your demons" associated with writing for many years, but only when I understand the original intent did I appreciate the saying, and connect it with my own motivations for writing.
I write to get rid of my "demons," those things that refuse to leave me during the day and that cling sickening to me at night.
I write for my health and sanity, to release my body from a different sort of disease.
I write to articulate the world to myself; to articulate something that I have felt but not understood, even within the confines of my own mind.

I write because I must.
I write because I love to write.
I write because writing defines me, and I define me in writing.

I write, because I am a writer.

Right Now:
What I'm listening to: "Lola" by Superbus (a great French band!)
What I want most: not to have to go to class