Sometime back, I submitted a poetry chapbook I wrote (entitled People, Places, Things) to a publisher called Maverick Duck Press. I was hopeful that they'd accept the book, though I knew they probably wouldn't.
They didn't.
After being unreasonably unhappy about this (where being unhappy at all is admittedly unreasonable), I determined I'd send it someplace else. Hence I spent most of this week researching different places to send it. Tonight, I found a place called Unicorn Press, which seems pretty good.
I'll submit the manuscript somewhere between tomorrow and...next week, probably. The only reason I don't send it right away is because they take paper submissions, and it's a little inconvenient for me to print out something and send it to the post office right now. I'll do it later, when it's more convenient.
They say they send back in two to three months, which is really nice because they don't do simultaneous submissions, so as soon as they send it back and if/when it's a rejection, I can send it elsewhere as soon as possible.
There are submissions to be made. We mustn't harbor on the rejections. We must move on until we get acceptances.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Professional Writer
Right, something exciting happened recently.
See this thing? The thing that's in the picture? For those who can't see it for some reason, it's a smallish yellow piece of paper with "Poets & Writers" in big letters at the top, "About your rate reduction" in smaller letters below, and an explanation of how they're giving me a discount on their thing because I'm a professional writer below it.
Well, this thing came from a magazine called Poets & Writers (as one might expect), and they're giving me a discount on their thing because I'm a professional writer. I was in the mountains with my family over the weekend, and when we came back, this had come in the post. I didn't send off for this. This came in the mail, entirely unbidden by anything I'd done. And it was addressed specifically to me. On another piece of paper, there's an explanation of what exactly this is, and it's got my name on it. Multiple times! They sent it specifically to me!
The magazine, they explained, is for poets and writers (naturally) and it's got information about editors, writing, agents, submitting, the writer business. Naturally, anyone who's trying to be a Professional Writer should have the sort of information it has, and since I'm a Professional Writer (apparently - note the definition of "professional writer" is "someone who has been formally paid to write at least once"), I get these sorts of things much cheaper than Non-Professional Writers.
For those who think it's suspicious that they sent this to me out of nowhere, I don't think it's too suspicious at all because they likely got my address from one of the magazines that's published my work before (since you send those people your address and things like that). And I looked it up, and it's an actual publication that appears to be pretty legit and well-known, meaning it's likely not a scam.
The discount they sent me is pretty brilliant - normally a subscription is something over $30, but I got it for $9.95. Because I'm a professional writer. Because they want professional writers to have access to good information. And apparently I'm a professional writer! (Yes, I know I'm being too excited over this, and it's not like I'm an actual professional writer who can write for a living or anything, but still.)
I don't know which to be most excited about - the fact that they sent this to me when I didn't request it (thus meaning they somehow must have known about me and wanted to give me this), the fact that I'm going to have access to a bunch of probably useful information, or the fact that someone I don't even know acknowledged my status as a Professional Writer.
See this thing? The thing that's in the picture? For those who can't see it for some reason, it's a smallish yellow piece of paper with "Poets & Writers" in big letters at the top, "About your rate reduction" in smaller letters below, and an explanation of how they're giving me a discount on their thing because I'm a professional writer below it.
Well, this thing came from a magazine called Poets & Writers (as one might expect), and they're giving me a discount on their thing because I'm a professional writer. I was in the mountains with my family over the weekend, and when we came back, this had come in the post. I didn't send off for this. This came in the mail, entirely unbidden by anything I'd done. And it was addressed specifically to me. On another piece of paper, there's an explanation of what exactly this is, and it's got my name on it. Multiple times! They sent it specifically to me!
The magazine, they explained, is for poets and writers (naturally) and it's got information about editors, writing, agents, submitting, the writer business. Naturally, anyone who's trying to be a Professional Writer should have the sort of information it has, and since I'm a Professional Writer (apparently - note the definition of "professional writer" is "someone who has been formally paid to write at least once"), I get these sorts of things much cheaper than Non-Professional Writers.
For those who think it's suspicious that they sent this to me out of nowhere, I don't think it's too suspicious at all because they likely got my address from one of the magazines that's published my work before (since you send those people your address and things like that). And I looked it up, and it's an actual publication that appears to be pretty legit and well-known, meaning it's likely not a scam.
The discount they sent me is pretty brilliant - normally a subscription is something over $30, but I got it for $9.95. Because I'm a professional writer. Because they want professional writers to have access to good information. And apparently I'm a professional writer! (Yes, I know I'm being too excited over this, and it's not like I'm an actual professional writer who can write for a living or anything, but still.)
I don't know which to be most excited about - the fact that they sent this to me when I didn't request it (thus meaning they somehow must have known about me and wanted to give me this), the fact that I'm going to have access to a bunch of probably useful information, or the fact that someone I don't even know acknowledged my status as a Professional Writer.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
New Year, (Unintentionally) New Me
It's so far been a week into the new year of 2014. It is too early for me to tell how this year will go, but if what's happened so far is any indicator, it looks like it's going to go much as previous years have gone, but more so, and with the good, the bad, and the unusual spread out pretty much evenly.
It could be me reacting to a fairly unusual set of circumstances that I don't wish to get into, but I feel as though, this year, my personality's going to undergo a relative reset in which I become someone else. Well, not really someone else. Because I'm still me. Because everyone becomes someone else at some point in their life. Actually, at a lot of points in their life. That's what happens. But I feel as though a particular becoming-someone-new is going on now.
Sometimes my memories as well as my personality undergo a reset, and I forget certain things. Or, rather, it's not that I forget certain things as it is the knowledge and understanding of certain things just aren't accessible to me for a while. It's like someone's hidden several pairs of socks I'd forgotten I had and I don't realize it until I go to my sock drawer, realize something's a bit off, and realize what's missing, and I go on like that for a while until I find the socks where I least expect them, like under my bathroom sink or in the dishwasher or in another sock drawer. Particular memories that have been taken away from me like socks from my sock drawer include memories of what my personality was really like before around the last week of December. I think this is for the better, though, because it lets me examine the me of 2014 with a bit more objectivity.
It's a constant habit of mine to compare things. I think it keeps me from enjoying things for what they are because I continually compare them to things they are not. While I remember things about myself from before - I know my name, I know my age, who my family is, what year of college I'm in, what my major is, my interests and hobbies and life plans - I don't remember the things that made up the person I am.
I won't bother trying to bring back to the surface the person I was. If I did, I'd probably just compare new me to old me. I don't want to do that. I want to see who I am now for who I am now, not in regards to who I was once. I want to see new me for new me.
New me is a writer.
New me is a student.
New me is an English major and plans to become an English teacher for high school students.
New me wants to be able to make a living off of writing before this plan can happen and thus before being locked into a non-writerly life. New me also knows this is very unrealistic.
New me is a Christian.
New me likes making jokes and having fun at other people's expense.
New me would stop it in an instant if the person at whose expense the fun was had wanted it to stop. New me would not antagonize this person again.
New me likes doing strange things for their own sake, such as dressing up in a bathrobe and not taking it off until noon, or drinking soda out of a wineglass.
New me likes Monty Python.
New me likes The Hunger Games.
New me likes They Might Be Giants.
New me likes making cookies for fictional characters' birthdays.
New me doesn't always make sense. New me does this on purpose as a means of distraction from taking everything too seriously and thus overthinking things to death and sucking the joy out of life.
New me remembers that old me used to overthink things because they wanted to understand everything fully and make logical sense out of absolutely everything. New me also remembers that, when old me did that, it usually didn't end well because old me saw how horrible many things are.
New me knows there's a difference between ignorance for the sake of self-preservation and ignorance that's just plain ignorance.
New me describes a lot of things as "self-preservation".
New me remembers things.
New me is a narcissist.
New me requires the approval and (positive) attention of others. This is because new me is almost entirely incapable of holding a self-opinion without other people being able to confirm it.
New me is almost but not entirely incapable of holding a self-opinion without other people being able to confirm it.
New me loves animals, especially dogs.
New me will take any opportunity to pet someone's dog.
New me is diligent.
New me generally has things under control.
New me always does what needs to be done, even if it takes a while. Unlike old me, new me doesn't have to do things right away to ensure they'll get done at all.
New me gets overly emotional when writing. It's because of the characters. New me gets emotional about the characters.
New me tends to handle these situations by texting friends whilst writing, telling them about the characters and their problems, and sitting back and laughing when said friends get emotional over the characters.
New me writes because new me likes watching people suffer. This is in reference to the fictional people in the stories and the real people who read and are emotionally affected by said stories.
New me is good at handling family.
New me is able to shed tears, sometimes. New me also knows when and when not to let others see those tears.
New me has problems with empathy, interpersonal relationships, and being emotionally sincere with others.
New me still tries.
New me is good at accidentally understanding others.
New me is insightful and good at saying true things.
New me can answer the question, "Who are you?"
It could be me reacting to a fairly unusual set of circumstances that I don't wish to get into, but I feel as though, this year, my personality's going to undergo a relative reset in which I become someone else. Well, not really someone else. Because I'm still me. Because everyone becomes someone else at some point in their life. Actually, at a lot of points in their life. That's what happens. But I feel as though a particular becoming-someone-new is going on now.
Sometimes my memories as well as my personality undergo a reset, and I forget certain things. Or, rather, it's not that I forget certain things as it is the knowledge and understanding of certain things just aren't accessible to me for a while. It's like someone's hidden several pairs of socks I'd forgotten I had and I don't realize it until I go to my sock drawer, realize something's a bit off, and realize what's missing, and I go on like that for a while until I find the socks where I least expect them, like under my bathroom sink or in the dishwasher or in another sock drawer. Particular memories that have been taken away from me like socks from my sock drawer include memories of what my personality was really like before around the last week of December. I think this is for the better, though, because it lets me examine the me of 2014 with a bit more objectivity.
It's a constant habit of mine to compare things. I think it keeps me from enjoying things for what they are because I continually compare them to things they are not. While I remember things about myself from before - I know my name, I know my age, who my family is, what year of college I'm in, what my major is, my interests and hobbies and life plans - I don't remember the things that made up the person I am.
I won't bother trying to bring back to the surface the person I was. If I did, I'd probably just compare new me to old me. I don't want to do that. I want to see who I am now for who I am now, not in regards to who I was once. I want to see new me for new me.
New me is a writer.
New me is a student.
New me is an English major and plans to become an English teacher for high school students.
New me wants to be able to make a living off of writing before this plan can happen and thus before being locked into a non-writerly life. New me also knows this is very unrealistic.
New me is a Christian.
New me likes making jokes and having fun at other people's expense.
New me would stop it in an instant if the person at whose expense the fun was had wanted it to stop. New me would not antagonize this person again.
New me likes doing strange things for their own sake, such as dressing up in a bathrobe and not taking it off until noon, or drinking soda out of a wineglass.
New me likes Monty Python.
New me likes The Hunger Games.
New me likes They Might Be Giants.
New me likes making cookies for fictional characters' birthdays.
New me doesn't always make sense. New me does this on purpose as a means of distraction from taking everything too seriously and thus overthinking things to death and sucking the joy out of life.
New me remembers that old me used to overthink things because they wanted to understand everything fully and make logical sense out of absolutely everything. New me also remembers that, when old me did that, it usually didn't end well because old me saw how horrible many things are.
New me knows there's a difference between ignorance for the sake of self-preservation and ignorance that's just plain ignorance.
New me describes a lot of things as "self-preservation".
New me remembers things.
New me is a narcissist.
New me requires the approval and (positive) attention of others. This is because new me is almost entirely incapable of holding a self-opinion without other people being able to confirm it.
New me is almost but not entirely incapable of holding a self-opinion without other people being able to confirm it.
New me loves animals, especially dogs.
New me will take any opportunity to pet someone's dog.
New me is diligent.
New me generally has things under control.
New me always does what needs to be done, even if it takes a while. Unlike old me, new me doesn't have to do things right away to ensure they'll get done at all.
New me gets overly emotional when writing. It's because of the characters. New me gets emotional about the characters.
New me tends to handle these situations by texting friends whilst writing, telling them about the characters and their problems, and sitting back and laughing when said friends get emotional over the characters.
New me writes because new me likes watching people suffer. This is in reference to the fictional people in the stories and the real people who read and are emotionally affected by said stories.
New me is good at handling family.
New me is able to shed tears, sometimes. New me also knows when and when not to let others see those tears.
New me has problems with empathy, interpersonal relationships, and being emotionally sincere with others.
New me still tries.
New me is good at accidentally understanding others.
New me is insightful and good at saying true things.
New me can answer the question, "Who are you?"
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
2013
I spent the last few moments of 2013 with my aunt and uncle and sister. We stood outside their (my aunt's and uncle's) house, counting down 'til 2014 officially began.
The first words I spoke in 2014 were, "Goodbye, 2013, you miserable sod! Hello, 2014, which hasn't had a chance to betray us yet!" This tells you a great deal about what 2013 was like for me.
The main reason I think 2013 was a miserable sod was because it was the year my mother died, and having a parent die is basically a miserable event. Even though I had an underwhelming emotional reaction to it (my lack of feelings made one of my psychologists realize that I lack empathy and view people as animate objects), I had a tremendous mental reaction to it, and the chaos that ensued in my life soon thereafter (which involved me spending a lot of time sleeping at other people's houses, writing poems about these little sporadic flashes of memory and feeling that hadn't really happened until now, and wanting to write a novel but not being able to concentrate on any one thing long enough to do so) is probably still affecting me.
My lack of an emotional response to my mother's death (and my unintentional insensitivity towards the suffering of my family members around me) made me realize just how unempathetic I was, and it gave me yet another thing to be unhappy about in regards to myself. (I wasn't unempathetic or messed-up enough to be a sociopath, but there still wasn't a term for what I was, and it's always irritating when you're definitely Not Quite Right but there's not a term that accurately covers it or that you can't use without a disclaimer.)
It didn't help that my ability to feel good about myself went significantly downhill in 2013. I've never particularly liked myself (although I've had grandiose expectations of myself, which could be connected to my recent suspicions that I have narcissistic personality disorder, which might be something I'll talk about later). But 2013 somehow just gave me more to hate. I went through a math class that was particularly difficult. I got out with a B, but I didn't feel like a B was good enough for me, and I'm still trying to deal with how dissonant my family's pride over this B is.
The only thing about 2013 that was really at all good was in my writing. And it wasn't that writing was a refuge or an emotional safe-haven or anything, because it wasn't. I've been writing too much and too long for me to find solace in it. By this point, it's just what I do, and sometimes I enjoy it, but I can't just suddenly have my heart healed by something I "just do". Finding comfort in writing, to me, makes about as much sense as finding comfort in myself, because, by this point, I am writing and writing is me. But I do find something that's not exactly comfort in writing but rather purpose, a sense of accomplishment, affirmation. I find these things in the fact that I have something to work on and that I'm doing things.
I had a lot of poems and fiction accepted, and I got paid very well for much of it. Notably, I got paid $25 for a poem, which was accepted by Southern Pacific Review (which is from South America - Africa is now the only inhabited continent on which I have not had work accepted, aw yesss). $25 is actually a bit of an astounding amount to be paid for a single poem, and I felt very good about it.
I also started writing a novel. I don't want to talk too much about it on this blog, because the last few times I really talked about my novels on this blog, they didn't get finished, but this one really does look like it'll get done, given that 1. I'm extremely invested in it and its characters and 2. I've gotten my friends extremely invested in it and its characters. (Fun fact: I've got a friend whom I text about the novel while I write it. I tell her what's happening to the characters and what aspects of character development are going on so far. She cries, I laugh.) The novel is essentially one of the things that's keeping me going at this time, because it makes me feel like I'm doing something slightly worth doing, and it gives me a fictional world and set of people to obsess over. I mean, it gives me a fictional world and set of people to obsess over while being productive. Because I naturally obsess over fictional things and people (this is why I'm in so many fandoms), but being a writer gives me the ability to do so while being productive and doing something that society more or less thinks is cool.
I don't have a proper set of New Years Resolutions, but I do intend to finish writing my current novel (my intent's to get it finished in January, actually, during my winter break). Also, I'm going to do more poem and fiction submissions and try to get more acceptances. These are the sorts of things I would be normally doing, but I'm going to keep doing them. In 2014, I'm going to try to keep doing my usual business and do it well. And given that 2013 was a pretty mad year, I honestly think doing my regular thing this year is an improvement from what I did last year.
The first words I spoke in 2014 were, "Goodbye, 2013, you miserable sod! Hello, 2014, which hasn't had a chance to betray us yet!" This tells you a great deal about what 2013 was like for me.
The main reason I think 2013 was a miserable sod was because it was the year my mother died, and having a parent die is basically a miserable event. Even though I had an underwhelming emotional reaction to it (my lack of feelings made one of my psychologists realize that I lack empathy and view people as animate objects), I had a tremendous mental reaction to it, and the chaos that ensued in my life soon thereafter (which involved me spending a lot of time sleeping at other people's houses, writing poems about these little sporadic flashes of memory and feeling that hadn't really happened until now, and wanting to write a novel but not being able to concentrate on any one thing long enough to do so) is probably still affecting me.
My lack of an emotional response to my mother's death (and my unintentional insensitivity towards the suffering of my family members around me) made me realize just how unempathetic I was, and it gave me yet another thing to be unhappy about in regards to myself. (I wasn't unempathetic or messed-up enough to be a sociopath, but there still wasn't a term for what I was, and it's always irritating when you're definitely Not Quite Right but there's not a term that accurately covers it or that you can't use without a disclaimer.)
It didn't help that my ability to feel good about myself went significantly downhill in 2013. I've never particularly liked myself (although I've had grandiose expectations of myself, which could be connected to my recent suspicions that I have narcissistic personality disorder, which might be something I'll talk about later). But 2013 somehow just gave me more to hate. I went through a math class that was particularly difficult. I got out with a B, but I didn't feel like a B was good enough for me, and I'm still trying to deal with how dissonant my family's pride over this B is.
The only thing about 2013 that was really at all good was in my writing. And it wasn't that writing was a refuge or an emotional safe-haven or anything, because it wasn't. I've been writing too much and too long for me to find solace in it. By this point, it's just what I do, and sometimes I enjoy it, but I can't just suddenly have my heart healed by something I "just do". Finding comfort in writing, to me, makes about as much sense as finding comfort in myself, because, by this point, I am writing and writing is me. But I do find something that's not exactly comfort in writing but rather purpose, a sense of accomplishment, affirmation. I find these things in the fact that I have something to work on and that I'm doing things.
I had a lot of poems and fiction accepted, and I got paid very well for much of it. Notably, I got paid $25 for a poem, which was accepted by Southern Pacific Review (which is from South America - Africa is now the only inhabited continent on which I have not had work accepted, aw yesss). $25 is actually a bit of an astounding amount to be paid for a single poem, and I felt very good about it.
I also started writing a novel. I don't want to talk too much about it on this blog, because the last few times I really talked about my novels on this blog, they didn't get finished, but this one really does look like it'll get done, given that 1. I'm extremely invested in it and its characters and 2. I've gotten my friends extremely invested in it and its characters. (Fun fact: I've got a friend whom I text about the novel while I write it. I tell her what's happening to the characters and what aspects of character development are going on so far. She cries, I laugh.) The novel is essentially one of the things that's keeping me going at this time, because it makes me feel like I'm doing something slightly worth doing, and it gives me a fictional world and set of people to obsess over. I mean, it gives me a fictional world and set of people to obsess over while being productive. Because I naturally obsess over fictional things and people (this is why I'm in so many fandoms), but being a writer gives me the ability to do so while being productive and doing something that society more or less thinks is cool.
I don't have a proper set of New Years Resolutions, but I do intend to finish writing my current novel (my intent's to get it finished in January, actually, during my winter break). Also, I'm going to do more poem and fiction submissions and try to get more acceptances. These are the sorts of things I would be normally doing, but I'm going to keep doing them. In 2014, I'm going to try to keep doing my usual business and do it well. And given that 2013 was a pretty mad year, I honestly think doing my regular thing this year is an improvement from what I did last year.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Strange self-awareness
I've been having these really bizarre moments of self-awareness lately. And it's not pleasant self-awareness. It's the sort of thing where you realize that you exist and everything you're doing and have done have happened to an actual person and that person is you and everything gets existential for a bit and you can't quite get over it for a while.
The first incident was on Tuesday. It was night, and I was at my grandparents' house like I usually am on Tuesday nights. My grandparents were asleep, and I went to the bathroom and noticed myself in the mirror. Maybe it's because they have a lot of mirrors in their bathrooms so I saw myself reflected more times there than I'd see myself reflected in most bathrooms, but I saw myself in the mirror and thought, "This is me. This is the body I pilot. I am looking at a human's body, and it is my own. It is the one associated with me. This is me. I see actually me in the mirror." And it was one of those moments and I had to leave the room and just sort of calm down for a bit.
The second incident was on Wednesday. I was in a bathroom again and I saw myself in a mirror again, and the same thing happened. Not quite as intensely, but it happened.
The third incident was on Thursday. I realized, after two days of writing-related difficulty, that my characters didn't feel real to me and never quite had. There's a certain extent to which I'm willing to stretch my definition of "reality". I accept the world around me as real in the sense of physical reality. I accept the things in my head, like my ideas or imaginations or the parts of my mind I personify, as reality in my head - you might call it head-reality. I accept religious things like God and angels as real in not just a physical sense (in that they are things that exist not just in my head) but also in a surpassingly-physical sense - like a super-reality, one might say. I accept stories and fiction as reality in their own contexts - not like I actually think things like A Wrinkle in Time or The Great Gatsby or Doctor Who happened with real people, but I accept them as having a sort of continuity that makes them "real" in their own contexts. There's different kinds of real.
Anyway, I'd been having trouble with my writing. I didn't feel motivated to write, and I didn't care about the story. I kept productive during those two days by writing some details about one character's backstory (or rather, things he did before the story's start) that would help me further the story's point if they actually appeared in the story, but I don't think I'm going to be able to conveniently work them into the story. I don't think that's what made me come to my realization, but I did realize that I hadn't been able to see my characters as real. I was invested in them and their relationships, but I didn't feel like they were real. I didn't believe in them. And as a writer, you have to believe in your characters and you have to think they're real on some level. It just wasn't working for me.
I told all my grandpa about this today while I was hanging out with him. He asked me how I was going to deal with it. I thought about it for a moment and said, "I'm going to stay away from mirrors." He laughed. I went on.
"I think I'm going to dissociate for a bit," I said. "I live in pretty much a constant state of dissociation - just doing things and not really thinking that it's me who's doing them. Just doing them. I think the reason other people don't think about these things like I do is because they're busy doing their own lives and not thinking about the fact that they're the ones doing them, that they're actually them, doing things in their bodies, in this reality. So I'm going to distance myself from the fact that I exist and just think about other stuff. Which is kind of the exact opposite of my problem. It's kind of ironic."
(My grandpa thought this was all quite interesting, and he said something to the effect that this is why he likes talking to me. We can get curiously philosophical together.)
That's been my experience with realizing that I'm real and that I exist and I pilot a body in the physical world and weird stuff like that. Interesting stuff to think about, as long as you don't have to think about it for too long.
The first incident was on Tuesday. It was night, and I was at my grandparents' house like I usually am on Tuesday nights. My grandparents were asleep, and I went to the bathroom and noticed myself in the mirror. Maybe it's because they have a lot of mirrors in their bathrooms so I saw myself reflected more times there than I'd see myself reflected in most bathrooms, but I saw myself in the mirror and thought, "This is me. This is the body I pilot. I am looking at a human's body, and it is my own. It is the one associated with me. This is me. I see actually me in the mirror." And it was one of those moments and I had to leave the room and just sort of calm down for a bit.
The second incident was on Wednesday. I was in a bathroom again and I saw myself in a mirror again, and the same thing happened. Not quite as intensely, but it happened.
The third incident was on Thursday. I realized, after two days of writing-related difficulty, that my characters didn't feel real to me and never quite had. There's a certain extent to which I'm willing to stretch my definition of "reality". I accept the world around me as real in the sense of physical reality. I accept the things in my head, like my ideas or imaginations or the parts of my mind I personify, as reality in my head - you might call it head-reality. I accept religious things like God and angels as real in not just a physical sense (in that they are things that exist not just in my head) but also in a surpassingly-physical sense - like a super-reality, one might say. I accept stories and fiction as reality in their own contexts - not like I actually think things like A Wrinkle in Time or The Great Gatsby or Doctor Who happened with real people, but I accept them as having a sort of continuity that makes them "real" in their own contexts. There's different kinds of real.
Anyway, I'd been having trouble with my writing. I didn't feel motivated to write, and I didn't care about the story. I kept productive during those two days by writing some details about one character's backstory (or rather, things he did before the story's start) that would help me further the story's point if they actually appeared in the story, but I don't think I'm going to be able to conveniently work them into the story. I don't think that's what made me come to my realization, but I did realize that I hadn't been able to see my characters as real. I was invested in them and their relationships, but I didn't feel like they were real. I didn't believe in them. And as a writer, you have to believe in your characters and you have to think they're real on some level. It just wasn't working for me.
I told all my grandpa about this today while I was hanging out with him. He asked me how I was going to deal with it. I thought about it for a moment and said, "I'm going to stay away from mirrors." He laughed. I went on.
"I think I'm going to dissociate for a bit," I said. "I live in pretty much a constant state of dissociation - just doing things and not really thinking that it's me who's doing them. Just doing them. I think the reason other people don't think about these things like I do is because they're busy doing their own lives and not thinking about the fact that they're the ones doing them, that they're actually them, doing things in their bodies, in this reality. So I'm going to distance myself from the fact that I exist and just think about other stuff. Which is kind of the exact opposite of my problem. It's kind of ironic."
(My grandpa thought this was all quite interesting, and he said something to the effect that this is why he likes talking to me. We can get curiously philosophical together.)
That's been my experience with realizing that I'm real and that I exist and I pilot a body in the physical world and weird stuff like that. Interesting stuff to think about, as long as you don't have to think about it for too long.
Monday, December 9, 2013
All things end
Being a college student, I have found myself in a place in which college students find themselves all the time. I have found myself in the position of having to take and study for the semester's finals. This is extremely stressful, especially since I've had a class that was very difficult for me and actually damaged my entire self-perception. I'm really only good at academics - well, that and writing - and if I'm not doing well in a class, I feel like I'm not good at my purpose, which is admittedly true. It's also incredibly stressful and occasionally debilitating.
I am also in the position of having to say goodbye to my classes, which is also a bit difficult. I have problems with leaving and losing things, and this has so far been the hardest college semester to end, for a variety of complex emotional reasons. I'm going to miss my classes, which were insightful and interesting. I'm going to miss the class environments, which were wonderful and welcoming and genuinely pleasant. I'm going to miss my acquaintances, who I grew attached to despite not really forming strong emotional bonds with them (that's difficult for me to do, and there was barely any time to do so). I'm going to miss my teachers, who all taught so well.
There's a phrase I've been using for a very long time, and it's helped me cope with reality very well. The phrase is "all things end". It helps me with good things and bad things. It's been increasingly relevant here.
All things end; anything good is going to leave, and I may as well enjoy it while it's here while knowing it won't last forever so I don't have to deal with the pain of growing too attached to it. Thinking something will last forever is a great way to appreciate it while it's here and never recover from losing it when it finally has to go. If you know it's going to end, you can enjoy it while still being informed as to the reality of its impermanence.
All things end; anything bad has got to end sometime, even if it ends when your life does. If you know that something bad will end, it somehow makes it more bearable. You might not know when it ends, but every moment you spend is a moment closer to its end. Sometimes, knowing that it will end makes it bearable.
All things end; neutral things will end just like good things and bad things end. Learn what you can learn from them while they're here. Then move on to the next thing that comes into your life and learn what you can learn from it. Once it's gone, something else will come into your life, and you must learn from it, too. Repeat.
All things end; this is how I'm getting through losing the people and things I've grown attached to, the stress I have to push through, and the miscellany surrounding.
I am also in the position of having to say goodbye to my classes, which is also a bit difficult. I have problems with leaving and losing things, and this has so far been the hardest college semester to end, for a variety of complex emotional reasons. I'm going to miss my classes, which were insightful and interesting. I'm going to miss the class environments, which were wonderful and welcoming and genuinely pleasant. I'm going to miss my acquaintances, who I grew attached to despite not really forming strong emotional bonds with them (that's difficult for me to do, and there was barely any time to do so). I'm going to miss my teachers, who all taught so well.
There's a phrase I've been using for a very long time, and it's helped me cope with reality very well. The phrase is "all things end". It helps me with good things and bad things. It's been increasingly relevant here.
All things end; anything good is going to leave, and I may as well enjoy it while it's here while knowing it won't last forever so I don't have to deal with the pain of growing too attached to it. Thinking something will last forever is a great way to appreciate it while it's here and never recover from losing it when it finally has to go. If you know it's going to end, you can enjoy it while still being informed as to the reality of its impermanence.
All things end; anything bad has got to end sometime, even if it ends when your life does. If you know that something bad will end, it somehow makes it more bearable. You might not know when it ends, but every moment you spend is a moment closer to its end. Sometimes, knowing that it will end makes it bearable.
All things end; neutral things will end just like good things and bad things end. Learn what you can learn from them while they're here. Then move on to the next thing that comes into your life and learn what you can learn from it. Once it's gone, something else will come into your life, and you must learn from it, too. Repeat.
All things end; this is how I'm getting through losing the people and things I've grown attached to, the stress I have to push through, and the miscellany surrounding.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Don't shame people for liking things.
I went to see Catching Fire with my sister and some family friends yesterday. My sister loved it, as did I, and it made me rather happy to see her enjoying it so much. She previously stated that she didn't want to read it because "it's about a million kids running around and killing each other" (she didn't care when I corrected her count to twenty-four). But now she likes it, and it makes me happy to see her enjoying a piece of good fiction. I don't know why she likes it (I presume she came to believe that it has a good plot and that it is interesting and engaging), but no matter why she likes it, she likes it, and it makes her happy.
I have two friends (twin teenage girls) who have yet to read or watch The Hunger Games and who were also originally aversive to the idea for much the same reasons that my sister was. However, through conversations with me about it, they found out that it has themes of revolution as well as a love triangle. These things interested them. They like revolutions, and they like love triangles. (They happen to positively love Les Miserables, which features both of these things).
Some people who knew my two friends wanted to read The Hunger Games because of its love triangle might think they were just stupid teenage girls being stupid teenage girls. The love triangle (and the inclusion of romance in general) is a common criticism of The Hunger Games. It's a series associated with teenage girls, a demographic commonly seen as stupid and immature, and anything that "panders" to them is considered equally stupid. Since teenage girls supposedly love romance and love triangles, the love triangle featuring Katniss with Peeta and Gale is often seen as stupid and unnecessary, and people who like it (especially if they're part of a target audience who is often denounced by those who supposedly know better) are shamed for it.
To be honest, that's pretty stupid and unnecessary in and of itself. And when I refer to "that", I mean "shaming people for liking something". A less-mature person might shame my two friends for being interested in The Hunger Games largely because of its love triangle. They'd accuse them of stereotypically conforming to the unintelligent target audience of the series and embodying everything that's wrong with people who read fiction like that. Why would anyone to do that other than to perpetuate snobbery and make themselves feel superior, though? Saying you shouldn't like something for whatever reason shows an astonishing lack of confidence on the part of the person saying that. Sometimes, people have stereotypical interests not because they're stupid or for the sake of conformity but because they genuinely like them.
If my two friends like love triangles, they like love triangles, and that's all there is to that. They like something. The thing they like has a lot of badly-written examples, and these badly-written examples are often used to characterized or stereotype the people who tend to like them (or, rather, the people who are given them in the fiction directed at them), but just because you're a teenaged girl who likes fiction that depicts complex romantic relationships and feelings where three people are involved doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you. Ultimately, it just means you like something, and if you find examples of it in fiction that you like, then good for you! Awesome! Read those books! Watch those movies! Fiction should make people happy, and if it makes you happy, that's fantastic. If it makes you happy, then it's fulfilling its goal. And if you read and watch things that make you happy, then you're helping the people who wrote such things fulfill their goals as writers, and that's honestly kind of beautiful.
I have two friends (twin teenage girls) who have yet to read or watch The Hunger Games and who were also originally aversive to the idea for much the same reasons that my sister was. However, through conversations with me about it, they found out that it has themes of revolution as well as a love triangle. These things interested them. They like revolutions, and they like love triangles. (They happen to positively love Les Miserables, which features both of these things).
Some people who knew my two friends wanted to read The Hunger Games because of its love triangle might think they were just stupid teenage girls being stupid teenage girls. The love triangle (and the inclusion of romance in general) is a common criticism of The Hunger Games. It's a series associated with teenage girls, a demographic commonly seen as stupid and immature, and anything that "panders" to them is considered equally stupid. Since teenage girls supposedly love romance and love triangles, the love triangle featuring Katniss with Peeta and Gale is often seen as stupid and unnecessary, and people who like it (especially if they're part of a target audience who is often denounced by those who supposedly know better) are shamed for it.
To be honest, that's pretty stupid and unnecessary in and of itself. And when I refer to "that", I mean "shaming people for liking something". A less-mature person might shame my two friends for being interested in The Hunger Games largely because of its love triangle. They'd accuse them of stereotypically conforming to the unintelligent target audience of the series and embodying everything that's wrong with people who read fiction like that. Why would anyone to do that other than to perpetuate snobbery and make themselves feel superior, though? Saying you shouldn't like something for whatever reason shows an astonishing lack of confidence on the part of the person saying that. Sometimes, people have stereotypical interests not because they're stupid or for the sake of conformity but because they genuinely like them.
If my two friends like love triangles, they like love triangles, and that's all there is to that. They like something. The thing they like has a lot of badly-written examples, and these badly-written examples are often used to characterized or stereotype the people who tend to like them (or, rather, the people who are given them in the fiction directed at them), but just because you're a teenaged girl who likes fiction that depicts complex romantic relationships and feelings where three people are involved doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you. Ultimately, it just means you like something, and if you find examples of it in fiction that you like, then good for you! Awesome! Read those books! Watch those movies! Fiction should make people happy, and if it makes you happy, that's fantastic. If it makes you happy, then it's fulfilling its goal. And if you read and watch things that make you happy, then you're helping the people who wrote such things fulfill their goals as writers, and that's honestly kind of beautiful.
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