Progress
There's something about the rain, and I'm not entirely sure what it is, that is highly conducive to my writing process. Two years ago, we had days and days of rain, which is not normal for California. But it came after years of very little rain. I remember on Christmas day, driving back from my uncle's house, glancing at the rain-flecked windows as a vision came upon me. I wrote from about 9:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m., forgetting to eat.
The next week, I continued in the same fashion. CDs in my walkman switched, from Modest Mouse to a collection of classical music from some of the great composers. Fur Elise is one of those compositions that you always take for granted until you learn there's a name embedded in those notes. My health was fantastic then, psychologically and physically. My work at the time felt vastly important. I was interacting with people, I was helping children read, and I felt like this was a difference. This was what a difference felt like.
I finished a piece.
From that day on, I had decided that I was going to finish this draft. It's been slow, with my health wavering and confidence in my writing deteriorating. I'll be the first to admit that the disease I have isn't all that bad. In terms of auto-immune diseases, I'm pretty lucky. It's the symptoms that really get to me. In the span of a day, normal can transform into depression or anxiety. Social anxiety disorder is a symptom of my disease. In two years, I've learned how to judge for myself how much I need to take. When I need to back off so that I can sleep at night, so that strange sounds don't creep into my ears when I least expect them. But in a way . . . I appreciate having those experiences. It makes those periods where I feel normal all the more precious. That when I hold a conversation with a stranger, it feels like a victory rather than a failure.
I remember striving to finish that first chapter. 30 pages written while playing a bit of Ico at night and listening solely to Kid A. I needed atmosphere. And when I had finally barreled through it, there was this feeling of great accomplishment. I had done the impossible. I had finished that stupid first chapter.
I seem to be sparked by darkness to write. We had a black-out this year. I spent the night writing voraciously, flashlight directed at my notebook. I forgot about myself as I wrote. I was freed of identity. Residual annihilation to quell that Thanatos drive. I started a short story then, one that seemed to mirror my feelings about writing. It's become the basis of something else entirely (and something I hope to pitch to a magazine). But it's true to me and if there's anything I strive for in my writing, it's emotional authenticity. Those are big words for "feelings", but they'll do.
Yesterday, it rained and I found myself with images flicking through my head. Perhaps I'm tricking myself into thinking it's the weather; in truth, I had gone through a spat of bad health and I had finally adjusted accordingly, believing it wasn't possible that I could have anxiety. Despite what professionals told me. I can sleep again. Best of all, I can write again. The first day, I told them that I knew when I wasn't feeling well because it meant I wouldn't be able to write. I understand why they wouldn't have listened to me when I said that, but it's true. I can't write when the medication is too much or too little.
Yesterday, I felt healthy. I spent the whole day writing. It's an image that has nestled into my heart. Granted, most of the images from M+I are very close to my heart, but this one. There was something very playful and bittersweet about it that I needed at the time.
I'm so close and yet so far from finishing a first draft. And to think, at the beginning of this year, I set my one resolution: to finish this first novel in some way or form. It's planned out entirely. If I keep writing like I did yesterday, then that resolution will have been met.
All I need is my good health.
The next week, I continued in the same fashion. CDs in my walkman switched, from Modest Mouse to a collection of classical music from some of the great composers. Fur Elise is one of those compositions that you always take for granted until you learn there's a name embedded in those notes. My health was fantastic then, psychologically and physically. My work at the time felt vastly important. I was interacting with people, I was helping children read, and I felt like this was a difference. This was what a difference felt like.
I finished a piece.
From that day on, I had decided that I was going to finish this draft. It's been slow, with my health wavering and confidence in my writing deteriorating. I'll be the first to admit that the disease I have isn't all that bad. In terms of auto-immune diseases, I'm pretty lucky. It's the symptoms that really get to me. In the span of a day, normal can transform into depression or anxiety. Social anxiety disorder is a symptom of my disease. In two years, I've learned how to judge for myself how much I need to take. When I need to back off so that I can sleep at night, so that strange sounds don't creep into my ears when I least expect them. But in a way . . . I appreciate having those experiences. It makes those periods where I feel normal all the more precious. That when I hold a conversation with a stranger, it feels like a victory rather than a failure.
I remember striving to finish that first chapter. 30 pages written while playing a bit of Ico at night and listening solely to Kid A. I needed atmosphere. And when I had finally barreled through it, there was this feeling of great accomplishment. I had done the impossible. I had finished that stupid first chapter.
I seem to be sparked by darkness to write. We had a black-out this year. I spent the night writing voraciously, flashlight directed at my notebook. I forgot about myself as I wrote. I was freed of identity. Residual annihilation to quell that Thanatos drive. I started a short story then, one that seemed to mirror my feelings about writing. It's become the basis of something else entirely (and something I hope to pitch to a magazine). But it's true to me and if there's anything I strive for in my writing, it's emotional authenticity. Those are big words for "feelings", but they'll do.
Yesterday, it rained and I found myself with images flicking through my head. Perhaps I'm tricking myself into thinking it's the weather; in truth, I had gone through a spat of bad health and I had finally adjusted accordingly, believing it wasn't possible that I could have anxiety. Despite what professionals told me. I can sleep again. Best of all, I can write again. The first day, I told them that I knew when I wasn't feeling well because it meant I wouldn't be able to write. I understand why they wouldn't have listened to me when I said that, but it's true. I can't write when the medication is too much or too little.
Yesterday, I felt healthy. I spent the whole day writing. It's an image that has nestled into my heart. Granted, most of the images from M+I are very close to my heart, but this one. There was something very playful and bittersweet about it that I needed at the time.
I'm so close and yet so far from finishing a first draft. And to think, at the beginning of this year, I set my one resolution: to finish this first novel in some way or form. It's planned out entirely. If I keep writing like I did yesterday, then that resolution will have been met.
All I need is my good health.