It's Only A Paper Rose

"Take this paper, and write down all the regrets you have from the past year. Then we'll burn them and start with a clean slate."

My friend hands me a torn scrap of foolscap, and I pull my purple pen from my purse, considering. The other party guests banter with each other, covering up the inherent vulnerability of the moment by proposing outrageous stories or asking whether such-and-such mundane thing counts as a regret.

I write a few lines, mostly small things; slowly, they begin to imply a theme of something larger that I can't yet articulate. I write a few more, circling around the issue: I regret not taking some of the opportunities my mother offered to grow closer. I regret not reaching out to my friends when I needed emotional support. I regret letting my certainty that I already knew the answers cloud my ability to learn new things.

Finally, I've outlined the shape enough to identify what it is my brain's been hiding from me: carefully, in clear letters, I print "I regret all the times my pride has kept me from connecting with the world."

Then I circle it and underline it twice, as if to emphasize its importance to the oncoming flames.

--

"Even from the time Ambrosia was little, she knew her self-worth."

I am twelve years old, and my mother has told this story many times. Still, my back straightens a little.

"When she was a toddler, I would take her to the playpark in our neighborhood, and she would want to stay longer. So I would tell her, 'Okay, I'm going home without you,' and pretend to leave. And she would keep on swinging, or playing on the jungle gym, until I turned right back around and scooped her up."

At this age, in the nadir of middle school, I am just now beginning to be aware that my greater-than-average self-confidence has been a handicap to my social acceptance. Eight years of teasing, of ostracism both subtle and blatant, of outright violence on a few memorable occasions, are finally starting to penetrate. I am slowly realizing that, contrary to the "just be yourself!" messages of a thousand thousand afterschool specials and middle-grade novels, my defiance of social dictates - my refusal to wear 'normal' clothes, to care about my presentation, to keep my opinions to myself in class - are exacting a very real toll on my ability to get on with my classmates.

Until this point, I've taken pride in not caring about the shallow and superficial things most people in my age group care about, in marching to the beat of my own drum. But the constant shaming wears on me, as it is meant to do; we are social creatures, exquisitely attuned to the slights of others. It will be some years yet before I start to appreciate the value of building my personality through careful negotiation with social norms, of bearing superficial markers indicating belonging to a particular class or cohort. And it will be many more years of careful observation and learning - often by saying precisely the wrong thing - until I learn the subtle arts of getting along in a community, of deferring to others' knowledge even when I'm convinced of my own correctness, of influencing group opinion in small ways, of quietly building social currency against the day when my integrity will demand that I take a stand.

--

This morning, cocooned in blankets and absent any driving motivation to get out of bed early, I sank into the sort of brightly-lit, highly-detailed dream that often seems to visit me at such hours. I was visiting a mall storefront that turned out to be a beautifully decorated Jewish temple, run by a particularly Orthodox sect. For some reason I had a pressing need to wash my hands, and I remember asking a stern-browed woman if I might do so; she looked displeased at the notion, but apparently my need was great enough to overcome her reservations.

I proceeded to the back of the space, where there were several sinks, and started washing my hands at one of them, only to realize from the horrified faces of those around me that not only was I using entirely the wrong sink, but that I was trespassing upon the men's side of the temple, as well as likely violating several other rules I didn't even know. I take such pride in knowing the social tenets in any given situation, in acting carefully to ensure the comfort and approbation of others; the realization that I was in a situation where I was socially illiterate sends a wave of shame, pure and unadulterated as few non-dream emotions are, swamping my chest and my cheeks. Strong as it is, it burns indelibly into my memory the dream that might otherwise have faded in the light of day.


--

"Are you feeling inspired?" I ask my client, once she's taken a few breaths of her aromatherapy oils. We had been laughing at the silliness of naming a scent blend "Inspiration", as if achieving so notoriously elusive a state could be as simple as taking a few breaths.

"Oh, absolutely!" she answers, tongue planted firmly in cheek. "Now I can go home and finish all those half-done songs I have filling my notebooks!"

We spend a few moments bonding over the difficulties of musicianship, and the specific frustration of unfinished artistic efforts. She admits that she finishes perhaps one in ten songs that she starts; I, having not even been brave enough to start ten, feel simultaneously relieved and humbled.

I've long known that my difficulties in finishing anything artistic stem from my perfectionism; so long as a song or a story lives only as an idea in my mind, it will always be perfect, spared the trauma of birth and the inevitable marring of being shaped by imperfect hands. But, with pride much on my mind of late, I begin to consider how much of that perfectionism stems from pride. Completion means sharing, and sharing means risk - of judgment, of failure, of losing my sense of specialness. If I could let go of that need to feel special, set apart, would that help me to take artistic risks? Would it be easier to share something imperfect and true if I didn't tie my self-worth to my pride?

That last thought startles me with the truth it implies, and I almost miss a stroke in the massage.

--

"You can spend your life trying to fit yourself into a box. But you'll always be too much for some people. For others, you'll never be enough. But the great joy is that, if you let yourself, you'll always be exactly enough for you."

Something in the yoga teacher's voice catches me, which seems odd - I've been ruminating of late on how the doctrine of self-exceptionalism has been harmful in my life, and on the surface her message reads very much as a variation on the "just be yourself!" mantra.

You'll always be exactly enough for you.

It occurs to me, as my brain slowly slots the puzzle pieces together, that perhaps the problem isn't pride, per se - it's what I'm proud of. All my life I've been told that I'm talented, intelligent, exceptional; all my life I've been secretly terrified that I'm going to seriously screw up and prove everybody wrong, prove that I really am that weird girl who deserved to be bullied and ostracized, disappoint everyone who had such faith in me. I've accomplished a few things, it's true, and I'm proud of them, but I think I've been even more proud of how they reaffirmed my belief in my own exceptionalism.

And yet...in order for me to be exceptional, it logically follows that others have to be unexceptional. And I've long since rejected the idea of talent as a zero-sum game; I strongly dislike the idea that because one person doesn't measure up to another on one arbitrary scale, that means they don't have something to contribute on another axis. I wonder how much of the fear and misery I can forestall by refusing comparison, by practicing humility with regards to others, by working on being enough for me.

I wonder if, freed of its shackles of fear and embracing its gift of imperfect life, my art might someday take wing, finally able to share itself with the world, to help forge those tenuous connections we so desperately need.

It cost me two and a half days of work on my NaNo novel, but the audition is done! Those of you who've known me a while will know what a big deal it is when I say: I genuinely did the best job I could. I didn't let myself procrastinate (much), didn't self-sabotage, and when it came down to it I let go and trusted myself and the moment. So, really, it went better than I had any right to hope for. I have no idea if my performance (and accompanying writing portfolio/questionnaire answers, which were a whole separate exercise in self-examination and honesty) will be what they're looking for, but even if I just get a form rejection I feel like it was a successful exercise in overcoming my fears.

I finally have an appointment to get my broken tooth pulled on Thursday. Good news: between the insurance covering more than I had guessed and deciding to do it awake (see: overcoming my fears), it's looking like it'll only cost us about half the out-of-pocket amount I was originally anticipating. Hopefully the recovery period will be relatively short. I just realized that audition callbacks are next weekend...if they want me to come in again, that could get interesting if I'm still loopy on Percocet. (Maybe that'd be an advantage?)

And now I really need to get back to writing. I'm...*peeks at NaNo website for the first time in days*...about 7000 words short. Grah.

The past few days, I've been feeling a bit low. A lot of it's been the career-oriented navelgazing; I've been feeling extremely helpless in the face of my usual pattern of fear-based self-sabotage, and that voice asking if it wouldn't make more sense to just let go of this being-an-artist idea now and have done with it, since obviously I don't really want it enough to take hold of opportunities even when they drop themselves in my lap, has been feeling awfully strong. But the thought of giving up entirely still makes me want to curl up and cry, which seems to indicate I'm not ready for that yet. So I've been going back and forth, and generally feeling kind of paralyzed and helpless.

Yesterday, I wake up from a dream, the sort with a particular image that, as you lie there half-awake considering it, unspools naturally until you can see the whole story around it in your head. I go and make some notes, giving it some ballast, and before long I have two main characters with a shared past secret and whole plot/character arcs of their own. The same sort of feeling I had when I wrote that short story I was so proud of. And right in time for November. I start feeling a little hopeful, even though there's a long way between a rough outline and a finished novel.

Last night, since my neighborhood CorePower has canceled all the morning classes I normally attend, I go to an evening class with a teacher I've not seen before. I'm pleasantly surprised at her friendliness and teaching skills, but what sticks with me the most is her parting words: "I challenge each of you to face something that you fear this week."

Today, I get an email back offering me a time slot for an audition I'd inquired about a month ago. Having seen the company's signature show twice, it's occurred to me how neatly their rapid-fire style fits into my need for an environment to learn the artistic skills I'm short on (being vulnerable in front of an audience, getting out of my head and having confidence in my instincts, trusting other cast members, memorizing quickly, writing to a deadline), since the alternative is pretty public humiliation. Probably not coincidentally, It also nestles right in the "huge time commitment" zone (four nights a week, three to six hours a night, plus home time spent on memorization and writing, 38ish weeks a year) that has, in the past, sent me into a hyperventilating panic. But...well, one of the things I've been annoyed at myself about is that I'm not doing a whole lot else with my time at the moment. I'm a little afraid that I'll throw myself into it with every intention of making a go of it, and have a panic attack halfway in and want to pull out; this has happened before. But if I'm not going to have a pressing financial reason to grow as an artist, it seems like the potential for public humiliation/a serious loss of face in the local theatre community isn't a bad secondary choice for negative reinforcement. Plus, it's paid! They're up-front that it's not a living wage, but it's still a bit of extra income I'd be bringing in on weeks I was performing, and it increases with longevity.

So I guess I have a couple of things that terrify me that I can work on this week. I'd be miffed at the world for assigning me double homework, if I hadn't more or less been moping around the house the past few days wishing the world would bestow another chance upon me. :P

What the heck is it with Midwest colds travelling in packs? This is the second time I've gotten ill since moving here, and both times I've had a weeklong bug, followed by a few days of feeling better, followed by another bug - this one Brian brought back with him from Indianapolis.

Needless to say, I've not gotten a lot done this past week; Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday were mostly sleeping and reading and sucking down Breathe Deep tea at a rate to keep Yogi Teas in business single-handedly. I have made it to yoga three times this week, which I'm pleased about - Monday I was feeling fine and went to the evening class, Wednesday I went to the morning class despite having very low energy, figuring I could always take child's pose if it got to be too intense. Somewhat to my surprise, I made it all the way through without hardly having to struggle; I certainly wasn't all the way there mentally but I'm familiar enough with all the poses that I didn't have to think much as we moved, and I guess I'm stronger than I realized. I'm definitely starting to acquire a bit of upper-body and core strength - I can do side plank without wobbling, even on my historically-weaker many-times-broken left arm. And the dozen-odd chatauranga flows (plank to low-plank to upward-dog to downward-dog) they have us do each class are getting notably easier.

I'm less pleased about my artistic output, or lack thereof. I've barely been playing guitar or writing anything at all. Nor have I managed to get an acting resume put together for the folks at BoHo. (When I took Brian to see Amadeus yesterday, the company secretary accosted me on the way out and kindly told me how much she was looking forward to receiving my information. Agh, guilt.) Some of that's attributable to the fact that I've been recovering, true, but I also feel like I'm losing momentum. I need to find some way to kickstart myself, I think. I envy Miles Vorkosigan, some days - it's all about keeping the momentum going. The minute you slow down, your fears and self-consciousness and depression all catch up. Would that I were as driven to do so as he is.

 Some random thoughts that are in that awkward "too big/too complainy for a Facebook post, too little for a blog post" zone:

• I'm not prone to squeamishness.  I can look at disgusting stuff (open wounds, rotting corpses, STD sores, centipedes, spiders), and not feel much more than a vague disgust.  (Once during my brief stint working at a vet clinic, I ate lunch while watching three doctors perform surgery on a dog through the observation window.  I thought it was fascinating, but several people who walked by were all "How can you eat while you watch that?"  Smells are a different beast altogether, but I don't think anyone's immune to them.)  My weak point?  Drug effects, especially nasty ones.  Of all the weird, strange things to have a physical reaction to, reading descriptions of drug effects is the one thing that will always raise my stress levels like crazy.  I made the mistake of reading an article on the use of and potential issues with nicotine gum on my phone while standing up, at a point when I hadn't eaten anything all day.  I actually had to sit down and put my head between my knees and breathe deep for a minute.  Weird.
• I got a letter from a friend of mine who just yesterday had surgery for ovarian cysts.  She is one of my oldest, dearest, and sweetest friends, and it was hard both hearing about the pain she'd been in (she'd written the letter last week) and the cost of the surgery (enough that she won't have any spare cash for the next six months, even with her insurance).  I think I'm going to have to see if I can visit her this year.  It might be a bit tricky to do so while sticking to our budget, but the last time I saw her was our first year in Arizona, and life's short enough. And in the meantime, at least I've got all sorts of fun cards to send her.
• If you're looking for something to read that's both edifying and elevating, I can't point you at much else better than the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation's Annual Letter for this year.  It frustrates me to no end to hear people endlessly kvetching about how the world is getting worse and worse, when in fact, by many objective measures, it's in fact getting better.  But of course, complaining is easier than actually doing anything about it, whereas taking the positive view that our efforts are having an effect means that we have to continue to make efforts.  So it's perhaps not surprising, even if it's frustrating.  (Ever-manic author and vlogger John Green also did a great video talking about, in part, how increasing global wealth benefits everyone, not just the countries in question.)  Possibly my favorite pull-quote:  "When pollsters ask Americans what share of the budget goes to aid, the average response is '25 percent.' When asked how much the government should spend, people tend to say '10 percent.' [...] Here are the actual numbers...For the United States, it’s less than 1 percent."  So...maybe we should give the people what they want?
• This week's writing has so far been...less good.  I'm still doing it!  But so far it's just been the minimum, and it's not feeling as easy nor as inspired as last week.  And I'm having a devil of a time figuring out this rewrite.  Sigh.  I wish inspiration weren't quite so ephemeral as it is.  (Me and every other writer ever.)  I am meditating heavily on today's Terrible Minds entry:  "It Takes the Time That It Takes".
• I miss my old hairstylist.  Well, that's not quite true.  I do miss her, but mostly I miss her prices.  I love my pixie cut but when we're trying to stick to a budget I just can't justify spending the $60ish every month to maintain it.  My old stylist was $18 to $22, though I usually gave her $30 because she did a fantastic job and was far-better-than-Bisbee quality.)  I'm trying to promise myself that when I start bringing in an income I can use that, but it doesn't seem to be working as a motivator.  Grump.
• I just realized I'm about to go to bed and I totally had nothing but bourbon and chocolate for dinner.  Huh.  Well, I'm a grown-up, and can have booze and candy for dinner once in a while if I want.  Besides, it was dark chocolate.  So obviously it was good for me.

Anyone who's seriously tried to do creative work will tell you that it's difficult. (Most people who haven't, conversely, will think it's got to be pretty easy - you're just sitting around making things up, right? But I suspect that has a lot to do with our culture's devaluation of creativity, and frankly it's a discussion for another day.) It's difficult and demanding in a different way from standard, do-a-job-and-draw-a-paycheque work. The generative process doesn't conform to a schedule, it's not a case of "I can play with clay for five hours and have three sculptures ready for firing at the end of it". Sometimes you spend days (or weeks, or months) gestating a project, working hard to make it grow, only to discover that it's missing something vital and is essentially stillborn. And sometimes (all too rarely, but sometimes) you'll be doing your everyday activities, walking to the post office or whistling in the shower or about to drift off to sleep, and the tumblers will suddenly align in the back of your head and the key will turn and then OH MY GOD INSPIRATION I HAVE TO MUMBLE THIS SEMI-COHERENTLY INTO MY PHONE BEFORE IT'S GONE. (I suspect the bedmates of creative people must be some of the most patient people in the world. Also, I may need to invest in a waterproof phone case.)

In my case, last night that very thing happened and I suddenly had the answer to a question I'd been pondering, on and off, for more than a month. What makes it especially interesting (and gives rise to the "tumblers" metaphor, above) is how many layers such inspiration can have. The question ("What are you going to call your writing blog?") wasn't particularly important on the surface, but now that I have the answer, it's given shape to a number of questions and ideas I had that were previously far more formless. Some of this is almost certainly the power of naming to shape ideas, but some of it is, I think, the bottom-to-top nature of this kind of inspiration - it works itself out in your unconscious, slowly winding itself together through your subconscious until suddenly it pops out of the soil into your conscious brain, and you have an entire network of roots to plumb. (Pardon my mixed metaphors. It's not like I'm a writer or anything. :P)

On a more personal note (if also related to the wonderful way inspiration tends to send its roots into everything), I finally finished the short story that was supposed to be a day-or-two distraction and ended up taking two weeks and turning into a novelette before it was done. I'm actually pretty pleased with it, too. It needs some polishing, but with a bit of work - and copyediting, and a cover, because if I'm doing the self-publishing route, I'll be damned if it's not going to be professional - I think it will be saleable. And given that it's the first thing I've written all the way through with the active intention of putting it up for sale, that's a pretty positive outcome. Fingers crossed it doesn't turn out that I'm completely wrong and my beta readers (note to self: acquire some beta readers) send it back with a giant "HAHAHAHAA" scrawled on the first page. Metaphorically.

Funny moment: after finishing the story, and giving it a once-over, my first thought was - I shit you not - "Okay, time to head over to GoodReads and mark that as 'read'." I'm...honestly not sure if that's a good sign, or a bad sign, or just an indication of precisely how much time I've spent on GoodReads in the past year (reading and rating 109 stories in a year will instill certain habits, I suppose), but it made me laugh.

Happy holidays, folks! My month's been kind of up-and-down - as per usual, I got presents purchased and wrapped early, and then was in a bit of a slump for a lot of the past week and a half or so. But the impending Christmas deadlines got me up and moving. Finish decorating! Decorate packages for mailing! Send out cards! Clean the house! Learn to make mulled wine! That last has been an especial success; I wrote up the recipe to send to a friend who'd requested it on Facebook, and the list of recipients has been gradually getting longer as more and more people request. I may have to put up a Special Christmas Eve edition post for the Rebel Bartender. Or Christmas-Eve-Eve, if I get to it tonight. (ETA: Oh hay lookit dat.)

Luckily, the slump I mentioned hasn't been of the depressive sort; I've still been keeping up with my daily goals - I just haven't been doing much above and beyond them. Still, I'm especially pleased with how I've been doing on the writing. According to HabitRPG (which I have set to count M-F, and doesn't ding me if I miss a weekend day but counts it if I check it off), I'm up to 23 days in a row writing 500 words or more. It's not a lot, really, but it's easily the most consistent I've ever managed to be in not-November, and soon will pass that last qualifier as well. And some of the output I've actually been pretty pleased with. (It's an oddly cathartic feeling when you find that emotional centre that's been missing from a scene you've been doggedly plowing through - not unlike the mounting frustration playing a puzzle game that suddenly transmutes into satisfaction when the "AHA!" moment appears.) January is going to be my big push to start getting some kind of return on investment, I think - whipping my short stories into shape and putting them up for sale, starting a writing blog, working on having new content available regularly, that kind of thing.

The weather's been entertaining; it went from stormy to cold to warm-ish, with temperatures in the mid-thirties and all the pretty snow melting into slush. Then today it became a hard freeze - I think the high was like 12 degrees, and right now it's 4 with a -10 wind chill. I braved the weather to head to Trader Joe's for more supplies, and while waiting for the bus in the dark with the wind blowing I was starting to have Barrow flashbacks. (Though in Barrow, four degrees this time of year would feel amazingly warm. Heh.) Still, TJ's and both buses were pretty uncrowded, unusual for a weeknight before a holiday - I imagine the weather kept a lot of people indoors. I continue to be extremely pleased with my new coat; as well as stylish, it's remarkably windproof, and even under these conditions worked extremely well with just my usual ensemble of a t-shirt and hoodie beneath.

Related, there's been all kinds of kerfuffle from otherwise-slow news outlets over whether there'll be a white Christmas or not; current forecast is 60% chance of snow tomorrow. I certainly wouldn't mind, but honestly, the cold alone is plenty enough to feel like a proper Christmas again. Especially with the mulled wine and cranberry mincemeat (a new experiment for this year, since we had a bag of cranberries left over from Thanksgiving) cooking on the stove. Mmmm.

We haven't much in the way of plans for the holiday, other than Brian enjoying Not Commuting - he's had to drive out to a thoroughly desolate spot in the midst of the suburbs for the past month or so, and it's been hellish. It regularly tacks an hour on to his commute time each way, plus he has to drive in traffic rather than kicking back on the train and reading. (Though his biggest peeve is with the lack of good food out there - "I had the most mediocre hamburger in the world today. I miss working in the Loop.") Still, he gets paid for mileage, so that's a little bit of extra cash coming in. And in theory the project's supposed to be done the week after Christmas. Keeping our fingers crossed. In the meantime, as the new guy he's on call for the holiday, but other than that he's home for the next few days. He even gets to work from home on Friday. Score.

I hope you all are as warm and cozy as I am, and get to spend the holiday with someone you love (human or non, as you prefer). I hope you have many blessings to be grateful for, and can find it in your hearts to let go of hurts done you by those who meant well. But mostly I hope the turning of the year is a positive thing that leaves you in a better place than you were before; or if not, at least leads you along that path.

A very merry Christmas. I love you all.

500 words a day, M-F, no excuses. If I'm not going to actively look for work I have to do something. And on a good day, 500 words takes me maybe half an hour.

So far, the days have not been good. I have a couple ideas for characters that I like very much, but whenever I think of a plot to drop them into, it just feels hackneyed and cliche and all I can think is "these characters deserve something better than that". My worldbuilding is flat, my logic wouldn't stand up to a two-year-old's cross examination. Even the characters I'm halfway intrigued by are based on broad tropes, and they won't tell me with any honesty what it is that they want. Everywhere I mentally turn, it feels like I keep coming up against the You're Not Good Enough Chorus (with Special Solo Aria "Look How Much You Suck"). I'm starting to be afraid it's true.

And at the same time, I know if I had more drive, more practice, more motivation, I could easily be doing a couple thousand words a day, or more. I have all the time I need. I'm just...not good enough.

But I'm writing. Just a little, but I'm writing. It sucks, but I'm writing.

For now, that'll have to be enough.