Energy

Today I was talking with a friend about how I believe everyone has energy. I surprised myself when I said this, but I think I finally have something to believe in. I think when we die our energy lives on in the people we love, which is why people can feel the presence of their loved one so strongly after that loved one dies. I believe the idea of tapping into people's energy is a way for me to make prayer work without making it like talking to an imaginary friend. Harold Kushner, a rabbi, wrote about prayer as a way to tap into ourselves and be connected to other people. I think we can pray for help and there will be people in our life who pick up on that vibe and help us. I think we can pray for strength or courage and surprise ourselves with what energy we can tap into. Some people call that God. Other's argue it's just the miracle of the human mind. I don't really care what it is. I just like having a way to articulate how I feel about it, and not let other people define it for me with a three letter word.

I also am discovering that I pick up on other people's energy a little too much sometimes. I'm one of the most oblivious people I know (it's discouraging, really). Despite being oblivious to the real world, I am crazy perceptive about people, their mannerisms, and energy. I tend to let other people's negative energy bring me down more than I let people's positive energy bring me up.  I am working on that. Being home while everyone is stressed and experiencing existential crises, is really forcing me to dig deep into myself and try not to stray too far from center. It seems to go better earlier in the day, and then I struggle around dinner. I think it has to do with the fact that Im home alone all day, and then all of the stressed family members come home around dinner time. I've been trying to take a walk, rollerblade, or bike after dinner to clear my head. It helps somewhat. I don't know why I didn't do it tonight. I felt like writing, but then I got down about writing and started blogging. It seems I'm not the most proactive person about my mental health.

Flashback

Today I came across some of my old writing from elementary school. I forgot how much I loved writing as a kid. I often tell people that I believe kids are much more self-aware than we give them credit for. I was looking at a lot of my awards and comments from teachers, and I realized what a nerd I was. It's funny, because I became "too cool" for all of the stuff I loved as a kid, and it is not until recently that I am returning to my old passions. For example, as a kid, I loved being outside and learning about nature. In High School, I told lisa I didn't like learning about nature. I'm back to being a nature-geek these days. I used to want to be a writer, then for a while, I hated English classes, and stopped writing. Now, I'm back to being dorky passionate and naively optimistic about being published someday. I wanted a pair of Chuck Taylor's as a kid, because of the show "Zoom" on PBS. All the kids wore them. My friends told me they were stupid, so I never got a pair until my senior year of high school when I stopped caring so much about what my friends thought. I still love Chucks. I need a new pair. Mine have holes in them. I am copying a paper I found from fifth grade. I'm misspelling all of the same words and punctuating it just like I did then. It made me laugh, because my teacher wrote a note at the bottom saying she believed I could do this too. I ended things rather confidently. I wonder when that confidence faded. I'm thinking it might have been sixth grade. Adolescence is when I really lost myself. I think everyone does, though. It's such a strange time.

"My Life as an Adult" (fifth grade-1998)

When I grow up, I would like to go to University of Michigan, because it is near home and a good school.

 

I will take a class on creative writing, a computer class, an art class, and a chemistry class.

 

When I get out of college I would live in a small, quiet, apartment with a swimming pool, so after a hard day of doing my job (wrighting and illastrating) I could go swimming.

 

After a hard time of my rent and student loans, I would publish my first book, and make a lot of money. I would have enough to pay all of my student loans, move into a nice house and be able to pay my house and car payments.

 

Soon I would begin writing a series to go with my first book. My series would have 21 books, and I would make millions. By the time I turn 35 I would have a mansion with an indoor and outdoor pool, a spa, two Jack Rusel Terrier puppies named Max and Jack, I would have one Calico cat named Crayons, two convertables, one silver and one red, and one black mercedes.

 

This dream will be very hard to make come true but if I set my mind to it I can do anything.

"Believe in me, 'cuz I don't believe in anything"

And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.

- ezra pound

After not sleeping well for many nights, I have had two nights in a row of normal sleep. I feel extra tired, though. Catching up on such a large amount of missed sleep is never fully effective. The days have been slipping away. I am always disturbed by the way time slips by after midnight. It always feels like some sick joke. Every time I look at the clock, another hour has passed. I'm not nearly as productive as I'd like to be during my days off. However, I don't feel like I've been lazy either. I stay fairly busy, and I'm trying desperately to write with the discipline of professional writers. 

I e-mailed my former advisor/professor about a book idea. She responded with a beautifully written, very thorough e-mail about what I need to do in order to go through with it. It's the first time I feel like anyone's really believed in one of my big ideas. Usually people say, "maybe" and smile at my naive and youthful passion. I kind of expected my professor to do the same. I just asked if she thought the idea was worth pursuing. She said yes, it's an excellent idea, and then gave me a step-by-step of what to do. It never fails to amaze me how much more I can accomplish when I know someone believes in me--not just in the vague, "I care about you; I believe you will do something great," but in the specific, "you are great at_______; I think you should pursue it," kind of way. 

I am not the most confident writer, but after this year I think I am a decent one. I would not be a decent writer or even a writer, if lisa would not have told me that my writing was amusing, and I should try independent study with her when I was 17. Every other English teacher gave me occasional A's on papers, but never said, "wow, you have a talent." In fact, I didn't even like English until 10th grade. I didn't  feel like I was any good at it until just this last semester. It took: getting a job at the writing center, getting an essay published, a really supportive professor/entire writing class, and the support of my writer's group at home to make me feel like I could hold my own in the writing community. I did have some confidence from a few classes/professors the year before, but then I got a B in English 201 (A general, required English class) in the Fall. That was so upsetting, because I worked hard. In retrospect, I believe I deserved better. 

At the time, I let that grade kick down my sense of self-worth in general, and my confidence in English. It's stupid how one letter on a piece of paper can do that--how one negative professor can overpower all of the other English professors who liked me  and supported my writing. When I saw that grade, I felt like I was back in High School, when I found out I failed the writing part of the MEAP test, after I thought I had written a great essay (creativity is not a good thing on standardized tests. I learned that the hard way). Situations like that have made it so I can't accurately judge the quality of my writing. There have been too many times where I think I am writing something nicely, only to find out that it's terrible. There's even more times where I start to quit something, and someone will see it, and say, "This is really good." Why do I base the quality of my writing off of what other people say? After they tell me the "crap" is really good, I reread it, and start to see the good. Then it gives me the energy to keep working on it. My former professor said this is my biggest weakness as a writer--my inability to accurately judge my own writing. I don't know how to improve at that. I guess, keep writing and getting feedback.

Some people might not need anyone to believe in them. Take Jack Kerouac. He refused to change his book for anybody. He lived in his mother's basement and was a loser by most people's standards. Now, we learn about him in literature classes and he inspires tons of writers and musicians every year. I am not one of those people. I need people to believe in me  in order for me to feel I can achieve my full potential. Hopefully, one day, I will believe these people and no longer need to listen to any new criticism. Then I can say, "No, I think it reads better the way it is," and refuse to change anything. Until then, I will keep working my ass off to impress professors, advisors, peers, and anyone else who might read my writing. 

If you were wondering...

I rave about Anne Lamott often, because she inspires me creatively and spiritually. This interview reminded me why I love reading her thoughts. If you haven't read any of her books, this is a quick way to see what she's about.


http://www.beliefnet.com/story/167/story_16714_1.html

Under Construction

This is a poem I'm playing around with. Poetry is not my strength, but my writing class in the fall is "Advanced Poetry Workshop," so I figure I should start practicing. I'm sure I will change this a thousand times more, and I will look back and regret posting it this early (or just change it). I'm open to feedback, though. Plus, it shows where I am right now. Things don't come out perfect right away. Poetry is hard work. I still have a lot of work to do on this, but check it out.

Under Construction

Michigan
freezes, thaws
freezes, thaws,
leaving
open-wounds in once
solid sidewalks.

The roads,
blatantly
broken like people
who drive them slowly,
rolling by orange
cones and politically incorrect,
“Men Working”
signs, in dust-covered
cars that can’t
stay clean.

Writing About Writing (Again)

"A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people."

-Thomas Mann

My writing has been going really well the past two days, which was much needed, because I was losing faith in it. That's what keeps me writing--the way I never know when it's going to get good. That's why I have to write every day. Sometimes I mope and complain about it, but I keep dragging that stupid pen on paper and typing meaningless thoughts to keep the discipline. Then, once in a while, instead of looking at the clock and watching the time pass, I can't stop writing. During these rare occasions, I write abnormally fast (and sloppy) to keep up with the ideas, then look at the clock and realize hours have passed by without the slightest hint of disappearance. I probably shouldn't have messed up my flow to blog, because I don't know if I will be able to jump right back into it, but I had to get it in writing (I like how things only feel true if I see it in writing), that my writing was going well. Hopefully it will continue going well, because I have lots of goals and ideas. 

Oh and I'm dropping that psych class. On rate my professor, most of my classes said things like, "good class, but lots of papers and prof. grades tough." I decided I couldn't do 19 credits, but I HAVE to have a writing class. I will go crazy without one. I can try to take a summer class, and if that doesn't work I will take a different semester off of writing to get out in 4 years.

I intend to pick a topic to blog about soon and stop rambling about my life. I like to have a decent, meaningful entry every now and then. I just don't feel like it. Maybe when my writing starts getting discouraging again I will put effort into a blog entry. I'm just trying to keep up blogging, because when I get out of the habit, I end up taking months off, which is lame.

My First Publication

http://www.chsbs.cmich.edu/creative_writing/aimee_lewis.htm

I am even more excited for it to come out in the official journal version. As vain as it may be, my favorite part is my Bio. at that bottom. It makes me feel like an "official writer," finally. It's sad, but true.

I'm Back

My cord finally came in the mail. It is wonderful to be back on my computer. I felt lost without it for multiple reasons, but I think the biggest was probably because all of my writing is on here. I write in a notebook too, but my notebook is, generally, for freewrites. I've been writing meaningless entries just to keep writing, but it was horrible. It took me over an hour just to write four pages in my notebook this morning. That's unacceptable. Writing is one of the most frustrating things I do sometimes.

I have such high expectations for my writing this summer, which might not be good, because it only leads to disappointment. I told myself if my writing went well this summer, I would drop my writing class for the Fall. I'm signed up for 19 credits, and I worry about it a lot. However, if I am successful, I will be able to take a writing class every semester I have left (despite that I only need three more), and I will get out in four years. It seems like I have so much to gain. I am signed up for a poetry class with a poet who is starting to get into essays (so maybe I might be able to get a little help on essays).  Then, even though I really don't like fiction, I figured I would take a fiction class in the Spring. That would really diversify and strengthen my writing so that I could just focus on writing essays my last two semesters of my senior year, which supposedly will be possible, because they are supposed to hire an essayist after this year. My former advisor/professor gave me a name to contact so I can have a say in which essayist they choose. However, if I'm taking 19 credits, on the e-board for two RSO's, and working, I don't know if I will have time to attend all of the readings. I would really like to, though.  My other option, is drop my psych class and just try to take a summer course. I worry it won't work out, though, and I'd hate to have to come back another semester just for one course. I know my next four semesters of Spanish are going to be hard, so I am well aware that this first semester of it will be the only tolerable one. Therefore, it's the last semester I will be able to really push myself without failing Spanish. I, kind of, feel obliged to push myself while I still can. I could give up the writing class, but that's what I'm going to school for. I want to take advantage of being able to take a course with published authors every semester I have left. I want to be the best writer I can before I'm forced to go off to grad school or get a real job. I hope I can get into a good grad school. I want to go to one where I can teach so I don't have to pay for classes. That's super competitive, though. All I can do is hope I'm a killer writer by then and lots of schools will want me to write under them.

I was also stoked about getting my cord so I could finally buy the new Death Cab album. I'm listening to it right now. So far I like what I hear. They always inspire me creatively. I love writing while listening to them. They are soothing and simple, but not in the annoying pop music way. Their lyrics actually have meaning (they aren't about clubbing or dancing--sorry Britney Spears).

I've been stuck inside for days because of my sickness. I feel so cooped up and useless. I want to start running again. I might be well enough to start tomorrow. Maybe I'll start rollerblading in the mornings instead (if it stops raining). I did go rollerblading for a little bit last night. It totally wore me out. I feel like I'm 70-years-old.

This entry got way longer than I intended. I'm just so happy to have my computer back that I couldn't stop typing. I'm out.

Technical Difficulties

My computer cord died. I won't be blogging until a new one arrives in the mail, which will hopefully be tomorrow or Tuesday. Who knows, though.

I <3 Death Cab for Cutie

I am stoked for the new Death Cab album out on Tuesday. I rarely get excited about new albums, but I got a preview of it from a friend who somehow got it early, and this article by the lead singer is awesome. I don't want to build it up to be outstanding, because it's not world-class writing (or maybe even music) but it's real, and there's some obvious thought put into the article and their music. I admire that. It seems to be harder and harder to find.

http://www.pastemagazine.com/action/article/7074/feature/music/the_meaning_of_life?

Maybe I Prefer my Veins Closed

"[T]his business of becoming conscious, of being a writer, is ultimately about asking yourself, How alive am I willing to be?" 

— Anne Lamot

The book Wasted by Marya Hornbacher is incredibly raw and honest. The more I read, the deeper this woman digs. It’s disturbing because it has forced me to realize that I’m not digging deep enough in my writing. I’m still protecting and hiding so much, and what is the point? I think I am  afraid of what I will see…like it’s not true if it's not in writing—like maybe I will forget if I don't see it on paper. Repression. I can’t afford to do that. I need to open all of the old wounds. It’s like this famous writing quote, “There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." Metaphorically speaking, I don't know that I can witness the blood and not pass out. I don't know that I am ready to open that vein, but I need to bleed all over every page. It should be stained and ugly, but still have something pretty about the deep red. Instead I type/write bland, colorless words. I keep thinking about all of these big ideas to write on, but not tackling them. I make excuses and try to escape just facing them head on. I feel like I am pretty honest in my writing, but I am only beginning to admit that I am not honest enough--only beginning to scratch the surface. Wasted slaps me with the cold reality of how self-aware and comfortable one must be to write a memoir--how far I have to go, yet. Readers can tell when an author’s not genuine, not self-aware, not wise. Even this entry isn't raw enough. I keep saying “I am going to do this,” but only writing about what I’m going to do isn’t good enough. I need to write truth, dig deep, bleed.

“The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common.”

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Robins and Rabbits

I’ve enjoyed keeping a low profile this weekend. I didn’t tell anyone I was home yet. I slept in, spent time with family, and read. It is so wonderful to read for fun. I feel like I haven’t done that in forever. I have, but it always feels so rushed, because there was normally schoolwork hanging over my head. Now, I have time to properly reflect on what I am reading. Reading good books is probably the best way to be creatively inspired. I’m reading a memoir about a girl who almost died from Anorexia and Bulimia. It’s a crazy and tragic story, but she does such a good job at recollecting the littlest details that were all common threads throughout her life—like how food was always a problem. I can’t relate to the food aspect, but just her talent for remembering minor instances has really brought out a lot of memories for me today. The secret to recollecting such memories is to do free writes. Those are probably the best (if not the only) way, because they force you to dig deeper than the stuff your brain is comfortably throwing out.

It’s amazing how we do not know how to access all of our memories. It often takes an outside trigger to release them. For example, I just saw a robin. It reminded me about the baby robin that Adam and I saved as kids, Spike. I got really attached to Spike; he was a cute little guy. He fell out of a tree, but we nursed him back to health. I was devastated when he flew/hopped away. Adam made me feel better by telling me any of the robins I saw flying could be Spike. As I write this, I am sitting outside on our porch, and a robin is looking at me. It makes me laugh. They are such funny birds. Aw, there’s a little bunny looking at me, too. He just stretched his back. It was weird looking. He hopped away, though.

I was looking over my last few blog entries, and it was like I had to start over with getting used to blogging. I noticed that I kept commenting on how I felt the need to say something insightful. With a blog, it’s even harder to get rid of my usual critical voice, because I know people actually read it. But I’m done trying to be insightful—for a while anyway. It disrupts creativity. I found myself trying to be insightful in my notebook too, because everyone puts their ideal self in their writing. Insightfulness is essential and beautiful in writing, but it’s not good in free writes—it slows my thoughts down and keeps my critical voice on high. Plus, those who are truly insightful aren’t trying to be insightful—they are trying to convey truth.

I have set a goal to handwrite four pages of free write every day. In addition, I will try to construct “official pieces” for writer’s group and blog fairly regularly. I have a feeling this will all overlap, and I will give my self a lot of leeway, but it’s good to have some type of goal.