I mentioned earlier a rough review I got for a draft of a novel I'm trying to write. The prologue was decimated as categorical proof of my shortcomings as a writer. Then there was the first chapter. I still haven't gotten feedback on that yet. I've written and rewritten over 20 drafts of that first chapter. They say the most difficult parts of a story to write are the endings and the beginnings.
Last month before I became enslaved by the indoor lethargy of finals and freelance I got back into running. A year ago I used to regularly jog anywhere between 5 to 10 kilometers but have since opted for shorter interval sprints to build up my cardio endurance and ease up on my joints. Yet always, without fail, the hardest part of any run regardless of the distance is that first part. That transition from a sedentary state to runner-mode. This usually only lasts about half a mile, never longer than a full mile.
Why is it so hard to get to Part Two?
You start with such vigorous optimism, your hope bright and new. This time you'll do it! You'll lose those extra pounds, make more time for family, shoot for that promotion, start that small business, run that marathon, finish that book, discontinue that netflix account, learn that recipe. You are finally going to sweep out those cobwebs of complacence and start your life with a clean start.
January's frosty chill can't deter your willpower. You wake up early and get out there training, breaking old habits, establishing new patterns of living and hitting the refresh button on your day to day. You are the picture of dedication. Days soon build into a week, then two. By week three the novelty of your new life begins wearing away, revealing that remaining discomfort of missing out on the "good ol' days," patiently waiting for you to succumb to its embrace. You make excuses, a day missed here, a little slip there, and before February ends, those gym passes you got as a new year's present to yourself sit gathering dust, you're back to the sleeping in, fat, lazy, uncultured, illiterate netflix-binger that disgusted you in last year's mirror.
The February mark is a tough reality to face. Fact is, very few New Year's Resolutions last beyond two months.
What makes Part Two so seemingly unattainable?
Honestly, I think it's because as much as we like to think we know our heart's desires,
we don't know what we want.
I don't mean that our desires are necessarily changeable, although that can often be the case. I mean we don't know how badly we want what we want. How much are you willing to put into your goals? What desires take top priority? What is still worth the effort when your new habit is no longer new, just uncomfortable?
Often these priorities reveal themselves organically. Is the misery of that first try, first lap, first draft worth trudging through?
Absolutely.
Kara's Flowers' debut album flopped before they reformed as Maroon 5. Coldplay once went by Starfish in the bumpy first lap of their career. Even the founding fathers had to go through a first draft flop of legislation (those darn Articles of Confederation) before they drafted the Constitution. Very rarely will you succeed on your first go. 2013 was filled with lessons on what not to do in my life. Next year will have plenty of those, too. I'm just trying not to repeat them. Don't give up on your first lap. Don't put down the pen halfway through the prologue.
Let's get to March one step, one page, one lap, one brilliantly dazzling mistake at a time. Join me in my march to March 2014.
S
Monday, December 23, 2013
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Baggage Claim
Before leaving for Bulgaria in 2009 I got some solid, sturdy luggage that I could trust to carry all of my earthly belongings for the next two years. I lived in numerous cities over that span of time and got used to living out of suitcases. Sometimes I didn't bother unpacking my clothes, I'd just use my suitcases as dressers.
When I came home I continued to live out of my suitcases, all my clothes shoved into luggage under the spare bed as I crashed with my brother for a few months before I left for school. My mom berated my brother for not making room for my things in the dresser. I didn't mind, I was used to living with my baggage.
I left some of my suitcases behind at home and took others to move out to school. In three moves from apartment to apartment as a college sophomore, I always managed to fit everything I owned into the small sedan that got me from A to B.
While B. and I were dating I honed my packing skills to a science, carrying all I would need for a three-day weekend adventure with my girlfriend in a small duffel bag I snagged for $3 at a thrift store.
I thought me and my baggage were good. We had a deal.
B. and I celebrated our birthdays last month. Hers is only two days before mine, so we usually combine the festivities in a low-key smattering of brief spending sprees and gift-giving over the course of a few days rather than one big cake-and-candles party.
When we went out to our birthday dinner, we did something we hadn't done in a long time: we had a real, heart to heart, deep conversation about the hard stuff in life - big decisions like careers and kids and our future together. One of those really intense, soul-bearing conversations that leaves you feeling raw inside. It had been a long time since we had brought up such deep personal stuff. It was brief, but still left us both sore and unsettled.
It gave me pause for a few reasons. It was a reminder of how much we leave under the rug, even in marriage. How much of ourselves can get shelved out of the other's view. We get so little time together, we rarely see more than the mild-mannered happy spouse-by-day face we put on in public.
Truth is, we all carry baggage with us.
Especially in relationships.
I heard once that you don't have to be disagreeable to disagree. This was a charming adage given to me by a man who claimed that he had never fought with his wife.
That's crap.
Marriage, like most things in life, has some inevitabilities. Some fights resurface, not all dragons are vanquished after you make up, some disagreements lie dormant, waiting until you're both ready to tackle it again - and you aren't always ready.
But the scariest inevitabilities are the ones we pick up at baggage claim. Those insecurities, fears, anxieties, prejudices, tendencies, and tempers that are destined to clash by their very natures. We can't help it, we all have little passengers from our past latched onto us trying to gnaw at our futures.
Coming from a divorced family doesn't doom you to divorce. Growing up in financial fragility doesn't cripple your value. Bad breakups shouldn't dictate the dynamics of your present relationship. We aren't our past. We aren't our parents; their greatest gift to us isn't the legacy they leave us. It's the choice they give us. The chance to select what parts and portions of them to leave behind and what to take with us and make our own.
Baggage can be burdensome, but I think this goes the other way, too. When life decides to pile on the really heavy stuff, it helps to know that we can carry it. A charmed life of lightweight carry-ons is poor preparation for what fate can send our way. Maybe baggage isn't all bad.
No matter how clean we think our slate is going entering a new life with someone, there they are. Our issues await us at baggage claim. We can't leave it all behind, it's part of what makes us. I'm just glad to know I have someone who took me with all of my drama attached.
Pack light.
S
When I came home I continued to live out of my suitcases, all my clothes shoved into luggage under the spare bed as I crashed with my brother for a few months before I left for school. My mom berated my brother for not making room for my things in the dresser. I didn't mind, I was used to living with my baggage.
I left some of my suitcases behind at home and took others to move out to school. In three moves from apartment to apartment as a college sophomore, I always managed to fit everything I owned into the small sedan that got me from A to B.
While B. and I were dating I honed my packing skills to a science, carrying all I would need for a three-day weekend adventure with my girlfriend in a small duffel bag I snagged for $3 at a thrift store.
I thought me and my baggage were good. We had a deal.
B. and I celebrated our birthdays last month. Hers is only two days before mine, so we usually combine the festivities in a low-key smattering of brief spending sprees and gift-giving over the course of a few days rather than one big cake-and-candles party.
When we went out to our birthday dinner, we did something we hadn't done in a long time: we had a real, heart to heart, deep conversation about the hard stuff in life - big decisions like careers and kids and our future together. One of those really intense, soul-bearing conversations that leaves you feeling raw inside. It had been a long time since we had brought up such deep personal stuff. It was brief, but still left us both sore and unsettled.
It gave me pause for a few reasons. It was a reminder of how much we leave under the rug, even in marriage. How much of ourselves can get shelved out of the other's view. We get so little time together, we rarely see more than the mild-mannered happy spouse-by-day face we put on in public.
Truth is, we all carry baggage with us.
I heard once that you don't have to be disagreeable to disagree. This was a charming adage given to me by a man who claimed that he had never fought with his wife.
That's crap.
Marriage, like most things in life, has some inevitabilities. Some fights resurface, not all dragons are vanquished after you make up, some disagreements lie dormant, waiting until you're both ready to tackle it again - and you aren't always ready.
But the scariest inevitabilities are the ones we pick up at baggage claim. Those insecurities, fears, anxieties, prejudices, tendencies, and tempers that are destined to clash by their very natures. We can't help it, we all have little passengers from our past latched onto us trying to gnaw at our futures.
Coming from a divorced family doesn't doom you to divorce. Growing up in financial fragility doesn't cripple your value. Bad breakups shouldn't dictate the dynamics of your present relationship. We aren't our past. We aren't our parents; their greatest gift to us isn't the legacy they leave us. It's the choice they give us. The chance to select what parts and portions of them to leave behind and what to take with us and make our own.
Baggage can be burdensome, but I think this goes the other way, too. When life decides to pile on the really heavy stuff, it helps to know that we can carry it. A charmed life of lightweight carry-ons is poor preparation for what fate can send our way. Maybe baggage isn't all bad.
No matter how clean we think our slate is going entering a new life with someone, there they are. Our issues await us at baggage claim. We can't leave it all behind, it's part of what makes us. I'm just glad to know I have someone who took me with all of my drama attached.
Pack light.
S
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Painted Morning
A few days ago I had an unusual morning.
Startlingly different from many of the others surrounding it. First of all, I was already on my way to full consciousness when my alarm finally pushed me off the edge into wakefulness. More of a brotherly nudge than a prankster's shove. Second of all, the morning seemed brighter. More light seemed to emanate from the high windows of our cozy basement apartment. I thought I might be running late, that the morning had slipped away from me and darkling dawn had rushed into day without my consent.
I had worn long sleeves to bed and for the first time in weeks didn't have a chill, maybe I was just unaccustomed to waking up with good blood circulation. But as I sat up and stretched and yawned I realized it was more than a mere change in pace or renewed health or vigor that made this morning stand out.
God was with me this morning.
Now, I suppose this should happen every morning every day. I'd like to pretend my life is that perfect. But to be honest, those few bleary-eyed mornings when I do remember to begin my day with prayer, that prayer too often resembles the exhausted half-baked thoughts and unfinished ramblings of someone still treading water in slumber, not quite ready to leave the REM pool.
But today, it seems He came to me.
This has happened a few times before, and it startles me every time. I often find that if we want God we have to meet him halfway. But perhaps on occasion He gives us a break and puts forth some extra effort on our behalf.
There was nothing particularly spiritually urgent about it. No heavenly call, no voice from the sky, no eleventh commandment that I'm aware of. Just a vague feeling of closeness.
I think sometimes God just misses us.
And so he paints a day just for us. Or at least a morning.
My morning had a fresh chill to it. Not biting, but a gentle nibble to remind you you're awake. A sky painted from a Robert Frost poem. Clouds overhead keeping the cool sheen of the last night's rain slick on the ground. Darkened cement trying in vain to dry to a brighter shade of gray. A dampened world for dampened souls. That muffled hush clouds seem to give the air. Somehow our thoughts speak more clearly, louder in contrast to the quieted world.
Writers live for days like these. I praise God for quieting the world for my mornings.
S
Startlingly different from many of the others surrounding it. First of all, I was already on my way to full consciousness when my alarm finally pushed me off the edge into wakefulness. More of a brotherly nudge than a prankster's shove. Second of all, the morning seemed brighter. More light seemed to emanate from the high windows of our cozy basement apartment. I thought I might be running late, that the morning had slipped away from me and darkling dawn had rushed into day without my consent.
I had worn long sleeves to bed and for the first time in weeks didn't have a chill, maybe I was just unaccustomed to waking up with good blood circulation. But as I sat up and stretched and yawned I realized it was more than a mere change in pace or renewed health or vigor that made this morning stand out.
God was with me this morning.
Now, I suppose this should happen every morning every day. I'd like to pretend my life is that perfect. But to be honest, those few bleary-eyed mornings when I do remember to begin my day with prayer, that prayer too often resembles the exhausted half-baked thoughts and unfinished ramblings of someone still treading water in slumber, not quite ready to leave the REM pool.
But today, it seems He came to me.
This has happened a few times before, and it startles me every time. I often find that if we want God we have to meet him halfway. But perhaps on occasion He gives us a break and puts forth some extra effort on our behalf.
There was nothing particularly spiritually urgent about it. No heavenly call, no voice from the sky, no eleventh commandment that I'm aware of. Just a vague feeling of closeness.
I think sometimes God just misses us.
And so he paints a day just for us. Or at least a morning.
My morning had a fresh chill to it. Not biting, but a gentle nibble to remind you you're awake. A sky painted from a Robert Frost poem. Clouds overhead keeping the cool sheen of the last night's rain slick on the ground. Darkened cement trying in vain to dry to a brighter shade of gray. A dampened world for dampened souls. That muffled hush clouds seem to give the air. Somehow our thoughts speak more clearly, louder in contrast to the quieted world.
Writers live for days like these. I praise God for quieting the world for my mornings.
S
Monday, November 25, 2013
Get It Out There
A good friend of mine inadvertently gave me some really good advice. He was talking about his own music career but I took it to heart as a writer, a hat I haven't been able to wear much lately.
I'll admit it people. I've fallen off the wagon.
Geez, a month? What's wrong with me?
Well, exactly what my good friend was talking about when he posted an explanation on facebook about his recordings. They were great songs, but admittedly not the best quality recordings. Certainly not professional studio-grade. But I still enjoyed them. I raved about them, I saw through the fuzzy recording and saw the potential for great, moving pieces of music.
My buddy relayed some advice he had received from another musician. Just start recording. Get your stuff out there. You're not going to be great right off the bat. No one is. Get over it. Get used to being imperfect, especially in front of your audience.
Just put it out there.
Sounds easy enough, right? But how many of us have little side projects or dreams we keep pocketed until we can find that imaginary "free time" we need to polish up and really become impressive? It's not like I forgot about this blog. In fact, I had some friends ask about it, a high school buddy gave me a shout out and let me know he enjoyed reading. I even had drafts ready. Right now there are about six or seven unfinished posts I've started since my last post.
I just never could get them polished. I never thought they'd be good enough. I needed more time, better wording, illustrations would really make it pop. The excuses go on. Point is, I wanted the impossible.
I wanted them to be perfect.
I've had some posts I'm really proud of. I've posted others that you can't find anymore, forever deleted out of shame. I'm still working on this and not everything I write is going to be "studio-quality."
There's a kids book I'd like to do someday when I feel more like a good writer. An idea I've had growing and morphing in my imagination for over ten years now. I sent a few sample chapters to some trusted editor friends. One got back to me with his review. It was brutally honest, exactly what I knew I could expect from him. And after rereading it through his eyes, I realized even more of my own foibles as an amateur author.
Elitist intellectual tone.
Alliteration happy.
Poor sense of suspense.
Confusing narrative.
No fluidity in the story.
No connection to (presumably juvenile) reader.
And that was just the prologue.
But I needed to hear it. I knew he wouldn't pull any punches. I see my flaws for what they are. And I'm better for it. Granted, I haven't touched the book since, but that's mostly because of my schedule constraints. Although I'll admit, all the condensed criticism was a lot to stomach at once.
My point?
Don't let perfectionism paralyze you.
Take a leaf from the book of Mrs. Frizzle. Just put it out there. That's what my rock star friend is doing. And that's what I'm going to do. If my posts seem to ramble, tell me. If an illustration would really accentuate a point, I probably already know. Leave comments, tell me how to write better. This blog began as a way to chronicle our lives as newlyweds, but its more than just a cutesy scrapbook. This is personal. This is our lives. A window into our marriage, our careers, our struggles to work out our bug(g)s and be better for each other and for the world.
I'm back, people!
What are you holding back until you can polish and perfect it?
S
I'll admit it people. I've fallen off the wagon.
Geez, a month? What's wrong with me?
Well, exactly what my good friend was talking about when he posted an explanation on facebook about his recordings. They were great songs, but admittedly not the best quality recordings. Certainly not professional studio-grade. But I still enjoyed them. I raved about them, I saw through the fuzzy recording and saw the potential for great, moving pieces of music.
My buddy relayed some advice he had received from another musician. Just start recording. Get your stuff out there. You're not going to be great right off the bat. No one is. Get over it. Get used to being imperfect, especially in front of your audience.
Just put it out there.
Sounds easy enough, right? But how many of us have little side projects or dreams we keep pocketed until we can find that imaginary "free time" we need to polish up and really become impressive? It's not like I forgot about this blog. In fact, I had some friends ask about it, a high school buddy gave me a shout out and let me know he enjoyed reading. I even had drafts ready. Right now there are about six or seven unfinished posts I've started since my last post.
I just never could get them polished. I never thought they'd be good enough. I needed more time, better wording, illustrations would really make it pop. The excuses go on. Point is, I wanted the impossible.
I wanted them to be perfect.
I've had some posts I'm really proud of. I've posted others that you can't find anymore, forever deleted out of shame. I'm still working on this and not everything I write is going to be "studio-quality."
There's a kids book I'd like to do someday when I feel more like a good writer. An idea I've had growing and morphing in my imagination for over ten years now. I sent a few sample chapters to some trusted editor friends. One got back to me with his review. It was brutally honest, exactly what I knew I could expect from him. And after rereading it through his eyes, I realized even more of my own foibles as an amateur author.
Elitist intellectual tone.
Alliteration happy.
Poor sense of suspense.
Confusing narrative.
No fluidity in the story.
No connection to (presumably juvenile) reader.
And that was just the prologue.
But I needed to hear it. I knew he wouldn't pull any punches. I see my flaws for what they are. And I'm better for it. Granted, I haven't touched the book since, but that's mostly because of my schedule constraints. Although I'll admit, all the condensed criticism was a lot to stomach at once.
My point?
Don't let perfectionism paralyze you.
Take a leaf from the book of Mrs. Frizzle. Just put it out there. That's what my rock star friend is doing. And that's what I'm going to do. If my posts seem to ramble, tell me. If an illustration would really accentuate a point, I probably already know. Leave comments, tell me how to write better. This blog began as a way to chronicle our lives as newlyweds, but its more than just a cutesy scrapbook. This is personal. This is our lives. A window into our marriage, our careers, our struggles to work out our bug(g)s and be better for each other and for the world.
I'm back, people!
What are you holding back until you can polish and perfect it?
S
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Who is IG-88?
I think it's no secret that I'm a closet comic book geek. I've grown up knowing more about the random backstories of myriad supervillians and the hierarchies of heroes in spandex than I care to say. I get goosebumps watching the Avengers. Not so deep down, I'm still a ten-year-old oggling his Saturday morning cartoons. B. loves on LOTR from time to time, but her knowledge pales in comparison to the extensive Silmarillion research I know certain members of my extended family have done.
We all have our obsessions growing up, some of them stick with us, other fall by the wayside. I was an avid videogamer until one spring turned my fancy to love... or at least cute girls. We often outgrow our childhood fantasies and pastimes. But sometimes holding on to the heroes of your youth can be the best thing for you.
I have one question for you folks:
Who is IG-88?
No peeking, no cheating, no googling. Do you know who he is?
Didn't think so.
Well, I did, I'm ashamed to say. And it landed me my first paid gig as an illustrator.
IG-88 is a particularly cylindrical fellow in the lineup of bounty hunters employed by Darth Vader to track down Han Solo and thereby lead the Empire straight to young Luke Skywalker.
That's right people, we're gonna talk Star Wars for a sec.
I have many fond memories of watching Star Wars as a kid. Often it served as background ambience to set the mood for my vast Lego mythologies spread across the basement carpet. Many a summer afternoon was spent in the cool shelter of the dark, theater-like basement. We owned the entire Star Wars trilogy on vhs back when it was still in its unadulterated form - no frivolous CGI plugins and extra characters so George Lucas could beat his chest and tastelessly flash his obvious zillions to the innocent public. Sorry, tangential rant over. I loved the characters, I knew the plots, I knew all the important lines and I knew when it was time to put my legos down and enjoy a lightsaber battle and when it was ok to focus on my latest plastic architectural masterpiece and let Han and Leia make out in peace.
But my devotion to the franchise is dwarfed by that of my brothers'. Logan has played (and soundly beaten) nearly every video game made or designed by Lucasarts, Inc. Adam somehow obtained thorough knowledge of every character, including the superfluous military leaders in the Empire who one by one get force-choked out of command. Seriously, who remembers who Grand Moff Tarkin is?
Well, sadly I do. Because you see I not only lived with these Jedi Masters, I roomed with them, listened to them, and was slowly but surely indoctrinated by them as their unwitting and unwilling padawan. That is until the triumphant day when Adam coerced us into playing Star Wars trivial pursuit one rainy day and the apprentice truly became the master. I beat him. More than once in fact. An arbitrary victory, I know, but aren't all childhood squabbles? Even as I type this I feel a strange swelling mixture of pride and shame. Their fascination with a galaxy far far away soaked in.
And apparently some of it stayed there, because when the man who has now employed me talked about his idea about a Star Wars kids book about IG-88, my prior knowledge of the mischievous droid was what clinched the job for me. Thank you Adam. Thank you Logan. Your brainwashing has done some good after all.
Here's to all the geeks and nerds who wear their passions on their sleeves. Go ahead and love what you love, you never know when you might find a kindred spirit and make something great.
May the force be with you,
S
p.s. - I'll post pages from the book when its finished in a few months.
We all have our obsessions growing up, some of them stick with us, other fall by the wayside. I was an avid videogamer until one spring turned my fancy to love... or at least cute girls. We often outgrow our childhood fantasies and pastimes. But sometimes holding on to the heroes of your youth can be the best thing for you.
I have one question for you folks:
Who is IG-88?
No peeking, no cheating, no googling. Do you know who he is?
Didn't think so.
Well, I did, I'm ashamed to say. And it landed me my first paid gig as an illustrator.
IG-88 is a particularly cylindrical fellow in the lineup of bounty hunters employed by Darth Vader to track down Han Solo and thereby lead the Empire straight to young Luke Skywalker.
That's right people, we're gonna talk Star Wars for a sec.
I have many fond memories of watching Star Wars as a kid. Often it served as background ambience to set the mood for my vast Lego mythologies spread across the basement carpet. Many a summer afternoon was spent in the cool shelter of the dark, theater-like basement. We owned the entire Star Wars trilogy on vhs back when it was still in its unadulterated form - no frivolous CGI plugins and extra characters so George Lucas could beat his chest and tastelessly flash his obvious zillions to the innocent public. Sorry, tangential rant over. I loved the characters, I knew the plots, I knew all the important lines and I knew when it was time to put my legos down and enjoy a lightsaber battle and when it was ok to focus on my latest plastic architectural masterpiece and let Han and Leia make out in peace.
But my devotion to the franchise is dwarfed by that of my brothers'. Logan has played (and soundly beaten) nearly every video game made or designed by Lucasarts, Inc. Adam somehow obtained thorough knowledge of every character, including the superfluous military leaders in the Empire who one by one get force-choked out of command. Seriously, who remembers who Grand Moff Tarkin is?
Well, sadly I do. Because you see I not only lived with these Jedi Masters, I roomed with them, listened to them, and was slowly but surely indoctrinated by them as their unwitting and unwilling padawan. That is until the triumphant day when Adam coerced us into playing Star Wars trivial pursuit one rainy day and the apprentice truly became the master. I beat him. More than once in fact. An arbitrary victory, I know, but aren't all childhood squabbles? Even as I type this I feel a strange swelling mixture of pride and shame. Their fascination with a galaxy far far away soaked in.
And apparently some of it stayed there, because when the man who has now employed me talked about his idea about a Star Wars kids book about IG-88, my prior knowledge of the mischievous droid was what clinched the job for me. Thank you Adam. Thank you Logan. Your brainwashing has done some good after all.
Here's to all the geeks and nerds who wear their passions on their sleeves. Go ahead and love what you love, you never know when you might find a kindred spirit and make something great.
May the force be with you,
S
p.s. - I'll post pages from the book when its finished in a few months.
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