I can't...

I can't divorce myself from the need to succeed. I can't sit down and write a book just for me.

Shikamaru impression

The fatal flaw in the copter game...

I mean, WTF?

Last night I had a talk with Sam. I was in a very bleh mood, such that everything sounded overly difficult and annoying. (There is a character in Naruto who seems to feel that way every day. His most common line is "How troublesome." Indeed...) Anyway, Sam was trying to cheer me up, partially because he likes me, but also partially I think because he wanted to get GP4 moving, and I wasn't in the mood for that. His attempts to get me in the mood were unsuccessful.

We ended up talking about how bored I am with my life, and how I wish I was doing something. He made the obvious suggestion, the one I've thought of and passed over, which is: write a novel. He then proceeded to describe my own feelings to me, in precise detail. He said that I think I am a failure, and that if I commit myself to try and actually do something, I might find out that I'm right. He said that this fear paralyzes me and keeps me from actually accomplishing anything.

He's absolutely right.

He seemed disappointed by his inability to prod me into action. Logically, the solution to my problem would be to try to write a novel. If I write one, I might get it published and get some money, so that would solve another problem. But I don't believe him when he says that I should be able to get something published easily. In my writing classes, the teachers and professionals all talked about how difficult it is to get published, and how brilliant writers are often neglected.

I don't know, it's not just that. I think another thing I'm afraid of is writing something mediocre. If that mediocre something got published, I would feel like I had betrayed myself. If people liked something that I thought was half-assed...I don't know.

I feel like I am just making up excuses instead of going for it. That is probably exactly the case. I am just so scared, and competitive. If I exempt myself from the competition, then I don't have to feel bad when I lose. That's how I've looked at things for a long time.

This post doesn't seem to be making any sense, but I'm tired of writing it. I'm not even going to revise.

I wish I wasn't such a lazy wuss.

Despair transmuted

Here I am at 6:30 am after staying up all night--as usual, with something of a nap to tide me over--trembling with euphoria, chest swelled, eyes smarting with unshed tears, because I actually worked hard at writing something.

I have had a pretty shitty night up until this point. The reason I went to take a nap was because I wanted to cry. Bawl, in truth. I was unable to do that; my sobs felt forced and pathetic as I lay wrapped in the covers, face buried in my pillow. But I did at least cry, and then fell off into restless, desperate sleep.

I am unsatisfied with my life and I am unsatisfied with the way I spend my days. I do not feel as if there is any purpose to anything I do. I want more, I want to stop feeling desperate. I want to be more than useful; I want to be thrilling, inspiring, necessary, adored. I want to Do Things that make people Sit Up and Take Notice. I believe I have fallen into despair because I can't envision these things ever actually happening. I'm lost, jobless, a housewife who hates keeping house. I'm no good to anyone else and I'm no good to myself.

But I wrote something. Something I am outrageously proud of, something I revised until it flowed off my tongue with a rhythm that plows a clear path. I read it aloud, several times, and tweaked it far more than that. I worked on it, and it's finished, and I can say that I am reasonably happy with it.

It's only a post. But holy shit do I feel good about it.

I must have needed that.

Traditions under the moon

Today, Dawn wrote about the Chinese Mid Autumn Festival, and I couldn't help but be reminded of my own childhood traditions. Fireworks on the Fourth of July were always a big thing, whether we set off our own in front of our house or drove up to Lexington to watch the big show from Doris' farm, sprawled out in the back of a banged-up pickup truck. Dawn's discussion of lanterns made me think of Woodhaven, where Granny and Aunt Carol used to live; they had strings of lights running along their trailer in the shape of Chinese lanterns, and I loved their bright colors lighting up the porch at night. I sat out there with my aunts and played board games, or watched over my baby cousins (who are now all teenagers!), or played house with the myriad collection of toys Granny kept in her outdoor tent in the yard. We rode bikes at Woodhaven, too, all around the narrow, winding roads. Woodhaven was a private retirement community, and there wasn't much traffic. It was very rustic and peaceful there; it felt like a chosen, comfortable seclusion.

Summers are what I remember most from my childhood, because summer was always the time for adventures. Piling into the car to go to Uncle Lewis' place on Lake Cumberland was one of my favorites, because we got to go swimming, climbing, picnicking, and exploring, and in the morning Uncle Lewis always made us his famous "greasy eggs". I think I miss having his place to go to the most; I don't have any real memories attached to Ma's farm in Mt. Sterling, and there's not much to do there. And of course, we always went to Illinois in the summer, whether to Woodhaven, or to Big Rock, or to Wilmette...but once my parents started the business, we weren't able to all run off on jaunts anymore, and so the adventure chapter of my life was closed. I think maybe that's why I didn't mind driving eight hours to see Sean for a weekend...travel has been in my blood since I was little.

Christmas is another tradition I've had since childhood, but until we had the business it wasn't a truly large affair for us. We typically went to Uncle Jeff and Aunt Karen's house on Eastin Road in Lexington, a beautiful, large, stately house that I felt I could get lost in. Their tree was always splendid, with more gifts beneath it than I could count. Everyone brought food, and we all ate dinner and then exchanged presents. That tradition died off when people began realizing they couldn't afford to buy presents for everyone, and now if we go anywhere it's to Grandma's for dinner, with no formal gift exchange. It's nice, but it's not the same. Our party at home is bigger and better, though, with lots of presents, and the little joy that is Connor running around brightening everything. This year, when Sean and I go to my parents' for the holiday, there will be another little one to cuddle.

Traditions don't really die; they just change. They've shaped who we are, and who we are shapes what we do.

Dawn also wrote today about how she finished up her festival day, a quiet, more muted celebration, tinged with melancholy. I know how it feels to be lonely on holidays. I think the song Dawn chose to quote at the end of her post was a wonderful choice, especially because it reminded me of something that happened yesterday.

Out of the blue, I decided to call Connor. I miss that little sweetie. We had a good conversation; he told me to come over to his house "tomorrow" but I said it would have to wait until Halloween. Then he asked me, "Can you see the moon?"

I went out on the deck and looked, and there it was, Mars hanging just below and to the right. "Wow," I said, "it's really orange, isn't it?"

"Yeah!" Connor said. "And it has eyes and a nose and a mouth! But it doesn't say anything."

"The moon's pretty quiet," I agreed.

At that moment, I remembered the song, "Somewhere Out There", from An American Tail...and so for me it was doubly delightful to have Dawn think of the same song for a completely different reason.

I miss everyone...but it is nice to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky.