Writing About Writing (Again)

There were certain topics that were off-limits for us at Northwestern in our writing classes. One of them was writing. We were pretty much forbidden from writing about writing. And it makes sense. We've all been there--the writer's block that makes you think a little too hard, and suddenly the block itself becomes a formidable villain. And why not? That's the evil that's preventing us from accomplishing our noble task of finishing the essay or poem. It's a "man vs. self"-type conflict, but with the added anguish of inner turmoil from outside pressure.

I am never more creative about the writing process than when I'm staring at a stark white computer screen, vacant page before me, cursor taunting me with its incessant blinks. I am a valiant knight, writer's block is my dragon. I type a few words--maybe they fit, maybe they're nonsense--but I just need to get something on that page. I can't stand the way they look. I backspace. That white void of a page is there again. My mind is empty. I have nothing to say. Sometimes I spin really fast in my chair, hoping to jar something loose. Maybe a thought will escape out my ear in the process and attach itself to the empty page.That never happens.

I tie my hair in a big knot on top of my head. It's my "thinking hair." I let it back down. I don't want to get ponytail bumps. I kick my feet against the floor. I only do this a few times. It sounds obnoxious and I don't want to annoy the people around me. I stare at my fingers. They're cold. They're always cold. I spin my ring around my finger, examine my fingernails. I crack my knuckles--now they hurt and I don't want to type anymore--not that I've typed anything in hours.

This is me in college. With "thinking hair."

This is what my life looks like. This is what my nights looked like in college, every time I sat down to write something. This is what my days look like at work. This is what my evenings look like at home while I'm trying to finish this play.

Where did all my good ideas go?

When I was a kid, I had an endless string of story plots running through my mind at all times. I worried there wasn't enough time left on earth for me to finish everything I wanted to write. Some were definitely stories. Others were books. Sometimes just a line or two, but with a little more effort a poem would emerge. Even a few plays rattled around in that little blonde head of mine. What happened to that girl?

People told her her ideas were dumb. That she couldn't be writer. That she didn't have the talent to get her work published. That her plots were "drizzled" and her characters weren't "round" enough and her settings weren't "defined."

And somehow, that creative little girl turned into a Writing Major, then a Sports Reporter, and then a Communications Coordinator. I churn out press releases and newsletters without needing to spin in my chair. Mostly, I copy and paste, recycle nonprofit jargon, slap on the mission statement at the end, and go home. I stopped "pushing my diction" and "staggering my breath units." It hardly seems necessary. Parataxis defined my college essays...now my supervisor always adds an oxford comma and an "and" when editing.

This play. It's making me crazy. It's the first creative thing I've attempted in years. I'm struggling with it. I'm having flashbacks to all-nighters in Moyer 12. Making a second pot of coffee at 11:37 p.m. because the one I made at 7 just isn't going to cut it. Begging my roommate to pick me up a smoothie and a giant bag of gummy bears from The Nest. Sprinting down the sidewalk in front of the dorms to print in the Student Center, knowing the essay I'm printing now is at least two drafts away from being complete, but I need a hard copy to edit. My eyes just couldn't even look at a screen anymore. Texting Jordan "Help? Christianity and Writing. Riley Lab, 30 min?" and being physically relieved when he texted back, "Yes. Good. Done."

We used to try to scare people when we went to the Stud to print. I don't remember why.

Also, this happened in the Stud. This was my roommate's boyfriend at the time. We were not friends. But he was a germaphobe, so I tried to make him as uncomfortable as possible. At all times.

I'm so thankful that I was able to be in such a competitive and difficult writing program. I am immensely grateful to my professors who pushed me, my classmates who challenged me, and Jordan who pitied me. I'm even more thankful I'm done with that.

These people, my fellow writing majors, were all geniuses. Also, please ignore what I'm wearing. I was really weird.

And now this play has resurrected all these horrible feelings of insecurity and self-doubt and left behind when I threw my graduation cap in the air.

Twenty pages to go, a few character arcs to tie up, and a plot seam to close. I'm close.

But that blank page and cursor sure is taunting me.

Some Stream of Consciousness

I hit a low point last night. Like, really low. I was eating frosting out of a can with a spoon.

It's been a rough few weeks. The last time I felt healthy was Oct. 9, and everything has just spiraled out of control since then. Weird cold/flu haunted me for over a week, and eventually led to a bladder infection. The infection was "treated" with antibiotics that caused a yeast infection. And of course, all of this came to a head while I was attempting to coach a state volleyball tournament--where my setter was out after an emergency appendectomy and my all-conference outside hitter was suffering from fluid on her knee. These were bad circumstances, but no excuse. I was not a good coach. I wasn't healthy, but more than that, I was distracted, and I was off my game. I was anxious about other personal things, and the stress was only making me physically sicker. I needed the season to end, because I need the big change that comes with that. I need some time away. I wish I would have recognized my shortcomings earlier, and I wish I had been a better coach for them that weekend. I still feel badly about how I handled everything.

I somehow talked Brett into doing Jillian's 30-Day Shred, since he wanted to get in shape before he started coaching. And in a moment of what I can only describe as memory loss, I agreed to do it with him. Since I was sick so much, I only did four days of level one, but rejoined him yesterday for level two. That was a mistake.

It's almost winter, snow is threatening. Halloween is on Thursday, and I promised the kids we'd hand out candy if they come trick-or-treating. 

Thanksgiving is closing in quickly. I wish we'd put our outdoor Christmas lights up already. It's getting cold, and I'm losing motivation to stand outside. We were ambitious last year, getting it done early. But we were so excited to have a house of our own, and I guess some of that has worn off. We still haven't done a thing to our cabinets. They're lying in the basement with a single coat of stain on about half of them...maybe once dad retires?

I need to return to writing my play if I have any hope of finishing it. I'm 60 pages in, stuck in a corner, and unsure of where to go next. I want to finish it...I just really don't know how. The kids are excited about it. Maybe I shouldn't have told them--but I was hoping they're excitement would motivate me to write. So far, no luck there.

I want to make applesauce tonight, but I have no motivation to cut up all those apples.

I had an existential crisis earlier today when I couldn't figure out how to spell "graham crackers."

I finally bought a mustard cardigan. It's everything I dreamed it would be. I wear it constantly.

We had a staff potluck yesterday where I had maybe the best cake of my entire life.

We also watched cat videos on Youtube during our potluck. Sometimes I love my job.

I admit, I use this blog as a place to complain. But it's my blog. You are not required to come here. I do not, however, use Facebook as a place to complain. Because you have to see that, even if you don't want to. All that to set up this. My thoughts on people who complain CONSTANTLY on Facebook:

When Germs Try to Ruin My Life

Brett came home from work yesterday all coughy, drippy, achey, whiney, shivery, groggy, and sneezy--all seven dwarfs of sickness. He didn't look good. He originally claimed it was because he forgot to take his allergy medicine that morning, but I doubted it. He had sinus infection written all over his chapped face.

He left for AWANA, I left for volleyball, and he was even sicker when we reunited late last night. I offered to sleep in the guest room or on the couch so he could get some good sleep (and so I could be less exposed to his germs), but he insisted I stayed with him.

So this morning, the day of the biggest event of my career, I feel horrible. My throat is closing and my nose is barely letting air inside. I stopped at Casey's on my way to work to pick up two pints of orange juice to try to fend off this ridiculous illness.

Tomorrow. I can call in sick tomorrow. But today I have to be on top of my game. I have keynote speakers to tend to, a luncheon to photograph, and an entire program to manage.

And of course, Brett is nicely snuggled in a warm bed, sleeping the day away, totally oblivious to the fact in a few hours I'm going to mingling with high-powered execs and schmoozing with legislatures...while trying to keep the snot inside my nose and my voice from sounding like a 75-year-old smoker.

Monday Morning

What I planned to do this weekend:
Brett and I were going to go somewhere beautiful to admire the fall colors. We debated Winona, Lanesboro, Wabasha, and Red Wing. Somewhere that banks the Mississippi, offers a good sampling of antique shops, and locally made chocolate. We were going to stay in a cute hotel, have a weekend free of volleyball lineups, Annual Luncheon planning, and general life stress.

What I did this weekend:
Nothing. Sat on the couch and watched the entire last season of Parks and Recreation on Netflix. And then some Rules of Engagement. We ate lots of pizza, drank a crazy amount of carbonated water and Mellow Yellow, and ignored our basement full of cabinets that need a second coat of stain.

What I'm loving:
Wearing cardigans and boots. Fall colors. Pumpkin spice. Mumford and Sons.

What I'm not loving:
Annual Luncheon. Biggest event of my career, planned for this Thursday. My centerpieces are scattered across the front office, my Annual Reports and programs are still at the printer, my keynote speakers haven't gotten me their PowerPoints yet, and I don't know what to wear.

What I'm reading:
I just finished Mindy Kaling's book Is Everyong Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns). I'm about to start Joy in the Morning by Betty Smith for about the 18th time. Completely different style, but such a good read.

What I'm watching:
Football. We're a Fantasy Football fanatic household, so this time of year involves line-up tinkering, match-up analysis, and constant score-checking. Sundays are high emotion in our home, but we both won this week, so we're feeling good.

Other things:
My car is finally getting new tires, my dad is officially retiring, my best friend is pregnant (yay Emily!), and I'm nearly finished writing my play. Did I mention I've been sort of busy lately?