Try-Curious

I have a problem.

I’ve taken ballet lessons, tap lessons, jazz lessons, piano lessons, vocal lessons, and guitar lessons. I’ve gone to painting classes, drawing classes, theatre classes and video production classes. In college I majored in Psychology, Musical Theatre, Pre-Law, Art, and finally in Literature (even though I would have preferred creative writing). I minored in Spanish then German then History. I tried to drop out once to go into a graphic design program (my mother was not pleased). After graduating with a BA in Literature I had a grand scheme to go back to school and get a degree in Chemistry (what?) and then in Biology (why?). I have half of a masters degree partly in English Education and partly in Professional Writing. I’ve had dreams of owning and running a comic book store, a book store, a craft store, and a bakery. After watching too much Project Runway I sit and think about having my own line of clothing and handbags which sometimes devolves into me running an online store selling graphic tees with funny pictures on them.

My problem is that I’m Try-Curious. I tell myself stories about the future projecting successes and failures in my mind. I live out whole lives in my head based on preconceived notions. Then I get all hyped up and think: “Finally! I’ve found it! My calling!”

Then there I am sitting in a room full teenagers trying to teach them Macbeth. But I’m not Robin Williams and no one is standing on their desks saying “O Captain my Captain!” Instead I’m trembling and don’t know what to say and while I know teaching is a noble profession suddenly I realize that I don’t care and maybe I’m not so noble as I thought I was. The teenagers are staring at me. Some of them look concerned and some look amused. I’m sure that I look horribly embarrassed because that’s how I feel. After a while I break them into groups so I don’t have to stand in front of them anymore. I talk to them in a way I think is cool and casual. They write evaluations of me at the end of class. One of them writes: “she’s not an authority figure.”

My first and only teaching experience lasted one week. At the end of it I felt so relieved I almost ran out of the building. Why did I think I wanted to be a teacher? Where did this notion come from?

Sure, part of it was my own imagined future, my dreamscaping, but part of it was others ideas of what I should be that were so drilled into my mind that I began to think that the thoughts were my own.

“Oh, you were an English major? Are you going to be a teacher?”

“No, I want to be a writer.”

“Well, no one ever gets published. You’ll need a back up plan.”

“Sure, I guess so.”

I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. Wondering why I can’t just focus. I’ve become obsessed with people who do the seemingly impossible. I want to read books about survival and endurance. I want to figure out the secret to focus. An ultra runner focuses only on running, believing they can run, and figuring out how to be a better runner.

I don’t want to be Try-Curious. I just want to be whatever I am. So why can’t I?

I think that the secret is confidence. The secret is giving into the risk/reward and realizing that the risk is worth the reward. I’m never satisfied with anything else I try because my version of the story is better than the reality. Because, well, I’m a writer. So why do I keep denying it? Why do I keep ignoring it? I suppose I just don’t believe in myself.

The best writers focus every ounce of themselves on writing and they can do that only because they believe in themselves.

Murakami writes from 3 AM to 7 AM every day. In a recent interview Michael Chabon said that he writes from 10 PM to 3 AM five days a week. Stephen King writes something like 6-8 hours a day every day without exception and so does Joyce Carol Oates. About a month ago I heard an interview with the popular romance writer Brenda Jackson. She said she got up at 3 AM every day to “writer her little stories” before getting her kids ready for school.

These are bestsellers and Pulitzer Prize winners. Why are they so successful? Because they just write and write and write. It is their priority.

I think that’s why I try try try and never love anything else I do. All I want to do is write and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. The rest is simply a series of distractions because I don’t believe in my ability to be a writer. I just have to find the confidence to make writing my priority. I have to stop listening to others opinions and I have to stop giving into my fears.

So there it is in plain black and white.

And here I am evaluating my goals. How can I give the most time to writing?

I cannot give up running or preparing nutritious meals because those things keep me alive, sane, and healthy. I can’t quit my day job because that pays the bills. So there is only one thing left.

I’ve been spending all this time researching craft fairs and how to start online businesses and how to make patterns and I’m realizing that what was fun as a hobby bores me to tears when I consider it as a serious enterprise.

I know I’ve really lost track because I’ve spent hours thinking of silly names I could give to breads when I open a bakery (current favorite a Naan bread called “Mahatma Naan-dhi”). But wait, we were sewing here.

And then there’s the enormous amount of time it takes to run a business. When I think about it I want to puke. Applying for loans and hiring accountants and sewing and mailing and sewing and mailing. But when I think about writing I feel like this:

So why not just do it? Why not just run through the hills and throw caution to the wind? Why not dedicate this year to nothing but running and writing? Why not indeed. So here I go jumping without a parachute.

I hereby dedicate myself to writing and running until serious illness, injury, or death prevents me from doing either. I don’t need an MFA, I don’t need approval, I don’t need a back up plan. I will either die a writer or die knowing I tried to be a writer with all my heart and soul and I will die satisfied because it’s all I ever really wanted to be.

Death of the Life of the Mind

Here, a week late, is my September in review.

Reading: 

Eat and Run by Scott Jurek

The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway

A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

Total pages= 695

Writing: 

I discussed my writing breakthroughs for this month in my September 16th post Flex. Unfortunately, I did not meet my submission deadline for this month. My excuse=one dead cat+two friends in need of my support. I will address the dead cat in more detail later in the post. I suppose that November 1st I will have to submit two stories instead of one to make up for my delinquency.

Nutrition:

I discussed my nutrition breakthroughs for this month in my September 26th post Simplify, Simplify. Shortly after writing that post I made the decision to cut meat out of my diet completely. I’ve never really been a huge fan of meat (with the exception of bacon…I do like bacon). As I child I always remember eating meat because I felt like I should, never because I wanted too. Really, I showed up to meals for the sides and desserts. I also seem to have some trouble digesting meat which demotes it further in the food hierarchy of my mind.

In high school I tried to be a vegetarian but I didn’t take care to eat well and often felt ill and listless. A girl cannot live on pasta and candy alone. I remember a doctor or some other adult telling me that vegetarian diets were unhealthy, which is total bullhockey, so I began eating meat again.

Anyways, I’ve been a vegetarian for a few weeks now and I feel great. It could be the absence of  that hard to digest animal protein in my system, or my increased vegetable consumption, or just the calming of my conscious. Regardless of the reason I feel light and fast. My running time has improved. I feel satisfied after meals. My sugar cravings have decreased.

I could discuss the environmental and health benefits of vegetarianism and I could go into the horrors of factory farms. I could talk about why I love animals. There could be a lecture or lesson here but others have written about vegetarianism more eloquently than I could ever possibly hope to. I’m particularly fond of the recent book by Jonathan Safran Foer called Eating Animals. Foer’s book is well researched and beautifully written but shocking so skip it if you are the sort who’d rather not think about that sort of thing. Other good books on the subject include The Omnivore’s Dilemma  by Michael Pollan and Diet for a New America by John Robbins (which I have not read but which comes highly recommended). If you are not into reading try the documentary Forks Over Knives. 

In the month of September I lost a total of 5 lbs which brings my weight down to 160 lbs. Only 15 lbs to go until I reach my goal weight.

Fitness:

I’m feeling like I really was born to run (and yoga). In August I focused too much on H.I.T. (high intensity interval training) which left my joints feeling a little creaky. Since I am missing much of the cartilage in my left knee (a short but ridiculous story I am choosing to omit) jumping and squatting and moving side to side a lot really takes a toll on my joints. My knee also makes this sickening crackling sound when I move that way. So in September I’ve been focusing more on running and using yoga to cross-train.

Right now I’m running between 2-3 miles four days a week and 5-6 miles one day a week. I intend to incorporate some more specified training in the future but lately I’ve just been running how I want to run. Three days a week I’ve been throwing in some yoga to stretch and tone. I’m really digging my exercise routine of late. The best part, I think, is that running makes me get outside and explore while bonding with my dog and sucking up my daily dose of vitamin D.

Crafting:

I’ve finished about half of an apron. I guess I’ll have to owe two crafts next month along with my two story submissions.

On Dead Cats:

On September 29th my oldest cat, Squigman, passed. He did not go softly into the sweet night. He fought for his life with every ounce of strength in his little furry body. In the end it was his brain that betrayed him. According to the vet he was in perfect health but his brain just shut down and when the brain switched off the lights everything stopped working.

Sometimes I feel silly for being so distraught over the death of a cat. Over the last week I’ve repeatedly burst into crying fits at the thought of Squigman’s life or death (I’m crying even now as I write this). I’ve imagined seeing him in the bedroom, where he spent most of his final months, and then become upset when I realize I’ve only seen a pile of clothes or a bunched up blanket.

Squigman died at the vet while I was at work. When I came to retrieve him they asked me if I would like to hold his body. A million fears race through my mind. Years ago I would have said no, I would have been petrified at the thought of holding a dead body, I would have averted my eyes and paid the bill and had him taken away somewhere so that I didn’t have to think about it. And I would have regretted behaving that way. So that day I decided to confront death and hold my old friend in my arms the way I had so many times before. He was heavier than ever, still warm, and he smelled of antiseptic. They had wrapped him in a towel so I couldn’t see the blood on his body. His mouth hung open as it had in the last moments that I saw him alive. I thought I felt him breathing and then realized that I was just imagining the movement of his belly. The vet left me alone and I gently stroked my dead cat’s neck and talked to him through painful tears.

I spent a little over a decade with him but it was at that moment that I finally realized how much he meant to me. He was with me in my first apartment. He was there when I graduated college. He helped me through the deaths of family members and through a bad breakup and through other just general bad days.

In exchange for all that I gave him a home and food and love. I chose him from the animal shelter because he looked ridiculously pathetic. There were many cute kittens there but Squigman was not one of them. His head was too big for his body and it caused him to fall forward sometimes when he walked. In that huge head were two tiny green eyes that were too close together and perpetually gunked up and crusty. I wish I had a picture but I adopted him before I owned a digital camera or a phone with a camera in it (gasp). There may be one of those old fashioned film photos somewhere but I couldn’t begin to guess where I could have squirreled it away.

Despite his dopey appearance as a kitten Squigman grew into a handsome man. He weighed in at around twenty pounds and would let all of that weight relax into your arms when you held him. Most cats won’t allow you to cradle them like a child but Squigman seemed to prefer it. I often held him in my arms like a teddy bear when I went to sleep–now the hour before sleep is the time when I miss him most of all.

I took Squigman home and my husband and I buried him. In the days that followed I tried not to think at all because thinking led to crying. I distracted myself by going out or cleaning or watching movies or running. By the end of the week the grief began to clear and I felt not only strong but stronger than before. The world looked somehow different than it had. I suppose it looked less permanent but also, strangely, more vibrant.

I know that I did everything I could for that old cat. I’m proud of myself for facing my fears and in facing those fears I showed Squigman the same respect in death as I had in life. He deserved it after all. Goodnight old man. I’ll never forget you.