Pop Quiz

It was at dinner with friends. Or was it Christmas at the in-laws when your husband introduced you to the neighbors?  You just remember that you were literally against a wall, trying to avoid that conversation starter until you were ready. But then a flurry of people came in and you just had to be introduced; it would be bad etiquette if you didn't. Which is probably why it happened. Your fight or flight reaction kicked in, and you always fly. Your mind sprinted to the nearest door that had the answer. You're breathing normally, so at least you are not having a panic attack just yet. However you feel your eyes widen as you see the oncoming question.

"What do you do?"
I'm a writer.
"What do you write?
Oh short stories for now.  A novel eventually.

It was the Freudian slip you weren't ready to tell people just yet.  You had hoped by the time people would inquiry about your new position there would be something to show for it.  However those were people who knew that you took the leap.  Or the fall as you often refer to it because it's only a matter of time before you hit the bottom. Right now you are just floating. These are people you've never met. Before it was simple you could have an answer that people had a vague idea what you did. But you don't do that now.  Now your hole is dug, so prepare to get comfortable. 

People always seem to catch you at the one moment when you were doing nothing.  Perhaps that why you work so hard at everything you do. Then again you had to say something.  You are too old to be the shy person hiding behind the tallest person next to you.  Besides, it never worked when you were young anyways because your mother would never let you.

And if you keep telling enough people perhaps it will eventually come true, right? 

Now it just sounds too much like a white lie.

Empty. Hollow. Just a bit fake.  A word with no substance that was simply left hanging in mid-sentence.  You don't like that feeling.  It's as simple as that.  You are not one of those people who say something and not mean it.  It's a flaw that you have.  After years and years you've finally accepted it.  Just like how you cannot feign niceties no matter how hard you try.  So it's hard enough to tell people you are a writer who has only just begun to write.

What do you have to show for it?  Nothing.  Just notes here and there. To show them a notebook of potential ideas would be like handing in a thesis with at least ten possible conclusions.  Nothing you can hypothetically present to them and say "This is what I've written."

You never would but at least you have evidence. 

Which means you must write something. A phrase. A sentence. A paragraph. A page. This is the unexpected push you need to write.  If you keep up this life that you must keep writing until it is true. You must take those whimisical, witty thoughts that come to you throughout the hours of the days and string them together into something singular and coherent.  In other words you need to give yourself purpose.  Suddenly it occurs to you that you really have been caught doing nothing.

You've been biding your time until a vision comes to you and hands you your book without any effort.  Waiting until you tire of the freedom of being able to do whatever is your whim, and say to yourself "this is enough, I'm ready to go back." But you don't want to go back to that rigid schedule of mundane tasks.  This is the first time in a long while where you have to make yourself productive.  Up until this point you've been doing nothing but busy work.  Isn't it about time that you create something that you can show and tell?

With each person you tell you must prove them them and yourself that you do what you say you are. And you can't do that without writing.  Not just writing, but organizing those creative thoughts into directional roads that you can finally walk on.  It's a reason they call it the road less traveled. You can't sneak by that inevitable question because it will always come up. 

Always.

And you will always have to give the same answer, unless want to give up this dream.  Since you don't, you should probably practice at least saying it. Eventually your voice will strengthen each time someone inquires about your occupation. Your throat will not stutter nor will your voice have that meek and mousy tone. No more awkward pauses hoping they will forget what they just asked.

It will be assertive and confident. One day you will even mean it.

Now say it with me (it really is on the tip of your tongue): 

You are a writer.

Procrastination Won't Reach Your Destination

It's weird that when someone says they're following their dreams, the initial response has been "You've taking the plunge."

Making the very thought of pursuing dreams absolutely terrifying.  Plunge into what? Black?  Nothingness? Darkness? A deep hole that you can't hear the bottom even though you tossed a rock?  The Niagara Falls?  However plunging down Niagara Falls in only a barrel is probably pretty terrifying.

Which makes pursuing dreams seem very wrong because everyone is scared for you. You've abandoned the norm of earning stable income that ensures a invisible safety net to something in the future you haven't experienced yet because it is the future. You're an adult now, whatever that means.  Go out in the world, find a job and earn money to support yourself into retirement. Dreams are for children. Unless that dream somehow profits, then it's okay.

And when you've said you are going to be a writer, it seems very, very wrong.  Anyone can write. You can get almost any job by writing. You had a good job that pays enough.  You had a job.  Do you know hard it is to get a job? Do you remember how hard it was to get that job?

So what do you do now?

You could stay in bed all day staring at the cracks in the ceiling. 
You could sleep until your head is groggy from too much sleep; the only cure is more sleep.
You could make a giant breakfast and leave the dishes dirty until dinner.
You could finally play all the video games that you've been meaning to get to.
You could watch all the bad movies on Netflix. All of them.
You could update your Facebook status constantly.
You could stare at Facebook until someone else updates their status.
You could eat all junk food that exists in the apartment (i.e. leftover Halloween candy).
You could take a long bath even though you float, making the point of a bath useless.
You could stay up all night without worrying about work the next day.
You could be a lazy, useless person who has decided to not be part of working society.
You could do absolutely nothing.

But that's not what you set out to do. You've created the opportunity to make your own work, your own schedule, and your own career. 

Which also makes it very surreal, even after a week. Less a bottomless hole more like Alice in the rabbit hole down (or up) to Wonderland - falling deeper and deeper where rules become more like guidelines. 

You can do nothing; you can do everything.

So you make the effort of some structure.  Set your alarm for 7:30AM (8:30AM on the weekends) and allow yourself one ten-minute snooze. Make a simple breakfast, preferably one that requires only one pan. Turn on the radio instead of Netflix to avoid visual distraction. Open OpenOffice and let words come to you.

And you can't leave the chair until you do.

Exception: when you realize you're feet are becoming numb from sitting on them because it gives you the right height to type. At this point you should probably move around.

Eat the Muffin

There is an art to cooking and cleaning that people don’t realize. Although working full-time doesn’t allow me the hours I could readily devote to improving our apartment as much as I would like, I’ve slowly realized it has become a meditative process. I use to fervently clean the area around me before I could write or leisurely do something personally enjoyable.

Piece-mailing tasks doesn’t work. Knowing that one section is completely spotless still leaves you with a billion other to-does that you’ve been meaning to get around to. And it piles so high you can’t see the end.

It’s also true that cleanliness is close to godliness. In the sense of reaching a stage of life free of any obstacle holding you back from fully concentrating on you. Without distractions. Without the thought of “I will do it later.” You have the option to do whatever you choose because there are no distractions. You’ve eliminated them all. Which is why it’s so hard to attain because there is also something left to do. Always.

Cooking seems to have replaced this innate desire for neatness. Clear, concise, and you could clearly see the ends to the means. A lot like writing when you’ve completed a story or series of thoughts. My own creative writing voice often comes in the form of stream-of-consciousness. No outlines to know where it should go. No formulaic writing prompts to get the ball rolling. Just free writing that rolls with whatever words come out of one’s head until it’s done.

I tend to cook without a recipe. My parents never did and in pure irony I never watched them cooked. It’s better that way, I find, to take ingredients, a bit of salt, a pinch of pepper (always pepper), and hope that it tastes great. What baffles me is that it always does. It amazes me that sprinkle of salt over vegetables can add flavor to a dish. I’m also never sure what I’m making. Only that I “think” it will taste good. However there is always something missing; an ingredient that should’ve made it better. When it comes to writing or editing, I’m never satisfied and everything needs at least a revision--whether I like it or not.

It pains me in a way, knowing this epiphany.

I have watched and sometimes helped my mother bake. Baking is often tricky because one needs to follow a recipe to the T lest you end up with something unappetizing. Last night I baked muffins and made several mistakes. I grated zucchini with the small grater before using the larger one. I mixed sugar with all the dry ingredients when it should’ve been with vanilla, zucchini and eggs. There was more nutmeg than cinnamon due to a miscalculation of stock. At the last minute, I added chocolate chips because there was a bag I had been meaning to use. When the batter looked too thick, I ceremoniously poured milk in splashes.

All the while I never thought about whether it would turn out edible or not. I was simply enjoying the process of baking and adding as needed because it “felt right.”

Although my husband is happy to taste test anything, I still find his opinion was biased and has the obligation to say “it tastes delicious.” Only when I shove the other half my mouth in one go that I see all the mistakes like Auntie Lindo. Too dry. Too cakey. Needed to add more milk. Maybe walnuts for a slight crunch. While I kept denying it, he kept saying not to beat myself up over it. Which is something I still have to learn to accept when it comes to writing.

You are your own harshest critic and will never be satisfied.

Accept it. Move on. Eat the muffin.

It’s going to taste good no matter what you do. Unless you accidentally add baking soda instead of baking powder.

I still feel that if I start a creative piece I’ll just see the endless plotlines that I’m unsure what to choose. There are too many holes and details to figure out. Not enough time to actually figure them out. I won’t learn until I actually commit thought to paper.

Otherwise it’s just vegetables and spices on a countertop with a cutting board and knives. Just rotting until I do.