(W)ri(gh)t(e)

The other day, I posted a status about how writing lyrics is much easier than writing a fiction story--most likely because it's shorter. One of my friends replied with: "(part time) Pusher of Pens." Ha.

So right.

So, write.

Write Now.

Right now.


~Pusher.Of.Pens.~

Of all the Things I've lost...

...I miss my discipline with writing the most.

I'm beginning to think that I (along with 90% of the writers in the world) am a sadist. Who else would do this to themselves? I tease myself with the NaNoWriMo challenge (which I failed in every way possible) which came to a sudden halt with that latest batch of shit-luck, and now that things are looking up (I'm not homeless, my temp job is now a permanent job with benefits), I'm all vermischt about the holidays (One of my coworkers uses many Yiddish phrases; I've been picking it up).

Today I wrote for about an hour, then got distracted by music. But I NEED music to write. Especially because there is something loud in the apartment, and I think it's the fridge. The hum actually keeps me up at night. The wine could possibly be exacerbating this issue, but you just don't tell a writer to give up her muse (seriously, it's been helping).

I've come up with this crazy hare-brained goal of actually having something worth reading by the end of spring. For me, that's like, late May.

Which means I have 5 months to write this novel(la): including numerous rewrites, a couple pair of eyes not belonging to me, sleepless nights, crying, self-injury and lots and lots of wine.

So glad I got this pay raise.

Here's to the 22nd attempt at keeping up the blog, and keeping up the writing.

I swear, the only constant going for me right now is knitting.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files 3:

(aka "Let it Go, Let it Go, Let it Go, Let it Go...")

Okay, so let me start this off by saying:

I'm kinda homeless.

Well--in between apartments, I suppose. Because of this, I had to put all of my belongings into storage until things were figured out. I spent ALL of Saturday with a friend packing up my things and getting them to a storage facility.

It's in these moments that you reevaluate your worth in possessions. What do my things say about me? Why do I have this item? What would it mean if I threw it away?

I don't know how it happened, but I managed to practically fill an 8x8 storage space with all of my belongings. Of course, I could barely fit it all into my studio, so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. But really, what is all this shit?

Toward the end of the storage journey, I found myself on the elevator with 5 bags thrown over me, and all I could think of was Erykah Badu's fantastic lyrics:

"Bag lady, you gon' hurt yo back...Draggin all dem bags like that. I guess nobody ever told you, all you must hold onto, is you, is you, is you...."

I know it was more metaphorical than literal, but there's something to be said about those of us who cannot easily let go of our belongings. How do we look at life? Do we let situations roll off our backs, or do we hang onto them, like the sweater that doesn't fit us anymore and has a hole, but we can't bear to throw out? And for me personally, does this reflect my current situation?

I used to save love notes shared between me and my exes. At first, I rationalized it as my enjoyment of the written word; a way to document expression between two people in love. But after some time, I began to notice that I would look at these letters and this wave of nostalgia would wash over me...with a pinch of regret, or maybe anger at having been so stupid to be in love with that person. How could I not have seen the writing on the wall? or Why didn't I follow my instincts? This lack of ability to let go of the past would prevent me from growing in relationships because I was too busy hanging onto these experiences; these people.

Perhaps when I am able to move my belongings back into an abode, I will seriously consider what I take with me. I know that I have things strictly for sentimental value, which isn't bad. I keep my sister's jacket, and I wear her ring every day. These things I don't personally see as a hindrance. But the love letters, or maybe an item of clothing kept from an ex, a sign of a mistake made, or an unwelcome gift could keep you from moving on. Sometimes constant reminders of the past can trap you in that mindset.

I think it may be time to do some cleaning out. I'd like to make some room for my future.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

NaNoWriMo UhOhMoFo

That's right, kiddies. NaNoWriMo starts in 4 Minutes, I've got a notebook and pen in my lap, all of my notes and plot points around me, and I'm ready to go.

And a little scared shitless.

What if I can't keep up?

What if I run out of steam?

What if I get distracted by trivial things?

Oh yeah, that's right--I won't.

I'm registered on the site. If any of you are doing it too, let me know. We can do a write-in together. I'll give you one hint about my screenname: It begins with 'Pusher', and ends with 'ofPens'. I mean, what else am I going to use? It's tattooed on my body, and is hella motivational.

So, this blog will probably begin to be more active with updates about the masochistic joy I get out of literary expression.

And now it's midnight. Gotta jet.

~Pusher.Of.Pens.~

Hey!

Hey guys.

You know that thing you've been wanting to do? You know, that thing that you always plan on doing but something usually comes up and keeps you from being able to do that thing?

Well, no more excuses. No time like the present. Do it.

It's all about action. We can sit around here thinking about it, but it's not going to get us anywhere. You know, like the disgruntled music/movie snobs that use their displaced anger to make others feel unimportant and small because they don't have the talent/drive/mental capacity to do it themselves. Those people sit around and think. And brood. And as for quality of life?

Shot to shit by copious amounts of drinking/cocaine and prescription pill abuse.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, right--Get up and do something. Or else you'll become a loser. In life.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files 2:

NO ESCAPE. (Or, 'I Remind Me of You')

I saw my mother this morning as I was getting ready for an interview. Not physically (She’s in Michigan, or Philadelphia, or something), but in everything I did. I was running around in my nylons and a blouse, putting on lipliner and drinking coffee. As I finished applying my lipstick in the mirror, there she was staring back at me. I did a double-take. Did I just encounter a Freaky Friday moment? I don’t remember eating Chinese food the last time my mom was in town. Oh wait, no, it’s me. I’m just TURNING INTO MY MOTHER.

Perhaps part of it was the fact that I actually had nylons on-- nylons are one of those items of clothing that are on the borderline of being both vintage and timeless; It’s like my friend and I joked: nothing makes a twenty-something feel dated like a pair of nylons (Unless she’s Amy Post’s protégée.)-- but there was no denying how much of her I saw in myself.

This wasn’t the first time I saw her, though. One time before, I saw her hand reach down to pet Gretchen--long thin fingers, veins pronounced under brown skin. I stared at my hand for a moment. So did Gretchen, but I think it was more out of impatience. My hand looked so foreign and so familiar at the same time.

You know, I can’t tell you how many times I or one of my girlfriends has said, “I will not become my mother/father when I grow up!” We spend so much time rebelling against everything our parents represent, that we don’t realize that their habits and words during our formative and teenage years stick with us. It’s an unplanned tradition of sorts, and reminds me of a fine (although offbeat) wine. It sits deep in our psyche, untouched, until it’s ready to come out in that perfect situation... be it a commonly used phrase, a mannerism or strange habit. Then, there you are, face to face with THEM, and there’s really nothing you can do about it.

Personally, I was relieved to see my mother. I spent most of my life being told I was a carbon copy of my father in looks, habits, talent, even facial contortions. To see my mother in the mirror makes me feel a little like I have finally ‘become a woman’. At 25, no less.

Every aspect of my getting ready reminded me of mornings--Sunday mornings, especially-- when I would watch my mother get ready for church. She would run around half-dressed, coffee in hand, the wonderful scent of White Diamonds perfume and deodorant flooding my nose as she whisked back and forth, fixing her hair, fixing my hair, putting on her jewelry, waking up my father....

I wonder if that’s what the kids see on Sunday mornings with her now. I wonder if the girls will see that in themselves later in life. Will it be as comforting for them as it is for me? Will I come out in them in some way? I know I’m just a big sister, but still... I can't help but hope I make that kind of impression on someone if I end up not having kids.

If nothing else, that is one hell of a way to haunt someone for the rest of their lives.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files:

One is the Loneliest (and most Freeing) Number.

Independence. Everyone at some point crave independence--and why wouldn’t they? We spend (normally) 16-20 years of our lives depending on our guardians for food and shelter, at the very least. And then suddenly we’re doing it all--Working a job, paying bills, complaining or drooling over pesky/hot neighbors, creating a social life on a tiny budget, and eating food that isn’t our Mom’s.

For some, this moment doesn’t come at all. I know women who got married straight out of school and into a life of codependence. That’s great, but this post will not relate to you in any way. Go on--click on another tab. You’re not allowed to continue.

I don’t know about anyone else, but there aren’t any classes in high school or college that can ever really prepare you for Living on Your Own. It’s part of the Core Curriculum at the School of Hard Knocks, however, and you’d better ace it right away.

I didn’t get my first apartment by myself until last June, just before my 24th birthday. Before that, I lived with friends over a couple of Summers, then my parents, then a fiance, then back with the parents, then my best friend for a year. I was so excited to finally have a place of my own, I assumed that all of the mistakes I made in my past living situations would make this time so much easier. Who would’ve thought that there were more mistakes to be made?

First of all, location was at the top of my list for both the right and wrong reasons. Sure, my place is sinfully close to the El and CTA, there are two grocery stores, a coffee shop, a 24 hour drug store, and numerous cheap eats within two blocks of me. And to top it all off, it’s right by the water. But I chose it because it was also near my then-boyfriend (who i broke up with at the end of July), fit my budget (kinda) and the building accepted me readily. I didn’t look anywhere else; things had become strained living with my best friend, and I wanted out before we started hating each other. So I took it, optimistic that this would be a great decision.

I quickly learned that acceptance isn’t always a good thing, and convenience does not equal safety. About 5 months in, I noticed a pattern of interesting characters milling in and out of the building, and they sure as hell weren’t high on life. I rode the elevator with a woman asking me for money to get her something to eat. I watched a cockroach crawl from my open window into my apartment.

After doing a little research, I also learned that a woman was murdered in my apartment about 5 years ago--strangled to death. Hello, deadbolt lock. I now understand your presence. There’s a blog based out of Edgewater that gives the local news, be it crime, events, local businesses, and the like. I read recent stories of crimes happening a block away from me, or on my street, a mere 3 hours before I arrived home.

Did I mention that I am living on my own? I mean, my cat Gretchen is my darling little huntress in her own right, but that’s usually for predators smaller than a bottle of nail polish.

So what did I do? I had recently started seeing another guy, and found myself staying at his place half of the week. It made my commute to work longer, and I traveled twice as much, just to go home, feed Gretchen, pack clothes and go back to his place.

This is no way to live. It got to the point that when I did stay alone (and now I am single again so that is a lot more often), I was incredibly uncomfortable. I wasn’t happy with my apartment; it didn’t feel like mine, and while I got over the original fear for my safety while at home, I had a lot of trouble sleeping. When you get your own place, you want to make it a refuge that you return to after a long day (or night). You kick back in your undies on your cheap/free sofa/futon, do whatever makes you feel good, and fall asleep knowing that this is all yours. That’s living the dream in your early to mid twenties, isn’t it?

So I did what any broke kid stuck in an 18-month lease could do: I rearranged and reconfigured. Dear readers, this is something that I think people forget about when they find themselves stuck in a rut: To make a change on a smaller level. Here’s what I did:

~~I Mixed it up a Bit: I felt like the current set up in my studio made it seem smaller, so I arranged it to accentuate that I had a long, narrow apartment that really can’t be cut up into sections, and I keep my closet/bathroom doors open. Now the room flows easily.

~~I put more Things on the wall: A fan, posters I snagged from random events, concert tickets, hell--post its and scraps of paper of things I don’t want to forget. My niece sent me a painting of a lion, and as soon as I buy a frame, it’s going up on my wall too.

~~I Added a little Green: I got the cheapest and easiest plants to care for--a bamboo plant, and a Pothos plant (you know the ones; they’re just green mid-size leaves that grow in abundance on long green vines. Cut off a piece and put it in a wine/liquor bottle filled with water; they don’t even need dirt to keep growing.)

~~I Feed the Senses: I Burn a candle or incense as soon as I get home. I put on some music AS SOON AS I GET HOME. This quells the quiet of being alone.

~~I try to have People over: This makes me a little more conscious of my living space. I make sure I can accommodate my guests’ needs (be it as simple as a glass of water and a place to sit, and a comfortable room temp). Also, getting compliments on my place, like, ‘Oh wow, this is So You,’ make me feel like my personality is coming through, and that makes for a home worthy to chill in.

This makes my apartment more bearable. No need to go Martha Stewart on the place, just put some of yourself into it. But make sure you’re getting out, too. Go hang with friends doing what you love to do; just don’t forget about your own lair--because you can’t get used to it and love it without being there to make it yours.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~