These past years...

As certain things in my life seem to be coming together at last, I find myself thinking about the tempestuous waves that crashed against the walls of my beliefs, my self-image, and my entire thinking over the past few years. I started this post with many different headings, and then realized they are all equally important in sparking my journey toward who I'm beginning to become (though I'm not even close to getting there...).

The first thing I would like to mention is empowerment. Before I was able to figure anything out about myself, I was given (so, so generously by those close to me) a powerful feeling of "I can do this." I can get to know myself. (Amazing that it takes such a strong will in order to get to know one's self.) This feeling had to be renewed numerous times. I had to be reminded and re-empowered so often, it felt embarrassing. I felt like a horrible student of life, of myself. The patience I was met with and the persistence of people who empowered me was (and is) a tremendous gift. I think I've abused this gift, nearly, or maybe I'm just capable of empowering myself on my own now (even if it's not always easy...) and my friends know it. Either way, I've learned to dig into what's important about me and bring out that powerful feeling on my own. It's not always easy (I'm not always very good at it and still trip over myself doing it) and I don't always like that somewhat lonely feeling of "you're on your own now", but...I can do it.

After I felt empowered enough, I was able to recognize what was great about me, what was not so great, and, most importantly, what was true. This leads me to my next thing. Honesty.

Honesty is probably one of the most important lenses through which to see the world, others, and yourself. If you take only one thing away from reading this blog, please let it be the importance of clearing away everyone else's voices and opinions and what They say (whoever They are) and approaching the world and everything in it with true honesty. I had to work at being honest with myself. I had to word really hard. I'm not even that good at it yet. But I know that it is important, and I'm aware when I'm not being honest, even if there are times when I don't want to be honest and prevent myself from doing so. But I know what I'm doing - and that's an improvement.

Honest extends beyond the self, too. Do you really believe what you say you believe? I don't know everything I believe, but I think I know certain things I don't believe. Or maybe not. I'm not sure. But in any case, I don't like to say or do things just to make a point unless I can really, honestly say I believe in those things. I don't believe in just doing things to make points.

...I guess that's not really beyond the self, is it? But looking at the world honestly is important, too. Ultimately, I suppose it all reflects back on you, and so, in a way, it's all part of you, even as it extends beyond you. (I'm sorry if I've lost all of you in my rambling here...).

The last thing I thought of to mention is improvisation. I don't always know everything I believe, and I'm usually uncomfortable making across-the-board declarations. But as situations come up, I try and understand how I really feel about them, and I base my decisions on that. I remember a time some years ago when I first started dating. A friend of mine asked me a number of questions about my hashkafic beliefs and to each of them I stupidly answered, "I don't know..." To a lot of those questions, I'd still probably fumble around with some sort of incoherent answer, or just say I don't really know, because the truth is, I really don't know. Not hypothetically. But in actual situations, I find myself feeling certain ways, and then I'm not always as ignorant and lost about my beliefs as I am when trying to think about them on a hypothetical plane.

...I don't think what I'm trying to say is actually coming out right. I'm just thinking out loud, really. Most of these ideas are not mine, or not mine originally, but belong to other people who have inspired me. And who knows, maybe those people will say the ideas belong to people who've inspired them, or belong to humanity as a whole. Either way, I believe I'm a better, stronger person because of these (and other) ideas.

In some ways, growth hurts. It's like emotional and spiritual growing pains. It hurts to feel lost and confused and distraught. And, later, it hurts to feel others stepping away, giving you the space you need to pedal forward on your own. But I suppose it's just a change of relationship, really. They're not going away. They're just shifting places. Or maybe you are. Side-by-side instead of one supporting the other. Maybe.

For some people, my thoughts, my ideas, my opinions, the way I am will probably never really be quite good enough. The things I say, the way I think, my relationships, my performance...they're all always going to be...not quite there. Missing something. Needing something more.

I've learned not to care (much) about that. I can't. It only brings me down. Besides, the point isn't to be good enough for someone else. It's to be good enough for myself.

Where am I going with this? Have I confused everyone?

December Thirty-First, Two Thousand And Nine

December 31, 2009. A day that will live in...disappointment. And, hopefully, growth.

I remember the day I turned ten. My whole life prior, I told people I was a single digit years old. That magical single digit. I was one, I was two, I was three, four, five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Those years where only the children belong. I only had that for nine years. Then I left it behind forever. I turned ten. I joined the ranks of the double-digits. For most of the rest of my life, I would be double-digits years old.

Ten.

Ten is the beginning of a new kind of growth. You're still an innocent, carefree little kid...except then you become eleven. You are a preteen. You have preteen angst, even as you turn twelve, and then at thirteen you leave even that behind and turn into a teenager. Fourteen and you're in high school. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. College.

The new millennium is about to turn ten. And where am I?

Two summers ago, I started working on a project. A piece of writing. It was just a little piece of writing then. I didn't even think it would mean anything more than an email venting my frustration in the form of a two paragraph story.

But this piece of writing grew. For a year and a half, I have written - and not written - around that first email. I'd spend many, many days - weeks - not writing anything at all. And then inspiration would strike and I'd churn out another little writing episode. That's all it was. A collection of writing episodes.

But by the end of this year - by the end of December 31, 2009, I'm supposed to have a first draft of a novel. And I don't. Not even close.

So I'm sorry to anyone who was expecting me to have completed that draft. And I'm sorry to myself, because it's myself who I've let down the most.

I really dislike being disappointing. And I'm sad that I have to end the year feeling like I did not accomplish what I should have accomplished.

One thing I learned through months of experience now is that it is extremely difficult to write creatively when you are not inspired to. And that is what being a writer is all about - writing under all conditions: when people are around, when people are not around, when it's too loud, when it's too quiet, when it's too hot, too cold, when you're exhausted, or when you really want to get out and do something. Being a writer is not writing whenever the fancy takes hold of you. It's writing even when you don't feel like it - because you have to. You have to for you and you have to for your story. And I desperately want to be that kind of writer. A real one. One who is primarily writing, not occasionally writing. It's a lot harder than I thought.

I don't want to give up. I can't give up. I'll never forgive myself if I do. So I hope that no one loses faith in me, even if I am disappointing right now. It's about to be 2010. A new year for writing. If I've learned anything, it's that you can't be a writer based on talent alone. I don't have a natural skill for perseverance, but I sure am going to try and develop one.

And one thing that redeems this post is that it is part of my novel, too. And it's 637 words.

Here's to a new year of writing, and of reaching any goal just within your grasp. I hope you all accomplish everything you set out to do, and remember, even if you fail, a new fight starts tomorrow. Make it count.

-----

My ical alarm just went off. A little message popped up on my screen saying, “300 pages of novel due.” I wish so badly that I was there. I’m so sorry that I’m not. So disappointed.

But…I am closer every day to finishing this ever-growing piece of writing. And I am at least a hundred pages closer to having a real novel than I’ve ever been in my entire life. That’s not nothing. I hope my book continues to grow and develop as it should, and at a more regular, steady pace.

Ordinary Inspiration

What I am about to write came from a specific conversation, but the ideas apply to life as a whole. Many times, people ask authors where they come up with their stories from, or they get impressed by a storyteller's imagination.

Good writers make good stories, right?

I'm not so sure about that.

Life is what makes stories. Speakers and writers just take the time to notice them and tell them over. But I think more people should notice such things.

I was in a sort of speech class where everyone had to give a two-minute inspirational speech. We were told that we should speak as though we had two minutes to pass over some lesson or piece of inspiration to the whole world. Yet so many people's stories were about death and tragedy and hardship. This bothered me. Such stories can be extremely inspiring - and those particular ones were - but I decided I really did not want to go that route. There is what to be taken from all moments in life, and even the most ordinary thing or moment or person can be inspiring. The inspiration gained from major events, like tragedies or difficulties, shouldn't end with and be defined solely by that event. It should be then carried on into the rest of your life, like a catalyst for actually seeing the things in your life. The ordinary days in our lives are not filler in between the major events. We spend most of our lives having ordinary days. Would you really want to see most of your life as filler? Our ordinary lives have a greater significance than we give them credit for.

That's why I picked something more ordinary to speak about: a moment of ordinary friendship. I think we - general we - need to learn to actually see the things in our lives and realize their value, even - or maybe especially - the non-cataclysmic ones.

Too many people spoke that night - and too many people in general say this - about how they regret not showing a person they care before that person died or they regret not speaking to their father for five years or not resolving a fight with someone or not paying enough attention to someone, etc. etc. etc. And I really think we shouldn't wait to have those regrets. Relationships should be treated with care, respect, and love, not because you're afraid you might lose them but because you have them now. When things are really great, or just average, we should still appreciate those people in our lives who we really care about, for no reason other than that we care about them. It shouldn't always have to be the big stuff that wake us up and say, "Hello you idiot, remember you care about this person?" Why should it have to get to that point? Why do we take people for granted? We never should. Not every moment has to be heavy with inspiration, but that's just it. Inspiration doesn't have to be heavy. It's just that feeling of, "I really appreciate having this person in my life. It's making me really happy right now and that feeling of happiness is giving me a positive attitude towards life."

Sometimes, the best moments are sitting in a car with someone, or walking with someone, or just being in the same room as someone, and not saying anything, just thinking, but knowing that you're with someone you really care about, and who truly cares about you, and how it doesn't matter that you're not having a deep conversation or going anywhere exceptionally exciting or doing anything spectacularly life-changing. At a certain point, you don't need those big things in order to have truly important moments. The importance doesn't lie in what you're doing or saying. It lies in the bond you have with your family and friends, no matter what.

What I really mean is - I like to recognize those smaller moments. During the speeches that night, I didn't like how everyone seemed to juxtapose "inspiring" with "tragedy." Tragedy can lead to inspiring stories - but we can't live our lives off of tragedy or major obstacles. We have to live our lives off of our lives and the regular people in them. Because to us, those "regular people" are the most special people we know.

Integrity

"What is it that I like so much about the house you're building for me, Howard?"

"A house can have integrity, just like a person," said Roark, "and just as seldom."

"In what way?"

"Well, look at it. Every piece of it is there because the house needs it -- and for no other reason. You see it from here as it is inside. The rooms in which you'll live made the shape. The relation of masses was determined by the distribution of space within. The ornament was determined by the method of construction, an emphasis of the principle that makes it stand. You can see each stress, each support that meets it. Your own eyes go through a structural process when you look at the house, you can follow each step, you see it rise, you know what made it and why it stands. But you've seen buildings with columns that support nothing, with purposeless cornices, with pilasters, mouldings, false arches, false windows. You've seen buildings that look as if they contained a single large hall, they have solid columns and single, solid windows six floors high. But you enter and find six stories inside. Or buildings that contain a single hall, but with a facade cut up into the floor lines, band courses, tiers of windows. Do you understand the difference? Your house is made by its own needs. Those others are made by the need to impress. The determining motive of your house is in the house. The determining motive of the other is in the audience."

"Do you know that that's what I've felt in a way? I've felt that when I move into this house, I'll have a new sort of existence, and even my simple daily routine will have a kind of honesty or dignity that I can't quite define. Don't be astonished if I tell you that I feel as if I'll have to live up to that house."

"I intended that," said Roark.

"And, incidentally, thank you for all the thought you seem to have taken about my comfort. There are so many things I notice that had never occured to me before, but you've planned them as if you knew all my needs. For instance, my study is the room I'll need most and you've given it the dominant spot -- and, incidentally, I see where you've made it the dominant mass from the outside, too. And then the way it connects with the library, and the living room well out of my way, and the guest rooms where I won't hear too much of them -- and all that. You were very considerate of me."

"You know," said Roark, "I haven't thought of you at all. I thought of the house." He added: "Perhaps that's why I knew how to be considerate of you."

--The Fountainhead

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Last summer, I started reading The Fountainhead and felt very frustrated with it. I did not like either of the main characters, seeing them both as crazy extremes of the way one is to approach life. This summer, I am reading it again and I find it to be an interestingly, wonderfully different experience. It's amazing how much a person can change in a year. Even subtle changes can inspire drastic growths in one's outlook on the world.

This particular segment of the book is one which I feel speaks directly to me and my learning experiences this past year, so I am sharing it with you. It speaks volumes of truth to me. I hope it does to you, too.

Bringing Creativity Back

I think this is the most extraordinary video. I absolutely love it. You should all watch it - it's well worth the twenty minutes.



I believe we should really work towards a world where creativity is fostered in children and remains with them when they become adults.

Not Just For Kids

Children's books are not just for kids.

Let me say it again--

Children's books are not just for kids.

I think there is something supremely beautiful in a book that both a child and an adult can read with real seriousness. The fact is - yes, children and adults exist on different maturity levels. But they share emotions. They share thoughts about the world. Adults are still very much like children, and children are very much like adults. They understand more than most adults realize. And sometimes, if adults can let go of their egos for a little bit, they'll see that they, too, can learn and feel and see anew from a book "meant for" children.

Because here's the thing. Books are books. At the end of the day, a good book is a good book, whether it is meant for children or not. And if it is on a level that children can understand, that doesn't mean adults will find it "below them." I'm not talking about entertainment. Adults and children may have different ideas about what is entertaining. But when something speaks to the heart - it can do so on a first grade level, a fourth grade level, a sixth grade level, a tenth grade level, a college level...it doesn't matter. If it speaks to the heart, it speaks to the heart. If it talks about our world - it's the same world. We live in the same world. We all share this human experience together, no matter how old we are.

I truly do believe that some of the best books you will ever read will be the ones you read when you were ten. Or seven. Or twelve. If you go back and read those books that made you cry when you were a kid, or even ones that gave you shivers because they were just that good, you'll see that they deal with a lot of the same issues and ideas as adult books. Because life isn't childproof. Real events are not split up into a "children's section" and an "adult section." Life happens to all of us at all ages. And we all feel real emotions. We all think real thoughts. We are all philosophers at all stages of life. If anything, the only books that have ever made me cry - or get the good sort of shivers - have been children's books. Adult books are so worried about sounding profound or intelligent, they often drown their ability to reach out and touch you. I'm not knocking adult books. But I think there is a way of reaching out that is unique to children's books - or perhaps the rare adult book - and that should not be belittled. It's different, not babyish.

I'm not really sure why I did it, but today I decided I wanted to read a book I had not read in a very long time. I don't think I've really opened it since I was ten. I still remember when I read it. In fifth grade, we had a literary club during lunch for those students who liked to read. It was run by the teacher of the other fifth grade class and we read books like The Witch of Blackbird Pond and Tuck Everlasting. Today I took down from my shelf another book we read called Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech. The title comes from the saying, "Don't judge a man until you walk two moons in his moccasins." And even though this book is probably on a twelve year old reading level, it made me cry. Simpler writing does not mean stupid writing. It means writing that can reach inside and gently touch you, maybe even hug you, because it's telling you something difficult or powerful or both. And sometimes this simplicity is what makes it powerful. It's a voice that speaks to all, not just to a select few. Sometimes life is not about being one of a select few. It's not about being the best or smartest or most sophisticated in order to understand what some great philosopher is saying. Sometimes life is just about communicating. Understanding. Reaching out.

"It seems to me that we can't explain all the truly awful things in the world like war and murder and brain tumors, and we can't fix these things, so we look at the frightening things that are closer to us and we magnify them until they burst open. Inside is something that we can manage, something that isn't as awful as it had at first seemed. It is a relief to discover that although there might be axe murderers and kidnappers in the world, most people seem a lot like us: sometimes afraid and sometimes brave, sometimes cruel and sometimes kind." --Walk Two Moons

Tell me that is not something adults think about, too. Even struggle with. I dare you to tell me that. Because even though this book is written using simpler words - words that children can understand, it is not a children's book. It is a person's book. A book for the inhabitants of this world - all inhabitants.

And sometimes, if you're looking for inspiration, for soft words of advice...if you're looking for someone to lift you up and tell you it'll be alright...it's right there in your favorite books from when you were seven. From when you would hide away under your blankets reading late at night with a flashlight so your parents wouldn't know, giggling in a hushed sort of way and wiping your eyes with your sleeve at some parts, until you would fall asleep and be carried off into dreams that would lift you up - just like the book. And tell you that it'll be alright.

Ducks Fly Together

Also - don't forget to be yourself. :)

A Preface To Nowhere, A Chapter Of Nothing

Preface

There's this strange dialectic that happens on Fridays, usually right after candle lighting. You suddenly think of something you'd really like to do but can't on Shabbos. This then proceeds to torment you the entire Shabbos until immediately after Havdalah where you rush to whatever it was.

For a writer, this is extremely difficult. The best ideas always come on Shabbos. This makes perfect sense, of course; on Shabbos, the regular distractions from the week are gone and you actually have time and space to think (what a concept). This sort of time and space is not physical. You can't tell me - well, during the random hours of free time you have during the week, you could get the same ideas!

...No. It has to be coupled with a mental relaxation that only comes with the sweeping peace of Shabbos. I suppose that is what I meant a few posts ago when I said I write better when I don't think. It's not that I'm not thinking. It's that I'm mentally relaxed.

Some might say that I can achieve this state of mental (and emotional) relaxation even during the week if I lived out of town. And perhaps that's true - I wouldn't know. But that is beside the point entirely.

The point is - when it comes to creativity, you've got to grab onto it when it comes to you. So how can you do that on Shabbos when you can't write anything down? How can you make sure you don't lose your inspiration without also overfocusing on it on Shabbos?

Chapter One

I was particularly early for the train home today - so early, in fact, that the track had not even been posted yet. Instead of waiting around in the middle of Penn Station, staring up at the information board in perfect unison with everyone else (they all look like a herd of penguins, don't they? Standing in a miscellanious group looking up with the same tilt of the head - same to very angle degree - and the same harried expression on their faces, each one occasionally looking down at a watch and then back up again like they're in a game of wac-a-mole), I decided to hang around in the station book store.

It's a very narrow store, but deep, so I dragged my imbalanced wheelie suitcase (I can't ever let go of it or it tilts forward like it's just been kicked in the back) past the sci-fi, romance, and self-help sections until I reached the set of shelves labeled "Young Readers." I scanned the books, looking for any familiar, nostalgic titles, when I reached a somewhat messy stack at the very bottom. There, the title Johnny Tremain caught my eye. Johnny Tremain! I leaned my suitcase against the shelf and eagerly reached for the book. It was sandwiched tightly in the middle of the stack and I had to squeeze my fingers around the binding so I'd be able to pull it out. That was when I felt the most peculiar sensation.

"Is the cover made of velvet?" I wondered to myself (not out loud - just in my head). I frowned, unsure how that made sense, and gave a final tug, the book finally pulling free.

No. It was not made of velvet. But then why was it so soft?

Slowly, I lifted a hand from the binding and looked at the tips of my fingers. They were covered in layers of thick black dust. I held the book a moment longer, wondering mournfully how long the book had been wedged in that pile, unread, unlooked at, untouched. The idea made me sad. I hurriedly returned the book to the shelf and dragged my suitcase out of the store.

Genius?

Ezzie sent me this video. I think it's a must-see for anyone of the creative bend, or even not - it's good for anyone at all to watch. I'm not going to preface it by mentioning anything it talks about, but I'm also extremely interested in discussing it should anyone wish.