Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Failure
I feel like a failure today.
This isn't unusual, but it is sad. Heavy. I'm struggling against my inclination towards self-pity; I know it's useless and not productive, but that's how I feel. I never know what feelings I should deny, or if I should deny any of them. All of them.
I wrote a riddle today.
"What do you get when you cross arrogrance with low self-esteem? Give up? Me too."
You get, as of right now, me.
Reader, I am a writer. I know, it seems obvious, but sometimes I have to remind myself that this is the case. I wish I could write solely for myself; when I do, it's unquestionably my best work. But I cannot always write just for myself; the looming prospect of my readership prevents me from wallowing in the story as I did when I was eleven years old and at the beginning. I am a pleaser, which means that even in this one activity I should (and have on occasion) performed only for me, I try to please the un-pleasable audience of my imagination.
It doesn't work, and yet I'm stuck with it, because for some reason I have...blocked myself from changing my ways. My life changed significantly two years ago. I'm still reaping the consequences of that change. I wish...but what's the point in wishing? Wishes are useless.
WolfGrrl
This isn't unusual, but it is sad. Heavy. I'm struggling against my inclination towards self-pity; I know it's useless and not productive, but that's how I feel. I never know what feelings I should deny, or if I should deny any of them. All of them.
I wrote a riddle today.
"What do you get when you cross arrogrance with low self-esteem? Give up? Me too."
You get, as of right now, me.
Reader, I am a writer. I know, it seems obvious, but sometimes I have to remind myself that this is the case. I wish I could write solely for myself; when I do, it's unquestionably my best work. But I cannot always write just for myself; the looming prospect of my readership prevents me from wallowing in the story as I did when I was eleven years old and at the beginning. I am a pleaser, which means that even in this one activity I should (and have on occasion) performed only for me, I try to please the un-pleasable audience of my imagination.
It doesn't work, and yet I'm stuck with it, because for some reason I have...blocked myself from changing my ways. My life changed significantly two years ago. I'm still reaping the consequences of that change. I wish...but what's the point in wishing? Wishes are useless.
WolfGrrl
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Apples
This is a tribute to the game of Apples to Apples - the best invention for college students EVER. The only thing that could possibly make this game more fun (besides the relative insanity of the people playing it) is playing it drunk.
No, I don't advocate the consumption of alcohol in the amounts required to render A2A as ridiculous as it's supposed to be (something which can also be achieved via staying up waaaaay too late and playing with exteremely close friends). But you have to admit, A2A is one of the better drinking games around. I was witness to one hilarious game with several friends at a party, and it was epic.
My roommate and I held an open game in our room tonight, letting whoever wanted to join do so, and the results were... *insert big fat smile here*
It was decided that the following cards are official 'trumps' and cannot be beaten:
Helen Keller
Russia, or anything Russian
Babies
My... (bedroom, bathroom, love life, etc.)
Yup. I was also a favor for mold and meat cleavers, but was voted down.
Any recommendations from the rest of you?
Ciao
WolfGrrl
No, I don't advocate the consumption of alcohol in the amounts required to render A2A as ridiculous as it's supposed to be (something which can also be achieved via staying up waaaaay too late and playing with exteremely close friends). But you have to admit, A2A is one of the better drinking games around. I was witness to one hilarious game with several friends at a party, and it was epic.
My roommate and I held an open game in our room tonight, letting whoever wanted to join do so, and the results were... *insert big fat smile here*
It was decided that the following cards are official 'trumps' and cannot be beaten:
Helen Keller
Russia, or anything Russian
Babies
My... (bedroom, bathroom, love life, etc.)
Yup. I was also a favor for mold and meat cleavers, but was voted down.
Any recommendations from the rest of you?
Ciao
WolfGrrl
Thursday, January 12, 2012
The Land of Decisions
I suppose I should announce here that I wasn't able to spell 'decision' until about two years ago. Pitiful, yes, for someone who uses it as often as I do. But then again, there are many words I use on a regular basis which I have neither the ability to pronounce nor spell. As Alcott said: "She has read too much, and it has addled her brain."
The point of this post, I suppose, is to apologize for my extreme tardiness in keeping up with this blog. Last semester I made the choice to focus on my relationships (since it seems I can only do one thing with any degree of success), and in that field I was very successful. Now, however, I have made the choice to prioritize my classes (and my mental health) first, and my long-suffering boyfriend and other friends are feeling the pinch.
I am an all-or-nothing kind of person. I don't view this as a bad thing, but it does frustrate me sometimes when others demand I be more than I am. As I never cease having to inform people, I came to college to learn, not to have a social life. A social life is important, don't get me wrong, but it's not the main reason I am here, learning German and trying to find a writing mentor, turtoring others in essay writing and planning my trip abroad next spring. I am not a person who places much value on interpersonal relationships. I need them (otherwise, it's the Land of Insanity for me) but relationships are, in my view, more work than reward.
I wish I knew how to describe it so you can understand, reader. I am willing to give 200% of myself to whatever I have prioritized; when this is a relationship, I am a conscientious and constant friend. But I can't maintain such a high level of involvement without feeling the strain; being constantly on is exhausting and damaging for me. I have no filters that prevent me from burnout, which is why I risk being alone and isolated. I love my boyfriend, and to date he's one of the few people I know who can approach me when I am nuclear-cranky and calm me down. He deserves so much more than I am able (or willing) to give right now, and for that I'm sorry. But I don't want to pretend to be something I'm not: I am this person, for better or for worse. Once you capture my attention it is yours beyond any doubt or delay; I forgive everything. I will even forgive what is, for me, a cardinal sin: a breech of trust. I think this is a little frightening, for myself and others, but this is me. I'm frightening. Hrmm.
We all inhabit the Land of Decisions, because there's really no way to live one's life without making decisions. I have decided to prioritize my schoolwork this semester; I have decided to work two jobs over the summer; I have decided to go to New Zealand for my study abroad (more on that elsewhere). All these decisions are mine to make, but that means I must find a way to balance the inevitable fallout - others call it the consequences. Life is a little like playing that game Pick-up Sticks, where moving one stick causes four or five others to wobble or fall. One choice, spurrious or well-researched, and everything shifts. There are no meaningless choices, which means that, for someone who has an addictive, obsessive, planning personality, the world is full of upheaval.
Mitigation is what saves me. My lack of self-imposed boundaries is a destructive and dangerous tendency I am working hard to mitigate. Mitigation, prioritization, and organization. These are the tools which allow me to function in the Land of Decisions aka Life.
Geez, introspection is a butt.
WolfGrrl
The point of this post, I suppose, is to apologize for my extreme tardiness in keeping up with this blog. Last semester I made the choice to focus on my relationships (since it seems I can only do one thing with any degree of success), and in that field I was very successful. Now, however, I have made the choice to prioritize my classes (and my mental health) first, and my long-suffering boyfriend and other friends are feeling the pinch.
I am an all-or-nothing kind of person. I don't view this as a bad thing, but it does frustrate me sometimes when others demand I be more than I am. As I never cease having to inform people, I came to college to learn, not to have a social life. A social life is important, don't get me wrong, but it's not the main reason I am here, learning German and trying to find a writing mentor, turtoring others in essay writing and planning my trip abroad next spring. I am not a person who places much value on interpersonal relationships. I need them (otherwise, it's the Land of Insanity for me) but relationships are, in my view, more work than reward.
I wish I knew how to describe it so you can understand, reader. I am willing to give 200% of myself to whatever I have prioritized; when this is a relationship, I am a conscientious and constant friend. But I can't maintain such a high level of involvement without feeling the strain; being constantly on is exhausting and damaging for me. I have no filters that prevent me from burnout, which is why I risk being alone and isolated. I love my boyfriend, and to date he's one of the few people I know who can approach me when I am nuclear-cranky and calm me down. He deserves so much more than I am able (or willing) to give right now, and for that I'm sorry. But I don't want to pretend to be something I'm not: I am this person, for better or for worse. Once you capture my attention it is yours beyond any doubt or delay; I forgive everything. I will even forgive what is, for me, a cardinal sin: a breech of trust. I think this is a little frightening, for myself and others, but this is me. I'm frightening. Hrmm.
We all inhabit the Land of Decisions, because there's really no way to live one's life without making decisions. I have decided to prioritize my schoolwork this semester; I have decided to work two jobs over the summer; I have decided to go to New Zealand for my study abroad (more on that elsewhere). All these decisions are mine to make, but that means I must find a way to balance the inevitable fallout - others call it the consequences. Life is a little like playing that game Pick-up Sticks, where moving one stick causes four or five others to wobble or fall. One choice, spurrious or well-researched, and everything shifts. There are no meaningless choices, which means that, for someone who has an addictive, obsessive, planning personality, the world is full of upheaval.
Mitigation is what saves me. My lack of self-imposed boundaries is a destructive and dangerous tendency I am working hard to mitigate. Mitigation, prioritization, and organization. These are the tools which allow me to function in the Land of Decisions aka Life.
Geez, introspection is a butt.
WolfGrrl
Saturday, January 7, 2012
My Life is Over
Or it will be, if I ever, EVER am exposed to the game Skyrim.
Good Lord, even from the few trailers online and the one song I have been listening to obsessively, if I ever get my hands on this game it's "goodbye college education, hello headache/bad eyesight/one million hours on the computer." You have no idea how obsessive I can become over things like this; the music alone is haunting me. It will be the soundtrack of my dreams tonight, if I know my brain. *rolls eyes*
Somehow, though, I can't complain. There is a certain kind of alchemy that happens once in a while when I find something that...resonates, for lack of a better term, with me. Those of you who know me may remember my abiding love for fantasy fiction (I read and write it; always have, always will). I'm frustrated with writing instructors (oxymoron alert!) who say that Fantasy isn't a "real" genre. Excuse me for not wanting to write about real life; unfortunately, I have to live that.
Fantasy allowed me to get through high school, and my life, marginally sane and without killing anyone. The world should be thanking me for my self-restraint, and my poor characters for undergoing many trials and traumas to spare the poor clueless individuals like said writing instructors, who would otherwise have been subjected to the Wrath of a Teacup Human...at least, the wrath of this Teacup Human. Which is not pretty.
Anyway, I'm starting to get a headache now, and I'm definitely not being productive as I attempt to write. I think the safest thing for me to do right now is go to bed...even if I do dream of dragons. I love dragons; in my deep, secret heart, I want to see one. Intelligent, beautiful, elegant, graceful, malicious, pernicious, insightful, tricky - there aren't enough adjectives in the world to describe such incredible creatures. Dragons are freedom: don't ever forget that.
Sorry. Skyrim is only the very latest in my love-affair with dragons and the legends and culture that spring up around them. Toddling off to bed now, so you're not subjected to my special brand of insanity any longer.
Ciao
WolfGrrl
Oh. Have a little Skyrim, just for the hell of it:
The Dragonborn Comes - Skyrim
Good Lord, even from the few trailers online and the one song I have been listening to obsessively, if I ever get my hands on this game it's "goodbye college education, hello headache/bad eyesight/one million hours on the computer." You have no idea how obsessive I can become over things like this; the music alone is haunting me. It will be the soundtrack of my dreams tonight, if I know my brain. *rolls eyes*
Somehow, though, I can't complain. There is a certain kind of alchemy that happens once in a while when I find something that...resonates, for lack of a better term, with me. Those of you who know me may remember my abiding love for fantasy fiction (I read and write it; always have, always will). I'm frustrated with writing instructors (oxymoron alert!) who say that Fantasy isn't a "real" genre. Excuse me for not wanting to write about real life; unfortunately, I have to live that.
Fantasy allowed me to get through high school, and my life, marginally sane and without killing anyone. The world should be thanking me for my self-restraint, and my poor characters for undergoing many trials and traumas to spare the poor clueless individuals like said writing instructors, who would otherwise have been subjected to the Wrath of a Teacup Human...at least, the wrath of this Teacup Human. Which is not pretty.
Anyway, I'm starting to get a headache now, and I'm definitely not being productive as I attempt to write. I think the safest thing for me to do right now is go to bed...even if I do dream of dragons. I love dragons; in my deep, secret heart, I want to see one. Intelligent, beautiful, elegant, graceful, malicious, pernicious, insightful, tricky - there aren't enough adjectives in the world to describe such incredible creatures. Dragons are freedom: don't ever forget that.
Sorry. Skyrim is only the very latest in my love-affair with dragons and the legends and culture that spring up around them. Toddling off to bed now, so you're not subjected to my special brand of insanity any longer.
Ciao
WolfGrrl
Oh. Have a little Skyrim, just for the hell of it:
The Dragonborn Comes - Skyrim
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Paper Doors
No, this post doesn't involve the doors of Japanese hotels, as parodied in an episode of the Simpsons. Although it may seem rather an odd topic for my first post of 2012, I have nothing more interesting to talk about right now than my complete absorption with and adoration of BOOKS.
Now, to be fair, I don't love all books equally. Non-fiction, for the most part, is deadly dull (escapades of famous celebrities, true crime novels, and books about WWII and British aristocracy notwithstanding) and I've never been able to stomach pure sci-fi. I enjoy Romance (surprise surprise), Young Adult fiction, historical fiction (usually) and fantasy. Yes, I read girl books. What else can be expected of...ahem, a girl? Although I did read all of George. R. R. Martin's novels (published to that point) before HBO commissioned the series (also very good, but very HBOish, if you know what I mean). Right now, as I enjoy the last week of my winter break, I have an ever-increasing stack of books demanding my attention and cluttering up my bed, floor, and desk. The bookshelf became a lost cause years ago.
I am notoriously protective of my books, and this causes my sister endless irritation. But because I am more emotionally involved when I read than any other time of my life, I have a hard time sharing my 'doorway-to-another-world' with anyone else. It feels like a violation of my emotional boundaries. (And don't judge me, I can be as eccentric as I want: I'm a writer).
Books, for me, are both an escape and a playground. I vacation in the worlds they open for me, I make friends and learn incredible life lessons. I learned to be observant from reading Nancy Drew stories as a child, and I learned about interpersonal relationships (on all levels) from reading romance novels through high school. You'd be surprised how successful common sense and a bit of conventional wisdom is when applied to real-life scenarioes; after all, romance authors have to make some things universal in order for their books to sell! Perhaps because I have a difficult time opening myself up to others in the real world, it's easier for me to find a release for those feelings in literature. I doubt anyone who doesn't read has such an ecclectic and entertaining group of friends as I do.
I learned to write from reading. My parents tell the story thusly: as a child, it wasn't that I couldn't read, but more that I saw no reason to when I could get either of them (or a friend from school, a teacher, grandparent, etc.) to read to me. However, once I got bored waiting on someone to take the time to read what I wanted, I didn't waste any time. From Ten Apples Up on Top and Dr. Seuss, I moved rapidly to Nate the Great, Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. I was reading The Mists of Avalon at eleven. (Not to boast or anything.) And I was only about seven or eight when I started my first grand epic: a story about me and my pet squirrrel. My vocabulary was ridiculously advanced, even if my grammar and spelling were...creative is the kindest word; atrocious probably the most accurate.
In sixth grade I took a writing class and finally discovered, yes, you can write something other than the usual what-I-did-last-summer. I've been tapping away at my computer ever since, though I spent the first year and half writing in impossibly small print on lined notebook paper and a clipboard. Go figure. Now I count my computer as a necessity, and woe to the person who breaks, borrows, or steals it: I will hunt you down and string you up by your intestines. My life is in this clever little machine, and among its binary codes and files you can see the evolution of my character and my mind.
Reading and writing go hand in hand for me. They are what calm me down, wind me up, release me and chain me to this world. I am grounded by my ability to wrench out whatever's troubling me and splatter it on paper; I am freed by the paper doors that collectively weigh three times what I do.
Those of you familiar with the Pixar film Monsters Inc. will remember the rows of closet doors used to get the monsters from one child's bedroom to another. I think of my books as doors to other worlds, or the means by which I visit friends who've been with me since I was young and stupid(er). My books are mementoes of my journey and have the power to evoke memories and feelings I've otherwise forgotten. I can remember what I read obsessively my first year of real school (age eleven; Anne McCaffery's The Dragonriders of Pern series). I remember when I discovered Nora Roberts' novels (freshman year of high school). Any reader is familiar with time-travel; it happens every time you crack open a book and give your attention to the words on the page. These are my worlds; they have claimed me more strongly than this one, and I have claimed them. Unequivocably.
My sister is never getting her copy of The Host back, Twi-hards and Stephenie Meyer prejudices be damned. Howl's Moving Castle is in here too, somewhere.
Happy New Year!
WolfGrrl
Now, to be fair, I don't love all books equally. Non-fiction, for the most part, is deadly dull (escapades of famous celebrities, true crime novels, and books about WWII and British aristocracy notwithstanding) and I've never been able to stomach pure sci-fi. I enjoy Romance (surprise surprise), Young Adult fiction, historical fiction (usually) and fantasy. Yes, I read girl books. What else can be expected of...ahem, a girl? Although I did read all of George. R. R. Martin's novels (published to that point) before HBO commissioned the series (also very good, but very HBOish, if you know what I mean). Right now, as I enjoy the last week of my winter break, I have an ever-increasing stack of books demanding my attention and cluttering up my bed, floor, and desk. The bookshelf became a lost cause years ago.
I am notoriously protective of my books, and this causes my sister endless irritation. But because I am more emotionally involved when I read than any other time of my life, I have a hard time sharing my 'doorway-to-another-world' with anyone else. It feels like a violation of my emotional boundaries. (And don't judge me, I can be as eccentric as I want: I'm a writer).
Books, for me, are both an escape and a playground. I vacation in the worlds they open for me, I make friends and learn incredible life lessons. I learned to be observant from reading Nancy Drew stories as a child, and I learned about interpersonal relationships (on all levels) from reading romance novels through high school. You'd be surprised how successful common sense and a bit of conventional wisdom is when applied to real-life scenarioes; after all, romance authors have to make some things universal in order for their books to sell! Perhaps because I have a difficult time opening myself up to others in the real world, it's easier for me to find a release for those feelings in literature. I doubt anyone who doesn't read has such an ecclectic and entertaining group of friends as I do.
I learned to write from reading. My parents tell the story thusly: as a child, it wasn't that I couldn't read, but more that I saw no reason to when I could get either of them (or a friend from school, a teacher, grandparent, etc.) to read to me. However, once I got bored waiting on someone to take the time to read what I wanted, I didn't waste any time. From Ten Apples Up on Top and Dr. Seuss, I moved rapidly to Nate the Great, Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. I was reading The Mists of Avalon at eleven. (Not to boast or anything.) And I was only about seven or eight when I started my first grand epic: a story about me and my pet squirrrel. My vocabulary was ridiculously advanced, even if my grammar and spelling were...creative is the kindest word; atrocious probably the most accurate.
In sixth grade I took a writing class and finally discovered, yes, you can write something other than the usual what-I-did-last-summer. I've been tapping away at my computer ever since, though I spent the first year and half writing in impossibly small print on lined notebook paper and a clipboard. Go figure. Now I count my computer as a necessity, and woe to the person who breaks, borrows, or steals it: I will hunt you down and string you up by your intestines. My life is in this clever little machine, and among its binary codes and files you can see the evolution of my character and my mind.
Reading and writing go hand in hand for me. They are what calm me down, wind me up, release me and chain me to this world. I am grounded by my ability to wrench out whatever's troubling me and splatter it on paper; I am freed by the paper doors that collectively weigh three times what I do.
Those of you familiar with the Pixar film Monsters Inc. will remember the rows of closet doors used to get the monsters from one child's bedroom to another. I think of my books as doors to other worlds, or the means by which I visit friends who've been with me since I was young and stupid(er). My books are mementoes of my journey and have the power to evoke memories and feelings I've otherwise forgotten. I can remember what I read obsessively my first year of real school (age eleven; Anne McCaffery's The Dragonriders of Pern series). I remember when I discovered Nora Roberts' novels (freshman year of high school). Any reader is familiar with time-travel; it happens every time you crack open a book and give your attention to the words on the page. These are my worlds; they have claimed me more strongly than this one, and I have claimed them. Unequivocably.
My sister is never getting her copy of The Host back, Twi-hards and Stephenie Meyer prejudices be damned. Howl's Moving Castle is in here too, somewhere.
Happy New Year!
WolfGrrl
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