At some point in the last six years, my life went in an unexpected direction. No, it wasn't when I decided I wanted to date women. It wasn't even when I fell in love with Rachel. Although these things were pretty unexpected. The defining moment of my adulthood, to date, has been the moment I decided I wanted to be a mom. Intensely wanted. Wanted soon. And then, wanted immediately.
Less than an hour ago I found out via Facebook (and, honestly, how do I find out anything any other way? I don't because I am dreadful at keeping in touch with people) that one of my best friends from high school is pregnant with a little girl. I was immediately ecstatic for her and her husband. I'm sure she's more than a little scared, but I know she will be a phenomenal mother. And then, as has been the case so many times before, I look at myself and wonder why it couldn't be me, too. Another one of my close friends from high school recently gave birth to her second child. She has a beautiful family. If I could I would send her baby gifts every week.
When I was in high school, I know that I thought I would be one of the first to be married, to have a child. At that time, 25 seemed elderly and my back would be creaking just chasing the little ones around the backyard.
When I turned 23, I had an irrational fear of becoming pregnant. Every woman on my mother's side of the family had had a child by the age of 23, and I thought I was "doomed" to become a young mother as well. At the time, even though I was in a healthy committed relationship with someone whom I wanted to marry and would have liked to go on and have a child with, a pregnancy felt like it would have been the end of the world. Of my world. I was financially unprepared and emotionally irresponsible. I was 23 for goodness sake. I spent a good deal of 2005 abstaining from sex with my boyfriend (much to his dismay) because I was terrified of becoming pregnant. And I like sex.
Five years later, I'm still financially unprepared and emotionally irresponsible (albeit less so), sometimes all I can think about is wanting a baby. My roommate and I will ogle babies on TV and snuggle up against baby blankets and swoon and discuss names. And then remind ourselves that most of our "good eggs" are probably gone and we could very likely just be ogling other people's babies forever. Because like can sort of suck that way when you're 30 (or rapidly approaching it).
And the thing is that I like my life right now. I don't really want to change it in a way that would be conducive to having a baby right this second. I can't seem to strike a balance with what I like about my life right now and what I think my "goals" are. Suffering through an agonizing labor is a goal, right?
Monday, March 1, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
When all you want is cookies
It wasn't a New Years resolution per se, but I've been gearing myself up to get serious (again) about weight loss since the middle or so of January. I have 30 pounds to lose and I am really going to make it happen this time.
Since I've spent six weeks exercising more regularly than I probably ever have, I'm actually beginning to enjoy it more. I could certainly do without the ridiculous amount of sweat pouring off of my body and the bright red face and the tightness of my chest and the... well, you get it. But I've gotten to the point where I feel good after instead of wanting to keel over. And, shockingly, I have even started to feel guilty for making poor eating choices or skipping a few days at the gym because something good is on TV. Sometimes I'd even RATHER go to the gym (or use the Wii Fit or whatever) than watch TV. Mir-a-cle.
I visited home this past weekend and actually asked my brother to kick my ass at the gym. And he did. For an hour and a half. Ouch. I am like a completely new person.
In the last few weeks what I've struggled with the most has been keeping my sweet tooth satisfied almost daily so that I don't break down and eat two cupcakes in one day (oh, like today, perhaps?). The two things I can't live without are ice cream and cookies. I've learned to substitute in 100 calorie packs of chocolate-covered pretzels for a mid-day cookie snack. Tasty and effective. And Rachel and I discovered some delish Weight Watchers ice cream sundaes with cookies or peanut butter cups that, albeit small, are a much more reasonable replacement for a pint of Turkey Hill vanilla/chocolate twice a week. But oh my gawd is that stuff gooooood.
But I've committed to this thing. I'm involved in not one but TWO weight-loss challenges (one involves a cupcake reward if everyone loses for the week!), and really will shed this 30 pounds. I wonder what I will look like 30 pounds lighter? I'm going for Kim Kardashian.
Since I've spent six weeks exercising more regularly than I probably ever have, I'm actually beginning to enjoy it more. I could certainly do without the ridiculous amount of sweat pouring off of my body and the bright red face and the tightness of my chest and the... well, you get it. But I've gotten to the point where I feel good after instead of wanting to keel over. And, shockingly, I have even started to feel guilty for making poor eating choices or skipping a few days at the gym because something good is on TV. Sometimes I'd even RATHER go to the gym (or use the Wii Fit or whatever) than watch TV. Mir-a-cle.
I visited home this past weekend and actually asked my brother to kick my ass at the gym. And he did. For an hour and a half. Ouch. I am like a completely new person.
In the last few weeks what I've struggled with the most has been keeping my sweet tooth satisfied almost daily so that I don't break down and eat two cupcakes in one day (oh, like today, perhaps?). The two things I can't live without are ice cream and cookies. I've learned to substitute in 100 calorie packs of chocolate-covered pretzels for a mid-day cookie snack. Tasty and effective. And Rachel and I discovered some delish Weight Watchers ice cream sundaes with cookies or peanut butter cups that, albeit small, are a much more reasonable replacement for a pint of Turkey Hill vanilla/chocolate twice a week. But oh my gawd is that stuff gooooood.
But I've committed to this thing. I'm involved in not one but TWO weight-loss challenges (one involves a cupcake reward if everyone loses for the week!), and really will shed this 30 pounds. I wonder what I will look like 30 pounds lighter? I'm going for Kim Kardashian.
Friday, February 5, 2010
good things come to those who donate
Yesterday I donated ten and a half inches of my hair to Locks of Love. Technically, it hasn't been donated YET, as it is still hanging out in my bag. Which is certainly a little strange. What if I am on the subway and I am reaching for something in my bag, but a Ziploc bag of auburn hair falls out instead? Um, psycho with some sort of shrine? Cool. I should probably send in the hair today, huh?
I've been wanting to donate my hair for years, but its never worked out until now. First it was a problem because I've been coloring my hair since I was 15, and LoL did not accept color-treated hair for donation. Then, when they did start accepting it, I had to wait more than a year to further grow my hair out. And last night, after anxiously awaiting February 4th, snip snip went the scissors and I teared up when my ponytail was finally detached from my head.
I made the appointment about three weeks ago, and up until yesterday I was very excited to donate my hair. I've had long(er) hair for more than two years (its been three since my last short haircut) and maintaining it to my level of satisfaction was sometimes a challenge. I like to be pretty low maintenance in the morning (compared to say, Rachel*. Although I say that with love, darling), and washing and straightening my hair usually took 35-40 minutes to get under control and then my arm hurt from all that damn pulling. But sometimes it looked super hot and it made it worth it.
Yesterday, though, I was UNREASONABLY sad about cutting it. I was going through some other crazy emotions and the idea of cutting my long hair was the last thing that I was interested in. But I went through with it because I had set the date. It was happening.
So here I am.
I woke up this morning, forgot that I had cut my hair, and when I got to the bathroom I didn't recognize myself.
Shortly after, I got an excited call from my unemployed stepfather to tell me that he is now EMPLOYED! This is HUGE for my family - both financially and emotionally. It alleviates a great deal of pressure on me to continuing caring for them as though I was the parent. Not completely, though, because my family still has a long way to go, but it's a terrific step forward. John is amped to start work and he thanked me several times for my help in getting him to this point. He said that he "knew" I'd help him. And that made me feel good.
A little less than an hour later, I spoke with my mother, and told her how excited I was to get that phone call. She then told me that last night she had a dream that my recently deceased grandfather was standing at the end of her bed, trying to wake her. He told her that everything was going to be okay. He said that he'd started a garden where he was and my aunt (his daughter), although inept at gardening, was helping him. I cried.
Today I've seen great good karma come my way from cutting my long locks. Some very much needed positivity. Maybe my hair was cursed?
And maybe I will win my office Superbowl pool!
*it's just her picking out clothes process... but it's 99.9% of mornings.
I've been wanting to donate my hair for years, but its never worked out until now. First it was a problem because I've been coloring my hair since I was 15, and LoL did not accept color-treated hair for donation. Then, when they did start accepting it, I had to wait more than a year to further grow my hair out. And last night, after anxiously awaiting February 4th, snip snip went the scissors and I teared up when my ponytail was finally detached from my head.
I made the appointment about three weeks ago, and up until yesterday I was very excited to donate my hair. I've had long(er) hair for more than two years (its been three since my last short haircut) and maintaining it to my level of satisfaction was sometimes a challenge. I like to be pretty low maintenance in the morning (compared to say, Rachel*. Although I say that with love, darling), and washing and straightening my hair usually took 35-40 minutes to get under control and then my arm hurt from all that damn pulling. But sometimes it looked super hot and it made it worth it.
Yesterday, though, I was UNREASONABLY sad about cutting it. I was going through some other crazy emotions and the idea of cutting my long hair was the last thing that I was interested in. But I went through with it because I had set the date. It was happening.
So here I am.
I woke up this morning, forgot that I had cut my hair, and when I got to the bathroom I didn't recognize myself.
Shortly after, I got an excited call from my unemployed stepfather to tell me that he is now EMPLOYED! This is HUGE for my family - both financially and emotionally. It alleviates a great deal of pressure on me to continuing caring for them as though I was the parent. Not completely, though, because my family still has a long way to go, but it's a terrific step forward. John is amped to start work and he thanked me several times for my help in getting him to this point. He said that he "knew" I'd help him. And that made me feel good.
A little less than an hour later, I spoke with my mother, and told her how excited I was to get that phone call. She then told me that last night she had a dream that my recently deceased grandfather was standing at the end of her bed, trying to wake her. He told her that everything was going to be okay. He said that he'd started a garden where he was and my aunt (his daughter), although inept at gardening, was helping him. I cried.
Today I've seen great good karma come my way from cutting my long locks. Some very much needed positivity. Maybe my hair was cursed?
And maybe I will win my office Superbowl pool!
*it's just her picking out clothes process... but it's 99.9% of mornings.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
filling my lungs
This is a ridiculously lame cliche, but the last few weeks have felt like my lungs are filling. Most of the time, they feel like they're filling with water and I am helpless to stop it (see previous post).
Today, though, after no more than a simple email, I feel some relief and my lungs have again begun to fill up with air. I have a job lead for my stepfather. I want to hold this air in my lungs until it goes stale. It's the most relief I've felt in weeks, and I am terrified that it is only fleeting.
Breathe in.
Today, though, after no more than a simple email, I feel some relief and my lungs have again begun to fill up with air. I have a job lead for my stepfather. I want to hold this air in my lungs until it goes stale. It's the most relief I've felt in weeks, and I am terrified that it is only fleeting.
Breathe in.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
helpless
This year has begun for me with an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. Which, obviously, means its going to be a banner year. One for the books, for sure.
Since my grandfather died two weeks ago, I have been working especially hard to help my stepfather find employment. Because of the shitty economy, he's been unemployed now for more than a year and a half. Considering what my relationship used to be with this man, I never thought I'd be doing this. I used to hate him. Like, actually hate him. Now, I don't. He was someone who told me I was a useless slut for too many years of my life, I didn't think I could ever like him. I thought I'd never have enough therapy to move past those words and how they affected my self-esteem. Now, he's mellowed significantly in his old(er) age, and I've seen him change. He's not the self-involved verbally abusive man he once was. He took care of his dying father full-time for more than a year, and he is trying hard to provide for his family. I can respect that, regardless of our previous relationship. When I see him now, I can hug him and appreciate him for trying to repair the relationships he'd badly damaged with alcohol years before.
I try to spend at least a half hour everyday looking on Monster.com, etc. for jobs that he can apply to. Since he doesn't have the means or skills to navigate the internet at home, I can help him in this way. I revamped his resume, and I apply for positions on his behalf almost daily. I'm not resentful that I am doing this either. I actually feel as though I am not doing enough. My family is drowning and I feel helpless to save them. Instead, I am here in New York, focused on my own problems which vary from the serious (I can barely pay my own bills) to the insignificant (I pull my own long hair when I put my bag on my shoulder).
Over the last few weeks, I've weighed the pros and cons of how I can be more helpful to my family and their situation. The one thing I keep returning to is moving back to Pennsylvania so that I can help them more actively. The pros of this decision are that I could be more accessible to my family - not just my mom, stepfather and brother, but to my dad and my grandparents. My one remaining grandfather, whom I consider myself close to, has asked me if I plan on moving home every time I see him for the past several years. The first few times I just laughed this off -- I mean, WHY would I leave NEW YORK, to go back to my hometown? It seems ludicrous. Now, more than ever, I see the merits of being closer to my family - my whole family - and I sometimes feel a crippling guilt for not being there when they really need me.
... to be continued...
Since my grandfather died two weeks ago, I have been working especially hard to help my stepfather find employment. Because of the shitty economy, he's been unemployed now for more than a year and a half. Considering what my relationship used to be with this man, I never thought I'd be doing this. I used to hate him. Like, actually hate him. Now, I don't. He was someone who told me I was a useless slut for too many years of my life, I didn't think I could ever like him. I thought I'd never have enough therapy to move past those words and how they affected my self-esteem. Now, he's mellowed significantly in his old(er) age, and I've seen him change. He's not the self-involved verbally abusive man he once was. He took care of his dying father full-time for more than a year, and he is trying hard to provide for his family. I can respect that, regardless of our previous relationship. When I see him now, I can hug him and appreciate him for trying to repair the relationships he'd badly damaged with alcohol years before.
I try to spend at least a half hour everyday looking on Monster.com, etc. for jobs that he can apply to. Since he doesn't have the means or skills to navigate the internet at home, I can help him in this way. I revamped his resume, and I apply for positions on his behalf almost daily. I'm not resentful that I am doing this either. I actually feel as though I am not doing enough. My family is drowning and I feel helpless to save them. Instead, I am here in New York, focused on my own problems which vary from the serious (I can barely pay my own bills) to the insignificant (I pull my own long hair when I put my bag on my shoulder).
Over the last few weeks, I've weighed the pros and cons of how I can be more helpful to my family and their situation. The one thing I keep returning to is moving back to Pennsylvania so that I can help them more actively. The pros of this decision are that I could be more accessible to my family - not just my mom, stepfather and brother, but to my dad and my grandparents. My one remaining grandfather, whom I consider myself close to, has asked me if I plan on moving home every time I see him for the past several years. The first few times I just laughed this off -- I mean, WHY would I leave NEW YORK, to go back to my hometown? It seems ludicrous. Now, more than ever, I see the merits of being closer to my family - my whole family - and I sometimes feel a crippling guilt for not being there when they really need me.
... to be continued...
Thursday, December 24, 2009
death and taxes
The two things that have plagued my life most in 2009 (actually, for the last year and a half)? Death and taxes. The two sure things in life.
It's Christmas Eve, and I know that I am on the verge of losing another grandparent. This time, even though I'm more prepared and have been for longer than I care to admit, it's been especially difficult watching my family struggle with letting go. My grandfather (step-grandfather, technically) has been bed-ridden for many months, and was nearly immobile long before then. He's survived three serious bouts of pneumonia over the last year when no one expected him to make it through the first. He long ago lost his ability to effectively communication, and sometimes getting a simple yes or no out of him is difficult. When I last saw him over Thanksgiving, he looked much worse than I had ever seen him. This is morbid, but he looked as though he was deteriorating in his bed, as though his body had already failed him but he didn't know that yet. When I was there, I spent a little while speaking to the Hospice nurses who care for him regularly, and they were just trying to keep him comfortable.
That was a month ago. When I spoke with my mother last night to check in, funeral arrangements were being made, and he was taking morphine every two hours to manage the pain of his body breaking down. I wonder if he knows he's dying. I wonder why, if he does, doesn't he let go.
My mother told me that two nights ago, he called my stepfather over to his bed. He held out his hand and John went to him. My mother said they sat there holding hands for more than an hour, as my stepfather told him stories and fond memories. John later told my mother that he thought my grandfather was waiting for him to say that it was okay to go now. But he couldn't. It's hard to let your parent leave the world even if you know that its time.
I cry every time I even think about them sitting there together.
When I lost my beloved uncle earlier this year, I was a mess. I thought this time was easier, if only because I was not as close to Pop. If I'm being perfectly honest, Pop was never especially nice to me. When we were kids, Pop clearly favored my brother and they had a very sweet relationship. I suppose I was a little jealous then, but I grew out of that. Pop used to spend every weekend with my family, and when he'd drive from my aunt's house to ours on a Friday afternoon, he would bring homemade pastries and fresh vegetables from the farmer's market that he passed on the way. At least one weekend a month, he would bring me whoopie pies, which were my favorite. I remember Pop also liked the pumpkin cookies I used to make in the fall.
My family has lost too many people over the last year and a half. I hope that changes in 2010.
Less significant than death, but more omnipresent in my daily life has been my struggle this year with my finances. My situation is probably worse than ever, but I've continued, for the most part, to go about my days as though it weren't. I've overdrawn my checking account more than once over the past few months and the more often it accidentally happened, the sense of embarrassment I felt the first time it happened diminishes. By not taking care of money, I am not taking good care of myself, and I know that at 28 years old, I should be there by now. I need to be there. I think that if I had expensive clothes and shoes and went out to eat for every meal, I'd deserve to be in the position that I'm in, but I don't. My monthly bills come just shy of my monthly pay and that will not change. If I worked fewer hours per week I could probably get a part-time job to supplement my income, but unless it was an extremely lucrative one (say, drug dealer?), I could not make enough in my "free" time to make it worth it. There's the taxes to consider. I was lucky enough to get a small bonus from my company for the holidays this year, and 45% of it went to taxes. I did the math.
I know that when I get my income tax refund in February I can kick start my bank account and get back on track, but that feels like its eons away. Even though I say that I really am trying, whatever I'm doing just doesn't work. Maybe I will just hit the lottery in 2010. That might help.
It's Christmas Eve, and I know that I am on the verge of losing another grandparent. This time, even though I'm more prepared and have been for longer than I care to admit, it's been especially difficult watching my family struggle with letting go. My grandfather (step-grandfather, technically) has been bed-ridden for many months, and was nearly immobile long before then. He's survived three serious bouts of pneumonia over the last year when no one expected him to make it through the first. He long ago lost his ability to effectively communication, and sometimes getting a simple yes or no out of him is difficult. When I last saw him over Thanksgiving, he looked much worse than I had ever seen him. This is morbid, but he looked as though he was deteriorating in his bed, as though his body had already failed him but he didn't know that yet. When I was there, I spent a little while speaking to the Hospice nurses who care for him regularly, and they were just trying to keep him comfortable.
That was a month ago. When I spoke with my mother last night to check in, funeral arrangements were being made, and he was taking morphine every two hours to manage the pain of his body breaking down. I wonder if he knows he's dying. I wonder why, if he does, doesn't he let go.
My mother told me that two nights ago, he called my stepfather over to his bed. He held out his hand and John went to him. My mother said they sat there holding hands for more than an hour, as my stepfather told him stories and fond memories. John later told my mother that he thought my grandfather was waiting for him to say that it was okay to go now. But he couldn't. It's hard to let your parent leave the world even if you know that its time.
I cry every time I even think about them sitting there together.
When I lost my beloved uncle earlier this year, I was a mess. I thought this time was easier, if only because I was not as close to Pop. If I'm being perfectly honest, Pop was never especially nice to me. When we were kids, Pop clearly favored my brother and they had a very sweet relationship. I suppose I was a little jealous then, but I grew out of that. Pop used to spend every weekend with my family, and when he'd drive from my aunt's house to ours on a Friday afternoon, he would bring homemade pastries and fresh vegetables from the farmer's market that he passed on the way. At least one weekend a month, he would bring me whoopie pies, which were my favorite. I remember Pop also liked the pumpkin cookies I used to make in the fall.
My family has lost too many people over the last year and a half. I hope that changes in 2010.
Less significant than death, but more omnipresent in my daily life has been my struggle this year with my finances. My situation is probably worse than ever, but I've continued, for the most part, to go about my days as though it weren't. I've overdrawn my checking account more than once over the past few months and the more often it accidentally happened, the sense of embarrassment I felt the first time it happened diminishes. By not taking care of money, I am not taking good care of myself, and I know that at 28 years old, I should be there by now. I need to be there. I think that if I had expensive clothes and shoes and went out to eat for every meal, I'd deserve to be in the position that I'm in, but I don't. My monthly bills come just shy of my monthly pay and that will not change. If I worked fewer hours per week I could probably get a part-time job to supplement my income, but unless it was an extremely lucrative one (say, drug dealer?), I could not make enough in my "free" time to make it worth it. There's the taxes to consider. I was lucky enough to get a small bonus from my company for the holidays this year, and 45% of it went to taxes. I did the math.
I know that when I get my income tax refund in February I can kick start my bank account and get back on track, but that feels like its eons away. Even though I say that I really am trying, whatever I'm doing just doesn't work. Maybe I will just hit the lottery in 2010. That might help.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Watch as I punch my landlord in the face
Just when I was feeling jovial and light and in the spirit of the holiday season, my "family" and I get a notice in the mail from ConEd stating that our management company, which has been tipping towards disaster since we moved in in June, has neglected to pay their bills. The ConEd bill for the common areas of my apartment building (which includes heat in the lobby/hallways, elevator, and all lights in the lobby/halls/stairwell) has not been paid since AUGUST and is totaling over $18,000. EIGHTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS in unpaid bills. If this goes unpaid, as of January 10th, all electric will be shut off to our common areas. This, thankfully, does not affect our individual apartments, as we pay our own ConEd, and ON TIME NO LESS. However, no elevator (we live on the sixth floor) and no lights in the stairwells means, essentially, that we cannot safely get to our apartment (I'm certainly not going to climb six flights in the pitch black darkness), which obvious has a huge impact on us.
This unpaid bill situation has now topped the list of complaints we have about our BRAND NEW APARTMENT, which includes uneven walls, window drafts, a broken intercom, no hot water in our showers... and more. We've been (relatively) patient with the company when asking them to fix things in the apartment but have largely been ignored. Only within the last two weeks did we get hot water in the showers. But this ConEd situation makes me furious. Like, I MAY MURDER THEM, furious. I have been storming around my office all day threatening physical violence on anyone who crosses me today. Beware.
The best possible scenario, at this point, seems to be getting out of our lease and moving elsewhere. Somewhere, perhaps, where the management isn't a troop of irresponsible douchebags. A girl can dream. One of our other options, according to the resources at 311 is to pool together a tenant association (which I am all for) and file a joint complaint with the city. Okay, fine. 311 and others have also suggested that each apartment chip in an equal share to foot the bill, and then deduct that money from our rent. To this, I say ABSOLUTELY NOT. I look at it as a parent paying for the college student's credit card bill. They will not learn that their actions are unacceptable if we simply pay their bills for them. Part of being an adult is paying bills. Part of running a COMPANY is also paying bills, not running off doing hell knows what with our money.
Option 23 is that we pack up and move to Florida. It's warm there, even in December.
And, even if the apartment is falling down and we will be stuck on the sixth floor until June, we at least have a pretty tree to look at:
This unpaid bill situation has now topped the list of complaints we have about our BRAND NEW APARTMENT, which includes uneven walls, window drafts, a broken intercom, no hot water in our showers... and more. We've been (relatively) patient with the company when asking them to fix things in the apartment but have largely been ignored. Only within the last two weeks did we get hot water in the showers. But this ConEd situation makes me furious. Like, I MAY MURDER THEM, furious. I have been storming around my office all day threatening physical violence on anyone who crosses me today. Beware.
The best possible scenario, at this point, seems to be getting out of our lease and moving elsewhere. Somewhere, perhaps, where the management isn't a troop of irresponsible douchebags. A girl can dream. One of our other options, according to the resources at 311 is to pool together a tenant association (which I am all for) and file a joint complaint with the city. Okay, fine. 311 and others have also suggested that each apartment chip in an equal share to foot the bill, and then deduct that money from our rent. To this, I say ABSOLUTELY NOT. I look at it as a parent paying for the college student's credit card bill. They will not learn that their actions are unacceptable if we simply pay their bills for them. Part of being an adult is paying bills. Part of running a COMPANY is also paying bills, not running off doing hell knows what with our money.
Option 23 is that we pack up and move to Florida. It's warm there, even in December.
And, even if the apartment is falling down and we will be stuck on the sixth floor until June, we at least have a pretty tree to look at:
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
I wrote a novel in November... what did YOU do?
As I've written about a bit, I took the month of November to write a novel as part of the NaNoWriMo challenge. 30 days. 50,000 words. And I actually finished.
I originally took on the challenge simply to take one month to do something that I really enjoy doing. And trust me when I say that I really needed to do that for myself. I love to write, and when I'm pushed hard enough (with, say, 50,000 words to write in one month) I am capable of being kind of good at it. I say "kind of" good not to be self-deprecating, but because it's the truth. A Harper Lee or a Dave Eggers, I am not. I am what I am. One thing on the list of things that I am good at happens to be writing. Just ask my colleagues whose press release was called out in an office-wide meeting for being outstanding. Yeah, that was mine. It's hanging on my wall behind me right now. Or who edits probably about half of the press releases that come through this place. See, I'm not self-deprecating, or even humble.
What I discovered over the past month is that I have more to say than I thought I did. I started writing on November 1st with an idea that I had decided on on October 31st, and just wrote. I wrote 50,270 words. For that, I am both pleased and proud. I worked hard a lot of the time, and there were a few days that I did not write at all out of frustration or because of my shoulder injury (ouch). Over the last week and a half, I wrote almost two-thirds of my novel, because I had gotten so behind in the front half of the month. As of Sunday evening, I had more than 11,000 words left to write in 24 hours. I "finished" at 11:43pm on Monday and uploaded my word count to the NaNoWriMo website with just minutes to spare. When I got home after 12:30 that night, my back, shoulders and arms ached from being hunched over my computer. I was as tired as I had ever been before. But it was done and I felt awesome. And now I am wearing my NOVELIST button on my coat.
Last night, on my first novel-free evening, I made cupcakes because I could. They were delicious.
Next Tuesday, I plan to start the editing process on the second draft, and someday soon I may even let someone read my currently untitled work. Rachel has requested an autographed printed copy. On it, I plan to write, "Thank you for your support. Sorry that I ignored you for a month. I'm glad our relationship survived this. Xoxo, Your Literary Highness."
I originally took on the challenge simply to take one month to do something that I really enjoy doing. And trust me when I say that I really needed to do that for myself. I love to write, and when I'm pushed hard enough (with, say, 50,000 words to write in one month) I am capable of being kind of good at it. I say "kind of" good not to be self-deprecating, but because it's the truth. A Harper Lee or a Dave Eggers, I am not. I am what I am. One thing on the list of things that I am good at happens to be writing. Just ask my colleagues whose press release was called out in an office-wide meeting for being outstanding. Yeah, that was mine. It's hanging on my wall behind me right now. Or who edits probably about half of the press releases that come through this place. See, I'm not self-deprecating, or even humble.
What I discovered over the past month is that I have more to say than I thought I did. I started writing on November 1st with an idea that I had decided on on October 31st, and just wrote. I wrote 50,270 words. For that, I am both pleased and proud. I worked hard a lot of the time, and there were a few days that I did not write at all out of frustration or because of my shoulder injury (ouch). Over the last week and a half, I wrote almost two-thirds of my novel, because I had gotten so behind in the front half of the month. As of Sunday evening, I had more than 11,000 words left to write in 24 hours. I "finished" at 11:43pm on Monday and uploaded my word count to the NaNoWriMo website with just minutes to spare. When I got home after 12:30 that night, my back, shoulders and arms ached from being hunched over my computer. I was as tired as I had ever been before. But it was done and I felt awesome. And now I am wearing my NOVELIST button on my coat.
Last night, on my first novel-free evening, I made cupcakes because I could. They were delicious.
Next Tuesday, I plan to start the editing process on the second draft, and someday soon I may even let someone read my currently untitled work. Rachel has requested an autographed printed copy. On it, I plan to write, "Thank you for your support. Sorry that I ignored you for a month. I'm glad our relationship survived this. Xoxo, Your Literary Highness."
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