Survival

This month I wrote 50,083 words for my new novel, In God's Country. That's not counting the reports for work or blog entries or anything else I've worked on. That's just material for my novel. I'm not going to pretend like it isn't a big deal or like it didn't make an already hard month even more stressful. Because it did. I woke up early most mornings and wrote before I went to work and then wrote through my lunch break, barely stepping away from my computer to heat up a tortilla to munch on while clacking away at the keyboard. You might be asking yourself why I did this in the midst of one of the most difficult times in my life. I'd just started a new job. My father just became seriously ill. I'm trying to get my body to a healthy weight through diet and exercise. I had already completed 50,000 words in June. I had every excuse not to try to complete the NanoWrimo challenge this year.

That's exactly why I did it. I had every reason to need more time, to not want to work hard, to need a break, to need more sleep, to feel depressed. I have every reason to say I was going to put my efforts toward getting my first novel, Lilith's Repose, picked up before starting a new manuscript. I had every reason to save NanoWrimo for another year. When I sat down on November fifth with zero words to count toward my ultimate goal, I was tempted to quit. Five days may not seem like much, but by NanoWrimo's standards, I was already over 8,000 words behind. Eight thousand. Despite knowing I would spend the month fighting an uphill battle and knowing that I was always going to be behind, I decided I was going to at least try to hit the 50,000 word mark.

November fifth did not go so well. I wrote 500 words. The words I wrote didn't make much sense and the story wasn't there. Last time I wrote for a NanoWrimo month, I had already completed 30,000 words, which meant I knew where my story was going and I just had to finish it. This month, I had nothing. I had no words, and only a sparse and unclear outline. My main character didn't have a name or much character to speak of and all I had was a list of who died and when. No whys, no reason, no rhyme.

I didn't write again for two days. And, then I wrote 1200 words. Not enough for the day, let alone to catch me up, but it was something. Over the next few weeks, I gained momentum and by the time I left for Fresno to see my family and move my father from Nevada to California (seeing him for the first time in 3 years), I was only 5,000 or so words behind. Pretty good for having started out 8000 behind, right?

Then, I arrived. And, all my best laid plans for waking early and writing before my days started went the way of mice and men. I wrote one hundred words one morning before I broke down in sobs thinking of my own life. I gave up for the duration of the trip and didn't write again until I was on the plane back home. Before I knew it, the last Monday of the month had arrived. I have five days and 25,000 words to write. I sat down and asked myself it was really possible. The answer was plainly, "I do not know." So, I tried. I wrote as much as I could everyday, pushing myself beyond what I thought was possible. By Thursday at noon, I had completed my goal. Somehow.

I sat back on my futon at home and felt...odd. I had done it. I had climbed the insurmountable mountain and I was okay. Wasn't I?

I thought for a while, wondering if I'd done what I set out to. Then I wondered what I'd set out to do. I had wanted to write 50,000 words. The proof was in the pudding, I had a messy, beautiful, full document full of words. But, why had I done it? Just then, I thought of a professor from Harvard, Ron Thiemann. For one of his classes, I had discussed the act of writing as an act of survival, but even more as an act of getting beyond survival. When I presented my short paper to the class, he pressed me. I remember his question vividly: "What does it mean not just to survive, but to thrive?"

I looked at my paper and came up with the best thing I could think of. I don't know exactly what I said in response, but I can remember the feeling. An act of survival is something born of the deep impulse toward life, toward anything but death. An act of thriving, of living, is coming to terms with how one has survived and being willing to get beyond the act of merely surviving. In a sense, it means to get beyond the daily grind, to create.

Yesterday, not three hours after I finished the first half of my second novel, the man who believed in me died. Professor Ron Thiemann encouraged me to write, and when he read my writing, he told me that for me writing was not a choice, not a desire, but a calling, a vocation. Writing was in me, and like any gift, it was meant to be shared. Without him, I would not have made it to this point.
Today, while I sit at the end of a month that really gave me it's worst, I think perhaps I have survived. And, perhaps I have done more. While the storm threw me to and fro, seeking desperately to throw me out of my little boat, I hunkered down, not merely for survival, but to dream dreams. With my chin on my knees and a hood over my head, I weathered the storm. Soaked to the bone and tired, I pushed myself to create stories, to believe in what was inside me. I think Professor Thiemann would be proud of me. At this time when I feel perhaps most downtrodden, most heartbroken, I also feel renewed. Professor Thiemann saw what was inside me, he saw who I am. It's time I saw that, too.

Slowing to gratitude

This month, I am attempting to write 50,000 words for my second novel (you may recall that I did this in June for my first one), which means my words are precious and I'm not so sure I have any to spare (since I also write as part of my new job, which is amazing). I'm hoping you will accept this short reflection as enough between now and December (when I will tell more about my job, my life, and adventures with Ace/Jason).

Last week, I threw out my back. I stepped out of the shower and bent down and bam! I was done for. I tried popping it by twisting. I tried stretching it. I tried icing it. The spot just below my shoulder blade still caused me great pain.

Now, I had started biking to work and with a majorly painful back, that was no longer an option. Jason dropped me off at the office in the mornings, but with his new job, he doesn't get out until after six. So, there arose the question of getting home. I don't live that far from work and I begrudged the fact that I wasn't getting my normal yoga and biking exercise in, so I decided to walk home.

I walked all over in Cambridge/Boston, so I assumed that I would be fine. For the most part, walking didn't aggravate my back and I actually enjoy being dependent upon my own two feet for transit. The first night, I headed out from work, matching the pace of the people around me. Pain shot from my back through my whole body, taking my breath away. I was worried I wouldn't make it. I had walked away from the bus stop and going back to it would be the same distance as making it halfway home. I took a deep breath and moaned, stopping for a moment. I adjusted my bag and began trudging up the hill again at a rapid pace. I made it only a few steps before the pain became so great that I couldn't continue.

From the corner of my eye, I witnessed fifteen people blow past me. I felt embarrassed and wondered how I looked to them. I am healthy looking enough. I am young. I wondered if they might wonder why I couldn't just walk. I must have appeared so out of shape. I started again, but slowed down to the point of a nice stroll. I realized my back didn't hurt (well, not the same way).

I don't like being slow. I don't like not being able to fix problems or find a solution. It frustrated me that I couldn't move more quickly because of one spot in my back, for goodness's sake. I wanted to fix my back and be done with it. But, there was no solution for my back, it just needed time (it still does need some time). I realized then that if I backed off a bit and didn't try to make my body feel 100% immediately, I could actually still function normally for most things, just a bit more slowly. I made my way home some time later and managed not to do anything that require movement from my back for the whole night.

Walking home the next day, I was tempted to rush again, but I slowed my pace and moved steadily toward my street. As I waited for a light that I barely missed (and would have historically run to catch), it dawned on me that slowing down might be exactly what I need right now. It's hard for me, nay nearly impossible for me, to not know what to do about my father's illness. I can't make him better and, honestly, I can't make everyone around him stop hurting. My own lacking has weighed down upon me heavily and like when my back seized up, I just want to rush through it. Get done with the pain and onto the feeling good. But, it turns out, that's not how life works. I don't know if my father will get better. I don't know if he will get worse. We don't have a definite prognosis, so rushing through anything won't make a difference. There's nothing to rush toward. As much as it hurts (both my back and facing my father's potential death and definite suffering), there's nothing I can do but sit with it. Sit with it and work through the pain slowly. It's a kind of surrender I haven't experienced in a long time and to allow myself to be this free, this responsive to what happens around me without an intention of fixing it, is a new kind of adulthood.

When I finally made it home the second day, I slowly climbed the stairs to find my big black dog whipping his chow tail around wildly, greeting me with love. On the counter, a simple note said, "I love you." It was a small victory, a small reward for my own perseverance. As I plopped down in the bed and my back stopped feeling like anything, gratitude washed over my body. I was home.

My father and the election

I've been promising a lot of people that I would update my blog, so here I am. So much has changed since my last blog post and I can't help but laugh. I was so full of anticipation and delight. Well, I had my last day at the job I started in September today and am moving on to a position where I will be able to use my degree and training. It's a real triumph in Sierraland. And, while I'm about as excited as I've ever been to start this new position in two days, I'm not so chipper at the moment. I'm in a great deal of pain and I can't make it stop. My biological father, Paul, is ill. Very ill. He's been in the hospital since Saturday with liver and kidney failure. While the seriousness of his illness is clear, the prognosis and how we will cope with it is dreadfully unclear.

I've been in shock since I found out. Well, since my step-mother, Maggie, called me a week ago and told me he wasn't doing well. We discussed his condition and considered ways of working together to provide my father the care he needs. See, my dad isn't just sick, he's poor. His insurance dropped him when he became ill last October and he and his wife have been struggling to pay for his meds. They can't afford in-home care for him and they can't afford for Maggie not to work. But, her unemployment is running out and she can't find a job close enough to home. They're damned if they do and damned if they don't. When Maggie told me on Saturday that he'd been rushed to the hospital it wasn't just the pain of his being sick that struck me, it was the helplessness of not being able to make things better. As good as my life is, I can't afford to take care of my dad. So, here we are. Lost.

Forgive me if I preach today. Forgive me if I use my own situation and my own pain for political reasons, but I have long believed that the personal is political. We as a country are choosing our leader for the next four years at the polls tomorrow. I hope you will keep my father and his situation in mind when you vote and select someone who believes everyone has the right to quality healthcare, regardless of the their pre-existing condition or the amount of money they have in the bank. I don't care if you're fiscally conservative. I don't. I don't care if you think Obama hasn't done "enough." What I care about is people like my father who deserves to not have to suffer excruciating pain until the end of his life because he's not wealthy. What I care about is people like my friends who deserve to be able to marry their lovers one day, regardless of their gender. What I care about is women everywhere being able to receive affordable check ups and preventative care from Planned Parenthood. What I care about it creating a country of compassion, not one hellbent on ignorance and the consolidation of wealth among the select few.

So, I'm sorry if you find my conclusion offensive, but I'm sick of pretending like who the president is doesn't affect my life. I'm sick of pretending like I'm zen enough not to be terrified. Because I am. I'm afraid that by Wednesday morning, we will have elected a president who is on the wrong side of history.