Thoughts on 26: Stability

Song of the Day: "A Journey (A Dream of Flight)" by Joe Hisaishi

This one's a little later than intended.

A couple days ago I turned 26-years-old. The last year has flown by, and I actually almost forgot it was my birthday when I woke up that morning. I quickly remembered, though, when Amanda said "happy birthday." Of course. Then I got a wonderful and touching birthday email from my sister that really drove the fact that it was my birthday home.

Time to get my own health insurance.

As I did last year, I'm going to take a few moments to look back on the months between my last birthday and this one. I think I can say that this birthday does not have that same feel of forward drive and optimism that 25 did. But I also think that that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Last year I moved out of my parents' house, got a new job, and wrote a book. It was a big year; a year of growth, progress, and huge changes. This year can be summed up in one word that I, after wrestling with it for a long time, can accept: stability.

There are two definitions of stability that I think of when I hear that word. The first is this: "continuance without change; permanence." The second is this: "steadfastness; constancy, as of character or purpose." Naturally there are numerous definitions of the word, but these are the two I want to look at, because reasons.

There's a tendency in our society, and not always a healthy one, to emphasize mobility. Everyone is so focused on what they could have, what they think they should be pushing for, that they fail to slow down and enjoy where they are right now. What this does, when the mentality is pushed to the extreme, is it gives someone a constant anxiety, a constant feeling of discontent associated with a misguided belief that not moving upward is the same as "stagnating." Stagnation and stability should not be conflated.

When I turned 25, having just finished the first draft of Aurora's Gate, I set the goal that I would finish the final draft and send it to publishers by the time I had turned 26. Well, I'm 26 and no, the novel is not quite ready to go to publishers. After some reflection, though, I realized that it was less because I had been lazy and more because I had set a goal that I did not know at the time was exceedingly difficult. Revision and editing is a long process; four more drafts (at least), while working full time, was an unreasonable demand.

Apart from that, the reality of this all is that I cannot expect every year to be as big as last year was. Last year was not the norm, but rather an exception to that norm; a year in which my life took huge, easily discernible, strides.

This year what I focused on instead was my stability, on maintaining what I have, and on beginning, on setting things in motion. Instead while trying to finish my book, I began studying for the LSATs, while also working full time. Instead of buying a house, or moving to a bigger, more expensive apartment, I stayed where I am so I could focus on saving my money. Instead of getting a new job, I built relationships at my current one, where I get to do work that I never thought I would be doing.

I began singing on a regular basis again, joining a local men's choir (Mendelssohn Club; check us out). I've been playing cello more than ever, rediscovering my love of music and wondering, more often than not, why I didn't pursue musical performance in college. I have always loved music as much as I love writing, yet I have starved that part of my spirit for so long. Finding that outlet again has given me a new energy that I did not realize I had lost.

This year I went gluten free and low FODMAP, by doctor's orders. By doing so I realized how much my health has suffered for months, if not years, of my life. This change has turned my life around in a very short time. I feel like my head has come out of a fog, like I can think more clearly than every before.

I also bought a new car, because my old one crapped the bed very early on in 2015.

And I focused on my interpersonal relationships. While I know I still have a ways to go on this, I really tried to make an effort to reach out more to my family, and my loved ones. I worked hard at making sure to see friends more, and to let them know how much I appreciate them being in my life. I have not perfected this, as I have never been either overly social or good at keeping in touch, but I'm getting there. Bit by bit, I'm getting there. I'm less afraid now to lean on those I love when I am struggling with my mental health, as I have this year.

It was not a perfect year, and some might say it was not a productive year. And yet, when I look back, I see that this was a year of stability for me. I stumbled, and I found my footing, and I came back stronger. Everything I have done, while not a huge step, has been a beginning of something huge to come. It was a stable year.

And I'm happy that it was.

26 is going to be a very good year. 26 is going to see many of these beginnings bear fruit. The first thing is coming this very weekend: NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. I have officially signed up on the website, and I am going to use this month to come as my chance to write the final draft of Aurora's Gate. And that is just the first month. Who knows what I can do with the eleven that follow?

Thoughtful Serenity

Song of the Day: "Break the Same" by MuteMath

I will freely acknowledge that it's been some time since I posted on this blog, so allow me to open with apologies.


A lot has happened over the past few months, including a bout of depression, ranging from mild to severe, and refreshed anxiety. I have struggled with my self-confidence, and it has led to doubt, unhappiness, and general uncertainty. When I have looked at my writing, I have found myself flipping between loving it and thinking it is the worst thing to inflict on this earth, often within seconds of each other. As a result, the book that I wanted to finish the final draft of by today - the book that I feel should be done by now - is only in its third draft.


The problem with knowing I was behind on my book - playing video games or watching television when I could have been working - is that it served not to motivate me, but to drive me further into this depression and anxiety. And when my best friend would call me (not knowing what he was doing) and try and put on the pressure for me to work harder, I instead stopped working. It made me hate myself more; it drove my body image issues, and my anger at myself for being such a damned slacker in everything. Don't get me wrong, there is such a thing as good stress, good pressure; this is the stuff that drives us to bring our best, to constantly strive to work harder and do better. But too much of it ceases to be productive, and turns that positive stress into a toxin that leaches into your body and soul.


This endless feedback loop has had me spinning my wheels for months: more depressed, less motivated, hating myself, angry, trying to work and failing, more depressed, less motivated, hating myself, and so on.


The thing about depression and anxiety is that there is not always a discernible cause; sometimes you can point at the specific trigger, but other times it is seemingly random with a trigger that is so minor or non existent that all you can do is ride it out. Depression is not the Monday blues. It is not sadness in response to a specific event. It is not something that can be ushered away by things like "suck it up," or "cheer up," or "get over it." It is more subtle than that, more insidious.


It sucks the color out of your world, removes motivation, and obliterates your drive for social interaction. It makes you moody, yes, but in a way where you feel completely isolated and alone, even if loved ones surround you. It is a constant baseline of misery, eating away at you; it is an unrelenting and unrepentant attacker.


It is as if the flu, bringing on every possible symptom the flu can bring, has decided to target your mind instead of your body. It is a broken leg, an autoimmune disease, paralysis, a migraine, the shakes. When someone experiences these things, we don't tell them to "get over it." Telling someone with a broken leg, or someone who is in a wheelchair, to "get over it" would be unthinkable.


It is a tsunami, as inexorable in its approach as it is wildly destructive once it envelopes the inundation zone; if you're lucky, you can see it coming and you can brace yourself for it or find a piece of soon-to-be driftwood to hold onto.


The only thing you can do is tell people how you are feeling; encourage them to listen without feeling like they have to "fix it" or "make it go away." Then, you have to ride it out. Let the tsunami wash away, let the flu subside. Only once it has passed can you really pick yourself up from it. Trying to clean up after a tsunami while it's still sweeping over you would just be counter productive, and the work you do in repairing will just be washed away in the end.


This was the lesson of my most recent struggle. I tried to fight it, tried to wrestle it down. But, just as if I had been trying to punch a tsunami to make it go away, it swallowed me up nonetheless.

Somewhere in the past few weeks, I have finally felt a shift. The tidal wave is in retreat, the flu has reduced itself to the sniffles. A kind of serenity has come in place of the storm that was darkening my mind. Yes, I am aware that my metaphors are getting mixed, but oh well; perhaps that is a good way of reflecting my jumbled state of mind over the past couple of months.

But to continue with the tsunami talk, I feel as though the waters have settled. There's a lot of clutter left behind, but for the most part, things are calm. This thoughtful serenity that has overtaken me has made it easier to write, easier to breathe. It's not as it has been in the past, where I have frantically worked at all hours, desperate to finish finish finish, but neither is it the panicked standstill that it has been. It's more as if I have found a balance, and I am working at a steady, forward moving pace. The pace at which I am now moving is a comfortable one, making writing a soothing process, and a positive one.

I have accepted that I did not finish the final draft by today, even as I wish that I had. I have a new, low pressure goal date that I am hopeful that I can achieve. As of today, I have finished my second draft and am approaching completion on the third. I don't know exactly how many drafts there will be, but my prediction is five, maybe six.

Each word that I write is an affirmation that I can, and will, and maybe already have gotten past this, empowering me to write the next word. Each page I complete is a victory, a triumph for the brightest parts of me. And because of that, for this moment in time, I have found serenity.

Trapped in a Private H-E-Double Hockey Sticks: Disease of the Day

Song of the Day: Breathing Underwater by Metric

I have spoken about this before. You may recall that I wrote a series of posts called "An Unspoken Torment of the Mind" back in August, after news broke about Robin Williams' suicide. The post today will cover a similar topic, and it will be, if that were possible, a bit more personal.

Today I had my first major anxiety attack in over a year. I had forgotten the feeling, and I had not missed it.

Probably - definitely - I should have seen it coming. It's been worse lately, my obsessive compulsive disorder; it crept up on me. It caught me unaware. It was the monster under the bed, and I had lulled myself into the false belief that I had exorcised it for good. But this monster is never gone for good, can never be fully exorcised. It can be scared away for a while, or it can take a nap. But its return, its reawakening, is inevitable.

My baseline anxiety level has slowly been creeping up over the past few weeks. I'd say it began with the awareness that my car was dying, one part after another breaking and needing extensive repair. Then the car died at the beginning of February, and my financial situation became a bit tighter as a result. Hunting for cars is not something I enjoy. I don't enjoy the prospect of paying off a car so soon after i was finally free of payments on the last one. I don't enjoy the thought of insurance. As someone who has mild social anxiety, I certainly do not enjoy dealing with car salesmen.

It started with not sleeping as well; I couldn't seem to get comfortable, and when that wasn't the issue, my mind was abuzz with a storm of thoughts and worries. I've been sleeping less and less, switching sides on the bed and trying that instead. It worked for a few days. Then came the irritability.

The way irritability works for me is that it comes as a result of thinking about something, or being focused on something of utmost importance to me. When I'm anxious, irritability comes because I'm focused on being anxious, without any real direction to my thoughts. So even though I don't know what's on my mind, being interrupted or disturbed causes problems. I've also found that my irritability also makes me obstinate.

I'm sorry to Amanda for the above.

About two weeks ago, I started poking and prodding again. I started checking my armpit, which is the same it's always been, but I convince myself there is something deeply wrong. I started checking it multiple times a day. I started checking to see if I had a hernia.

Then came the fixation on the disease of choice for my hypochondriasis: cancer. Name a cancer, and you will undoubtedly have found a cancer that I've thought about recently. Self examination and self diagnosis has returned to my list of daily routines. As I write this, I'm fighting the urge to go to the bathroom and examine the glands in my neck and arms.

Last week, my focus at work started lagging, and that continues to be the state I'm in. I can't even decide what music to focus on this week - something that usually is a sure sign that a major anxiety attack is coming. I am never at a loss for music.

This week I have the physical symptoms: the dizzy spells, the tunnel vision, the nausea, the fatigue - because being constantly anxious is taxing and exhausting. I have headaches and muscle aches and body aches. These physical symptoms serve to, of course, exacerbate the issue.

I've been private and quiet about this, trying not to broadcast my growing anxiety, fooling myself into thinking I'm fine. Because I'm supposed to be better, and I'm supposed to be fixed. That's the feeling that sucks: that feeling that I should be past this.

It's weird; that feeling when you realize holy cow. This is an anxiety attack. You don't panic more when you realize it - at least not all the time. No, somehow, the realization is the calmest moment of the anxiety attack. You have the shortness of breath (in my case, I'll actually stop breathing for seconds at a time, as if holding my breath will make an anxiety attack go away like hiccups), you have the dizziness, the nausea, the tunnel vision. Your heart pounds and/or races (in my case, my heart doesn't race, but it pounds and thumps, a fist knocking on my ribcage). But the moment you realize what's happening you find clarity. Then the hell continues.

So I was sitting at my desk at work this morning, and something must have triggered me, because it all came down on me in a rush, and I felt alone. And I felt scared, and embarrassed.

Go away, I thought. Leave me in peace.

But the monster did not leave me in peace. It tore at my psyche instead, and I sat rooted at my desk, staring at my computer screen, and waiting. I knew what this was, and I knew I had to ride it out. You can only ride these things out.

A friend and coworker came out to ask me something - honest to God I could not tell you what she asked me - and I gave an answer while on the inside I was like Dear Lord, why now? It must have read on my face, because she asked if I was okay, because I looked pale and sick. And then I had that crystallizing moment and I said, as calmly as I could manage, "I think I'm having an anxiety attack." She sprang into action, grabbed me water, encouraged me to breathe, and talked me through it, all very quietly and privately so as not to draw too much attention to the matter. I think it's that last bit for which I am most grateful.

I was lucky enough to be noticed, and to receive some help, and to come out of it. And I am so grateful to my friend.

Unfortunately I have the rest of the day ahead, and I have an event to attend in which I need to put on my best face. After an anxiety attack, I'm always tired, and embarrassed, and want to cry, and want some space to myself to sort through what's on my mind. Some days, though, you just need to file it away and move on.

I've never been good at compartmentalizing.

Thoughts on 25

Song of the Day: Lullaby of Resembool by Senju Akira

The above song perfectly encompasses how I feel today.

As I sit here, listening to the Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood Score - it's a beautiful thing, and has been a source of writing inspiration for some years now - I realize with a kind of mild surprise that I'm incredibly happy, and I'm incredibly blessed.

I mean, sitting at my desk, conducting the music (or rocking back and forth to the beat), and grinning like a fool kind of happy. And yes, I could go on and pontificate about how happiness is ephemeral and mercurial in nature. But why ruin a good thing?

Since my twenty-first, my birthdays haven't been particularly cheery. I wasn't miserable, to clarify. Always with loved ones, and always in a pleasant state, I did not hate my birthdays. Still, it's been a while since the last time I was chuffed to see a new year begin. Twenty-two was the first birthday after graduating college, and I was very confused and lost in my life. Twenty-three came around right after my cousin passed away, and I was very much in the depths of grief. Twenty-four came after a year in which I was diagnosed with OCD and anxiety; I was tired. In a lot of ways, I felt as directionless at twenty-four as I did at twenty-two.

I also watched a lot of my goals pass me by.

It happens without my realizing it, each year on my birthday: I set silent goals, make private wishes of which only my subconscious is aware. And each year, I feel a kind of disappointment - not in my birthday, not with the company I keep around my birthday. Rather, a disappointment in myself, and uncomfortable awareness of the fact that I'm not a kid anymore. It's that kind of guilt that clenches a fist in your stomach and encroaches on your sleep. I silently remind myself of the goals that I didn't know I set. We can quibble about the mental healthiness of setting these goals and feeling this dismay another day, on a day that's not my birthday.

When I turned twenty-four I set those silent goals, as I do every year. And through the course of this year, I saw every single one of these goals come to fruition. I left my parents' house and began an independent life; I got a job that I love, and left a job in which I was going nowhere; I learned a lot about handling my anxiety and finding a more balanced life; most importantly, I finished my book, my only conscious goal. Twenty-four was jam packed, and I am very proud of every single accomplishment.

Yet the reason I'm happy isn't that I used twenty-four so well. I'm happy because I have a very good feeling about twenty-five. There are, as always, dark things in life and in the world, and yet they seem so much less scary in the light. On my twenty-fifth birthday, a profound sense of optimism woke with me, a hunch that this is going to be an excellent year.

And the thing about any feeling, good or bad, is that it tends to build on itself. If I'm already starting twenty-five so well, imagine where I'll be at twenty-six.

A Project Pulled Out of the Void

Song of the Day: "War Machine" by Brian Tyler from Iron Man 3

When I was twelve-years-old, I would come home from school, kick off my shoes, and pad my way upstairs in stocking feet. My sister would poke her head out of her bedroom door to greet me and ask about my day. My response was to grunt hello and run into my room. My sisters and parents would ask me what I was up to and I would say "I'm busy."

I had toys, and CDs, and a border around my room that depicted the planets and the stars, the nebulas and supernovas. Like many my age, I played video games, and explored outside with my friend Adam and, later on, Jason, and rolled around town on roller blades and my bicycle. I was allowed to watch television after I finished my homework, and sometimes snuck television viewings while my parents were out of the house. I had crushes, had friendships that turned out not to be friendships at all, pined after girls, and daydreamed about the what-ifs. For the most part, my twelve-year-old life was as ordinary as any other twelve-year-olds' life.

But I had a secret. None of those things were as enjoyable to me as the adventures I went on when I came home after school and snuck off to my room on my lonesome. See, I had begun a project: a novel. Not just a novel, but an entire series of eight books.

It was a very different kind of thing to be concerned with than what most kids my age focused on.

I was creating whole worlds in my room, where anything was possible and I was in charge. In a narcissistic, even megalomaniacal sense, I became a god of my own domain, creating and destroying at my will and no one else's. Yet, in my youth, I was little more than a literary sponge. Most of the creations I had at the time were rehashings of stories that I had read and loved; cheap imitations and knock-offs. See, I did not, at the time, understand the kind of energy and dedication went into a creation like a novel. But I still discovered my true passion that was writing.

The book that I began in seventh grade, which at the time was called Darkness Rising or some sort of cliche like that, would not be recognizable if I looked at it today. It has gone through iteration after iteration, rewrite after rewrite. My refusal to world build, or character build, haunted my writing and stifled what little originality I had.

Now the purpose of this post isn't to be down on my twelve-year-old self. I was young, new to writing, and, as I said, did not understand how much of myself needed to go into it. But I began there, and continued to grow as a writer and as a person.

I worked on Darkness Rising through middle school, and on through high school. Although, in high school, I became distracted by other things: friends, and girls, and music, and musicals. Life began to happen, and my focus on the book began to shift.

I talked about it a lot. Those of you who knew me well in high school know that. I'd talk to just about anyone who would listen about it, about my plans for an awesome, intense new series. In classes, I drew in the margins as many did. But I didn't draw random doodles; I drew whole scenes, whole characters, whole worlds. Through my high school doodles, I began my world building. Eventually Rith Rilec, hero of Darkness Rising, became Ingram Tallhaus, hero of An Age of Demons. And still I talked.

Many folks asked to become characters in my book, and to many of them I said yes. I will say now that many of you won't appear in the first book, and I hope you're not too upset if you're not major characters in the series. When you say yes to everyone, it gets harder and harder to focus on their characters.

When I went to Bard, I took the opportunity to hunker down and begin again. I wrote about nine chapters of the book, using the collection of notes that I had written through the years since I first began. Ingram Tallhaus became the brother of the true main character, named Marcus. Then he became the main character's cousin, and the main character was instead called Marcus Wainright. That name is the one that stuck.

Freshman year came and went, and my work on the series stalled out. Jason, who has from the beginning been a sounding board for this series, began simply calling the series "Marcus," and that's what it's been called since then. We talked about Marcus all the time, planning and drawing out scenes. But once the planning stopped, I didn't start writing. Instead, I scrapped what I had of "Ingram" and started it over.

And over.

And over.

You get where I'm going with this.

Junior and senior year, I all but forgot that Marcus existed, working instead on The Longest Fall for my senior thesis. After I graduated, I tried to start Marcus again, but instead I wrote Tree in the Sky and met Amanda. Neither of these two books felt particularly strong or praiseworthy to me. The Longest Fall is downright painful to read, in my opinion.

And I started Marcus over again: first he was in high school, then he was in college, then he was out of college, back to high school. It was a mess. I have the outline for the entire series, but I just couldn't get down to writing it.

When I turned 24, I looked closely at the things in my life that I wanted to change before I turned 25. For the most part, I did very well. I moved out of my parents' house; I got out of a difficult and unpleasant job; I started playing cello professionally. Another promise I made to myself was that I would finish this book that I had been talking about since seventh grade. I thought: I do not want to turn 25 and still not have this book done.

I did a lot of planning and outlining. I began writing this book on August 11th, in my first one-subject notebook, with all of the books that inspired me over the years out to continue to push me along. I had my soundtracks and playlists, support from my friends, and a girlfriend who understood what I was driving for. I had a determination to finish Marcus Book 1 before I turned 25.

It's appropriate to me that I finish this book where I started it: at my parents' house.

I wrote the Afterword this morning. I turn 25 in two days.

I did it. I managed to pull this project out of the void that it had been sucked into. It's hard to describe how I feel today. I know that I have a lot of work still to do; there will no doubt be many drafts of this book, but no longer will I be starting it over, and no longer will I be letting it go by the wayside. Marcus has been 12 years in the making, and I am beyond thrilled that it didn't get to 13 years.

I'm mostly surprised, unable to believe that I actually did it. I guess it's been so long that it doesn't feel real. My friend Jason had even said, not one week ago, that he would only believe I'll ever finish it when I finish it. And I suppose I feel the same way. Plus, his saying that served as further incentive for me.

Today, I'll allow myself to feel the pride that I feel about this. I'll let myself take a break this week. Then, next week, the next draft begins. Let's try to get this prepped for publication by 26.

Although I should really find a proper working title for this soon.

What Do I Know?

Song of the Day: Severus and Lily by Alexandre Desplat

For those of you who love writing fantasy, I strongly recommend going to rainymood.com. It makes for excellent background while you're writing your story. It also goes well with whatever soundtrack you might be listening to at the moment.

A character in a fantasy: beautifully written, heart wrenching, well characterized, and so human.

Someone posted a very interesting article the other day about the statement "write what you know." In essence, that article was saying that that statement is a fallacy, and then went on to outline arguments about why in ways that were far more effective than anything I could actually argue. So, to keep it simple, I agree with the article. The article can be found here: http://www.helpingwritersbecomeauthors.com/2009/02/write-what-you-know-and-what-you-dont.html. It is a good read, and one that I think can help allay a lot of misconceptions about what people call "good writing."

The simple fact is: it is impossible to write what you know in the context of a fantasy setting. Or even, for that matter, in a non-fantasy setting. If I did that, the only thing I would have to write about would be my life and I'm not going to be so self absorbed that every novel I write is about my life. That's what this blog is for. My life is boring, and simple: I live in a second floor flat in Albany, NY; I work at an office; at the end of the day, I come home and write my book and hang out. It's a simple life, a happy one, and totally boring.

At the end of the article, Ms. Weiland asks the readers a question: Do you write what you know? Or don't you?

Now, I am a fantasy writer. I am unashamed of that fact, although I used to be. Often that shame was the result of people, sometimes people who are very close to me, judging me for not writing about "the real world," or calling me "escapist" or "childish."

Honestly, if I return to school to pursue my MA or PhD, I already know my dissertation will be called The Defense of Fantasy, and it will be glorious.

The belief that people should be "writing about the real world" is not only short sighted and close-minded: it also stunts creativity; it tells people that their art - their expressions of themselves, their babies, the results of hundreds, if not thousands of hours of hard work and perseverance - is not valid; it tries to squeeze the world into this teeny tiny box of "reality;" frankly, it takes color from the world, and without that color, the world would kind of suck. Fantasy literature has been around as long as literature has. If you don't like it, that's fine. I don't like horror or romance, neither do I say they are not legitimate literature.

It has always stung that there are people in my life who think I'm not writing "legitimate literature." It's taken some time for me to realize that the damage here is not mine. My love of fantasy does not mean that I am immature, or that I have a childish writing style. It does not mean I only love fantasy. Fantasy just happens to be my favorite genre, because it has the most life to it, and because it makes much more effective use of symbolism and metaphor to make statements about the real world in which we live. Sure there are sucky books in fantasy literature. Hell, there are many sucky books in fantasy literature.

But here's the big bad secret: there are many sucky books in all genres of literature. For whatever reason, Fantasy gets the most flack for it.

Now, after a long sidebar, I'll get to my point: as a fantasy author, it is impossible for me to write what I know. I have never personally encountered wendigo, or blemmyae, or thunderbirds. I haven't walked with Thor. I haven't spoken with Charon on a charming boat ride. I don't know the thrill of having fire dance on my fingertips - at least, not without including the agony of third degree burns in the description.

What that means is that I get to explore and research; learn about folklore, creatures of myth and legend, gods and ancient heroes. I get to do one of the most thrilling things that I have the privilege of doing as a writer. And I love it.

I also get to create. I've developed my own universe, my own Earth, an entire system of magic. An addendum to what I just said: I've developed my own multiverse, with numerous universe floating in its vast see of darkness and stars. I love it. I love the characters of my book, with whom I have developed a kind of odd relationship. My book deals with philosophy, with identity, with the nature of human existence. My book asks questions like "why?" and "what is evil?" and "can we find another way?" All of these are questions that I have thought about and am still searching for the answers to. I'm literally writing what I don't know and hoping that, through the process, answers can be found.

But I also write what I know. I know the humiliation of being dumped. I know the devastation of ending a relationship despite how much I want it to work; despite how much I feel like it should be working. I know the feeling of being heart broken, hovering in a darkness that cannot be described, as I watch the person I love move on. I know the feeling of finding someone new to love, deeply, and passionately, and comfortably. I know the feeling of nostalgia, but also of moving past that nostalgia.

I have experienced sudden, gut-wrenching and inexplicable loss. I have screamed and raged at God, asking Him why He took my loved one away too young. And I have experienced anger directed, irrationally, at the loved one I lost - as though it was somehow his fault. And then the guilt of knowing that that was not a righteous or realistic anger.

I have known despair. Fear, anxiety, obsession, and stubborn pride are not strangers to me.

These are the things I know, and I write about them. Every character I write knows these emotions and more. The world I have is a little different than the one I live in, but the characters are very real, and very human. Even the setting for most of the book is a real place.

I don't always write what I know, but I always write what I feel.

When A Year Passes

Song of the Day: Mother and Father by Broods


If you have not checked out the above band before, I could not recommend them more highly. I am very excited to see what they have to offer in the times to come. I'm also a sucker for brother-sister duos.


Earlier today, my sister mentioned the fact that, a year ago today, I was down in the City for a visit. That visit was for two reasons: it was Labor Day, and a three day Labor Day weekend was a good excuse to come down; it was also the weekend of the anniversary of Lynn's passing.


When Julie said that, it got me thinking about the past year, and about how much has changed since then. It also had me thinking about how much has not changed. Bear with me as I walk down memory lane.


I always imagined life to be slow, gradual in nature, but I think it's fair to say that that was false. Now, I've come to realize that things happen in fits and bursts. Life is always going on, but the big events seem to come in clusters. In the span of the last year I have moved out of my parents' house. I have moved on from my old job at NYSIF and achieved a real, state job with benefits and a possible future in writing. I am using my college degree, and even the things I learned at the old office, at this new job. I am actively writing the book that I started before I even began puberty (no, I'm not exaggerating about that). My relationship with my girlfriend is wonderful, and every day with her is a new experience that helps us grow. And, I found out yesterday, I got a 100 on my CSEA Professional Careers Exam, opening who knows how many possible doors.


It's not all good. I've been diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder, general anxiety, and a mild form of depression. Learning to live with that is hard, and I continue to work on that every day. Some days, and weeks, are harder than others. I've had recent flare ups, but it has not been as bad as the spring and summer of last year was. That was a miserable time.


I've already written my posts about that.


But it's amazing to me to see how completely different this life is from one year ago. It's amazing to me to look into my life and wonder if I'm really looking at my own life, or into someone else's. Living on my own, working a completely different job, and discovering my devotion to my craft. Feeling like writing is a craft, or an art, rather than another thing that I just "have to do." I see this last year and all I can think is:


Man. I have a blessed life.