On Goods Days and Bad Days

Song of the Day: The Way You Lie by Gabriel Mann

I think the best thing Neil Gaiman has ever said about writing is this: "Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day, and on the good writing days nothing else matters."

Never has anything rung more true to me. This past weekend was a great writing weekend for me. I hit the 1/3rd point in a book I've been trying (and failing) to write for 12 years. It is the one novel that I loved more than any other project I've had, and it is the novel that has suffered from my chronic stop-starting.

I have a tendency to get wildly discouraged by the bad days, the days when it feels like work. Then I don't allow the good days to boost me back up, at least until recently. The hardest thing for me to learn is how to work on all of those days - the good and the bad. I have had to learn to let the good days feel wonderful, and to let that wonderful feeling help me through the days that suck so hard that I wonder if I should even be a writer. I love Towers of Carlowe. Every moment of writing it has been a revelation to me. It has showed me how my writing style has evolved over the years. It has showed me how wonderful it is to handwrite in a notebook. It has helped me rediscover the fact that writing is an act of creation and, like all acts of creation, that's a beautiful thing.

But I've had bad days. I've had God-awful days. I've had days where I wrote one sentence and, even when I knew what I was going to write next, I just sat and stared at the blank page. Those days are painful days, because I switch off the light at my desk and go to bed and I think: Wow. Well that got me nowhere near my week's goal.

At the same time, on those days, I've learned to allow myself to feel that and then let it go. I've also learned to stop making the goals carry too much pressure behind them. I set the goals - goals that will push me, and be hard to reach - but not goals that will make me lose confidence in my ability if I don't hit them. By doing that, by positively reinforcing myself, I have not yet missed a goal.

I think writing is about learning to write in all conditions: to write when it's fun, when you feel inspiration flowing from your pen, and you can't stop yourself, and you stay up until three morning without even noticing; to write when it's work, and you feel like you're pulling out your own teeth just sitting down at your desk, and you barely get anything out.

At this point in my life, I have never felt more inspired to work hard toward my goals. And I'm not inspired by the good days as much as I thought. I'm inspired by the bad days where, after a whole day at the office, I still sat down and I did something. The days where, even when it sucked, my passion for this work beat out everything else. The good days are wonderful, and Neil Gaiman is right - on the good days, nothing else matters but how good of a day it was. But the bad days are pretty damn wonderful as well.

An Unspoken Torment of the Mind, Part Three

The last of this three part post. Many apologies for the length.

Third Song of the Day: You Are the Pan by John Williams, from Hook

As I said before, there is a lot of shame associated with depression and anxiety. When you come down from an anxiety attack, you feel like an old dog who peed on the carpet. You feel so out of control, and weak, and you think that you are somehow less than the people around you who are totally fine and content. Maybe you don't, but I know the shame is a big thing with me. It's made worse when people become angry with me for feeling the way I do, when I simply cannot control it. I don't want to feel the way I do. I hate that I feel this way. I think people fail to understand that aspect of these disorders - the powerlessness and lack of control. When someone shames me (I understand occasional frustration, but I'm talking about people who become angry, embarrassed or reprimand me), it breaks a certain trust between me and that person. Where I could once be honest and open about how I feel, I now have to be in disguise.

Hmmm... Can't seem to pick which one to wear.

 

The hardest thing about these disorders is the sense of being alone. I feel that I need to keep it under wraps, so I often put up a funny face, or a mask of high energy. I goof off just to keep people laughing and happy, even if I'm torn apart on the inside. There is a part of me that is horribly afraid of revealing my true face, for fear that my friends will be displeased with what they see. I fear that they will begin to avoid me, or worse, stop being friends with me altogether. I want to be liked, but I'm afraid that I'm not loved.

Then there's the fear that I'm selfish, or taking advantage of my loved ones' generosity; that I'm talking about my problems too much. It's hard to tell where to draw the line between asking for help and being a leech. So, if I never talk about or express my issues with loved ones, then I'll never run the risk of becoming a burden or seeming narcissistic. Right?

That said, I love to try and make people laugh, and I love to enjoy life and goof off. That's a trait of mine, no matter the mood. The downside is that, in some serious situations, I'll use humor to put a wall between others and the pain that I'm feeling. I think this is something a lot of people who feel alone, as I'm sure Robin Williams did, choose to do.

I remember coming home from an evening at Amanda's and sitting down at the foot of my dad's bed - he was reading a book, as was his usual pre-bedtime routine - and I remember being terrified. When I finally told him how much pain I was in, how unhappy I'd been for the past few months and how I felt like I was losing my mind, his response was far from what I'd feared. He encouraged me. He listened. He did not try and stop me from expressing myself, and he let me cry. I opened up, and he accepted me. He talked with me about speaking with my doctor. We talked about my options. Words do not describe the relief I felt when that happened. Since then, my dad and I have been able to have long, open conversations about not just my issues, but life in general. Opening up on that one thing has helped open up our relationship.

The other conversation I had was with Amanda. While I was busy poking and prodding, I broke down. I recall telling her: "I can't live like this." For both of us, this was a scary thing to hear me say. I have never contemplated suicide. I have never begun planning or considered it. Yet I reached a point that day where I finally acknowledged that something had to change, because I was falling apart. As soon as I said those words, she was there for me. She, like my father, suggested that I talk to my doctor. I think it was the moment that we realized that there was something more going on than a little bit of hypochondria. Now, when I'm going through a hard time, I am able to tell Amanda that "I'm feeling it," and she doesn't shy away. She doesn't judge me.

I think it's incredibly important to be able to tell people when you're struggling with these kinds of issues. Once I'd started talking with my girlfriend, my parents, and my sisters about this, I realized how important it was to open up, and how much of a blessing my closest friends are. My best friends are able to help me with a balance of encouragement and humor. While one of these friends bought me a snow globe that depicted a post-apocalyptic NYC (a response to my depression and despair about the world), he also has been a shoulder to cry on, and a strong one at that. While another one of these friends will joke about my hypochondria, he also knows when what I need is seriousness and a listening ear.

There is an undercurrent in our society; an insidious belief that those who open up about their mental issues are crazy, or that they just want attention. I've even heard people say "oh, the anxiety is just an excuse." I hope that this post does not come across as overly narcissistic, attention-seeking, or excuse-making. The only way I can hope to open people's eyes to the kind of hardship that is anxiety and depression is by talking about my own time with it. I believe that people need to understand it.

My friends and my family saved me from a continuous downward spiral. To this day, they continue to show me how much they love me, and how much they are there for me. I might not be as bad as I once was, but with them at my side, I don't feel alone.

It is deeply saddening to me that a beautiful human being like Robin Williams, who was so loved and who brought so much good into the world with his actions, could find no way out of his pain but to end his life. I pray for him, for his soul, and that he has finally found peace.

An Unspoken Torment of the Mind, Part Two

Second Song of the Day: Farewell Neverland by John Williams, from Hook

In my previous post, I discussed Robin Williams, going on to eulogize him after I said that I wouldn't. Apologies. There was, however, an overarching purpose to that post; that is, to lead me to this post. The reason I discussed Robin Williams so extensively before was because he has become yet another example in a growing list and lengthening story of sadness. We are making strides to better understand mental illness, but there is still so much more we can do.

I won't pretend to know the mind of Robin Williams. He was who he was, and I am me. I hope that, by giving someone a glimpse into what it's like for someone who suffers from anxiety and depression, it can help shed light on the subject.

Quote from the 2009 film World's Greatest Dad

After my cousin passed away suddenly in 2012, my hypochondria - something I've had since I was a little boy - kicked into overdrive.

The thing about hypochondria is that, for an observer on the outside, it ranges from mildly amusing to a frustrating nuisance. But on the inside it's terrifying; it torments you. Everything, from an ache to a cough, becomes a "what if" scenario,. Everything you've ever read about every heinous disease becomes a likelihood. If you do as I did when I was a child, you will have read up on every disease from common cold, to ebola, to cancer, to kuru. Although you are well educated, and logic tells you you're fine, you think of the bad diseases. Everything comes to your mind except for the most likely possibility. You obsess over every sensation in your body, thinking about what disease you might have while you know the day is wasting. Ironically, you set aside your life because you're in terror of what might end your life.

It is a terrible existence to live.

I'd like to be able to say that hypochondria is the only issue I have, but the truth is that it is only a part of the issue. It's a piece of the puzzle; of what it is that goes on in my mind. It is but a fraction of the magic that is me.

In 2013, I went to the doctor a total of 8 times in the span of two months. That's roughly one visit per week. I'm certain my doctor, patient (haha, get it?) though he seemed, grew weary of seeing me. Not to mention the expense for my copays. Each visit was a mess for me, full of so much anxiety that I often came on the verge of tears while waiting to find out if I was dying. Hint: I wasn't.

I knew that, whatever was wrong, it wasn't something with my physical health. I was embarrassed, ashamed of my fear and weakness. But, during my eighth visit to the office, I finally got the courage to say: "I think there's something wrong with me." It was one of the most difficult things I've ever done.

After that I was diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder, generalized anxiety, and a mild form of depression. In therapy, I came to grips with the fact that I had these issues long before my cousin died. Time, and a lot of reflection, helped me see that I have had these issues since middle school. I was just very good at repressing the issues until Lynn passed away; that was a trigger.

OCD is not like Monk, where his OCD is kind of like this magical detective tool. Maybe I'm not channeling my gifts properly, but more often than not, OCD is intrusive; a cycle of thoughts that disrupt all normal action and cause me emotional distress. When I am a neat freak, I become angry, mostly with myself. I know in my heart that I shouldn't be so hung up on whether or not clothes were left on the floor, but I am. When I'm not a neat freak, I have hypochondria, or I need to look up articles about terrible things happening in the world (which feeds my depression), or I have an anxiety attack. At best, OCD's in the back of my mind. At worst, I cannot function. When I finally come down from my anxiety, the shame at my actions and reactions is waiting for me at the bottom.

I think the shame makes people clam up, instead of talking about it. Among other things.

An Unspoken Torment of the Mind, Part One

Song of the Day: Bridges by Broods

By now, the entire internet has exploded with the news of Robin Williams' passing. There have been enough eulogies and posts about the kind of man he was that I don't feel the need to pile on my own thoughts; at least not too much, because I never knew Williams personally, and I definitely did not know enough about him to attempt eulogizing him. Yet here I go, giving my own feeble attempt at a eulogy:

Robin Williams as Peter Pan in Hook. My sisters and I still love, and watch, this film.

I will say this much: Robin Williams was one of the people who I admired most in this world. When I knew he was in a movie I was going to see, I was immediately that much more excited to see the movie. It didn't matter to me how well (or poorly) received the film was by critics: when Williams showed up on the screen the movie became my favorite. In Jumanji, when he popped out of that board game, I remember actually thinking: It'll all be okay now. Robin Williams is here.

I adored him in his interviews and in his stand up. Mork and Mindy has been a favorite of mine for some years. Don't get me going on Good Will Hunting and Dead Poets Society, the latter of which is one of the many reasons I'm a writer, and why I fight for the arts. At some point I realized the things he said about poetry encompassed the arts in general, including prose, painting, sculpting and music.

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?" - Robin Williams as John Keating.

But then there were the less long-winded inspirational things that Robin Williams said, such as: "You're only given one little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it."

As more time since his death passes, more people mention exactly how wonderful of a man he was. They talk about how giving, and loving, and funny, and genuinely kind of a person he was. Giving, and giving, but never taking care of his own needs. Always willing to help people with their sadness, but struggling to cope with his own. As I hear more, it saddens me to know how bright of a light has left this world.

It was my dream to one day meet him, to get to know him. In my fantasies of one day being one of those famous authors who you see on TV, interviewing with Letterman or other Late Show hosts (we can debate the realisticness of that on another, less sad day), I thought that maybe he would be one of my readers, and that one day I could encounter this giant of a man in person.

But here's where I'm headed with this: I remember when I saw Flubber. I remember there being moments in that movie where I would watch him and I would think: Wow. He is actually a very sad man, isn't he? I can even remember and pinpoint the scenes where I thought that. I didn't think that about his character's situation - I thought that about him, specifically. Even at his most manic, something deeply sad and lonely seemed to lurk behind his eyes.



Robin Williams in Flubber

Robin Williams was suffering an unspoken torment of the mind; one that he could not overcome, and one that ultimately took his life. It was a torment that, even as an eight-year-old, I could see. It was a torment that, although I could not understand it at the time, made my heart ache for him. And I think that's the thing with depression and anxiety: I believe people can't understand what it's like to have a disorder like that unless they actually suffer it themselves. It doesn't mean that those who don't suffer it can't help those who do. But when you've walked a mile in that person's shoes, you get a sense of the kind of pain that it is.

I don't think we'll ever fully understand his seemingly sudden suicide. I think suicide is, inherently, a very difficult concept for those who don't consider it to understand. That said, from what I've read and from what people have said, Mr. Williams spent the vast majority of his time on this Earth working for others. He fought to bring happiness and brightness to the lives of all, and especially those who were suffering. Perhaps he did so because he himself was suffering, and he wanted only to help people rise above the suffering that he spent his life going through. Maybe he did that because he saw the selfishness of people, and of the world, and he wanted to counter it with as much selfless giving as he could. And perhaps all that giving, without any thought for himself, burned him out.

All I know is that the world seems a bit colder now. A bit harsher. I can only hope that people can learn from the example he set, and learn a bit of generosity. I can only hope that those who are suffering can find it in themselves to seek the help they need, either professional or in the arms of friends, and know that they don't have to suffer in silence.

It's what I had to do.

Motivation versus Motivation

Song(s) of the Day: Sirens by Pearl Jam
                                Girl In the War by Josh Ritter

This is at the top of my wish list. I love old fashioned typewriters!

As I'm waiting for my background check to go through so that I can begin my new job (fingers crossed that it's sooner rather than later), I've been taking a much needed vacation. Most of this vacation has been spent cleaning the apartment and getting the last of my things unpacked and put in proper places.

But usually I'm done with that by ten, because I'm still getting up at 7:00 each morning and it doesn't take very long to get my act together (I have a rhythm: get up, make coffee, clean any dishes left from last night, make my oatmeal/other such breakfast, make the bed, clean up the room, then wander the house and tidy up). So, after that, I'm writing.


It's been a long time since I've really had the drive to write. As I think is the case with a lot of aspiring writers, life tends to get in the way. You work a full time job (because until you make enough money from your art, it's hard to make ends meet with it), you have friends, family, and loved ones with whom you feel obligated to spend time. You have extra activities; in my case, I'm also a professional cellist so if a gig comes up, you can bet I'm using my extra time to practice. And then, as you get older, buying groceries and taking care of children can get in the way as well.


"I just want to write the great American novel!"

With all of the crap of day-to-day life taking over, it can be hard to find the time to write. Usually, when you find that time, you're tempted to use it for recreational activities like hiking, biking, running, watching television, playing video games, or reading. This is what I've seen happen with me.

But then I left NYSIF, and I'm waiting for paperwork and background checks to go through so I can start my new job. All of a sudden, I have all this time on my hands, and just as suddenly I'm down with writing again. Part of that comes from the fact that you can only clean a kitchen, vacuum a flat, or play Binding of Isaac and Skyrim so many times before you need something else to occupy your mind. Hence, my drive to write has returned.

It's kind of gotten me thinking about the question of motivation.

When I think of motivation, I think of it on two different levels. The first level being your drive to do something - being motivated to do what you're doing. I suppose that level is more of an adjective-type version. The second level for motivation is the idea of what motivates you. Motivation the noun. What is your underlying reason for doing what you're doing?

With those definitions in mind, I found myself reflecting on myself in the past couple years. In truth, I've been doing a little bit more of this over the past few months - curious about what it is that drives me. So, I've looked at my motivation and my motivation, and I found both to be lacking. No, there is not a typo in the previous sentence.

First, my motivation(adj.): This has been a frustrating thing to realize about myself, but I haven't been motivated. I haven't felt the strong desire to write I always used to - even through college, when I was going through the stressers of being an RA, my Grandfather passing away, difficult breakups, and the whole Senior Project process, I was all about writing. I can make up excuses like "oh, I've just been busy. Or, oh, I've been suffering with anxiety and depression, and cynicism in the face of this dark world." However, those excuses only go so far until they become just that: excuses.

People these days often use being cynical about things as an excuse for inaction. I believe a certain amount of fatalism can do you some good, but when you get to the point of "why do anything? nothing's going to change," then you move on from fatalism to nihilism. I am what I like to call an "optimistic fatalist." Meaning that I use fatalism to keep myself from getting overwhelmed by frustration and anxiety, but I keep optimistic that we can exact change, and we will with persistence. I've watched a lot of people in my life, however, barely put forth any effort for the things they want, and then give up as soon as it doesn't go their way. When I ask why they didn't try harder, they say things like: "it was never going to work out anyway," or "the system has made it impossible to make any headway."

And, in a lot of ways, I've given in to that mentality and I've allowed myself to lose the "optimistic" side of my "optimistic fatalism." I've allowed myself to become a borderline nihilistic, highly anxious person. It's amazing how quickly you lose the motivation to do anything when you basically think: "Well this world is falling apart - everything's gone to Hell and there's no point."

I have hope, though, that recently this optimism has returned. I'm optimistic about my optimism. Overall, life looks a lot better to me than I thought before. Sure, there's some scary stuff in this world - some petrifying stuff - but there always has been. And there always will be (just as the news will always be around to give the most dramatic, sensational spin to the dark stuff in the world). And there will always be good in the world - there will always be greatness. The problem is that it tends to get buried under a pile of drama and negativity, both of which are much easier to come by than positivity. My motivation has been lacking, but as I become happier, it grows stronger.

Then there's my motivation (n.): When I looked at my motivation for writing Marcus, I was a little appalled at what I found. At some point I had started to think: this is what's popular, so write the story this way. To my great self disappointment, I found that I had become motivated by the desire for popularity and money. I was hoping to become famous through my storytelling.

I've always fancied myself the kind of writer who is above all of that. I've always said: "I just want to tell my story. I think it's a fun story, and if I entertain one person, I'll have done my job." But one day, I was reading through what I have written of Marcus and I was disgusted by it. Not because it was badly written, but because it was nothing like what I'd originally set out to tell. No, I'm not going to scrap it for the umpteenth time, but I do have to make some major changes to my attitude.

"I'll use a fountain pen to write. Those are cool again, yeah?"

It's amazing to me how weak of a motivator greed is, and yet we as a society have come to value money above all else. We've forgotten the importance of basic human decency. We've forgotten that there's a difference between understanding how much money you need to get by (and maybe now and then wishing you had a little more), and using money as your only motivator. We'll sell our souls, and maybe a friend or two up s***'s creek, for a buck extra. Capitalism has become consumerism, and we are no longer people in each other's eyes, but walking moneybags. It's also what (I believe) has brought our movie industry to the verge of ruin (total sidebar, I know). But that's a rant for another day, if ever.

The point in what I'm saying is that, with money and fame as my motivator, I forgot that not only is it incredibly rare that a writer becomes famous, but it also is probably why I've scrapped and restarted this series so many times. It's simply the wrong motivator if I want to tell a good story, and it disgusts me that, at one point or another, I became willing to sell out.

But no more. Maybe it'll take some soul searching, but I'm going to write. I'm not going to try and do what's popular, but I'm going to write a novel that has something to say and, barring that, tells a good story. Because, of course, what's popular is not necessarily a good work. From here on out, I need to look into my heart and write from that.

How About Them Relationships?

Song of the Day: Stay Young, Go Dancing by Death Cab For Cutie

*Gasp* THE DRAMA!

It's been a long time since I wrote a blog post, and oh boy has life been crazy since then! All good crazy. Alllll good crazy. Anxiety is on the low end, I've moved into a new home, and I have a new job that actually uses my degree for something. Who'da thunk it. All of that in mind, I have no intention of discussing that today. Instead, I wish to discuss a matter that's very close to my heart (hee hee), and has been a topic of many conversations of late: relationships.



Thomasiiiina, what are you thinking offff?

I was talking with someone late last week; for the sake of this post we'll call her "Thomasina." And while I was talking with "Thomasina," the topic of my relationship with Amanda came up.

Now, with "Thomasina" this topic has come up a number of times, in one way or another, and some of the stuff she has had to say has been befuddling me. She asked me in my most recent conversation if Amanda and I have had our first fight, to which I said "yes."

What ensued was a very interesting talk on arguments, and when I got to the point where I said "but eventually Amanda realized that she was in the wrong and apologized," I got a weird, judgmental look. "Thomasina" made this unpleasant face and she said: "That's not right." She went on to add that: "The most my boy will get from me is a 'whatever.'" The whole discussion bugged me, and at the end of it I needed to walk away because I had nothing more to say. "Thomasina" simply could not see my point of view, and I was having a hard time understanding hers. It's rare that I'm judged for having an emotionally healthy and stable relationship that is based on equality, let alone judged poorly. And this has come up a number of times with "Thomasina".

Now I want to make a few things clear: I like to cook. I enjoy (some aspects of) homemaking, such as tidying up and redecorating. I enjoy doing these things both with and for Amanda. "Thomasina" seems to be under the impression that I'm "not a real man" if I enjoy these things and that Amanda is "not a real woman," if she does not enjoy them, or if she is not good at these things. She seems to think that the roles of the relationship have become horribly damaged in my case, and I have some terrible relationship. To her, the man is supposed to bring home the bacon and watch television while the woman cooks, cleans and "takes care of her man."

Maybe this is just me, but this mindset disturbed me a bit. I believe that a relationship works when there is mutual "taking care of" and respect for each other's, and your own, feelings, beliefs, and desires. I don't believe in the following relationship stereotypes:

Priorities, man!

1. The woman takes care of the man.
2. The man does manly stuff: job, football, bacon-bringing, etc
3. The woman does the cleaning.
4. The woman does the cooking(No! If I like it, I'm gonna do it.)
5. The woman's always right.
6. Never apologize or admit fault.
7. All fights are a sign about the state of your relationship. i.e. one fight means your relationship is crumbling. (If an argument makes you think that, then you don't have the strongest foundation, do you?)
8. The relationship comes first. The significant other comes first. You come last.

I mean, yes, I could argue that the stereotypes are born out of codependency, as I clearly do above. But, to me, it outlines an even deeper problem that is ingrained in the minds of some people. It's sexism, plain and simple. The above stereotypes are codependent, sexist relationship stereotypes. Telling someone that he's "not a man," or that she's "not a woman," because he or she does not conform to the predetermined "sex roles" of a relationship is, to me, wrongheaded thinking. And it makes me sad that this kind of thinking is still alive and well.

Or maybe I'm being too sensitive to stuff. I tend to be a little too sensitive.

Now I'm not saying "be selfish in your relationship." It's not black and white like that - it's not "either I take care of you, or I take care of myself." But taking care of each other, while also maintaining a sense of self - a sense of independence - is key. You can do that without taking advantage, and yes! It's even possible to not conform to the aforementioned "roles" and still have a healthy relationship!

As I said, I believe in balance and equality. No, that doesn't mean I believe in not holding doors open for women or helping women when you see they're struggling with too much stuff. We should hold doors open for the people behind us, and help anyone in need, period, because that's polite and decent. I believe in fairness in a relationship. I believe in open communication that is centered on resolution, and not on "being right." I do not believe in relationship "roles."

End rant.

Fear of Transition: The Here. The Now

Song of the Day: Wild by Royal Teeth

Quick note about the above song: it very well might end up my song of the year. It has spent the last three days on loop, and frankly it's a great musical expression of my mind state these days. I strongly strongly recommend anyone reading this to check out the song. Especially if you like indie, mellow, funky songs.

Blithewood Garden at Bard College: one of my favorite stomping grounds.

I have recently begun revisiting the idea of going to graduate school. By that I mean, I seriously want to go to graduate school. Of course, I'm beginning my search late and the vast majority of the schools I have strongest interest in have closed their application processes and I will have to wait another year to have a shot at getting in. This includes, to my chagrin, SUNY Stony Brook, NYU, Columbia, Williams, Boston College, and my alma mater of Bard College.

Incidentally, it's Bard's MFA program that most interests me, although it's also the most out there.

Of the schools I've looked at with any seriousness, I think it's only SUNY Albany, Dominican University of California, Boston University, Northeastern University and the reachiest of my reach schools, Oxford University that still have open applications. When I spoke with Amanda about how much I want to go to graduate school, she said one thing: "Don't make the mistakes that you made last year."

The mistakes to which she was referring were two: one, that I only applied to one school and I consequently had no comparisons (price and otherwise) to make; two, and this was the big one, that I didn't apply for something that I really want to do.

Last year I applied solely to Bard's CEP program, and I believe I did so for all the wrong reasons. For one thing, I applied because I was nostalgic for Bard - painfully so. I think I even have a blog post somewhere last year about nostalgia that I wrote because of how nostalgic I was. For another thing, I applied to the CEP program because my father was strongly advocating my doing something like that. The result was that I wrote a perfunctory statement of purpose that lacked my usual passion or excitement. The truth is that I am passionate about the environment. The truth is also that it's not something I want to work with for the rest of my life. It's just not.

I turned down the offer from Bard, partly due to money, but also due to the fact that it didn't feel right to me. This year, I regret having turned down the offer - not because it was an offer to the CEP, but because it was an offer to a grad program. The thought of an acceptance letter, the thought of having an opportunity to go learn again, and about something I'm passionate about no less, gives me goosebumps just sitting here. Either that or the goosebumps are because I'm ill.

Or maybe I turned down Bard because I'm afraid. I fear change. I fear transition, even if it's for the best. Grad school, whether I go to London or Boston or California or New York, or whether I just stay in Albany, is a tough transition. Even now, I fear the changes that might bring to my life. But the difference between the here and the now and where I was as little as a few months ago, is that I feel ready. Ish. Ready-ish.

After the New Year (when I probably should have been finishing grad school applications), I wrote a faux statement of purpose hypothetically based around the choice to return to school in writing. It was a completely different statement of purpose; one full of fire and energy. It was a statement based around my absolute adoration of creating stories, of sending messages. It was a statement that said: "This guy wants to spend the rest of his life writing. And he wants to write well."

In the (almost) three years (three? dear God) since I graduated from Bard, I have worked a full time job, while also working very hard at writing. And yet, I have yet to get published. Maybe it's because I'm afraid to truly put myself out there. Maybe it's because I don't have those ever important connections that people talk about a lot these days. Maybe it's because that first publication is elusive, and that's what it takes to build momentum as an artist. But I know I have great stories to tell - great things to say - and I want to shout those things for all to hear. I believe grad school can do that for me. I believe grad school would be a life changing, and life affirming, experience for me.

Let's see what happens, shall we?

-Tom