LESSON 1:
If she says she is a writer
or an English professor
or anything else that may indicate she values literacy,
don't do this...
Guess what she won't do.
That's right -- "Read More"
NOT GONNA HAPPEN.
Friday, April 17, 2015
Saturday, October 19, 2013
On Being Overly Sensitive
Since I'm pretty sure it's the posting date and not the date a post was originally penned that is attributed when one procrastinates in the shadow of anxiety and trust issues, and then finally--after months--musters the courage to hit the "publish" button, I will start by saying that what follows has been sitting captive in my "drafts" since 12/17/12:
I'm overly sensitive. Yep. I've been told that by more than one person. It's usually noted as a flaw, and yet, I draw on that sensitivity all the time in creating nuanced characters, relationships and conflict in fictional works. I also draw on it in my interactions with those who tend to be misunderstood. Because I'm overly sensitive, I tend to give others a chance, even if I don't "agree" with them. Differences can be a huge component of the beauty of life--creating variety and texture.
When people try to blanket those whose experiences are foreign to them with their own overly-specific ideas of how things should be ("it works for me, therefore it should work for everyone"), they make a small world, (and if they try to spiritualize their thinking, a small god), and they will inevitably alienate people.
I'm being alienated by some well-meaning people right now. I know what they think and say doesn't matter, but it still hurts. I'm glad for these trials, though, because they are broadening my world, even broadening my faith. The thoughtless words jabbing at me like knives cause me to immediately evaluate my own rhetoric and vow never to do the same to another person (although it is tempting to flip it around on those who are dishing it out on me... even facing that temptation, I hope, will build my own character.)
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| Self Portrait c.2012: It's important to control what one lets out... |
I'm overly sensitive. Yep. I've been told that by more than one person. It's usually noted as a flaw, and yet, I draw on that sensitivity all the time in creating nuanced characters, relationships and conflict in fictional works. I also draw on it in my interactions with those who tend to be misunderstood. Because I'm overly sensitive, I tend to give others a chance, even if I don't "agree" with them. Differences can be a huge component of the beauty of life--creating variety and texture.
When people try to blanket those whose experiences are foreign to them with their own overly-specific ideas of how things should be ("it works for me, therefore it should work for everyone"), they make a small world, (and if they try to spiritualize their thinking, a small god), and they will inevitably alienate people.
I'm being alienated by some well-meaning people right now. I know what they think and say doesn't matter, but it still hurts. I'm glad for these trials, though, because they are broadening my world, even broadening my faith. The thoughtless words jabbing at me like knives cause me to immediately evaluate my own rhetoric and vow never to do the same to another person (although it is tempting to flip it around on those who are dishing it out on me... even facing that temptation, I hope, will build my own character.)
Becoming Hurts... Sometimes...
The kids are gone on a camping trip this weekend, and my new housemate said, "You know what that means... Movie Night!"
Oh yeah! I will always go for that. If the boys are gone, that means one of two things: Either something rated R that I don't want them to see, or a chick flick that they don't want to see. I was leaning toward the former until about halfway through the long drive home from dropping them off.
Driving along the coast, I was mesmerized by a duet of other-worldly light: a rising moon preening for her penumbral eclipse and a setting sun singing colorful strains deep, deep into the shimmering waters... their combined illumination providing seamless saturation. It was one of those deeply personal moments that feels too big to experience alone... and I knew who I wanted to share it with. But no! That would not be appropriate... yet there was no one else on the earth whom I could imagine understanding, who could hold me without distracting, who could sing along without opening his mouth. "Don't go there," I chided myself, too late. That was the moment I knew what the evening's movie would be: I would torture myself with truth and watch Becoming Jane again.
The first time I watched that movie, I bawled my eyes out and then blogged, but this time I did not cry--not at all. I guess I was prepared for the journey that was necessary--the reality of doing what one must do--of two separate entities doing what they individually must do, be it for the greater good of society or family or whatever, for propriety, for nobility... in spite of the seeming perfection of their fleeting harmony, doing the right thing.
Maybe it does get easier. Or am I just becoming numb?
My previous analysis concluded that Jane Austen was able to stay true to her passion, venting it through her fictional characters. Art flourished because of her passion, while Tom Lefroy settled for a substitute that was somehow less. I said that I could see myself going it alone as Jane did and pouring my passion into my writing. But I haven't really been doing that. I haven't been writing. Not here. Not on my other blogs or in my journal. No progress on my novels or scripts...
Maybe I'm not hurting that much, not because I'm growing or becoming, but rather because I'm stagnant, safe.
Oh yeah! I will always go for that. If the boys are gone, that means one of two things: Either something rated R that I don't want them to see, or a chick flick that they don't want to see. I was leaning toward the former until about halfway through the long drive home from dropping them off.
Driving along the coast, I was mesmerized by a duet of other-worldly light: a rising moon preening for her penumbral eclipse and a setting sun singing colorful strains deep, deep into the shimmering waters... their combined illumination providing seamless saturation. It was one of those deeply personal moments that feels too big to experience alone... and I knew who I wanted to share it with. But no! That would not be appropriate... yet there was no one else on the earth whom I could imagine understanding, who could hold me without distracting, who could sing along without opening his mouth. "Don't go there," I chided myself, too late. That was the moment I knew what the evening's movie would be: I would torture myself with truth and watch Becoming Jane again.
The first time I watched that movie, I bawled my eyes out and then blogged, but this time I did not cry--not at all. I guess I was prepared for the journey that was necessary--the reality of doing what one must do--of two separate entities doing what they individually must do, be it for the greater good of society or family or whatever, for propriety, for nobility... in spite of the seeming perfection of their fleeting harmony, doing the right thing.
Maybe it does get easier. Or am I just becoming numb?
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Maybe I'm not hurting that much, not because I'm growing or becoming, but rather because I'm stagnant, safe.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
It's times like this when you find out who your real friends are...
...and the findings can be a bit surprising.
On top of all the legal stuff, I'm sick now. And of all things, one of my "friends" who has tried to "help" me by attempting to suck me into his multi-level marketing cult, decided this is the appropriate time to blame me for being sick because I didn't buy his snake oil. How disgusting!
Then after another sleepless night of coughing: a knock at the door, official papers for a lawsuit. Apparently I'm liable for my darling hubby's medical bills even though he took all the disability money and ran. Lovely. If I'm liable, shouldn't I have also had the right to refuse medical treatment? There should be some sort of medical Miranda rights thingy that they are required to read you at the ER. "You have the right to refuse treatment. Anything that will be billed to you later must be quoted to you in detail before administration..." Furthermore, if a hospital is treating a low income person on MediCal and they are dealing with vendors who do not accept MediCal, they should skip non-covered treatments unless the person "responsible" for the bill is given a quote and approves the expenditure.
I'm too sick to be profound, but I just had to vent. Snake Oil Dude thinks it's my fault that I'm sick--that's not such a big deal because he never was a close friend. There's another person who I thought I was close with who I learned simply cannot handle the drama of where I am right now. I can't move fast enough for her liking (and I'm sure if I did, others would find fault in that.)
If I have to second guess everyone I consider sharing honestly with about where I am right now, I'd rather just go it alone. It hurts too much to have people heaping on blame when I already feel like a total failure. Throw in these uncontrollable coughing spasms to the mix, and I feel like just crawling under a porch, curling up, and dying.
After being served the papers for this lawsuit this morning, I thought how my critical friends would likely blame me for that, too. I'm not on top of things like I should be. How could I let it come to this? Yes. I know it's my fault, so go pat yourselves on your smug little backs! I should have dealt with the creditors. Or maybe I should have driven off that overpass the day before my hubby's accident... if I had died then, he wouldn't have gone to work the next day and everything would have been dandy. Now I'm being irrational, right? Why don't you just blame me for that, too? After all, apparently, that's what friends are for.
On top of all the legal stuff, I'm sick now. And of all things, one of my "friends" who has tried to "help" me by attempting to suck me into his multi-level marketing cult, decided this is the appropriate time to blame me for being sick because I didn't buy his snake oil. How disgusting!
Then after another sleepless night of coughing: a knock at the door, official papers for a lawsuit. Apparently I'm liable for my darling hubby's medical bills even though he took all the disability money and ran. Lovely. If I'm liable, shouldn't I have also had the right to refuse medical treatment? There should be some sort of medical Miranda rights thingy that they are required to read you at the ER. "You have the right to refuse treatment. Anything that will be billed to you later must be quoted to you in detail before administration..." Furthermore, if a hospital is treating a low income person on MediCal and they are dealing with vendors who do not accept MediCal, they should skip non-covered treatments unless the person "responsible" for the bill is given a quote and approves the expenditure.
I'm too sick to be profound, but I just had to vent. Snake Oil Dude thinks it's my fault that I'm sick--that's not such a big deal because he never was a close friend. There's another person who I thought I was close with who I learned simply cannot handle the drama of where I am right now. I can't move fast enough for her liking (and I'm sure if I did, others would find fault in that.)
If I have to second guess everyone I consider sharing honestly with about where I am right now, I'd rather just go it alone. It hurts too much to have people heaping on blame when I already feel like a total failure. Throw in these uncontrollable coughing spasms to the mix, and I feel like just crawling under a porch, curling up, and dying.
After being served the papers for this lawsuit this morning, I thought how my critical friends would likely blame me for that, too. I'm not on top of things like I should be. How could I let it come to this? Yes. I know it's my fault, so go pat yourselves on your smug little backs! I should have dealt with the creditors. Or maybe I should have driven off that overpass the day before my hubby's accident... if I had died then, he wouldn't have gone to work the next day and everything would have been dandy. Now I'm being irrational, right? Why don't you just blame me for that, too? After all, apparently, that's what friends are for.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
For the ladies only... (seriously, no guys need to read this one)
Maybe this is why I've been having headaches...
Ugh! All the more reason to miss what I'm missing...
Friday, March 1, 2013
Lowered Expectations
I've got to put a stop to this!
Between my daughter's school and home, there's a back road I used to take because it's like a quaint reminder of the country roads of my small-town childhood. Taking the freeway is a bit faster, but this stretch of winding road adds a little variety to my otherwise mundane life. You could ride the curves of this road and seldom see another car or person. There I could find a moment of solitude in the midst of the daily errands. Sometimes I'd sing at the top of my lungs, sometimes I'd cry. Sometimes I'd just think, or daydream.
Then, right around the time Todd and I parted ways, construction started. Suddenly my little private speedway became manned with... well, with men. I don't think I had ever really paid much attention to road construction workers. When we'd pass them on long family road trips to the Midwest, the kids would frequently wave, and sometimes they would wave back. In sweltering heat, I'd always try to smile their way and show a little appreciation for what they had to go through to make the path smooth for those of us enjoying the comfort of air conditioning, but then I'd be back to thinking about the kids and the road ahead, and a million other things.
This season in life was different, though. I had begun to see the light--to shake off the denial that had kept me tied to a man who was dragging me down like a sinking ship with his lack of ambition, chronic laziness and embarrassing work ethic. Suddenly these men in hard hats were hot, and I don't mean because they were standing out in the sun. They were hot because they were working. That turned me on. They were punching a time clock and earning a living, and quite possibly sharing it with a family. I know there are so many unknowns: They may be drunkards in their off hours. Some may be deadbeat dads who spend every penny on themselves or mistresses, while their kids' shoes are worn out and their wives or ex-wives juggle multiple jobs just to make ends meet. Some may live in their moms' basements and sit around in their underwear watching football and televised bowling tournaments. But for that moment, as I drove past them, all I could see was the fact that Todd was not there, that Todd would never do something like that--there was nothing in life worth the effort it took to be a diligent worker.
When they started narrowing that road to one lane and making drivers stop in the presence of these hot men in hard hats, I started taking the freeway. Not only did I not have the time to sit waiting for the opposing traffic to stop, I didn't have time to be thinking about men. After all, I had to be the man of the house.
Then, today, as I was about to merge onto the freeway, traffic slowed, and there, right outside my window was one single man in a hard hat, placing orange cones so he could fix a problem. Thankfully the window was up when I verbalized the word: "Hot!"
Come on! I chided myself. You know nothing about this man other than the fact that he is at work!
Have my expectations really been lowered so much?
What does a "real" man look like?
Made me think of this:
Between my daughter's school and home, there's a back road I used to take because it's like a quaint reminder of the country roads of my small-town childhood. Taking the freeway is a bit faster, but this stretch of winding road adds a little variety to my otherwise mundane life. You could ride the curves of this road and seldom see another car or person. There I could find a moment of solitude in the midst of the daily errands. Sometimes I'd sing at the top of my lungs, sometimes I'd cry. Sometimes I'd just think, or daydream.
Then, right around the time Todd and I parted ways, construction started. Suddenly my little private speedway became manned with... well, with men. I don't think I had ever really paid much attention to road construction workers. When we'd pass them on long family road trips to the Midwest, the kids would frequently wave, and sometimes they would wave back. In sweltering heat, I'd always try to smile their way and show a little appreciation for what they had to go through to make the path smooth for those of us enjoying the comfort of air conditioning, but then I'd be back to thinking about the kids and the road ahead, and a million other things.
This season in life was different, though. I had begun to see the light--to shake off the denial that had kept me tied to a man who was dragging me down like a sinking ship with his lack of ambition, chronic laziness and embarrassing work ethic. Suddenly these men in hard hats were hot, and I don't mean because they were standing out in the sun. They were hot because they were working. That turned me on. They were punching a time clock and earning a living, and quite possibly sharing it with a family. I know there are so many unknowns: They may be drunkards in their off hours. Some may be deadbeat dads who spend every penny on themselves or mistresses, while their kids' shoes are worn out and their wives or ex-wives juggle multiple jobs just to make ends meet. Some may live in their moms' basements and sit around in their underwear watching football and televised bowling tournaments. But for that moment, as I drove past them, all I could see was the fact that Todd was not there, that Todd would never do something like that--there was nothing in life worth the effort it took to be a diligent worker.
When they started narrowing that road to one lane and making drivers stop in the presence of these hot men in hard hats, I started taking the freeway. Not only did I not have the time to sit waiting for the opposing traffic to stop, I didn't have time to be thinking about men. After all, I had to be the man of the house.
Then, today, as I was about to merge onto the freeway, traffic slowed, and there, right outside my window was one single man in a hard hat, placing orange cones so he could fix a problem. Thankfully the window was up when I verbalized the word: "Hot!"
Come on! I chided myself. You know nothing about this man other than the fact that he is at work!
Have my expectations really been lowered so much?
What does a "real" man look like?
Made me think of this:
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Becoming Bridget: The Tragic Call of Nobility
***Melodrama Warning: I just watched the movie Becoming Jane and I'm devastated.***
On a particularly difficult day last week, I vented a bit on a social network, and one of my friends replied: "...remember, you're a writer, you are supposed to feel more than normal people. How else would you know how to describe it for them?"
Think about it. How many of the the greatest writers of history had pretty, peaceful lives? That kind of existence just doesn't seem to spawn deep, empathetic literature that grabs the heartstrings and makes us feel like the author understands.
In the past few years, my daughters have turned me into a Jane Austin fan. As I've seen yet another generation of girls moved by what would seem the very particular romance of an era long gone--a generation immersed in technology, women's liberation, and anything-goes morality connecting with extremely verbose banter on the subject of propriety and the ethics of the seeming necessity of gold-digging in a world in which women could not fend for themselves, I've realized how much I too can identify with Jane's characters who yearn for what appears to be ironic and impossible: love, passion, and freedom intermingled with that innate drive for security.
What incredible timing for a first viewing of Becoming Jane!
Being new to the single mother thing, and receiving absolutely no support from Todd, I have been struggling to figure out how I'm going to make ends meet. I think Todd's plan is to financially ruin me and then wait for me to beg him to come back with his daddy's money. Unfortunately, my emotional condition of late has not been conducive to finding work, and I am going further in debt while trying to figure out reliable income that doesn't take me away from my kids while they need me most (and that doesn't prevent me from continuing to pursue my passion for writing). I'm starting to see why so many women in this situation are quick to get in another relationship--the prospect of security is alluring when desperation hits.
But the "typical" route has always been something I avoid at all costs. That's why I said when I was still single that if I had gotten pregnant, I probably wouldn't have married Todd because that would be "trite." That's also why, when we did decide to get married I had to hurry up and do it in May, so as to avoid the commonness of a June wedding. (Instead of rushing, perhaps dragging my feet would have been a better choice, but then that's a different story--good choices were obviously not my forte.)
So now, I look at men with great trepidation. Going it alone is scary, but getting entangled with another Mr. Wrong is even scarier.
There are two types of Mr. Wrongs: (1) the guy who I just "settle for" because I'm lonely, and he destroys my heart because there isn't the deep connection I long for, and (2) the guy I feel a deep connection to but I can't have because it would hurt others if I did. Number 2 is what this movie made me think of... and seeing how Jane Austen--after nobly choosing to walk away from Tom Lefroy--lived out the rest of her life alone, with her writing as the only outlet for her passion--that is what I see myself doing, too.
Maybe the memory of true passion is better than a substitute. Who was truly richer in passion at the end of the Becoming Jane story? Tom who had taken a substitute? or Jane, who continued her life alone? Both carried the heartache of loss due to that noble choice with them, but look at all Jane went on to create.
Just a thought. Maybe it's the meaningless effect of the stage of grieving I find myself in presently. Maybe my heart will change someday. But for now, it seems the only way. Maybe it's just the melodrama of the movies--a contrivance of dramatic structure--that says some things only come once in a lifetime, and if their timing is wrong, they are tragically lost forever....
Dreamy James McAvoy's portrayal of Tom Lefroy's feelings for Jane Austen was pure adoration. A friend told me that I was too much of a hopeless romantic to be alone for the rest of my life... but watching this movie made me realize that such a statement may overlook the core of such romantic passion--the fact that it might be precisely because someone is a "hopeless romantic" that they end up alone, unwilling to settle for a substitute for what they once glimpsed. Even if painful, the memory can be better. The hopeless romantic, thus, can become the hopeful artist.
On a particularly difficult day last week, I vented a bit on a social network, and one of my friends replied: "...remember, you're a writer, you are supposed to feel more than normal people. How else would you know how to describe it for them?"
Think about it. How many of the the greatest writers of history had pretty, peaceful lives? That kind of existence just doesn't seem to spawn deep, empathetic literature that grabs the heartstrings and makes us feel like the author understands.
In the past few years, my daughters have turned me into a Jane Austin fan. As I've seen yet another generation of girls moved by what would seem the very particular romance of an era long gone--a generation immersed in technology, women's liberation, and anything-goes morality connecting with extremely verbose banter on the subject of propriety and the ethics of the seeming necessity of gold-digging in a world in which women could not fend for themselves, I've realized how much I too can identify with Jane's characters who yearn for what appears to be ironic and impossible: love, passion, and freedom intermingled with that innate drive for security.
What incredible timing for a first viewing of Becoming Jane!
Being new to the single mother thing, and receiving absolutely no support from Todd, I have been struggling to figure out how I'm going to make ends meet. I think Todd's plan is to financially ruin me and then wait for me to beg him to come back with his daddy's money. Unfortunately, my emotional condition of late has not been conducive to finding work, and I am going further in debt while trying to figure out reliable income that doesn't take me away from my kids while they need me most (and that doesn't prevent me from continuing to pursue my passion for writing). I'm starting to see why so many women in this situation are quick to get in another relationship--the prospect of security is alluring when desperation hits.
But the "typical" route has always been something I avoid at all costs. That's why I said when I was still single that if I had gotten pregnant, I probably wouldn't have married Todd because that would be "trite." That's also why, when we did decide to get married I had to hurry up and do it in May, so as to avoid the commonness of a June wedding. (Instead of rushing, perhaps dragging my feet would have been a better choice, but then that's a different story--good choices were obviously not my forte.)
So now, I look at men with great trepidation. Going it alone is scary, but getting entangled with another Mr. Wrong is even scarier.
There are two types of Mr. Wrongs: (1) the guy who I just "settle for" because I'm lonely, and he destroys my heart because there isn't the deep connection I long for, and (2) the guy I feel a deep connection to but I can't have because it would hurt others if I did. Number 2 is what this movie made me think of... and seeing how Jane Austen--after nobly choosing to walk away from Tom Lefroy--lived out the rest of her life alone, with her writing as the only outlet for her passion--that is what I see myself doing, too.
Maybe the memory of true passion is better than a substitute. Who was truly richer in passion at the end of the Becoming Jane story? Tom who had taken a substitute? or Jane, who continued her life alone? Both carried the heartache of loss due to that noble choice with them, but look at all Jane went on to create.
Just a thought. Maybe it's the meaningless effect of the stage of grieving I find myself in presently. Maybe my heart will change someday. But for now, it seems the only way. Maybe it's just the melodrama of the movies--a contrivance of dramatic structure--that says some things only come once in a lifetime, and if their timing is wrong, they are tragically lost forever....
Dreamy James McAvoy's portrayal of Tom Lefroy's feelings for Jane Austen was pure adoration. A friend told me that I was too much of a hopeless romantic to be alone for the rest of my life... but watching this movie made me realize that such a statement may overlook the core of such romantic passion--the fact that it might be precisely because someone is a "hopeless romantic" that they end up alone, unwilling to settle for a substitute for what they once glimpsed. Even if painful, the memory can be better. The hopeless romantic, thus, can become the hopeful artist.
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