On Shitty First Drafts

Last night I shared the beginning of my current (and longest) piece at the university's writing club. The response was overwhelmingly positive and it was great ego boost. But in a way, it the experience highlighted my issue with the piece.

The first passage of the story flows very well and has imagery strong enough that people commented that they felt like they were really there, looking just over my protagonist's shoulder at the scene. I think it's one of the best things I have written. But there is a sharp decline in quality immediately following it.

Why? Because the first part has been meticulously edited and rewritten multiple times. Most of the remaining story has only had the initial pass of writing it, and as a result lacks any sort of rich details or particularities that establish a sense of the place and action.

It gets worse, though. The story suddenly hinges on a series of coincidences and characters become pawns for the plot rather than entities with the illusion of agency. It has become especially hard to continue to slog through writing it, knowing that not only does it suffer from the roughness of a typical first draft, but the story itself is rapidly unraveling as I reach parts I have planned out less.

One tactic that may help is to try detailed outlining. As it stands, my outline is vague, with events separated by undefined distances—I discovery write between the points. I think that if I treat the outline as discovery writing, with a beat-by-beat breakdown of the action, I might find more success.

So, that's the plan, I guess?

Feels

It normally takes me a while to discuss my mental issues out in the open.

When I was younger, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease and immediately began telling everyone I knew about it in all the gory details (including showing people pictures of the inside of my small intestine). Part of me actually thought it was cool, but in retrospect it is clear that this oversharing was a defense mechanism that made me feel better about something that was very scary at the time.

The thing about mental illness is that there is a stigma attached to it. People tend to view depression as something you can “pull yourself out of,” despite the fact that if someone died from cancer, no one in their right mind would argue that “they just did not fight hard enough.” (Maria Bamford demonstrates this much better than I ever could.)

So, despite a part of me wanting to be open about my depression, I tend to hold back until I know someone better. There is something inappropriate about explaining the time I entered acute group therapy on a first date, for example. Additionally, most people on the street do not need to know about my late nights listening to Coldplay’s “The Scientist” on repeat.

But sometimes, not being open about struggles can cause problems. Keeping things bottled up and suppressing emotions is not healthy. And so, I find myself writing a far too revealing blog post.

When my mental illness was officially diagnosed at the end of high school, the prognosis was depression and anxiety; however, almost all of the symptoms I have been able to consciously notice have been depression related. While anxiety was a problem, it usually manifested itself as clenching my jaw, rather than my heart racing. The only time I have ever had a panic attack was when I tried to get on a (small) rollercoaster and collapsed in the queue. That probably deserves an entire post of its own, though.

Recently, however, I have been experiencing bouts of anxiousness that I only can only compare to how it felt to live away from home for the first time. Those went away eventually, and I came to view the college I was attending as a genuine second home that I miss to this day.

It is entirely possible that the main culprit this time around is the same as before; I recently enrolled in a four-year university for the first time in five years and there is a lot riding on my academic performance. To say that it is the only source of anxiety would be short-sighted, though.

I am not very skilled at making friends. I have always been introverted and shy and self-conscious (some of which was the result of mental illness rather than an inciting factor). Moving to a city for the first time, I naively expected things to be easier this time around. While there are more like-minded folks around Pittsburgh than in the wilds of Pennsyltucky, my social skills have not improved much in a half a decade. Yes, I am more confident in who I am, but I am still very much a loner at times and just plain do not mesh that well with most people.

I am completely okay with that, provided I can find a close-knit group of people to take the place of the dozens of friends a more social person would acquire. And you know what? I have found some of them, already.

So what is the problem? Not to play coy, but I am only comfortable divulging a certain amount publically. But the heart of the matter may be that I am afraid of easily losing that which I gained.

I used to always get the impression that people disliked me. To be fair, I can be very annoying, as so many people in elementary school explained by creating clubs at recess with the sole purpose of excluding me. As my sense of self has matured in the past decade, and as I received treatment for my mental health issues, this has been reduced greatly. But now, it seems that somewhere in the deep recesses of my heart, that fear is alive and well.

This past week, I have been feeling anxiety come over me at an unprecedented rate. At its worst, I was feeling it every few minutes. This has since subsided, thanks in large part to the help of the campus counseling center (those people are doing God’s work). But even as I write this, I wonder what the people I have come to know will think of this confession, and if it will lower their view of me. It is a silly concern, but at the moment, an unshakable one.

I feel guilty whining about it. I know people that struggle with anxiety issues far worse than this. To them, I fear, this rambling post may seem trivial. But it is all very unfamiliar to me and as a result, scary.

I will probably regret posting something this revealing for so many people to read, but I am a firm believer that you regret the things you do not do more than the things you do. Plus, this is super cathartic. And maybe it will make someone else going through something feel less alone.

Or maybe this is just me oversharing again to feel a little less scared.

The Time I Met My Spirit Animal

I have been hypnotized on a handful of occasions by one of my previous psychiatrists. The experience is difficult to explain without a common frame of reference. Perhaps the easiest way to give you a feel for the general sensation is to compare it to dreaming or very being very involved in reading something. I may go into further detail in the future.

                                              

On one of the most vivid occasions, I was instructed to imagine myself at a certain location on the local university campus. (I was nervous about taking college courses as part of a dual enrollment program in my senior year of high school; by picturing myself on the campus, I was to familiarize myself and become calmer in the situation.) I did so, but instead of sticking to the reality of the place, I quickly wandered into a realm of fantasy. I vaguely remember a hippogriff walking between trees in the distance, for example.

The key event that occurred was that I was approached by a serpentine Lindword. Imagine a dragon with a snake-like body, two legs, and no wings. It also had frills on its neck so that it reminded me of an extremely large version of those salamanders with prominent gills. The body was as thick as one of the trees surrounding us, and it moved swiftly. When it was near me, it turned its head to the side so that one large eye was facing me. We gazed into each other for a time, and a strange, deep feeling came over me.

I do not necessarily believe in supernatural spirit guides, but I do believe in psychological archetypes, and spirit animal shows up throughout history. A contemporary example would be the daemons from His Dark Materials—external manifestations of a person’s soul that take the form of an animal which represents them in some way.

What a Lindworm (or a salamander) would say about me, I do not know. Any heraldic significance, while interesting, would not mean as much in this context as my personal feelings towards the creature. Perhaps it is just a fluke of free association in visual form. I know it is ingrained in my subconscious to some degree, as it was a common feature of my doodles at the time, but I do not have any more insight than that.

Potpourri II

The person I talked about in my previous post does not, in fact support gay marriage. But she nearly does. Or does not. Her’s is a complicated viewpoint.

I did not carve any pumpkins this year. Partly this was laziness, but another contributing factor was that several houses have been vandalized in my neighborhood. Our mailbox was smashed and the reprobates even broke into our neighbors’ house. As such, I feared for the safety of any jack-o-lanterns I might painstakingly carve.

Also, a third thing.

Puzzling Opposition

I am currently working on a persuasive speech on gay marriage for my Effective Speech class, and I am reminded of a bizarre argument I heard in that class.

(Since I shared my blog in class, there is a chance that the person I am writing about is reading this. In this case, know that I am not trying to make fun of you or be mean spirited.)

The argument was made by a woman who, despite being a political conservative, is okay with gay marriage. She confessed that she believes gay people are born that way, so to discriminate against them does not make sense.

But then she admitted that she is against gay couples adopting children. And her reason was… well, here it is: children of gay couples face ridicule; therefore, to spare them from this mistreatment, gay people should not be allowed to adopt at all.

To me, there is an inherent flaw in the logic of this argument. The source of this discrimination is not the actual adoption; it is society’s reaction to it. The thing to do is not prevent adoption, but teach tolerance.

Let me put it this way: before racial integration was common, it was a fair bet that any black student attending a previously whites-only school would face much difficulty and hardship. Using the logic of this person’s argument, the solution is to never integrate schools.

(I actually kind of hope she is reading this, as I wanted to explain this to her, but I do not know how to broach the topic without being a sanctimonious asshole.)

A Sorry Excuse for an Entry

Ah! In such a good place for creative musings (The coffee shop I like)!

So here they are.

Or not.

I have been greatly neglecting this blog, and like a baby, it will wither and die of exposure if I do not act swiftly.

So yeah.

What’s up with you guys? Anything interesting?

I want to see Cloud Atlas, but since the town I am near sucks, I will have to travel forty minutes to do so.

I am sure more interesting things would come to mind if I only tried a little, but there is an assignment I really should get to.

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A Welcoming

Last night at class, while speaking about my goal of writing the “bad” story, I mentioned this blog. I was urged to share the address. As such, there may now be one or two new readers poking around my archive.

If I am completely honest, it is embarrassing to have such an intersection of real life and online life. Which is weird, since most of my readers are people I already know in the flesh.

Speaking of embarrassing things, I was also asked to explain the premise of my novel-in-progress. Yikes. I was not ready for that one.

I am not sure if this bashfulness is present in all writers, or if I am especially prone to it.

The only lasting negative consequence of sharing the blog is this: now I cannot write about any of the people in class. Oops.

They are all really nice people, though, so there would not be much to write about. And yes, I would say that even if they were not privy to my postings.

Come to Philly for the Crack

I should be sleeping. I have to be awake for class tonight. But alas, I am out of melatonin. Since I am unable to sleep, I figure I can kill two birds with one stone by also being unable to write.

I have struggled to find something appropriate to blog about the past few days. It would make the most sense to talk about work, but it is my wish that this blog be something more than just a record of my spiraling occupational neurosis.

While at work, I did come across something that may be worth sharing anyway: I find Philadelphia accents indicate a constant orneriness. To me, it is as if the speaker is about to have an angry outburst at any moment.

There was a portly gentleman from Philadelphia in town for the university’s homecoming. While eating breakfast, he asked for me to change the channel on the breakfast area television to weather. Something about the way he said it made me feel like he was in a bad mood. I turned the channel from the usual (CNN’s Early Start) to The Weather Channel.

“No,” he continued, “I want to see the weather for here.”

His tone seemed to belie a certain impatience. I was flummoxed (it had been a long night for me). Eventually it was made clear that he wanted the local weather, but not before I felt like he was on the verge of getting mad.

Of course, he could have just been frustrated. One of several incidents that kept me busy that night was his toilet clogging. The plunger remained elusive, so the best I could do for him was to instruct him to use the public restroom. When you also consider how long it took me to realize that he wanted a local channel on, you have a recipe for an irritable guest. But to me, he seemed to be teetering on the edge of an unearned eruption.

After this, he asked to change the channel again. With my permission, he began tuning the TV to something else. He settled on a screening of Major League on HBO. The movie has some saucy elements, and HBO is the one channel we are never supposed to have on for precisely that reason. Yet, I did not say anything. I was afraid of upsetting the precarious balance of emotions within the man.

I know, I know, this makes me look bad. He had an excuse to be a little upset. Taking this into account, one might draw the conclusion that I simply do not like people from Philadelphia. This is not true. I love It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and my godfather is from the city of brotherly love.

Just like how I'm not racist because of my black friend.

I maintain that even taking into account the circumstances, there was a rising inflection in his voice. It practically sounded like he was looking for a reason to get into an argument. I do not know how else to describe the effect his accent had on me.

Looking back, I am probably overanalyzing everything about this frankly unremarkable situation. And it is kind of boring. But dammit, I got a blog post out of it.

Write the Bad Story

I had a really, really good therapy session yesterday. Not in the sense that I was depressed and felt better—I went into it in a good mood—I just made a lot of personal progress. Also, my therapist is really cool, so shooting the shit with him is fun.

We talked about the sort of thing that causes my project ADD. It manifests itself in other areas of my life, particularly other areas that involve creating, especially writing. I am ashamed to admit it, but I have a great deal of difficulty writing research papers. It is like pulling teeth. And yesterday, we identified that a form of perfectionism is responsible for this.

I start writing something, I get a chapter and a half in, and then there is no way I can continue it. Or rather, there is, but it is not satisfactory to me. I stop myself because producing nothing is better than creating something that is not good.

I need to aim a little lower, really. No one’s first novel is published—I should not be wary of what people will think about it. I should just focus on actually completing a novel in the first place. Academically, my new goal is to focus on writing a paper that will earn a C (because that is better than a zero and I will probably earn a better grade in the process).

Mind you, there are still some issues holding me back from moving too far along with my story—mainly the lack of a coherent conflict—but I have a lot of hope.

I am going into the coffee shop right now to write. And I better hurry, because I’m about to say something flippant to the two stereotypes sitting next to me in the area outside of the coffee shop: a girl who is “not” a slut and her gay best friend.