There is unfettered sadness in the world. Growing up, I remember being taught history as though the events of the past were in the past. When I learned about wars or genocides, I believed them to be a memory of long ago that would be impossible today. But that couldn't be farther from the truth. It's shocking really. If you think about it, nothing at all has changed in the world. There is still violence, rape, brutality, dishonesty, and barbarity. I just don't understand how it's possible.
As I searched for pictures from the 1940s for inspiration for my writing, I stumbled upon a collection of pictures from the Holocaust. One needn't even look at pictures of dead bodies to be shocked since the bodies of the people who were alive didn't look much different from their dead counterparts. Those poor poor people were so frail and impossibly thin. Their eyes were drained of all hopefulness as robust soldiers laughed and grimaced in the background. How could humanity allow such a thing? How could one see a pile of mangled corpses the size of a mountain and still believe that this was the right thing to do? I saw pictures of workers pushing corpses into ovens as though they were loaves of bread. Seeing this in pictures is bad enough, but the fact that there are still people alive who have witnessed this makes me realize just how recent the Holocaust was. It's not a thing of the distant past…no, it happened during my grandparents' lifetimes.
But that's just one event. I couldn't possibly recount the atrocious events like the Holocaust that have been and still are going on since even just the 2000s. I cannot begin to process the idea that people are still being crudely tortured as I write this. Personally, I don't even know the full extent of the tragedies of modern warfare. Honestly, it's a lot more difficult to look at contemporary war photographs than it is to look at the ones from World War II. The older ones are black and white and grainy--which filters part of the gruesomeness of the objects depicted. Today's pictures, however, are too detailed and the blood is simply too red for me to handle.
It saddens me to see how fragile human bodies are and how cruel other humans are to allow the meaningless slaughters of someone else's father, mother, son, daughter, lover, husband, friend, etc. Actually…it's not even that necessarily. When I think of it, if someone places another human being next to me (of whatever color, race, gender, creed, or belief system), just the fact that that human has a body like mine, a mind like mine, and the shared desire to live a life and find happiness, is enough to make me not want that person to be harmed. So how is it possible for people today to still bomb others, to stone young girls to death, to torture people, to decapitate innocent humanitarians, to end lives without so much as a flinch?
I think about that a lot because I find it to be one of the most difficult things to understand. Sure many of those involved might have fallen under some sort of mob mentality. But what about the principle evil-doers (so to speak)? I thought about this once in the context of bugs. Imagine the gnarliest bug you could think of. I'm not very bug-savvy, so I'll just propose the infamous example of grossness- the cockroach. Perhaps people capable of doing harm to others view those others as I view cockroaches. I know that cockroaches have some place in the world (as most creatures either do something or serve as a food supply to other creatures), but I'd rather not see them. I cringe when I see them anywhere, but if they're on my territory - I want them to be removed. Maybe that's how some people feel about others, they feel that they are like cockroaches that are to be exterminated. And, since they remove the idea of possessing a shared humanity by choosing to think of others as bugs, it makes it easier to inflict pain or eliminate those people. Some have the power to squash the cockroaches themselves. Others, however, (like me) cannot stand the experience of crushing a bug firsthand and, thus, appoint others to dispose of the intruding party for them.
My example surely does not adequately explain the mind of a mass-murderer - but it helps me to begin to fathom the possibility of having that mentality. It truly is distressing to think about, so for now I will leave it at that and maybe write about this more when I have other ideas that can be better articulated.
Monday, December 29, 2014
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Gratitude
S and I were having a discussion yesterday about where we were in life and where we want to be. He was talking about how he regrets missing out on so many family moments in Romania, especially precious time we could be spending with our aging grandparents. I completely understood where he was coming from, I also get these feelings quite frequently. We both have a clear picture of the direction we want our lives to go in, but we're also acutely aware of the obstacles we would have to face (mostly financial and temporal) to get there. I don't know if we'll ever get to live in Romania, though we'd both like to, I don't know if it's a possibility.
As we were talking about this, however, I started realizing how much we were throwing around the expressions "we want" and "I want." Yes, it's human nature to want things. I find myself constantly wishing for all kinds of things ranging from new clothes, new shoes, a new car, a house, another lifestyle, etc. etc. etc. But I guess the thing about always "wanting" is that it makes you forget that the things you do have already are not guaranteed to be there forever. We both are lucky to have the things we have. The fact that we have food in our fridge, clothes in our closet, and a roof (albeit a rented one) over our heads already makes us wealthier than most people on this planet. Not to mention the fact that we have other things like: each other, a supportive family, good health, general safety, access to vital resources, etc. We forget these things sometimes, it's extraordinarily easy to do. But, I've come to believe that we are always richer than we think we are. As I sit here looking around our little apartment, I see a home that the both of us have filled with warmth and love. I don't know if it's the Thanksgiving spirit that has been coming over me--but I find myself growing much more aware of how fortunate I am to have what I have. Though I know that I still have a lot of wishes for my future (especially for the unknown future of next year), I'm also encouraging myself to take it easy this year to just enjoy where I am right now. I very sincerely have placed it upon myself to enjoy all that Chicago has to offer and I hope to make the best of my time here. After all, the only thing we really know about life is that we have it and that can only mean that we should live it as much as we can, right? So let's see where that takes us.
As we were talking about this, however, I started realizing how much we were throwing around the expressions "we want" and "I want." Yes, it's human nature to want things. I find myself constantly wishing for all kinds of things ranging from new clothes, new shoes, a new car, a house, another lifestyle, etc. etc. etc. But I guess the thing about always "wanting" is that it makes you forget that the things you do have already are not guaranteed to be there forever. We both are lucky to have the things we have. The fact that we have food in our fridge, clothes in our closet, and a roof (albeit a rented one) over our heads already makes us wealthier than most people on this planet. Not to mention the fact that we have other things like: each other, a supportive family, good health, general safety, access to vital resources, etc. We forget these things sometimes, it's extraordinarily easy to do. But, I've come to believe that we are always richer than we think we are. As I sit here looking around our little apartment, I see a home that the both of us have filled with warmth and love. I don't know if it's the Thanksgiving spirit that has been coming over me--but I find myself growing much more aware of how fortunate I am to have what I have. Though I know that I still have a lot of wishes for my future (especially for the unknown future of next year), I'm also encouraging myself to take it easy this year to just enjoy where I am right now. I very sincerely have placed it upon myself to enjoy all that Chicago has to offer and I hope to make the best of my time here. After all, the only thing we really know about life is that we have it and that can only mean that we should live it as much as we can, right? So let's see where that takes us.
Monday, October 20, 2014
Architecture
The University of Chicago
One of the reading rooms where one can read, study, dream, whatever…
So, I've been inexplicably bitter about moving to a new place…which was very much the opposite of how I thought I'd feel- especially about Chicago (which was supposed to be 1000 times better than Los Angeles). In a way, I suppose you can't really compare cities like Los Angeles and Chicago because they're so different. But, in any case, I think that my homesickness in the first few weeks had a lot to do with my view of Chicago. I supposed I've learned that the soul of a place really is created by the people that inhabit it. But anyway, I just felt like sharing a few thoughts now that my thinking has changed. I've learned to see that being here is an amazing opportunity to live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and Stefan and I are really lucky that we get to spend a part of our lives living here. The city is so beautiful. One of the things I've always lamented about LA was the shabby and un-romantic architecture (too modern for my taste). Chicago, on the other hand, has marvelous architecture. And, have you ever seen the University of Chicago? Basically, I go to school in a Gothic palace. And I love it! Just seeing the grounds of the university every day make the piles and piles of work totally worth it. I finally feel that my brain is turning on and that I my profound and creative thoughts are coming back to me. So I guess it's full speed ahead and we'll see what the future holds.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
New Life in Chicago
Well hello again,
So, it's been a week and a half since my husband and I have moved to Chicago. My feeling now? It's only been a week and a half?!?
I would say that I'm pretty used to moving around considering all of trips to Romania esp. from a young age, but I guess the many places of Romania were always home…and I guess this is the first time moving away from one of my "homes." It's been harder than I expected and it has come with a rather large degree of homesickness and longing for the familiar. I can't say that I am not incredibly grateful that my husband is here, I would have gone insane without him, but I really hate the disorienting feeling that comes with moving to such a new place. The U of C is very pretty, but it still feels very foreign. Chicago is a very interesting and attractive city too, but I cannot say it feels mine yet. Honestly, the only familiar thing here seems to be my husband. Even my stuff (clothes, shoes, etc.) seem foreign when I see them in this strange new place.
It's a weird feeling. I hate not knowing where I am and what I'm doing.
I can only hope that time will be kind and will allow us to adjust quickly and smoothly.
So, it's been a week and a half since my husband and I have moved to Chicago. My feeling now? It's only been a week and a half?!?
I would say that I'm pretty used to moving around considering all of trips to Romania esp. from a young age, but I guess the many places of Romania were always home…and I guess this is the first time moving away from one of my "homes." It's been harder than I expected and it has come with a rather large degree of homesickness and longing for the familiar. I can't say that I am not incredibly grateful that my husband is here, I would have gone insane without him, but I really hate the disorienting feeling that comes with moving to such a new place. The U of C is very pretty, but it still feels very foreign. Chicago is a very interesting and attractive city too, but I cannot say it feels mine yet. Honestly, the only familiar thing here seems to be my husband. Even my stuff (clothes, shoes, etc.) seem foreign when I see them in this strange new place.
It's a weird feeling. I hate not knowing where I am and what I'm doing.
I can only hope that time will be kind and will allow us to adjust quickly and smoothly.
Indefinite Sadness
So after writing my last post, I was reminded about an issue that I strongly wished to write about. You see, as a young American - I can't help feeling a bit cheated. From a young age, I was taught that I should do well in school, be honest, challenge myself, etc. etc. and I was led to believe that this would make me "successful." Well…I woke up to adulthood realizing that being intelligent, skilled, and generally a good person does not guarantee anything. You would think that a society of adults that wagged their finger at you as a child to get you to be great would then reward you with something after you did exactly as they wished…well, it turns out that society is in debt.
I have a few weeks left until graduation and I've been a straight-A student all of my life. I used to think that meant something, but I'm starting to see that speaking eloquently and having philosophical ideas doesn't translate into monetary value. People are still driven by money and, as always, the only thing selling is whatever makes a quick buck. Figuring all this stuff out has sincerely depressed me because I'm starting to realize how little security I have in the future and I'm a bit disappointed at the adults of my childhood for not holding up their end of the deal to make the world a better place for their children. Instead? Their children inherited a worldwide recession just as they were on the cusp of spreading their wings toward independence in the real world. Now? Most millenials have little prospects and their wings are being crushed within the confines of their parent's garages or their childhood rooms.
True, it is a pressing matter. I think about this all the time as I struggle to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with my life so that I can find a balance between being happy and actually being able to afford living. It often seems like we (middle classish folk) are falling behind. I start to get angry, or at least disappointed, when I consider that I probably won't get to fulfill my childhood dream of traveling the world and going on exotic adventures - those things cost money, a lot of money. And then I start to think about even smaller things like affording a house and being able to pay for my future children's educations. When I think of houses costing as much as they do (and taxes being what they are), I feel like the prospect of owning a house before age 30 or 40 or even 50 is rather grim (and that's where vacation money will probably go). And then I think about having kids (an idea that has been lately presenting itself as being attractive for the future), I question whether I'll even be able to afford them because I surely wouldn't want to bring children into this world without having anything to offer them. Sometimes, even though I know it would be frowned upon, I even scorn the fact that I am not rich when others, who clearly don't seem to deserve it, are.
Sounds rather daunting, doesn't it? But perhaps it sounds like the banal whining of a rather privileged individual taking all she has for granted. I'd agree with you there. I've recently started thinking about the world with a wider perspective and I realized that more than half of the people on this planet would probably consider my life a dream, to them it would probably be like winning the lottery. To them, it might be considered being rich.
I'm sure we've all seen poverty statistics. I remember reading somewhere that more than half of the children on the planet don't have basic things like food, water, and shelter. A large number (can't recall the exact number) give birth without any medical care. And something like 12% of the world's population uses up 85ish% of the world's resources. I think our society has already grown numb to statistics, but when you truly begin to imagine the human beings behind those numbers…it's really upsetting.
As a privileged child growing up with a western education, whenever I read about famine, hunger, wars, torture, rape, etc. - it always seemed like something very distant in the past. I always assumed that civilization has advanced and has gotten better. But formany most people in the world, the harsh realities of life are not much better than they were even in Biblical times.
I find it hard to truly conceive that there are people out there who do not have electricity, clean water, a decent bed, a shelter, food, family, or even at least the security of knowing they won't be massacred the next day. This is very strange to think about and it's something that, when I think about it, makes me feel stuck. I feel like anything and everything about my life is so superficial when so much of the world's population is in need of only basic things.
I had this picture in my head the other day: Me sitting in a class about critical theory discussing Freud's ideas about sexuality. The lecture hall is filled with privileged young adults whose parents have expended quite a large sum of money to secure a seat in that lecture hall for their child. These people are all well-dressed, most have computers (probably MacBooks) in their bookcases, and very few (if any) have any worries about where their next meal will come from. In front of the room is a person that has spent probably well over a decade of her life writing sophisticated, though sanity-impairing, term papers and flagging pages of large books with color-coordinated post-it notes just so that she could finally qualify to stand in front of the room to discuss the remote importance of Freud's thoughts as they relate to literature and thought. Most of the young adults in the room check their cell-phones, discreetly hidden by the screens of their laptops, for incoming text messages as they repeatedly stare at the time in order to gage how long they have left to hear the self-described intellectual at the front of the room. There is much self-absorption cut with disinterest all across the room. To make matters worse, it is hot and humid and most stomachs in the room have begun to rumble.
Ok. So that's the scene on one side of the world. But let's imagine some other part of the world (or maybe it's not even that far away, who knows?). There is a thirteen-year old girl sitting naked in a dark room. Her mind is blank as the the last few days have left her bereft of all emotion or fear. She stares into the darkness as her memory attempts, mostly in vain, to destruct itself. Her parents have no idea where she is, although they search for her desperately. Their limited means, however, ensure that a significant amount of time will pass before they see her again, too much time. The girl feels the sharp pangs of hunger tugging at her body, but she does not intend to touch the stale bread that sits in the other corner of the room. When the room gets too quiet she imagines that she hears the hoarse voice of the man who brought her here and her entire body shudders. Her insides feel as though they are turning outward, and she finds herself wishing her body will burst before anyone else might come to violate it.
This happens…more than any of us would care to know about. And what's even more preposterous is that this is only one of the many many MANY horrible things that happen in the world EVERY SINGLE DAY!
How is a person supposed to function normally knowing that such barbaric atrocities happen? As a woman, I very often think about the thousands (maybe millions?) of women that are sold into sexual slavery or that are abused and oppressed. I think about this sometimes as I mentally complain about waiting too long for my coffee, or when I am rushing to get to class on time and nothing else in the world seems to matter aside from my racing to school on time…I think about these things a lot especially when I'm in the midst of some banality. I'm pretty sure that anything that I can complain about in my life right now is infinitely better than the many desperate and hopeless situations so many others find themselves in life right now. And it's not fair. Why are some people's fates so dark simply because of where they were born? And what makes me any different other than the fact that I was lucky enough to be born in a place and to a family that kept me from danger?
These kinds of thoughts sometimes keep me up at night and I can't understand how it is possible for such fates to exist simultaneously. And I know that most of us don't think about the bad in the world all the time simply because it would keep us from being able to move forward, but how is it possible to move forward knowing so much shit happens? It's such a shocking and crude reality, and sadly, I fear that getting older only makes one retreat even more into one's own circle since that, in itself, can be a scary and disorienting reality.
But I don't know…I don't know what can be done or how to do it.
I have a few weeks left until graduation and I've been a straight-A student all of my life. I used to think that meant something, but I'm starting to see that speaking eloquently and having philosophical ideas doesn't translate into monetary value. People are still driven by money and, as always, the only thing selling is whatever makes a quick buck. Figuring all this stuff out has sincerely depressed me because I'm starting to realize how little security I have in the future and I'm a bit disappointed at the adults of my childhood for not holding up their end of the deal to make the world a better place for their children. Instead? Their children inherited a worldwide recession just as they were on the cusp of spreading their wings toward independence in the real world. Now? Most millenials have little prospects and their wings are being crushed within the confines of their parent's garages or their childhood rooms.
True, it is a pressing matter. I think about this all the time as I struggle to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with my life so that I can find a balance between being happy and actually being able to afford living. It often seems like we (middle classish folk) are falling behind. I start to get angry, or at least disappointed, when I consider that I probably won't get to fulfill my childhood dream of traveling the world and going on exotic adventures - those things cost money, a lot of money. And then I start to think about even smaller things like affording a house and being able to pay for my future children's educations. When I think of houses costing as much as they do (and taxes being what they are), I feel like the prospect of owning a house before age 30 or 40 or even 50 is rather grim (and that's where vacation money will probably go). And then I think about having kids (an idea that has been lately presenting itself as being attractive for the future), I question whether I'll even be able to afford them because I surely wouldn't want to bring children into this world without having anything to offer them. Sometimes, even though I know it would be frowned upon, I even scorn the fact that I am not rich when others, who clearly don't seem to deserve it, are.
Sounds rather daunting, doesn't it? But perhaps it sounds like the banal whining of a rather privileged individual taking all she has for granted. I'd agree with you there. I've recently started thinking about the world with a wider perspective and I realized that more than half of the people on this planet would probably consider my life a dream, to them it would probably be like winning the lottery. To them, it might be considered being rich.
I'm sure we've all seen poverty statistics. I remember reading somewhere that more than half of the children on the planet don't have basic things like food, water, and shelter. A large number (can't recall the exact number) give birth without any medical care. And something like 12% of the world's population uses up 85ish% of the world's resources. I think our society has already grown numb to statistics, but when you truly begin to imagine the human beings behind those numbers…it's really upsetting.
As a privileged child growing up with a western education, whenever I read about famine, hunger, wars, torture, rape, etc. - it always seemed like something very distant in the past. I always assumed that civilization has advanced and has gotten better. But for
I find it hard to truly conceive that there are people out there who do not have electricity, clean water, a decent bed, a shelter, food, family, or even at least the security of knowing they won't be massacred the next day. This is very strange to think about and it's something that, when I think about it, makes me feel stuck. I feel like anything and everything about my life is so superficial when so much of the world's population is in need of only basic things.
I had this picture in my head the other day: Me sitting in a class about critical theory discussing Freud's ideas about sexuality. The lecture hall is filled with privileged young adults whose parents have expended quite a large sum of money to secure a seat in that lecture hall for their child. These people are all well-dressed, most have computers (probably MacBooks) in their bookcases, and very few (if any) have any worries about where their next meal will come from. In front of the room is a person that has spent probably well over a decade of her life writing sophisticated, though sanity-impairing, term papers and flagging pages of large books with color-coordinated post-it notes just so that she could finally qualify to stand in front of the room to discuss the remote importance of Freud's thoughts as they relate to literature and thought. Most of the young adults in the room check their cell-phones, discreetly hidden by the screens of their laptops, for incoming text messages as they repeatedly stare at the time in order to gage how long they have left to hear the self-described intellectual at the front of the room. There is much self-absorption cut with disinterest all across the room. To make matters worse, it is hot and humid and most stomachs in the room have begun to rumble.
Ok. So that's the scene on one side of the world. But let's imagine some other part of the world (or maybe it's not even that far away, who knows?). There is a thirteen-year old girl sitting naked in a dark room. Her mind is blank as the the last few days have left her bereft of all emotion or fear. She stares into the darkness as her memory attempts, mostly in vain, to destruct itself. Her parents have no idea where she is, although they search for her desperately. Their limited means, however, ensure that a significant amount of time will pass before they see her again, too much time. The girl feels the sharp pangs of hunger tugging at her body, but she does not intend to touch the stale bread that sits in the other corner of the room. When the room gets too quiet she imagines that she hears the hoarse voice of the man who brought her here and her entire body shudders. Her insides feel as though they are turning outward, and she finds herself wishing her body will burst before anyone else might come to violate it.
This happens…more than any of us would care to know about. And what's even more preposterous is that this is only one of the many many MANY horrible things that happen in the world EVERY SINGLE DAY!
How is a person supposed to function normally knowing that such barbaric atrocities happen? As a woman, I very often think about the thousands (maybe millions?) of women that are sold into sexual slavery or that are abused and oppressed. I think about this sometimes as I mentally complain about waiting too long for my coffee, or when I am rushing to get to class on time and nothing else in the world seems to matter aside from my racing to school on time…I think about these things a lot especially when I'm in the midst of some banality. I'm pretty sure that anything that I can complain about in my life right now is infinitely better than the many desperate and hopeless situations so many others find themselves in life right now. And it's not fair. Why are some people's fates so dark simply because of where they were born? And what makes me any different other than the fact that I was lucky enough to be born in a place and to a family that kept me from danger?
These kinds of thoughts sometimes keep me up at night and I can't understand how it is possible for such fates to exist simultaneously. And I know that most of us don't think about the bad in the world all the time simply because it would keep us from being able to move forward, but how is it possible to move forward knowing so much shit happens? It's such a shocking and crude reality, and sadly, I fear that getting older only makes one retreat even more into one's own circle since that, in itself, can be a scary and disorienting reality.
But I don't know…I don't know what can be done or how to do it.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Writing
So taking a glance at my blog has offered me additional evidence of my long-windedness. But I think that's okay for a writer since having material to edit and cut is better than not having anything at all. From that point of view, I guess I could say that the last few years have featured several breakthroughs for me.
I honestly do think I've become a better writer in the last four years; although, of course, it has been a long process. I think I was overly-cocky four years ago. I thought that I was a cleverly eloquent wordsmith whose style could bewitch any reader with its colorful richness. Um…yeah, that got shot down by one or two of my more cynical professors that saw right through the bull. I've butted heads with such people because I refused to accept their realism in exchange for my romanticism and fantasies. But they had a point and I slowly learned that "talent" is not something you're just born with. Writing isn't so much about talent - it's not like I could just wave a magically talented finger and produce a novel. Nope. I tried.
I've started many pieces in my life, yet never got very far with any (probably because I though talent could carry me through). I thought that I could just write a perfect first draft and produce a masterpiece. But no. That's not what writing is about. Writing is about work. Writing is about sculpting, about laboriously playing with brushstrokes, about erasing and rewriting, it's about being willing to cut out everything and start over. Writing isn't something for the lighthearted or even the lazy, at least not good writing anyway. I've learned, in the past four years, that the people who end up with great works are those who work at it like sculptors working with stone. A writer might see the essence of a story, but they have to chisel away in the late hours until the story can find its form. A writer has to write, read, and edit. I've noticed that my writing only ever sounds good after I've questioned every word, every comma, every space. That's the secret to writing- hard work and dedication. It was a refreshing lesson.
And aside from the hard work that necessarily must replace the notion of "talent," I also learned that I could only get at truth or authenticity by making my voice truthful too. Writing with a thesaurus on hand isn't exactly the way to sincerity. Trying to "sound" intelligent or eloquent only leads to writing that reads as artificial. I've seen it in my early writing and in the writing of my younger peers. I think it would be hard for anyone to get away with superficially using more complex synonyms just for the sake of sounding well-learned. Take "The Great Gatsby" for example. Why is the book so beloved? Story aside, the book is written beautifully. But the language is not pretentious by any means, it's actually rather simple, and yet it is so well-chosen that it speaks to any audience. That's something that a writer should go for: choosing the best language for conveying whatever it is they need to convey rather than choosing language that will advance some image of the author.
I can honestly say that my writing has improved tenfold since I've learned to let go of the things I thought I knew. It allowed me to learn/try new things that have worked much better for me. I'm currently working on something right now that honestly has some potential. So, fingers crossed that I'll finish this one!
I honestly do think I've become a better writer in the last four years; although, of course, it has been a long process. I think I was overly-cocky four years ago. I thought that I was a cleverly eloquent wordsmith whose style could bewitch any reader with its colorful richness. Um…yeah, that got shot down by one or two of my more cynical professors that saw right through the bull. I've butted heads with such people because I refused to accept their realism in exchange for my romanticism and fantasies. But they had a point and I slowly learned that "talent" is not something you're just born with. Writing isn't so much about talent - it's not like I could just wave a magically talented finger and produce a novel. Nope. I tried.
I've started many pieces in my life, yet never got very far with any (probably because I though talent could carry me through). I thought that I could just write a perfect first draft and produce a masterpiece. But no. That's not what writing is about. Writing is about work. Writing is about sculpting, about laboriously playing with brushstrokes, about erasing and rewriting, it's about being willing to cut out everything and start over. Writing isn't something for the lighthearted or even the lazy, at least not good writing anyway. I've learned, in the past four years, that the people who end up with great works are those who work at it like sculptors working with stone. A writer might see the essence of a story, but they have to chisel away in the late hours until the story can find its form. A writer has to write, read, and edit. I've noticed that my writing only ever sounds good after I've questioned every word, every comma, every space. That's the secret to writing- hard work and dedication. It was a refreshing lesson.
And aside from the hard work that necessarily must replace the notion of "talent," I also learned that I could only get at truth or authenticity by making my voice truthful too. Writing with a thesaurus on hand isn't exactly the way to sincerity. Trying to "sound" intelligent or eloquent only leads to writing that reads as artificial. I've seen it in my early writing and in the writing of my younger peers. I think it would be hard for anyone to get away with superficially using more complex synonyms just for the sake of sounding well-learned. Take "The Great Gatsby" for example. Why is the book so beloved? Story aside, the book is written beautifully. But the language is not pretentious by any means, it's actually rather simple, and yet it is so well-chosen that it speaks to any audience. That's something that a writer should go for: choosing the best language for conveying whatever it is they need to convey rather than choosing language that will advance some image of the author.
I can honestly say that my writing has improved tenfold since I've learned to let go of the things I thought I knew. It allowed me to learn/try new things that have worked much better for me. I'm currently working on something right now that honestly has some potential. So, fingers crossed that I'll finish this one!
Immediacy of Living
I've been thinking retrospectively a lot lately, I'm sure most people do so at this age. The other day I found my old iPod and I charged it for the first time in like six years. I had forgotten about most of the music that I had on there, but it was so interesting to listen to it again. (I was also reminded of the painful experience of wearing earbuds)
One of the songs that I listened to was "100 Years" by Five for Fighting. I listened to that song a lot when I was a teenager because, naturally as a youngster, I thought a lot about what my life would turn out to be. A couple of years later, I can say that a lot of the uncertainty has cleared up (though there's plenty left). It was nice to remember a time when the slate was completely blank and I could write absolutely anything on the empty pages of my life. I've got more sense of direction now as I've started a family and am slowly gaining full independence and taking a definitive path in life. It's nice to have a clearer idea of what my life will be, but at the same time, I still appreciate the unknowns. It's nice to have surprises, I think I would be very unhappy to know exactly what my days would be like day in and day out. So, I guess I'm in a good place right now.
I'm currently literally working on my last two days of college at UCLA and then it's off to a new chapter in a new city. My husband and I will be moving to Chicago in the fall where I'll start graduate school at the University of Chicago. I've never been to Chicago, but the idea of going to a new city and meeting new people and experiencing different things is very exciting while also a bit nerve-racking. But, all in all, it's nice to not know what the future holds. It's nice to dream and it's nice to take things in as they come. That's actually rather new for me. When I was younger, like in high school, I used to be very obsessed with knowing all of the details of my future and I always was meticulously planning my trajectories--now, however, I've been consciously trying to live more in the moment and less in the future or in the past. It works sometimes, but it's very hard to do since the reality of the future is always pulling my attention away from the present and the memories from the past are also calling for attention.
But I want to enjoy whatever life I have left to live. I would like to think that when I die, I'll be ready…or at least as ready as I can be. I'm reminded of something Henry David Thoreau wrote - "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them." (Or something like that). The truth in that short idea is very sharp in my mind since I think I started seeing people leading lives of quiet desperation very early on. Whenever I'd read books with adventurous protagonists, I always thought that each person had some sort of metaphorical "book"that they were the protagonists of --but the truth is that most people in life are never more than just secondary characters unless gargantuan efforts are made toward the metaphorical "writing" of their said books.
I don't think I'm far off in describing life as a "flash"--of light, of sound, whatever. Many say it goes by quickly, I don't think I've ever heard anybody complain that life moved too slowly. So, knowing that, we ought to latch onto life as much as possible before it completely slips away. I think I constantly feel this desperate urge to do things. I'm a very jumpy person generally - I hate idleness. I generally hate it when people say things like, "let's do this later or someday" or "you have time for that" or "you have the rest of your life" or "you're too young for that" etc. etc. Honestly, aren't all those people saying "you have time" hypocrites? No one really has time. We can die RIGHT NOW. (Ok yeah, that was a bit dramatic) But, honestly, we might just not have time to find love, to listen to our favorite song one more time, to read that book we've been meaning to read, to tell people we love them again, or even to just see some people ever again. Whoever said that "the time is now" was right on. We…ok I shouldn't speak for all of humanity…but I at least strongly want to learn to live without taking time for granted. I want to find the ability to breathe in every moment as it plays out, I want to find the courage to tell people how I feel before it's too late, I want to find the maturity to really say what should be said instead of shying away from sounding sentimental, and I want to finally learn that risks not taken will bring more regret than any stupid decision will ever bring.
So, let's see how this works out. I'm curious to see where the future will lead me, and the world, and people, and the sky, and the moon, and etc.
One of the songs that I listened to was "100 Years" by Five for Fighting. I listened to that song a lot when I was a teenager because, naturally as a youngster, I thought a lot about what my life would turn out to be. A couple of years later, I can say that a lot of the uncertainty has cleared up (though there's plenty left). It was nice to remember a time when the slate was completely blank and I could write absolutely anything on the empty pages of my life. I've got more sense of direction now as I've started a family and am slowly gaining full independence and taking a definitive path in life. It's nice to have a clearer idea of what my life will be, but at the same time, I still appreciate the unknowns. It's nice to have surprises, I think I would be very unhappy to know exactly what my days would be like day in and day out. So, I guess I'm in a good place right now.
I'm currently literally working on my last two days of college at UCLA and then it's off to a new chapter in a new city. My husband and I will be moving to Chicago in the fall where I'll start graduate school at the University of Chicago. I've never been to Chicago, but the idea of going to a new city and meeting new people and experiencing different things is very exciting while also a bit nerve-racking. But, all in all, it's nice to not know what the future holds. It's nice to dream and it's nice to take things in as they come. That's actually rather new for me. When I was younger, like in high school, I used to be very obsessed with knowing all of the details of my future and I always was meticulously planning my trajectories--now, however, I've been consciously trying to live more in the moment and less in the future or in the past. It works sometimes, but it's very hard to do since the reality of the future is always pulling my attention away from the present and the memories from the past are also calling for attention.
But I want to enjoy whatever life I have left to live. I would like to think that when I die, I'll be ready…or at least as ready as I can be. I'm reminded of something Henry David Thoreau wrote - "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them." (Or something like that). The truth in that short idea is very sharp in my mind since I think I started seeing people leading lives of quiet desperation very early on. Whenever I'd read books with adventurous protagonists, I always thought that each person had some sort of metaphorical "book"that they were the protagonists of --but the truth is that most people in life are never more than just secondary characters unless gargantuan efforts are made toward the metaphorical "writing" of their said books.
I don't think I'm far off in describing life as a "flash"--of light, of sound, whatever. Many say it goes by quickly, I don't think I've ever heard anybody complain that life moved too slowly. So, knowing that, we ought to latch onto life as much as possible before it completely slips away. I think I constantly feel this desperate urge to do things. I'm a very jumpy person generally - I hate idleness. I generally hate it when people say things like, "let's do this later or someday" or "you have time for that" or "you have the rest of your life" or "you're too young for that" etc. etc. Honestly, aren't all those people saying "you have time" hypocrites? No one really has time. We can die RIGHT NOW. (Ok yeah, that was a bit dramatic) But, honestly, we might just not have time to find love, to listen to our favorite song one more time, to read that book we've been meaning to read, to tell people we love them again, or even to just see some people ever again. Whoever said that "the time is now" was right on. We…ok I shouldn't speak for all of humanity…but I at least strongly want to learn to live without taking time for granted. I want to find the ability to breathe in every moment as it plays out, I want to find the courage to tell people how I feel before it's too late, I want to find the maturity to really say what should be said instead of shying away from sounding sentimental, and I want to finally learn that risks not taken will bring more regret than any stupid decision will ever bring.
So, let's see how this works out. I'm curious to see where the future will lead me, and the world, and people, and the sky, and the moon, and etc.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
New Wisdom
So, it's been a while yet again. For a person who was initially driven to post regularly, my plan didn't work out very well. It's not a big deal though, I doubt the lack of ripples was even noticed. There is a truly satisfactory explanation for why I have had a rather low on-line presence.
To begin, I will recount some of the highlights of the past year or so. Firstly, my husband and I are finally on the same continent! This has changed my writing schedule since I no longer have as many hours to mope around since I now get to spend time with him. Secondly, for the past half a year or so, I had been working on my Honors Thesis which, of course, messed with my sanity, my free time, my ego, and my overall confidence in my ability to articulate anything clearly. Finishing that thesis was a grueling process; and I chose, perhaps naively, to write this thesis on no other than DFW's Infinite Jest--which, if you don't know, has about 1,000 pages. But anyway, as of the end of March - I finished. The week after I turned it in, I had spring break and I spent it recovering - I honestly did nothing but sit around mesmerized by the fact that a huge weight had been lifted off of my shoulders.
So those two things were definitely factors…but there is one more rather pressing factor that still finds its way into my stream of consciousness. I've recently come to understand how big the world is. No seriously. You see, it was in middle school that I discovered my passion for writing. I started taking it more seriously in high school. It was toward the end of high school that writing started becoming a part of my identity, people were starting to perceive me as "a writer" and it felt empowering to know that I had a sense of direction in life. When I got into college, I felt wonderful knowing that I would be one of the few who never changed their major since I knew from the beginning what I wanted to do. I couldn't wait to jump past the required general education courses so that I could finally slip into English courses that would feature: professors that were nothing short of Renaissance men embodying every aspect of artistic genius, classmates who would get me and my work, and a general intellectually and artistically driven atmosphere that would cultivate and nurse my passions. Unfortunately, that isn't exactly what I got. To avoid going off on a tangent and ranting off about this, I'll just leave it at: I was surprised to find that college had far fewer people that could get me in store. This would have been alright, I suppose it might have even fed my ego with the notion of being the misunderstood artist. However, I never reached such self-absorption because, during most of my four years in college, my ego has been severely battered and stepped upon.
Again, to keep it short, I learned that I'm not all that special at all. I went from believing I could be Shakespeare in high school, from wondering if I could even manage to write a basic essay during my senior year. There is something about college that is humbling--which in many ways, I must admit, has helped me to be a better thinker and writer…but in other ways, it has stifled my creativity and ambition.
Lately, I've been learning (seemingly on a recursive loop) that in an ocean full of fish, I'm not all that big of a fish or all that colorful of a fish. College has taught me that every single idea that I've ever come up with (and foolishly thought I was a genius for), has already been thought by somebody else - sometimes way before I was even born. And, even worse, I'm not some sort of sage with some divine gift to see things clearly or differently. Nope. Many people see the world exactly as I do. Heck, this blog? If you thought anything I've written here is worthwhile, I assure you that there are at least hundreds more detailing the exact same thoughts as mine does. Articulate twenty-something-year-olds with a little imagination and a desire to write are a dime a dozen. I actually don't stand out as much as I thought/hoped I did. If I were gone, the world would not experience as much of a loss as I romantically dreamed it would - I'm rather inconsequential to the earth's spinning.
Perhaps I sound like a middle-to-upper-class snob bantering about banal matters since most people never even get to imagine themselves as big fish. True. But for me, my let down was rather intense, probably more so because I was so sheltered. In a sense though I have come to appreciate what humility can do for a person. And perhaps there is much more value than I currently see in realizing that one is not (pardon this) the shit. I may be led to valuable new insights if I pursue old passions with my newer and more humble perspective. Sure, blogs like mine are very common and, sure, many people my age may have similar thoughts to share - but…so what? I cannot let that petrify my imagination any longer. I wish to write because I am passionate about writing and it nourishes me as a person. Whereas before I used to think much about writing for an audience (whether it be blog or novel), I now look at the situation as though I will never be published and never be known. Instead, I'm writing just for myself so that I can get my thoughts out and so that I can better understand myself and my world. And actually, not having to carry the weight of an imagined audience on my shoulders is actually quite liberating. So, let's see where this will take me.
To begin, I will recount some of the highlights of the past year or so. Firstly, my husband and I are finally on the same continent! This has changed my writing schedule since I no longer have as many hours to mope around since I now get to spend time with him. Secondly, for the past half a year or so, I had been working on my Honors Thesis which, of course, messed with my sanity, my free time, my ego, and my overall confidence in my ability to articulate anything clearly. Finishing that thesis was a grueling process; and I chose, perhaps naively, to write this thesis on no other than DFW's Infinite Jest--which, if you don't know, has about 1,000 pages. But anyway, as of the end of March - I finished. The week after I turned it in, I had spring break and I spent it recovering - I honestly did nothing but sit around mesmerized by the fact that a huge weight had been lifted off of my shoulders.
So those two things were definitely factors…but there is one more rather pressing factor that still finds its way into my stream of consciousness. I've recently come to understand how big the world is. No seriously. You see, it was in middle school that I discovered my passion for writing. I started taking it more seriously in high school. It was toward the end of high school that writing started becoming a part of my identity, people were starting to perceive me as "a writer" and it felt empowering to know that I had a sense of direction in life. When I got into college, I felt wonderful knowing that I would be one of the few who never changed their major since I knew from the beginning what I wanted to do. I couldn't wait to jump past the required general education courses so that I could finally slip into English courses that would feature: professors that were nothing short of Renaissance men embodying every aspect of artistic genius, classmates who would get me and my work, and a general intellectually and artistically driven atmosphere that would cultivate and nurse my passions. Unfortunately, that isn't exactly what I got. To avoid going off on a tangent and ranting off about this, I'll just leave it at: I was surprised to find that college had far fewer people that could get me in store. This would have been alright, I suppose it might have even fed my ego with the notion of being the misunderstood artist. However, I never reached such self-absorption because, during most of my four years in college, my ego has been severely battered and stepped upon.
Again, to keep it short, I learned that I'm not all that special at all. I went from believing I could be Shakespeare in high school, from wondering if I could even manage to write a basic essay during my senior year. There is something about college that is humbling--which in many ways, I must admit, has helped me to be a better thinker and writer…but in other ways, it has stifled my creativity and ambition.
Lately, I've been learning (seemingly on a recursive loop) that in an ocean full of fish, I'm not all that big of a fish or all that colorful of a fish. College has taught me that every single idea that I've ever come up with (and foolishly thought I was a genius for), has already been thought by somebody else - sometimes way before I was even born. And, even worse, I'm not some sort of sage with some divine gift to see things clearly or differently. Nope. Many people see the world exactly as I do. Heck, this blog? If you thought anything I've written here is worthwhile, I assure you that there are at least hundreds more detailing the exact same thoughts as mine does. Articulate twenty-something-year-olds with a little imagination and a desire to write are a dime a dozen. I actually don't stand out as much as I thought/hoped I did. If I were gone, the world would not experience as much of a loss as I romantically dreamed it would - I'm rather inconsequential to the earth's spinning.
Perhaps I sound like a middle-to-upper-class snob bantering about banal matters since most people never even get to imagine themselves as big fish. True. But for me, my let down was rather intense, probably more so because I was so sheltered. In a sense though I have come to appreciate what humility can do for a person. And perhaps there is much more value than I currently see in realizing that one is not (pardon this) the shit. I may be led to valuable new insights if I pursue old passions with my newer and more humble perspective. Sure, blogs like mine are very common and, sure, many people my age may have similar thoughts to share - but…so what? I cannot let that petrify my imagination any longer. I wish to write because I am passionate about writing and it nourishes me as a person. Whereas before I used to think much about writing for an audience (whether it be blog or novel), I now look at the situation as though I will never be published and never be known. Instead, I'm writing just for myself so that I can get my thoughts out and so that I can better understand myself and my world. And actually, not having to carry the weight of an imagined audience on my shoulders is actually quite liberating. So, let's see where this will take me.
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