The Memorial Rainbow

This is one of probably many updates about my new NaNoWriMo project. Feel free to add me to your Reading Page to follow along!

There were three thoughts that went through my head when I came up with my NaNo idea (Pokemon in Ohio). I will cover the first two in other blog posts, because they are the images with which I started my story. I usually start stories with a scene or two that starts it off and then helps me carry the story. For The Dealey Five, that scene was Tamasine on the table in the room, all alone. For Blue Impulse, it was the scene at the end of the first tournament that inspired the faded picture, with the words "We'll remember this forever, right?" on the back of it. There are two moments like that for this story, and I'll cover those in a bit.

But the third was, "Okay, so if Pokemon is in Ohio, then what is Ohio?"

I knew where I wanted to choose the name from almost immediately. I know a fair amount of Japanese at this point, and one of the kanji combinations I learned was 真中, manaka. I knew it most from Manaka Laala from the anime Pri Para, as all of their characters use directions for their last names. Laala's rivals have last names that mean "north" and "south," and the two American twins literally have the last name West. Laala's last name is Manaka, which means "in the center."

You know. Like "The Heart Of It All." I've dropped Ohio's old slogan a couple of times in Cosmic, as it's the title of the first book and as a slogan the kids remember from before the zombie apocalypse. And they should. Growing up, it was everywhere. I would see the big sign every time I'd go back and forth from Indianapolis to Zanesville, stating I was in "The Heart Of It All!" I didn't really know precisely what that meant at the time, and while it's still kind of vague, the sentiment still rings true.

The heart. The center. Manaka. And like lots of corruptions in the Pokemon world, mah-nah-kah became MAIN-kuh.



In many ways, Manka is just like any other Pokemon region. There are people and Pokemon living side by side, a sense of adventure, kids learning about Pokemon for the first time, and peace and harmony. But when I thought about making Manka, I wanted to really focus on what I liked about Ohio. What did I miss those five years I was in New York City? What was I learning to reappreciate now that I was back?



One of the big draws for me was the scenery. The first month of being in Ohio was spent getting reaccustomed to things other people don't even think about. Like driving. And leaves. And opening the back door and watching your dog walk out. And being able to make right hand turns. And silence. Lots of silence. And the sky, and how it would turn colors right before the sun set, and how it's not Manhattanhenge but it's somehow better. I didn't have too long to get used to Zanesville -- I got a new job just as my parents moved to Powell, so I went with them. (For those of you keeping track at home, yes, that's two moves in one month, and I have still gotta find a place of my own.)

The long-ish drive to work from Powell (depending on traffic and time of day) runs along the Scioto River, and looking out over it and watching the foliage go by is strangely peaceful. How could I incorporate these images into my story? My mission became not only to write about what Pokemon would be like in Ohio, but to write about this Manka in such a way that people who had never been to Ohio would know what Ohio was like -- even through the Pokemon lens. I want my friends from NYC to read this fanfiction and know, "She's from Ohio." Because I am.



I found a nature preserve with two walking trails and took pictures as I went. While I went, I could almost feel my main characters running down the paths, on their journey to discover what the world held for them. Maybe the path led to a new town, where they could rest for a while. Maybe they would find more wild Pokemon in the bushes, or maybe they would climb a tree and see the views. The endless possibility can almost seem nostalgic, for a time when anything was truly possible.

And that's not the only thing, as well. I want to show the academic history of Columbus by putting the regional university and Pokemon Professor there. I want to highlight Cleveland's recent sports fame, but to also see it for myself with new eyes. I want to make Pokemon trainers have to stop in Zanesville until the First Friday of every month, so they can experience the art walk. I want sternwheelers on the Ohio River and parasailing on Lake Erie, shopping in Cincinnati and riding roller coasters in Sandusky. And I want to highlight the southern part of the state, the hard working, blue collar history that has made Ohio what it is today, the history I read about in my great-grandfather's stories.

And I honestly hope I do it justice.

Coming Home, Part III
a really really really creative nonfiction

I don't know what attracted me to it. I just...I just know it's supposed to be important. ( Read more... )

Scene Shifts There
a really creative nonfiction

( A lonely scientist created a robot; when he finished, he called it a miracle. )

We don't have enough data to call it alcohol abuse --
uh, we have no way of knowing, um,
if these are the only two incidents that have ever occurred
in the history of the HyperSong corps
or if there is the tip of a very large iceberg.

Originally published at topthrillracer, dated 111208. References changed to modern-day.

Even if we are apart -- like we are
The two sides of the star-sign that runs in the heavens
A noon that clatters around noisily
A night that's wistful and thoughtful, as well
Over the sky, there we are
Gemini, gravity pulls us toward each other

An echo coming form somewhere
-- wait
-- wait
this isn't coming from where I expected it to!!!
Through the cloudy sky, I see the stars.
Are you watching the same stars, as well?

Two in the morning -- I happened to wake up
Another shattering dream
I sat alone on my bed
In times like this
Somebody --
somebody --
help me please --

I texted you this morning after another problem. You came to my room and found me lying on my bed, curled up in a ball. Some time later, I went down to 96th and Park to watch the trains run. Later that same night, I was touched in a way I haven't been since back then. "Breathe in, breathe out," I remember the way he used to say. How can I explain something to you that happened years ago, something that still affects me even now, something that will affect me for the rest of my life? What is this?

(A sorrow as if this sky has fallen)
That sound coming from my soul
(The warm rhythms that will melt those)
Hold on tight so you won't lose it

He cocks his head for what seems to be the hundredth time at you, but I know that he's been doing this for an eternity. "Mr. Yuuichi, what'cha doin'?" "Mr. Yuuichi, can I drive the bus?" "Mr. Yuuichi, can you buy me some cotton candy?" White as the snow, blue as the sky, little one, don't you get it? You're always so bright, so shining, innocent as the day you gave your life away to save those who should have never been saved. Climb back up onto my shoulders for now?

If you're lost on the path
Nervous and afraid
During those times, those times
Close your eyes and feel the pulse running through you
During the hand-freezing mornings
Languid afternoons, too
By this sound, the two of us are connected

I once had a dream where, I can't remember what happened at first during the dream, but I was getting ready to fight something. And I pulled out a piece of fabric from out of my pocket. It was a turquoise color, and it was in the style of these bookmarks I had seen at the Dollar Tree (this was back in Zanesville, Ohio). But instead of saying "love" or "peace" it said "hybrid," like the roller coaster type. The only hybrid I really knew about, coaster wise, was Gemini, although there was one apparently at Valleyfair and the Coney Island Thunderbolt, a long time ago, was a hybrid as well...
If I became an angel and got my wings, where would I fly to?

When I look back on the past
I realize I really am alone
It's such a far place, far away
I feel like I've been traveling all night
Suddenly, it occurs to me; what if I vanished?
Somebody --
Somebody --
Answer me... please...

The first miracle is light.
The second miracle is death.
The third miracle is speed.
The fourth...I don't need a fourth miracle...

(Sorrows as if this sea has split)
I always heard that sound, somewhere, in my heart
(These old-fond rhythms that douse everything)
I'll hold on so I won't disappear

I don't need a fourth miracle...but I'm getting one anyway.

Hey, don't cry
When you are lonely
Clear your ears and listen to my voice
Even if it rains outside
Even when the night comes
It's gravity that's holding everything together
If you're lost on the path
Nervous and afraid
During those times, those times
Close your eyes and feel the pulse running through you
During the hand-freezing mornings
Languid afternoons, too
By this sound, the two of us are connected

There was a bird that had fallen
Burned by a broken heart
With an uncertain future
It wanted to disappear, but instead, it came here
It rested its wings
Then eased its heart
When it's through with crying let's sing a love song
Some day's love song that couldn't be sang today

Don't you hear that?
That's *your* line.

Hey, don't cry
When you are lonely
Clear your ears and listen to my voice
Even if it rains outside
Even when the night comes
It's gravity that's holding everything together
Even if we are apart -- like we are
The two sides of the star-sign that runs in the heavens
A noon that clatters around noisily
A night that's wistful and thoughtful, as well
Over the sky, there we are
Gemini, gravity pulls us toward each other

And long-ago words echo out:

No matter how far apart we are,
we're still under the same night sky.
We all see the same stars.

A little less 'clock is ticking' today, although I really didn't get any writing done. Maybe, like, a sentence. Then again, I kept myself busy all day and it was a fantastic day, so I'm not complaining at all. :) I'm praying about it, which is my version of giving it to the universe. (MICKY!!! YOU BETTER DO SOMETHING!)

I had a very good dream the evening after my birthday (yes, when I ended up in my friend Kristene's bed near Herald Square -- YES, THAT HERALD SQUARE, ACROSS FROM *THE* MACY'S), a dream that I wish I could remember in its entirety. There was a group of people in that dream, a group I knew from high school, and they had gone on living their dreams and I hadn't, really. I hadn't stuck to the path I had made for myself when I was sixteen. Now, it's cool that I haven't, but I haven't kept the same spirit. Those people (fictional) came back to me in my dream, and I realized after I woke up that the leader was me, that kid who still exists in me and won't give up anything for the sake of others.

Where is your bright dream? What happens when we abandon our childish dreams, grow up? Even Barrie told us 'all children, except one, grow up.' Wynona Judd sang we 'put those dreams away, thinking that we'll find them come some rainy day.' But the past rarely leaves us alone. In Kanon, Yuuichi, the main character, has to remember who his friend Ayu is so that he can help her. He has to go back years and years to memories he's not sure he really remembers, memories of a school and a hill and a tree. He's a character who doesn't want to grow up, and he really does remind me of my boyfriend (Jesse notwithstanding!~~~). Dylan often doesn't want to make a big deal out of his birthday. He doesn't want to be old.

Let's make it an 'unbirthday,' then. Eternally six. Or seven. Or eleven. I wouldn't mind being eleven forever. But twenty four year olds don't wear rainbow colors in their hair, or color with crayons. They have kids and get married and put on suits and ties and go out and get sensible jobs. They don't wait on a startup they tell themselves will never happen, and they certainly don't pray for it to happen. They get practical.

Twenty four year olds don't move to New York City just because they can. That's reserved for eighteen year olds with guts...or twenty three year olds with everything to lose.

The sequel to THOIA directly deals with the loss of childhood love. But it doesn't deal with childhood dreams directly. While THOIA's sequel (which I'm not gonna talk about a lot, since it's not even pended out!) is based off of my younger childhood, this new idea is...different. It's something even I had long forgotten until the dream I had, a dream so vivid it grabbed me and won't let go.

Perhaps I'm just a silly artist. But I'm a silly artist who wants to animate a video, who wants to put together music, who wants to participate in Camp NaNoWriMo using an idea that she had back when she was sixteen (!) and never fully developed.

This idea might just kill me.

Today I went to Kmart (not knowing I'd go to Michael's later) and got a beach towel, more glow in the dark stars, and red duct tape. I took the duct tape home and put it on the rug in my room. Nine squares, eleven by eleven, thirty three by thirty three in total. I put little markings on some of the squares, because I was too damn lazy to make full arrows. It cost me five bucks in duct tape. But it's beautiful. And I'm going to keep using it. That red duct tape isn't going anywhere.

And if it doesn't work...

And if it don't work, make the real thing wipe it out!

What Scotty D. said.

So I had an interesting morning. Woke up early and got on the subway, ended up being late on the ferry because of some emergency or something. Which I'm cool with. I'm really understanding of when things like that happen...could they just not happen on a Sunday?

So I thought it'd be cool, I can catch the late bus and maybe 50/50 chance of making it to work on time, but then the bus was late. And I was just like, okay, this is NOT COOL. At all. So I walked down to the taxi stand and took a cab. The cab ended up taking more than just me, so we went someplace else and then the driver took the expressway.

And my automatic thought is "WHUT? You mean the HIGHWAY?"

And then all of a sudden, THERE IS A HIGHWAY. IN FREAKING STATEN ISLAND. And we are going, like, 55 on this road. THIS IS, NO LIE, THE FASTEST I HAVE GONE SINCE COMING TO NEW YORK CITY. I was like, what is this madness? And we were across the island in, like, THREE MINUTES. What normally takes twenty five minutes TOOK THREE. What the hell can I please move to this island now.

But when we were driving and I could see the Bayonne Bridge ALL THE WAY OVER THERE, it kind of reminded me of 275 and driving around Cincinnati. And I missed Ohio. For just another split second. I kind of wish I could take everything I'm learning and take it home to Ohio, to show people what they're missing. I don't know if I can do that. I don't know if they would want me to.

But I suppose I could try someday.

I think that being here is making me a better person. I want to do so much. From my writing, to the Job, to Dylan, to everything. I'm filled with such a knowledge that so much can be done. I won't let anybody get in my way, I won't let anybody bring me down.

Nobody.

Not even you.

I've continued to keep my muse a secret, although I guess this character isn't too much of a secret. This character has kind of stayed hidden, shy like me, but I guess some people know of them. I found some old pictures of them -- yes, they are a character from Studio LRPLI, from so long ago! And that doesn't make me a dork. And no, it's not Rocket -- or why would I be saying 'them?'

Hmm.

I am still in love with my celery-hummus combination, and have now completely depleted one tin of tomatoes.

Today, I am going to start off my journal entry talking about how much I hate the S40 bus. I hate it. I hate it hate it hate it. It's this hatred that makes me want to move to Staten Island and get Navigator-Widget (my Yaris) back so I DON'T HAVE TO RIDE THE BUS TO WORK ANYMORE. No. Seriously. It's that bad.

Because the S40 bus sucks balls, I am left waiting for the bus and the ferry and everything else, and it is good to have something to do. On the weekends, it's Ringo as I work on Cosmic's first draft (which is coming along quite swimmingly; I'm 300 pages in). But I can't lug my poor Macbook everywhere; Ringo wouldn't want to be lugged anyway. That's where reading comes in.

I told myself that when I moved, I would not buy books unless I absolutely needed them. Manga broke that rule, as Book-Off is ridiculously cheap and it helps my Japanese -- but none of this YA stuff, right? WRONG. Across the Universe actually got recommended by a NYCNanoer named Jeremy on Twitter -- I knew the book, because I had seen it in Wal-Mart, but had resolved to go for it after it came out in paperback.

Well, the sequel's out, it came out in paperback, and after I figured out the print version was not any more expensive than the ebook, I got it at my 'local' Holy Land! Winning. (You'll remember, if you look back, that I touched on that shortly when I wrote my crying "I want to be a writer" rant a few weeks back.) Because it came so highly recommended, and because I knew about it, I had no trouble paying for it even though I'm cheap-ass broke. (Such is living in Manhattan.) I figured that if I didn't like the book, I could always donate it to a library or something.

I have the book still in my bag. That book isn't going anywhere soon. It'll probably be all bent out of shape in a while, because I am probably going to read and reread and mark in it and take out sticky notes and eff the entire thing up. And then go buy another copy. Maybe.

Needless to say that I loved it. I literally couldn't put it down. I was reading it on my lunch break, when the biggest part of the book (in my opinion) hit me. It was so much more eye-opening than I thought it could be. What I liked the best about the style was that it proved to me that alternating POVs could be done. I'd seen it done before in one of Sharon Creech's books, but never with a debut like this. To hear from both Amy and Elder was special -- and great timing, as well! It makes me confident as a writer to see this done when my own book has alternating POVs.

Although I have, like, seven narrators in my book, and we'll have to see how that shakes out. I think that's the only thing I have going against Cosmic right now. We'll just have to find someone who believes in me, nee?

But my favorite character in the book wasn't even Amy or Elder. It was Harley, the side character, Elder's 'best friend' in the book. They keep all the artistic kids cooped up in one building in the book, and Harley's always painting -- mostly koi fish. He's got paint in his hair and paint on his clothes and paint in his fingernails and God paint everywhere. He comes into the story a lot, helping Amy and Elder with their mystery (when he's not painting, of course).

I like the connection -- and I guess only I am able to make this connection -- between koi and koi. I don't know, I was thinking about it on the boat, but koi for the fish is identical in the English language to the short form of 'koibito,' which translates roughly to 'lover' in Japanese. The connection I made was less about an actual person and more about the 'koi' part, which represents the actual act of loving here. The 'ai' that so many people know of is a romantic love, but 'koi' translates to a passionate love. 'Ai' means "I love you." 'Koi' means "I'm in love with you."

And I think it accurately describes how obsessed Harley could get in his world. It reminded me of being knee-deep in synesthetic color, completely swamped out, knowing exactly which color I was going to use next to compose a piece. It's a passion, a 'koi' type of feeling. A place to go and drown yourself in, to live when life is not worth living the way it was. Painting was an escape for Harley -- or at least it became an escape after his girlfriend died (not a spoiler, she's dead at the beginning). It's that passion, that fire, that losing yourself in your art feeling that keeps him going, knowing that no matter how much he gets lost, there's an end goal -- the landing of the ship. (Yes, it all turns decidedly Emily-ish at the end. My readers know EXACTLY what I'm talking about. It's spoiler material.)

It was somewhere on the boat home that I realized that Beth, as an author, reminds me a whole lot of Brian. They're both people who love(d) writing, but most important, they're storytellers. Brian worked several bum jobs doing this and that and everything and just enjoying life and then became an author. Beth taught school for years, never giving up on her dream (but I'm sure feeling lots of doubt). Neither one of them had everything figured out at the beginning, and I think that's how life is supposed to be.

In addition, I think Harley reminds me a lot of Felldoh, my favorite of Brian's characters. Both feel an intense passion for something, but both also long desperately for freedom, and both find it in the same way. The way I think about Harley is similar to the way I thought about Felldoh as a kid, and it was in that moment, reading Martin the Warrior in sixth grade class, that I knew that this novel thing was special, and I wanted to be a part of it.

I want to hug Harley. Drag out my crayons and color with him. Even sing to him, let him know it's all right to feel anger and hatred and pain. That feeling in his eyes, in between flying and, well...that little bit of pain he felt, that reminded me of the little bit of fear I felt, the only bit of hesitance I felt when thinking about moving to New York.

But flying is so worth it.

Swim away, little koi fish. And while you're at it, can I come join you? We'll go paint in the stars.

Beth, if you are reading this, it's true that your characters are not your own. Thank you. Thank you so much.
Oh, and by the way, I'm not done with this. (runs off to get the 530)

This was originally posted on Facebook.

We're tired of this. We truly are tired of this. We go through life with high expectations, put on us by the parents and people of the last generation. Do this, do that, they say, and you won't screw up. Fail and you will make your life a miserable hell. And so we follow the rules for a while until it starts to really take a toll. We start wondering, who truly are we? And it's when our personalities start to break away from these rules and limits that we start having problems. We get short fuses and can't stand not having things just handed to us, because we're too damn tired of working for everything. We've tried working and we haven't gotten anything out of it, so we're just going to stop. We care about other things, other more trivial things, things that are just things. You know what I'm talking about; they've been mentioned before by several people. But people mention these things that make life shallow and then all they do is wallow in their pity; they don't do anything about it.

It's time to stop this. The question is, of course, how do we stop such a thing? We feel powerless in our current situation and only continue to change the perception of our reality. It's okay to do bad on tests. We don't have to be better. And we become slaves to these rules and limits instead of the ones that our society creates for us. We have limits imposed on us, then we create our own limits. I'm not sure why. Maybe to make us feel superior, to not have to worry about "doing any better" than we are right now. Maybe because we're used to it, having these limits.

There are those who don't see the limits, which is a majority of the people here. There are those that see and don't do anything about it...that is almost worse than never seeing at all. People don't see that they have these limits. Then there are people who create way too many limits and build a nice fence around themselves (come on, you know who you are). They may have different reasons for doing this, but it all boils down to fear. If I put my fence down, it my limits disappear, I'm afraid I might do something bad. I'm afraid I might be condemned. I'm afraid of the expectations that other people will have of me if I start doing things that I never imagined were possible. I'm afraid of failure.

Well, I got news for you. Bad is rather relative depending on your culture, but you can't know what's good unless you know what bad is. And the best way to experience bad, unfortunately, is to get knee-deep in it. There's no way to avoid it. If you try to be perfect, you're essentially screwing yourself over. If you're afraid of going to Hell, well, I got more important news for you, but that's going to be saved for a later date (unless you wanna hear my testimony right here, right now). Jesus is there for you; okay, done with that. People will always have expectations of you; that's what created the limits in the first place, remember? As long as you forsake the expectations that are placed on yourself, you will want to be able to do more. We do more if we are not required, if people aren't breathing down our necks. And as far as failure goes? Everybody fails once in a while, but it is important to see failure as not a failure but try to find another way of doing something.

Back in the day (yes, THAT back in the day) she used a story against me. Once upon a time, there was a butterfly who was captured in a jar. She flew and flew and flew but could not get out, exhausted, she fell to the bottom of the jar, trapped. The story goes on to say that the butterfly had to find another way out, to see things differently, but to my mind, it was warped that I shouldn't even try. Perhaps we need to stop beating against the lid of the jar, exhausting ourselves with this crazy life, searching for something and something and something and JUST SCREAM FOR SOMEONE, ANYONE, TO UNSCREW THE LID OF THIS JAR!

And then when they do, to never return to the jar...never.

...I don't know where I was going with this...

It's 7:11PM right now. I'm sitting up in the B&N at 53rd and Lex, working on Cosmic. I'm on page 169 out of 504; I'm sure the final word count will change, among other things. I don't know how long I'll sit here without getting uncomfortable; I have to move often. Dylan is downstairs, in a public space, doing a rehearsal for a play. The dorkfaces downstairs wouldn't let me charge my laptop, so I came back up here. (I did buy books here earlier -- I have a receipt. Someone recommended Across the Universe, so I bought that, as well as Leanna Renee Hieber's latest! I was super stoked about that.)

Writing makes me cry. It makes me cry in ways that music doesn't. I cried writing in Shriver one time, just happy to cry, to feel something. I bawled my eyes out when Dylan put his copy of Spangler Gotham right up beside Brian in the bookstore we were in. (See all the Pondicherry entries I wrote. Brian Jacques is, and will always be, my favorite author. He's the one who got me started.) And I kind of teared up even sitting up here, although my left leg is about to go numb after six minutes of sitting/thumbing through my new books/crossing and uncrossing my legs. Damn this skirt. At least I have leggings on.

I love B&N not because it's B&N, but because it feels like home. It could be any bookstore, really. (Borders...teeheehee! Some of you will eventually get that Cosmic reference.) When I look at the books here, I see possibilities, endless, spreading out as a canvas in front of me. I especially like the kids section, where nothing is set in stone and everything is a discovery.

I remember being a kid and going to the huge Barnes and Noble in Easton, being awed at all of the books there. I remember being even YOUNGER than that, reading when nobody else knew what that was. From the beginning of time, I was certainly a freak; my synesthesia made reading easily (but, somehow, writing an impossibility -- I hadn't figured out how to make the colors myself on page). I was the kid who got called on in class to read notes. When I was in kindergarten, one day we did a scavenger hunt, but the teacher was absent. In the sub's notes, she put my name down as the one to read the clues.

But my ability for reading, as I mentioned before, did not translate well into writing. My first attempts at putting together words were messy; I remember trying to write a recipe for peanut butter and jelly and just writing the first letters of each word, unable to do the rest. I loved making up stories in my head, putting them to music, but could not write them down that well, if at all. My stories were first translated through drawing, and then through music, which both developed around the same time.

When I created stories as a young kid, I always assumed they would grow to become animated pictures. This was in the Disney golden age, and Don Bluth's name was still big as well. (The irony of An American Tail right now, I SWEAR!) But as I grew, two different things happened -- I was teased for my drawings, and I was renowned for my musical prowess. Both I considered as just playing -- I just had fun with it! I mean, yes, I wanted to do that someday, to have my pictures on the big screen with their respective musics.

To create with people. But I couldn't find anybody who understood, who could play with colors and pictures the way I could, who wanted to spend the rest of their life coloring. And I was alienated.

In sixth grade was when it happened -- I picked up my first book by Brian. It wasn't a place to hide, really -- I hid in my music. But I could see that worlds could be built with words. I wanted to do that -- not because it was fun, or really because it was a challenge. I wanted to create worlds like that, as well. But I also sensed that you did not need a group of people to create a novel, like you needed a group to create an animated film. You didn't have to (at least immediately) have everybody telling you how to do it, or not to do it.

So, I tried. God, how awful I was for a really REALLY fucking long time. Totally horrid. I wrote parts of books and full books for at least eight years before I was even remotely good.

Writing has never been like music for me. Music just comes to me naturally. Ever since I've been tinkering around with that eight-key piano at age six, I've been writing music. I learned, but I created. Writing music was as natural as breathing for me. By contrast, writing words was like constipation -- I had to do it, and I really wanted to do it, but it was HARD AS HELL. (Sorry for any mental images.) And I don't even remember when it started -- from the very beginning, when music took over and people took notice of me because of it, there was an expectation. It was like there was a star beside "musician" on the list of things I did, with the star reading, "You better fucking do something with this gift, or it will be a waste." Naturally, because my parents pushed me to do music, to play and to be part of performances, I assumed I had to do something with that. But I didn't. That's not what I wanted at all. What I wanted was to continue playing with music, but I didn't want to be forced into doing something with it. To this day, part of my heart still feels like a failure because I didn't become a famous pop star at sixteen. But the 98% of the rest of me knows that's ridiculous, that I never wanted that anyway.

But still...I won't lie when I said that's part of why I wanted to move to New York. I wanted opportunities, I wanted to create with people, yes. But I don't really want to write music with people. I just want to write. I mean...words. Music is easy. Novels are hard as hell. I sit down at a piano and it just happens. By contrast, I've been planning Cosmic since July, and it's January and the mofo is nowhere near done. I am not talented at writing. AT ALL. But I have worked my ass off at it, and something that's usually so solitary has become a group event (thanks to that thing I do every November).

Don't you get it? I'll probably never push myself at music. That's not a bad thing. I am horribly talented at music, because of my synesthesia and perfect pitch, but it's always been within my reach. I've never had to work for it. By contrast, the words that sit on the shelves in front of me were something I once couldn't make out.

I will never be a famous musician. But I will be a famous author.

I want to write.

I want to write.

Okay...NOW I'm crying.

When I think of Dylan and how focused he gets on what he does, I think of how I write. When we were sitting at Panera earlier in Queens, Dylan was all tunnel on his acting gig websites, answering emails and this and that and blah blah blah. I was kind of peeved -- we were supposed to be having a planning meeting about my own story -- but I eventually just went back to Cosmic. And then I realized that I could be working on some of my music instead, but I was working on Cosmic. It's not that I don't want to work on music -- I do all the time. But when I get a completed album, or a completed song, I don't get that relief, that sense of satisfaction, of "I did it!" that I get when I finish a chapter of Cosmic, forbid an entire book. (I think I cried at the last write-in when I actually completed my 110K book in a month. That or I bought myself a drink.)

Knowing that this is what I want -- to give my book to some sixth grader and to tell them that anything is possible -- that's what I want. It's what I seriously want. And God, now I'm crying like the woman in Something's Gotta Give, all over the place in front of my Mac and typing like crazy (although she was writing a play). Effing eich, why don't I have tissues.

This is what I want, more than anything. Maybe I should go back to school not for music, but for creative writing? I mean, I'll be living out of a box either way, I suppose. Perhaps I'm like the kid who just now realized what she wants to be when she grows up.

And tomorrow I'm gonna wake up and I'm gonna tell myself for the umpteenth time that I'm a musician, and that I gotta be world famous or my talents are worth nothing. Perhaps I should have set fire to the 530 instead of Brian's books in Pondicherry. I am not leaving music behind, though -- I'm just becoming more at home among these books.

Perhaps.

Or maybe I will wake up in the morning, grab my best friend, go to Starbucks, get another frapp, and edit the thing that is most important to me. More important than any song, any performance, more precious than any time I've done an audition, more difficult than any time I've put my violin to my chin or have sat down at a piano. When I play, I close my eyes, I lose myself. But when I write, I open my eyes, I find myself. Perhaps that's the difference.

Will you help me? You, the reader. The person I've written to, in one way or another, for years. For my world of music only contains me, but I write for people, even an invisible people. Not help me write, but help me be myself. Help me put my thumbs up, to Ringo, to Thunderbolt, and weave a string of words. I once wrote that I was like a spider, spinning tales, making all of the words flow together, carefully choosing which words to put into the story. Help me know not which words to choose, but when to ask for help, when to post, when to be excited, when to take a chance. But most importantly, help me be me. Not the me I never wanted to be, but the me I've been searching for all along.

That me is right here.

And that me needs a huge box of Kleenex, a huge reality check...and to work on her most precious thing.

I was late again to work today. ( Read more... )