Welcome to the "Adult" World?

So I was sitting in my apartment yesterday and I realized that I only have about two more weeks until the start of school. Aside from the hour or two that I spent on Amazon trying to find all of my books and coming to terms with the financial hit I am going to take in purchasing all the said tomes of knowledge--I am really excited for school to start back up. The only thing that I am even slightly nervous about is that it is my last semester. Honestly, it didn't even strike me until after I was done finding my books and started looking for openings in my field that I am basically four short months away from, what is supposed to be, the rest of my life.

This apparently is when I start preparing myself for the "adult" world. I don't know why, but that is what everyone calls this stage of graduating college and moving on in the world. Forget that I have been functioning like an adult for the last two, almost three, years-- living in an apartment, paying bills, working a mostly full time job, and trying to average out how long it will take me to pay back my student loans. Yet, society deems that leaving the world of academia is synonymous with reacquainting oneself with reality and its responsibilities. That is not to say that I can't understand the other side of the coin, because being in school is a different lifestyle than having a steady 9 to 5, but I don't feel right saying that after college I'm going to upgrade into an adult and that all of the work and skills I have acquired up to that point are merely juvenile displays of my potential.

Yes, I am still a little nervous about the end of my college career,  but I am also excited. Not for this proclaimed adulthood, but because I am going to have the opportunity to have a career to show what kind of mature human being I already am. Granted college is definitely a time to mature and learn, but at least give yourself some credit. It annoys me every time that there are people who post out on Facebook or Twitter that they got their first "adult" job or are ready for the "adult" world because they graduated college-- you are just showing how childish and unprepared you really are. We are already adults and all we are doing is moving into bigger pond with more adults who have more or less experience than we do.

So to all my fellow graduates of 2012, do not be intimidated by the "adult" world because you are ready for it. Having a career isn't any scarier than pulling an all nighter to cram all the information into your head before the test, or worrying about the two research papers, one project, and interpretive dance that you have to turn in on the same day. If we can do all of that and still have Thirsty Thursdays or play a sport or just manage to remain sane, then we will be just fine.

Indian Drills

Here is another piece that I have pulled out of the archives of last semester. Just for fun. 

            I kept glancing over my shoulder to see if I could find your face in the crowd again. All that I got for my troubles was a mouthful of asphalt because I tripped over some guy’s shoe as he tried to cut in. I quickly pushed myself back up and rubbed a rough hand over my body and face as I worked back into a steady jog. The damage was minimal—road burn on my hands and knees and a few jagged lines from an idiot who decided to wear spikes to a road race. The large paper square on my chest, yelling 836 in a cheerful cherry red, was crumpled and the perforated strip at the bottom was missing. Apparently, I was going to have to cross the finish line with an alias.

Hello, my name is -----; I have just finished running 23.2 miles. It used to be Travis, but apparently I lost it somewhere along the way. 

  The verdict came back and informed me that I would probably survive, plus, now the volunteers at the water station in mile three would think I was scrappy. 

I was in the middle of the ten minute mile pack, not too far off from where I needed to be to finish this race sometime today. I let my mind coast for a moment as I got back up to speed; passing stay at home moms with athletic strollers, teenagers in team shirts. 

What were you doing here? 

I couldn’t keep my eyes from scanning the people fencing in the street, maybe it had all been my imagination. Some woman with the same honey brown hair; a teenager wearing that hideous, faded graphic tee that you wore every night to bed; just enough to trick my brain into seeing you. I focused on moving up into the small group ahead of me, my mantra melting into the rhythm of my footfall on the warm ground—she’s not here, she’s not here. Still I found myself fighting the urge to look over the quickly thinning line of people off to my right. This might be a more challenging race than I thought. The trees were the light yellow green of spring and as we ran further from the city. I felt my stride lengthen and my pace ease from the hasty, adrenaline fed dash that your possible attendance had caused. I started trying to make shapes out of the shadow of the clouds on the road; there was no way that you would come all the way out here. 

            The footfalls lethargically reached my ear. Still locked in my task of reforming shadows the steps sounded like the familiar pattern of a slow rain on my bedroom window. He was in no rush to catch me; it didn’t even sound like he was racing, maybe just out to enjoy the weather. Suddenly, I realized that I never listened to people’s footsteps except when running. I must have slowed down while musing over the depths of a person’s soul that could be obtained by listening to their footsteps because I looked over and there he was.

Middle-aged and head taller than me with chestnut locks that girls must love to run their fingers through. Mine is black like Sunday morning coffee, with a little salt thrown in for early sophistication, and cut short so that I can tame the curls my mother decided were necessary to pass down. I could feel a stitch forming in my side, so I slow down and coast in his pace. As I start to get into a rhythm my mind starts to wander and I wonder why he’s running today. A casual hobby or maybe he was trying to be healthier?

I imagine the lovely young wife he has at home; the kind that dresses in jeans, silky blouses, and vintage jackets—stylish but not overly so, but she could still lie around the house in sweats and watch the game with him. They have a small apartment uptown with wood floors and beautiful windows, watching over a small grove of trees. She dances around the kitchen with flour on her cheeks as she bakes, and she tells him that she wants settle down. She wants a small child with green eyes and honey brown hair to curl up next to her and listen to her read. He waits—stalls—holds her close and tells her to hold on just a little longer. He wraps her in his arms and wraps her heart around his finger. She promises, and he kisses her forehead, pushing the thought from her mind. He wants to move up in the company, maybe start his own. He wants a cliff hanging split level, and a roaring turbo engine—kids can wait. 

There is a sharp twist in my side and I snap back to the honey colored grasses and the simmering black asphalt stretched out in front of me. The man throws me an irritated look before picking up his pace and pulling away until he is just a hazed blur of color. I slow down clutching at my side to ease the pain.

You should mind your own business. 

I heard you chuckle gently and it continued to echo in my ears. You must be feeling particularly persistent because you had followed me all the way out here. Staggering to my feet, I curse at you. Shoving you out onto the pavement and, ignoring the pain, sprinted—determined to leave you back there.

After half a minute I’m forced to stop as the pain has found my lungs and started crushing them in its searing grip. Slowly, I am able to look up without feeling like my lungs were going to be ripped from my diaphragm and I make eye contact with a teenage boy as he starts to speed up. No, better yet, he was going to just sprint pass me. He saw me doubled over here like I had the plague and he was going to fly past to avoid the half second that he would have to pity me. 

His hair is short and dark like mine, but he had the soft caramel color of someone who was born in the sun. I couldn’t help but respect that he was sprinting like it was the last mile instead of the nineteenth. I can’t help the endorphin fed giggle that bubbles up out of my throat as your voice subtly slides under the unguarded door into my mind. 

I bet he is late for a very important date.

The scene suddenly flashes past me like pictures in a flip book. After the race—as a celebration—he would go home and soak in a warm bath, stretch, maybe fix up an omelet with tender bits of salmon and peppers mingling with the eggs. Later, when he would go and pick her up, she would tell him how exciting watching him run had been and how well he did. They’ll go to an Italian place with a delicate tea candle cradled in the middle of the table, and he won’t be able to stop noticing how beautiful she looks with the shadows playing across her face. He will keep getting distracted by the urge to reach over brush his hand against her cheek, and she will giggle and tease him about still being spaced out. 

He’ll drop her off, starting to walk away, and then in a super nova of courage and daring he will pull her into a startled kiss. Backing away, he has a moment to notice how her fingers had twisted into the back of his shirt and when she pulls him back it is as if each kiss is a breath—necessary and deep—and he cannot force himself to part with the very essence that is giving him life.

This time I am ripped back into reality from the sudden realization that my throat was collapsing and somehow your malicious hand was succeeding in smothering me. I was on my knees suffocating in a giant oxygen filled sphere and your echoing laughter brutally reminded me that the irony had not escaped you. It was like waking up and finding myself in your creative construction of hell, twisting and braiding your darkness into the physical world around me until is started cracking and shattering like flash frozen tree branches. 

I shuddered as the sun on my back reminded me of how you would sneak up behind me and wrap your arms around my chest. The breeze felt like your hair brushing my face as I breathed you in every morning. I felt the hot pulse of tears in my throat. The rustling leaves and grasses was the symphony of breaking glass and ceramic. All that noise and chaos that was then followed with silent waves of indifference that radiated from every action and word until our life became one massive vacuum. The delusion that I drowned myself in as you stopped coming back to the apartment. I was giving you space, being accepting of your needs, you would come back.

You were still laughing. 

I could feel the boiling wave of hate in my chest. I wanted to strangle that mocking laugh that was still ringing in my ears. I wanted to shake you. Demand why you tortured me. Why didn’t you just leave?  Why keep coming back?

There was a touch on my shoulder and I mentally dismissed it until it became more persistent in trying to get my attention. I swiped my hand back and turned with a snarl. 

What more could you possibly want? 

The young woman’s blue eyes were wary and she stood indignantly over me, “Well, I guess that is what I get for trying to help the idiot on the side of the road.”

I sluggishly came back to myself and wondered how long I had been sitting here. The girl was in loose shorts and a distracting neon green t-shirt, so I deduced that the race wasn’t over—yet. 

“So are you going to get up or did you think that they were going to move the finish line to you?” She crossed her arms and stood waiting impatiently for me.  

“I just had a stich and was resting.”

“What? You need some water or something?”

I cleared my cracked throat, “No, I’m fine. I was just taking a minute to catch my breath.”

She stared skeptically at me, “I’ve never seen someone catch their breath so dramatically.”

“I was being stupid and running Indian drill style,” I flashed a weak smile.

“Yeah, you’re pretty stupid to run like that,” she offered me a hand even though I could tell she wasn’t buying my excuse, “but I guess running a race is like a big Indian drill. Pass one guy, chill out, and then speed up to catch the next guy.” 

            I grimaced as I felt the lactic acid burn through my veins as I stood, “Too bad most of them have enough fight to always come back and sneak up behind you. Then you just end up leapfrogging the stubborn pain-in-the-ass ‘til the end,” I mutter. The girl laughed and started to jog patronizingly in front of me.

“Do you think you can make it or should I finish for you?”

“I’m pretty sure I can make these last four miles without you, Mama Bird.”

“Right, if you could have seen yourself laying there on the side of the road you would be doing the same thing,” she said and turned and started into a steady jog. 

            I took a deep breath and winced as I felt the burning in my legs like peroxide in a cut, but I knew it was good for me. Maybe by the grace of God or some all-powerful being the burning would cleanse me of you too. I hesitated. 

            There was no response. 

The silence was almost worse than feeling you reverberating through my body.  I kept the girl in the neon green shirt a few paces in front of me. My mind was like a tennis match as it volleyed the arguments and rebuttals of your sudden disappearance.

 

I was anxious that just being in such a close proximity to her might trigger a jealous reaction from you because, honestly, I couldn’t handle much more of your abuse at the moment. Then I felt a twinge of something—pain or sadness maybe—in my chest as I realized that if you were gone, you were gone for good. Grief started to pour in through the cracks and holes that you left and started filling up in my chest. My rational mind was trying to instill some sort of order and composure, but between reliving the drowning grief and the panicked realization that I was losing it; my rational mind really didn’t stand a chance.  

So instead it leaned quietly against the wall and took down copious notes for me to leaf through later. It noted the strange itch in between my shoulder blades—daring me to turn around. This perked it up and for a moment the rest of my brain stopped panicking, like a small child that knows his mother is home and everything was going to be fine. My greatest demon and my most destructive hope could be right behind me. 

My pace quickened slightly and I forced my mind to focus on the painful neon green in front of me. 

Think about how much I hated the color—how did someone even come up with a color like that? How did someone even come to own a shirt that almost made your eyes bleed if you saw it in daylight? Why am I not blind? 

Think about anything else, just don’t look back. 

            As the last three miles dwindled I found myself catching up to the girl until we were side by side—I was too frightened to leave her. I felt like you were coasting easily behind us, just waiting for the best time to dash forward and cut in front of me and forcing me to run in the shadow of grief and anger until I was strong enough to pass you. I could feel your smile, the image of the Cheshire cat popped up in an obscure corner of my mind, sweet and gentle, hiding the twisted, hungry snarl. You were just toying with me. You were just waiting until we were alone, then the real fun would start. 

It was too soon that we crossed the finish line. The young woman congratulated me as she gasped for air, her arms resting on her knees and her chocolate hair hiding her face. As I tried to catch my breath I could feel the pressure building up in my temples as you crammed yourself in. 

She is beautiful, isn’t she? Athletic, fiery personality—I’m sure you would be great together. Except that you have a dark shadow, don’t you? One too many skeletons in the closet for someone like her. Isn’t that right?  

She straightened, an excited smile on her face, as she went to hug me, but then she stopped. My face was contorted in pain and I had pressed my hand to the bridge of my nose to try and levitate the pressure. The so instead she gave me a knowing smile and ran off to the booths that were lining the area around the finish. I felt nauseous as my skin prickled at your sensual, unseen touch. I had given up on trying to fend you off and was now just focused on trying to fortify myself for the destruction that was sure to come. 

Suddenly, there was a bottle of water that popped up from under my arm. I turned and the young woman was standing there with a playful smile offering the sweating plastic tube.

“I get headaches after a run too sometimes and if you hydrate fast enough usually you can stop them right in their tracks,” she tossing the bottle gently to me.

I stood there astonished for a moment. Why did she care so much? She didn’t know me from Adam. But I caught the water bottle and for a moment I felt like gravity had returned to normal and I forgot about you, but only just for a moment. 

            Then a built guy with the posture of a military man walked over and wrapped his arm around her waist. She glanced at him annoyed and then threw an apologetic smile at me. “My ride’s here,” she said trying to convince a joking tone into her voice. I just nodded awkwardly and waved, not sure how to handle the situation.

That was your chance Prince Charming, but you blew it. Oh well. I guess it is just going to be you and me tonight. 

I watched them quietly for a moment as the itch between my shoulders gradually turned into the bite of your nails tearing at my skin. I turn and glare at the empty air as I try to forget the girl with the chocolate hair. I can hear your sing song voice as I stalk away from the race towards the street.

  

Don’t look behind you. 

I started towards the garage where I had left my car looking stiffly forward.

Shut up.

           

           She might be looking back for you.

SHUT UP!

Don’t look behind you. 

I try to keep my eyes focused on the street and city before me, but I can’t stop watching in horror as a black shadow slowly lurches forward from somewhere behind me and begins melting into mine, as the sun slowly snubbed itself out behind me.  

Running out of ink

So the end of summer is near and I have started looking back at all the work (writing wise) that I have accomplished and I have to admit that it is depressing.

Writing is not easy. Okay, I already knew that, but I never expected it to be so hard without the constantly pressing preimposed deadlines or subtle kicks in the ass from worthy friends when your plot structure is about as sturdy as a haphazard pile of sticks. That is not to say that I haven't been inspired, it is quiet the opposite. I have written out countless ideas and half baked characters, but I seem to lack the energy to actually start sewing all the pieces together into a mildly coherent work. So even though I don't follow these tips I feel like if I write them down and share them then maybe I will be more likely to follow them.

      5 Tips to Being a Regularly Productive Writer--sometimes                        

1. Make yourself write everyday-- Even if it is just a journal, free writing, or sketching out an idea. Sit down for like 30 minutes and just start writing. The idea is that after a while you will get accustomed to writing on a regular basis.  
2. Try free writing-- If you hit the ever looming writer's block then it is best to not try to continually smash yourself into it, right? The point behind free writing is that you just write about anything that comes to mind (much like how Virgina Woolf  writes all her stuff... stream of consciousness) and hopefully you will be able to write around your writer's block. The also really nice thing about free writing is that it can be about anything in the world, like the pen on your desk, and it doesn't have to be grammatically correct or even beautifully written. 
3. Work in a group-- Sometimes it is nice to work with friends, it helps take off some of the intensity of working alone and they can also help with things like brainstorming, editing, and all of the other times that two heads are better than one. If you work well together and tend to lean into the same genre then there might also be room for collaboration as well. 
4. Keep an idea journal-- Even if you think you will never look at that idea again or you think it is remarkably stupid, write it down. You never know when that idea might mature into a great story or maybe something to give your character a richer back story. This is also really great material to work on to start off your free writing. 
5. Read-- I know that we all want to be good writers, but sometimes being a good writer means being a good reader. If you are interested in Science Fiction, then read novels and shorts in that genre. Interested in Steampunk? Do the research and read up so that you can nail the culture and intricate details. It might also be a good idea to read outside your genre as well to get a better understanding of characters or different ways to handle a plot twist. The information is all right there if you know where and how to look for it. 

So hopefully those tips are helpful and encourage you to get out the pen and paper (okay, who are we kidding--open the laptop) and start jotting down some ideas. I know that I will probably only follow these for a week and then start to drop back into my old habits, but at least I am motivated now right?