You Are Your Most Important Character

I survived the first round of midterms unscathed.  My second round of midterms is the first week of November, and I have a paper due in a week and a half.  But!  I am not thinking about those things right now, because fall break is this weekend! Huzzah!  Huzzah!  Huzzah!

I can't wait to catch up with all of you and see what magical words of mighty fiction you have been churning out.  I am sure they are numerous and splendid.

I have been feeling a bit guilty about putting aside my extra-curriculars such as blogging and fictioning.  But graduating from college is not optional.  It has something I have been forced to focus on with razor-sharp concentration.  I've been plowing through papers, short and long, week after week.  I can't believe it's already the middle of the semester.

My creative side side, as a result, has been feeling a little neglected.  "What about your characters?" it has asked me, sniffling a little.  "What about developing your voice and devoting yourself to launching your surely splendiferous literary career?"  Thus far, I haven't been able to come up with anything to console it other than bottles of wine my meager student budget can afford and binging on reruns of The West Wing.

But last week during office hours, it hit me.

In a weird way, you could say I am working on my fiction while I do my mountains of government reading and taking notes during class.  I'm forcing my brain to get smarter and more critical.  The stuff I was writing two months ago is not going to cut it now.  And I am writing.  The typing hasn't stopped.  The main characters are just not in my head, but on the world stage.  I'm pretty sure my characters are going to get more interesting and nuanced, because I'm training the organ that creates them.  As long as you're growing and learning, you're working on your writing.  The most important character to improve is yourself.


Happy Pumpkin Month.

Marjorie

School Daze

Hey folks!

Sorry about the brief interruption.  School's been hectic.  I've been picking classes, getting settled into my room, making sure my credits from last year transfer and that I'm on track to complete my major on time so that I can graduate in the spring.  Now that that's all taken care of, I can make my rounds and start commenting on your fabulous blogs and (I hope) start posting on a more regular schedule.

It's strange being back.  Last night as I was looking over photos from the Beijing trip, it almost felt as though I was looking at someone else's adventure.  My little college in Connecticut is not only thousands of miles away from Asia, it's several cultural arenas away as well.  The skills that I learned while traveling are definitely applicable in the routine of a college life, but they are in the background, like the hand that manipulates the marionette.  For one thing, I'm speaking Chinese way less, but weirdly, when I'm in Chinese class, my brain barely relates the fact that my professor isn't speaking English.

I miss writing.  My work in progress is on the hard drive on my other computer, my old Dell that overheats and shuts down without warning.  I've been thinking of how to bring all the loose ends together, and I was discussing this with another writer friend of mine, who's in the middle of his own projects.

"Do you know how it ends?" he asked me.

I told him that I did.

"Then write it down," he said.  He told me that if I have the ending written down, it'll help for my next episode of writer's block, because I'll know where my novel is going.

So, the next time I get a hold of my work in progress, I'm pounding out that ending.

Also:  I'm turning 22 on Thursday.  I'm OLD.

Just Do It

I'm writing this post to give myself a little motivation.


I'm in a major transitional part of my life right now.  I'm switching computers (going to buy a new one very soon).  I'm going to China next week.  I'm entering my last year of college, or university, as some of you might call it.  I'm turning twenty-two soon.


Not to mention I've hit full-on re-entry shock.  So that's been interesting.


I've been feeling kind of grumpy about getting back on a plane, to be honest.  I didn't like the idea of packing, going to an airport, going through security, and then just SITTING for what feels like an eternity.


"How am I going to do this again?" I moaned to myself in my head as I performed my daily tasks.

"You just do it," my better sense replied.

I've been making excuses like this about not writing.  How am I going to write a WHOLE book?  I'm too young.  It will suck.  I don't have the time.

Again: I'll just do it.

So I've been finding (or stealing, rather) little bubbles of time to write.  Two hundred words here.  Seven hundred there.  Making the most out of fifteen,  twenty, thirty minutes, if only to silence the voices in my head that tell me AH HA HA THIS BOOK IS RIDICULOUS GIVE UP NOW OH LOOK A SQUIRREL YOU HAVEN'T HAD ENOUGH ICE CREAM TODAY.

Some days I don't feel like a writer.  But a writer I am and write I must.  So, off I go.  I wish you all very productive weekends.  Or not.

What do you all do to get yourselves kickstarted on a project?

She's Back

The writer is in the building.
Worked on the work in progress last night, and that intoxicating feeling of getting back inside my protagonist's head. It was like taking a drive with an old friend.
Can't wait to get back to it.

What do you do when it's 100 degrees outside?

Stay in an air conditioned room and write ficiton.  DUH.

Enjoy!

            Taipei, Taiwan: Three years ago

Marjorie’s eyelids popped open to the sound of a blunt object pounding against the front door in a staccato rhythm: boom-boom-boom. Before she could move, Tomasz, the man who a moment ago was warming his hands against the small of her back, shoved his legs into a pair of pants and waddled to the door.

            “Coming!” he shouted in Mandarin.  A woman was shouting in the hallway.  Marjorie recognized who it was (Mrs. Liu from downstairs) and what language it was (Taiwanese), but understood almost none of what was said.  She was grateful that Tomasz was handling whoever it was at the door.  She and Tomasz had an agreement that he would take care of any calls or visitors before nine in the morning.  Marjorie pulled the covers over her head in a vain attempt to muffle the noise.

            In spite of the cloth barrier, Marjorie could hear the exchange between Tomasz and the unwanted parties with perfect clarity.  The men at the door were some kind of officials, though their Mandarin was slurred with a thick regional accent.  Their deep, chesty voices demanded to speak with Tomasz.  They uttered the syllables of his Chinese name—De Tang Mu--with the same peppered tempo to knock on the door.  Tomasz, ever the skilled diplomat, replied in hushed tones like a mother attempting to soothe a distraught child.  Only a trained ear could catch the underscore of repressed irritation.

The men demanded to see Tomasz’s passport.  Apparently they did not believe Tomasz was who he said he was.

In a moment, Tomasz was at the bedroom door again.  Marjorie noticed that in his haste Tomasz had put his T-shirt on backwards, and his coppery hair looked like the spines of an agitated porcupine.  She smiled and opened her mouth to greet him and to make fun of the men at the door with their strange accents, but Tomasz held up his hand like a crossing guard and shook his head as if to say, “Not now.”  He hovered for a moment over the dresser, and then picked up his American passport.  He led Marjorie by the elbow into the bathroom.  Marjorie swallowed her laughter when she saw that Tomasz’s eyes, the color of storm clouds, did not contain a trace of amusement.

            “I’m serious,” he whispered.  “Not a sound.”  He tugged the shower curtain so that it completely concealed her, and left.

            Like most Taiwanese apartments, Marjorie and Tomasz’s bathroom contained no bathtub.  Only a shower curtain and a drain were in the northern corner, placed inconveniently next to a sink and toilet.  The floor tiles felt clammy against the soles of Marjorie’s feet.  The voices at the door were louder, and a knot of worry twisted inside Marjorie’s stomach.  Things weren’t going well.  Tomasz wasn’t going to amble back into their bedroom and bury his hands in Marjorie’s hair, wrapping his fingers around her curls the way she liked.

            She heard the telltale sound of cartilage breaking and Tomasz howled.  She burst from the bathroom and ran through the bedroom, but it was too late.  Marjorie only caught a glimpse of the door slamming behind whoever it was wrestling Tomasz down the stairs, shouting at him in their ludicrous, broken Mandarin.  Mrs. Liu’s shrill yelling added to the din.  Above it all, Tomasz had resorted to his mother tongue of Polish to curse them, their mothers, and their country, in one long, unbroken stream.

            Marjorie pressed her forehead against the door.  Her throat closed tight and hot tears burned beneath her eyelids.   She saw a constellation of blood droplets on the floor and a few smears on the doorknob where Tomasz had struggled.  His cries were growing fainter.  Tomasz and his captors were probably just reaching the street.

            The apartment had no windows with a street view, so Marjorie bolted downstairs, right past the slack-jawed Mrs. Liu, her hair permed into a stiff helmet of silvery wires.  Outside the city air was hot and heavy with moisture, like a panting dog ‘s breath.  A military Jeep was rumbling down the narrow alley and into oncoming traffic.  It made a right turn at the end of the road and ducked out of sight.

             

The Illusion of "Being Settled"

Taken this morning by a campus photographer

I kept telling myself I would post again when I was settled, that I would write again...at some point.  I've been back in the United States for three weeks, and I've spent two of them working in Connecticut, at my home university.  The company that hired me is running a camp designed for international students who want to get into top colleges.  They sit through hours of SAT classes, TOEFL classes, and sessions with admissions coaches.  With the little free time they have, they're playing ball with the counselors.  I'm a TOEFL instructor.  I enjoy it.  My schedule is flexible, and I have a lot of free time. 


The kids and counselors are off to New York City and won't be back until later tonight.  The halls are deliciously quiet (except for the infant daughter of the IT director, who has recently discovered her own voice). I checked out a book out of the library twenty-four hours ago and I'm already halfway through it.  I have time to read! (Madness, I tell you!)  I can talk to my friends and family on the phone!  Food is everywhere!  I have one roommate now, instead of three.  The bathrooms sparkle from cleanliness.  The Mac computer that my company gave me actually runs properly.  Taiwan seems very far away from me.   Every moment is electric or automated, and my body sighs from relief as I feed it carbs, carbs, and more carbs.  Cheerios are wonderful.

And yet there's a persistent strangeness.  Masking irritation at a comment about Chinese culture I don't agree with.  Acquaintances give me expressions of woeful incomprehension: you were abroad for a whole year?  Friends who are delighted to see me: are you in New York? (No, sadly.)  We've got to catch up! (Yes, as soon as I finish my nap and get through another to-do list).

But these adjustments are mere pebbles in comparison to the mountain shaking off a layer of dust and inching to the forefront of my head: when are you going to start writing again, missy?

There's tonight, and there's Sunday.  But I've got to buckle down and get back to this soon.  My characters are lunging toward me with such a fierce clarity I can't ignore them for much longer.

How is it already July?  It was April just a few months ago, and I was twelve hours ahead surrounded by green mountains and humidity as dense as lead.

How've you all been?

Work in Progress Tab

This week I decided to stop hiding my ideas under a bushel, so I posted the subject of my work in progress on my blog.  The reason?  Accountability.  This is my second attempt writing an actual book, and while I have been legitimately busy trying to get credit for classes, I don't want to give up on my idea.  I don't know where it will lead.  I have no idea if I'll even finish the damn thing.  But that Work in Progress tab is going to serve as a reminder that I am writing a book, and I've finally been able to condense what it is I'm writing about into two (somewhat) succinct paragraphs.

What do you do to hold yourself accountable to your works in progress?

L is for Love Yourself A Little

Hi!  Marjorie from Upwards Over the Mountain here, back from a much needed break.

I know I kind of just vanished for a minute there without explanation.  Trust me, I had a lot of things going on, not the least of which was that I was very sick.  When your body gives out the way mine did, that's a sign you need to scale back from life and re-evaluate where you're spending your energy.  I'm in the home stretch of my time abroad.  I have eight weeks before I get on a plane and leave this lush island behind.  Sometimes when we get close to the end of a journey we can doubt ourselves.  This past week I was suddenly unsure about so many things.  Do I really want to be a "big time" blogger with a horde of followers?  How is being a writer going to factor into a career?  What classes do I want to take next semester?  What path should I take after I graduate?

I don't have a concrete answer to any of these questions.  I've scratched my carefully thought through battle plans for the next few weeks.  I'm just going to focus on doing what I love for the rest of the time here.  And I love blogging.

No matter what phase of life you are in, I encourage you to love yourself a little.  You might be surprised at the results.



Here's an acapella cover of one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite bands, Counting Crows.

Happy Thursday!

Writer-Blogger Thursdays: Why I Will Never Make Fun Of Nicholas Sparks Again

I've made up my mind to never make fun of a commercially successful author for as long as I live.  Barring the exception of their showing up at my house in a Barney costume and yodeling, I'm not gonna do it.  Even if their writing sucks.  Even if it really sucks.

Why?  Because they've earned their success.  They really have.

I used to think that all mainstream audiences were manipulated by a Jabba the Hut-like mastermind who paid  talentless hacks ghastly sums of money to churn out fodder for the masses, inoculating them against the works of gifted writers trying to make their way in the world.  I believed that only way to be successful was to write about sparkly vampires in high school and their angsty girlfriends.  Or be Stephen King.

Then I took a peek at Nicholas Sparks' website.  In case you haven't heard of him, many people with good taste  in books accuse him of writing the same book over and over.  I loved to use his name as a punchline for every joke I made about bad writers.

Until two days ago.

I looked at his Writing Advice section and found what he had to say made a lot of sense.  His writing advice didn't differ that much from the advice of other writers whose works I enjoy.  (Read a lot, write a lot, learn the industry, be professional, etc., etc.)  And you know what?  He's found what works for him and he sticks with it.  He's got an audience who loves his books.

But, as I learned from reading about his personal journey, he worked very hard.


The question of his talent, while debated in some literary circles, is negligible at this point. He worked his butt off, paid his dues, and now he's enjoying the rewards.  I can't begrudge him his success.

I've been worrying if I am inherently good enough to pull off being a writer.  There are voices in my head screaming that what I'm writing is garbage, because I compare myself to others.  This past weekend I was tempted to curl up in a ball and give up on my work in progress.  Especially after such a tiring weekend at the spa.

But I didn't give up.  Instead, I pounded out 2,500 words.  Because I am a writer, and this is what I do.  Writing is a calling, but it's also a job.  I get to do it, no matter if I think I'm good enough or not.  There are plenty of immensely talented artists out there, and they miss out on opportunities to be more successful because they're hanging around complaining about how the movie/writing/art industry is corrupted beyond salvation.  While they're moaning that no one will appreciate their work, another artist who may not be as good will land a multimillion dollar after toiling in obscurity for years.

Don't be the whining artist.  The world needs your creation, not your complaining.


And don't stop making art, no matter how bad you think it is.


If you are true to yourself, and write that book sitting inside you, and revise like a super ninja on steroids, then the universe will break itself open for you one day, because fortune favors the hardworking and the fearless.

Also, you can't give up, no matter how many people slam doors in your face.  Just in case you were wondering if I forgot about to mention that part.  I didn't.

Happy Thursday!

P. S.  A-Z challenge starts tomorrow!  Who's excited?

Writer-Blogger Thursdays: Cliche or Plot Twist?

I got this from Deirdra:



Thank you so much!


Secondly, I have something to ask you guys.

My work in progress is about a young man who becomes the sole caretaker of his infant niece.  He faces a lot of obstacles, not the least of which is keeping his sister's unsavory associates (she's dating a drug dealer) off of his doorstep.

Recently I've been focusing a lot more on the sister's character development, and I've come up with a good reason for the sister and niece to suddenly disappear.

Is a kidnapping/disappearance of the baby girl a good plot twist, or just a cliche?

What are your thoughts?

DISCLAIMER: No baby girls, real or imagined, will be harmed in the writing of this novel.

Writer-Blogger Saturdays

I've signed up for this:

and if you haven't already, you should, too.  They've already got more than 500 bloggers and are still going strong.  Official start date: April Fool's Day.  The idea is to post every day except Sundays for the month of April, for a total of 26 posts.  Every day you are expected to post something relevant to the alphabet, so on day one post something related to A, on day two B, etc., etc.,

The challenges have already begun; this week, the participants were challenged to write a press release promoting ourselves and the A-Z challenge.  I didn't do it.  I didn't think that I could, or that a newspaper would be remotely interested in my blog.

But someone got published.  Someone wrote a press released and got published in a local newspaper.  And it was a good press release, too.

I realized that not everyone was talking themselves out of their potential.

I'm making a lot of decisions this week that I'm not at liberty to discuss in a lot of detail here, but suffice it to say I'm no longer allowing circumstances to dictate what I can and cannot do, including feelings of self-doubt and insecurity.  Ever since I was a little girl my elders inundated me with the message: "Never give up on your dreams!  You do anything you set your mind to do!  You are a special little star twinkling in your own universe!"

I thought these people were at best misinformed optimists, and at worst willful half-wits.

Trust me, there are times in everyone's life when your dreams seem out of reach.  You get laid off.  Your mom gets sick.  Your childhood memories are riddled with craters of loneliness where there should have been love and support.  Your spouse/significant other/boss/friend is undermining you.  You're broke.

But as the saying goes, "Everything works out it the end.  If it hasn't worked out, then it's not the end yet."

Just because someone is out there being successful, doesn't mean you can't be successful too.

If you know you're supposed to do something, and you know it on so many levels not even Christopher Nolan could make a movie about it;

If your Golgi apparatuses are telling you you're a writer, and your mitochondria are telling you not to give up;

If your electrons are so burger flipping excited they can't sit still at the prospect of you going after what you're passionate about;

If space rocks have spelled out your destiny in the heavens;

If the writing on the wall, your palm reader, your pastor, your rabbi, your Buddhist monk, have confirmed that you're on the right path;

Then you can't give up.

You can't.

You.  Cannot.  Give.  Up.

You and your dreams are all you've got.

Don't let anyone talk you out of what you know you're supposed to do.  Don't let your bank account dictate your actions.  Don't let your fears and you past define your present course.  Yes, it's scary.  Life is often uncertain.  But you're not doing this alone.  We're all blogging and writing and dreaming and trying together.

You are mighty!  Now go and write mighty works made of mighty words.

Have a good weekend everyone.

Writer-Blogger Thursdays

Okay, so first things first:

As I've already thanked and linked my awarders, I have to say seven things about myself and award other bloggers.  So, without further ado:

1. I'm an only child.  Either because of or as a result of this, I learned to make friends with adults than with people my own age.  It's something I'm still learning how to do.  If you consider yourself a good friend of mine, it's very likely you have at least five years on me.

2. I still like Avril Lavigne.

3. I'm messy, in both a figurative and literal sense.

4.  I am the queen of one-woman dance parties.

5. I have an obsessive habit of pacing that began when I was about eleven.  I try to channel it in a healthy way by walking on the track.  Somehow circles soothe me.

6. I do not know how to drive.  (I'm from a large city where cars are a waste of time and money.  Not my fault.)

7. I'm on a lifelong quest to find the perfect slice of pizza.  If you know any pizza places that are any good where you are, let me know.

Ten Bloggers who are Stylish:
Missing Link in Writing
The Serial Killer Files
Surrounded by Books
Cacy Duncan
An Alleged Author
iggi and gabbi
Mia Hayson
Nothing Cannot Happen Today
The Blogger Formerly Known As
My First Book


Secondly:  Writing Stuff.
So I mentioned before I'm working on a longer piece of fiction.  Last weekend I had a bit of a breakthrough.  I wrote an opening that felt different that anything I've written before.  It felt alive.  Charged.  I gave it to my mom to read, and instead of her usual, "I love to see you writing!" reaction (which she always does, no matter how awful or angst-filled), she wrote back she had to take a nap after she read it and that I had her attention from the start.  My mom has a way of being objective with both criticism and praise, and I trust her judgement when I ask her advice.  I also knew in my gut that I was onto something.  Something good.

What changed?

Stakes.  I raised them.

A lot.

Like, we're talking T-Bone.

I think my initial premise was interesting, but I was missing motivation in too many places.  I kept running into a wall--why would my protagonist choose to investigate the roots of his deceased father?  Closure?  I guess...but closure's really subjective.

I'm writing a piece about a dysfunctional family, and I placed the dead father in the center of it, which didn't really work. I then wrote a character sketch of the sister in relation to the father, which I liked better.

And then it hit me.

Put the protagonist in the center.

DUH.

After that, the stakes kind of raised themselves.

And now ENTIRE direction of my novel has changed. Roughly 6,000 words are going to be cut; I'm starting over.

But it wasn't a waste of time.  If I hadn't written those 6,000 words, I probably never would have hit this sudden point of clarity.

I've been stewing over the love interest this week, and a JUICY DELICIOUS plot point has dropped into my lap.  I can't wait to spend this weekend reconfiguring this novel and watching these characters, who are each at the end of their respective ropes, make one last mad dash for sanity, normalcy, and--if they dare hope--love.

Happy Weekend and Happy Writing!

Writing and Traveling: A Match Made it Hualien

I've just returned from a three-day trip to Hualien, the east coast of Taiwan.  I wasn't planning on going, but I changed my mind at the last minute.  I was so glad I did, because it was one of the best weekends I've had since coming to Taiwan.  We visited Taroko Gorge National Park and the surrounding beaches, where I saw some of the most breathtaking scenery in my entire life.  I mean, I saw shades of blue I didn't know existed.  I also got to bond with the new CIEE students, which was really eye-opening, because my Chinese is (finally) at a level where I can appreciate more of the language's nuances.  Many of the new students are American-born Taiwanese, so we spoke Chinese almost the whole weekend, and (huzzah) my head didn't explode.  Was I proud of myself?  You bet.

I've also gotten The Stylish Blogger Award from Michael Offut and Devin Bond.  Thank you both very much!  I'm super flattered. I'm required to answer a few questions about myself and award other bloggers, which I'll do next week.  I'm a bit tired from the trip.  It's not going to be a long night.

I assigned my second post of the week to be about writing.  I've been reluctant to talk about writing-- specifically my writing--the same way I've been a reluctant blogger.  This is a bit ironic: a girl who can and does talk about anything and everything at great length is reluctant to discuss herself.  But I'm opening up more (thanks, Taiwan) and I took the time to discuss the writing process with fellow blogger Misha Gericke and the plot and characters of my newest project with a friend back home.  They've been enormously helpful with their suggestions.  Misha asked me if I'm a plotter or pantser.  When I asked her to clarify, she asked if I plan out plot points or if I write by the seat of my pants, an interesting question to be sure.  I guess I do a bit of both.  I plan and then write by the seat of my pants.

I don't write from plot.  I write from character.  Character, character, character.  I create characters, throw them into situations, and watch how they react.  I listen to their dialog.  And then I write it down.  Recently, this process has been tougher than usual, because I usually give up on my characters before I commit a word to the page.  My newest project, however, is forcing me to be both accountable to you, my readers, and develop these characters more.  In turn, they've shown me hues and shades that I didn't see before.  It happened this weekend, while I was taking in the landscape.  My characters deepened and sprouted dimensions that took me aback in a good way.

Characters should be like people: inconsistent, idiosyncratic, and surprising.  Their motivations should be clear, but how they get to what they want shouldn't be.  I believe a proper tension between motivation and character is what makes a literary work interesting.  I've got no problem with the characters. What I'm wondering is if my protagonist has enough motivating him to push the trajectory of the novel in the direction I want it to go.  And there's only one way to find out: keep writing.

See you all Tuesday.

New Sheriff In Town

So, winter finally seems to be over, new exchange students have arrived, and a new semester is just beginning.  Apologies for not posting for a while: had some loose ends (finals, visa) that needed tying up.  But!  I have decided, in the spirit of spring and renewal-ness, that I'm going to be refocusing this blog some.  When I first started blogging six months ago, I was like "eh, this isn't really my thing."  Then it was "ooh!  Lots of cool shiny blogs out there about subjects I'm interested in"!  And now, after some soul-searching, I feel ready to join the ranks of the blogosphere.  I've learned about blogging, given myself a new interface, have new followers, and have content that I can condense into something that is readable.  In other words: I AM GOING TO BLOG MY LITTLE HEART OUT LIKE I MEAN IT LOOK OUT HERE I COME.

Yes?  Yes.

Updates are now scheduled on Tuesdays and Thursdays, unless an asteroid hits earth or I'm too tired otherwise noted.

Tuesday will be something about my life here in Taiwan.

Thursday will be something writing related.

ARE YOU READY FOR EPICNESS?  (The answer to that is yes.  Of course you are.)

See you all Tuesday!
Happy Spring!

We all need romance sometimes.

Here is a portion of the climax scene of my work in progress, in the spirit of Valentine's Day.  Whether you're single, married, divorced, dating, engaged, or recently broken up, I wish you romance and love.

I got down on my knees.  A word of advice to you guys who are proposing: when you kneel, do it slowly.  I dropped all my weight to the floor at once, and I almost busted my kneecaps.

            “You would make me the happiest man on earth if you’ll marry me,” I said.  “But if not, I will spend the rest of my life seeing to it that you’re happy.  If you need me tomorrow, next week, a year from now, ten years from now, I will be there for you.  You wanna marry someone else?  I’ll be first in line to shake that lucky bastard’s hand, right after I cut my heart out with a spoon.  Because your happiness means more to me than anything else.”

            Connie’s eyes misted over.  More people were congregating in the lobby.  They formed a half circle around us. 

            “I don’t have that much to offer you,” I went on.  “I’ve got an incredible little girl who needs a mom, and I can paint so-so. But I will spend every second of the rest of my life thinking about you and wondering if you’re okay, whether you’re in my life or not.  I’ve spent the last twenty-seven years feeling sorry for myself, and I’m not going to waste one more moment thinking about my miserable life.  My life is yours now.  You can take it or leave it, but it will always be yours.”  I took a deep breath.  “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

            A few tears dripped down Connie’s nose.  She squeezed my hand.

            “For God’s sake, say yes!” an older woman cried.  I held my breath.  Everyone else seemed to be, too.

What would you say to this proposal?

Guest Post! New Year! Other Stuff!

Today I'm guest posting on Misha Gericke's blog on my recent admission to the Hall of Writing and My Feelings Thereof.  Misha is lovely and this Friday is the first in a series of guest blog posts.   You should totally check it out.

Happy Bunny Year!  Last night I lit fireworks in the park next to campus with a couple of classmates from my program.  In the U. S. lighting fireworks is totally illegal, so I felt like a rebel without a cause, except in Taiwan fireworks are legal and the cause is that it's New Year's and everyone else in Taipei is setting off fireworks.

Next week I shall be in the sunny south of the island, staying in a Buddhist temple eating vegetarian things and hopefully taking advantage of the lack of internet to write my little butt off.  (After I check Facebook one last time.  Seriously, this is it!  I swear!)


ALSO: THE SUN IS OUT.  I AM SO CONFUSED EXCITED I AM GOING TO STAY INSIDE WITH THE SHADES DRAWN.  (Surely there must be some mistake.  The sun doesn't shine in Taipei.)

Thank you

"The reason why you are depressed," my mother said, "is because you are not grateful for the things you have in your life."

It was winter of 2008, my freshman year of college.  I was on academic probation and weeks away from taking medical leave.  The way I saw it, I'd been holding in negative emotions for six years due to crappy stuff that had happened to me, and those feelings had finally reached the surface and were ripping me apart.  The way my mother saw it, I was an ungrateful brat who wasn't taking care of herself and didn't want to go to class.  I preferred my version of things.

After taking incompletes for all of my classes, I left college in February 2008 for two semesters of medical leave.  I'd like to say that I spent that entire year getting my act together and everyone else was magically fixed when I returned to college in January of 2009.  That's partially true.  I spent that year in therapy and worked a couple of jobs.  One was as a canvasser for a grassroots political campaign, and the other was at a women's clothing store.  I met a lot of interesting people at both of those jobs, and I learned what it meant to have a real (read: crappy, minimum wage) job.

My grandmother was living with us at the time while she received treatment for cancer.  She passed away in February of 2009, a few weeks after I returned to school.

Sophomore year was substantially better.  I moved to off-campus housing, made some really great friends, and began taking writing (and my studies in general) more seriously.  Still, that year was tinged with two heartbreaks--one small, one massive.  I longed for a new environment, a chance to start over.  I filled out an application for a year-long study abroad program in Taiwan...and the rest as they say, is history.

The last week has been a major perspective shift for me.  I tend to get down on myself easily, and with the frustrations of living in a different culture and the weather (we haven't had any sun in about a month in Taipei) has made being happy a struggle.

The final straw came on Friday, when I spent six hours running around trying to process my visa.  I wanted to give up.  But then I remembered my life.  My mom, my friends here and back home, and my new blog followers.  And I've been reading Tahereh Mafi's blog, The Rejectionist, Single Dad Laughing, and my lovely new followers' blogs.  These people (and you all) have inspired and challenged me and forced me to dig deep about myself, this blog, and my life.  And I've realized something:

My writing is not for me.  This blog is not for me.  It's for you.  It's for the visitors and followers who haven't arrived yet.

I've spent this week coming up with a list of things that I really, truly, am grateful for.

There's the obvious ones, like my family, my friends, and my health.

But there are also things like: The Jim Henson Company, The Walt Disney Company, and Pixar Studios.  Kermit the Frog and "The Great Mouse Detective" helped make my childhood magical.
Eggs.  Eggs are delicious.
The internet.  It has allowed me to start this blog, read your lovely blogs, and talk with my mom on Skype.
Oh.  My. God.  BOOKS.  So good.
Music.
The understanding that every day is a chance to get it right.

I am grateful for these things, and all of you.

Have an amazing week, everyone!