A Word

The word moment is a tricky thing for me. There’s really not any other word that be used in replacement to prevent over-usage. Instant only seems applicable under certain circumstances, as does second or stretch of time – things of that nature. Sometimes only one word can be used – should only be used – when all other words would fall short of doing justice to a situation, a message you’re trying to get across, something you’re trying to explain the right way, or some hidden thing that you might be the only person to notice.

Words are a big deal to me. If I told people how many words I’ve written over the last several years, I would get The Look – the same look that I had on my face yesterday when watching YouTube videos of a guy getting scared while playing video games (it’s the, “You need to get out more,” look). Most numbers, when thinking about it, should usually be kept pretty close to the vest when they pertain to personal things. It’s taken me a bit of time to realize that.

Words are my entire life. I wake up, I read the ones I wrote the day (night) before, and then I write more. When I’m editing, I read the ones I wrote, add more, take some out, and move them around, trying to make all of them as close to perfect (my perfect) as I can get.

I don’t know how many times I can say, “I fail words constantly, but they never fail me,” or some variant of that with the same message.

And moment has always given me headaches. It took me an extremely long time of writing stories to realize what I said up top. Sometimes . . . nothing else fits. People might criticize you for it, but you know what fits in your own writing, and in your own life.

But, if we’re getting technical, I should explain.

Writing is like . . . medicine for me. It’s my way of coping with stress, and struggles, and life. It is for most people who do it, but then again, I think most people who do it manage to balance life better than I do. I go and crawl into my shed – sometimes almost literally when I’m just waking up – and I stay in there. I force myself to come out sometimes, just to do things I need to do. More often than not, it takes me several days to manage some things (which things I’m talking about shall go unmentioned past mentioning). I put things off because something inside of me says . . . I need to. For myself.

I spend my life – almost every second of it – writing the moments of people’s lives that only exist in my head. It prevents me from having my own moments. It’s healthy in ways, but not in others. Is anything in the world ever ENTIRELY good for anyone? I don’t think so. A new study comes out daily, contradicting the one before it. This is just me. It works. It makes me . . . better.

The point of this is that I had my own moment two days ago.

Normally, I would explain – rattling off for 2k words about events leading up and the like. I don’t feel I should.

I’ll only say that I realized two days ago that, well . . .

Words don’t mean the same thing to everyone that they mean to me. It’s easy to say the things that you mean and mean the things that you say, but when words are thrown in to any situation . . . the possibility for failing them is almost inevitable. The difference between, “I have faith,” and, “I hope,” is the difference in saying you believe something will happen, and that you believe it won’t.

Words.

I’ve been waiting three years to hear certain words. I hadn’t known – not exactly – what they were. But I heard them two days ago.

My father said, “I think you could’ve been a [INSERT MEANINGLESS WORD] and it would’ve just been a stepping stone. You would’ve ended up here. You’re doing exactly what you should be doing.”

There were more words said, but the last sentence up there was the one that got me. It was the only one that mattered.

I cried.

I cry over the lives of the characters that I write. I do. Often; I’m not ashamed to admit it. I laugh, and I cry. I cry about my own life a very small handful of times a year, if even that.

It was kind of amazing, having my own moment.

Just thought I’d share it. It’s funny how a moment can seem insignificant to some people, but can be the furthest thing from it for others.

I really can’t explain how much I hope all of you are having your own moments out there. That’s not me saying, “I don’t believe it will happen.” I’m saying that I hope it does.

Sometimes . . . a word is just a word. It’s everything behind them that matters – feelings and thoughts that hardly anyone can ever do justice to, express correctly, or truly get across.

When we fail with words, it can be so much worse than anyone ever thinks about. But if we fall, stand up, and try again?

It might be the one thing someone needs to hear, or see.

Words are never just words to me. They’re my life. That doesn’t mean I’m not falling.

Fail, Fall, Stand up, Try again.

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Shetland Ponies and Contemplation

I’ve been doing a lot of contemplating lately – on varying subjects, and with varying intensity.  Situations have a lot to do with the way that I’ve been spending my time; I have little else to do, at least for a short while longer.  The time of contemplating and thinking is almost over…it’s going to cease and give way to doing.  A lot of the thinking has revolved around planning – planning for this, or planning for that, and always trying to determine the best (most efficient) way to go about accomplishing things or just simply…getting them done.

Some of the thinking has been over other things – things that I have no control over, things that have nothing to do with getting other things done.  Those subjects are more difficult for me to manage.

I posted an entry awhile back about getting into contact with one of my dearest friends, and the resulting feelings because of it.  It made me do a lot of contemplating over myself as a person – the ways that I had changed since turning into a hermit of sorts.  It’s kind of like…walking through a doorway, but different.  On one side, you were who you used to be.  And on the other?  Who you are today.

I felt like time almost stopped while I was sitting in my shed, writing my books.  I could feel it passing, I could feel myself aging.  I could feel my heart changing.  It just seemed to happen so quickly.  Years of time – years of my life – spent…thinking, typing, thinking.  Writing.

It’s so funny because yes, I have always been a thinker.  The funny thing is that I can remember being so selfish with my thoughts.  I’m not anymore.  I’m selfish with my time.  I have more important things that I should be doing.  I suppose that feeling purpose will do that to you.

Have I changed so much?

Is there any bit of that person left?

I don’t know.  Maybe somewhere.

It doesn’t matter…I’m simply asking.

I’m being so dramatic, I know.  I’m a writer; it’s what I do.  If you could see how so NOT-dramatic I am in person, you would laugh at me.  I wonder sometimes how I can actually make up stories, pull them out of my head piece by piece, and make them live.  I wonder that a lot of the time, actually.  I’m selling myself short.  I always sell myself short.  It’s what I do.

I like it that way.  I wouldn’t enjoy riding around on a high horse.  That’s a lot further to fall.  The realistic, sensible thing to do is to ride on a horse that’s fitting of your stature and capability.  I know who I am.  I know what I’m capable of.  Don’t I?

Maybe I’m wrong.

Maybe I’ve been wrong.

Again, I…don’t know.

This is why I prefer sitting in my shed in my solitude.  Interacting with people makes me think.

I don’t have time for this.  I don’t have time to constantly be rearranging my self-perception when I have so many other things to be doing.

Maybe I like riding around on my little Shetland pony.  Do I?  I believe so.

This probably sounds crazy, but I’m trying to work through it – write through it.

All of this – every bit of it – is stemming from the interactions that I’ve been having with people over the past several months.  I’ve been told a lot of…things.  A lot of words that I’m not accustomed to having associated with me have been lightly tossed into the general vicinity of my face.

Inspiring.  Are you serious?

People have said that my accomplishments thus far are ‘awesome‘ (the word is suitable enough).  Do you realize how many people have thought absolutely nothing of it?

Happy.  People tell me that I look happy.  Is it such a rarely appropriate word that it’s worth mentioning?  Is nobody else in this world happy?  I can remember a time where I never thought I would be.  I am, though.  I am so happy, and I’m so glad that it shows.

And then there was the word used during a conversation with an old friend yesterday.  Profound.  He told me that I was profound now.  What a word to be called!  This coming from someone who could remember me taking a sip of nail polish remover (likely in the fifth grade, when I was definitely old enough to know better).  I wouldn’t normally mention something so ridiculous; I’m just swallowing my pride for the sake of understanding. (A side-note: Please, for the love of all that is holy in this world, do NOT do that)…

I’m used to the high praise, in a sense.  My husband does it constantly.  He always tells me that I’m awesome, or amazing, or that one thing or another that I’ve done is just…the most AMAZING thing in the entire world.  I always tell myself that he’s completely biased, thus making his praising….tainted, I suppose.  My parents will always smile and go along with whatever decisions I make in life – often knowing I’m choosing wrong, mind you – so that I can learn my lesson.  They love me, and they always let me do what I believe will make me happy, thus tainting their opinions of me, and lessening the believability of their words (where they pertain to me).

But people that I don’t really know?  People that I haven’t spoken to in seven, or ten years?

I can’t make excuses to myself for the things that they’ve said to me.  I can’t shrug it off, or let it roll down my back without a second thought.  How could they be biased?

Profound.  If you could only hear me scoff at that word being associated with me.  And if you could only understand what all of those things mean to me.

He said something about words yesterday that really hit home.  Words are my life.  I am constantly struggling to get them out correctly, appropriately…perfectly.  And I am always failing.

Am I failing as badly as I believe I am?  Am I failing as badly as I tell myself I am?

Maybe…maybe I’m not.  To other people.

I need to feel like I fail with words.  That’s what keeps me struggling for improvement.

I suppose that I need to come to another understanding with myself.

I will stay on my humble little Shetland pony, but I need to come to terms with the fact that…my best might not ever be good enough for myself, but maybe…

Maybe it’s enough to suffice for everyone else.

I’m alright with that.

 

My god, I need to start writing another book soon.  This thinking about myself is driving me up a never-ending wall.

Basically, the entire purpose of this was to say that everything (like the things mentioned) has been extremely strange for me.  I’m not used to it.

But I need to say thank you to any and everyone who has shown even the vaguest interest in my work.  My work means the entire world to me.  I couldn’t possibly express my gratitude.  All that I can say is thank you, from the absolute bottom of my heart.

Failing Words and Suds

I didn’t sleep well yesterday.

At this point, I’m not sure if I should blame it on the windows letting too much light in, the fact that I should’ve known better than trying to fall asleep after the sun came up (without the windows covered), or all of the thoughts and ideas swirling around like little smoke clouds inside of my head.

I’m going to do this tomorrow.  That’s something to do.  There’s a new bit of something to add to the game plan.

I’m sure it was a combination of all those things.  So forgive me (in advance); I’m far too tired to have the sense of what I do and don’t want to say.

While walking upstairs from my last cigarette break, I was thinking about bubbles.  Not the pretty sort with the little rainbows on them, floating around easily before they burst apart in a spray of tiny suds.  I’m talking about the kind of bubbles that we find ourselves trapped inside of periodically throughout life – or that we step into willingly.

My life is a life of bubbles, I realize.  It sounds ridiculous; I’m coherent enough to know as much.  I’m trying to find the words to explain it correctly and I’m failing.  I hate feeling like I’m failing words.  I can’t express how much I hate it.

I lived in whatever bubbles suited me best at whatever time when I was growing up.  Varying colors, varying opacity, varying space.

I’m not sure that I really knew what that meant until now, thinking about the way they’ve changed for me…or the way that I’ve changed for them.  I’m not sure.

When I was writing my books, I was stuck inside of these impermeable bubbles.  I couldn’t see out of them.  I don’t think that anyone could see inside of them.  Maybe they could a little and I was too busy admiring the beauty of it alone from the inside.  They were so beautiful.

I’m inside of a new one now – one that I can see out of clearly.  I can see all the beauty outside while it passes by me.  Life.  Life is beautiful, no matter how much bad we experience throughout the course of each of our own.

Right now?  I feel like I’m stuck here, waiting for that damn bubble to pop.

I think we’ve all had our moments where we felt like life – in all its intricacies, and roads, and deceptions, and potholes – was passing us by.  I think we’ve all felt stuck before.

My problem right now is I can’t explain the difference in that feeling and what I’m actually feeling at this moment.  They are two COMPLETELY different things.  And I’m failing words again.

I’m so sorry that I can’t do you better justice.

Taking a step back.

Those moments of feeling stuck while you were watching life…I know that every time I’ve experienced it, I always felt that some force was holding me back from what I wanted to do – whether it was myself, situations, or another person.  THAT is how this moment is different.  There’s nothing at all holding me back, but there I am, still trapped and watching.

It’s new.  Almost equally unpleasant.  Possibly more so because I can’t really understand it.  Possibly more so because I’ve allowed myself to be open to the endless possibilities.  Possibly more so because I finally have a dream.

It will happen.  I know that it will.  I don’t care if it’s my own determination, some talent that I can’t actually see, or just the natural way that bubbles disintegrate and disappear when exposed to the air.  It will happen.

I need to work on my patience.  With myself.

I know this was way deeper/emotional/ridiculous than my usual entries.  Sorry.

I just figured I’d try that thing where getting stuff out makes you feel better.

Nah.

I’d rather write a book.

I don’t fail words so easily when I’m doing that.