Chapter Six: Going Crazier, Or: When Tears Attack, Or: A Motherfucking Declaration of Intent.

So let's talk about yesterday.  Tuesday.  It was nice out -- we had a high somewhere in the mid 60's in Nashville.  (Incidentally, do you know how hard it is to find the specifics of yesterday's weather online anywhere?  Weather is a very present-to-future-oriented industry -- OPPOSITE of writing.)  Anyway: yesterday, I had yogurt for breakfast, a turkey sandwich for lunch, and an uncontrollable crying fit in my cubicle around 1:00.

I still don't really know how or why this happened to me.  I say it happened to me because I feel like I had no agency in the situation at all.  Around 12:55, a coworker came into my cubicle to tell me she wanted me to do a few things differently.  Her tone was firm -- not overly harsh -- and before she left, she said, "So we're on the same page, right?"  I nodded, she left, and almost immediately I was fighting off a tears-and-snot attack.

There are some cries take a contorted screwing-up of the face to produce any moisture.  This one was the opposite.  It was the kind of crying where I wasn't even trying -- I just sat there, wide-eyed and dazed in my cubicle, blinking hot tears that rolled off my chin and produced splots on my poised legal pad without any evocation or even permission on my part.  It was a full-on cry assault, and I had no idea why.

It soon came to my attention that the soft rock radio station constantly streaming at a higher-than-polite volume from my coworker's cubicle was not quite loud enough to cover the sound of inexplicable office weeping.  When I realized this, I fled to the parking garage to call my sister from my car.

The first thing she asked: "Are you pregnant?"

"No!  Jesus."  Like I needed that to worry about in the midst of my evident nervous breakdown.*

After twenty minutes in which I continued to sob into the phone while blasting air conditioner in my face, she convinced me that I could not cower to the refuge of my bed, which was my solution.

At her insistence, I resolved to go back in and act like a grown-up; however, this resolution was made more complicated by the fact that my face does not act like a normal face when I cry.  In case anyone is not tipped off to my emotional state by all of the tears, when I cry my face decides to alert all humans of my despair by getting uncommonly swollen, puffy, and red, especially around the eyes, lips, and nose.  (Once when I was in fourth grade, I retreated to a bathroom stall to cry over who-knows-what, then emerged only to have a shocked ten-year-old go, "Whoa."  My crying face is truly an impressive sight.)  

Around 1:35, I skulked back to my cubicle, pretending to be very deeply involved in my cell phone so no one could make eye contact.  I eventually found emotional homeostasis again, but I was nevertheless confused about the cause of the attack.  Still am, really.  The best I can tell (and this is following extensive and insightful counseling via cell phone from the dear Stephanie Lenning): I pretty much just hate my job.  Like, a lot more than I'm letting myself believe.

"So what do you really want to do?" Stephanie asked me.

(Make way for the motherfucking declaration.  Are you paying attention?)  When I'm being honest with myself, I know. FOR A FACT. that what I want to do with my life is WRITE.  Not as in filling in names and addresses for the same thank-you notes to rich people every week.  As in being a full-on, professional, motherfucking AUTHOR.  Not just with a capital "A," but with ALL MOTHERFUCKING CAPS.  I used to be embarrassed to admit that.  I don't think I ever admitted it before now, actually.  I know this is because I thought that if I told anyone, I'd just end up looking like a failure when it didn't happen.  I'd regret being so bold in my declarations.  I still think that, really, so if you're reading this, it's because I decided to be brave and not delete it. 

I don't pretend to think this quarter-life-crisis novel is going to make the AUTHOR thing happen -- that project is mainly one big therapy session.  But it is also a beginning, and that's something and not nothing.  Why is it not nothing, you ask?  For that I refer you to my friend Ira:

THANK YOU.  Crying fits be damned.  I am DOING this. 

Late addition: I bought this mug yesterday and it made me think of this post.  It makes me feel better about my gratuitous use of "motherfucker" and its variations. 

*Note: my sister actually helped calm me down a lot during all of the crying.  I just chose the "Are you pregnant" moment to write about because I'm extremely hyperbolic sometimes.  That doesn't mean I'm a straight-up liar, though -- it really was one of the first things she asked me.  I just felt I should clarify this point because my sister is really very supportive always, and especially when I'm crying in a parking deck.  Plus, she's one of the only people who reads this thing, so I'd rather not piss her off.  In short: Love you, Sister!  Thanks for yesterday!

Chapter Five: An End to the Procrastination Vacation

Well it's been a week since my last post, and to my delight people have actually been asking when I'd be back!  You know who you are.  Thank you for that.  When it comes to writing, I really am a whore for encouragement.

As you might imagine, even my non-work on this project has re-confirmed something I already knew about myself: I like to procrastinate.  Really, I shouldn't say I "like to" do it -- in reality it's a period of intense internal struggle with myself that goes something like this:

Me: You've been reading articles about Whitney Houston (rest in peace) for two hours.  You should maybe, um, write instead?
Me: But I don't really know what to say.  This is good for me.  Sometimes writers need breaks, right? 
Me: Okay, but you've only been at this for like a week, so.... maybe not break time yet?
Me: No it's cool.  Writers do this.  I'm more of a writer for not writing.  I'm getting really good.

And so on until I start giving myself the cold shoulder:

Me: You know, you had a really good thing going and you've screwed it up again. 
Me: GAH!  Why are you always on my BACK about things?  I'll get to it!
Me: When?  When will you get to it?  Before or after checking your bank account for the sixth time today?  Do you consider all of that facebooking "research"?  And for God's sake, stop updating your timesheet!  This is getting ridiculous!

Self lesson #2: I'm bad about getting really into things and then getting so proud of myself for getting really into them that I let myself get really out of them. 

Example: exercise.  If I, say, take a brisk 45-minute walk one day, I will feel spectacular.  I will feel like it is very evident in the mirror that I have lost at least five pounds.  I am a champion of being in shape and I can obviously do anything I want to in life, ever. 

Then the next day will happen.  I'll remember that great endorphin high from the day before and say -- yeah! I walked 45 minutes yesteday!  I'm AMAZING!  I've done my part for fitness and am in excellent shape again, so today I can watch Seinfeld and eat cheese after work instead of getting out in the cold again.  As long as I walk again tomorrow, I'll keep up this incredible pattern of awesomeness that I started yesterday. 

And then the day after that happens, and I'm more tired and distant from that endorphin high, because it's now been two days and approximately 16 hours of desk-sitting.  Comfort me, Tina Fey!  I blame Comedy Central for sabotaging my fitness routine by airing two episodes of 30 Rock at 6 and 6:30.  Give me a BREAK! 

So ends the exercise.

And so it goes with writing.  But I am here to tell you it ENDS TODAY.  I have written more novel and I am blogging like a champ.  Right?  RIGHT?

On a more serious note, I have come to another important conclusion about myself and it is this: I would make a much better personal essayist than novelist.  I've known this, but I've been in denial.  Rescue me, Sedaris!

I fell in love with the personal essay way back in Fred Ashe's intermediate writing class at BSC, when Jonathan Franzen's "Caught" inspired me to write my own tale of adolescent mischief.  It flowed easily -- I think I met the five-page minimum in under 45 minutes -- and I laughed along at the memories while my fingers could barely keep up.  It felt GREAT.  I got a 96.

I've recently started reading Sloane Crosley at the suggestion of a friend (again, you know who you are -- thank you) and her work has reminded me that I want to be doing that.

Slight problem: I have no idea what to write about.  I have stories, right?  About things that have happened to me?  Things have happened to me, right?  What are they?  Seriously, I'm asking.  I need suggestions.

In the meantime, I'm making myself finish what I've started.  I'm considering letting the project implode into a melodramatic mess, though, just for the fun of it.  I'm thinking someone will get tied to some train tracks at some point, and maybe I'll insert some "ghosts," just to have them turn out to be criminals trying to scare those meddling kids away from their trove of stolen treasure? 

Yes, exactly.  I'm considering turning this into a cross between Rocky & Bullwinkle and Scooby Doo.

Chapter Four: Here it comes.

By a fortunate turn of events, I have reached my goal of finishing the first chapter by the end of the week, and it's not even the end of the week!  Congratulate me!  I've made my way -- or Allie has made her way, I should say -- to the dread Nana Funk's for post-reception drinks.  It wasn't her choice.

This brings me to another point: I'm having a hard time thinking of names to change everything to.  Although this story isn't true, a lot of the places and people are real.  Some name changes come easily, but some are just really impossible.  Like Nana Funk's.  It seems like I'm running into this situation pretty frequently, and I keep telling myself I can go back and change these things later, so I guess that's what I'll do.  Now that I think about it, coming up with an appropriate name for the sweatiest, grindiest place in Birmingham might actually be kind of fun.

I've solved my male character problem, by the way, so you can all sleep again!  I've pretty much lumped together 3 to 4 guys that I've been friends with over the years into one big guy-friend amalgamation called Sam.  He's pretty awesome, and Allie is about to break his heart kind of.  Shit's about to get real awkward.

Short post today.  Maybe more to come later.

Chapter Three: Come on, just write something.

Well.  Yesterday actually proved to be a busy day at work (don't worry -- it's only because I did all of my tasks for the week) and this morning, I had the pleasure of sitting through a 2-hour Microsoft Excel workshop!  While we were supposed to be learning how to manage our workbook windows, I was busy doing this:

The instructor never should have gone over all of the various ways to make your formatting inappropriate for the workplace.  I obviously got a little carried away and there was no turning back.  Seeing as there were only two people in the class, it was also pretty difficult to make it seem like I was still following him -- lots of vacant head nodding.  I am proud to say he only caught me laughing once.

On the novel front, I lost a lot of momentum after taking a break for the weekend.  I also hit a wall, and this is what was written on it: Anna, you have no idea how to write male characters.  I fell into a slump when I realized this yesterday.  Allie had finally left the wedding and was riding to the reception with her "best guy friend," and I sat and stared at the computer when trying to come up with dialogue for the two of them.  It made me think.  Do I have any guy friends?  I know I used to, but somehow we seem to have drifted apart.  Also, I'm not sure any of those friendships were completely free of sexual tension -- even if nothing was acted upon.  Was Harry right?  Can men and women not really be friends? 

Anyway, I feel like it's pretty much inevitable that something is going to happen between Allie and her friend after this wedding reception, even though I didn't start out with that intention.  It seems plots really do write themselves sometimes.  The wisdom of the internet* rings true once more!

To avoid losing momentum again, I've set a goal.  Are you ready?  Here it is:

I will finish chapter one by the end of this week.  I WILL.

Wish me luck. 

 

*and Alison "Fancy" Kirkham.

Chapter Two: Getting Serious

If I knew anything about this process when I started, it was this: I'm going to have some serious thinking to do.  About a LOT of things.

As I shared in my last post, I'm working on the beginning of the book, which is a wedding.  It's modeled after an actual wedding I attended about 3 years ago, when I was fresh out of college and so were the bride and groom.  I wasn't actually invited to this wedding, even though the bride and I had known each other since elementary school, and I felt a little snubbed.  Mainly because I HAD been invited to their engagement party.  (Who does that?)  I attended anyway with one of my guy friends as his "plus one." 

This guy was reasonably good friends with the groom, and to this day I still can't tell if my cynicism bothered him.  I think the fact that I can't tell probably means it did.  I'm finding that cynicism inescapable in trying to write this scene.  No wonder I wasn't invited to that wedding.  Even my narrator is starting to make judgment calls. 

Which brings me to my next point: I still don't really know who is narrating this thing.  I've discovered, thanks to the Wikipedia page for narrative mode (remember when I said I was using only unreliable sources?) that I've actually begun in what looks more like third-person limited mode, meaning the narrator actually only blabs about what's going on in Allie's head, not everyone's.  Also, according to Wikipedia, this means I have rules to follow -- mainly, I just need to remember that the narrator only knows what Allie knows.  But I was doing that anyway, right?  I think??

So at this point, I know what you're all thinking: Wow, it seems like Anna doesn't really know the first thing about writing a novel.  She's pretty much in over her head.  Wonder how long until she crashes and burns.

And to that I say: I shall never crash, nor shall I burn, you pessimists!  Eff you guys, this shit is HARD, okay?  I don't see any of you guys out there writing novels!    

And what I really mean is: Yep, you're right.  This is proving to be more complicated than I thought it would be.  Three days in and I'm tripping over theoretical nonsense.  Except that nonsense is going to be the only thing keeps this from being COMPLETELY incoherent, so....

I just need to consult the internet some more and I'll be fine, right?

Hopefully these things will sort themselves out in the beginning and my subsequent posts will be less theoretical... 

The good news is, I'm on page 3 (single-spaced!) and I get to make up lyrics for a blood-filled Jesus song to be sung at the wedding!  Emmy, some help here?

Chapter One: Making Decisions, or Embracing the Bad

After writing zero words last night in favor of watching two episodes of 30 Rock that I've already seen and napping in an ironically-purchased Snuggie, I started the novel in earnest this morning when I got to work.  I'm about half a page in, describing the church my family used to attend, and trying to squeeze in background information so imaginary readers can get to know the protagonist. 

What is immediately evident is that I have some decisions to make.  Before I even began writing, I went ahead and subconsciously decided that this novel was going to be written in third-person, because it just came out that way.  And the narrator is omniscient, meaning he/she knows what the protagonist is thinking and goes ahead and blabs about it.  There's this other option that I'd like to explore -- it's called free indirect discourse, where the narrator's thoughts and the characters' thoughts are almost indistinguishable.  I've always liked encountering that kind of narration in fiction.  Looks like my Narrative Theory class is coming in handy after all.  WTG, Fred Whiting!

I'm beginning the novel with the protagonist and her best guy friend at a wedding, since in the South this event is the single most important thing in a 20-something's life.  This couple is getting married right out of college, because that's what they're supposed to do, and Allie questions whether they've made the right decision.  (Yes, Allie is the protagonist's name.  Allie Weaver.  I was going to avoid revealing that, but it would get exceedingly difficult to continue calling her "the protagonist").  She's on the cusp of going off to grad school (yes, there are autobiographical elements in here), because she thinks she wants to pursue a career in academia.  She's obviously going to get very drunk at this wedding reception.  Things will happen.

Besides making decisions about the novel itself, I'm making decisions about the types of things I'm going to let influence it.  There is SO MUCH STUFF ON THE INTERNET about how to write a novel.  It's really hilarious and awesome.  Since I admit to being a total amateur with no real intention of making this book very good, I've decided I'm going to embrace the bad.  I'm going to follow almost no advice from reliable sources or people I admire -- I'm going to use Google to write this bitch.  Secretgeek.net?  Yes, please!  Fill me with your nonsense! Publishing is for Schmucks, you say?!  Tell me more!  I'm FASCINATED.

Maybe I’ll just write the whole thing in Comic Sans.

Possibly more to come later -- it's only 10:49 AM and I have nothing to do today but use a glue stick to seal up 200 postcard envelopes and put them in the mail.

Preface: Going Crazy

Where to begin. 


It seems like yesterday that I watched a neon guitar get stuck halfway down its trajectory at midnight, but it's February already.  Mitt Romney won the Florida primary last night, my apartment was robbed last week, and the only movie I've seen that is nominated for an Academy Award this year is The Help -- mainly because I'm from Mississippi.  I was born in Natchez in the spring of 1986, my family moved to Birmingham, Alabama, in the fall of 1990, and I now find myself in Nashville, Tennessee.  I'm 25 years old, I have a Master's degree, and I'm doing administrative work at a prestigious private university in Music City.  I play piano and guitar, but I've picked up neither in at least a year.


That's a lot of listing in one paragraph to tell you this: I'm going crazy.


No one told me about being an adult -- maybe because my parents started so early that they didn't even notice the transition.  They were high school sweethearts in Sedalia, Missouri.  Neither went to college -- instead they got married at 20, moved to Natchez to be nearer to my dad's family, and started a family of their own.  My only sibling, an older sister, was born in 1979, when my parents were 22 and ate mostly macaroni and cheese with cut-up hot dogs for dinner.


Both of my parents worked hard to give us more than what they had, and my dad eventually charmed his way up to a vice presidency at a large, private, international company headquartered in Birmingham.  My mother was able to retire at 50, and she now plays video games, overfeeds the cat, and monitors Facebook all day in the mini suburban mansion he built for her.

My parents sent me to a small liberal arts college on the outskirts of the city, and I thrived there.  My new friends were intellectual, witty, and utterly nerdy.  They're lovely, and to this day I couldn't adore them more.  Our college nurtured us into believing we could do anything -- change the world -- and some of them are out there now, doing that.

A year after college, I defaulted to grad school because I found I hated working in the real world.  I had taken an internship at my father's large, private, international company, and I promptly discovered that I was miserable.  By day I sat in a cubicle trying to look busy while g-chatting with my friends, who were also sitting in cubicles out in the real world; by night those friends and I drank.  Oh, how we drank.  And drank.

In grad school I found myself surrounded by more intellectuals, but of a different breed than my college friends.  These girls were snobby and competitive -- looking down their noses over their hipster glasses asking things like, "You did READ Stanley Fish, didn't you?"  I sat around conference tables for two years growing resentful, feeling like this version of academia was much different from undergrad.  The professors were nice for the most part, but they also seemed to expect me to know how to act like a doctoral candidate.  I never felt my contributions were worthwhile or deep enough, and I convinced myself that maybe I wasn't cut out to be a professor after all. 

I now have a Master's degree and I'm stuck in a cubicle again.  Going crazy.  Wanting to make a meaningful life for myself, wanting to find fulfillment in my work, wanting to do what my college professors always told me I could and would do.  I don't know what that is, but I do know it isn't writing thank-you notes to kiss the asses of the rich alumni of this university.  Many of the donations they drop are bigger than my salary for an entire year of kissing their asses.  Many are more than two, three, four times that.

So here I am.  Have I mentioned that I'm going crazy?  Perhaps what's crazier, though, is what I've decided to do to magically make all of this better.  I'm going to write a novel.  HA!  Even looking at that sentence in this little text box gives me a tingly feeling in my chest and I start laughing at myself.  I've always loved writing, but for some reason the stories stopped coming out of me around the time I hit high school.  I have a theory on that, but it can wait.  I also have an idea for an epic poem that's an allegory of that theory -- HA HA!  The tingles intensify.

Seriously, though, I'm doing this -- just so I can say that I did.  Also, I'm told, if I want to get serious about being a writer I need to actually, um, write every day. 

Don't get too excited now, imaginary reader.  This blog isn't going to actually include the novel.  As I fully expect it to be a steaming pile of crap, that novel will probably never be known to human eyes other than my own.  This blog, instead, is going to be comprised of my writing about writing a novel.  It's meant to be a bit like the Julie/Julia concept, except instead of cooking my way through Julia Child's book, I'm going to be laboring my way through the writing of my own.  Here I'll share what I'm thinking, how the process is going, whether I'm getting saner or crazier. 

If nothing else, I'm hoping to get out there what it's like to be 25 years old in 2012 -- a young, educated person who has no idea what to do with her life to make it match her expectations.  So here I go.