If a girl goes to a concert but doesn’t post about it to social media, did she really even go?

Over the past year or so, I’ve become a bit distant from social media. It all started when my Instagram was hacked, and I lost control of it forever. I entertained the idea of a new one — even created the profile — but felt drained over the idea of having to curate a whole new feed and following. 

During one of my busier semesters in college, I was left with little time to scroll social media, and I found it made me leagues happier. So, I somewhat reluctantly decided not to bother with Instagram or Snapchat (still trying to figure out how to get rid of my personal Facebook and still be able to manage my business pages!)

I’ve found a freedom in my lack of social media presence. I noticed how often I would do things “for the pic,” and I started to enjoy just being in the present, without worrying if my lunch salad was worthy of X number of likes. 

Last night, I found an even greater freedom. 

I went to a concert last minute for my favorite band. I was aware they were coming to town for some time, but had opted not to go because #christmas $$$$$. But the morning of the concert, I couldn’t stop thinking of the show I’d be missing – okay, call it FOMO – but it was deeper than that. Something in me said I needed to be there. And as a Christmas gift to myself, I bought the tickets and towed my reluctant husband to the city on a Wednesday night. 

And I didn’t take a single photo. Didn’t even post to Facebook where I was. And the feeling that I was simply someone on this earth, in this glorious, soul-wrenching moment of watching my favorite band perform, and the only one witness to it was myself… I cannot describe the feeling. I shared three hours of my favorite music with my favorite person, and all I have to show for it is my memories. And this I cherish more than the other videos I have from other concerts. 

While those around me watched the concert from their phone screen, I watched it through my own eyes. I watched the magic of people closing their eyes, feeling the music around them. I felt my heart stir as hundreds of voices sang out in unison a lyric I’d heard countless times through a set of speakers. I blinked back tears from my own eyes as I witnessed musicians lay bare their talents and passions and voices to a room of strangers. I reveled in a feeling of absolute rightness. A feeling that where I stood in that sea of people was the only possible place I was meant to be at that moment in time. A feeling that the universe put me there to be inspired and moved and joyous and free. 

And I’ve not a single photo that captured it. No photo could. Magic is not so easily snared. I think we’ve lost touch with this inherent magic in the world, if only because we are looking at it through a phone screen or a camera lens. 

When did we forget that we’ve been blessed with eyes that can see, brains that can store memories, a nervous system that can recall past feelings — that we’ve been blessed with the most powerful camera within ourselves, a camera that can capture magic? 

I certainly forgot along the way, but I’m finding my way back. 

I’m frustrated.

I’m frustrated.

What else is new.

First, because I’d love to post the following thoughts on facebook and add to the mayhem that is political opinion, but I won’t. I feel like I can’t because if I do, my conservative family might disown me or misinterpret what I’m saying like they always do, and my proud left wing friends might leave me in the dust. The vultures will swoop and pick apart every word and forget that I am a person as much as them. They’ll forget that we have a relationship — a living, breathing thing easily impacted by the words they will haphazardly hurl into the comment section.

For what feels like my freedom to express my thoughts and opinions being taken away from me, I am frustrated.

Secondly, I am frustrated by the dichotomy we’ve used to define politics, and the way politics have come to define every meaningful — good or bad — moment in our history. Nothing is black and white. Nothing is as easily defined by simply labeling it ‘right’ or ‘left,’ except maybe your thumbs, but even those can also be described as ‘opposable.’

I am frustrated by the ignorance lining my Facebook feed and headlining on the news. An ignorance that convinces people that multi-layered issues are black and white. It angers me when people do not see the grayness in this world. When people do not see all of the other opinions and facts and emotions and people living between the black and the white.

I am frustrated because I could not convince myself to share on Facebook a video of President Obama explaining that a proposal for gun control does not mean taking away the rights of good people to purchase guns for sport, hunting, self protection, etc., because I know far too many people who believe any-and-everything President Obama has ever and will ever say is total crap. I’m frustrated, because even though I do not identify with much of the democratic platform, I did not feel comfortable sharing something I agreed with because my conservative family would not hear it for what it was.

I am frustrated that even though I believe in stricter gun control, I cannot openly discuss this with people close to me because they will not listen. Because some will say we really just need to ban all guns (something I don’t agree with), and others will protest because they believe that wanting stricter gun control means wanting to take away all guns. They will inevitably use the argument that guns don’t kill people, people kill people. They will say drugs are illegal, but people still buy them. They will say criminals will still find a way to get the guns they want.

I am frustrated because those same people don’t seem to realize that IT IS NOT THE CRIMINALS WE ARE WORRYING ABOUT RIGHT NOW. IT IS NOT THE SO-CALLED CRIMINALS SHOOTING UP CHILDREN WITHIN THE HALLS OF THEIR SCHOOLS. It is the mentally ill who could have been stopped, if only there was a mental health evaluation required to acquire a fire-arm. It is the extensive background check that should have been done when Nikoals Cruz purchased a firearm.

As President Obama says in a video I am too afraid to share on Facebook, the rate of car accidents used to be much higher, but we took action to enact seatbelt laws, airbag standards, and drunk driving laws.

And yet, we cannot do the same with gun deaths because everyone is afraid that means taking away their guns, their rights. We can hardly even talk about gun control because we cannot see the grayness. We cannot see, as a whole, that gun control does not mean taking away gun rights. It means making it more difficult for the wrong people to acquire fire arms. I don’t think anyone is saying this will stop criminals from getting their hands on guns. But what it might do is prevent senseless deaths like those that occurred in Parkland, Florida.

There are no guarantees. But how can we know if we have the power to end the senseless deaths of children if we are not even able to try? How can we hope to move forward as country if we cannot see the gray? If we cannot acknowledge that between the black and the white, the right and the left, there are millions of people and opinions and ideas and opportunities for improvement? When will we, as a country, acknowledge that what we are doing now is not working?

I am frustrated because I don’t know what to do, how to do it, what needs to be fixed and if it can even be fixed in way that placates more than a few people. I am frustrated because I can’t trust my lawmakers to do their jobs. I am frustrated because I can’t speak freely to my own family and friends without being belittled and devalued. I am frustrated that because I do not prescribe 100 percent to either side of our dichotomous political system, my opinion does not get heard.

I am frustrated. And you should be, too.

It’s OK to Cry on Mountains: A Memoir

Am I dramatic? Maybe.
Does learning how to ski suck? Depends who you ask.
Does skidding down the side of the mountain on your butt toward an approaching cliff with each of your appendages going in a different direction hurt like hell? Absolutely.

If we’ve been friends for any length of time, you’ve probably heard about my multiple failed attempts to snowboard. Which is why when Joey somehow convinced me to go on another snow-laden vacation to Steamboat Springs, Colorado, I opted to trade my snowboard for skis and enrolled in a class of ten other adults equally terrified of the death traps strapped to our feet.

Luckily, self-depricating humor was widely accepted among my group, and we quickly began competing for who could be the worst at descending the bunny slope.

Now, I like to say I’m not particularly sporty, but I am athletic. I work out consistently, run, do yoga and love a great spin class. But it seems to me that once I need to incorporate an inanimate object into my very animate body (read: skis), all bets are off.

By the time lunch arrived, I’d somehow managed to convince my instructor I was ready to leave the bunny slope, even though I stared up at the easy green slope with horror gripping every facet of my being. Not to mention my entire body hurt everywhere. 

“I’m not going back,” I told Joey at lunch, referring to the second half of my lesson to begin after catching a quick bite to eat. My ego was bruised, my shins were screaming, and life just felt real sucky.

“Come on,” Joey said, “is it that bad?”

“Yes.” No. I don’t like not being good at things, and I was fully aware I was merely running away from my imminent failure.

I could regale you with the rest of our lunchtime pow-wow consisting of much of the above, but just know it ended with me chugging two cocktails and a shot of vodka.

Alcohol. It convinces us we can do anything, and damn, sometimes, it’s right.

I finished my lesson (only after making the deal with Joey that I’d go back if he took a yoga class with me) with success, owed largely to the vodka, I’m sure, and conquered the small green I’d stared upon with horror only a couple hours prior.

I bet you’re wondering where the crying on mountains part comes in.

Well, that would be the next day, when I accidentally ended up on a blue slope, confident at first, and then characteristically forgot how to stop as I flew down the slope to my certain death. When, after a crazy painful wipe-out, I finally stopped my body from hurling itself over a cliff, my goggles fogged with the tears.

Tears for pain. For humiliation. But mostly for frustration, for I’d been so confident as I accidentally began down the blue, and even did ok for a bit, only to fail in the end.

“That was so awesome!” Joey whooped as he rode his stupid snowboard over to my stupid ski-entwined legs. “Wait… what’s wrong?”

I know, the nerve.

But Joey, bless his golden heart, knows me so well that this was hardly cause for concern. Because he knows, and I know, that I will get back up, but I just need a minute to feel my frustration and let it pass. Tears come easy for me, and oftentimes they mean little. But they come none-the-less and I’ve accepted it’s just apart of my psyche.

To get to the point of the this anecdotal story, I cried on that mountain multiple times. And every time, I got back on my death skis and made it a little bit further down the mountain. Over and over again.

Much of 2017 was a mountain for me, and 2018 is shaping up to be the same. Trying to be a published author is damn hard, and I’ve found myself crying on this mountain more times than I count. But just like the real mountain, after every rejection email, I get back up and I keep on going. Because it’s OK to cry on mountains, as long as you put your skis back on and remember to pizza. 

And you know what? I’m looking forward to our next ski trip.

Social Media is Lying to You

Yesterday was an amazing day. I spent my last UCF Homecoming tailgate and game as a student surrounded by some of the best friends anyone can hope to have. The beer was cold, the laughs were consistent, and the weather (while rainy at times) wasn’t anything to complain about, either.

By the time Joey and I were on our way home, we both couldn’t stop talking about how wonderful of a day it was and how happy we were to have spent it with some even more wonderful people.

But then I did something. I went on social media, and my mood instantly changed. This has happened before, but I think it was really noticeable yesterday because of the huge gap between my previous life-high and the resulting sadness. I went from being on cloud nine to feeling like my day was the least fun of all the people I know.

How is this even possible? How can one snap story or Instagram picture completely change the perception of my day? What others post on their social media does not change the day I experienced, yet it completely changed my perception of it.

And that’s not OK.

This is something I’ve been realizing for a while now, slowly but surely. And I’ve noticed when I’m in the thick of a busy semester and I’m lacking the time to waste on social media, I’m often happier. And I think that’s because I’m not participating in the constant comparing and incessant “my life is better than yours” mentality. Further, I’ve even noticed that I post some things just so others can see it. Not because I want to share a moment or archive a memory, but because I feel the need to let the world know that I’m doing whatever it is I’m doing. I’m not proud of or happy about this, and I think it’s time I put an end to it.

Maybe this says more about me  than it does about others. Maybe I’m just the frail one who is predisposed to bouts of FOMO and insecurity, but I’m pretty sure I’m not the only who finds herself comparing her worst moments to others’ best moments shared on social media.

I (and I think many others) need to remember that no one posts the bad stuff on social media. People only share the best photos that shine the brightest lights on their lives. This isn’t a bad thing, but it conditions us to think that everyone else is better off than us. This is a lie. Everyone has their own trials and struggles, even if they aren’t plastered across their Facebook walls or lining their Twitter feed. We can’t compare ourselves to everyone else’s best. We are all individuals, and what others post on social media is not content to compare yourself against.

When did social media become a measure of self-worth? Nearly every social media outlet was founded on the platform of connecting people and creating a shared space where we can all interact and share ideas, memories and thoughts. Yet, we’ve become so obsessed with how people view us on social media that we forget to focus on how we see ourselves. We’ve begun to see ourselves through the lens of ours likes and that is not at all the way anybody should determine his or her value.

I think this is why I love my CHAARG Instagram (brianam_inchaarg) more than any of my other social profiles. It’s a space where inspiring CHAARG women can post their best and worst days and still receive just as much support and camaraderie from others in the CHAARG community. It is incredibly uplifting, inspiring, and surely a better depiction of what real life looks like for most people.

All of this being said, I’m cutting my social media presence in half. I don’t need half of the platforms I waste time on everyday. I wish I could be that person who deletes all of them and lives in a blissed out, social-free world. But the fact of the matter is that I need some for building my career, and I do thoroughly enjoy sharing some moments with friends and family. But I am definitely going to change how I use all of these, and I’m done with letting it define me and how I feel about my life. Because my life is pretty great.

Social media is wonderful for connecting others, but if we let it define our happiness then we will never find it. So post that photo with the perfect filter and double-tap your friends’ posts, but don’t let the number of likes define how you feel about yourself. You are in charge of your happiness. Be sure you’re looking in the right place for it.

It Really is All Good

The past couple days my life has been strung together by a series of coincidences that are just too good not to believe that the universe meant for them to happen exactly as they played out. For you to understand completely, I must start with some background on my general disposition as a person.

I wouldn’t say that I’m an overtly negative person, but I’m also not known for my incessant cheeriness and positivity. I like to think of myself as a realist. If you ask my boyfriend, he’ll probably scoff and tell you I’m really a pessimist. I chalk this up to his incessant cheeriness and happiness. Which I often envy, so believe me when I say I don’t mean that negatively. Alas, I digress.

When I’m being particularly “realistic” (cough, negative), I often find myself kind of, weirdly chanting “it’s all good” and half laughing under my breath. It’s a really strange habit I’ve adopted over the years, and I do it so often that I don’t even realize it.

That is, until yesterday. I was on a Skype call with my team leader for my internship with CHAARG this summer. We have monthly “goal chats” where the conversation is about 10 percent work related and 90 percent life talk. After we’ve hashed out the goals for the month and reflected on what we liked best about the previous, the discussion is open to any topic. I found myself venting about struggles I’m facing with work and finding a fall internship and worrying about graduation in December (realist talk, y’all), and after a long schpeel of word vomit (which she sat through patiently, nodding in all the right places), I found myself doing the “it’s all good” mantra-laugh-thing. Like usual, I didn’t think anything of it and was ready to move on to the next point in the conversation.

But she wasn’t ready to move on. She proceeded to say, “It’s so funny you say that — ‘it’s all good.'” Before I could ask her why, she shared the story with me of her best friend that passed away last year. Sudden and unexpected, it had a profound effect on her life. She told me the story of how her best friend also used to say “it’s all good.” The only difference is that she actually meant it. She honestly believed that, in the end, it really is all good. My team leader now wears a bracelet with those very words engraved on it every day of her life as a reminder of the life she lost and the positivity that she can still continue to spread in her absence.

At first, I felt a little saddened by this. You know, this girl was clearly a wonderful person who truly believed that everything was made of good, while I say the words absentmindedly without really thinking what they truly mean. They are merely a crutch to disguise how I’m really feeling.

After our Skype call ended, I couldn’t stop thinking about her story and the context in which were talking. It was, after all, our monthly goal chat — a time to reflect on the past and plan for the future. So, why couldn’t I change my “it’s all good” coping mechanism into an honest mantra for living every day life?

If I’m being 100 percent honest, I struggled with the notion because it goes against who I think I am as a person. But who we think we are is often far off base from who we really are. So yes, I can be negative sometimes. But I also have a really soft heart that gives more than it takes and loves more than it hates. I might get down when things don’t go the way I wish or when I disappoint myself (who doesn’t?), but that doesn’t mean that I can’t believe that it really is all good. 

I was out to lunch with my mom and grandmother shortly afterward our goal chat. Since “it’s all good” was top of mind already, I couldn’t help but notice the positivity and love that my grandmother has for everyone. Rarely does she say anything bad about anything — her love for others and for life so great. I thought to myself, to her it really is all good. And if she can do it, then so can I. Because this world has enough hate and negativity and darkness floating around.

So I’m sending a huge thank you out to the universe for giving me this perfect alignment of fate or coincidence or whatever it was. Because it really is all good, and I refuse to to see the bad.

16 Marathons in 16 Weeks

I love running. Running is hard, a challenge, a melodic pounding of the pavement that resets my heart and mind when I’m trapped in my thoughts. I may end up deaf one day from the music I blast in my ears to block the sound of my breathing, but at least the rest of me will be in good shape. For me (and a lot of runners, I’m assuming) running is merely a process of discovering a rhythm. Once this rhythm is found, running becomes miraculously easier. One second you’re gasping for breath, your muscles are screaming and your heart is beating like a wild fire, and then the next second your feet find a comfortable pace, your breathing regulates and your heart settles into a beat that doesn’t feel like it is going to pop right through your rib cage. You’ve found the rhythm and can then continue on for what feels like forever — you know, until that runner’s high is depleted and suddenly your whole body screams at you to please just stop the torture! (At which point you just adjust the rhythm to a pace comfortable enough to get you home– hopefully, anyways).

Now, take away the running and replace it with classes, internships, a job, a social life, eating well, staying healthy and sleeping, and you’re still running. (Kudos to Dunkin Donuts for picking up on this with an accurate slogan). This semester has been a marathon that resets every Monday morning. As I’m sure so many others can relate, this marathon-like pace of life is exhausting and it is easy to end up burnt out. And unlike a real run where you can stop and return home when you’re tired, life doesn’t stop. You don’t have a choice but to keep running. (I suppose you could stop and return home if you really wanted to, but try telling your boss you can’t come into work because you’re tired and let me know how it goes).

Sometimes (me, today), Monday morning comes with a series of cringes. I woke up with my metaphorical shin splints yelling at me to take just one more day of rest. One more day of rest and we can start the week’s marathon on Tuesday at break-neck pace. Unfortunately, I couldn’t listen to them. Life doesn’t wait. And so I’ve embarked on this weeks marathon — maybe at a slower pace, but a pace nonetheless.

The trick, I’ve found, is to approach this way of life like it is a literal marathon. You have to find the rhythm, find the balance that keeps you putting one foot in front of another. Just like a tough run where all you can focus on is getting one step further, sometimes life can only be done one minute/hour/day at a time. Maybe you are able to speed up mid-week, knockout some big goals, and then wind down for the last few miles of the journey. Maybe you warm up for a couple days, and then sprint the last stretch. This mix is different for everyone.

We are in week seven of the spring semester. I have six marathons under my belt and have embarked on the seventh. It’s Monday, and maybe I spent some time today just trying to catch my breath and ease the muscle pains. But I’ve learned how to the find the rhythm, and can adjust to what each day demands of me. Every day is a process of discovering the pace that will get me through to the next day, the next step. The semester is just about half-way over. Soon enough, the 16 weeks will have flown by and I’ll find myself that much stronger. Sixteen marathons in 16 weeks — one step at a time.

I just have to remind myself to breathe.

A Mental Tennis Match

Making decisions is hard. I know this because I suck at them. Please don’t ask me what I want for dinner. I will say “I don’t care” and you will get annoyed with me. I’ve always been bad at the little decisions, and it is something that I try to work on daily.

You can imagine my distress when asked to make big decisions, and the past few months have been laced with them. This semester is hard– really hard. Every semester I think there is no way it can get worse, and then it does. I’m trying to change my perspective on this. A role model of mine said to me the other day, “don’t be worried that it is hard. The harder it is, the more sure you can be that you’re doing it right.”

Well then. I must be doing it pretty darn right!

With this semester comes hard decisions. And the fact of the matter is that everyone is busy, everyone is stressed, my problems don’t matter to most people. Which is most likely the reason why I am hesitant to talk to people about my decisions (Except for my mom. She hears it all. Sorry, mom). It got to the point this past month that my visit to the family doctor for just a physical turned into more of a therapy session and time to vent about the stress I have and the decisions I need to make.

I had been struggling with, among other things, deciding whether or not I should go inactive in my sorority this semester. I was torn nearly 50/50. On one hand, it was kind of my forced social interaction. When my schedule is so full I find it hard to see friends, chapter on Sunday and mandatory events is a way to make sure that I see some of my girlfriends and maintain those relationships. On the other hand, college is expensive and I am very busy (just like everyone else in the world). Simply stated, I just can’t afford it this semester, money and time wise. I told my doctor all of this, and she gave me some wonderful advice that I repeat to myself daily. She said:

“Right now, you are putting all of your energy into trying to make a decision. Your mind is just playing tennis, going back and forth. This is not productive. What you need to do is make a decision. There is not a right one or wrong one. But once you make the decision, you can live with it. Once you make the decision, you can put that mental energy towards achieving another goal.”

What wisdom! Why had I not seen this one before? She is absolutely right, and I need all of the mental energy I can get to make it through the day. So I made the decision, and I went inactive. It had been such a hard decision to grapple with, but after receiving this piece of advice, it felt ten times easier. I’ve even equipped myself with a system to ensure I’m still reaching out to my friends and making time to cultivate those relationships.

How sad is that? That I’m at the point where I need a system to make sure I’m keeping up with my friends? It sounds crazy, but it keeps me energized, focused and sure of what I need to work on and when.

What I think this really comes down to is the fact that people handle stress differently. I know girls who do more than I do and handle it gracefully. I, however, tend to crash and burn (just ask the 4 mental break downs I’ve had in the past month). I needed to willingly take something off my plate or everything was going to slide off of it’s own accord. I’m introverted, so at the end of the day I need to go home and relax on my own or with my family. It is the only way I reenergize. I can be go-go-go from 6 a.m.-6 p.m., but after that I need to be in a place of (semi)solitude to just take a few moments to breathe, go to the gym, be with my family or hunker down for a night of studying. I am not one of those people who can go out every evening. I need my sleep, and it’s not something I’m willing to sacrifice (in most cases).

Ultimately, this semester has become a strive for quality over quantity. Because I just don’t have time for quantity. But I do have every capability of making sure that the time I do spend with those I care about it quality time. It is more important than ever that I have a quality circle friends to keep me grounded and who never rolls their eyes when I start to complain. My focus on what matters the most in my life right now is razor sharp. I have my job, my internship, my health, my family and my friends. And they are all quality.

If there is anything I’ve learned in the past few months it is that I have the power to make decisions. I get to choose who my friends are, what I devote my time to, the food I put in my body. And I always have the option to choose quality over quantity. My advice to you? Just make the decision. Because then you can live with it and then you have energy to put towards bigger and better things.

 

The Ugly Side of Perfectionism

By some Godly fate or design, I am a writer. I always have been. From the glory days writing about talking tea-sets to the days of long, monotonous (except for the research paper I wrote on Harry potter. That paper was exhilarating) college papers, I am writer. When everything seems to change, this is the one thing that remains the same. It is the art that I always come back to; it is the art that I am always trying to perfect. The only problem is, sometimes I don’t know what to write about. I’ve wrote about this before, and to my avid readers, you already know about my struggle for inspiration. #thestruggleisreal

Which is why I am starting something new.

I harp continuously on the fact that words mean things. And when I say this, I’m usually thinking about something someone else has said. It is other people’s words that inspire me and teach me. So I thought, why not give my readers a glimpse into the words that mean something to me? Amidst toiling with this idea, I spoke with a dear old friend of mine. I was sharing with her the lack of creative juices, and she recommended just reacting. Look at something, and react to it. It’s that simple.

I’ve decided to do just that. I will share with you quotes that inspire me, impact my life, and shakeup my world view. I’ll react to them, share with you my thoughts, and maybe add my own two cents into the mix.

So, shall we begin?

“I will hold myself to a standard of grace, not perfection.”

Like I said, I am a writer. That truth has always been self-evident. But there is another truth that is just as self-evident, albeit exponentially more annoying. I am a perfectionist. Not just your regular OCD perfectionist that strives for good grades and clean lines, but a psychopathic perfectionist with an honest-to-God problem. In some facets of my life this is a good thing. My job requires a high attention to detail, my sorority crafts are on-point, I go to the gym on a regular basis, and my grades are high.

I know there’s people out there just like me. My best friend is one of them (Hallelujah, I’m not alone). It’s great and all to be a perfectionist, but what happens when you get so close to perfection you can almost taste it? Well, my friends, that’s when you become me. Someone so obsessed with perfection that an 84 on an exam almost makes your new home a psych ward.

But it’s okay. I’m okay. We’re all okay. The world has not stopped spinning. It was a hard test. It’s only a B. Okay… DEEEEEEEEEP BREATH, Briana, BREATHE. C’s get degrees, right?

Okay, I’m exaggerating. But for someone that always gets As, I was pretty disappointed in myself. I know I could have done better. Regardless, I’m trying to be okay with it. I’ve calculated the exact minimum grade I can get on the remaining exams in order to get an A in the class. (I told you, I’m crazy)

While I was beating myself up over my 84, I remembered this quote. “I will hold myself to a standard of grace, not perfection.” I’ve been trying to live by this for a while now, and it is a lot easier said than done. I think there is definitely something to be learned from this, though. How many of the great innovators of our time got 100s on every exam they took? Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, Thomas Edison, Henry Ford, Mark Zuckerberg? I’m guessing none of them. They were too busy doing things that actually matter to get 100s on every test.

The truth? I’m starting to think that perfection is not even a real thing. There is always room for improvement. If any of us were perfect, we would have nothing to strive for. What would motivate us? Therefore, I am holding myself to a standard of grace. I think we can still strive for perfection. (If I’m not trying my best, then I don’t really know what the point is.) But holding yourself to a standard of grace… that is standing tall when you fall short of perfection. It is understanding that there is always room for improvement, and that is not a bad thing. We’ll never be perfect, but that is what makes us human.

So hold yourself to a standard of grace, and always do your best. Some days your best may be an 84 (as hard as that is for me to accept). Stand tall when you fall short of perfection, and remember that nobody is perfect, no matter how hard we try.

“I will hold myself to a standard of grace, not perfection.”

On an unrelated note, how do you all feel about this new idea? There are many of my favorite quotes that I would love to share with you all, and I can’t think of a better way to do so!

I guess I should get out of bed already

Let’s start with a little bit of science. I took a psychology class a couple years ago, and I found it so interesting I almost considered getting a degree in it. But then I remembered that although I enjoy learning about the concepts that rule our universe and our minds, I actually really hate science classes, so there went that one. However, a lot of the knowledge I learned in that class stuck with me, especially the concept of metacognition. There’s a lot of scientific mumbo-jumbo that is used to define this term, but it basically boils down to “thinking about thinking.” Metacognition, in its most primal form, it used as our most basic survival tool. Understanding how we think allows us to use the fickle processes of our brains to our advantage, making them not so fickle.

I realized that this process rules my life, mostly because in my quest to get back into writing, I’ve found myself only able to write about writing. Let’s call it metawriting (probably what I should rename my blog to). I’ve been trying to use metacognition to understand why metawriting is the one thing I’m so inspired to do. I hated it at first, questioned it, wondered why I had no wisdom to offer the world. I write about writing and I write fiction that allows me a break from thinking about why I think about writing about writing (try to understand that one).

As I’ve said before, lack of inspiration is my problem. I don’t lack ideas or time or motivation; just inspiration. Inspiration often strikes me in short bursts: when I hear that one song on the radio, read a really great quote, hear a success story about an aspiring writer, get lost in the pages of a really good book. And although these instances happen quite frequently, they just don’t last.

In my quest to be published I’ve faced a lot of rejection. Rejection leads to giving up on dreams, or at least pushing them to the back burner. Turning a blind eye to inspiration. When I first began sending manuscripts out to agents and publishers, I would think that I almost wanted the rejections because I wanted to work for it. I didn’t want it to be easy.

….that wears off real quick.

But instead of letting it fuel me, I let it knock me down. I let it convince me that I’m not a good enough writer, that I don’t have the persistence and resilience that it takes. So I pushed it to the back burner. Said I’d come back to it when I had more time, better my writing, improve.

And I intend to see this through. But instead of waiting for time to tell me I should get back at it, I’m just going to do it (mostly because time is a made-up concept that doesn’t talk). Even when it’s hard, even when it feels like complete drudgery and I sit down at the keyboard with a sigh, I will keep working for my dreams. I’ll keep writing about writing, one of my greatest sources of inspiration.

2015 will be a year of chasing dreams, not just metadreaming. And so I’ll share with you a piece of wisdom I learned some time ago.

Every morning you have a choice: you can stay in bed and keep dreaming, or you can get up and chase them. 

Here’s to getting up. 

Getting back into the Game

It’s been a long while since the last time I posted. I’ve been asking myself why for the past few months. Why aren’t you writing? Where is the inspiration? Is writing even something you like to do? (I know, that’s a dumb question). I’ve used excuses like I’m too busy, I don’t have time, I have homework to do, I don’t know what to write about. But I think the thoughts I’ve been toiling with for months are finally coming together, and I’ve finally found the words to get it all out.

I’ve abandoned writing lately because it often reveals to me things about myself that I don’t really like, or that scare me, or that I didn’t even know I thought. Sometimes I feel like writing snatches my thoughts from me, and suddenly I feel like they’re not my own.

But I’ve decided that’s why I need to write: because sometimes they are not just my own thoughts. I’ve been told on many occasions that I’m really good at putting my own and others’ feelings into words. I need to write so other people can understand what they’re feeling. I need to put thoughts that are hard to think into words that are easy to read. I need to write to understand myself, and to understand others, because somehow some thoughtfully arranged and artfully designed words make the most abstract of thoughts understandable and normal.

In my World Literature class this semester I had the privilege of coming across this stroke of genius written by George Steiner:

“We can use words to pray, to bless, to heal, to cripple, to torture. Man creates–and he uncreates–by language. And I have never seen a satisfactory explanation of why there is no break inside us, nothing which says you can’t say the next thing. This fascinates me, that there is not limit to the autonomous power of human speech.”

These words touched me more than any others have in a long time. They reminded me of the power that can be found in understanding that words mean things. I feel like people look at me like I have two heads when I say this, that words mean things. Like, duh, words mean things, right?

But it’s so much more than that. Words are power. And I think that those who do not at least try to wield them to their advantage are failing to understand what language is all about. I abandoned words for a while, and I’ve never felt more helpless.

So here’s to writing more, and never forgetting my power, and that sometimes others need me to let out my words just as much as I need write them.