The Best & Worst Question

How’s Writing Going? 

It’s almost gotten to a point where I’d almost even prefer “did you work out today?” or “are you dating anyone yet?”

But lezbehonest, I don’t.  Unlike my answers to latter two though, the former takes a more careful and craftier response. It’s hard to tell someone how the passion of your life is going as opposed to your very simple dating life–or lack thereof.

NO, I’m not dating anyone.

Easy.

But when prosed with the writing Q, my mouth stutters and my eyes panic.

Writing is going….I’m waiting for some stuff to be publi—I started a series for an online magazine no one has heard of—I’m in the works with a friend to launch a blog—do you read children’s books because—

NOT SO EASY.

It’s difficult because I think a lot of my identity  rests on writing. Actually, on my writing. Like any art, it’s hard to cultivate a passion/talent/trade in a light that looks successful or worthy to be doing in the first place when it’s not say being played on the radio, on the NY Times Must-Reads or in a gallery somewhere in Brooklyn. Then again, I suppose that’s entirely subjective, but sometimes I wish there was something more tangible than clicking “publish” or “post” to help confirm I’m doing things–that I’m moving forward.

I often find myself dependent on the works I manage to finish. Because if writing is not going well, I usually am not so well and  so I am not a success. And since that thinking is unfair, my definition of such a word has had to change (especially  since I decided to step into such a lifestyle). It has transformed and is working it’s way to where it’s to be less a kin to the gold factor and worldly kind, but more responsible for carrying and acknowledging the weight of the power of word and blessing of gift. And when “success” becomes that, I am easily less discontent with my work, because though failure becomes somehow easier to recognize, it’s also easier to restore and or restart.

This is a passionate meets pitiful road I tred adamantly on, despite. it. all.  No other profession could embody such traits more complimentary to me than writing.

I’m obscure, I’m introverted, I’m fickle, I’m random, I’m lofty, I’m emotional, I’m conundrumous and I’m ebb and I’m flow.

I’ve accepted I am meant to live in the tension that I think must be called creativity.  I write because if I don’t, I go crazy. Though when I do, I also go crazy, but that type of crazy turns into like a cool and acceptable chaos that somehow detangles the already present ones in my head, heart and fingertips.

And though at times I feel like the most foolish person to want to partake in this craft as a forever endeavor,  a wise and mentoring voice soothes this catered ache within me:

Writing is like a ‘lust,’ or like ‘scratching when you itch.’ Writing comes as a result of a very strong impulse, and when it does come, I for one must get it out.” (C.S.)

So this is me getting it out, my Russian nesting doll version of writing–writing on writing on writing and why I write. And hopefully also, these 545 words may suffice the next time someone asks me, “how’s writing going?”.

12 Things People (or my bffs) Say, After Coachella 2012

 

  1. Guys, I really miss Tupac…’s hologram.
  2. So, did your boss notice your glitter cross tattoo on your forearm too?
  3. Where did these bruises come from and why do they align perfectly with my handlebars?
  4. I can’t believe I’ve been covering up my midriff this whole time.
  5. What was the website for that fashion blog again? And how many are we on?
  6. Florence is so the devil,  but OMG still love her.
  7. There’s grass and dust in my suitcase. And I found your headband in my bathing suit.
  8. Guys, aren’t you proud I didn’t smoke any marijuana?
  9. My voice is completely gone, along with my will to work or have any responsibility but to sway, sweat and sing in a crowd of strangers and euphoria.
  10. I’ll never be able to say “carpool” without merging and preceding it with the annual indie-music fest. And I’m pissed.
  11. “Thug Life” won’t come off my stomach.
  12. WE HAVE TO GO BACK.

 

Things I want to be when I grow up (which was 4 years ago)

I’m a renaissance women to the extreme. A Trace of all trades if you will and professional at one thing it feels; Instagramming. So I figured since my mind feels flooded as of late–and since graduation in 2009, with endless routes that have been either presented to me to embark on or mustered up by my own accord, I should just write it out with hopes of some fresh revelation and humility turned clarity. And perhaps after reading them or having them read, a tone of truth will permeate through my words and into my prayers/thoughts/steps.

Please, no laughter.

Here is a list  & in no specific order. (note: being a writer is intertwined within all of these bad boys) (double note: also is the desire to marry rich so I can just write on the balcony he also built for me…)

  1. Barista somewhere cool where I make more than 10 bucks/hr.
  2. Production assistant or anything film related.
  3. Bartender or hostess meets dining connoisseur of the sorts.
  4. Nanny.
  5. Christian Ministries.
  6. Personal Assistant/Organizer.
  7. Rockstar–or Folkstar rather.
  8. Visual Designer of Pottery Barn aka Interior/Furniture Designing.
  9. Leadership/Academics related stuff.
  10. Entrepreneur that consists of all of these things…

Easily, this list can extend, but I shall choose to refrain because scriptwriter, children’s book publisher and magazine editor is practically a given, right?

There it is, and here I am, still. All for the taking world.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hire me. Because desiring me gets me nowhere.

 

XOXO,

trace

Today’s truth (and tomorrow’s)

To say I’m blessed in an understatement to the point of embarrassment. It seems sometimes there has to be another word to better exemplify the motion I find myself caught amidst so often–yet the understatement shall stand for I seldom am able to find  any other word that fits.

Privileged. Thankful. Lucky. Fortunate. In reverence. Aw shux.

Sometimes I feel it most when I have absolutely no tangible proof that I’m living this awesome (oh thats a good synonym too) life. No accreditation, no trophies displayed, no gold around my neck or in my pockets, no husband to boast about, but I feel it on my skin, I feel it by my pulse.  It’s  like when you drink ice cold water after a long, hard run. Yeah, I’m thankful for water, but the ability to feel it flow downward in what usually is in slow motion into my esophagus, relieving my thirst, lies a thankfulness far beyond an “ahh” after gulping the 32 oz of H2o. So I’m blessed to be so blessed beyond the point of words and even oohs and ahs.

What I do  know is that I am hungry to incapsulate this emotion, because it’s so life-giving.

Yet sometimes I kind of go back and forth on whether I’m really hungry or if it’s just purely the fact I don’t have complete control over what I’m feeling, so I need answers. So I grab everything in site, stuffing my face with what I hope will fill me, what I hope will give me answers. Do we eat to eat rather than eat to be filled? Do we fear and worry which spoils our spirit or do we trust and know, thus nourishing–filling our spirit? Daily, we encounter this decision that has to be made.

Hunger to know Him better.

Because I think when I aim to pinpoint why I feel a certain way (since feeling blessed I just now have realized totally feels like being fed) it’s my insistent desire that I know Him better. To know God better.  Because I’ve learned I cannot even recognize my own shadow if I do not attempt to step in God’s light; being revealed to who He is gives color to my gray that is my emotion and my uncertainty and my fickle wonderments.

Since Easter is upon us as well as all  the beautiful and fluffy Facebook statuses (mine included) you’ve viewed on your feed of recent, it seems all the more pertinent we–I, address this truth that is to be well celebrated tomorrow AND dare I say the day after the rest of our tomorrows.

A date on a calendar marked with great suffering has been often laced with a forgetfulness that well has truly been the death of me; my forgetful turned redeemed love meets head on with the the love marked by a death that has already been encountered and conquered. Enter: sigh.

To say I am blessed is such an understatement.

So as we enter the last day of holy week into a day marked by the blood of Christ, may we hold steadfast to the truth that what we deserve contradicts what He has so graciously preserved for us. All for us. And that though we are a constantly hungry soul, we are eternally fed by the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.