The Happiness of Completion

All is apparently not lost in my brain and while I still have not returned to my only just begun novel, I did in fact complete my very first short short story! I can't describe how it felt to have actually finished the little story, although exhilarated probably comes close. It was a rather fantastic high that left me wanting more.

The short short part makes it sound a lot easier than it was, at least to me it did. I suppose if you already know about writing short stories then you knew that it was a tricky task. (As Marisa pointed out to me)

I didn't start out to write a short short story, mind you, it was supposed to be a short story. As odd as it may sound, the little story sort of took on a life of its own and try as I did, it really just wanted to be a short short. It amazes me that everything I wanted to get across was actually fully realized in so small a space. I'm not sure if that means I just don't have the ability to stretch out a convincing tale or if that was just all that was needed to do so.

I see the story in the story, but that may only be because I created it. However, it being a short short much of it is open to interpretation and imagination, I suppose, for it's really only a snippet into the characters lives. A very short snippet, at that. A fact which really gives the reader some control over what they imagine occurred to propel the characters to that particular point and even where they will go after.

It's an interesting medium - the short short story. One that I found I really enjoyed. There's something a bit magical in a tiny story that conveys so much. Not that my story or any story I will write in the near future will probably have such magical qualities, but the fact that it's possible makes me want to try.

For those of you wondering if you're going to get to read the story you've now heard so much about...I've not really decided. My anxiety-riddled brain is having issues with the sharing part at the moment.

The Short Side of Stories

As November is quickly winding down, the fact that I am a NaNoWriMo failure is becoming clearly evident. Twenty-two days in and my number remains at the 3,000 I was previously so proud to have completed. I still am, although that pride is now joined by a twinge of disappointment. Disappointment that something I was so excited about lost its luster so quickly. The hypochondriac in me considers getting tested for Adult Attention Deficit Disorder.

But seriously, I think the problem is more of a self-disciplinary sort. This isn't the first time I've begun a project and failed to finish. It's sort of my thing. I do it often. My past is littered with dreams and ambitions hanging incomplete.

In light of my complete lack of self-discipline to write a novel, it was suggested that perhaps the short story was more my speed. Perfect, it seemed, as I had no problems getting to 3,000 words. So last night I sat down to create my first short story.

It went well at first, I got the entire story down on paper, well up on the screen really. Then I stopped and went to bed. This morning I went back to it and proceeded to basically destroy the entire thing, except the ending. I love the ending.

I'm currently delaying my return to the little project by doing this blog post. Procrastination is a friend I know well. But this time it feels a bit different. Instead of feeling as though it will likely remain just another unfinished beginning, it feels like I can and will go back to that short story and finish.

Perhaps that's a sign that short stories really are my perfect creative outlet, even if they can be just as frustrating.

In Line at Target

I live in a relatively small town. There are about 26,000 people here. I've lived here my entire life, minus the college years. Now I obviously do not know all 26,000 of my fellow residents, probably not even half or even an eighth for that matter. So it's very likely for me to go to the shops in town and not actually run into anyone I personally know. This fact suits me just fine, because it never seems to fail that when I do happen upon a familiar face in line at Target, it's someone I don't really care to see.

I wouldn't really say I'm anti-social. Although I'm sure there are some people, including an old therapist who would disagree. I just hate having to make mindless conversation with people who I sometimes wonder if they are only making the effort because it's the polite thing to do. God knows that's the only reason I do it.

Honestly, I can do without the awkward "Hey, how have you been?" from the former boyfriends. I can also do without the perky girl from high school who finds joy in being out in a storm to pick up some shampoo. I generally dislike perennially perky people, no one is always that happy. And I can most certainly do without the old friend who since I've last seen her has married and produced a child or children. These are my least favorite people to run into.

Now, I personally don't have anything against people with children. I like children, I spend all day long with them. What I cannot stand is those people who have children and look at you like you're from Mars because you're at a certain age and don't yet have a gaggle of your own. Or worse, you're not even married yet! Gasp! Apparently not being married with children is worse than the plague to them.

So the other day I happened to have the joy of running into one of these people, who might I add had an unruly 2 year-old screaming at her the entire time I had to endure talking to her. After hearing about the horror of my unmarried and childless state, this woman says to me: "Oh, you must really love your job." What? Do people get married and have children because they don't like their jobs? What does liking or disliking your job have to do with being married?

Now I know not all married people are like this. I happen to know some lovely people who are both married and have children and they do not act like this. Unfortunately those nice people are never the ones I happen to run into in line at Target.

The Curse of an Anxious Mind

I've been receiving loads of encouragement from my Twitter pals regarding my novel adventure, as well as this here blog. As I was reading through these uplifting tweets, the thought occurred to me that these lovely people think more highly of me and my abilities than I do. After that rather depressing realization, I started trying to deduce when this descent into the depths of low self-esteem began. Surely, I haven't always been this way. Surely, it hasn't always taken the kind words of others to make me think I can accomplish something. Right? Thankfully, the answer is no; it hasn't always been this way.

If I'm being honest, and really what's the point of not being honest, I do have an idea of when the slide into self-deprecation got underway. A few years ago, well not really a few anymore, about six now, I went through a rough spot. Nothing catastrophic, no one died, nothing really bad happened at all. I just started questioning myself, second guessing my choices, actions and motives. I never felt as though I was doing the right thing, making the best choices, making those choices for the right reasons. And it scared me, terrified me really, that I was ruining my life because everything I did just seemed wrong. It was maddening and it soon started to affect me physically.

The physical manifestations of my contemplative self-torture turned out to be a blessing in disguise. After several doctor visits for skull splitting headaches, insomnia and this nervous feeling that would not go away, I was informed that I, in fact, suffered from an anxiety disorder. Hurrah! This madness had a name and a treatment! Wait, not so fast. Several treatments, actually, and none with a guarantee. I'd have to try several, and I mean several, before one actually worked.

In the end, I did find one that worked. The combination of a magic pill and talking about those things that scare the crap out of me. I no longer second guess all my choices, although it takes me an immense amount of time and thought before making a big one. I no longer constantly worry that everything I do today will negatively affect me tomorrow. I do, however, still not see myself as that person who can do anything I set my mind to, and I do still worry about what others will think of the things I do.

Apparently, the path up out of the pit of self-condemnation is a bit longer than the one going down.

Writing

I always wanted to write a book...to put to words the story that has swirled round in my head for what seems like forever. I've never done it, never even tried to do it, until now. A friend convinced me to sign up for National Novel Writing Month. Yes, I am aware that it is a rather large leap to go from not writing ever to writing a novel. However, it's also occurred to me that therein lies the adventure of it. 50,000 words in 30 days, the opportunity to finally get to paper this story I've imagined over and over again. Will I succeed? Not sure yet, currently I am on my 3rd day and have roughly 3,000 words completed. I tell myself that's a pretty good start, even if the little graph on the NaNoWriMo page says I'm already behind. Even if I don't complete the target goal, I think of it as a pretty good accomplishment, in and of itself, that I even got as far as 3,000.

And Away We Go

This is my first time blogging...a few people from the Twitter group I frequent have some amazing blogs and encouraged me to jump on the blogging bandwagon. So here it is...nothing spectacular, as yet, and possibly never will be, but I suppose the point isn't really to be spectacular, but to share. So if you are expecting a paragon of witty discourse, you've likely stumbled onto the wrong blog. What you will likely find are random stories about the small children I have the honor of working with daily, as well as mostly random thoughts that I have about the world around me. So, without further ado...away we go...