Falling asleep while writing, and various other writerly oddities.

I think it has been fairly well documented through history that writers are weirdoes. We are, to put it as kindly as possible, a decidedly eccentric bunch. I thought I was insane and weird…that is until I decided – in my sophomore year of college – to change my major to literature. My study of authors led me to the realization that I wasn’t any less strange than I had thought, but there were plenty of writers far stranger than me. I pride myself on these eccentricities now…or, that is to say, they don’t cause me to cringe in shame anymore. And actually, I think it is due to my weirdness that I am even able to do any writing at all.

I ran across a blog post today titled “The Daily Routines of Famous Writers.” Most of these people are absolutely, delightfully off-the-wall, and I was happy to find some similarities between them and myself.

My favorite was Joan Didion.

“Another thing I need to do, when I’m near the end of the book, is sleep in the same room with it. … Somehow the book doesn’t leave you when you’re asleep right next to it.”

This was so fantastic to read. I do exactly this. Well, I should say, I do one of two things. I either bring the draft into my bedroom and keep it on my bedside table – in case I wake with an idea or can’t sleep and want to read it. Or, I fall asleep while I’m writing. Usually this is not in bed. I can’t write in bed, but apparently I can fall asleep on the floor of my living room with the laptop in front of me.

Last night, I decided the floor seemed like a mighty fine place to do some writing. My stupid couches offer no back support, and the floor seemed good enough. I laid down with a couple pillows to prop me up and was reading over some things I’d written the day before. Then before I knew it, it was 1AM and I was curled up in a ball under an afghan (no memory of grabbing that afghan or covering myself, so I either did it in my sleep or live in the company of extremely kind ghosts) and my laptop was still open by me.

Falling asleep while writing is like having a sleepover with friends as a child. Usually, it’s bedtime and that’s that, but at sleepovers there was talking and joking and games. It was a special treat. I felt like that yesterday. When I fell asleep, my main character was zooming on the highway toward her parents’ home because she suspected some bad people might be out to get them and wanted to make sure they were okay. Writing that was like having an exciting conversation with her. I like my characters to be around me at all times – and they actually are always in my head, bugging me.

When I am reaching the end of a piece of writing, I do like to have it with me at all times. Weird? Heck yes it is. But I own the weirdness.

I also found it interesting that so many of the writers talked about hating writing. I think many of us feel we didn’t choose to be writers, we just kind of are writers. I think this is true of most artists, whether they be musicians or painters or writers or whatever. You’re either artistic or you aren’t, and being artistic isn’t always the easiest thing to deal with.

I love writing, but writing isn’t a practical thing. It takes focus and it takes time and after a day of work I have neither. I chatted with a writer friend the other day about how it feels when you don’t write for a long time. It’s like there’s no release for these ideas and emotions. It’s frustrating and usually we get funky if we have not written for some time.

But there are aspects of writing that I hate. Aspects that will keep me from writing because I get too frustrated. One of these is writing descriptions.

I hate reading lengthy descriptions in books. Hate. I will skip them (yeah, I said it. Dear Every English Professor I have Ever Had – that 10 page description of a single blade of grass in that book that was written somewhere between 1800 and 1900 probably by a woman – DIDN’T READ THAT.)

There are descriptions I love because of the beauty of them, but I tend not to be overly descriptive when I write the first draft of a novel because I end up boring myself, and I don’t want to write something I wouldn’t want to read. Hello self-indulgent-writer-syndrome. However, description must be added, so I go back in a second draft and write it all in.

Example.

Here is how this scene was originally written.

March sat at her usual table in Coffee Co., a small coffee shop in a strip mall that was about halfway between her apartment and her parents’ home. She’d gone there a few times a week for the past three years to chat with the shop owner – Mr. Hwang.

It was late October in Virginia, which meant the weather hadn’t quite decided whether it was autumn or winter. On this particular day, a day that happened to be the three year anniversary of her grandfather’s disappearance, it was much more winter-like. The sun was setting and there was a chilly, misty rain falling. March had her phone on the table in front of her, a picture of she and her grandfather on the screen. They were smiling. She loved that picture and she loved him and she couldn’t remember why.

Every Friday for the past month, when March was through with work, she had gone to her parents’ home for dinner. They pretended it had nothing to do with how depressed March had been for the past three years and how she had gotten especially bad for the past month – since the incident with Dave. March shook her head so she wouldn’t think about that. She had decided that morning that she would focus on Grandpa August for the day. She’d deal with reality later. 

I got feedback that there wasn’t enough description. So, I recently revised it.

March sat at her usual table in Coffee Co., a small coffee shop in a strip mall that was about halfway between her apartment and her parents’ home. She’d gone there a few times a week for the past three years to chat with the shop owner – Mr. Hwang.

The shop was a collection of furniture and knick-knacks from around the world that went together perfectly only because absolutely nothing matched anything else. Mr. Hwang had collected things from his travels and thrown them all together, and there was scarcely a space on the wall that wasn’t covered by something. Each table was a different size and different wood finish, surrounded by chairs of various colors. Each table had its own theme – a country. Mr. Hwang always saved the Korea table for March, because it was his favorite. It was a cozy little place, much like something you’d see in a movie. A fireplace, warm lighting, quite chatter from the patrons enjoying coffee from “I heart NY” mugs and delicate Chinese tea cups.

It was late October in Virginia, which meant the weather hadn’t quite decided whether it was autumn or winter. On this particular day, a day that happened to be the three year anniversary of her grandfather’s disappearance, it was much more winter-like. The sun was setting and there was a chilly, misty rain falling. March had her phone on the table in front of her beside a tiny figurine of a Korean woman with a porcelain face and a pretty little fan in her hand. She was dressed in a colorful robes and had feminine rosy cheeks. On March’s phone screen was a picture of she and her grandfather. They were smiling. She loved that picture and she loved him and she couldn’t remember why.

Every Friday for the past month, when March was through with work, she had gone to her parents’ home for dinner. They pretended it had nothing to do with how depressed March had been for the past three years and how she had gotten especially bad for the past month – since the incident with Dave. March shook her head so she wouldn’t think about that. She had decided that morning that she would focus on Grandpa August for the day. She’d deal with reality later.

I also find that in my life in general I am terribly organized, but in writing I am a complete mess. I write, I throw drafts away, I get frustrated, where did I put that notebook with all the characters’ names?, my whiteboard with all my notes fell off the wall and when I tried – unsuccessfully – to hang it again, half the writing got erased when the board rubbed against my shirt. How old is this character again? I should keep better notes. I forgot about that character for fifty pages but they should have been there all along.

Etc.

Somehow, some way, though, I manage to write almost every day and have produced one complete book.

How?

Heck if I know. I am a mess.

It’s more than Kimchi – considering writing about my time in Korea

Before I moved to Korea in June, 2011, I did everything I could to prepare myself for the adjustment to that culture. This preparation included reading a couple of memoir-type mini-books written by former ex-pats who had taught English in Korea. The thing I loved about them was that they were informative…but the thing I hated about them was that they were informative.

Here’s the thing. These books were written specifically for those who – like myself – were considering moving to Korea. They talked about how to find a place to work, what to pack in your suitcases, what Korean food would be like, how much things would cost, what the Korean work environment was like. It was useful information…in a very very strictly practical way.

But these narratives were for the most part unemotional. They talked about how it was “sad to leave family and friends” or “exciting to meet people from another country.” They even mentioned how some Americans couldn’t handle the shift from our culture to that one. But that was it. It was all stated like that very matter-of-factly.

The narratives all tended to have the word “kimchi” in the title, too. As if the only thing that distinguishes that country from others is their spicy, fermented cabbage side dish.

Ahem. Untrue.

I have for some time been considering writing about Korea and what living there meant to me. Here’s the problem, though. I wonder if there’s any sort of market for these types of books. I couldn’t ever find any that didn’t have a practical edge to them. Are there any?

I don’t want to write about how you should pack cold medicine and fitted sheets because those things are hard to come by in Korea. I don’t want to talk about how to negotiate a contract with your school. For the love of all things good I certainly don’t want to talk about how smelly kimchi is the first time you try it.

I want to write about how being overseas helps you become the person you always suspected you could be – this adventurous, open excited person. I’d want to talk about what it’s like to be stared at constantly, objectified by the men there. What it’s like to get your heart broken overseas.

But the question arises – who would want to read this? Would anyone care?

I might start to write a bit about this – while still working on my other book – but my goal is this. I want it to be something that anyone can read – even someone who doesn’t give a crap about Korea. (like people who asked me whether I was moving to North or South Korea back in 2011. I mean…really?) I want it to be a story of how I lived in Korea, rather than a Korea how-to guide.

Oh. And the title won’t have the word “Kimchi” in it.

The Triumphs and Thoughts that this Weekend Brought

My younger brother graduated from college this weekend. Our family is the four of us – Mom, Dad, brother, and me. He is the baby, the last one of our unit to graduate. I couldn’t be more proud of him. He was so successful these past four years at a rather prestigious university. He is going to do great things, I’m sure of it.

Things are changing, as things always do. I remember watching my mother interact with her siblings when I was younger and I couldn’t imagine things being that way. Each sibling has their own life, their own family. They see one another a few times a year – on holidays and special occasions. I couldn’t – and maybe still can’t – imagine this with my brother, probably because he and I are so close. I have a special relationship with him because so many of our interests are similar. We have our own language – as family members like to say. He is my best friend.

And yet, I am watching him talk about applying to jobs in different states. I am realizing that things are moving toward what I saw with my parents growing up. We’re going to be separate, we’re going to have our own lives, and where this scared me before – it doesn’t anymore. I’m actually excited about it. I’m excited to see what he’s going to do, what he’s going to be. He’s an amazing person and I’ve had him for twenty-two years, so it’s only fair I allow the world to see what I’ve seen all along. He’s going to do so much good.

The thing about graduations is that they make me think about my future – whether it’s my graduation or someone else’s. I was always working toward something…always had some kind of goal. Graduate high school…graduate college…go to Korea…get a job back home in the US…

But, then what?

Career-wise, I am in a wonderful place – a better place than I ever imagined. I love what I do and I get paid enough to have my own place and live comfortably. I don’t know what else I could possibly ask for.

Yet, recently, oddly enough, I have been asked by my boss, my father, and a few others about what’s on the horizon. I am baffled by this. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where I want to go in my career because I’m still surprised that I’m twenty-four and doing as well as I am. How could I say I’m thinking about promotions and making more money when I almost feel like any day my boss will wake up and realize she meant to hire someone older and wiser than me?

So for the past several weeks I was wandering around at work thinking I hadn’t a clue what I was going to do about my future…then I realized that I have had a goal all along. I want to get a book published.

Being around those graduates today – all of them full of hope about their future – reminded me that being happy with where I am doesn’t mean I don’t have goals and something to work toward. I have been writing every day and carrying my notebook and taking voice memos with my phone when I’m driving to remind me about any ideas I have for the book. I love my characters and I hope others love them, too. I’m almost 13,000 words into it – tens of thousands to go – but I’m excited about it. I’m living in my fantasy world for the first time since the last book I wrote.

Knowing this is the goal makes work even more fun. I look forward to my writing time all day. I daydream about being able to support myself with my  writing. I am thankful that my parents fostered this creativity and didn’t ever try to tell me I should be focusing on something more practical. My mother is my biggest writing fan and she makes me believe that I really will publish something someday. She reads my stories with great enthusiasm – as though it’s an exciting book she picked up at the store.

This weekend was wonderful. I am a proud big sister, a thankful daughter – happy mother’s day! – and happy to be passionate about my writing.

I anticipate many writing-related posts in the future.

Stories of panic and being apparently quite gigantic.

I have had a few times in my life where I have experienced what I like to refer as “crappy yet defining moments.” You know those moments – where you think, “Why the hell is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?” You want to shake your fists at the heavens and demand an answer from a higher power. Those times when you feel so horrid that you are – in that moment – absolutely positive that nobody on God’s green earth has ever felt as horrible as you do right then. You know those moments?

When I look back on my 24 years, two of those moments smack me in the face with cringe-worthy memories. I will now share those two moments and the perspective I have gained from them.

I can’t exactly classify the first moment as a moment…as it lasted for approximately ten years of my life. From age 11 to age 20, I had quite bad anxiety and panic attacks. Most have experienced anxiety at some point or another – something I didn’t realize in the throws the turmoil that was my teenage years. However, most don’t get a panic attack several times an hour and become convinced that something is seriously physically and/or mentally wrong with them several times a day.

Ah…the memories.

I don’t have memories of middle school and high school that aren’t accompanied by my panic and anxiety. I built my world around things that I could do that didn’t cause me to panic. Of course…the majority of the panicking happened at school. I couldn’t get out of school. I tried. Pretending to be sick, crying in the morning, but my mom booted my teenage butt out of the car. [I know that it was hard for her to do, by the way, and I am grateful that she didn’t coddle me.]

I had trouble sitting through a class without pretty much hyperventilating. These episodes weren’t evident to anyone else when they were happening. Outwardly, it was nothing more than my fingers tapping the desk or slightly faster breathing. But it my head it was a cacophony of “I’m going crazy. Why is my heart beating so fast? Am I going to faint?” [Intense fear of fainting…even though I have never fainted…though perhaps that’s why I’m so scared of it?]

Then, during my second year of college, I decided I’d had enough. I began devising strategies to keep myself from having an anxiety attack. If I felt one was about to happen, I would begin evasive maneuvers immediately. I’d take a few deep breaths, focus on a spot on the floor, wait for my vision to uncloud. I began exercising to lower my anxiety level. I ate healthier food. I did a complete 180. It took a few months, but I was almost panic and anxiety free.

So you’d think things would be better, right?

Oh…if only …

When I became less of a slave to my panic attacks, I suddenly able to do anything I wanted without leaving the house with an escape plan – i.e. excuses for why I had to get up frequently during classes or leave a party early. But, I was left with very few close friends because…when they called me to go somewhere I said no. I was left with hobbies that meant I was cooped up inside my room alone – writing, reading. I didn’t know how to date or have a relationship. I was, socially, way far behind.

I had friends, don’t get me wrong. I think I’m quite a pleasant person to befriend. However, beyond talking at school, I didn’t speak to most of them. Only a select few. I was so closed off.

During this time, I remember how leaving my dorm to go anywhere and not having to worry about panic attacks made me kind of…angry.

“Why? Why couldn’t the past ten years have been this way? I have barely done anything with my life. This is pathetic. I am absurd. I am so mad at myself. Were all my friends living like this the entire time I was afraid to do anything? That is completely unfair. I’m mad at everyone but it doesn’t begin to approach the level of anger I feel for my ridiculous self.”

However, it has been about…let’s see…four years since I had to worry about panic attacks. For a while – I mean at least two of those four years – I was dumbfounded. I didn’t understand why my life was “so terrible.” [I’m dramatic.]

But I realized recently that…had it not been for my panic attack years…there’s so much that I’ve done recently that I wouldn’t have ever dreamed of doing. Travel to Korea? Heck no. That’s ridiculous. Get a job teaching? Speak at meetings? Make friends with people from all over the world – friends who feel as close as family.

I hadn’t ever had friends who felt like family until I went to Korea. I wouldn’t have gone to Korea had I not gotten panic attacks all those years. My biggest motivation for going to Korea was not wanting another second of my life to resemble what those ten years had been. It worked. I changed.

I also find that I am much more empathetic than I would have ever been had I not experienced all that. I care about people – the clients I work with on a daily basis these days, the students I taught in Korea, the friends from Korea who are my language partners. Even people I don’t know well. I know I have an interesting story and I like to figure most everyone does. I don’t know who else could be going through a crappy yet defining moment, so I try to withhold judgment.

—–

Okay, readers, are you with me so far? I am about to take this in the direction of my second and most recent crappy defining moment. It is so recent that it’s difficult to write about…yet I am me, which means I can also see the humor in it. Are you ready?

Here goes.

When I was living in Korea, I had a serious boyfriend. Remember that thing I said about having no serious relationships in high school and college. Well, that changed in Korea. I met a guy and fell for him and was head over heels. He was funny and cute and interesting to talk to. I hadn’t ever met someone I could talk to for hours a day that way.

When we had been together around three months, he told me he loved me. I was ecstatic. I loved him, too. However, on the same day, he told me, “Yeah, it’s funny…because when we met I was just curious about what it’d be like to…you know…sleep with an American. But I guess at some point I started to care about you.”

That should have been a red flag, right? Well, I’m an idiot, so I looked at it more like, “Aww I won him over with my awesomeness.”

Ohh…silly Amber.

After we’d been together for about…I think eight months, it was August of last year. 2012. Oh yes, the memories are fresh. He decided to have me meet his parents. This was when it all began to fall apart – no, not during those other moments that it should have fallen apart. Like…when he told me to lose weight and grabbed my stomach like I weighed 5 million pounds. Or…like…that time he told me I couldn’t hang out with certain male friends because they seemed to like me. Or…like…when he would get mad at me for not speaking to him in a cute voice and hang up the phone and ignore me for a day or two.

Nah. It fell apart when I met his parents.

I heard from him that his parents had differing views about me, but the common theme in the views was that they didn’t like me.

Oh, excuse me. Wait.

They thought I was smart and pretty and cared about him. They thought I had a wonderful personality and understanding of Korean culture. But, dating their son? Oh…that won’t work.

His dad thought it laughable. Literally laughed at me during the meeting at one point and said his son should just focus on practicing English with me since he was going to study in America. My ex’s proclamation of “she’s not my teacher” elicited more laughter.

His mother thought…oh…if only that girl were smaller and possibly Korean. People would laugh at us, she said, or stare at us. I was taller than him, and I wasn’t thin. That was unheard of in Korea. The girls should be smaller.

I cried about this. I was distraught. I ended up deciding to go back to America earlier than planned for other reasons but…if I’m being honest, the situation with him was a contributing factor. He agreed with his mother when he discussed it with me. “I mean…the girl IS supposed to be smaller.” We began to grow apart.

We ended things for good a month after I moved back to America. Meaning…we ended things five months ago. During the first month I was back, I had intense reverse culture shock…crying all the time, feeling disoriented. I reached out to him for support and got very half-hearted responses. He ignored me, he was mad that I left. He said horrible things to me.

Despite all this, I had in my head that he was coming to America in January and perhaps I would go to the state he was moving to and live with him. I proposed this. He rejected it. He said that since there were other Koreans on the campus who knew his father, he couldn’t have me there. People would talk.

So, after having him treat me like I was an embarrassment to him – someone he will gladly share a bed with but refuse to stand up for in front of family and friends – I guess you could say I’m a tad bit…damaged. It’s still a difficult thing for me to discuss. I was so hurt by the way he treated me that I think a part of me will always look back on it and wonder why I let it go on for so long.

However, with each passing month…I am gaining perspective. I am almost…grateful for what happened?

Firstly…there’s something about people outright insulting me that makes me 100% more secure in who I am and what I look like. I realized that I’m the only one who can make me feel good about me. You know what? I’m not disgusting looking. I’m not gigantic. I’m not these things because I don’t think I am these things. I look in the mirror and like the way I look. I dare someone else to tell me I’m “too big” or “too tall.” It’s laughable. Why should I care?

I have also realized that I am much more comfortable and confident talking to men since having that relationship. I am certainly not eager to jump into another situation like that, so I don’t view every man I meet as a potential date. I’m going to be much more careful that I was before. I am having fun meeting and getting to know men every so often. But there isn’t any pressure. I’m not obsessing over things that cute guy said or what that cute guy texted.

I also am able to view the situation as…comical? I don’t know if that’s the right word. But I’m amused by it. I occasionally have moments where thinking about it makes me sad…and maybe it takes a while for that to go away completely.  But I think it’s kind of funny that the situation with him seemed like such a huge deal at the time. It has made me so much tougher and so much more relaxed and so much less likely to tolerate crap from people in all situations.

In the past six months, I have gone from rock bottom to working at a wonderful job that pays me well. I have my own place. I have new friends. I still talk daily with my friends living in Korea. I know that the chain of crappy events that led to where I am were all for the better. The next time I’m depressed about something, all I have to do is remember that I don’t get panic attacks these days and then glance in a mirror and remind myself that I think I look pretty darn good.