It's Been Too Long

It's been too long since I've posted anything because I'm so scared of having nothing to say. And in reality, I'm going to continue with that struggle. Nothing I say, it seems, matters in the grand scheme of things. But if I stay silenced, that's not doing any good, either. Here's to hoping that maybe at least some type of expression can get my by. So, for a poem, untitled:

I look at my books and I feel love.

Perhaps if it is lost, I shall look to them again.

The letters and colors blend together

Like the most beautiful compilations

Of shades on a flower petal.

My heart sings for poetry.

My fingers ache to communicate

Intricate words with tremendous meaning.

I wonder, if I were to die at 24,

Would anyone remember me as a poet,

Or even as a writer at all?

Or would I just be another American

Lost in the pursuit

Of a fancy dream that no longer exists?

The restraints are lifted,

Momentarily I wrack my brain for something

Substantial

Or nothing at all.

I can feel the chill of the rain

From my desk and the moisture

On these keys.

I don’t enjoy the shade of the clouds

With the darkening of the sky.

It makes the leaves look flat.

Is it worth it to be honored posthumously?

I guess I’ll never really answer the question,

Nor can anyone else.

I don’t admire

Every single writer the critics proclaim

to be the best voice of the country/age/genre/bullshit,

But it is the universality of expression

That makes them all at least share something.

I think it was easier to be a poet

During Romanticism,

While conditions were much worse,

Things were much simpler

And the mind had more freedom to make them complex.

Now poets try to do the opposite,

Simplify the complex.

But the simplest human endeavors

Can prove to be the most complicated

When reviewed under a microscope

Or philosophic dissection.

The Game of Persistence and Humility

Okay, it's time for a confession. I knew starting a business would be hard, and then I thought, oh, but it’s just writing, it’s what I do, how could it possibly not work? Now I’m wondering if I should go back to waiting tables.

I enjoy the idea of marketing, and all of the wonderfully scandalous worlds of advertising and the written word, but I’m having the hardest time with the most important element: selling myself. I can only rewrite my bio so many times. I can only market myself for so long until I start wondering, if no one is catching on, what am I doing wrong?

It has only been a few months since I took the leap into freelance writing, but it feels like I’ve been working at it for years, without making any contacts or any significant income. Every day is a job hunt. Unrewarding, completely unsettling, and like a romance that ended over ambiguous text messages, it is overwhelming me with a need for closure.

I don’t even know how many proposals I have floating around the tri-state area. For many of them, I actually spoke with people on the phone. They were potential employers who loved my work or were impressed by my resume, but why is it that I never hear from them again? I’ve been trying to dance a fine line between persuasive and pushy, but how do you know when you should pursue a potential employer until he or she finally does respond? It’s a difficult game, trying to be persistent and humble at the same time.

As I continue to read all of these wonderful books on "freelancing success," I am starting to realize why they all say the same thing: writers do not like marketing themselves. This is where we go wrong. We can write all of the marketing gimmicks you like, but when it comes to selling ourselves as a product, we shut down. It feels dishonest. It feels cocky. It’s as if putting our confidence in print will expose every little typo we’ve ever made in our whole careers.

So, as a writer, what am I to do when I have to write about myself? As usual, all I can do is be honest, and hope my potential clients can see what I’m trying to say.

Accepting Experience

I'm back home now. It doesn't feel like home, though. I felt natural moving around the country, meeting new people and experiencing the altering landscapes. I watched the clouds closely, and marveled over maps for days.

Cross-country trips really can bring out either the best or the worst in people . Sometimes it’s a tricky balance between both. For me, it’s a tricky balance. I feel raw. I feel like all of my emotions are on my sleeve. I am exposed, and feel completely nomadic, no matter how populated the towns we pass through. I act more passionately, as if the only chance I have is in that specific moment.

Near the border of Nebraska, I watch the rolling plains. I keep my eyes peeled for every cow, horse, donkey, sheep or moving animal. They spark something - pity or amazement that these animals live in these landscapes, which were once the new frontier. I feel the electricity of the beauty of nature coursing through my finger tips, up my arms and to my heart. Simultaneously, my fists clench with anxiousness and nervousness, wondering many mistakes I can make or avoid.

Unfortunately, sometimes a negative experience or influence is a necessary jolt to help someone reach a certain level of understanding. Sometimes that level of understanding is simply acceptance. That’s what experience entails: it is not a war with circumstances or a constant evaluation through hindsight. Experience is acceptance and learning. Accepting that our vehicles can’t cross the passes we dreamed of a month prior, learning that natives have a completely different sense of difficulty rating than us. Experience is absorption of the present, and analysis of events and reactions, whether they are good or bad. We cannot judge the quality of our experience in the past or present, and we cannot foresee the quality of a future experience. All we can do is live, accept, and learn. When experience is judged, especially if it is critically judged within the moment, growth is stunted and memories are taunted or lost by negativity.

So if something goes wrong, it is just that. Just as if the same event had gone well. It’s a passing of time, a growth of the individual and group dynamic, without judgments, that allows the human mind to expand and perceive not only the vastness of society, but of our country, our countrymen, and our planet. Embracing the good and bad is an element of learning. If we continue to judge present, past or future situations, we are not moving forward, but rather becoming stagnant, forgetting humility, forgetting compassion, and limiting our abilities and learning experiences.

Especially when away from home, so much is out of our hands. We did not know the roads of Colorado would be so challenging. We did not know how difficult it would be to use the crew in an nontraditional sense, to multitask locations and people. All we know is we can act, decide, move forward, feed our bodies and minds, experience the roads and towns for what they have to offer, and hope that truth and enlightenment crosses our path.

Away From Home and Close to the Heart

I've been away from home since last Sunday, and this is the first time in my life that I've ever felt homesick. I love to travel, and every day is more beautiful than the next, but I can't help but follow my mind back to Elmira, NY.

I've been struggling with a sense of foundation and belonging in that town. I still wouldn't consider it home, but my apartment, with my fiance and our mini zoo, has such a strong hold on my heart that it saddens me to think of them going through their days without me.

Previously, I fought the idea of permanence. I fantasized about being a vagabond, following the winds of desire to any location, hiking in strange woods, maybe joining the Peace Corps, and while all of these still make a romantic impact, something drastic has changed. I'm striving for a sense of purpose and belonging that I never thought was necessary before. Perhaps I'm just maturing, or perhaps it's the inevitable internal clock telling me to put down the beer and settle into a family.

Regardless of what is causing this newly discovered desire to be in a specific place, I am not upset by the sensation. It confuses me a little, and intrigues me even more. It's as if a new emotion just broke the surface of my chaotic life, and I'm trying to react to it in the most positive way possible. This desire to be with loved ones is something I've been waiting for my whole life - it's a purpose personified.

I cannot tell you where or why I am traveling, other than that I am nearly 2,000 miles away from home. I am doing something professional, something exciting, and I am honored to have the opportunity to participate and enjoy it. I am even more honored to understand how lucky I am to know that there is something - someone - beautiful and loving, patiently awaiting my return.

For the Love, not the Money

I didn't realize the transition to freelancing would be such a plunge. I've thoroughly prepped myself for failure, and I've talked myself up to, well, myself, in order to start a freelance writing business. I've got the writing part under control, but it's the business aspect that is currently overwhelming me.

Most importantly, whether I'm making pennies or thousands, professional writers must have a reason beyond finances for why they write. By establishing a freelance writing business, the financial drive behind my writing is putting too much pressure on my words. I feel slightly stifled, with a lost sense of purpose. At the end of the day, though, this decision was not made for the money, or the desire to see my name in print. I have chosen the path of a professional writer because I love what I do, and there is no better feeling than curling up with my bulky computer and letting the thoughts flow. It's the magic of writing that really motivates, not the money.

I've mentioned that I've developed a relatively new fear of publication. For years I've been my own worst critic, and I think I've been a little too hard on myself. Sometimes I imagine editors looking at my writing and instead of embracing it for its genius, they wad it up, laugh, and point out every little mistake to everyone in the room. I'm transitioning from critic to supporter (of myself and my writing) in order to stop these evil scenarios from interfering with my ability to produce quality content.

This career move is the best decision I've made in my life. It's like an uncertain leap of faith. The pull of gravity tickles me and motivates me to keep moving forward. I enjoy the rush of the fall, and I want to capture every stomach-flipping moment of it. I must admit that I am slightly preoccupied with the glamor of "being a writer" and living a starving artist's life. But I'm not starving - struggling a little, but definitely not starving. In the writer's life, the possibilities seem endless, and story ideas greet me at every turn. As soon as I can stop all of the critics in my head from throwing tomatoes, the ideas flow like a gently cascading stream, forcing itself over all of the rocky obstacles it comes across.

I am grateful for the critics in my head, though. They help me to remember to edit and reread, to study, to explore, to observe and to second-guess composition until it seems as if the words are telling me where they should go. On the other hand, these critics have developed over years of formal training. I have been prepped for rejection so thoroughly that now I expect it. Professors and writers constantly repeat the hurdles of a professional writer: the loneliness, the competition, the lack of reward, the barrage of criticism, the alcoholism, and the inevitable spiral into homelessness.  I'd like to prove them all wrong, and I'll make sure to send out thank you notes after I do.

I have come to realize (which I did at one point, but forgot as I have embraced more responsibilities in adulthood), that every little detail is substantial. These details may only play a role in the development of a story, and may not be included in a final draft, but they are nonetheless vitally important. Not just the huge, headlining event deserve coverage, but rather it is the small details of life that we take for granted on a daily basis that shape our lives, world and writing: The leaves that flicker in the wind outside my front window, the gentle tolling of church bells, the constant groan of my neighbor's lawn mower, the whisper of passing cars, the subtle gleam of sun battling the gray clouds, the calm purr of my kitten, the deep pressure in my chest as I imagine my lover hard at work, the soft sleep of a fluffy dog, the romantic trill of the birds in the leaves that flicker in the wind outside my front window.....It's all connected, and all offers insight into the simplicities of life that make the most beautiful stories vivid, real and relatable.

There is still romance in this world, if only we can slow down, take a deep breath and open our distracted eyes to the slow rotation of the earth. If we just watch and listen, life shows us where the story goes and how it ends. Such simplicities can strike the strongest of passions, if only we take the time to allow ourselves to stop taking everything so seriously.

In the world of journalism, you don't learn much about patience in writing. You learn of deadlines, contacts, appointments, timeliness and concise writing. All of these are extremely important for the business aspect of writing, but the process of writing requires much patience, reflection and thought. Writing is not a business for the impatient. It's also not for the light-hearted. I see the obstacles ahead - my own doubt being the largest - and I embrace them as a challenge. Perfectionism and self-doubt are my biggest oppressors, and I refuse to let them win.

So here's to the beauty of calm reflection, which must inevitably lead to the natural flow of ideas, the honest communication of thoughts, and the constant search for truth. I will not be bombarded by my imaginary tomatoes.

Fiction, Batman and Serial Killers

I've always dreamed of writing fiction. I've tried, but alas my characters all end up dead, or crazy, and therefore unreliable (or so I've been told in workshops). That's not so bad, though, is it?

Developing a character is an exciting exercise. But how do you really develop a fictional character? Is there such a thing as a completely fictional character or are they really elaborations of people we already know? What about redeveloping a character that already exists? Is that plagiarism?

I decided to review some of my old journals today. Most of it is ranting, but in between the pages of crap are a few poems and a couple snapshots of characters that I was attempting to create for fictitious purposes. Of course I never did anything with any of these characters, they just get squished between the pages and forgotten. The details are beautifully simple - a woman with dark curls who never wears her hair up, but would look gorgeous if she did; a tall middle-aged alcoholic losing his house; a little girl covered in chocolate. And what purpose do they serve? Was the creation of these characters just another form of ranting - a way for me to paint a picture of social frustrations?

And then there's the real catch with fiction - the violence. I learned that fiction revolves around conflict, but when I try to write it, I add plenty of conflict, but no resolutions. I don't want my characters to succeed. I want them to fail miserably, and generally die gruesomely. How morbid.

I can't help that I find inspiration in the darkest corners of creativity. Violence and betrayal are major conflicts in my creative writing. My ideal character would be the violent vigilante, driven by morals and chaos - somewhat of a combination of Batman, Dexter, and Sylar (Heroes). I love the idea of a corrupted, powerful vigilante.

Hollywood, Politics and the American Dream

I've been working on fixing my past in order to move forward with my future. The only problem is that no one wants to remember the past. I'm getting no answers, no responses and I've been left in the dark.

I wonder why people keep so many secrets. It must be for a good reason, so I'll leave it at that for now and let my speculations ease my mind. Our pasts may influence who we are today, but with enough energy, they should have no impact on our futures. I do not want to follow the path of secrecy and betrayal that has been so familiar to me all of my life.

I've fought the idea of permanence for years, but as I mature, I wonder if it would really be so bad to find a nice house in a nice town, with a nice picket fence. Actually, nix the fence. What is the essence of the American dream today? Is it the same notion of being part of a close-knit family and community, with a healthy bank fund, kids, a two-car garage and a white picket fence? I think not.

Instead we have transformed the idea of the American dream into something much more stressful than it should be. Financial success, long hours, fast cars, expensive gadgets, fancy clothes and "fame" have driven Americans to forget what the American dream really is. It shouldn't encompass our material possessions, but rather the idea of American freedom and enjoying American past times on American soil.

I think Hollywood has helped to develop and destroy this dream simultaneously. It depicts a life of glamour, riches and fame that everyone can't help but desire. Such a small percentage actually lives in this fantasy while the rest of us get our fill while cashing out at the grocery store, oogling over the newest scandalous headline produced by the tabloids. We revel in gossip and the misery of others, especially those who we've put on such a high pedastal. WHy is this our entertainment? What does that say about us as a culture?

I would like to meet someone from Hollywood and ask them if they had the chance, would they prefer to live as an anonymous American again? While many would probably say they love the glamour, fame and money, I wouldn't be surprised if a majority desire to switch roles so that they could just enjoy the simplicities of life.

If only some Americans could ignore the tabloids and use that curiosity toward their own families and communities, I think it would be shocking what they would find out. Secrets are more easily kept by those who are under the radar. It's in our nature to be nosy, but how far are we really going to take this?

I love journalism and I adore photography, but the idea of being a member of the "paparazzi" absolutely disgusts me. Of course, when you put yourself in the public eye, you are also offering yourself to public scrutiny. I am not sympathysing with the subjects, but pondering the market. The idea that people turn to tabloids before they flip through the pages of The New York Times is disheartening.

I am completely generalizing here, and I am not implying that every single American cares about celebrity gossip. But when I go to check my emails, I am reminded on a daily basis by Yahoo! that there must be a large market for this information. Let's leave Lindsey Lohan alone for a while and shift our energies to someone who actually has an influence on American lives - maybe see what U.S. Department of Education's Secretary Arne Duncan's been doing with his time. Let's use our inquisitive natures to monitor our own government-the people who influence our lives and our communities on a daily basis-and screw Hollywood drama.

On a personal note

This weekend I traveled to Delaware to visit my Mom as a surprise for Mother's Day. It tickles me how the simplest acts can receive the most gratitude.

My mother and I have a complicated relationship, but the older I get, the stronger our love is. But there are other emotions that I don't know how to handle, like guilt. I felt guilty driving home and leaving her to her own life. The minute I left her, watching her awkwardly make her way up the concrete front steps and back into her house, I wanted to turn around. I've never felt what it was like to be homesick, but I would think it is this combination of love and guilt and loneliness that makes tears run down my cheeks.

I left as late as I possibly could and faced my five-hour drive in complete darkness. Everything seemed black to me, even the few lone stars seemed to flicker less brilliantly than usual. And I dredged forward, my stomach sank deeper with every passing mile marker. I was looking forward to getting back to my own bed, and the arms of my fiance, but I couldn't help but wish I could stay just a little bit longer.

Then I realized that all of my dreams of running away, moving out west or out of the country are now undesirable. I love to travel and I've always lived as if I could pick up and go at any moment. The concept of permanence, or settling down always left a disgusting aftertaste. I feel something holding to the east coast now. It's not so easy to pick up and go when you allow yourself to connect with loved ones. I never considered family to be a constant before now and I wouldn't let go of the relationship I've developed with my mother for anything in the world.

I always wondered what it would be like to live that American dream - two loving parents and a stable household. I think that dream is more of a fantasy now. Even though it was difficult to accept my family situation as a child, I now respect my past, even though I am still struggling to fully confront my suppressed memories. The difficulties of my family life taught me to be strong for myself, and I am grateful for all of those challenging experiences.

Back in New York everything seems less connected to me. Hundreds of miles from my mother, but so close to the love of my life, I feel torn. All of the dependency that I lacked as a child is now swarming over me. I want to be close to my mother, but my life has placed me in Elmira, nearly 400 miles away. For now, I will just have to deal with my sporadic trips south to appease my desire to be with biological family.

Despite our past, my mother deserves a sonnet. A bouquet of flowers. Diamonds. A brand new house in Florida, a mansion, or a cruise around the world. What really gets me is that she would take a hug from me over all of that, over being anywhere with anyone else, and for that, I couldn't say I love you to her more clearly.

Down with the terrorists, down with self-doubt

I think I let my last post get to me. I've been horrified to return to the realm of instant publishing. So many things have happened in the past few days, how can I even begin to approach them?

First of all, I'd like to say thank you, America. Thank you, seriously. When I heard the news of Osama bin Laden's death, I automatically thought it was a hoax. How could it be true - we just removed him and placed him in a watery grave? (Of course, the logistics were much more complicated.) But after 10 years of wondering where he was, why we haven't captured him, and how he still has a head, I found it difficult to accept that justice finally found him.

However, what all does that change for America? Can we feel safer?

I answered with a resounding no, peering out my bathroom window, anticipating sirens and explosions in the sky. Once I convinced myself to believe everything I read, I thought of imminent disaster. The terrorists were going to bomb us, and they were going to start in Elmira, NY. Not so much. (And hopefully it will stay that way.)

We are no less at danger now than we were when he was alive. How many plans have been concocted in the last 10 years? What about his pupils and the men who have been loyally following him? And then there's the rest of the terrorists that operate on their own twisted schemes. I was enraged when we launched "The War on Terror" because a battle with an ideal is never ending. One terrorist is dead, but others remain, and more are born and trained every day. This is a lose-lose situation.

But unless we try to do something, nothing will ever be done and justice will never be served. The same goes for writing (and any other craft). If I don't at least try to write something for someone to read, I will never have an audience. I've trained myself to first turn to my journal, random pieces of paper that will be tucked away and never found, or that sub-folder in that sub-folder in that secret writing folder on my desktop. There, my thoughts have sat and gathered dust for years. I've been scared of my own shadow when it comes to publishing and I'm ready to stop hiding. Beyond my career as a journalist, editor, photographer and copywriter, I am beginning to embrace myself as a creative writer.

I was reading an interview in last year's Writers Market, which outlined the life of a published writer. Toward the end, the interviewer asked if the writers had overcome the feeling that everything they write is brilliant, something that beginning writers often do (...apparently). I wonder how you overcome the feeling that everything you write is awful, even though everyone else says it's perfectly fine (or wonderful or great or one of those other descriptive adjectives).

I must now admit that, as a writer, every day will be filled with brilliance and crap, I just have to hone my sifting skills that much more.

Once again, thank you to the navy seals who served our country so valiantly - you deserve all the rest and relaxation that America has to offer. And thank you to all of my moral supporters, while I bury the terrorism of self-doubt.

Blogging, objectivity and honesty

I've been avoiding starting my own blog for years, for multiple reasons. Whenever I imagined starting my own blog, I always saw this entry as the first and last. So far, half of that equation has been disproved.

Blogging terrifies me. The idea of writing to a nameless, faceless and countless audience nearly horrifies me. I majored in English, with a focus on writing, and print journalism while I was in college, so my writing experience is extremely well-rounded. I've written pages on pages in workshops, classes, newsrooms, magazines/journals, various employers and of course in my own journals. I've always directed my writing at professors, classmates, colleagues, experts or myself. A blog is the only setting where it seems absolutely impossible to identify an audience, or determine whether there is one at all.

Without a direct audience, it has been impossible for me to pick a theme, and I am clinging to the notion that a specific theme is not necessary. The only other blog I ever wrote thealtproject.blogspot.com, was hyper-focused on a specific task in a specific time frame. Here, I'm not exactly sure what will bloom from Rose Wood Prose. Without a particular audience to point to (other than Chris Matarazzo, at the  moment, who has been an unknowing guide to me for years), the only real theme I can note is the writing itself.

This is my attempt to share my humanity and humility, as well as my passion for the written (typed) word. I spent so many years in formal settings, with specific requirements, word counts and agendas that have shaped me into the writer I am today. I’ve been taught to write about writing in order to learn how to write objectively. I embraced the idea of arguing both sides so thoroughly that my biggest challenge is writing any type of opinion piece because I just end up arguing with myself. Most of my journalism colleagues have thrown the concept of objectivity right out the window. Many consider true objectivity to be fiction in itself.

I enjoy the thought of objectivity and the idea that people may still value arguments free of opinion. However, an honest opinion is hard to find and a well-researched one even harder. So, as a disclaimer, because I have no idea who may be reading this now or in the future, I believe every word I say, and I apologize if you are offended, but do not apologize for saying it. There. Phew.

As noble as a completely objective writer may seem, I'm tired of trying to be objective. Here, I will just be honest.

Technology Tantrum

Wireless technology is supposed to connect our lives through our devices. Gotta be smarter than the device, though, right?

I spent half of my day on the phone with Verizon tech support, figuring out why my internet was going to be down for two days because I wanted to add a land line (who does that anymore, anyways?), so I guess it's my own fault. Representative after representative told me it was a hopeless cause, that I'd have to live two whole days without internet access. I panicked. How could I survive two whole days?! How did those cavemen do it? Finally, a sympathetic woman answered my distress call to be connected.

A few phone calls and quite a few hours later, my internet is finally running. So is my new landline. It's as if the sparks from slamming all those rocks together finally made a little flame.

Now, on to the printer. It's a brand new wifi printer, copier, scanner and fax machine. I've got the faxing and copying down. The scanning and printing works on one of the two computers (my fiance's computer, of course), but the wifi is a never ending battle of connecting and reconnecting LAN wires and reconfigurations that set my head spinning. I'm giving up on my technological tussles for the evening, but I still can't help but feel defeated by all of my devices.

I am a member of Generation X, but I feel like a baby boomer. My exposure to computers and technology began before elementary school, and I excelled at all classes, but I can't figure out this darn printer. I can design a Web site, a brochure, an entire news section, but I can't make my wireless printer do its wireless trick. With some rest, a fresh approach and a reboot of all devices, I'll be able to figure out to connect all of the members of my home network. If not, they just might be the perfect materials for a nice warm bonfire.

New Beginnings

It's been a while since I've been an active participant in the word game. The responsibilities of bills and life in general often sweep us away, sometimes erasing the memories of who we once wanted to be. I'm ready to re-realize those memories and goals, taking baby steps into a new writing career.

I've spent the last seven years earning my bread as a server in various restaurants. My last place of employment broke my spirits, and jaded me against the general population. For a while I thought hope was lost. Could everyone be capable of being a rude drooling mess, slobbering with buttery fingers and screaming at innocent waitstaff over bread? I'm trying to convince myself that only a select few are capable of this behavior....I'm not buying it so far.

Regardless of the horror stories of the restaurant industry (oh, and let me tell you....there is no shortage here), it supported me through my high school and college careers. Now that I possess my degree, where to? I've discovered that I can't suffer to work for other people anymore, but do I have enough discipline to work for myself?

My recent resignation was sparked not only by dissatisfaction in the workplace, but at home. Waiting tables is an entire lifestyle of irregular schedules and late-night fiascoes. Trust me, I am not a 9-5 or 8-4 person. I'm ready to govern my own life. I just hope that I can support it as well.

So, here's my attempt at starting fresh as a freelance copywriter. Knowing the thrill felt from fingers gliding on a keyboard, there is no other occupation that I could desire more. Sitting here, in my new home office, eating  scrambled eggs, I've found my own perfect dining experience.