Nowhere I Couldn't Go

I've never managed to keep a journal, no matter how many times I tried during my childhood. But I have a drawer full of spirals, which are filled with poems and stories and musings. They cover so much of my life, they serve the purpose of journals.

I was just flipping through one of my more recent ones, and this is the last thing in it. If I'm correct, I wrote it the day I took my last college final, about 7 months ago.

I was done. Free. And I looked up at the sky, considering what came next, and the clouds had never seemed so far away. The sky stretched from one infinity to another, and there was nowhere I couldn't go.

I so clearly remember looking up at the spring sky that day. And maybe the notion of that paragraph is a bit cliche, but I always want to remember that moment. I always want to remember that there is nothing too far beyond our grasp, nothing we can't dream.

I hope you remember that, too.

This New Year, Keep On Dreaming

I'm not a big New Years Eve person. Growing up, I spent most of them with family friends playing cards into the early hours of the morning, only pausing for a few minutes to acknowledge the clock striking midnight.

And I don't believe much in New Year's resolutions, because I believe that if someone wants to change something enough, the turning of a calendar page isn't going to matter. All the power to everyone who makes resolutions and keeps them -- they're just not for me.

So I'm excited about 2012, but only because I'm excited about life in general and not because I'll write a new year at the end of dates.

I'll always remember 2011 as the year I graduated from college and started life in the real world. The year my Rangers came within a strike of winning the World Series -- twice -- and broke my sports-heart instead. They had me sliding down a couch to the floor with my hands on my head shouting with my dad in disbelief, and I couldn't forget that even if I wanted to. Even if I tried. Because it was one of the greatest games in the history of baseball and they'll talk about it for decades to come.

It is the year I read more books than any other. A year I learned important things about my writing and took some major strides.

But there's one thing I like to learn anew every year. Something Stephen Colbert reminded me of in his commencement speech (which I talked about here). And that's the importance of dreams. To always dream about something, always strive for something. To take every failure, put it in your back pocket, and declare that you'll never give up.

So on that note, I want to share this song by one of my favorite bands:

Happy New Year everyone. I hope you keep on dreaming, even if it breaks your heart.

Marathon Time

I may or may not have gone to Northwestern for college because of a charity event they hold annually called Dance Marathon. Gilmore Girls was still on then and, well, the dance marathon episode of Gilmore Girls was one of my all-time favorites (Bye Dean! Hello Jess!). Now, I have since learned that other colleges hold a dance marathon, but none are as long as Northwestern's. Thirty hours. Thirty straight hours of dancing.

Dance Marathon looks like this. In other words, madness.
Picture from Northwestern.edu

I participated my sophomore year, and today I realized some similarities between that experience and starting a new manuscript. (As you'd probably guess from the timing of this, I'm in the beginnings of a new manuscript right now.)

Our Dance Marathon is broken into ten blocks of three hours each. Between each block is a 15 minute break (though part of that break is spent climbing the stairs to your break room). The rest of the time is spent dancing.

Excitement and adrenaline is enough to get you through Block One. But three hours of dancing is still a lot of dancing. And I'll never forget the feeling of getting back in the break room after the first block and thinking, that wasn't TOO bad. Wait--I have to do that nine more times?

It's a lot like that first chunk of a new manuscript. I'll get this idea and enough of the plot figured out that I'm ready to start, and the words just sort of rush out. It all seems easy and invigorating. Then the realization sets in: there are thousands of words to go, and I have no idea what is going to happen for most of those, other than there might be a sailboat involved.

During Dance Marathon, when we hit the 15 hour mark the DJs put on "Livin' on a Prayer" and the thousand dancers sang with a newfound energy. "Ohh we're halfway there... oooohhhh, livin' on a prayer!" That part of a manuscript gives me the same feeling - I've completed more than I have left. Suddenly, it really seems like I can do it. Like I have enough ideas and I like the story enough that I WILL finish. There's no real doubt anymore.

Much like the first block of Dance Marathon, the final three hours were fueled almost entirely by adrenaline. The amount of money raised was revealed, people representing the charity the money was given to received a giant check on stage. In that moment, I remembered why I had just tortured my body through thirty hours of dancing. It was all worth it.

Each manuscript I've written was completed in a frenzy of words. I reached a point where I knew exactly how it was going to end, and I just wanted it written. Complete. And once I typed THE END, I knew exactly why I wrote all those words. I knew they weren't anywhere near the right words yet, but they were there.

In the first part of these long endeavors that sometimes feel impossible, it's not always easy to remember or envision the end. But as I start out on a new manuscript, that's what I'm going to try to do. Remember that I've done it before, and that everything that went into it was worth it.

Do you experience similar things at stages of your manuscript? What do you think about when you start a manuscript? And has anyone else ever done a Dance Marathon?

What if Your Dream is Stupid?

I was lucky enough to have Stephen Colbert, a Northwestern alum, as the commencement speaker at my graduation. He did a great job of making it very Northwestern focused for the graduates while having a solid, concise greater message at the end and, of course, cracking everyone up.

Here's the speech, if you want to watch it:

Part of his "message" portion of his speech included this line:

"You have been told to follow your dreams. But, what if it's a stupid dream?"


He went on to say, "Whatever your dream is now, if you don't achieve it, that does not mean you've failed."

In my room in high school, I had a framed puzzle I'd put together of Times Square. It was a cool picture, sure. But I hung it there as a symbol of my dream to live in New York City someday. I'd loved my visits there, and I loved the picture of myself I'd imagined time and again of what my life there would be. At that point, I'd only ever lived in one house in Dallas, TX. New York was far, far away from everything I'd ever known.

The first step, in my mind, was attending college there. So my parents and I went on a college visit, where I discovered I didn't quite like the idea of NYU not having that stereotypical college campus feel, and Columbia, while having a campus, didn't actually have my major for undergrads (thanks, internet, for not telling me that before I flew there).

Eventually I decided I didn't even want to major in journalism, so Columbia was once again an option. But I had to expand my search, so I thought, how about another large city? And I began to research all of the colleges in Chicago. I discovered Northwestern and the fact that they had a creative writing program. I applied early decision and, well, the rest is history.

But this story isn't really about my college decision. It's about how, the longer I was at Northwestern, the more I knew what I'd always suspected -- I needed Texas. I missed all my family that was there, the random karaoke parties they held that I couldn't attend because I was 900 miles away. I missed people saying y'all and the ridiculously hot summers and the Dallas highways that made everything so accessible, plus countless other tiny things that make it what I love.

I had my experience of a big, lively downtown by being so close to Chicago, and rather quickly I knew that was enough for me. I still had this idyllic vision of what life in New York City would be, but I also knew that, ultimately, it wasn't what I wanted.

So that dream that I'd had for years, that several people knew about -- I just let it go. It wasn't a stupid dream, but, as Colbert said, "Dreams change, and that's okay."

I'm getting settled in my new apartment now. My real world, grown up, have a full-time job, apartment... in Dallas. And I'm incredibly happy, and satisfied, and don't feel like I've failed at all. The other day my mom came over to help me decorate. We've moved since I graduated high school,  and that puzzle of NYC wasn't hanging in my room in the new house. I had her search my closet and several boxes until she found it, then I had her bring it with her. And now, once more, it's hanging in my bedroom.

It's my tribute to Stephen Colbert. To dreams. A reminder that my dream has changed once before, and I'm glad I didn't pursue it just so not attaining it wouldn't make me feel like a failure. A reminder that in high school I wasn't afraid to dream big, so I shouldn't be afraid to dream big now, either. And hey, it's still a pretty picture.

Anyone have any dreams that changed for the better? Any pearls of wisdom from your commencement speakers? I'd love to hear it!