How Life is a Little Like Falling Out of Bed

One time when I was young -- maybe somewhere between seven and ten -- I was spending the night at my best friend's house and fell out of her bed in my sleep. I woke up when I hit her wooden desk chair and subsequently began crying.

And I kept crying. But my best friend stayed sound asleep, and no one in her house woke up either. After about ten minutes, I realized no one was going to comfort me. I also realized I was a little sore, but not nearly in as much pain as when I first hit the sharp corners of the chair.

So I stood up, climbed back into bed, and fell asleep.

When I randomly remembered this today, I realized life is much the same way. There might not always be someone there to comfort you when you get knocked down, but you might not always need someone, either. It seems ridiculous to me now that for entire minutes that night I didn't even consider going back to bed until someone -- preferably an adult -- came to check on me.

There will always be things in life that knock us a little. Startle us. Disappoint us. Hurt us.

But the thing is, we get to decide how long those things keep us down. We get to decide what will be enough to get us back up. And as much as we want there to be, there might not always be someone to swoop in and say, "you're fine," or "keep going," or "you can do it." Sometimes we have to say those things to ourselves.

I think it's very easy to let ourselves believe that things are happening to us, without giving ourselves enough credit for what we do about it. It's a silly example, sure, but falling out of the bed that night happened to me. I chose not to spend the rest of the night crying about it on the ground.

It seems so simple now. The key is remembering how to make that decision each time something pushes me down. Something worse. Something with a bit more force.

You're fine. Keep going. You can do it. You can do it.  Everyone, whatever it is. You can do it. Just stand up.

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?

Getting Out of Bed

I have a mantra. Okay, I have quite a few mantras, but I'm talking more specifically about one of my overarching life mantras. It's this:

Don't let anyone convince you that something which gets you out of bed in the morning isn't worth your time.


I seem to have been blessed with loves for things that are not widely considered acceptable hobbies. Even at a fairly nerdy college, I got teased for the amount of time I spent reading for fun. Even among avid sports fans, the fact that I watch about 150 out of my baseball team's 162 games each year is considered lame. I was essentially told by a friend that my dream to have a book published was stupid, because books don't matter. But, well, that's a grander issue to be tackled another time.


Sometimes the hardest part of attacking a day is just the first part. Just the decision to sit up, get dressed, and face it. And each one of those things I love so dearly makes me want to get out of bed. They make me excited to go about my day, and they get me through required tasks I don't enjoy as much. So who's to say they aren't worth my time? They keep me going.


Shortly after I started reciting this mantra to myself, I realized it doesn't universally hold true. For example, even if stealing cars makes you want to wake up each morning, I definitely don't condone stealing cars. But you get my point, I'm sure. 


It doesn't matter if someone else understands why something makes you happy. What matters is sticking with it. Every night as I fall asleep I think about the next day, about what I'm looking forward to. And when my alarm goes off on a morning I really want some more sleep, I just think to myself, "I get to work on my WIP tonight," or whatever the case may be for that day, and I'm out of the bed in seconds. I'm smiling. I'm ready.


So what makes you want to get out of bed each morning? Has anyone ever told you it's a waste of time?

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!

What I Learned at Midnight

I went to my first ever midnight movie last night, and we all know what it was. I'm not a huge movie person in general, so I've never felt it was necessary to go see one at midnight before. But I absolutely love Harry Potter and well, if there was ever a movie to see at midnight... this was it.

I expected the costumes and the crowds and the general craziness, but I still think I underestimated it all. I didn't expect the theater to clap for seriously every preview, for example. I didn't expect to be one of the last people to find their seats... an hour and a half before the movie began. (This post is free of movie spoilers by the way, in case you were worried!)

From pastemagazine.com

Here's the part of the story where I sidetrack for a moment (bear with me). When the first Harry Potter movies came out, I didn't go and see them in the theater. There were still books left, so the movies didn't interest me in the least. But eventually I saw each one, and after the seventh book came out and I had savored it, I began to anticipate the movies because, well, it was all that was "new" that was still left for Harry Potter. The movies meant this thing that had accompanied me and so many others through their childhoods wasn't quite over yet.

So I was at the movie last night, and at one of the funny lines the whole theater laughed. But they laughed too long, and I missed the next line. I don't like to miss things (unless it's a movie I've seen before, or don't like, in which case I talk through the whole thing. Hypocritical, I know...) so I was annoyed by this. And as the movie went on, cheers would erupt, and then at the next little victory the cheers would be louder. Then even louder at the next one. And my friend that I went with was sobbing beside me so much my chair shook.

And even though there was the unmistakable pressure behind my eyes of building tears, they never fell. Everyone else around me was so present, they were distracting. They made the moment one I had to share, so I didn't have enough time to process anything for myself. I didn't have the chance to decide that this particular moment was one worth shouting about. Everyone else decided it for me.

And that is one of the reasons I will always love the Harry Potter books (and any book, really) more than the movie. Even the best movie that could ever be made. Because when I read, I'm isolated in this world that feels like it has been created solely for me. I get to decide if there was something 200 pages back I need to confirm now that I know something new. I get to decide that this moment is so troubling and heartbreaking I can't help but cry. I get to dwell on a line that strikes me and find a post-it note to mark it with so I can write it down later. It is my world, and no one else's world in that same book will be quite the same.

One of my favorite lines from all of Harry Potter is Dumbledore telling Harry, "Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?" Books, when we read them, feel like they are entirely in our heads. But in our heads they are so alive, so tangible, that the characters can become embedded in us. Their plights become our plights. Their joy, our joy. And too often that--that realness--I do not experience when I see things on a screen.

So Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II was very well done, and very moving, and I strongly suggest everyone go and see it. But I won't be going back to the movies at midnight any time soon. In fact, I'll probably spend many more wonderful hours trapped in a book before I see whatever movie I'm going to see next, and that's precisely how I prefer it.

Also, I know I've been very absent from this blog as of late. There was this whole matter of graduating from college and moving 900 miles, then moving across town a few days later, then starting my job -- all in the span of a week. So I've been a little out of sorts, but things are calming down now, and I shall try to post more regularly. Thanks for sticking with me!  

Enjoy the Journey

Success is a journey, not a destination - Fortune Cookie

Last fall I watched an unbelievable journey by my beloved Texas Rangers, who I stuck with even when they had last place finish after last place finish. I watched them make the playoffs for the first time in eleven years, win their first playoff series in franchise history, and eventually make the World Series. They didn't win it all, but the season was far from a failure. In fact, the moment that will probably stick with me the most was when the San Francisco Giants streamed onto the field and jumped around in celebration. The crowd, which I was lucky enough to be part of, was quiet for a minute. Then a chant started: "Let's go Rangers!" It was our thank you to the players for the best season in franchise history. For defying the odds and playing with all they had.

Last night, I watched the Dallas Mavericks win their first NBA Championship - a team that did not have one single player who had ever won a championship before. Many of them had been in the league for over ten years. In 2006, the Mavs came so close to their first championship but lost. And last night, finally, they celebrated. A city that has had a terrific year of sports celebrated its first championship in over a decade.

I, just by luck, ended up watching more Mavs games this season than in all the years before (good timing on my part!), and I won't belittle the diehard Mavs fans by claiming to be a true fan myself. I do not love the Mavs like I love the Rangers, largely because I love baseball much more than basketball. But I love my city. I love hard work, perseverance, determination. 

And watching these two teams has made me realize something - something that a fortune cookie I got two weeks ago touched on. If it were easy - easy to be the best in a sport, easy to win a championship, easy to reach the highest level of your career, easy to get straight As, easy to write a bestseller - well, it just wouldn't mean nearly as much. Part of the reason the Rangers magical run meant so much to me was how long I had waited for it, how many just plain awful seasons of baseball I had watched, waiting for the moment they were a good team again.

Success comes as part of a journey. It is not some clearly defined moment, and it cannot be the end all be all, or you may never get there. Every day I sit down to write, I have to enjoy it. Because that is going to be what keeps me writing. That is going to be what keeps me moving along in my journey. Giving up is easy. Staying the course on a journey undefined in length, that's the part that takes faith, trust. And after every failure is a moment of success just by choosing to keep going. Keep believing. 

There may never be a moment when the pinnacle of success has been reached and is clear. The Mavericks are Champions today, and they will celebrate it in the weeks to come. But then they will go back to the gym, back to practices, start a new season. Success fluctuates. It comes in different forms and is ever-changing. I think I, as much as anyone, need to remember to stay in the moment, enjoy the journey. Let the future take care of itself.

To all of you who don't enjoy sports, sorry for my sports analogies!! The love I have for sports, reading, and writing somehow always manages to intertwine in ways that make most people look at me sideways. So if you're doing the same, you're not alone! But I do love and appreciate you anyway :)

TV and Tears and FEELINGS

I have only ever cried during two movies: Cool Runnings and Jack Frost. Apparently 90s movies really do me in, and for entirely different reasons. In Cool Runnings it was when they hoisted the bobsled above their heads and walked across the finish line, completing their own personal victory. In Jack Frost, I just remember a kid banging a shovel on the ground, frustrated and upset and grieving. So I cried. Just teared up, really.

From Amazon.com

I cry much more frequently at TV shows. I think it's because I can't watch a TV show without diligently watching each episode, so I grow to care for the characters much more than I ever do in movies. I don't think I've ever seen a graduation on a TV show and not cried. For instance, Gilmore Girls is probably my favorite TV show ever, and I cry every single time I watch Rory graduate from high school, and every single time she pulls up to her going away party in the very last episode. And, a little secret,  I've watched every episode of that show more than I should ever admit. So that's a lot of times.

I need to make a clarification here, though - when I say cry, I mostly mean my eyes bubbled with water and maybe one tear slipped down my cheek.

Then this morning, I watched last night's Secret Life of the American Teenager (Warning: Spoilers will follow). This show is my guilty pleasure. I only admit I watch it to my closest of friends (and now all of you!). The thing is, the writing isn't that great. The acting, not so great. But I watched the first episode and I was hooked, because I needed to know what happened. The story intrigued me. And so, I've kept watching. Sometimes I cringed, but mostly it was forty minutes of enjoyment, and then I moved on.

Something started happening this season though. I noticed the acting was better. There were fewer lines that were ridiculously cheesy. The storyline that I had always been interested by had become infused with emotion that was more intense. Then, in the newest episode, one of the characters thought she was going into labor, and instead lost her baby. It's not like this twist is incredibly original, or never been done. I even knew it was coming thanks to the previews. But I'll admit - I cried for the last ten minutes of the episode. I mean, blowing my nose, mascara down my cheek, crying.

The acting was excellent, portraying the heartbreak through their actions and faces without many words. And as a result, I was heartbroken. When the episode ended, I needed something funny, something to make me less upset. Whatever anyone thinks about the decision the show made to have this happen, I think most people would agree this was a very emotional episode.

And here's the thing. My ultimate point. That's the incredible thing about art. I haven't even gotten into the books that have brought about tears, but all forms of art can do many things. They can teach, amuse, enlighten, and they can make you feel. I felt incredibly upset this morning after watching that show, not because I thought those characters were real but because what they went through, other people have too. And when a show or a book makes me feel something I probably otherwise wouldn't have that day, I consider that a job well done. Feeling - whether it's elation or sorrow - is what makes me human. And I wouldn't want to feel any less.