March 15, 2002
I did it again; I waited until the last moment.
There was an article deadline for March 15th and although I had begun the article a couple of weeks ago, I really only worked on it yesterday. I was really proud of myself on how hard I actually worked on the article – the editing, the rewriting, making it truthful, making it flow. But after a full day of working on the article, something was still missing and I had run out of steam to figure out what it was.
I decided to just let it sit on the computer and come back to it later on. But later on I ended up having class and then came home more tired than before. Needless to say, I didn’t work on the article.
The next day, I woke up and almost immediately began to work on the article again. I had both the fear of missing the deadline (since it had to be post marked today) and the anger that I had waited until the last minute. With all this tension going on in my brain, I wasn’t writing well. The writing was jumpy, scattered, and hostile. My emotions were of course coming across the page, and I had to figure out how to change my attitude.
I felt that I couldn’t change the fact that today was March 15th and my article was due. All I could do was to know better next time. I got over myself and finished the article, satisfied with both what I’d written and myself.
The next task was to get it to the post office. It was so windy the rain was coming down sideways, it was definitely mitten weather, the post office was over two miles away and I didn’t have a car. As the wind howled through my flat, I debated whether or not I should attempt going out into such nastiness.
Then I asked myself how much the article meant to me.
A lot, I decided. I had worked hard on it, I liked it, and I thought it had a good chance of getting published. Was I going to let some weather keep me from following through? No, I decided, that’s one of the stupidest reasons to fail yet.
I bundled up into a million layers and headed to the post office. At the counter I handed my envelope to the clerk and asked her if it would be post marked today.
“Yes,” she said, “you just made it.”
Yes I did, I thought, smiling.
March 11, 2002
I’m still learning my boundaries.
Because I work at home, most people still tend to assume that equals bunches of free time for me.
When I left my morning docent class for my evening one, everyone assumed it was because of a bus conflict. The truth is, I write better during the day and having to go to a day class was like me missing part of my work.
Others assume that I don’t have distractions working from home – no co-workers to pester me, no children to worry about. The truth is I have a lot of distractions such as being able to see the messy flat all the time, having people call me during the day to “chat” since I’m “free.” And if I’m not careful, doing dishes will seem far more important than writing an article.
Since I create my own schedule, people think that I can work 24hours a day and I admit to being guilty of this sometimes too. Currently, instead of just writing, I am running several high profile websites, doing PR work for some of them, planning my high school reunion, planning two major trips while maintaining the household expenses, bills & grocery list.
That’s a lot. And I’m not even an overachiever or a workaholic.
I think part of it is just what people perceive me to be doing and how much I buy into it. Although I know I’m busy with writing, I tend to think that because I control my own time, I can be more than flexible with my hours instead of just saying, “No, actually, I have work to do.”
I’m getting better, slowly. Monday through Friday I work during the day and save chores, errands and catching up for after dinner or the weekends. I’ve designated Friday’s to marketing days and Monday’s to catching up with email days.
I see now why people have assistants.
March 10, 2002
Now that I’m not taking myself so seriously and trying so hard to be the perfect image of a writer, I’m having a lot more fun and my brain is loosening up quite nicely.
I’m getting back in touch with the messy bits, the disheveled bits, the awkward, scary, basic, real bits.
When I was around 16 or so, my mum was fed up with the state of my room.
It was a space literally in the attic, with sloping ceilings and a little window that barely opened on one end. There were household storage items sharing my bedroom space, I used to fall asleep to the hum of the freezer.
But in this space I had blankets all over, all of different colours. I had pictures hanging here and there, tables filled with art supplies and oddities. Clothes strung from the ceiling on pieces of string and forts built in some corners. There were things everywhere – and I knew where everything was. I loved having my supplies out everywhere – ready at a moments notice.
My mother, however, did not.
One day when I was out, she took a photograph to show me how messy and disorderly my room really was. As a neat freak who demanded order in the whom, she was hoping that if I saw my room for how it really was, I’d change.
But a funny thing happened.
When she had the photograph developed, she saw my room for what it really was – artistic and beautiful.
She saw the bright colours all over, the art strawn on the tables and floors, the magical world that I had created. She giggled to herself as she looked at the photograph and decided not to show me. She never complained about my room again.
It took me ten years to hear this story.
During my Corporate Stint, when I tried so hard to fit into the suit wearing, lots of meeting, drinking coffee atmosphere, my home was a perfect showcase. Free of colour, clutter, anything “weird” or “offensive.” It was your typical Ikea showroom floor. Everything had a place, and if it didn’t, I’d find it.
Luckily, I’ve gotten over it.
There’s something comfortable to me to have my paints sitting on the table – almost as if they beg me to use them – even if it’s badly.
My stash of writing supplies are sprawled by the couch, the table, the computer and even beside the bed. I have secreat boxes of stickers, pens, pictures hidden throughout the flat. Special forts I create during the day when I need a private office space to work in. Things are all over the place and somehow, it doesn’t look messy. It looks like home.
March 08, 2005
In my Docent Class tonight we had a fabulous art teacher come in to explain how to teach art to children from ages 5-11. I, however, listened and applied all that she said to how to teach myself.
I learned that children are so completely in the moment with everything they do. They’re not looking a week down the road or twenty years in advance. It’s what in front of them right now that matters the most.
So when they create, they use what’s in their brain at that moment. They don’t have yesterdays garbage or tomorrows idea of perfection. Instead, they dive in and just do art.
Children also have less fear when it comes to art. As adults, we start to build up walls and forget to just “do art” and criticise ourselves before anything gets started. Children deny the mistake, adults try to avoid it.
Children enjoy the process of making art, of writing, of being creative. Gluing, painting, drawing, cutting, being tactile and making smiley faces makes them happy. Adults worry about the end result so much that the process ends up becomming a hassle.
I’ve decided to act like a kid about art, in hopes to get over my fears of it. It’s perfect timing since I’m getting back to enjoying the process and less with worrying about the end result.
So tonight, instead of crining at everything I create, I’m going to just keep going at it. I won’t judge it, determine it’s worth, or give up because I’m doing nothing more than stick men and ink blots.
Instead I’ll keep drawing or painting and let the mistakes come out. I’ll keep practicing, let my mind wander in my imagination and plug away at creativity. Most of all, I’ll enjoy the process and feeling paint on my fingers and a smile on my face.
March 07, 2002
I realise more and more that what I’m doing becomes less and less about the money, the publishing, and the end result but more importantly about the process.
At first I was so anxious to get somewhere – until I realised there wasn’t anywhere to “get to.” There is no ending point, no levelling off place. There isn’t somewhere you get to where you can just say, “I did it all! I’m done!”
Then I became anxious about being published; thinking that was what would make me a “real writer.” That is until I realised that by just writing, I was a writer and that outside validation couldn’t do anything if I didn’t believe in myself first.
After that I became anxious about money. It was (and still is sometimes) a huge issue and I thought if I’m worth something, I should make money. Then I realised that what I’ve received from doing this, you can’t buy. Things such as new friendship, opportunities, kind words, feeling of satisfaction at the end of each day, happiness, excitement, feeling good about who I am, amazing emails and the ability to live out my passion.
Then I became worried about people’s reactions to me and my work. Then I found out that I can’t control others reactions to me, and even though someone may not like what I’ve done there are probably 5 that did. I learned that writing is more about my needs, than that of others.
Worrying about end results left me miserable. Writing seemed like a chore because there wasn’t just the writing to think about, but all these other things. Each attempt I made at writing I felt had to be perfect and meaningful. Every attempt I made I wondered if I could get paid for it and how much. Instead of writing how I wanted too, I’d first ask if it was publishable, and if anyone would like it. I was no longer writing “in the moment” but instead, for the end result. That lead to me being neither happy nor proud of all the work I was doing and not wanting to write at all.
So I stopped thinking about what would happen to my writing when I was done. Instead, I went back to basics and wrote as though no one was ever going to see it, and that didn’t matter.
Almost instantaneously I felt more free, alive, creative and the passion I thought I was losing came back. I was able to once again enjoy the process of writing because I didn’t have all this weight baring down on me. It’s hard to sometimes not worry about the outcome of something I’m doing, but for my own sanity that’s what I need to do. If I’m doing what I love to do and am happy with the work I’ve done, then really, then end result doesn’t matter as much.
Writing, art, creativity – it’s so much more than words on a page or a painting on the wall. It’s about emotion, joy, fear, struggle, learning, accepting, happiness, compassion, friendship, play and everything in between. It’s a process, and I hope I don’t forget that again.
March 05, 2002
I don’t think it’s been just an issue of focusing because yesterday, I solved that problem yet the words still weren’t coming out. Not because my brain was tangled but because I simply didn’t want to write.
I know why. It’s the pressure.
I used to think it was the pressure to make money that kept me from writing until I examined why I really wrote and money had nothing to do with it. Then I thought it was the pressure to produce something amazing within a year – which happens to be next month – until I realised I’ve made so many personal transformations that are more rewarding than the most amazing article could be. I was having a hard time finding where this feeling of pressure was coming from.
I found it last night.
This website and all that visit it.
In the beginning, I just had a simple idea to chronicle my dream of writing. I wasn’t sure anyone would ever read any of this or that it would have any effect. But it did in the biggest way I could have ever imagined.
The encouragement I received in the beginning helped me get through very dark patches and hearing about others dreams reminded me to keep pursuing mine.
But then something happened. The site started to receive a lot of visitors and I started to receive a lot of email of stories about dreams that people had but didn’t feel like they could act out. When they wrote me, they would almost say, “Here is my dream that I can’t live out, please take it with you as you live out yours and maybe that will be enough.”
People started to live vicariously through me, and that unnerved me to my core. Instead of people finding encouragement from my journey, people started to think that I was the only one who could do this. That I, simple Alex, possessed some kind of magic to make what I’m doing possible. Instead of hearing stories about how people had began to live their dreams in small or large ways, I kept hearing about dreams that weren’t going anywhere unless I could take them with me. All that pressure weighed heavily on me.
When I began this site, it wasn’t for people to say, “Look at her go. I wish I could do that.” It was so that people would say, “If she’s doing that, well so can I” and that each person who had a dream or a goal, would be able to pursue it at some point after reading all of this. My dream is not unique, I’m not even unique. And what I’m doing is not impossible but really, all too easy. It just takes a one realisation, a little guts and a few steps. It only seems impossible because you don’t hear about it that much. But imagine what would happen if we all did what we were meant to do? Imagine the roar we’d hear around the world.
So if you have a dream, please don’t put it in my carrying bag but instead, pursue it along side me. I need the company.
Elsewhere