Dear College Life (Do I miss you?)

I've been thinking today about what I miss about college. Most of the time I don't really miss it, especially since I haven't really left. My alma mater has now become my workplace, which means I still see the lovely campus everyday, still see some of my classmates, roommates and former professors on a fairly regular basis.

This morning I sat outside the cafeteria trying to sell tickets for an event tomorrow night. The students rushed past, eager to get in, get some grub and get going to classes and finals. I barely recognize anyone now. And they all look. so. young. Though I was slightly distracted by how many girls wear leggings rather than actual pants - They're a thick pair of tights! Please! Cover your ass in public! - I felt a wave of nostalgia wash over me. It wasn't the pathetic, I-want-to-be-20-years-old-and-sans-responsibility-forever kind of nostalgia.

I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but there's something I miss about college. I don't miss eating cafeteria food. I don't miss sitting through mind-numbing lectures. I don't miss being up at all hours of the day and night studying and writing papers for classes that I barely remember now. I don't miss the other fashion fauz-pas that sleep-deprived, shower-deprived college kids tend to make when they roll out of bed in the morning...

Okay, I admit it. I had an infamous pair of "no-no" pants, too. "No-no" pants because of the hole that ripped from my inner thigh across the back of my leg and I still wore them for several weeks afterward rationalizing that it wasn't that bad until one morning when my roomie said, "No. No. Not again. Wear these instead." And she tossed me another pair of jeans. Those had holes as well, but not anywhere near my backside. (Seriously, thank you.)

I don't miss working crappy part-time jobs just so that I could buy a couple packs of Ramen Noodles. I've paid my dues - as a library page, English tutor, waitress, telemarketer, retail associate, nanny and much, much worse. I don't miss walking to class in rainstorms and blizzards or getting parking tickets from Campus Safety. I don't miss fighting with roommates over dishes duty or whose turn it is to clean the bathroom. (If you've ever lived with girls, you understand my dread at having to unclog the shower drain.)

At this point in time I feel like I've won some big battles. I've crossed a major threshold in life. I've survived adolescence and my college years and I've come out on the other side having achieved several goals. I completed my Bachelor's Degree. I completed my degree in four years AFTER switching my major AND after I traveled abroad for a whole semester with classes that didn't directly count towards my degree AT ALL. (Worth every penny and extra class, by the way.) I'm married to my college sweetheart. I have a full-time job (and I'm even using my college degree!) I've confronted some pretty big fears and painful experiences and the consequential character flaws. I'm writing of my own accord on a regular basis without needing a mentor to spoon-feed me inspiration.

So what was that nostalgia, then, as I watched students scurrying past me in the cafeteria?

Here's what I do miss :

I miss having a roomie around to tell me when I need to use a hairbrush or put on a better pair of jeans. (I'm blessed with a husband who mostly thinks I look good in everything, but he's biased.)

I miss late-night burrito runs, having people to eat lunch with nearly every day and walking to class with friends.

I miss the feeling of earning an A on a paper or project I've spent weeks researching and studying for. (Note : Paychecks are an entirely different kind of gratification - the kind that wears off as soon as you hand over your rent check.)

I miss sleeping, eating, working, studying, and spending nearly every waking moment in a community chock full of people I love.

I miss travel and studying abroad - packing my bags, taking trains, wandering around old cities that are new to me - the general freedom of being a wanderlust.

I miss morning, afternoon and evening naps squeezed in between classes.

I (occasionally) miss wearing jeans and sweatshirts (and "no-no" pants) instead of dress pants and heels.

Sometimes, without taking the "lifelong learning" bit too literally or wishing to go back in time, I do actually miss college. It went so fast. Time stretches out before me now with few definite plans. I plan to be a parent. - in the distant future, a very VERY long time from now. Like, when God creates a 36-hour day, OR 5 years from now, whichever comes first. I plan to pursue a career in writing. I'm trying to pursue that now, but I'm not sure what the next rung on the ladder is...

Time for grad school?

Black and White : Lessons Learned.

I woke up this morning to find several inches of snow outside my bedroom window. After a long work week, a big blanket of white to cover everything is exactly what I hoped for on my long-awaited Saturday to sleep in and spend time alone. I'm wrapped in my grandmother's afghan with a cup of tea as I watch it continue to fall. For the first time in a long while, I have time to sit and contemplate and write.

My writing dilemma of late has been this: reconciling myself to my imperfections.

A writer's mistakes are always going to be there, in black and white, for everyone to see. That makes it hard for me to want to be completely honest, sometimes. And if I can't be honest, I have a hard time convincing myself to say anything at all.

The potential for grammar, spelling and punctuation errors alone is embarrassing. When we write we have the added expectation of committing ourselves to an idea, a perspective, a way of seeing the world.

We're arguing. We're saying,

"This is my story and I'm sticking to it."

And I hate being wrong. More than that, I'm emotional, sensitive and overly sentimental, which means I'm an argumentative basket-case that doesn't know when to shut up. Great qualities for writing about something with passion. Horrible combination when I'm confronted about it.

With the advent of online writing tools like blogs and social media networks we have the option of controlling feedback to a certain extent. The delete button is always handy. It doesn't erase memories, though. Moderating and filtering out the comments that you don't want people to say about your work will only separate you from the moments meant to help you grow.

I'm learning these lessons the hard way. I'm learning through trial and error that I either write, make mistakes and attempt to right them, or I don't write at all.

Writing is a constant process of coming to terms with what I am: a writer.

I bleed black and white.

I wear my heart on my page.

Hello, December.

You'll be here tomorrow But I feel you today Waiting with your blowing, blustery winds around the corner. Some may dread the winter you bring, But I welcome you with open arms. You usher us in to a warm, cozy season That tells us to stay a little bit longer in the warmth with our friends Or read an extra few pages in our book And snuggle under the covers with our loved one And light one more candle And eat an extra bowl of soup. You usher us in to a white, clean season That reminds us that there is still a beauty that touches everything, A blanket of peace and quiet that covers the cold and the barren.

Stranger than Fiction

I've decided to stop fighting it.

What exactly? I was driving home yesterday contemplating, once again, my writing woes. My ever-encouraging twitter friend, Friederike, tweeted a word to me the other day:

"Very often, our characters tell us what they are up to. We must take our time and wait a little to find out what they want."

And then, in response to my whiny, "But what to do while I wait for them to speak to me?" Friederike said, "Have a coffee and watch your soul while you are waiting for your characters to do the work."

Again, an all too wise response to my needlessly worrisome writing self. At that point, I was asking myself what characters are speaking to me. Do I even have any? I was never planning on being a fiction writer. But is that what she meant, and does fiction versus nonfiction make any difference here?

In the midst of my brain working through this idea, my ears were half-listening to my car radio, which was faithfully playing NPR's All Things Considered. The host was interviewing a writer that just published a new novel. What was his inspiration and theme behind the book, she asked? I was suddenly all ears.

The writer explained that his work centered around the belief that home is not always where we are most welcome or a place that we can take refuge from a misunderstanding world. What happens to people who live with that discord?

For reasons I cannot explain, his description of pulling together his ideas into a novel pulled together my own disjointed ideas about what it means to write.

I've been fighting for a long time the idea that I should write fiction. It seems to me that any attempt I've made is not literary, but a deep-seeded and irresistible need to reconcile misunderstandings in my life - people, experiences, memories, social, political and religious issues. Every version of my fiction has been some attempt to tie those things together so that I can make sense of them, or remove them from myself. Like Dumbledore's Penseive, my writing extracts those things that will not rest within myself until they've poured out of me onto the page in black and white, where I can examine every detail. (Kudos to J.K. Rowling for that concept. I wonder if she ever thought about that in terms of her own writing experience?)

This isn't right, I tell myself. Great writers don't turn their lives into fiction for a good story. There's always that speculation that something within their works - a character or a scene or a setting is a fictionalized, dramatized version of something real to the author. But many authors would, and have, denied those theories outright. And then the critics and readers idolize them: "He's just that genius that the work is entirely fictional!"

Underneath the guise of literary genius, every good piece of writing has soul, and what is soul but personality, your collection of beliefs, experiences, passions, and talents that are not quite like anyone else's?

This is what I'm not going to fight anymore: you, dear readers, friends, loves of my life (and people I might not necessarily get along with) are the interesting characters that fill my thoughts and speak to me. Experiences and memories, you are a part of who I am. I am passionate about you. I am inspired by you. I know you and you know me. You drive me to words. Black, white, gray, and every color and shade in between. You speak to my soul, and I'm listening, truly listening now.

After all, life is stranger than fiction, right? So don't be surprised if some version of you lies within my words. I won't be surprised, anymore. I may not pen the great American novel any time soon, or ever, but this is what I know.

I won't go against the grain anymore, for you are ingrained in me.

Top 10: Books that Changed (or Made) My Life

When did I first decide that I wanted to write? It's funny... I don't remember. I wouldn't say that I have always wanted to write, but I can say that I've always loved to read.

This week, one of the assignments that my writing partner and I gave each other was to choose a book that made us want to write... and of course, I could not think of just one. Which led me to wonder, is it fair to try and only choose one, or would it be more honest to say that it was all books, or maybe the act of reading itself that gave me the urge to write? For reasons I don't entirely understand, I'm hesitant to try and answer that question. At times, a single phrase in a book overwhelms me with inspiration. Other times, I find a deep sense of gratification in the story as a whole. And then there are the moments when the sheer act of turning a page, of smelling an old book, of holding it with both hands, is a deeply spiritual, emotional experience.

As we discussed our picks, I was struck anew with the realization of how deeply influential good writing is and how transformative it is when people learn to read. As a young girl, my days were filled with great stories, pages, and words. When my frizzy-haired, stick-figured self had no one to relate to, I always found deep comfort in the weight of a book in my hands, and a deeply awkward main character, not unlike myself, that could be found within it's pages.

And at every stage of my life, it seems, I've found book after book that meets me where I am emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and it takes me somewhere new. Even better, I love to find out that the people who wrote them were also once awkward, inquisitive, imaginative young people that found books and authors that inspired them, too.

The Official List:

1. I Think that It is Wonderful - I read this over and over when I was little! The start of my love for poetry.

2. Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself, Judy Blume - between the ages of 8 and 13, I read this about 400 times! It was the first book that I remember mentioning World War II, Hitler, and anything about being a Jew. Note to teachers and parents: I recall this book much easier than any elementary school history lesson...

3. The Phantom Tollbooth, Norton Juster - the first book where my teacher told us to think about writing themes and messages, rather than merely text.

4. A Wrinkle in Time, Madeleine L'Engle - between the ages of 10 and 14, I read this about 800 times! The characters were so unique, but utterly relatable.

5. Harry Potter (1-7), J.K. Rowling - controversial those these books were in my household, they had a huge impact on my life and my desire to write. My own peers, kids who at one point felt indifferent to reading where consuming these books like after-school snacks - all 700+ pages of each one! And suddenly, the underdogs, the awkward, geeky kids had a hero who fit their mold. And suddenly, it was cool for teenagers to talk about the things that are important in life, like love, friendship, good versus evil, and ask ourselves, could we be as brave as Harry, Ron, or Hermione?

6. A Great and Terrible Beauty, Libba Bray - initially, it was the sheer gorgeousness of the cover that made me pick this one up. But the style of writing, the character of Gemma Doyle, and the recurring theme of coming of age as a young woman had me hooked from the first page. (Sadly, the sequels don't quite live up.)

7. Frankenstein, Mary Shelley - by the time I finished college, I had read this book for a class no less than 5 times. A little daunting after the third time, but I still love it. The first time I was assigned to read it was in my high school British Literature class, and after reading it we had to write a 10-12 page research paper. To this day, that paper is one of my proudest accomplishments [135 points out of a possible 135 points from one of the most demanding teachers at our school!) and I am still utterly fascinated by the layers and layers of meaning to be found between it's pages, not to mention the inspiring author herself who dominated her own husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley and Lord Byron - at the age of 18, no less!

8. The Reader, Bernard Schlink - It's simple: this book changed my life. I was working at my hometown library as a page, and one day I came across this book. The cover looked interesting, but I was drawn to the simple, mysterious title more than anything. It was the Oprah's Book Club seal on the cover that kept me from actually checking out for 6 months... When I finally did pick it up, I found a story so rich with compassion and raw, utterly human history that I could not believe that I had not even heard of it before. It's been made into a great film, but I highly suggest you read the book first. If I had to choose, this would be the book that made me want to be a writer.

9. The Time Traveler's Wife, Audrey Niffenegger - If I were stranded on an island and could only bring with me one book, this would be it. The characters, the plot, the writing - all work together to create this magnificent and completely original love story. It's like listening to your favorite album on repeat - it just never gets old, and you feel like the characters are real, like they live in your head, and that each word was written for you. DO NOT under any circumstances see the film before you read the book, or I swear you may never pick it up. Even if you read it first, I'd say the movie is a rental at best. Some may disagree, but in my opinion, that cinematic "interpretation" is like getting McDonald's when you ordered filet mignon.

10. Atonement, Ian McEwan - Of all the books I could have chosen to take with me when I traveled in Europe, I impulse-purchased this one in the airport just before we left American soil. Talk about context. Once again, the writing itself is reason enough to love it, but the characters and the story are so vivid and heartbreaking that it was glued to my hands for the first two weeks, save for that whole seeing the world part of my trip... Again, this book has a film adaptation, and I am happy to say that it is every bit as good as the book itself, although I always recommend reading it first.

Tell me, what are your favorite books?