Sunday, July 22, 2012

One Week

One Week.

That's how long until my birthday.  I turn twenty this year.  When I was a kid twenty seemed so old.  I thought I'd have so much more figured out by now.  I thought I'd be in school for medicine or veterinary medicine.  I thought I'd be able to graduate a year early.  I thought I'd be at school in Vegas dealing blackjack to pay my way, or in Mississippi right across the street from the ocean, or in New Orleans.  I thought I'd be in a sorority.  I thought if I wasn't dealing blackjack I'd be slinging drinks in a biker bar.  I thought I'd be tattooed.  I thought I'd be getting married within a year.  I thought I'd be published.  I thought I'd be so much further along in life than I am now.

I still don't think twenty is young.  But I don't know how much I could possibly have figured out.  I just decided in the last week or two that I want to focus my career toward teaching history not forensic anthropology.  I haven't finished revising my book let alone published it.  I'm nowhere near getting married.  I did go Greek, but in a coed fraternity, not in a sorority.

My love story isn't an epic sweeping half-tragic tale that carries me across continents and screams at the top of its lungs; it doesn't conquer everything terrible for me.  My love story is strong.  It's quiet, but steady.  It gives me the strength to conquer the terrible things myself.  It is my epic; it carries me from day to day.

My life isn't what I expected it would be at this age. I don't have that much figured out.  It's still a good life.  I'm pretty happy most of the time.

Being twenty scares me.  Don't get me wrong, I'm embracing my twenties.  I can't wait.  But like most things I'm really excited for it also terrifies me.  It's a milestone, and like most milestones I haven't achieved as much as I wanted to by the time I'm reaching it.  But I think that's okay for now.

I need to remind myself of this all the time.  I'm not a superhero.  I'm not a prodigy.  I'm just me.  Jeanni.  

Stay Tuned.

Friday, July 6, 2012


Guys, writing is hard.  And rewriting is hard.  But second rewriting is way harder.  I'm having a really hard time working on the second rewrite of Chapter 1, even though I finally figured out how to fix it.  Fixing is hard.  But guys, it's also something else.  I've written this chapter.  I've rewritten this chapter.  I've outlined it and changed the outline.  I know this chapter better than the back of my hand.  So redoing it AGAIN is making me dig my heels in and scrape my fingernails down the wall.
It hurts.  And it's hard.  But I'm  gonna do it!  I promise!  One day you can all read the book.  Granted that probably most people reading this either stumbled upon it randomly or are my mom.  And she's already read the book.  Hi mom.  But one day.

This chapter hurts.  Almost as bad as that time my friend almost broke my nose falling on me or my dog twisted my wrist running to my dad or I slipped on wet grass and bounced on my knees twice moving out of my first dorm.

I'm feeling so stressed out with family stuff and being responsible for taking care of my parents and my grandma and my dog.  I've been having a lot of oxygen escaping the room moments.  If you watched Pushing Daisies you know what I'm talking about.  I feel like my life is flashing by and I'm not going to get to do the fun stuff.  Right now my mental escape is a diner/bakery/barkery.  Whenever I'm out and about in my town (this is the first time I've referred to it as my town not the town I live near) I see empty spaces, there are far too many empty spaces by the way, and I think 'My diner could go there.'  To get overly psychoanalytic, I love providing joy to people and bringing it into people's lives.  Food and baked goods and books provide that joy.  So since I'm having all that trouble with the book, what's left is food and baked goods.  But it's been well over a hundred almost every day for the last month in rural Missouri, and as such baking is out.  Hell, cooking is almost out.  But not fun cooking, it's whatever uses the least heat.

Also I've been feeling things even more strongly lately.  I always do when I'm here because my stress levels are higher when I'm with my family than when I'm at school in DC with just my friends and my frat brothers.  Sure, I have school there, and I'm still writing.  But that's the kind of stress that gives me motivation.  This kind of stress makes me want to curl up in a tiny little ball and cry.

Stay Tuned.