We are all just prisoners here of our own device...

I don't know how people who work from home do it. I had an afternoon all scheduled for writing and drinking champagne on my deck, but in the allotted hour I gave myself, I ended up hanging clothes up (I hadn't anything to wear that was already in my closet), drying my hair (which seemed to be drying faster than normal, and if I let it air dry, I would look ridiculous and I had plans that evening), cleaning off the patio furniture (because I couldn't write on a table covered in potting soil), moving the laundry from the washer to the dryer (because if I didn't do it right then and there, I would certainly forget it altogether), and cleaning off the champagne glasses (because we usually never drink champagne, so they had a good year's worth of dust on them) that by the time I was sitting down to write, I had a mere 20 minutes left, and then I went ahead and wasted five more minutes whining about it here.

And yet here I am with whatever little time I have left because it's about damn time I start sticking to my guns and actually do things I say I'm going to, which I've never been too good at doing in the past. Thus, the reason I've been absent so long. There hasn't been anything worth writing about--well, of course there is always SOMETHING to write about, but as far as the status of my writing or new things I've been learning, new leaps I've taken, there simply haven't been any.

Failure, of course, is something worth writing about and something I'm getting to be an expert at for certain. However, I'm not particularly fond of writing about my failures, mostly because my failures tend to be self-inflicted. I'm perfectly aware that if I don't write, it's simply because I haven't taken the time. There is no one to blame but myself. As the Eagles might say, I'm a prisoner of my own device, stuck in a continual Hotel California not even trying to find a way out. I can't complain about my life not going the way I want because I am capable of changing it. What a powerful statement. I am capable of changing my life. I am capable. I choose not to.

And to write about my failures would feel like I was only complaining when I have no right in which to complain. Thus, I have remained quiet, not facing my life or my failures, watching time tick by, nearly three months into the project and still the same ten pages to show for it.

If it's one good thing I can say about the past month, it's that I've forced myself to go back to hip-hop dance class. At least I'm doing some extra-circular activity that gets me out of the house and gets me thinking about what I really want out of life. Believe it or not, dance classes are a great place to think, or at least they are for me. It seems like I would be too distracted with counting and memorizing move sequences and trying not to look like the white girl ironing board that I am compared to my smooth, sexy instructor who probably came out of the womb popping and locking.

But in a dance studio, I spend my entire time staring into a mirror, realizing all the flaws and imperfections, every move that is correct and every move that is incorrect, my facial expressions when I miss a move, when I get a move right, the way I feel the music and the movements. It's no internet blog that I can hide from and avoid for a whole month. Everything is laid out in front of me; all the problems that I have to fix are unrelentingly reflected back at me. And most of the time, I'm scared shitless that my classmates or Mr. Smooth Sexy Instructor are watching me, judging every one of my mistakes, but then I realize it's just me and the mirror. Everyone is focusing on themselves, finding the errors within themselves and attempting to repair them each time the music restarts.

I suppose that's what makes it hard about trying to make friends in a dance class. Sure, there are times where we're all joking about a move or helping each other out with some sequence, but for the majority of the class, we are each in our little bubble, alone with the music and the mirror. I've been meaning to stay a little later after class, try to talk Mr. Smooth Sexy Instructor about any other dance opportunity he may know of for 20-something ex-baton-twirlers or find out how the other girls in the class spend their free time. But I guess I find it exposing enough that these people see me struggle with moves and constantly misstep. I guess by the end of class, I'm just ready to get back to my safe cocoon that is my car and my normal boring life.

Which is a shame, really. I have found in the past that the bond shared between people with the same passion is the strongest bond of them all. I often think fondly of a specific moment in my past, standing around a piano late at night at Adrian College when most people are back in their rooms, surrounded by strangers who quickly became family at a summer camp, my dear friend playing a song from Les Mis his fingers have memorized and all of us singing along casually, poking at each other and laughing all the while. It's a kind of camaraderie you only understand if you've had it before. And even just standing around a piano singing warm-ups or a song everyone knows, what fun we all had. It was all we wanted or needed in that moment. It may sound silly, but I miss standing around a piano with people like me.

Sometimes I think all of this would be easier if I had chosen to hang around people who had the same life goals and passions as I do.

It all goes back to what John said that first night I attended Writing Club. He said writing is a lonely business. And it is. I keep fooling myself into believing that I can write and NOT be lonely, that I can spend time with my husband, our families, our friends, and STILL write. But that's not the case, not all the time anyhow. To achieve my dreams, I need to instill discipline in my life and I have to be willing to sacrifice, even if sacrifice means being alone, even if only for a temporary time. And I guess I haven't been willing to sacrifice yet. It's funny, really. Writing is what I really want to do, but I'm not willing to sacrifice what's necessary to get it. I suppose that's something I'll have to come to terms with.

A funny ending to a rather pensive entry: My husband came home and gave me a kiss hello, quickly followed by a, "Have you been drinking?!"

"Just a glass of champagne," I batted my eyes innocently.
"It's not even 5pm!"
"It was just one glass!"
"Yeah, right."
And then giggles ensued, which did not help plead my case in the least.

Taking ownership...

Chris and I didn't even bother getting out of bed on Monday until nearly noon. After all the running around we did on the weekend, we were determined to have a lazy Labor Day. But eventually we got out of bed, cleaned up, and went for a drive. Chris was out of gas from our trip around the state, visiting both families and both sides of Michigan, so we stopped at the corner gas station. It was raining, so I waited in the car while Chris filled the tank. I was staring off at the traffic on 28th street when Chris tapped on driver's side window and mouthed some words to me about a book. "Huh?" I scrunched my eyebrows to get the point across. He reached back and then held up a book for me to see, a sorry-looking left-behind token, wrinkled and wet from the dripping rain. He laughed and turned to put it back where he found it. I tapped on the glass and waved my hand towards me. He opened up the door and said, "You want it?"

"I want to look at it," I said. It was called "Stealing Buddha's Dinner," which interested me right away because I had been thinking about Buddhism a lot and about how important balance is and how I might incorporate more of it into my life. When I flipped it around to look at the synopsis on the back cover, I realized it was a memoir. At the very least, I could use it as another example of what a successful published memoir looks like and try to mirror it in my work. And then I opened up to the first page and read, "We arrived in Grand Rapids with five dollars and a knapsack of clothes." And I had to have it.

Now, I don't condone stealing, but it was obviously abandoned. And besides, for all I know, it very well could have been a gift from Fate, an opportunity for change in my life. Although I haven't put much stock into Fate since I was a freshman in college, I have been trying to be better about exploring such opportunities that present themselves in my daily life. For example, I took that hip-hop dance class in the spring BY MYSELF without knowing anyone else. That was big for me. I learned how to knit at a knitting club that was offered at our apartment complex (and learned I'm not too great at it). And I joined a Writing Club, which is even more risky because I put myself out there to be judged by total strangers. I recently met with a man who is starting his own business and needed a "creative writer" to help him with some of his projects, and I've also interviewed for a ballroom dancing instructor position. My reasons for doing such things? Because I thought they sounded interesting. Because I don't want to sit on the couch every evening. Because I want more adventure in my life. Because I didn't have a good reason not to.

My long-lost summer camp friend and fellow blogger (though she is much more advanced at it and much more popular than I am) Rachel Wilkerson has been inspiring so many people on the web, including me, with her world-renowned concept of OWNING IT. She says people need to stop feeling guilty and instead of saying "I'm sorry," say, "Sorry, I'm NOT sorry." If you're one the few on the net who aren't down with her message yet, see it for yourself here.

So I'm owning the fact I stole an abandoned book at a gas station. And I'm sorry I'm not sorry.
And I'm owning the fact that I refuse to settle for a life that doesn't have adventure and passion.
I'm owning that I like Usher's "Love in This Club" and dance around to it in the bedroom.
I'm owning that I eat junk food and watch old "Grey's Anatomy" DVDs after work before my husband gets home.
I'm not sorry for any of it.

As hypocritical as this may seem, I didn't end up taking the "creative writing" position or the ballroom dance instructor position. At first I did feel guilty about it. I felt like I wasn't doing more to change my lifestyle and to get out of my dead-end job. I felt like maybe I was throwing opportunities away. But then I owned up to what it is I really want out of life. No matter how long I've been out of school, no matter how many stupid jobs I've had, there's always been one thing I wanted, but I've been too scared to go for it. And I've been hiding behind lots of lame excuses so I could avoid putting myself out there to achieve it. And the creating writing job and the dance instructor job, while I'm sure I would enjoy them and perhaps even be successful at them, AREN'T WHAT I REALLY WANT, and it's time to stop settling and get what I want most out of life.

I'm owning that I want to go back to school. I'm owning that I want to get a better degree. I'm owning that I want to write. And I'm not sorry.

So, hopefully, Rachel, this is part of "getting it." In her words...

Don’t ever settle. Everything you’ve ever wanted is within reach. Everything. Seriously…everything. So get it.

I still have a long way to go. There are still plenty of things I'm still sorry for and feel guilty about. And every day, I feel like I have to "get" things all over again or remind myself not to settle. But I suppose that's just life.

In other news, when I saw my mother this weekend, she had a box for me. As I removed the newspaper wrapping, I had to laugh. In it was the tree mug and retro '60s mugs from my grandfather's kitchen, the ones that I spent most of my time haunting a few weekends ago. Maybe grandpa's mug will give me more inspiration for my book. Perhaps I'll make a cup of tea in it later and see what kind of memories steep onto the page. Then again, Grandpa never drank much tea.