AND A HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME (BEDS 002)

Welcome, friends, to my birthday weekend--a four day event, and the final four days before university returns to take over my life! I'll be straight with you--I have no idea what's going on, or what's going to happen, because it's currently still August and I'm trying to schedule as many of these damn blogs as I possibly can before I get too caught up in procrastinating my homework. (There will be cheesecake, though.)

But I do know one thing--today, as you all are reading this, I am 22. I am older than little ten year old me ever thought I could possibly get, and probably younger than the future fifty year old me could ever remember being. I am the age that Taylor Swift wrote a song about, an age that is once again a digit higher than that of my best friend, until she catches up with me four months from now. I am one year above the legal drinking age in the states, and 4 years above the one in my home province.

Every time my birthday comes around, I think, "I can't believe I'm this old." 22 is not old, yet it is, because I have never experienced an age any older than what I am. I will continue to think this every time a birthday comes around, every time my younger sisters reach milestones that I can hardly believe that I've already passed. I will continue to think that I only graduated a year or two ago, when in fact my old high school is now filled exclusively with people I have never gone to school with. I will continue to think that middle school was only a handful of years ago, when in fact it has been a near decade. And I will continue to deny that, with every passing year, the number of friends whom I have known for a decade climbs higher--because the fact that I am old enough to know someone for a decade is scary as hell.

But no matter how old I get, I will always use my birthday as an excuse to treat myself. I will eat cheesecake for days, and I will sleep in, guiltlessly, as long as I want. I will open presents and spend gift cards and ignore the fact that school is waiting for me at the end of it all. I will watch all my favourite movies and gorge myself on chocolate and play Sims until my computer craps out. I will surround myself with my favourite people and party--or chill--until I get sick of all of them (or until they get sick of me, whatever comes first).

And then, after all is said and done...I'll start counting down the days until Christmas, because there is not a single day that I love more than December 25th.

Until tomorrow,

- Justyne

The Creative Process

Sometimes, I envy the people who want to be lawyers. Or the people who want to be doctors. Or the people who are happy studying business or economics or science or something else that can lead them to getting well respected jobs and earning crap tons of cash. I envy the people who were never told, "Oh, neat, you want to be a CEO! But what else?"

When it comes to a job like that, there is no "what else". You go to school, you make connections, you get a job. The process is simple. "Simple" doesn't necessarily mean "easy", of course--if it was easy then everyone would do it. What I mean is that, generally, there's a certain set path for achieving these things--it's not concrete, and people vary from it all the time, but nobody is ever left on the front step of their high school the day after graduation without a clue as to where to go next. 

That's how I felt for a long time--heck, I still feel that way sometimes. Like someone dropped me in the middle of a forest and told me to find my own way back--sure, I'll get there eventually. I just have no clue how, because, hello, you didn't think to give me a map, asshole.

In just about every author interview I've read / watched / listened to, there is at least--at least--one question asked about their process. "What's a typical day in your life?" "Where do you get your ideas?" "What's your process like?" I can't blame people for asking these questions--I want to know, too. Last year, when I was struggling to figure out exactly where I should be, what role I should play, how to go about this incredibly complex career path, I spent a lot of time reading author bios. I'd pick books off my shelf and read the "About the Author" blurb at the back, I'd visit official author websites and blogs, I'd scour over those very same interviews I just mentioned.

You know what I was looking for? A manual. A master plan, a grand "How To", a sign so I could tell whether my approach was right or incredibly wrong. I like to follow instructions, but that's pretty damn hard when I have no instructions to follow.

But the thing is, there really isn't one, and trying to find one will just confuse you even more. This profession has no required credentials, but for every writer who didn't go to school there's another who did and insists that it's valuable. There's no real "right" way to craft your stories; some people who preach the act of writing every day, and there are some who scoff at the idea entirely. Even publication itself isn't simple--you can get a literary agent, or represent yourself; you can publish with a professional publishing house, or do it yourself online; self publishing can be done exclusively online or through an independent printing press....IT'S JUST TOO MUCH.

I'm willing to bet that just about every author behind every book that's sitting on your shelf right now got to where they are in a drastically different way. It's super intimidating, and scary, because how the hell am I supposed to know if I'm doing it right?

But that's the beauty of it, too. It brings a certain excitement to the table, because the possibilities are literally endless. It's overhwelming, sometimes, the amount of decisions I have to make and the number of options I have on the table in front of me. But if my biggest problem is that I have too many options, I think I'm doing pretty good.

I mean, people are still expecting a "realistic" career choice out of you, so what have you really got to lose, anyhow?

Until later,

- Justyne

Together (Micro-Fiction Monday)

She lost sight of her cap as it soared through the air, unable to identify it among the hundreds of twins it shared in the auditorium. She managed to catch one as it came down--whether or not it was the same one she threw was another matter entirely.

She couldn't see him through the crowd of cheering graduates. It wasn't until the majority of the teenagers had cleared out—off to find their friends and families and take thousands of pictures to remember this once-in-a-lifetime night—that she found him, off to the side, slouched up against the wall with his cap in his hands.

She approached him hesitantly. She didn't know exactly what to say; neither did he. By week's end, they would find themselves on opposite sides of the globe; him overseas, studying abroad; her in the country's capital, partaking in the internship she had dreamed of for the past four years. Both were happy with their decisions--but not with the separation they brought.

They said goodbye that night, their words stiff and awkward. They grew apart the way most high school acquaintances do: gradually, until suddenly they couldn't recall the last conversation they shared. Years passed, and although the relationship was never truly forgotten, the hectic nature of their individual lives left little time for reminiscing.

A decade passed, and the auditorium was once again filled—but instead of wild teenagers, grown adults stood milling around, talking and laughing and catching up, as old friends do.

She saw him again, slouched up against that same wall. She was more confident now—her words less stiff, her movements lacking their former hesitance. She approached him with ease; he straightened as she did.

The two shared that night together. And as their classmates talked about the happenings of the last ten years, they came together as though no time had passed at all.

~~

Until later,

- Justyne

An Epiphany of Sorts

Stop checking your calendars, I realize that it's not Friday. Consider this a bonus post for not forming an angry mob and chasing me away from the internet yet. I appreciate you for putting up with my lack of blogging skills.

So buckle up, readers. This post is gonna be long.

I've been in sort of a slump lately. And by "lately," I really mean the last two or three years or so.

I've been writing less. I've been stressing lots. About The Future (dun dun dun), mostly. I realize I'm only in my first year of university, but I just haven't figured out what I want to do with my life yet. (And before you mention writing, just calm your hormones for a second. I'll get to that shortly.) Nothing in university has really caught my attention thus far. Every time I think I've figured it out--English teacher, copy editor, homeless hobo in a magical flying cardboard box--I go and change my mind. (Although I'm still hoping that magical cardboard box thing will work out, that would be pretty freaking awesome.) 

I'm also frustrated. Very frustrated. Mostly with myself.

I had a lengthy conversation with my dad on the phone last night, mostly talking about The Future (dun dun dun). The main topic of discussion was whether or not I should take the year off from university next year (see the reasons above). His main concern was that I would end up playing Sims all the time, instead of doing something productive.

I'm not saying that this isn't true. In fact, this is probably the most likely of any scenario I could possibly come up with.

But that's what really frustrates me.

When did I get so lazy? Seriously! I've always procrastinated, but never this bad. I used to write literally all the time. I used to do productive things in my free time--something that often seems like a foreign concept to me now. When did all of this change?

So I started thinking. I've spent most of today thinking, to be honest. I thought back to when I spent all of my time writing. I thought about how it felt to write--how I felt then, and how I feel now in comparison, when I'm hardly writing at all.

I still love writing. That much hasn't changed. I love writing as much as I did when I was nine years old and first started putting words to paper.

But that's not the real issue here.

So I thought about what's different. I thought about when it changed--when I stopped writing so much, and, most importantly, I thought about why.

Because that, my dear readers, is the million dollar question.

So after all these hours of thinking--in the shower, in my bed, on the couch while watching television--I think I've figured it out. My problem, you see, is that I've been thinking too "realistically."

And that is a problem that can apply to everybody--not just writers.

I was confident when I was a kid. I thought that there was nothing that I couldn't do. I was so sure that I would be published before I even graduated high school; that I would become a famous author, that everyone would read and love my writing. I was so sure that everything would work out.

I lost sight of that. I started doubting myself. I started doubting my abilities as a writer. I got too caught up in the money aspect:

"Writing isn't the easiest industry to enter." 

"You can't make a living off of it right away." 

"You need a back-up plan."

I'm not saying that these things aren't true. What I'm saying is that I got so caught up in these things--in my so-called "back-up plan"--that it became my only plan. I forgot about writing altogether.

I don't want that.

This is why I've been in a slump--why I keep changing my mind, flipping directions, unsure of every little decision I make.

Newsflash: no industry is easy to enter. No job is easy to get. There is no career on this planet in which you can walk on up and say, "I want this job" and the employer replies with, "lol okay."

It just doesn't work that way. There's work involved. There are degrees to earn, resumes to build, experience to...well, experience.

Writing is the same way.

A back-up plan is just that--a back-up plan. Something you turn to when your original plan doesn't work out. My problem is that I was so consumed with my back-up plan--with the negative "what-if's"--that I lost sight of what I truly wanted. I've been focusing all of my time and money and worries into a career that my heart's just not in. I gave up on writing; written it off as impossible before I even gave it a chance.

I can't even begin to describe how wrong that is.

I am capable. I've written a 50k+ novel in 30 days. I spent months writing a 200+ page novel when I was in the 8th grade. I had an entire freaking book series planned out when I was 9 years old. People enjoy reading my work, and I enjoy writing it. That is what truly matters.

I need to take back that confidence I had when I was a kid. I need to re-focus my attention on what I want--what I've always wanted. I need to believe that I can do this--because I can. I know I can.

And so can you.

Who knows, maybe I'm just delusional. Maybe it's the optimist in me. But no matter what I end up doing next year--taking a year off and staying at home, travelling the world, becoming a homeless hobo with a magical box (seriously, though, somebody hook me up with that)--I'll be writing. I'll be doing what I love.

So to all of you high school students out there, being pressured to choose what you want to do for the rest of your life--don't worry about it. Take your time. University will always be there, if you need it. Focus on what you love.

Because here's the secret: if you love your work, it doesn't seem like work. My dad taught me that.

(Actually, no, I knew that way before he told me on the phone last night. But he tried, I'll give him that.)

The future doesn't seem so scary now, does it?

Maybe this will inspire you. Maybe it won't. But if you only take one thing away from this post, let it be this:

It should never be, "What if I can't?" It should always, always be, "I can. And I will."

Thanks for your time, guys.

Until later,

- Justyne