firsts

Even after three years, I am shocked by how many "firsts" there are.

It's gotten easier to talk about Derek. Sometimes he feels like a far-off memory. I often wonder what my life would be like if he were still here. It's a simple fascination: I've learned so much since coming to Seattle two years ago. Everything really has changed.

And yet it's the little things that tend to catch me off-guard and send me swirly into tiny sadness and the ever-frustrating tear wells that I hate to let fall. It's been too long, I tell myself, but I know that even still, it's been hardly any time at all.

I don't even know how we got into it, but my friend & I were at a restaurant, sitting across from each other. A normal scene. Towards the end of the meal, we started playing thumb-of-war. Part way through, I paused, realizing that the last time I had done that had been with Derek, but we both played with our right hands because we were lying side-by-side in his hospital bed, and his hand couldn't fold the whole way closed, and sometimes I let him win, but on really good days, he'd win on his own. Feeling the strong hand of my friend across the table felt both comforting and wrong. Comforting just to feel someone's hand in mine; wrong that it had last been Derek's twiddling thumb.

A week later, at a different restaurant, I ordered jalapeno poppers, thinking hmm, I haven't had those in a while. It wasn't until I tasted them in my mouth, all of the flavors absorbing, that the memory hit: New Years with Derek. Years and years of New Years with pizza and poppers or Friday nights with rented movies and poppers.

 The tiniest occurrences can stir up the little memories that mean the most. The tiny, happy memories mean more than a hundred nights in the hospital or months of putting him to bed or the years the disease took away.

I've found myself ending a lot of thoughts with "by now". I thought I'd miss him less by now. I thought he'd feel more distant by now. I thought I wouldn't be so sad by now. Three years feels like a long time without him, but I know that in the long run, it is short. I have my next three years seemingly planned out in my mind, but I don't see it as a long journey, just the next steps for my life. And I realize that three years from now means six years without Derek, and the number will keep growing, and no matter how many years continue to pass, I may never reach the sentiments I thought I would "by now" because it takes more than time to fill the emptiness.

In a week-and-a-half, I will turn twenty-three. The thought has bothered me for a few months now. Derek would be twenty-five now, but he never saw past twenty-two. The thought that I will overwhelms me with a guilt and sadness that I cannot control. I sink into it like a potato into a stew.

A good friend told me, regarding this notion, that he knew someone who's therapist told her that there is the world that you live in and the world that everyone else lives in. He tried to give an example of how this applies with Derek, noting that Derek does not live in the world everyone else lives in now, of course he is dearly remembered in my world, but I have to exist in the world everyone else is in. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it, but the stew simile reminded me of it--I'm just a potato trying to blend in, but I've still got roots, and they're thick & tough and hold deep to who I am as a lone potato. But I bring that to the stew and it contributes in its own way.

So three years sounds like it should be "enough" time to stop being so very sad about missing Derek, but it's a big year, my twenty-third. I guess every year from here on out will be another that he didn't have; this is just big because it's the first.

lessons in wishes, prayer, & rain

All my life I've heard the phrase "Be careful what you wish for". I wished for rain, and it appeared, accompanied by sparse bursts of thunder and a splattering of lightning.

 The first night, I took Pickle for a walk in it--these were not like the storms I knew in Pennsylvania. The thunder sounded far enough away that it could have been on the other side of the Sound. The lightning was silent. As we walked, I thought about the fear we always had walking in thunderstorms at home (before the rain). I used to fear that my belt buckle or watch would be my downfall, attracting lightning like the glow of eyes in the woods as our flashlights shown in. And yet we were always safe.

"That was some storm, huh?" my co-worker asked the next day. I stared at him to determine his level of seriousness.

 "I guess for Seattle," I shrugged. Two booms of thunder made for "some storm"? We still have power; the trees are all standing; and it rained for about 30 seconds.

 At first, I thought the storms were a sign of encouragement: I had prayed for this. Maybe this was my sign that things were going to work out--all of the work stress and worry. But then the clouds stuck around. The rain continued for a few days, and I remembered that in Seattle, grey is not a temporary word. I worried that it was here to stay already, that there would be no break of sun in a few days--were we locked in the six-month grey season already?

My worries were premature, as the hot summer days have already returned. But I love them more. The worry of winter reminded me that it's only bright for this short while--soon we won't even see the sun's shadow paint the sky. Maybe I'm still learning to the love rain, but I think I've realized this week that I'm learning to love the sun too. And learning to pray. And learning to accept the forecast.

a want for rain

It's funny how late at night, time goes simultaneously too slow and too fast. I looked at the clock at 9:58; I still have a few minutes to fall asleep before it feels a little hopeless that I won't get enough. A blink later and it's 10:07; it's all fucked. Just a few minutes later, and soon it will be midnight, & the whole next day will already be happening, & I'm not sleeping. 

I'm ready for rain. I can't stop thinking about it. The summers I've always known were full of thunderstorms and lightning and rain. Lots of rain. I know Seattle saves the rain for winter, and our summers are known for countless days of non-stop sun. The past few mornings, it's been cool & grey. I soak it in like a bucket full of sand: just add water, and you can build a castle in which to hideaway.

I get a lot of sleep in the winter: the long days apply hibernation mode, where I don't feel guilty about going to bed at 8:00. Somehow sleep comes easier when the dark stays longer; maybe my brain is just fooled by the early dark--oh, it's been dark for 5 hours? It's a false insomnia, negligent of the actual hour.

I don't mean to take the summer for granted. This summer just seems uneventful. Last year, we traversed about in my car. This year, we're homebodies, sticking to downtown and the dog park and going to dinner with friends. It's a nice, small life, but I can't help but wish I were in the mountains or the woods. I have no way to get there.

I think Pickle is a bit restless as well. She's been sniffing the same street corners for months now, but the scents are the every day. Even the sidewalks need the rain to bring fresh air through the town. Not to mention Pickle looks adorable in her raincoat.

It thundered twice last Saturday. A single deep grey cloud lingered in the East then disappeared to a clear and calm day interrupted by the roar of fighter planes spinning tricks in the air. The sun was nearly unbearable to sit in, and we all took to the shade. Thunder, come back.

 The summer before I moved here was the July of thunderstorms. I remember racing around the house to shut the windows as the rain poured in sideways and thunder shook the doorframes. Somehow that feeling--the slight jolt--can be felt all through; it's one of those things that reminds me that there's something bigger out there, that I'm small and helpless, and the world is so much greater.

 I miss letting the thunder lull me to sleep or letting it shake me awake at 3am only to rock me to a comfortable pattern of zzzs. Thunder makes me feel safe. I wish a storm were one of those things you could just drive to--like I could take a roadtrip to a thunderstorm and feel satisfied and whole. I used to pray for storms.

I find the rain romantic in a this-is-how-I-idealized-my-life-to-be sort of way. There was a slight drizzle when I awoke on Saturday. I thought I'd curl up in my reading chair in the living room and just listen to it, but I couldn't hear it there, only from my bed out the window. Not enough to patter off of I guess, so I sat and watched and listened. It didn't last long, but it was something. I'm sure in a few months, I'll be praying for the sun. Right now, rain is just refreshing.

life in the woods

We used to create pretend lives in the woods.

 

The first instances I remember are with my sister. Our first pretend home was the center of a circle of forsythia bushes. They were directly outside of our real home, but it was our own little hideaway. The round bushes seemed to create a wall with a tunnel to enter through. Once inside, it was like we were "big kids" in our own little home, closed in by powdery yellow with an open sky.

 

Our next was the giant pines a little farther up the yard. Pennsylvania really has some great pine trees. These were maybe forty or fifty feet tall with long, thick branches along the bottom, which were great for two purposes: 1) they created a skirt around the tree where we could hide (our new walls) 2) they were thick enough and low enough for us to begin the climb. We'd take turns, each climbing as high as we could (we were always climbing trees). Sometimes we'd lie down on the branches & pretend they were our beds, as if our bedrooms were just on different levels of our house.

 

(Now that I think about it, my sister always begged my dad for a treehouse. We sort of got it after years and years of piece by piece construction. We spent one night in it (still unfinished), and that was it. Never got done. But that's okay because I think we were better off for it because we had better times living in the trees because a treehouse isn't a wooden structure built among trees--it's just trees & an imagination.)

 

I have no idea what I thought as a four or five year old climbing those pine trees. The memories come in small snippets of questionable truth. Picturing me up in the pine feels like we were pirates, climbing the highest mast to lookout for intruders. I guess that's partially true--we never wanted to be found.

 

Yet a smidge farther up the yard, there was a small opening between clumps of trees that was its own cove, complete with…you guessed it--a brilliant old clawfoot tub. By brilliant, I may mean covered in dirt & algae and filled it the greenest water and the occasional turtle.

 

As I'm writing this, I’m realizing that is becoming more a list than a story of our many play-venture homes in the woods, barely touching the details of each. I'll settle for a few more before making my point.

 

There was this place we called the picnic area--a spacious opening between the trees where my family had set up picnic tables, a barbeque, & everything else necessary for a party. However, by the time we took to playing there, it had been long out of use and falling apart: a shadow of its former life.

 

At the far end of the clearing, a large beam sat propped on poles--a few railroad ties broken & balanced in their own little Stonehenge. We used to climb on the tie and use it as a balance beam, though I think its intended purpose was to be a serving table for food. Over a dip in the landscape, near the thickening woods, a small rotting hut sat full of pots & pans & random kitchen utensils. Sometimes we would go in there (usually on a dare) to sneak around for something for our pretend homes.

 

The picnic area was great for our play-pretend because everything we needed was already there. When the area was cleared away, we scraped our way deeper into the woods to build a new house. We’d graduated far from our old homes in the woods where we just played pretend that the trees were walls & rooms & living utensils--for this one, we took a level & made our best twelve-year-old attempts to create flat ground out of the hill. We then laid down plywood: floor complete.

 

Living up the road from a junk yard, we decided we should go rummage around for some other household items. We settled for one tire, which we rolled all the way up the hill around the bend, down & up another hill & back into the woods. We dug a hole and placed the tire over the hole: toilet.

 

Derek's parents had this little plastic garden wagon. We would fill it with utensils & snacks & attach it to Derek's wheelchair for him to tow it back into the woods for us--the beginnings of yet another woodland home.

 

So there we were: us & our play-pretend homes with our play-pretend lifestyles and our play-pretend futures.

 

I went camping last weekend. I snuck away a few times to just sit in the woods alone. There was a "primitive campsite" back into the woods--just a small open clearing, big enough for a tent. It wasn't occupied, so I'd go & sit on the small stone bench. Looking up: the break in the trees; looking around: the rustling, moving stillness of the forest; listening: silence, silence & birds in swooping whistles.

 

These are things I haven't experienced in a while. I've missed them. It all feels so familiar; I wished I could lie down in the grass & pretend that I was in one of our play homes in the woods. I actually did try, but it didn't take long to realize just how far removed my current life is from all of that--city, noise, pollution, solitude. I think that's a major downfall to being an adult: even when you try to imagine your life as different, it's all of the current intricacies that keep you bolted down in what is real.

 

I began to wonder if I would ever again have a home in the woods. I tried to imagine a career scenario that would allow it. I've often dreamt of living Annie Dillard's solitary writing life in a cabin in North Puget Sound. I don't know how to make that happen; now, after living so deep in the city, I’m not sure I could. Like how I wanted to live alone in the desert and am now beginning to realize how crazy of an idea that was for me in particular.

 

The idea of life in the woods again feels distant & impossible, like the prospect that one day I would have a husband & children. The truth is that I don't know what I want. I know what I've had and what I've loved, but I cannot say with certainty what I want. This is a strange place for me --yes, me, the girl with the evolving 5-year plans. Maybe it's just today.

 

I soaked in as much of the silent time with the trees as I could. Those moments are extremely rare these days, so I sopped it all up like our campsite did the rain, & I packed myself home to return to the present, the city.

change is yet to come

Art creates a magical bond between creation & viewer. This has become more apparent to me the past few months as I am re-reading a book that I ready last year and didn’t like. This year, I feel drawn to its mystery and feel connected to its words. How much can change in a year.

Sometimes I think it’s funny how all media can affect us at different points in our lives. I think of how songs or albums carry an era with them. I think of the first time I saw Dali’s paintings in-person. I think of visiting The David. They each mean different things to each of us based on our original experience or knowledge of them –that is the era they represent to us.

One example is the band Vampire Weekend. I had only heard a few of their songs, but in preparation for a road trip, I bought their only two albums and listened to them on-repeat during the 28 hour drive to Arizona. From the snowy mountains to the lengthy Californian plains at 5 am, those albums became a symbol to me of independence and adventure. When I heard one of those songs now, I sense a brief glimpse of how it felt to be alone, to witness the colors and the snow, the heat of Joshua Tree, the gasping cold of Bryce Canyon, all in the same trip.

So here I am, re-reading My Bright Abyss, and I don’t even know who I was when I read it the first time. I know that a lot around me has changed since then, but it’s strange to think how much has changed within. So much that I now better appreciate chapters and verses that I did not like or did not understand before.

What does it mean to grow & change around something that is unchanging?

Maybe that is what it means to be in relationship with God. We are always told that he does not change: his ways and promises are constant. It can be so hard to believe, especially when I think about how shifty I am as a person, but I am not God. Far from it. Change as a human is a must: if we do not change, there is no growth. And what purpose is there without growth, learning, challenge? Maybe this is the perspective of my naïve youth; it seems many real adults I talk to are totally content with doing nothing and ending learning and avoiding challenge. Why?

I guess I’ve always been afraid of change, but it’s one thing that I have been learning to jump into because without change, we will never be able to better our situations. Sad? Change something. Maybe not that straight-forward, but it’s the concept here.

In thinking about the book and how much just one year has affected my outlook, it’s mesmerizing to think how different I am since Derek knew me. 99% of the people I see and/or interact with on a daily basis were not in my life 2 years ago. A year ago, I didn’t know this apartment existed; a year and a half ago, I didn’t know a puppy was born that would soon be my sweet puppy; two years ago, I didn’t know this city’s silhouette or that it was a thriving place where I could and would live. I won’t go back to before I moved to Seattle; it’s not necessary. It doesn’t take much time for everything to become the new normal.

If this is truly so, why do I still long for so much of my past? While the new is better than I would have dreamed, I still miss much and often long for the simplicity of the way things were.

And yet, I am glad that going back is not an option. I do not think that God ever intended us to be backward looking people. Believe in what is constant; adjust to what is shaping around us; look ever onward at what is yet to come.

no more when

As a kid, we would sit at the dinner table as a family. Every night. Our dad would get up for something from the fridge, and my sister and I would whine, “Could you bring over the milk please?”

“What, are your legs broke?” Dad would reply.

“Yes.” Neither of us ever broke a bone growing up (save my arm, but I was so little it doesn’t count). It must have been the milk.

Sounds like tough love, but he always brought it over. He’d hold the bulging gallon over our glasses, “Say when.” “That’s enough!” we’d screech, but he’d keep pouring until we said, “When!!! When!”

The childhood memories are sweet, but I’m done saying “when.” I’ve spent too many of my twenty-two years saying when.

I walk around acting like I’m much older than I am, sweeping into routines, settling into Seattle like it’s where I’ll live out my days. You know what? I have shit that I want to do in my life, and if I’m going to act old, I better get the experience to back it up.

This is what I decided while washing the dishes. I was cleaning up after having people over last night, ladies from church. While I enjoy their company; in groups, I don’t feel close to anyone, making me mostly feel awkward, even as a host. Then why do I do it? Why do I insist on having groups over instead of inviting individuals? There’s a popular list going around on those silly “feed” sites that says “30 things you should stop doing to yourself” or something like that. I perused through it during my morning browse of Facebook while my eyes adjusted to being awake (disgusting, I know). Anyway, one of the items really stood out to me, and it was “stop spending time with the wrong people”. I realized that I do that a lot. I put myself into situations where I am uncomfortable and then consequently whine about it.

I’ve been in such a whirl lately. You know, the usual—who am I, what am I doing here, what does my life mean—kind of thoughts. I’ve finally settled in. I know I keep saying it, but I mean it this time. I feel totally settled into my “new” apartment now that my lease is 1/6 of the way over. I’m so content with my surroundings—I love my place, my furniture, my dog, my city. My my my. I know that life is more than things, but it seems like what we do as careers all drive for the success of things, so what can we do but embrace them?

I’m taking part in this project sort deal. It’s called 100 Happy Days. Every day, I take a photo of something that makes me happy that day, with the goal of slowing down and appreciating life. It didn’t take long for me to notice that many of my images were things—flowers, a new table, the like. So I decided to move my focus away from things. Just this afternoon, I realized that now my photos are essentially just my dog. I love my dog. Very much. But there are more relationships in this world to be had than just with my four-legged furball.

Also while washing the dishes (they’re still waiting to be finished; I just had to stop and write), I was planning all of these words in my head, really getting myself going on this big encouraging shpeal about how I was going to move to Paris with my dog, and everything would be great. No more whens.

I began listing out the whens that I’ve held onto so far:

·      when I pay off my student loans…

·      when I have a car again…

·      when I have more work experience..

·      when I get my Master’s degree…

·      when I get poems published….

·      when I meet a man…

The list keeps going. I started thinking about how I would phrase my France dream without the ‘when’s. I have a pair of friends currently in France for their two-week honeymoon—isn’t that a romantic idea? But it’s not enough for me. I tell myself that I shouldn’t plan out my “live in France for a year” dream because there are so many “if”s: what if I love my career too much? what if I can’t save enough for it? what if I get into grad school? (and the big if…) what if I meet a man? I’ve decided that were I to let a man get in the way of my dreams, I would be cheating myself—this is why I am in Seattle after all—I’m living my own life; I’m not getting caught up in relationships in my new life (not to say I don’t want a boyfriend, I do, but I’m not ready to get married, which to me is pretty much the point of dating, therefore, I don’t—this opinion changes on a daily basis).

Sure dreams change, but you can’t wait for change. I know that I need to try things. I’ve always been one to set my mind on things, make them happen, and I’ve (painfully) learned that if I don’t like it, I can move on to new dreams. Who says you can’t have it all? Seriously. What are those people hoping for? I just want a simple life—simply adventurous, simply joyous, simply free.

Now that I’ve said all that, got my self-pep talk back on, I can confidently tell you, that while washing the dishes, building up my dreams, I suddenly gasped and the exhale was instant tears and that embarrassing loud sob that only comes out when we know we are really alone (aside from the dog who tilts her head and looks on with concern wondering what beast has taken over her friend). But that alone sob—that’s why I was sobbing—I am alone. Alone. No one holds my hand or kisses me goodnight. How did I reach this in my pep talk? (I do prefer to travel alone.) I reached the ultimate “when” of my past: when Derek _________.

Take your pick:

·      when Derek gets better

·      when Derek can walk

·      when Derek graduates college

·      when Derek isn’t doing as well

·      when Derek can’t going out any more

·      when Derek dies

None of my five-year plans included the last one until the summer I was in Italy, and he was so sick, and he died a month after I got home. Of course I hadn’t expected it so soon—five-year plan here. It took me a while to come to terms with that—I had planned a part of my life to start after he was gone. That sounds sick, jaded, disturbed, but I’ve always believed myself to be realist. However, in my realism, I didn’t account for the fact that Derek’s death would entirely shake me to hollow bones and redirect the entire course of any plan I thought I had. I guess that’s the karma there—you think you have plans? No, no, dear.

So this is how I got to be a twenty-two year old single woman sobbing in the kitchen with a plate in my hand. I was beginning to plan out the next ‘when’, and it finally hit me that you can’t base life around the unexpected, like death. Isn’t the whole point to keep going until you stop? If I wait around for everyone else’s lives to stop, I will realize that I never let mine begin. People I love will go away many times in my life, that is certain, but that doesn’t change dreams, only temporary plans.

I love my family. I love my friends. I love all of the people in my life (just maybe not in groups). I know this; they know this (I hope). But I don’t think they know that me wanting to go do my thing does not mean that I don’t want to spend time with them. Maybe this is just my “coming of age” realization (a little delayed), but somehow I’m getting older, and pieces are coming together (and then apart again, or sometimes shuffled) of really, what is happiness to me?

So no more ‘when’s. No more ‘if’s. I’m just going to do it. I have a dream in my mind, and I’m going to aspire toward it until it happens. I know that the plans won’t be the same from day one, but the end goal is until I try it.

“What, are your legs broke?” No, and even if they were, couldn’t stop me; Derek couldn’t walk, and he pushed full-force ahead. Carpe fucking diem. Besides, my desires are now bigger than a glass of milk.

'love is blindness'

They say some situations are like “the blind leading the blind” as if that were a bad thing. I think we’re all blind and scrambling the world hand-in-hand with each other.

There is a man who is always outside of my building helping people park. He’ll point to the “No Parking” sign and read the fine print that reveals that the spot is valid for that time, “Here’s your proof of the truth” he says.

Today, he was walking the same way as Pickle & me. “Hey babycakes,” he says to Pickle. He always greets her like that. He also always tells me that I’m doing a good job raising my puppy and that she’s such a sweet dog. When we go out for our late-night walks, he says, “Honey, what are you doing out so late? You be careful.” I don’t even know his name, but he cares for us.

“Love ‘em” he said today, “If you show love to people, they’ll love you back. I love everyone in this city.”

“You know everyone in this city!” I said as he greeted the row of usual homeless folks on First.

“This is true, and I love them. These people here,” he pointed to the men and women sitting dirty against the buildings, “are the most protective people in Seattle; they look out for each other.”

I didn’t believe him, but on the walk back, I felt like I had my ‘in’. They all greeted Pickle and said she was a sweet dog. They didn’t ask for a penny or make rude comments or gestures. Just hello. For one of the first times since moving downtown, I felt a sense that this was how the world was supposed to be.

I’m not neglecting the fact that these people were homeless. That may sound crude, but hear me out.

At the dog park, a man with a dog named “Legacy” told me about his love for his dog and his life—a life without a home. “I chose this life. Some people pity me, but that’s fine for them.  I don’t care what they think. I love my dog, and I’m not going to do anything that puts him in jeopardy. We come to the dog park everyday, and some people don’t like me because of the way I live, but you know what? I chose this. I’ll help people—watch their dogs, brush out their dogs undercoat—and they’ll give me a few bucks; sometimes they’re really generous, giving me prepaid VISAs or buying me a meal. I don’t need to own anything. I just need my best friend.”

Don’t think me naïve. I know there are people out there who instead of helping you park, will steal your dollars, and there are people who are homeless just to haggle you, and there is a man who always stands at 4^th and Pine with a sign that says “I need me a fat bitch.” They’re out there, and they’re scary, and they’re sneaky, but I think it’s important to find the people in this city who do care for others and aren’t trying to cheat you and will protect you.

One morning, Pickle I were down at the waterfront park watching the yellows deepen the city into morning with a blissful calm. Suddenly, shattered glass and spray—a man had slammed a bottle of Jack Daniels in the sidewalk only a foot from me and my dog. Pickle started and ran to my feet. I stood in shock and bent to check her paws for glass. The man stood cussing at the air. A different man walked by and asked if we were okay. We were fine. We were more than fine because even in the unreasonable chaos of the city, a stranger bothered to make sure we were alright.

This is the city: people come and go, but you mostly see the same faces all over town. Even though I know only a few people, these friendly strangers make me feel like I belong here.

I haven’t been writing lately. I’ve been caught in the busyness of transition—living downtown, settling in, a new job in the works. Most of the time in my newly found adult life, I feel like I have no idea what I am doing. Looking around, I think a lot of others are just like me: doing whatever it takes to get by and find happiness.

Twice now, I have seen two different couples guiding each other through the bus tunnels: blind. Each pair did the same thing—held each other arm in arm and felt ahead with the safety poles. Somehow, I have a feeling they all made it where they were aiming to go.

So here we are—we’re all working our way through, arms outstretched before us seeking joy, but when we show love by just taking one of those arms into the arm of another, we really are just the blind leading the blind, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being alone.

Beginnings: AWP

Well, here we are: the eve of AWP. I picked up my booklets & fancy little AWP bag this afternoon, and as I passed my writing peers with their lime-green lanyards and matching bags, I felt a whir of excitement and (let’s be honest) nervousness.

My last AWP experience was quite different as I went with a small group from our college’s literary magazine. It was in Chicago—a city I’d only ever driven by—and I had no idea what I was doing. As a returning attendee, I at least understand the structure, the layout, the hectic schedules, full rooms, and buzzing bookfair—yet we’re in Seattle—the one city (aside from Florence) that I know best in the world, a place that is familiar, a place that is home, but I am surrounded entirely by strangers.

Walking through Pike Place today, I started counting lanyards—strangers coming to my city to learn about writing, teaching, publishing. In the registration hall, couples and crews gathered around tables, flipping through the schedule of seminars. I figured I’d save my planning for tonight since I wanted to enjoy a precious day of Seattle sun.

Maybe that wasn’t the best idea. Exhausted yet motivated, here I am: booklets sprawled over my bed, trying to plan a day by narrowing down the five to ten seminars each hour that interest me most to the one I will attend for each time block.

By the time I made it through the day’s list, I realized I reserved no time to go to the bookfair, to eat, or to even take a short break—everything is back-to-back-to-back.

Now it’s nearly tomorrow, and I know I need to sleep soon in order to be up, ready, and present for the 9:00 session, but all I want to do is write. So… in order to go learn, listen, and absorb all that I can to improve my writing life, I have to decide if it’s worth sacrificing time to write now when the muses begin to sing?