fall break: breaking down

This post would be more accurate if the heading read, "Bitching," but it doesn't, and here we are. Today, there  several things were supposed to happen. Like laundry. Like scrubbing the walls before we're eaten alive by some sort of mildew from letting our apartment get so humid. Like finishing my graduate school essays. (Not getting on myself too hard for that one–I've made serious progress.)

Instead, I have spent most of the day looking at this computer screen. I'm not completely complaining. I got a chance to catch up on my friend's blog. She's off doing really cool things that help a lot of people, and she's really outstanding at writing about it. I've caught up on my favorite source of creative nonfiction, Brevity.

I went through a (20 minute) phase where I realized that my life was in no way significant to the rest of the world & I have nothing truly unique to contribute. (After reading my friend's bog.) I went through a subsequent phase where I had a blast of childhood memories & realized that I must write it all down & save it until it connects to something else & forms that magical thing we search for in creative nonfiction, Relatable–or if I'm realyl lucky, Meaningful. (After reading Brevity. Funny how inspiration & self-inflicted emotional abuse work.)

I then decided to be really ambitious & start actually trying to publish more work. (So far, I've been lucky enough to get something in Ball State's literary journal, Broken Plate.) Joe's been pushing me toward this, but I'm embarrassed & afraid. Today, I submitted to two. I don't expect much, but I'm proud of myself for doing it.

This is when things started going downhill. I got on Poets & Writers' web site to look for a database of creative nonfiction journals. (Joe uses Duotrope. Duotrope pretends that nonfiction does not exist, but it's helped him a lot.) So it turns out I can find a ton of stuff to get rejected by on P&W any day, at any hour (check it).

So that was nice, but I wasn't really getting to the core issue that I'd been struggling since with waking up today. Something felt off. My hands felt restless. My feet were bouncing. I was struggling to stay in my chair, to keep my computer balanced on my lap through all of the tossing & turning I was doing–which then caused me to roll around on the floor, since the chair has wheels. I need something. I need to be doing something.

Lauren, my American friend here, & I found cooking classes, but we've yet to register for them. Perhaps there's some subconscious fear at work here? I know that this is what's really getting to me. That, and it's the craft season. I should be carving pumpkins, decorating cookies, making paper chains, painting Christmas ornaments. I should be baking goods to plump up my friends to help them get through the winter. But I am sitting in my apartment with nowhere to go that doesn't require me to spend money. My eyes are tired from so much reading & staring at letters. (But I'm wearing my glasses, guys. I promise.)

My hands have nothing to dig into. They're not even getting to hold a pen as it cruises down the page of my notebook. I'm all digital lately. When I started to admit that this is what's happening, I was getting ready to ask Joe if we could go do some Christmas shopping. I then looked at the date & knew this was not a good time (& wouldn't be for at least another month) to ask this question.

I did what I always do in these moments: I scanned the Internet for recipes & began a list of French cuisine that I'm going to make in our apartment before we move out. I keep tossing around the idea of getting groceries–justifying shopping as a thing to do, making it better by saying it's only for the necessary foodstuffs. I keep looking at recipes & preparing ingredient lists that I could build into our food budget, so that we can try something new tonight. Like steak & pepper sauce, which I used to get nervous at eating because I hated meat. Like corn fritters, which I've never THOUGHT about making. They're FRIED, for Pete's sake! And this is me. I'm afraid to eat two cookies in a month.

I want to warm up. I want to busy myself with a productive activity. I want to trick myself into thinking that anything is productive. I want to feel like I'm able to accomplish something after the nervous emotions that come with writing & the idea of publication. I also want my family & the space we share in my parents' kitchen. I want a table covered with sprinkles & my little cousins decorating pumpkin-shaped cookies. I want family, & if I have to, I will make them with flour & sugar & a skillet instead of an oven.