don't give up

When my sister, Sarah, was a little girl, she didn't really care about anything other than drawing. She drew in the margins of her homework, on the underside of our dining room table, on the wall (until my mom stopped her), on junk mail, in countless sketchbooks (and some library books)--basically, on any blank (or mostly blank) surface. It wasn't all good, but that didn't stop her. It didn't matter. 

Drawing made her happy.

In college, she discovered that she also loved animation, and thus applied all of her time and energy to all-things-animating. Even though she knew it was a long shot, she applied to be in the animation program. And she got in. She has worked hard, taken risks, and has not given up. As a result, my kid sister--my hero--will graduate in May with a BFA in animation. 

But she knows this is just the beginning of a very long road to achieving her dream of working for a studio. In the mean time, she continues to hone her skills by freelancing and working on her professors' films. She attends animation conventions, armed with business cards and her portfolio, and solicits feedback from industry professionals to identify her strengths and areas of improvement. Home-girl is focused and driven!

Sarah's work has improved exponentially since she first started. I'm not surprised. She sketches every day. When she's not working on her film or freelance projects, she's sketching strangers at coffee shops, Disneyland, zoos--any place teeming with possible subjects. 

So, when I shared my doubts and insecurities about writing, she gave me good advice:

• Recognize your strengths
• Acknowledge your weaknesses
• Pick one area that you need to improve upon and focus on it--work at it. It's advice she learned from Bobby Podesta's blog. As a former Pixar animator, he is mainly talking about animation, but really, he could be talking about the creative process in general. It's good stuff, people. Read it! Be encouraged.

Then she told me to watch this video of Ira Glass talking about the creative process:

I understand that Sarah's advice to me is not new or original. A lot of bloggers and and well-respected writers have given similar advice. I just didn't think it could work for me like it had worked for them. I thought that in addition to a lot of hard work, they were just inherently more--more interesting, more well-read, more intelligent.

I needed to hear it from someone who was also doing the hard work, someone who hadn't "made it" yet.

Someone I could relate to.

If you don't have anyone to cheer you on and encourage you to pursue crazy-good dreams, let it be me.

Don't give up. 

Change is gonna come. In a few days.

I.

[Condensed Version]

I'm going to change it up on this blog next year by adding two more features*:

*I don't think "features" is the right word but I can't think of anything else. Forgive me. "Features" sounds like I'm providing you with something of value, and I can't say for certain that what I'm adding will be of any value to you. :)

• Book Reviews: informal. not serious. my solution to a book club, without the commitment and inevitable shame spiral that I fall into when I don't finish the reading.
• Daily Scribbles: 100 words or less in response to a writing prompt. It could be anything--a poem, a song, a picture, an experience. Anything. 

The book reviews and daily scribbles are for me--to keep me constantly engaged in creative pursuits--but I hope you'll join in, too. I would love to hear/read/see your responses to the book reviews and daily scribbles. 

II.

[Long-winded Version]

I'm not good at playing most games--except for one.

I am the master of the compare game. 

You know what I'm talking about right? When you compare [insert variable] with yourself? It often looks like this:

I just saw on Facebook that [insert person] got her hair cut. Maybe I should get my hair cut...

[insert person] has such a nice car! It's nicer than my car...

Mike, did you know that [insert person] writes a blog? She has way more followers than me...

If it were a good game to play, you'd want me on your team. For life. 

Unfortunately, it's not. It's a very bad game, and I know it. So does everyone else. 

Playing the compare game doesn't make me feel good. It keeps me from being happy for other people when really good things happen to them. It keeps me from believing that who I am, at this moment, is enough. And good. And lovely. Just like God says.

It keeps me from swimming in a glorious sea of contentment. 

I don't want to live like this--play a game I cannot win--forever. I'm pretty sure God doesn't want me to spend time playing it. Besides, playing the compare game is always a slippery slope. It starts out as an observation, but before I know it, I'm coveting, comparing and grumbling. It leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth.

This year, I want to play a new game--live a new life--that's steeped in gratitude and courage and love. I want to do, not just say. Aside from the spirit-enriching, character-stretching benefits of quitting the compare game, I want to play this new game because I'm not getting any younger. If Jesus comes back tomorrow, I won't have very much to talk about. 

I want to have a LOT to talk about. I want to tell Him I didn't squander the gifts He gave me. 

So, in 2012, I am going to stop listening to the voices in my head, the ones that are raspy and croaky and tinny. They say things like, 

Don't kid yourself--she has enough friends. She's just being nice.

But that [insert new thing] is shinier/faster/lighter/prettier!

I wish I had [fill in the blank].

Your writing is just okay.

Your grammar is a little rusty...

The amount of followers and comments you have directly reflect your coolness/popularity/worth.

They're probably not going to like this post as much as the last one.

I know these voices don't say true things, but they are awfully loud. And convincing. Sometimes I mumble the things they say to Mike Fox, my sister, Sarah, and my friend, Nannette. (Thanks for listening to me, guys.) Sarah always knows how to drown out the noise with truth:

"Bean, write for you. Don't write for everyone else. Write because it makes you happy. Remember those stories you used to write in junior high? About the guy with the beautifully tanned skin and the black-as-night hair that was wild and tousled? And the girl with the sad grey eyes?" 

She actually remembers more details and always keeps going, but I am blushing as I type this because those stories, and the writing in those stories, were terrible. TERRIBLE. But, Sarah always says, "Bean, that's not the point. The point is, you had fun then. And you wrote a lot. Your insecurities are keeping you from writing. You need to write!" 

So, that's what I'm going to do. 

I'll also be adding book reviews to this blog. Not serious book reviews--just some thoughts about what I've read, what I'm reading and what I'd like to read. I like the idea of a book club but am wary about committing. What if I don't like the book that's chosen? What if I don't finish my reading before the meeting? Then I can't participate and will feel like I'm hindering the group's discussion. And then I will just stop attending...Anyway, I will be sharing what I'm currently reading (or would like to read) here. I hope you'll share your reading lists with me, too. I'm always looking for another great read!

I'm most excited about starting a daily scribble post. Each day, I will write 100 words or less in response to a prompt. It could be anything--a color, a word, a quote, a song, a picture...(you get the idea). It will probably be really terrible writing--I'm sorry about that!--but if I try to edit myself too much, I will get caught up in the compare game. Or I'll just do what I normally do and wait for inspiration to come to me, which could take forever. (Actual timespan.) So, I'm going to spit out the words and let it be bad. Who knows? I might find something worth saving. 

I'm forcing myself to write on this blog to keep me accountable. I could be writing to no one, but at least my words will exist outside of my body. Please don't hesitate to share what you're reading, respond to a daily scribble, or share something that inspired you. I hope that the book reviews and daily scribbles will be the beginning of a conversation, a creative collaboration. 

As your friend, I have to warn you that there will be a lot of awful writing. You can stop reading and following me if you like. That's okay. I just have to keep writing. I can't die with words inside of me simply because I'm afraid they're not enough.

They're all I have, really.

Daring to Dream

“You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.” –C.S. Lewis

I.

I only know three people who love their jobs:

1. My old roommate, who is a police officer for the Santa Ana Police Department.
2. My optometrist
3. ...

Maybe I only know two people who love their jobs.

My old roommate LOVES her job. She works nights over the weekend.

Let me repeat that: she works the graveyard shift. OVER THE WEEKEND.

Yes, she loves her job. She is passionate about her work. She uses words like “thrilling” and “awesome” to describe her job. She also interacts with drug dealers, gang members and prostitutes in her line of work. Who else can say that? (I guess drug dealers, gang members and prostitutes can also say that…)

My optometrist also loves her job. I asked her if she liked staring at eyeballs all day, and she said yes. She said it was fascinating to her.

You know what?

I believed her.

And then I thought—just for a second—that perhaps I should’ve pursued a similar career path so I could kindly tell a patient she has astigmatism, and that her tear film is “spotty”, which is why she suffers from such severe dry eye. But that thought quickly evaporated (just like my tear film).

I couldn’t be a police officer like my old roommate because I typically don’t run toward danger. Also, I couldn’t do one pull-up to save my life. My old roommate had to do a lot of pull-ups when she was in boot camp. I mean, she had to do a lot of other things but I was most impressed by the fact that she could do pull-ups.

I couldn’t be an optometrist because I would never get into optometry school. Even though I think eyeballs are amazing, I don’t think I could force myself to know EVERYTHING about them. Besides, mine don’t work well at all. You should see me walk Crosby when I’m not wearing contacts or glasses. I make angry, squinting faces at my neighbors and wave in their general direction just in case they waved.

The only thing I could ever be is a writer.

So, I pursued writing.

II.

I had glamorous ideas about being a starving writer. It just seemed so sexy!

Working three jobs just to pay the bills? OF COURSE! That will add to my credibility!

Single? You bet your butt I will be!

A billion tattoos? Uhh YES.

Cigarettes, coffee and wine? All day, every day!

I had those ideas when I was in my early twenties. They changed when I met Mike.

Here’s what happened after that:

• We graduated and moved to Orange County to be close to my family.
• Mike proposed.
• I got a writing job at a big company.
• We got married.
• We bought a house.
• We adopted our dog, Crosby, from the animal shelter.

·       All that occurred over the course of five years. Sometimes I think, where has the time gone? Am I really at this place in my life now?

Yes. What I once thought was the distant future is my present. I am living it now.

And boy, does it look different:

• I'm happily married.
• I'm building a nice home with Mike.
• I have a mortgage.
• I have a great dog!
• I spend Saturday mornings cleaning my whole house instead of sleeping in till 1:00 p.m. and detoxing before the next wild night out. 
• Even my body is different. It's wobblier.

You know what else looks different? I spend all day writing non-creative things. By the time I get home, I’m too tired to write anything else. In fact, after a 12-hour day, all I have time to do is cook a quick dinner, hold hands with Mike, and pet Crosby before going to bed.

I’ve done this for four years now. Somehow, I thought this year would be different. I thought I would learn to set boundaries to protect my home life—my writing life—but I was wrong. Instead of learning to set boundaries, I learned that I am terrible at setting boundaries.

I learned that I am bad at saying no. Instead of saying, “No, I can’t do this”, I say, “Okay, I’ll get it done”—and I sacrifice my life, my marriage, my relationships, and my true self instead. This rhythm of all non-creative-work and no life made me sad. For months, I thought—this is it. This is my life. I’m 28. I’m officially OLD. It’s too late to try something new, to dream a new dream (or revive an old one).

(I know those were my fears talking but in my defense, they talk really, really loudly.)

My prayers looked like this:

What the cuss, God?! Is this it? Will this job be the measure of my life? I can barely nurture, love and support my husband right now. How will I sustain a family? Can I even conceive? I’m so stressed out all the time I don’t know if it’s even possible. And God, one more thing: I never thought I’d want to be a stay-at-home mom but I’ve changed my mind. Is that okay? Is that even possible in Southern California? Do we have to move out of state? Hello? Are You still listening? WHAT DO I DO?

I don’t have any answers yet. (And that’s okay.)

I know God has heard me wail, moan, cuss, complain and weep bitter tears over my job and what my life was becoming.

But He has also said, Bean—I’ve got this. Just wait—you’ll see.

So I’ve waited. I’m still waiting. And from what I can tell, I think His surprise is going to blow my mind.

(I just pictured brain matter flying out of my ears like popcorn. Did you?)

III.

While I’m waiting, I have decided that I must write, and not just because I can’t be a police officer or an optometrist.

I must write because that is the only thing God made me remotely good at.

I think He is saying that, too. Right now, I have the privilege of working on two freelance writing projects at the same time. Yes, I am now working three jobs, which is why I’m writing this blog entry past midnight.

For the first time in years, I AM HAPPY WITH MY JOB(S).

I feel like I’m just starting to live.

I feel like these writing opportunities are just the beginning—of what, I don’t know.

I’ll wait and see.

IV.

A lot of my friends work their behinds off at jobs they don’t like. I think it’s more common than uncommon. But friends—don’t get lost. Don’t throw yourself and your dreams away. Work hard—yes—but live well.

Let’s fight to reclaim our lives, to live lives worth talking about. As Mary Oliver says, 

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" 

Yes—tell me.                                                 

Real Life (or something like it)

I.
"This is your real life, Bean. What are you going to do with it?"
When Mike asked me this question, I thought these were my options:

1. Fly a kite.
2. Buy a home. Have babies. Provide a nice life for them. Love Mike and our babies till my teeth fell out.
3. Quit my job. Hole up and write feverishly for days/weeks/months/years. Write something memorable. Make my mom proud. Get interviewed by Ellen. Dance with Ellen, after which she will say, "Wow, you're a great dancer! I like you. Those are nice earrings!"

At the time, my answer was b, although I dreamed of (coveted) c on a daily basis. Since then, I've learned that there was another option:

1. All of the above. Yes, really—or something like it.

I just couldn't see it. I thought I had to pick one option and stick with it forever, which is why I felt stuck. And being stuck—or even just feeling stuck—is terrible.
I should rewind to explain how I got there (that place called stuck).

II.

Setting: The not-so-distant past.

When you're young, you feel invincible. You truly believe you can do anything you set your mind to. You dream lofty dreams and make plans to chase them. Some people actually do (and those people inspire me).

Me?

When I graduated, I needed a job that would pay for health insurance; that's what it boiled down to.

I was sick and needed to see several doctors so I had to find some way to make it happen. In college, I'd dreamt of chasing the poor-but-romantic "writerly" life. I wanted to see my name in print! I wanted to write stories about people and real life! I wanted to write about my mom's childhood in Cambodia, the war, her experiences in the refugee camp, coming to America. I felt I was born to write about her life! My last project in college was a screenplay that captured everything from skinning eels as a girl to watching Superman in black in white for the first time. I even imagined myself giving an acceptance speech for best new screenplay (or whatever), during which I would thank God, my parents, Mike Fox, and Laurie Weeks—my favorite writing professor.

I put those dreams on a shelf (for some day, I said) and got a big-girl job in a glass building with windows that didn't open. I got my own cubical, my own badge, my own stapler. I got the health insurance I so desperately needed and sought treatment to get well. I was financially independent. I was a responsible adult!
Every now and then, I would take my dreams off the shelf, dust them off, and hold them in my hands. I'd whisper softly to them, telling them I hadn't abandoned them—that I still loved them—before putting them back on the shelf for safe keeping.

Mike and I saved up our hard-earned money and paid for our wedding. Life was (still is) great. But living a "writerly" life looks different after you get married. I no longer wanted to spend all my time alone writing my break-out novel/screenplay/memoir. I wanted to spend all my time with Mike (and I did). We talked about our future home and future babies and what our life would look like; without realizing it, I spent more time entertaining those dreams while my own collected dust on the shelf. I took them out to breathe and stretch their legs on occasion but didn't spend much time playing with them like I used to. In truth, I felt guilty for trapping them, for keeping them tightly sealed in a jar on the highest shelf. I tried to explain it to them gently but I think it was more for my sake than theirs.

"Now is just not the right time. We're saving for a house and our future babies. But don't worry—I haven't forgotten about you. Your time will come, too. Just be patient."

But when those plans looked up at me with sad, puppy-dog eyes, I couldn't return the gaze. You know why?

I was afraid.

If I let them out and follow them wherever they may go, will I get lost? Will I lose them? What if I fail?

Instead of finding answers to my questions, I ignored them and focused on work.

Like most plans, ours required a steady income, so while I didn't find my job inspiring or fulfilling, I persevered. I told myself God had great plans for my life that looked different from the life I was living. I considered my time in the cubical farm a temporary stint.

But work was rough. I didn't understand corporate politics or "double-speak". (Why don't people just say what they mean?) I didn't understand why people didn't speak the truth. I didn't understand how or why people could want to "teach you a lesson" by sabotaging your projects. For the first time, I had to engage and interact with people who did not like me. It was all new and exciting in a bad way. At first, I screamed,

"GOD! GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

That didn't get the type of reaction I was looking for so I tried to change up my game plan by praying the "right" prayers, the kind that start with, "God, I'm thankful for my job…but—" I prayed for God to change my heart attitude toward my work and everything that ate me up inside. I manufactured a good attitude when I felt rotten, when the bitterness made my mouth taste bad, like when you drink orange juice after you've brushed your teeth. And when I was tired of praying the "right" prayer, when I was tired of crying, I allowed myself to indulge in (and roll around in) an attitude of entitlement.

"I'm better than this! (Aren't I?) Is this what You planned for me? This is the story You wrote for my life? Because I'm sorry—it's boring."

I know—I've got a lot of nerve. But I was frustrated with work! I felt like no matter how many hours I worked or how hard I tried, I couldn't stay on top of it. I struggled to stay afloat. I cried almost every week. I was physically exhausted. stressed out. emotionally drained. close to hopeless. It was stealing the best parts of me.

It left nothing for Mike.

It would leave nothing for my future-babies.

And if there was nothing left for my family, what was left for my dreams?

In my heart I said, this has to be a temporary thing. There has to be more to life than this. Aloud, I said the right things. I said I knew God had a plan for me. I said the purpose of my whole existence might be to work at my job for the rest of my life. I said the sum of my entire existence could be a conversation I might have with someone, a conversation that might introduce that person to Jesus. And I was okay with that.

But I wanted more, and sooner rather than later.

So I started to pray—fervently at first—and wait for an answer. I said I was waiting for any answer but my heart hoped for the answer I wanted.

I prayed. I waited. I worked. I cried. I shook my fist at my laptop and yelled expletives. I complained. I stopped praying. I apologized for complaining and for being ungrateful for God's gifts. Repeat.

It was exhausting.

I explored my options. I updated my resume. I thought of how much stuff I'd have to pack on my last day. I thought all the things I would be able to do for God once I'd left my current job.

It was after weeks of mind-numbing whining and discontent that Mike asked me the question I did not want to ask myself:

"This is [my] real life. What [am I] going to do with it?"

I didn't have an answer for him. Not then.

"What do you think would make you happy? What's your dream job?"

This is what I blurted out:

Something that involves writing. Something that allows me to be creative. I want to touch peoples' lives. I want to bring them joy. I want a job that will allow me to provide for our family. I want to be available for my children. I want to write meaningful stories. I want to do something that I can be proud of. At the end of our lives, I want God to be excited to talk to me about my life.

And as Mike explored my options and helped me see what I needed to do to make these things happen, I realized that in some way, I already had everything I wanted.

Most importantly, I saw that I had everything I needed at this point in my life.

I just had a bad attitude (also known as a "bat-titude"), too.

OH.

III.

Setting: Right now

My real life right now looks like a corporate job that allows me to save for our future home. And I can say that it is good for right now because Mike is right—this is my real life right now.

My job allows me to be friends with my co-workers. It allows me to send e-mails that are ridiculous, creative, and almost too silly for the work place. It allows me to come home and write words that remind me of life, and living, and living a life that pleases God, and what it looks like to make mistakes and still be loved by God. While the stuff I write here (in this blog) might never get me a spot on Ellen's couch, it helps me share stories and meet people and make new friends.

And I think God is pleased with that.

At least it's a step in the right direction. I know He is working on my heart and is writing my story. Since then—the not-so-distant-past—I have taken my dreams off that highest shelf and let them roam freely around our small apartment. Sure, I was upset they chewed through cables and peed in my favorite mustard-yellow flats, but I'm happy they're back where they belong: with Mike and me.

I now know that my real life right now includes my dreams. I just have to ask God to show me where they fit in.

He has done more than that: He has surrounded me with people who, in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, are chasing their dreams. Through these precious friends,

He shows me what it looks like to overcome financial "limitations" and frail, broken bodies in the pursuit of living a full, rich, joy-centered life.

He shows me what it looks like to have faith that moves mountains.

He shows me what it looks like to cast off doubt and ignore naysayers.

He shows me what it looks like to step forward in courage. And faith. And hope.

He shows me what it looks like to love LIFE—to pursue dreams because He gave them to us.

He has shown me much through these friends of mine. It has been eye-opening and humbling and awe-
inspiring. Because I thought our great big God didn't care about my dreams (silly me). I thought He was too busy saving the rest of our planet! I thought our great big God was not bigger than my fear and doubt and obstacles.

Seriously—silly me.

Some parts of this dream-chasing business are still very new to me. I'd be lying through my big teeth if I said I wasn't scared. I am terrified of failing. But this real life is so short! I think I've wasted enough time whining and complaining and entertaining doubts and making up (weak) excuses.

So here's to chasing dreams, because if I don't, they'll pee in all of my shoes.

IV.

This is what my options look like now:

1. Muster up the courage to touch a sea anemone. (Gross.)
2. Host another supper club meeting. Play board games with friends. Laugh till I get cramps in my cheeks. Make memories.
3. Live adventurously!
4. Hopefully buy a house soon. Create a home. Start a family. Make memories.
5. Write down the stories that emerge along the way (and share them).

Will you share your dreams and stories with me?

Juggling, Part II

I.

It started with a question:

“What do you want to do with your life?”

“I want to be a writer.”

“What are you doing about it?”

Silence.

I didn’t like the question, but after years of avoiding its impenetrable gaze, it was staring me right in the face. I didn’t like my response either. Even the non-words, stacked atop each other in what I had hoped would be a formidable silent barricade, could not withstand the searing truth.

In the aftermath of this conversation, I began thinking about probable responses in the way I labored over formulating the perfect retort to a caustic remark; it consumed me.

My excuses, once so convincing, had lost their appeal. It’s a lonely place to be, really, when you’re out of excuses. The masses have gotten tired of hearing them and have slowly abandoned you to listen to the sound of your own voice. I imagined myself as being left behind by the circus, standing in the middle of an empty field littered with stale, damp popcorn, tattered fliers, and trash. Forgotten stakes, a few cigarette butts, and the shriveled corpses of popped balloons are the only remnants of the bustling show that turned the nothingness into a wonderland.

Alone, I began thinking about the juggler.

I thought of him juggling in the park, an easy smile across his face. I thought of him juggling staplers and hole-punchers in the stairwell of an anonymous corporate building, white paper dots flying everywhere. I thought of him brushing those paper dots out of his hair while putting the staplers and hole-puncher back in their usual place on his desk. I thought of him sitting down in his chair with a small sigh, barely audible over the click-clacking of synchronized keyboards, before contributing to the din.

II.

It has taken me weeks to find a response to the initial question. My fingertips have been poised over the keys, hesitant, waiting. I have watched the cursor blink against the blank page countless times, an unbiased metronome controlling the rhythm of the non-words in my mind. On the eighth day, a break through: write.

III.

The juggler doesn’t talk about juggling—he throws things in the air. A writer doesn’t talk about writing, shouldn’t write solely about not-writing because it’s safe—a writer writes.

IV.

And so, I write.

Juggling, Part I

I responded to a Craigslist roommate ad my fifth year of college and found myself living with a juggler, a pilot, and a Mexican Jack-Johnson-wannabe with a penchant for grooming his genitals; I discovered the evidence on more than one occasion floating in the toilet like a furry Portuguese Man-O-War. I even found a hair stuck between the blades of my Mach 3, which I left in the shower to shave my legs. I asked the juggler and the pilot if they had used my razor and they said, “I have hair down there” and “I do that at my girlfriend’s house”.

Silence.

We erupted into a fit of mock dry heaving, followed by uproarious laughter. Everyone told me to confront him but I never did. What was I supposed to say?

But this isn’t about “Jack”. This is about the juggler, but before he was the juggler, he was just “Matt”. He was quiet, a lanky fellow with sad eyes, a slow smile, and a mop of brown curls. I left him alone most of the time because he was always studying, or appeared to be studying, as both the pilot and the juggler were majoring in aerospace engineering. Shortly after I moved in, I discovered the pilot was a movie junkie. We spent much of our time watching movies from his vast collection of pirated DVDs; of all the roommates, I was the easiest to persuade to postpone homework.

One such afternoon, he asked if I wanted to watch a movie, and since it was 4:30--too early to start studying--I agreed. I sat down on our dingy, sagging couches while he walked to the kitchen to get chips, salsa (El Pato), and salt. I should mention the pilot ate his chips and salsa in a particular fashion: take chip, scoop salsa, sprinkle with salt. Eat. Repeat. He had just started his chip-eating routine when he turned to me, crunching furiously, and said, “Have you seen Matt juggle?” I raised an eyebrow. The pilot sprinkled salt onto his chip before continuing.

“Matt wants to be a professional juggler but his parents won’t let him.” I raised the other eyebrow, grabbed a chip, dipped it in salsa, and after a moment’s hesitation, sprinkled it with salt. Instant upgrade. The pilot, excited he had converted me, raised his arms into the air and yelled. “See? The salt makes the whole ‘chips n’ salsa’ combo better. Anyway, yeah, Matt juggles.” I salted another chip. Crunch.

“Juggles? Like, he juggles balls? Really?” Crunch. Salt. Crunch. Drip. Salsa had dripped onto my pants. I wiped it up and licked it off my finger.

“Matt is fucking crazy. He juggles knives and chainsaws and shit. I’ve seen it and thought, you are fucking nuts, man!” Crunch. Salt. Crunch. I imagined Matt, tall and quiet, tossing three roaring chainsaws into the air at a construction site. I don’t know why I imagined him juggling chainsaws at a construction site. It was either the construction site or the circus. It freaked me out.

“If he wants to be a juggler, why is he majoring in aerospace engineering? Couldn’t he have picked an easier major if he just planned on juggling after college?” The pilot quickly brushed the salt off his lap and stood up to get us beers.

“Matt is also obsessed with planes and flying shit. Like me.”

Matt never talked about juggling—I don’t think he knew I knew his secret—so I didn’t bring it up. I thought I would one day catch him juggling spoons or empty beer bottles in the living room so I waited. And then I saw him as I was leaving for school one day, juggling in the park next to our apartment. A six or seven-year-old kid was watching him with his head cocked to the side, eyes squinting from the effort of trying to follow the pins flying high above Matt’s 6’ frame. He had a wide, easy smile across his face, his eyes hardly blinking. He looked really happy. Anyone who saw him at that moment could tell he was doing what he loved, what he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

When I told him I saw him juggling in the park, he just smiled and said, “I was just practicing.” I asked him if he would juggle knives for me, as long as we were outside and I was standing far away from him. He salted a chip and said, “Sure”. Crunch.

He got a few paid gigs at Disneyland performing in the parades. I never got to see him but his face lit up when he talked about them. I admired him for pursuing his dream despite the fact it seemed to contradict reason. That didn’t seem to matter—it made him happy.

We graduated in June and parted ways. Last I heard he had followed his girlfriend up north to Stanford where she was attending grad school. I think he got an office job like the rest of us, maybe an office with a view. Matt was a genius. Although I can’t say for sure, I bet he is still juggling. I secretly hope to see him juggling in the parades at Disneyland. Even though I know he’s up north, I still look for him among the brightly-colored, spandex-clad jugglers, a tall and lanky fellow with a genuine, easy smile across his painted face.

In between dreams

A Dream Deferred
By Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
Like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
Like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

"At 30 a man should know himself like the palm of his hand, know the exact number of his defects and qualities, know how far he can go, foretell his failures--be what he is. And, above all, accept these things."--Albert Camus

My life at twenty-five doesn't look the way I thought it would when I was twenty. I had pictured a glamorous existence as a starving, would-be writer living in a crowded apartment--with a fire escape, of course--filled with mismatched furniture, stacks upon stacks of books, newspapers, takeout boxes, and a cat named Oliver. I saw myself working two or more odd jobs to support my feeble attempts at writing, or one soulless job as a cube-occupying peon in a big glass building made of windows that didn't open. I relished the thought of living in dingy wife beaters and torn jeans, the tell-tale cigarette at my fingertips whenever I wasn't drinking my fourth cup of coffee or plunking loudly on my Underwood typewriter.

*I know it's more practical to use a computer but I think antique typewriters are beautiful machines. I was so close to purchasing one on Ebay but was outbid by an auction ninja. I cried.

I realize now I will never have that life. There's a part of me that mourns the death of that dream because I had convinced myself I needed that lifestyle to give myself credibility as a writer. I thought if I looked the part, I would be a better writer, would convince myself I was worthy of the title/profession.

I have a confession: I sold out. Instead of avidly seeking creative jobs that paid pennies for a byline, I put on unfamiliar clothes I had never before owned--ones that needed to be ironed and dry cleaned--and sought out those glass buildings with pretend windows and practically begged for a cubical and a name placard. I never thought I would work in a cubical but at twenty-five, I find myself sitting in a three-walled cell every day by choice. There are days I enjoy having my own corporate work space. I have grown fond of my stapler and Post-It note dispenser. They are very reliable tools that belong to me during my tenure at my current job. I have tried to humanize my cubical with pictures and toys. Some days I enjoy my job while other days drag on for hours and not even the My Little Pony can make me smile. I look for remnants of my original dream but all I see are plastic knights waging war at various areas of my cubical.

Not all is lost. My dream didn't die; it changed. If I'm honest with myself, I changed, too. I didn't realize it at the time but in retrospect, I can see exactly when it started to veer off course.

Enter Mike.

In the glamorous writer lifestyle I had pictured in my early twenties, there was no room for love. Oh, there was definitely room for exciting trysts, dramatic break-ups, and awkward run-ins with ex's and their ridiculously beautiful new lovers; that bleeding-heart material is great fun to write, especially in the late late hours of the night over a glass of red wine and a cigarette. Everything that flows from your fingertips is passionate, full of abandon, and slightly convoluted; emotional diarrhea at its finest. I almost sought relationships doomed to fail to give myself credibility. Almost.

Mike ruined everything. He entered the scene when I was looking for a friend, a fellow writer with whom I could smoke cigarettes and drink endless cups of coffee beneath a black sky and talk about real life (as we knew it). I didn't mean to fall in love with him. I intended to love him, yes, but not be openly in love with him. It seemed stupid to ruin a good friendship. Plus, if I spilled my beans and he didn't love me back, I would feel awkward and silly. More importantly, I would lose a fantastic proofreader, muse, friend.

I'll fast forward through the details and fill you in on the important part: he loves me. What does that mean? The starving writer scenario only works for a single person! In my mind, I could not have both Mike and that beautiful lifestyle. I had to choose. 

That part was easy. 

Do I regret my decision? 

No. 

For starters, I am no longer addicted to caffeine and tobacco, although I sometimes miss those addictions. They were bad for me but they made me so bad ass. All the writers I had ever known had those two addictions (at the very least), not to mention a collage of cryptic, artistic tattoos and a thousand bizarre adventures that appeared in various noteworthy pieces, the kind that get read aloud at cool writerly gatherings. Those addictions granted me access to the literary circle of brilliant, compassionate, extremely intellectual Lesbian writers at UCSD! I felt like I belonged, at least for a little while. Alas, those were the days. The tradeoff: I have a nice job and have met excellent people. They too are caged birds singing their own songs, telling their own stories of how they never dreamed they'd end up where we are--in between dreams.

Being in between dreams is not a fixed state. It's constantly shifting, changing, fluctuating. It's called living. I now realize my dream didn't die--it changed course. It is still coming into its own, still finding its shape and rhythm. At twenty-five, my in-between dream looks like a corporate job in a glass building. I am grateful for it. What does the next stage of my dream look like?

*shrug* Only God knows.

Although my job, addictions, wardrobe, and city have changed, I will keep scrawling away, littering my fragmented thoughts and unfinished stories in countless journals (paper and electronic) until my chicken scratch turns into something beautiful.