I would like to dedicate this post to you, Dr. Arini

The past few years I've been very aware of two things: I am a writer, and I am a mess.

The second I'm completely confident about-- the first, 99.9% I'm confident about it.

Through the years I have filled dozens of diaries, wrote hundreds of poems, dedicated myself to several short stories, and studied writing as a craft for countless hours.

I've always known that Creative Nonfiction was my first love-- but I wasn't confident in my Creative Nonfiction writing. I had studied and practiced Fiction and Poetry through various classes at ASU, but unfortunately they offer a limited amount of Creative Nonfiction classes. To be specific, they offer two: ENG 217, Writing Reflective Essays (Essay about food, a place, a memoir) and a 400-level class titled "Creative Nonfiction" that requires prereqs I'm taking next semester. I took ENG217, and was so ecstatic for the class to begin. My teacher was a published author, a small, elderly, quiet Indian lady. She would have us read horribly boring examples, and then we would review the piece-- word by word, sentence by sentence. The class had under 20 students and we sat in silence while she slowly analyzed each piece. It was the most dreadfully boring class I had ever taken. The assignments didn't challenge me whatsoever, and I left the class doubting my love for Creative Nonfiction. I went back to Poetry and Fiction classes-- but felt like I was still missing out on something. And then I discovered the "CRW" classes offered at community colleges. I found your class and enrolled immediately. I couldn't be happier with that decision. The combination of this class and various assignments we've had, with a psychology course I also took this semester, "PGS394 Media Madness: Mentall Illness in Literature in Film" has refueled that fire burning in my belly. I've rediscovered and confirmed my passion-- writing about the dark sides of life-- mental illness, addiction, death, to enlighten readers of a world they most likely have misunderstood.

Your responses to my assignments and blog posts have been ever-encouraging, and they have pushed me to perform my best. And I discovered Evelyn, my gem. 

It seems as if the minute life settled down-- I'm finally stable and have a routine, a good job, a wonderful boyfriend, a roof over my head-- I was able to focus on what really matters. My writing. It's a scary thing to love. It's intimidating walking into bookstores and seeing the thousands of books around you, knowing there is so much talent out there and only a fraction of them make it. It's intimidating to expose the thing that is most personal to you--your writing--and to know that others could regard it as rubbish. 

I am now confident that I have a chance. If I follow my plans, obtain my degree in Creative Writing, get accepted into a graduate school to pursue Nonfiction, and stay on top of my illness, I will have a chance. I have all of the right elements, I just need to continue.

The only way to become an expert is to practice, and write I will.

Thank you for your encouragement.

The Medicated Life: Part II

The point of my previous post was that I am constantly and consistently medicated.

I'm on stimulants all day and downers during the night.

There is nothing natural about my routine, 

it's all induced.

Then again, we have to remember how wonderful I am doing. I have a healthy, loving, functioning relationship, a great job, I'm doing better in school than  I've ever done, my moods are stable, I've quit drinking... everything is calm.

I still have mood swings. Somedays I'm in a total fog, others I'm wired. But there is no depressive or manic behavior.

Sometimes I wonder if I really am even bipolar. You can never really know. I could just be extremely dramatic (which I am). 

I was first diagnosed when I was fifteen. He was an old Indian man with horrible english. He listened to my parents describe my mischievous behavior. He heard my story through dramatic sobs. He casually informed my parents that I was manic depressive, and likely ADHD. He gave my dad some samples of medication. They were tiny pink capsules and my father promptly decided that I was not bipolar and threw the meds away.

I saw a few more therapists and psychologists, I stuck with none.

When I was nineteen I decided to enroll in a local community college. My second semester there I took PSY 101, which was when I rediscovered bipolar disorder and read the symptoms through tears as I self-diagnosed myself. I went to my professor in tears and told her my discovery, she recommended I went and spoke with a psychologist at the school.

I went a few times, we came to no conclusion. 

Two years later I started seeing a psychologist at ASU. I had done countless hours of research on bipolar, and told her that I had concluded that was what was wrong with me. I used up my five sessions with her and she referred me to ASU's psychologist, who I am still seeing. But what if I was wrong? What if I am not even really bipolar and I'm taking all of these medications? Spending my entire paychecks on medications I may not need?

I've read that this is a common symptom with people who have bipolar disorder. They started taking their meds and get better and think they are cured and go off their meds and go crazy again. But sometimes, rarely, I'll forget to take my meds before I go to sleep. When I do this, I am instructed to skip that dose and wait until the next. I feel a sense of clarity on the mornings I wake up without seroquel in my system. I won't take my adderall, I will feel awake and alert all day long... 

I guess it's a question that will remained unanswered for now.

The Medicated Life

My morning begins with my alarm clock chiming at 8:15--

Although I never remember it going off.

I can't hear it and I instinctively silence it. 

I am in a trance--it is called Seroquel

Around 10 or 11 I come to consciousness.

Sometimes it's one of the many alarms I set,

Most times it's because my dog Kali is taking up the entire bottom portion of the bed.

Still in a trance, I stumble into the bathroom and start the water.

Sometimes a bath, sometimes a shower--it just depends.

I then go and search for a glass of water and my adderall prescription.

I break one of the small orange circles in half, pop it in my mouth, and swallow it with thick morning spit. Sometimes it'll leave a bittersweet aftertaste in my throat.

I zombie walk back to the bathroom, find a towel and lay it in front of the bathtub.

Sometimes, I'll have my dirty old pillow, coverless and endlessly stained, and I'll scrunch it up into a ball and fall fast asleep on the towel, listening to the sound of water.

Sometimes, I'll bunch together some dirty clothes and makeshift a pillow with that.

Sometimes, I'll cover myself with my robe or a clean towel.

Sometimes, I'll sleep for hours--or at least until Waleed wakes up.

Sometimes I'll sit in the steamy bathroom and smoke a cigarette.

I've had this habit for at least the past seven years.

Sometimes I'll actually bath or shower.

Sometimes I'll shut off the water and force myself to wake up, wash my face, brush my teeth, and start my day.

I know it's weird but itt's my most relaxed time. Listening to the rush of the water, 

lying on the cold, hard surface.

I usually don't even realize I'm doing it until I'm already there.

If I have work, I'm out of the shower by 11:15 and in front of my mirror putting on my make-up or blow drying my hair. These past few months have been the first time since fifth grade that I actually wake up and wash my hair and style it in the mornings.

I've found that I feel more confident when I go to work and school in a fashionable outfit with my make-up and hair done. I feel more professional.

Lately, for the first time in my life, I am finding myself to be shy.

When I speak up in class my voice is small and shakes as if I were shivering.

I can't find the right words. I can't remember the end of the quote, or the man's last name.

I stumble and shake some more and smile and slide away.

Maybe this is because I'm becoming more of a writer.

I can perfectly say my words through writing. I can perfect my voice and my structure and my content. I can leave it, and come back to it, and change it a million times.

I'm not put on the spot.

After a few hours of sitting in front of my computer, I go to drop off the mail. I always stop by the local coffee shop, iced black coffee to go. They make coffee ice cubes so your coffee doesn't get watered down. Any coffee drinker in Arizona can appreciate this.

It gets me wired. I start feeling more awake, more talkative. Time flies, and I always seem to leave early (and come in late), 4:30-ish I leave and walk through the back garden to the parking lot where Waleed is waiting for me.

The first thing we do when we get home is take Kali out of her crate. She lovingly greets us and then rolls on her back, and I scratch her belly.

Waleed sits at the table, "Lobitty, what time is it?"

I look up at him, "Joint time!"

Lite a cigg. Pop the other half of the addy.

Chainsmoke. Cigarettes and joints. Stare at your computer screen. Facebook. Gmail. MyASU. Canvas. Spanish. Stumbleupon. Pinterest. Facebook. Chainsmoke.

Finally, get some homework done.

"Baby, can I have a bar?" 

I'm already in the bedroom, popping open the purple bottle.

"Sure baby"

"Love you"

He smiles, "Love you more baby"

And then I write. I love writing on xanax.

Although, I am not on xanax right now and I am writing.

We grab pillows and cuddle up on the couch. We watch American Horror Story or CNN or Game of Thrones or some random movie. We eat, we smoke, we hold hands. 

I wash my face and brush my teeth and plug in my phone and kiss Waleed.

I take my seroquel. I drift off and then wake up and stumble to the kitchen.

I eat everything in sight. Sometimes I try to make something.

Sometimes I get so dizzy that I have to sit on the floor and close my eyes.

I eat more and stumble to bed. 

I put one pillow under my head and I squeeze another pillow between my legs and I fall into a heavy sedation, a trance, for the next twelve hours. Until I take another adderall and do it all over again.

(to be continued...)

Chivalry Isn't Dead, Our Belief In It Is

I read an article today that stated: "It's pretty obvious that chivalry is completely dead"

http://elitedaily.com/dating/sex/why-chivalry-is-dead-from-a-mans-perspective/

Someone had posted it on facebook, and it attracted a slew of comments--some agreed, others didn't, others argued it all came down to money and that women should "approach men first" and "pay for men" before we expect to be treated as an equal in the workplace...

Yet, none stated the obvious. Chivalry isn't dead... our belief in chivalry is dead.

Albert Einstein once said that "perceptions create reality" and they most certainly do. When we convince ourselves that it's okay for a man to invite us to a bar instead of dinner, that it's normal when he pays more attention to other women than to us, that we shouldn't expect him to open the door for us, or give us a hand when walking down steps, but instead we should expect 3 am text messages and infidelity...
Instead of demanding respect we have lowered our standards to the bare minimal.
And we're okay with it.

For the longest time, I would juggle men, trying to prove that women could do it too...
We could sleep around and not have feelings and be as casual as men could.
I would proudly say: "Don't mistake my affection for attachment" yet, I wasn't doing anything to be proud of. I idolized Samantha from Sex in the City, but the reality is that by acting disrespectful towards men, I was making it just that much more okay for men to act disrespectful towards women. That my perceptions--that chivalry was dead--had begun to create my reality. Not only did I fail to meet any men worth dating, but I wasn't worth dating either. The men that I had relations with would lie to me, and I'd lie to them, then they'd sleep with others girls, so I'd sleep with other guys. We never vocalized any of it though.. this was all just "casual."

And then I met Waleed.

To be chivalrous is to "show respect and politeness, especially towards women."

We started as friends-- he was casually hooking up with a friend of mine, and I was casually hooking up with a number of guys. Waleed would pick me up in the mornings, from whomevers house I had slept at, and we would go to lunch and gossip about the men in my life. He'd ask me a million questions about my life and would always insist on paying for my meal. He was genuine and caring towards everyone in his life, not just me. Once he discovered my love of cooking, he didn't take me on dates to nice restaurants, he took me to Walmart to buy groceries to cook us dinner. He found me during a time that I was deeply depressed--death was much more appealing than life, and he made life appealing again. I'd sleep all day, everyday, and he would always come to wake me up. He brought me Christmas dinner on paper plates and forced me to get out of bed and shower. When he discovered my love for wine, he bought a box of it and we sat on my bedroom floor, drinking, playing "never-have-I-ever", and learning each other's secrets. He kissed me that night. I felt confused--what about my friend that was sleeping with him? What about the guys that I was sleeping with? Was he worth losing all of those people in my life? I'd sit quiet for hours, guilt rolling through my mind constantly. 

He told me that he wanted to spend New Years with me. We went to a club with our friends--he didn't take his eyes off of me once. He held my hand, kissed me constantly. And then the countdown-- 5, 4, 3, 2, 1-- "Lauren, will you be my girlfriend?"

I didn't say anything. I kissed him, a million thoughts rushed through my mind, I looked at him and I said yes.

Because of my answer, I have now been in my longest and happiest relationship. I have a boyfriend who doesn't have eyes for anyone but me, and who will hold my hand no matter where we are. He opens doors, tells me he loves me a dozen times a day, and always puts my needs before his. Whenever he goes to Circle K he gets me chocolate pretzels because they are my favorite, and he'll stay in on a Friday night with me to do homework. He still insists on paying for most of my meals, but it's okay because more often I'm cooking his. Don't get me wrong, we have had our fair share of problems-- we've called each other plenty of names, gotten into more than a million fights, and some have gotten pretty nasty--but we have learned from them too. I respect the fact that he hates when I get blackout drunk, so I don't anymore. He respects the fact that I hate certain drugs, and doesn't do them. We've learned what bothers each other and what makes each other happy-- and we have a constant effort to make each other happy. My relationship isn't my relationship, it's ours, it's not about me, it's about us. And it's because Waleed taught me to never expect anything less than the best of treatment from men. He showed me that men can be gentle, caring, and loving. He showed me that chivalry is still very much alive, but you must believe in it, expect it, and be chivalrous in your ways as well to receive it.

And in ten years it'll also be my responsibility to teach chivalry to my son if I have one, as well as to teach my daughter to never accept anything less than a chivalrous man, and in turn, she'll never receive anything less than the respect she deserves.

Chivalry is as alive as it ever was, you just have to believe in it.

I've begun to really look forward to my blog post once a week.

I think it's because I've been a journal keeper for nearly my entire life--until college.

College bombarded me with so much reading and writing, that I rarely am able to do it for personal reasons now. But don't get me wrong-- I love the literature I read and the things I learn about writing, and watching my writing progress-- I absolutely love school (minus Spanish) -- I am just saying that I rarely have the time to sit down and read or write for personal pleasure. 

Also, because I stopped going to my "counselor-in-training" therapist. I don't know why, but I always do this! I even told him that I always do this -- make it past a couple of appointments with therapists. My relationship with my psychiatrist is the longest I've had with a doctor since my pediatrician. And I'm very proud of myself too! 

I didn't stop going to him for any particular reason. He was young, African American, had a great personality, when I told him I was a stoner he didn't judge me, and I liked him. I felt like he was a bit young, unexperienced, but then again of course that's all true, and I was aware of it when I entered the program. Truthfully, I didn't have the $20 to pay for my appointment. He kept calling and calling and leaving voicemails and I kept ignoring and ignoring. I don't know why. Bill collectors call me a billion times a day, so I am used to ignoring every unknown number. But, something scares me about telling someone everything. No one knows everything. Except me, my memories, and my shit ton of journals.

More than anything, I want to tell someone everything. But I want to make them understand why I did it all first-- and I feel like I've begun to understand. I'm obsessed with learning about psychology--especially rated to mental illness. I've begun to understand....

And I don't know if I'm ready to share it with anyone else. 

Sex. Money. Death. Drugs. More drugs. Alcohol. Pot. More drugs. Sex. Sex. Sex. Parties. Manic.

Mixed in with a million people, a million complex relationships.

Don't worry, I've never hurt anyone. But death was all around me-- my mom, 25+ friends over the past eight years. Heroine. Russian roulette. Suicide. Murdered by his cellmate. Shot. 

So much fucking shit has happened. And I've grown so far away from it... 

Do I want to peel open that scab?

I'd rather just study it, understand it, heal it... on my own. Through my writing.

Or maybe I should see a therapist. Who knows, but I'm bound to find out sooner or later. 

I learned a couple of new, yet suspected, traits about myself this weekend.

After months of (almost always) blissfulness with my boyfriend,

of him doing absolutely everything he could for me,

of him never saying no, of him putting me

in the absolute center of his

world-- I betrayed 

him.

I think.

I haven't seen my friends in weeks, I've been so busy with school and work and homelife, that I haven't wanted to go out. I've kept in touch over text, but vaguely. I am happy with my writing and my boyfriend and my coworkers and my dog. I realized while I was in New York, that besides the champagne at my cousin's wedding, I hadn't drank in three weeks. Up until yesterday, I hadn't been drunk for almost five weeks. That is by far the longest I have ever gone without getting drunk since before my fifteenth birthday. I love alcohol. And I hate alcohol. I've had this vicious, toxic relationship with alcohol for so many years it has become the norm for me. It's ruined so much for me. I've made so many mistakes, burned so many bridges. I've had probably between 15-20 jobs in my life, I can't use any of them (except for my current one) for a recommendation. And 99.9% of the reasons are alcohol related. I received a DUI when I was 17. It was the day after I had received an MIC. And seven more of those before I turned 18. I still don't have my license, because when I had an interlock I failed it too often.  June 2008: As of recently, I had begun to earn back my father's trust. I had a smart boyfriend who was a good influence, I had worked as a hostess at hooters for almost a year, I had started going to the gym, and limited my partying to only on the weekends (every weekend...) I remember that my boyfriend at the time, Matt, once said "you're the perfect girlfriend Mon-Thurs, it's just when the weekends come you change." He was right. I remember the first time I cheated on him, I was at his next door neighbor's house, Claire, and I was with this asshole that I've known since I was a kid, Brent. I vaguely remember it happening, but before intercourse happened my conscious caught up with me, and I pushed him away. I felt so guilty. He was just next door, loving me for all I was. I was blacked out, and I never even told him the truth. He suspected it for years, and we would grow close again in college, frequently the library together. He even took care of me when I was sick, and provided me with junk food and killer weed and movies we both loved. He knew not to lay a hand on me when I slept by his side that night. He wanted to though, he never got over me. I was the bitch who used up and threw away innocent Matt McQueary. I was the one who made him by a new car, embarrassed by his Saturn, before I would date him. I got drunk and met Mitch, a tattooed party-er and told him how Matt was so mean to me and bought me diet pills. I had asked him to buy the diet pills for my birthday present. He had teased my about my weight, but it was harmless, he was infatuated with me. I met Mitch and we drank every night and I blacked out every night and my dad had no idea. hI received my MIC the night my dad was leaving for a trip. It was the first time he had ever trusted me when the house, and the car, while he was away. It was the first time he didn't lock the extra bolts, placed there to keep me from sneaking out at night. He told me, that night I received my MIC, "Lauren, don't fuck this up. I'm giving you a chance."  And then I bought lingerie and drove to Mitch's with a girl who is now a pornstar, and we got fabulously drunk just like every other night. And then the cops came. I freaked out, I went to my car. I sat there for a while, nervous and drunk and chainsmoking. And then I decided to get a fucking ice cream from jack in the box and drove without my lights and got pulled over immediately and refused to blow so then they took blood and I pretended I was phobic of needles and I cried and cried. My BAC was 1.64, double the legal limit. I wasn't my first time in jail. My dad was called and turned around while on his way to California and I never drove that car again.

All of the incompletes I've received in school, all of the ruined friendships, ruined relationships, lost jobs, my $1000 warrant because of an MIC two years ago, the lost shoes and clothes, my virginity, my dignity, my very little money, I can't imagine how many brain cells...

Gone all because of alcohol.

And then I was going to talk about my second newly learned trait: my preoccupation with death. But then I realized, that it too is a result of alcohol. Nothing seems more lovely than death after a night of drinking and hurting people you love, your stomach heavy with guilt and your eyes heavy with tears. Death seems blissful. And it's this attitude toward death, this attitude I've had for years, that I am simply not afraid of death, that has been reinforcing my habits with alcohol. I'll sit on a plane, and imagine it burning up in flames, and I'll think--"I'm not scared. How easy death seems-- all of my problems will go away." And then  I'll order a bloody-mary and chug. 

My grandma and papa were alcoholics, and so were three of five of my mother's siblings. One is dead from it--literally drank himself to death, his body was found days after he actually died, I remember the phone call-- my mother and I were at Micheal's and all the sudden she stopped and left the cart and walked to the car and she cried. The other is nearly dead from it --60+ and never lived on his own, missing a foot with skin cancer and over 10 DUIs-- my cousins and I would blow in his interlock for him as children, hehas lived in my papa's trailer for 25+ years, and the other drinks every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, the days he isn't working at the local shop. He'll buy his beer and sit in his double wide and listen to The Beatles and Elton John and talk about how Elton's the only faggot he'll ever love and he grab my face and tell me I look like my mother and that I'm so beautiful and I'll feel uncomfortable. 

It my genes. Just like this wonderful illness that my mother's crazy southern family gave me, I am bipolar comorbid with alcoholism. It's all because of alcohol. I can't call it self medicating anymore because I am medicated. I hate it and don't want it and I'm going to do everything I can to get rid of it. The worst part is-- I can't even remember what I actually did. I have one glimpse retained in my memory, looking at Lacey's face. I don't remember anything else and we fought about it, about alcohol, and he never even doubted me. He trusted me. He was only mad about the alcohol, about me not sleeping at home. And it keeps replaying in my mind over and over again and it's not telling me anything and it's driving me crazy. But I can't tell him my suspicions, he'll never forgive me. I guess I will I never know and he will never know and I hope that ignorance is somehow bliss.

And I'm going to stop fucking drinking. 

We write to taste life twice.

This past week, Piper held one of it's largest events this year. As part of our Distinguished Visiting Writer's Series, Amy Tan visited the house on October 17th. We had been preparing for this since I was hired in May. Before I left for New York, on October 8th, I had to gather all of the different materials that we were going to need for the event. The day I returned back to work, October 16th, it was chaos. I had dozens upon dozens of emails, from the general email, from my work account, from my personal/work/school account. I had a handful of new Piper Friends, that needed to be added to the database and sent a care package. I had RSVP's and questions about the event. I had upset Piper Friends, who wanted to bring their husbands but didn't want to pay for a Piper Friend membership for them. I had new Your Novel Year Applicants, workshop registrees, and cancelations. 

I was instructed not to answer any of them. Unless it was absolutely urgent, I was to focus on nothing but Amy Tan. 

In her contract, she makes it clear that she brings her dog Bobo with her everywhere. In the car, on stage, on the airplane in first class. It also says that portobello mushrooms are not allowed to be served, or in sight, while she is visiting. I had picked up Joy Luck Club a few months ago, intrigued but with a bad taste in my mouth (I don't know why though...), and read the first couple of chapters before throwing it aside. With how much I have to read for school, it is very rare that I actually find time to read for pleasure -- although much of my reading for school is pleasurable. Amy Tan didn't make the cut.

I was intimidated to say the least. My co-worker Mollie was interviewing her, and as they finished up I introduced myself. Her hands were fragile, and she only briefly looked up at me. I then had to escort her to an MFA workshop she was hosting, a Q&A, and I was instructed to ask questions whenever there was an awkward moment of silence. As I walked with her, and our event coordinator Gwen, to our neighboring building, Old Main, neither of them made eye contact with me once and continued their conversation without inviting me.

Okay, well this is awkward.

And then finally, as we are on the last steps of the grandiose, late 1800's staircase, she makes eye contact. It's like the popular girls told me I can sit with them. She is speaking of her editor, calling her "miraculous" and referring to her own work as horrendous. She says that she needs her editor, that otherwise she feels naked.

I know exactly how she feels.

I feel so naked when I write. I feel like it's another part of me--one that few people know. Even my dad always comments, "you write so well. It is nothing how you talk." I talk too fast, and usually before I have the chance to think about what I am saying. Many have said that I have "no filter." I come across ditsy and bubbly and not quite sure what she's talking about. I hide things, I lie. I exaggerate and make up facts.

When I write, I know what I am talking about. I'll edit and re-edit, add in and then take out words, obsess over how each word rolls off your tongue, and rearrange my sentences no short of a million times. Everything I say, I mean with the uttermost of meaning. I can perfect the truth and make it worthy and reliable. I can submerse myself in the facts of a story or person or time or place until I have seen it from all angles, and am confident in my interpretation of the event. It is a me as me gets.

And that's why I get nervous. I think it is too me, that I am narcissistic, that I think I'm better than I really am. I think back to earlier pieces I wrote, how I thought they were so perfect at the time, and how childish they would grow to be. I think, Of course my dad gives me all of those compliments-- he doesn't know anything about the literary world. He will say: "Lauren, your talent is so special. You are going places." And it will be the nicest thing he's ever said, and I will be unsure of how much truth it holds. 

I've wanted to show the writer me for quite sometime now. I'm bursting at the seams, and she's intent on coming out. I'll leak a few poems on a food blog, I'll submit a story to a writing contest, letting bits of her drip out onto the me that everyone sees, tweaking the image that everyone knows so well. I'll post on facebook and ask for editors for a story, and I'll always get good replies. I'm known well, simply as Lauren Rice. I have too many friends than I know what to do with, and quite the list of enemies too. I am known as beautiful, as a drunk, as nice, as funny, sometimes as a slut, sometimes as a prude, as the girl who can write A papers for $20 a page, as a smoker, as a student, as an old friend. I am known for a million and one reasons, yet very few know me as a writer. And I tell myself that it will come with time-- that I'll get into my capstone classes with ease, and find a good graduate program. I tell myself that with all the studying that I do, and plan to continue doing, on writing, will have a benefit. I will be a good writer, I'll have to be. 

But it could all get fucked up so easily too. What if I don't get into my capstone? Just switch my major? Switch my dream? And I'm afraid that if I label myself as a writer, and then my plans don't follow through, that I'll be labeled as a failed writer. Simply, I'm afraid to expose this side of me in fear of rejection, just like most writers. And I want that editor, to blanket my words and soften the edges, to make it good and tell me it's beautiful and it's going to be published.

But in this era, social media is everything. All I would really have to do is give my stories some exposure and I would be sure to find lovers and haters. I have those who love me, and those who hate me. I assume it would go the same for my stories. But it means that I don't have that in-between person, and that I'm posting them naked to the real mean world. And I'm scared they won't be as good as I think they are.

And then I sat with Amy Tan through the Q&A workshop. I took notes and below are some of them:

• Who cares what people think--"I have to write what I need to write"
• The images in the story can be the most powerful pieces
• Images begin in childhood-- -nightmares, hallucinations
• You see things different as a child
• The world is mine, and everything in this world is a creation of my mind. Once I die, the entire world in my head dies too. That's why I have to write.
• An author is public, a writer is private
• "Pain is not a feeling, it's a place, a very lonely place"

She got to me. She tugged at the strings of my heart, and made me feel something inside. Everything she said confirmed my dreams are plausible. She spoke my thoughts, and made me feel that special thing that you can only feel when admiring other writers. It like how they say to "read like a writer." I had been doing that my entire life-- making notes of passages, scrambling to find a highlighter to highlight a piece of dialogue. I've been acting like a writer for nearly my entire life too. I had kept a journal until my late teens, which are all neatly tucked into my bookshelf. I have at least a hundred unnamed, random documents that I typed through ferocious tears or in the middle of the night while manic. I have notebooks upon notebooks with scrambled messages on most of the pages. I write on everything I can find. And I understood everything she said about writing, I kept nodding my head and trying to keep myself from asking (or commenting) a million things.

I guess you could say my fire was running on low fuel, and she just ignited the fire a bit more. And this was before, her hilarious, heartfelt, and interesting talk at The Tempe Center for the Arts. Which made me one of her biggest fans from this day forward.

Thank you Amy Tan. I'll definitely be picking up a copy of The Valley of Amazement this November.

Below is the quote I told her after the Q&A.