2010 in Flashback

Seeing the #2010memories hash tag on twitter, brought back a flood of emotions that I've been through this year so I'll chronologize this, now, on the brink of 2011.

A moronic start to the new year, on a leave of absence from the job, still waiting to hear back from the programs I applied to, in limbo with other writing projects and communities, head in the wrong place, spiritual madness, crisis of faith looming but not in full bloom. Not just yet.

New projects on the horizon, new friendships, mending old ones, remembering old friends. Project A's seeds are grown and things start to pick up, strangely and against all odds. A new friend is made who, oddly enough, chemistry starts from the first conversation. We are who we are absolutely with the other. Comfort in honesty.

25th birthday, celebrated for once without my closest sister, doubts and questions becoming sharper and more contrasting by the day, bad news from the programs: issues with educational background, mentally cracking skull on the wall, doubt increasing, faith weakening.

New applications to the UK, with nothing left to lose and heart on my sleeve, mulling over a new job offer as the Editor-in-Chief of a skin print publication. Don't really care much about the skin/fashion element of it, but the experience will be inimitable. Much mulling, much driving, much swimming, much trying to clear one's head.

Admission to one of the five places applied to confirmed. Umrah visa applied for and received, preparations being completed with each passing day. US visa expiring, crap, embassy, leaving the passport there one week before scheduled departure to Saudi Arabia. Two days before we're supposed to leave, passport still hasn't come back from the embassy yet, though five year visa reapplication confirmed. Day before we're going to leave, the evening before, passport comes back, next day flying off to where it all began, faith still in tatters. Saudi Arabia. Seeing the Ka'abah for the first time, letting it all wash over me, standing there, feeling so small and useless, unknown, pathetic and welcoming it all, embracing everything, coming to peace with everything, hope springing eternal. Staying at the Hilton, hoping to bring my parents back on my dime, to never let their standard of living fall, praying that this wish of mine will come to pass. Lancaster's offer comes in. Newcastle's already sent in theirs as did Portsmouth. Three offers now and still no idea what to do, but it doesn't matter. For two glorious weeks all that does is staying here, praying and hoping that all will be alright, everything will resolve itself in the end, leaving everything up to God. He Proves Himself, if proof is what was being sought.

On return, still mulling over print publication job and then a new project is undertaken: TMS with its art and literary co-properties and commercial perspective. Everything changes from that moment.

One by one, admission offers from other places start trickling in and now the ball is lodged firmly in our court. Sisters changing mind of dad, dad confirming, application for the visa starting, my mind still clouded, blitzed that this is actually happening. Fear, shock and yes...apprehension. Visa comes through, oh happy day.

TMS team starts gathering shape, content starts trickling in, the right people for the right positions and one wonders how one got so lucky to be here.

Bags all packed, suitcase weight troubles, getting through to the business lounge of Isloo Airport, thanking God for connections to get in there to begin with. Make small talk with porter, strangely. Back in the lounge, legs bouncing, impatient but sad at the same time, feel mother on my shoulder nodding off and hold the feeling: keeping it for remembrance. Snap pictures on the phone of brilliance which will not last the new year, unknowingly. Being sent off straight from the tarmac, parents watching through the windows, watching as bus pulls away into a new and unknown future.

Lancaster. Sitting on the bus entering the university, trying to identify the pictures with the reality. Registration, classes begin, seeing new faces, meeting new people, never questioning for a moment that I was brought here.

Can't imagine being anyplace else.

Wales. Writers residence, forever cemented in memory. Promise to be back one day. Promise to be kept or not? No idea, but the hope remains.

New management group involvement and pushing The Missing Slate in new and exciting directions. First submission received from a Pushcart nominee, soon joined by others and still others, as audience grows incrementally.

Phone stolen, harassing various security porters knowing it will not be recuperated, but always hoping.

Vacations and one month of time unaccounted for.

Such was the year in a blog post. 2010.

I have no idea what 2011 is going to bring but being in a different place at the start of it, heralds a good thing and I'm hopeful that at the end of the year, this time next year, everything will have changed all over again.

Procrastination, Procrastination!

The post below was thorny when I wrote it, admittedly and the lone comment that has been posted will be allowed to stand without a response. Why? The entire blog post is the response. I'm done debating theory with people who don't, won't or simply refuse to, practice what they preach. To whom religion is more a pulpit to ostracize the rest of the human race. I believe in a more benevolent God than one who vigilantly opposes the niggles in life, instead of focusing on the bigger picture. In the end of the day, religion and my thoughts on it are my own because after all, isn't this my space? Wow, I think I may have unwittingly wrote out an entire paragraph of a response. Go figure.

It's nearly 5 am and any hopes I had of altering my warped schedule are gradually fading away. The day must be started early so I get more daylight and right my schedule back to normal. Tomorrow, I have to cook aloo ki bhujiya (spicy potatoes) and need to get a head start on the day. There is also the plan of heading to town on Monday or Tuesday just to stretch my social muscles, not interacting with a lot of people here beyond my Asian flatmates, bless them. The Learning Zone with its couches and wall outlets for plugging in my laptop, seem like incredibly healthy options since the library's closed till January 4th as are much of the stores around campus. Any food or dietary related supplies will need to be purchased from town, not that I mind the trip. It gets my head out of the college routine or in my case, the lack of one. 

I seem to have hit a bit of a block where Gray's concerned and in the attempt to break past it, am concentrating on other stories I've been writing, predominantly Numb and The Carousel Man. Having navigated through the personal in my last post and publicly declared my growing allegiance to inter-faith dialog, I am fully re-realizing the impact of what a story like Gray and subsequent material will have on the local population. My religious 'pedigree' as it were, will be brought up for questioning which is ironically, the one area of my story that is ridiculously squeaky clean, or at least from the perspective it will be viewed. This is not easy territory; I am quite certain certain groups in my extended family will not take kindly to it, because as "modern" as they may be, in some things rigidity still holds sway. What can I say? My only defense is having fallen so low into the abyss that climbing out and finding some semblance of light was salvation in of itself. It's all rather dramatic and telling, really. 

Just wasted fifteen more minutes on YouTube. When you're a full time writer, having more time than anticipated on your hands just makes it all rather trying sometimes; I never know what to do with all that time and with editorial work mostly winding down, particularly with the 31st now right around the corner, I really am left with very little to do.

There might be two posts today seeing as how my body's kaput, but the mind still rages onwards.

Frack!

Religion. It's always such a sticky, sticky subject to get into. Things can get messy and heated within moments of one or the other initiator having received a response that doesn't sit well. Sometimes things can escalate through sheer verbosity; sometimes it's refusing to allow an argument to penetrate through, to even acknowledge another point of view, that becomes the acceleratory factor until the provoked gives up in despair. This is, by definition, how the Muslims have talked their way into giving themselves a bad name. By not talking about it, or just turning away and saying 'this is a sin', no explanations, no well reasoned explanations at least. It's all about the josh and the passion and a whole lot of anger, but no actual reasons. In my time here, I've realized that people are pretty damn interested in the religion I embody vis-a-vis my hijab. And unlike my sister who stated that I shouldn't go into too many details of my belief system, talking about it has actually given them a more enhanced perspective so that they look out for my dietary needs among other things. Talking about it has also helped reinforce my own point of view. I think discussions are important, particularly in helping to stem the Islamic stigma that's developed all across the world. Our own superiority complex that stems from a misunderstanding of all other world religions, hasn't helped matters any.

Shortly after coming back from Umrah, things started to change but my mind already started shifting from the conservative thought view of my parents, when I first wrote the Shi'a/Sunni short story. That really just opened up my mind to exploring what the differences really were, in place of what my father told me they were. Faith without knowledge is dangerous; isn't that what we're told? But then we're also told that Satan is the greatest scholar out there and too much knowledge can lead you down a whole different path. Personally, and from my own experience (if that counts for much, that is) I've realized that if you start reading things when you're at your most faithless point, that is when you're having or are close to having, a crisis of faith and you let every single belief system pass through you and with your mind and eyes wide open, you will find your truth if there is such a thing to be found. Not only will you know where you stand but you'll have a more accurate portrayal and representation of just about every other religion and system of belief out there, which really kicks in when you're talking about your religion. There is a good deal more respect given to you if you know what you're talking about, even if you're insulting other religions, which any scholar on the subject, would never do. It belies the argument that each religion is welcoming and tolerant of other faiths. What people fail to understand sometimes, most probably because its representatives have done a poor job of it, is that Islam simply means submission to God which is why we believe that all past religions were all Islam, because they all essentially commanded submission to the One God. And the One God is the god seen by Christians, Jews, etc which is why religions tolerance has been promoted in the Qur'an.

The next thing I need to set out and read upon to more accurately assess my own thoughts and arguments on the subject is evolutionary theory. As mentioned above, I did have a debate on it and found my faith arguments distinctly lacking. The truth is I do believe in Science, but I also devoutly believe in God. I don't think it has to be one or the other; I truly believe that both can and do coexist. Science is man made; God created man...why should they live in conflict? I'm smiling now, because I know the response that might come from this post. Because for all the lofty hopes and ambitions of promoting religious tolerance, I am aware of the ginormous wall that needs to be scaled, sitting before me. I do wonder whether this is a journey for one lifetime or whether such a thing is even possible in today's incredibly fractured world.

That doesn't mean one shouldn't try though, right?

:)

2 Words

I will confess: never been a big fan of the touch screen phones even if they are really futuristic and let’s face it, pretty cool. I’ve always felt like I need to feel what I’m writing, like when I’m using the keyboard on my laptop versus talking into a voice activated software system or using pen and paper when I feel the laptop’s getting too impersonal. So when my Nokia E71 went missing, there was a big hole in my mobile writing life since it effectually held a lot of my pieces in it in terms of my works in progress, a number of which were already transferred to my laptop which is good news, I suppose. For a long while the answer was simple: get another E71. Then I started doing the research and once you start, you know how hard it is to stop. It got to the point where my brain was so overloaded with various information regarding cell phones, that I actually had a dream about it. Yes. That’s when I knew my mind was trying to

There’s a place here on Penny Street called The Carphone Warehouse which basically lets you play around with various cell phones, so I got a hands on demonstration of a couple of phones. Then I started reading up, tweeting, asking other people in my social circle what I should do. It’s interesting. Very few people said: buy an iPhone. There was a huge amount of consensus that Android was a lot better than the Symbian software that Nokia runs, which may have had a point considering the number of manufacturers that have jumped on to the Android train. But one thing was absolute: I didn’t want to get an iPhone, even if that’s what started all the touchscreen madness to begin with. I didn’t want to jump on the Apple bandwagon just because everyone was already on it. Granted, I own an iPod; two in fact. One was a gift from my sister and that took form as a shuffle and the second one, an 8GB nano that I purchased during the time I was getting paid to work. On my sister’s recommendation (different city, different sister), I opted for the purple one. I’ve never filled it to full capacity and so purchasing an mp3 player that boasted more was useless.

After rigorously fighting against the no-keyboards policy that I had adopted much, much earlier (I’ve changed keyboards because I dislike the way they sound or the way they feel…yes, I’m one of *those* people), the HTC Wildfire with its Android OS fell into my hands. It was at love at first sight. It’s a small phone and I have small hands so from that perspective, it’s pretty ideal and it’s a budget phone. But considering that last bit, it comes loaded with quite a few things. I haven’t been able to verify the voice quality but I do know that it isn’t going to be as good as the Nokia. Nokia has made a reputation on placing quality above all else, even beauty. And the Wildfire is a pretty phone. Perhaps not as fast or as large as its brother, the Desire but for people on a budget, it’s a pretty decent phone which is evident keeping in mind how hard it was to actually find. It was everywhere but all the boxes were empty. Christmas shopping. Makes sense.

Christmas is pretty big here, or so it seems. Not having been around in the US during this season, I’m getting firsthand experience on just how seriously it’s taken. Also keeping in mind that the Christians in Pakistan are a minority and I haven’t exactly been invited to many Christmas dinners, etc. But it is safe to say that it’s going to be a snowy Christmas. Around New Year’s, I’m going to head off to the “cinema” as they call the theater here, to see Love & Other Drugs because I’m alone here and what better way to make me feel better than a rom-com? I’m not sure whether it’s going to make me feel better or essentially worse, but that’s a risk I have to take and take it, you know I will.

There is a backlog of information that I have to plough through concerning parts of TMS and some freelance work which, I have realized with a slight pang of disappointment, I really don’t have the heart to do. Here’s the thing: The Missing Slate and my work are the two core parts of my life now and I want TMS to be in a position to earn money, because it is a commercial venture. It has to be if it has any hopes whatsoever of sustainment. I can’t keep pouring money into it like a money pit without expecting it to provide some ROI. This is no half-baked effort of doing something “different”; well, it is that and so much more. We’re entering a new world where digital publication is going to go hand in hand with traditional publication, which is showing through in the number of print publications that have either closed down or moved a large bulk of their operations online. The key is to generate eyeballs and approach advertisers with that information. So we’re online and a digital publication on the cusp of entering print. And why are we in print? Simply to solidify our presence as a serious publication. Because otherwise, apparently, no one in Pakistan takes you seriously and it’s an important claim one would suppose. We’re going in reverse though. Digital and then print, in place of print and then digital. Such is the confused world that I live in.

Wow, I’ve apparently written close to 1,000 words in the space of fifteen odd minutes. How fluid this sort of writing has begun. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to be able to pound out the same number of words or pages for Gray, the novel that must be written. That has absolutely no choice either way—it has come to me in fragments, in parts, which strangely I’ve actually followed through with. Each scene as it comes, is as it’s being written without pause or much censure. This is a shift for me since much of my work is written on Post Its substituting for scenes that still need to be written and from point A to point B, in a direct, linear fashion. I do some light editing as I move along making mental notes of the sort of things I’m going to work on in the second draft. I didn’t used to be a drafting sort of writer, until I realized that’s what writing essentially was: rewriting. There was a quote I read about that much, much earlier and which I, overconfident and self-assured that I was, discarded as useless. I suppose it isn’t something one can tell you; it has to be experienced and learned for oneself.

And now I’m clean over 1,000 words steadily approaching the 1,200 word mark but before I do, feel I should bid adieu and return to woodworking. No plans on elaborating on that, no.

1,198 words.

Writing Is Easy

Back in the days when things were easy, that is to say if they ever were in this dramatic mind of mine. I am a writer, I reason: I am allowed dramatic flair. The important thing is knowing who you are and making peace with it. Regardless, back in the days when things were easy, less muddled, less confusing than they are now, less difficult. Walking in blind, even with a general road map, I find myself clutching at shadows, empty emptinesses in the darkness, away from room and board, even as I sit in the midst of them. Writing gets harder as you grow older: fact. Writing gets more elusive when you need to go chasing after it instead of it running to you, begging an audience.

Writing is hard.

It's terribly, terribly hard and the one thing that pulls me through this is summer. Or rather, September. Thesis. Portfolio. All the rest of it.

Writing is a nightmare.

When it doesn't go your way and all that you see before you is snow, mist, two people with teeth chattering, walking side by side but never touching as people do when they walk side by side, guarded by a line of propriety. Each keeping to their own line of deemed safety. Just this scene, you whisper. But what comes next? Don't think about it. Just get through this one.

Writing is wearing you heart on your sleeve.

Or trying to smuggle it among the words pouring out of your hand, forcing, wrestling their way out of you. Your mind is bleeding, words are everywhere and in the muck, this mess that's left behind it's your job to pick through the goo and make sense of it all. Because that's what comes next. First, expulsion and then, piecing together the puzzle.

Writing is impossible.

When you have a thousand and one things lodged in your head and not enough brevity or inclination to follow through. When your mind is filled with too many nonsensical ideas than it has room for.

Writing is not easy.

And whoever thinks it is,

is insane.

"Livin' On the Edge"

They say you write a book with an ideal reader in mind, with someone in mind so you're writing for a particular someone because it becomes easier if you think it's being addressed to someone as opposed to a faceless, unknown crowd. "They" in this case being Margaret Atwood and John Steinbeck. The books before me pile up a mile high as I realize my little excursion into town had me short on time and time is easy to wile away in procrastination. The library seems like a safe place to be for a few hours, with no videos, no internet, no anything to tempt me. Right now, I am not focusing too much on where the scenes I am writing will fit into the final project, but just getting it out of me. Much will be revised after research. The historical and religious sections will need to be absolutely right if I am to sell it to both worlds.

Nobody anticipated my having to buy a new phone, nobody anticipated my having my phone stolen...along with my gloves. Nobody anticipated having to buy a new pair of gloves...leather, no less because the damn store was out of the regular kind. Saying it places a financial strain on my father is a gross understatement and the quicker the magazine can start earning money, the better it is going to be. At least my time here will be time well spent from both a career and a professional perspective and no, those are not the same thing, you just need to look hard for the discerning line in the middle.

But one thing is for certain: for better or for worse, I am a planner even if my plans don't always work out like I'd hoped, they keep me from hyperventilating. From feeling like a failure, from falling into deep, dark pits of despair without having anything sustainable to pull me out. Dreams, as they say, are made of sterner stuff and it is to my dreams and aspirations I cling when all else fails: planning sustains me. However bizarre and controlling that may sound. I might not always know what tomorrow holds for me but there is a general idea of where I'm going located at the back of my mind, serving as my compass, holding me to my north.

For the rest, I'm just making it up as I go along as time and circumstance shift and adjust to allow for new perspectives. Not really living on the edge, but as much danger as is permitted.

I Forgot My Title!

I find myself gravitating here when I have nothing else to do, which is bizarre considering there was a shit load to do when I was in Pakistan...or maybe that was a Freudian slip. Now that term has "officially" ended, my reading list for the month is extensive: lots of narrative theory, the journals of Anais Nin and the letters Henry Miller sent to her in their twenty something year relationship, Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury, The Fact of a Doorframe, The Age of Innocence, The Life of Pi, Surfacing and The Handmaid's Tale these last two by Margaret Atwood. The Fact of a Doorframe is a collection of Adrienne Rich's poetry. Much of this is just a lot of much required reading while some of it is driven by the narrative style of Gray, the novel in progress. There is much room for experimentation here to see what works and what doesn't. Part of it may also be the need to get back in touch with language itself.

Having read the reviews of the E72 and valuing it against my existing and absolutely heavenly experience of the E71 and then reading reviews of the HTC Wildfire with its nice social media features, touchscreen component, Android interface, etc I may just be opting out of Nokia and going towards an HTC. This is an interesting transition for me because I initially had the HTC S710 and because of the poor battery performance and the OS (Windows), opted out for a Nokia E71 which I owned for a year and would've been longer had someone's sticky fingers not gotten to it first. How I miss that phone: it was a great, great reliable machine. The HTC will take me into the world of touchscreens which I've intentionally been staying away from, because of their chronic unreliability of getting words right. Or so my experience with the iPhone 3G "keyboard" went on my brother-in-law's version. It was all pretty and shizzle but just wasn't doing anything for me. Should I buy the machine from here, however, I will get it with a warranty and locked to a network which I can get unlocked and attached to a network offering better international calling rates. Either that, or I can take a trip down to Sim Tec which is a store in town offering refurbished cellphones. If I can find a Nokia E71 or 72 for a decent price, much, much lesser than what I'd have to pay for a brand new one, there's a deal to be had. Tomorrow (today?) is the day to go around finding out what the market is like out there.

And now, to sleep if I am ever to right my sleeping schedule that fell out of whack yesterday when I didn't go to sleep when I should have.

Paul

Apparently my work is "vivid and in-your-face" which are two things I never thought was true about my work, speak as I did in what seemed to me riddles and indirect statements. But perhaps the writer is more direct than the individual channeling her? Who knows, really but this is what I got from my one-on-one tutorial session with Paul Farley, as tomorrow marks the end of the Michaelmas term as we head into spring. It's going to be a long month in between and this is time to chart out my story, chart out the characters and the people and what's going to happen. He tells me it's good to have that ambition as a writer and he got solely through my work that I was more focused on representing my compatriots as people, that the story inevitably would boil down to that and less about political leanings or what have you. It's interesting because that's exactly what I want to work towards: to not have a cultural story, really but to tell a story about people: anyone you could identify with. They just happen to be living in Pakistan. It feels good to have been able to get that message across without explicitly saying it.

Lots of good stuff that came about from my session with Paul including a clearer idea of what I want to do with what comes after. But one thing is for certain: I will need to send my work out to as many people as possible so they get an idea of who I am. Paul, for some reason, believes in me. Or maybe that's just his nature which, of course, I wouldn't put past him either.

Yesterday, tragedy and in retrospect I am blaming myself entirely. Put my phone and gloves down to pay for my hot chocolate at the management school's Hub Cafe. When I remembered and went back to fetch things, lo and behold they had vanished. Upon getting home and dialing my phone it went straight to voicemail which meant only one thing: it had been stolen, the SIM card removed and the thief decided to pinch the gloves as well because, you know, why discern? Just take everything while you're lifting things. It was my fault. As a precaution, I've filed a report at the Security Lodge on campus, with the porter's lodge in the management school, called up every cell phone store in town asking them to keep an eye out for it in case the dude tries to sell it or bring it in for repairs. Over the phone, however, is the memories kept within the Nokia E71. I took it with me to Saudi Arabia, took memorable pictures with it, had pictures of my family and friends all the more precious miles away from home, had ideas for stories on there and of course, my entire contact list. Poof. Gone. I can get another phone and probably will but all that data...wiped clean. I'm hoping the dude whoever it was, whatever sex, decides to grow a conscience and hand it in anonymously. Hope springs eternal but I doubt it. The idealist and the cynic: how they manage to co-exist is intriguing.

And now, with a lack of sleep and lots of running around today my mind is exhausted. At 8 pm, it craves sleep. If I get up at, like, 5 AM tomorrow morning I can live with that. Need to make a trip to town, find out the prices of cell phones and check out gloves because both things have vanished from sight.

Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raaji'oon

To Allah we belong and to Him we will return

Little things like these remind you who's in charge...or, ha it could just reinforce how actions have consequences. Whichever way you look at it, it's a learning experience.

And now, g'night!

Oh! The Places You'll Go

Does the Internet affect concentration? Of course it does. It by its very nature is a distraction and if you go too deep down the rabbit hole, getting back out is tricky (sometimes quite impossible) but it is doable. Most definitely doable. Things in the last three weeks have been crazy: after the established routine of the weeks before then, having all that time was suddenly scary. It's safe to say, I was quite unrecognizable after all of it. Added to that, I caught a nasty cough that fluctuated between feverish and not so much. There was much reading and editing that happened in between those three weeks and not as much writing as I would've liked. But the near  month I'm getting now in between terms will sober me up good and without the usual smattering of TV, read: procrastination, to fall back on, I am determined to get my 6-8 hours worth.

Because I can quite dangerously stay within my room, cooped up and most obviously alone with my thoughts and my words, for prolonged hours on end, the idea is to get out as much as possible. There are identifiable places in town where I might go into, taking a refuge from the weather and writing in cafes and coffee bars. There are similar spots on campus when I can't shell out the cash for a bus ride: student's budget and all that jazz. 

The opening paragraph of this post started as it did primarily due to a New York Times article I was reading at the time (the opening two lines were just that for the past 4-5 days). My posts here have become rather indefinite which is troubling, considering how much is really happening here to write about. Or have I become, or am I becoming one of those self-censoring writers? That would not be a good idea, I would think. But I have to realize an important thing: once you walk away, by choice no less, from a place once considered home, there is no going back. You will always from thenceforth, be looked upon as an outsider and nothing you do, no tone you take will ever bring back that sense of camaraderie again. 

There is also an interesting thing I've discovered about myself touched lightly upon in an earlier post: I am not an easy person to know. Publicly reserved, I open up bit by bit, like an oyster if you will. It takes time to get to know me well enough for me to show my humorous, self-assured and sarcastic side. It will peep out on occasion of course, but will inevitably disappear inside just as quickly. The result often is, or at least around the people I do not know well enough, I turn into a caricature of myself: someone who talks on fixed subjects and cannot be brought into a general conversation, almost as if implicitly implied. I am trying to change this aspect of me I never knew existed until now. It's all rather fascinating, isn't it? How truly little we know and how much there is still left to discover?

Sometimes it gets to me: how little I know and wonder what sort of writer I'll be ten years down the line and what sort of issues I'll be writing about then. A friend once mentioned that I would probably be 30 when I published and at the time, I was 22 so it was like "what? Uh, no!" but thinking about it now, you've matured significantly by then. But even then, you still have a lot to learn. The learning never stops though, does it? You can never really truly sit back and think, "well, that's it. No more learning from me! I've learned all that I could." Alanis got it right: you live, you learn. It's just how life is. Just when you think you've got it all figured out, life throws you a curve ball and you're in a new pile of shit thinking "crapadoodle, what now?" until you find your way out of that quagmire. 

But what I do  know in all of this is is that I want to keep doing...more and more, in related fields and keep on moving towards the publication side. Writing and publication, the two are often viewed as correlated but each side generally stays on its own side viewing the editorial side as "the management". For me, the two have very much become intertwined especially in these last few years. There is no other life worth having if not one where every crevice, every "orifice" is smeared with words: the creation of them, the production of them, the compilation of them. That is a life worth living.

A life that can mean something.

Single-minded determination, indeed.

...

The online conference is well under way although now we're more wrapping up than anything, giving the writers on the course a more accurate idea of what actually is done here. There are essentially two weeks: the first for the conference's preparation and the second for the online conference itself: the debate that follows is whether we can live without the former. Essentially what we do every week is submit for the following week, so why should it be any different for the online conference? 

There is plenty of time to waste and this seems to be the general structure of all creative writing programs the world over: the time to write. Although aside from some writing exercises and some general ideas, I haven't done as much writing as I would've liked which is creepy considering my interest in submitting something for the final workshop before breaking for term. I have nothing except for The Carousel Man to present which seems pointless to me since it's somewhere in the second/third revision of the first draft stage. I haven't rewritten anything so that's troubling.

Ideally, I'd like to fix my complete attention on Gray and the new ideas cropping up concerning its execution. The bonus of having written comments (particularly, as in the online conference, from the professor) is being able to come back to them and take the points you want to elaborate on. My stories are often written linearly (unless I'm very impatient), as in from beginning to end and this one is a non-linear story. It jumps back and forth so I suppose I'm giving myself the liberty to write what I want when I want to write it and take it from there. There is a certain freedom and a sense of uncertainty that comes with that. What is now possible is to write all the present tense situations as one narrative and once I have an idea of how that's going, start to put in the relative experiences and memories from the "past" that effectually inform the "present". It's not easy or so I would imagine. 

Regardless, I was meant to sleep two hours ago and I need to get my timetable back into order particularly with the term break coming up. My life can far too easily fall into chaos. Must prevent that from happening.