Success: The New Approach Works!

As you guys know, I'm approaching my goals a different way this year. By creating a chore and create box, I've forced myself to have concrete deadlines for my goals every day. I have 24 hours finish two items: one is a chore, one is creative.

We're 22 days into January, and right on time, I finished all the chores in my chore box. Time to rinse and repeat, but since I'm trying to be more creative in all aspects of my life, I decided to do a quick photoshoot. The idea was to have a portrait with my head in the middle of an arch of things I've accomplished thus far.

Of course, Gerty had other plans. He said, "This looks like a good place to flop." Flop. Stretch. Roll. Lick paw. Look at the camera with a "What?" face.

I feel proud of myself for sticking to my plan and accomplishing a lot more than in previous months. I take one day at a time, and I do a little bit every day. This year has been a lesson in consistency, and so far, so good.

A photo posted by R. A. Desilets (@radesilets) on Jan 22, 2016 at 1:38pm PST

I'm 15% through editing The End Diary (read the first two chapters for free), I've started writing two new books (Ferals and Shrinking Violet (In a Blue Moon #.01)), and I've read four novels. I have a long way to go, but two of my books are in the last round of querying. This means, results of querying pending, I should have at least two more books out this year. The End Diary should be published this year as well. Lots to do, but I'm working every single day!

After the Move: Finding Myself Again

So... I'm sitting here in rainy Portland, contemplating life over a freshly brewed latte with delicious, nutty espresso. I stare out the window through dark rimmed glasses. My beanie is shoved over my short, pixie cut hair, and I come to this conclusion: I have become myself again.

Not that I was anyone other than myself, but for a while, I felt like I was.

Los Angeles is a strange place. You go there with these hopes and dreams of what your sunny LA life will be like. Some people, if they are tenacious enough or have an endless amount of positivity, will succeed. Others, like me, will realize they are not cut out for the very socially-dependent atmosphere.

If you are not an extrovert, Los Angeles can be very taxing.

I like people. Heck, I actually enjoyed being a barista and cashier. Some people think that's weird, but I like being able to interact with people--on a small scale. Los Angeles requires you to chase after contacts, constantly put yourself out there, and keep in touch with anyone who might be a lead on a new position.

The constant game of cat and mouse was too frustrating.

I'd rather have a quiet life than one where I am constantly busy. I'd rather have this moment with my coffee than running from one afternoon meeting to another. I'd rather have a part time job to pay the rent and still pursue my independent creative life.

So Portland. Portland to me is a bit like Boston. Some people may hate me for saying that, but honestly, the laid-back attitude applies to both cities. Sure, Massachusetts has more road rage issues (and arguably, we're quicker to anger than some), but there was always a sense of community.

People treated you like people, not another number waiting to be served.

That's how I feel here. I can start random conversations with strangers again. I feel safe enough to have a brief discussion with a person I might never see again. I'm enjoying life.

And maybe that's why I'm finding it so hard to write right now. I write to escape. Now, I have nothing to escape from.

I'm confident I'll find my voice again, but for now, I'm going to enjoy the rainy weather, try to look less like a hipster (though, I fear I have already become one), and smile for absolutely no reason other than simply being.

Craving the Cold

While the rest of the world is dealing with a winter wonderland version of Dante's Inferno, I've been staring at dead leaves, dirt, and a heck of a lot of brown.  Living in New England proved to be hard from the lack of sun during the winter.  Living in Southern California is more difficult because of the lack of change.

Months run together because last month was no different than this month, and next month won't be different from this.  The only change is the intense heat of the summer, and that's unpleasant. Yesterday, there was a 90% chance that we would get a thunderstorm.

90% of a thunderstorm turned into a sprinkle that lasted an hour.  We got some beautiful clouds, but they refused to pour.

I think most writers and readers can agree that there's nothing better than curling up with a good book, cocoa, and a warm blanket in the cold of winter.  Or lighting a fire and reading by the flickering flames.  Maybe I'm a romantic, but I miss it.

Our next house must have a fireplace.  It must also have an elaborate system of bookshelves to house the hundreds of books I've acquired.  A reading nook and writing table would be preferred too. 

Sometimes these little things seem so impossible that it hurts to dream.  But we'll get there, I know we will.

I'll continue to dream, to strive, to hope, because one day it will pay off.  It's my tenacious nature that keeps me going, even on days I don't feel like it.  This pent up energy I have is best used for creativity.  Either I'll start on my new writing project earlier than expected, or I'll do some much needed painting.

Thanks for listening, dear readers.  My next update will house something writing related and will be good news, this I promise you.

Shifting Sands

Melting into swirls

The hot sun pressed us

Into the sand, drifting,

Nothing ever shifts

More than the footprints

Buried, neck deep

Swallowing salty air

Lungs dried and settled

Rusty, lengthy gasps

Ruined memories of dust

Nothing ever shifts

More than the light

Day to night, we end

Fighting to pretend

That footprints never change

Turn away and walk

Down the alleys of dark

Hide in the shadows

Drown on the sorrows

Kneel before what used to be

Ruined memories of dust

Nothing ever shifts

More than the footprints

Left in the old sand

That no longer reaches my heart 

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There was once a time in my life where I would do anything for anyone.  I would stand up and fight for them even if they stabbed me in the back.  For me, it usually takes three backstabs and then I drop you (unless, of course, we are playing TF2, in which case, if you backstab me, I will hunt you down and kill you just the same - but that's a video game, not real life).

My friendship is like some horrible baseball game.  Strike one, okay, forgiven, just get it right the next time.  Strike two, okay - maybe I shouldn't have taken you back so easily, maybe I should have given us more time to reflect, but I still love you just the same.  Strike three - out.  Out of my life, out of my heart, forever.  I'll take the memories and crumple them up and burn them in the next bonfire I attend.  Little pieces of paper that hold all the thoughts of you and me together tossed away in an instant. 

Recently, I felt something shift in me.  It's no longer three strikes.  It's not even two.  It's one.

I'm still processing how I feel about this shift.  Maybe someday I can talk about the situation more candidly.  While I have been "mourning" what used to be and how that will never be the same again, a part of me feels free somehow.  My whole life, I allowed people to stab me three times before showing them the door.  And now, I have the strength, the disconnect, whatever you want to call it, to let go. 

People change.  The way you feel about them changes too.  And sometimes I hate it, that the impressions someone makes on your heart can never be the same again.  Someone once said to me, "You can never go back."  Tears threatened my eyes and I refused to believe it was true.  No, I told myself, my friends that I had just left behind in Boston would never change.  We would always be friends.

This is the first instance where I realized how true that statement is.  While I still have good memories, I can never live in those memories again.  I cannot curl up in the comfort of a sing-a-long by the bonfire because those memories are false.  They are real, as real as ever, but they will never happen again.  You can never go back, but that's why here and now is so important.  You need to continue forward, head up high, knowing that people changed you and that you changed them.  Maybe you can never go back to the night that you spent staring at the stars, but you can get the stars today.  You know you were happy then, and you know you are happy now, and you can wish them the same.

But you can never go back.  And now that I think about it - I've changed too much to want to go back.

I still love my memories.  I still love the people in them.  But that's all they are - precious memories.

Giveaway Winner & NaNo Reflections

Congratulations goes to:

callmebliss!!

I will be in touch on G+ for your address :)  The winner was chosen by random.org.

Thank you all for participating and following my blog.  I promise now that I am no longer suffering from bronchitis, I will have more time to update.  Like now!

I just finished NaNo.  This was my first attempt and a successful one at that.  It excites me, because my goal is to have three finished manuscripts (not polished, but finished) and three awesome query letters by the New Year.  Once the New Year hits and the agents have had a week or two to sift through their inboxes, I am going to send my query letters.

I have this feeling.  It's a lightness that I haven't felt in a long time.  I think most people call this "optimism," but I'm going to call it "success."  I feel like there is success ahead.  I know life is a roller coast, but I'm going to try to stay at the top as long as I possibly can.

NaNo has given me a nasty habit of wanting to write every night.  I say nasty because I could be spending time with my loving husband.  But in reality, I couldn't be happier with this new habit.  I wrote 1,100 yesterday, and although that is not close to the numbers that I reached during NaNo, it is still something.  It is still writing, and it was by choice.  I don't have a NaNo deadline hanging over my head.  This was my decision.  
I don't think I was this excited about writing and reading since fourth grade.

In fourth grade, I was only excited about it because my teacher had this awesome closet with some pillows in it.  If you finished your work early, like I always did (yes, I was a huge, tiny-faced overachiever), you could sit in there and read quietly.  I always snuck away whenever I could.

It's hard to imagine my bookwormy little self.  I had no self-confidence.  And thinking back on it, I didn't really need it.  My friends were all characters in those books that I read.  I was surrounded by mythical creatures, talking pigs, fake wars, vampire bunnies... you name it.

And when I think about the few human interactions that happened when I was younger, I start to see myself through another set of eyes.  The girl that hiccuped every time she stood in front of the class.  The girl that sat next to the same boy on the bus and never spoke.  The girl that chose to read news articles that dealt with questions and answers on how parents should raise their kids (e.g., if my son/daughter has an obsession with eating worms, what should I do?).  The girl that spent time in a closet and read by choice, by choice.  Yeah, that girl was weird.

And that girl brings you these words today.  There's nothing wrong with being a bookworm, there's nothing wrong with a love of writing.  There's also nothing wrong with a little social interaction every once and awhile.  ;)

Picture of a Woman

Who was this woman?  I knew what to call her before, what to say a few months ago.  She was a loving wife, an aspiring photographer, a real estate agent, but really, most of all she was a mother.  She prided herself on that.  But this woman that stood before me was a shell of that, someone so convinced that her life was over that she was willing to give it all up.  This woman was spineless, she lacked motivation, she had fallen into the trap of being content.  Her eyes frozen on mine, hollow in the deepest meaning of the term.  No more green reflecting the world with glimmers of hope and fascination, it’s all replaced by anger and hatred towards her situation, towards what happened.

As the picture of her clouded over from the steam of the shower, I didn’t bother wiping it off again.  I didn’t want to see this woman, I didn’t want to admit that this was where I was.  Couldn’t I live in ignorant bliss?  But that’s the problem, when you know what you once had, you can’t live without it – at least, not as happy as you once were.  I knew what I had to do, but I had no idea what to tell him.  What do you say to a man?  How do you tell him you’re no longer in love with him?  That you were never in love with him?  How do you say, “You were just a means to an end for me – yes, I was using you, but I’m terribly sorry about it.”

But had I been using him?  That was the part I would never quite get, because it wasn’t true.  A part of me had fallen for this man, but he wasn’t mine.  And that was the difference, I supposed.  He never stood a chance against the man that I loved, no one did really – but why did it have to be him, of all the thousands of other people in the world that I could have taken solace in – why him?

I wanted to destroy the mirror, but instead, I walked into the shower for the third time today.  I watched my fingers turn to wet, hot prunes.  “I have something to tell you…  I have…  I have to tell you something…  I have to be honest, look…  I have…  Ugh.”  I concentrated on the water rushing down my face, dripping off my nose.  I had to convince myself, for the hundredth time this month, that it was all going to work out.  Somehow.  The impossible had already happened – so what’s one more “miracle?”

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This may, or may not, end up in my final piece for a longer work.  Haven't decided yet, but I wanted to get into her head again - so that I can continue writing her story.  Yes, it is ambiguous, but I don't want to give away too much about this novel until it is actually done.

Drawn into the World

Reflections of the world

Through dreamy, starry eyes

You’d have it all

The brilliancy of naivety

The things that stand unknown

The beauty of anew

Reflected in those blues

Dreams may never be seen

Nights to sleep in peace

Catchers drift and sway

Watching over you

Chase the pointing away

Replace fingers with words

Describe the world as is

Categorize, learn, assume

Draw the wrong conclusions,

Your eyes have changed

The color no long reflects

But holds emotions, unseen.

------

I'm really hoping that you got this without me explaining it - because the way I see it, words should speak to you with your own assumptions of the world.  No professor can teach what an author writes, because so many things can become changed - askew to what the reader's view of the world is.  I'm always open to discussing my work - but unless someone asks, I'll let this piece stand as is.