I haven’t blogged in a while. In the past, when I went on hiatus, it was always a bad sign. It meant that I’d lost my happy place and given in to the anxiety and overwhelming feelings of my life at the time. You could almost measure my mental health by the frequency of my posts. These days, things are different. I haven’t posted because I was busy, yes, but mostly because I haven’t needed to. I haven’t had moments of distress during which I felt the need to express myself to the world in hopes of finding my voice. I haven’t had moments of spontaneous genius during which I could spin beautiful words together. These days, I’m content. I’m more of a happy duck than a tortured artistic soul, and I’ve become thoroughly boring.
So here’s a thoroughly boring update on my old maidenly life.
February was a whirlwind of events. The first weekend, I went and took what was (hopefully) the last standardized test of my life: the dreaded LSAT. Law School Admission Test. When I showed up at Angell Hall at eight in the morning, I was just ready to get it over with. My fellow test-takers all knew each other and they were chatting away about their concerns and the fact that they hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. I, too, hadn’t slept well. As I looked around the hall, though, I felt much older than them. I was probably a year or two older than most, since pre-law students generally take the LSAT their junior year. But what made me feel old was the fact that I didn’t give a damn. Of course, I knew how important the LSAT was for my future law career. Yet I didn’t see any point in stressing about it. I’d studied for it, I’d shown up with my passport photo taped to my ticket, I was going to get my score back in a month. As I bubbled in my name, the thought running through my head was: lo que será, será.
Last week, when I got the email that told me I’d scored in the 98th percentile, my thoughts were: this is what será, motherfuckers!
Alas, as always with life, the bad comes with the good. A few days after receiving the good news, I got an unexpected email from my agent. She’d just finished my second draft and she’d decided she wasn’t feeling the manuscript. After spending the better part of the last year on this novel, “winning” NaNoWriMo for the first time with it, revising more than I’d ever done before, now I was facing a crossroads. I could either take it apart piece by piece and build something entirely new out of it or I could give up. Because I’d promised myself a break from novel-writing after this book, if I gave up on it, I wouldn’t be writing for a long time. The thought scared me. Could I call myself a writer if I no longer wrote? What was I if I couldn’t call myself a writer? Would I ever have the courage to return to the art once I left?
This weekend, as I escaped to Chicago with Hans, I had the last of a series of revelations. I wasn’t ready to give up on this project that contained my heart, sweat, and tears. As much as the thought of rewriting 390 pages terrified me, I knew that this would push me further than I’d ever been pushed before. As a writer, as an artist, as a human.
Now, I’m back and life continues. I have to tutor GRE this afternoon. I have a new class starting tomorrow, a midterm on Tuesday, a paper due Thursday. I’m hoping to finish the first draft of my thesis by Wednesday. On Saturday, I’ll get the call and find out if I’m spending the next year in Asia. Graduation and adulthood are looming, but all I’m feeling these days is: lo que será, será.
Bob Marley, I feel you.
What’s going on in your life? Is it a stressful season?
À plus tard,