November round-up

Yet again I find myself astounded by the rapid passing of time.  It's hard to believe I've already completed my first semester of third year.  It seems like literally yesterday I moved away to residence and was buying textbooks and getting lost when finding the right classroom on time on the first day of class; now, I've handed in my last papers and thrown out particular notes that I have no care to ever read again and am gearing up for my only final exam (ha, only one) in a week's time.  True, I'll actually be completely free from first semester after I finish writing that last exam, but now living at home and seeing my best friends again has returned my life to normalcy, and to be honest the thoughts about my exam are and will continue to be on the back of my mind until the day before I have to write it - studying is for the weak.  Until then, I'm enjoying having cable on TV once again (let alone even having a TV) and home cooked meals every night and the knowledge that a friend is probably a phone call away.

Towards the end of the first semester - really, the entirely of the month of November - I couldn't help but feel like my room and the rest of my townhouse quickly became much less like a home to me.  Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to the homesickness I figured I would've experience when first moving away: instead, my first month away was perfectly fine and quickly adaptable, but the feeling faded as the finish line of the semester rapidly approached.  I found myself looking to hear from my mom more frequently throughout the weeks, and my every motion was governed by the idea that, hey, you're moving home in x days!  (funny, though, I've already been driven up the wall by some of the stupid things my parents have done or said, but I'll always prefer living at my home) Perhaps it was due to the increased time I spent alone in my room behind a closed door which quite honestly felt like a prison sentence.  Perhaps, by extension of that, it was because my house quickly lost its homelike qualities.  Either way, the final few weeks of the semester were hectic: at least one paper and/or test per week (including three papers and one test on the last day of class) my stress shot through the roof, but as usual looking back on it now, completed, it seemed like only a marginal obstacle.

Aside from my moving home, November has come to a cohesive conclusion for me.


"There's a small animal living on your face"

 I grew a bit of a beard throughout November.  It wasn't officially done for Movember though the idea of the month long event urged my decision to try it out.  (maybe that's also why I went beard and not mustache: mustaches are creepy and my dad has a mustache and I'd prefer not to resemble my dad or look creepy) Mostly I left it up to the fact that I wasn't going to see my family for the majority of the month because I know they're rather judgmental and I'd have to explain myself for wanting to try out how it looks on me.  I still have it.  I like it.  I think it suits me.  The reception has been rather nice and rather unexpected - that is, aside from my parents.  Literally the first words coming my mother's mouth when she came to pick me up was "I don't like that" before she offered me a hello and a hug.  My dad hasn't been any better; he cracks jokes about me, telling me I look like a homeless person and that I shouldn't go out in public looking like how I do.  I suppose my decision not to shave it off is now derived from the idea that I'm tormenting my parents every time they look at me.  That, and because I've decided I might be able to keep it as a protest until they buy me a Mac for Christmas.  (which, they've said, will not happen, but I think otherwise)


NaNoWriFail

My quest to write a fifty thousand word piece of fiction throughout the month of November was essentially a failure: I wasn't able to reach the high goal within the parameters of the month given that my free time was quickly diminishing because of the stresses of school and other infuriating things, and that when I did have free time, I watched Dexter, and I watched a lot of Dexter considering I've now caught up to the current season on TV.  As of November 30th, my official word count settled at 38,153, which I'm still ecstatic about reaching despite its failure to the mission.  I've astounded myself in many ways: first, that I was able to come up with a concept and pursue it enough to actually want to write about it; let alone actually writing about it, finding a few hours late at night to excitedly sit down and type up a fury.  There were days that I hammered out a few thousand words in a few hours, and at times when I wasn't writing I would constantly be thinking about where I could take the story and if it was plausible and if more events were needed to be inserted at the beginning or end or what have you.  Of course, I'm not stopped just because November's over: to stop at 39k words and admit failure would be literal torture to me, and I would feel entirely unsatisfied and unaccomplished in the incompletion.  I'm looking forward to writing without the pressure of a time limit - I won't have to force myself to write until two in the morning because I had to get another two thousand words on paper (..computer screen?) to keep myself on the right track toward hitting fifty thousand.  Now, even, I look ahead to the possibility of drawing my story to a conclusion long after 50k, or even before - I have no way to tell how much longer it will take to tie itself up.  All I know is it's a long road ahead of me: I still have to draw the story to a close before I edit it, and I know the editing process will be extensive given that my precedent is absolute perfection and my philosophy is that a piece of writing is never perfect because of the infinite possible combinations of words together; the same thing can be said billions upon billions of different ways, and knowing such, I'm striving to hit as close to my standard of perfection as possible.  I literally cannot wait for my friends (those who've asked, that is) to read my work, because only then will I feel like an accomplished author.  The future reader will actually take time away from their life to read my book written by me, and that concept thrills me.


S'all I got for now, folks!  Now that I have a lot more free time I'm sure the frequency of my writing will amp itself up once again, so stay tuned.

No life November

It's November and the rate at which time has passed since beginning the semester is baffling.  It seems like only yesterday I moved onto residence, acquainting myself with my class schedule and my independent domestic capabilities (which, I say, still suck, considering my room needs a dusting and much of the food I eat is from a box); instead, I lay in my bed with thick socks staring at my calendar on the wall filled with an obscene amount of readings and work to be done between now and the last day of classes, November 28th.  The optimist in me idolizes the idea that we're 13.333% percent done the month of November already; the pessimist weeps and plans my own funeral.  I'm left with three final tests and four major essays to hand in - the last full week of class makes me shudder, as two of the tests and one of the essays land someplace during that week - and the procrastinator in me chooses to write a blog post instead of starting an essay (and by start I mean even looking at the essay question, because I haven't) due on Thursday.  As to not entirely ruin my weekend, I'm planning on visiting my assignment on Sunday evening, where my [projected] hangover from the [hopeful plans of the] night before will have finally faded.

My work motives have been put at a handicap by two rather large factors, one significantly more meaningful than the other.  The first, for some reason, is because I've rediscovered [NERD ALERT: do not read on if 1. you do not think highly of me, because you will think less of me, and 2. if you do think highly of me, because you will think less of me] Pokemon after discussing it feverishly with a friend.  By Pokemon I clearly mean the game (do they even still make the cards?), which I have downloaded an emulator for so I may play on my computer.  I don't think I'll ever fully move on from those games from my childhood, probably because, well, they were my childhood, but also because even still to a 20 year old they're pretty amazing and the nostalgia while playing is intoxicating.  (people never really understand unless they played them when they were a kid.  I know this because I get weird looks from these people) Excuse me while I go read Aristotle or watch an R-rated movie or buy scratch tickets or liquor as to remind myself that I am a 20 year old..

The second, and, as you might have guessed, the more meaningful of the two, is because I'm participating (like many failed times in the past) in NaNoWriMo, or, if you don't know what that stands for, National Novel Writing Month.  It's a "contest" (for the lack of a better term) where one may challenge themselves to write a 50 000+ worded work of fiction in the month of November; editing is discouraged, but given that I'm an extreme perfectionist, I rewrite passages twenty times until I deem myself fit to continue.  Another general stipulation (if I recall correctly; I didn't "officially" sign up this year online because my user account with two failures on it is depressing enough - point is I haven't acquainted myself with the official rules) is that the story to write must be 100% original to the month of November, and that previous planning is discouraged.  Well, screw that.  The novel I'm writing is one that's been in my head for at least three years - the concept and characters, that is, who never saw the light of day due to my many failed attempts at writing it as well as a general lack of incentive.  So I guess I'm breaking the rules in that it isn't completely original, but it's still my original work, and judging on my previous failures with NaNoWriMo, I think it's a safer bet to go into it with framework.  It's all very exciting to me; I've long forgotten about how passionate I get when I actually have the chance to write, and it's all I think about, given that I'm not already thinking about the essays I need to write or the Pokemon I need to catch to complete my team.  (goodness)

My progress?  Zero words.  I was up to about 2000 yesterday but after letting it sit in my mind I'm once again displeased.  As I said, it's all because I'm a perfectionist.  I've written far more in the past, but success only comes after I'm entirely pleased with my exposition; from there, I have enough strength to move past weaker segments of the body of the work and just keep writing, because I know my foundation is solid.  I have yet to strike gold, but that's why I've allocated my Sunday evening to my schoolwork as to allow for the rest of tonight and the majority of tomorrow (given I don't occupy myself otherwise..) to writing.  I guess it's sort of a punishment: don't work on meaningful things for school until you've written the opening to your story goddamnit!

As usual, I pull through.  I have the utmost faith in myself as an essay writer since I've never received horrifying marks on the ones I've written, so I know I'll get the work done; it's just a matter of so many to-do things hanging over me that I collapse by the mounting pressure of "get this shit done and get it done now."  I'm hoping my writing (fictional, that is) will provide for me the means to maintain my sanity by the month's end, but here's hoping that my novel doesn't drive me crazy like my schoolwork, too.  Send creative brainwaves my way!