How is it about to be 2023 when I’m still processing 2019?
December 20 2022
The best way I can describe how I felt writing this post is the feeling you get when you leave the room for like, a really long time and finally come back and everyone is staring at you and you’re thinking that they’re thinking “OMG you’ve been gone forever” when in all reality they’re not thinking about you at all and their internal dialogue is probably something like “What am I going to have for dinner tonight?”
I could berate myself for not posting for like five months, but I’m not going to do that because I don’t think it would really accomplish anything. It’s been a busy semester and between school and work and rewriting my novel for what feels like the fiftieth time, the honest reason I’ve not posted was because this blog was not a priority.
And that’s okay.
I saw somewhere, on instagram I think but I can’t remember where, someone post something along the lines of “in life, you’re going to inevitably drop some balls, but try to drop the plastic ones, not the glass ones.” As much as I enjoy doing this, it’s a rubber ball and I had to drop this one for a while for my own mental health.
The thing is, I do truly enjoy doing this, so heading into 2023, I’m going to try to make this more a priority while also keeping the mental load manageable. I’ve decided to shoot for 3 posts per month starting in January and running through April. On the first and second Wednesday or Thursday of each month, I’m going to post a book review. I’ll take a break on the third week, and on the last week, I’ll post a recap of the month. (For anyone who enjoyed the “Holly’s World” series, I’ll be bringing that back for summer semester). Maybe I’ll post more than that sometimes, and maybe I’ll post less than that sometimes, but that’s my goal.
Moving back to what’s been keeping me so busy the past few months– starting my MFA creative writing program at NC State, working with my wild 2-year-olds at preschool, tutoring a slew of subjects with a slew of kids, writing, reading, and rewriting (very different from just writing, if you’re wondering).
The MFA program at State has been wonderful, and I’m constantly amazed at how dedicated and talented everyone in my cohort is. Being at the same school for both undergrad and grad has been a really cool and unique experience, and it’s crazy how different it feels to go to NC State as a grad student. Undergrad was great, but one thing I’ve loved about grad school is how it makes me think more critically. I feel like I’m using a different part of my brain, a deeper part, and I love it. I can already tell that my writing is getting better, and it’s fun and rewarding to see that progress.
Speaking of which, I’m excited to say one of my more recent short stories, “The Sparrow and the Lily,” was a finalist for this year’s James Hurst Prize for fiction! “The Sparrow and the Lily” is one of my favorite stories I’ve written, so that was super exciting and I’m looking forward to sending it out to magazines really soon. Fingers crossed!
I’m rewriting my novel, again, which I’m tentatively calling My Grandmother Didn’t Want Me. I’ve been stuck with this novel for about a year now, but bringing it in for workshop in my program has really given me some great new ideas. It’s an episodic novel following a girl named Emmy Wilkes as she navigates growing up in rural eastern North Carolina in the 1940s and 1950s. This time around, I’m going hard: adding in ghosts, making my bullies meaner, and amping the stakes up even more. My excitement and motivation for the project has renewed, and I hope to be able to share it sometime in the next few years.
If you’d like a little bit of a sneak peek, you can check out my Publication and Awards page where you can read two of the chapters “Penny Girls” and “Snakes” that have been published as short stories. These stories look a lot different now, considering I wrote both of those a while ago, but it’ll give you a loose idea of the vibe of the novel.
***content warning for below paragraph: mentions of death by s*icide***
As much as it’s been a good semester, it’s also been a tough one. Adjusting to grad school has been fun, but kind of a weird transition. Something I feel like a lot of people aren’t prepared for after college is how weird it is to not see all your friends all the time. I’m very thankful to still have a lot of my close friends close by, but it’s not the same. Meanwhile, NC State has has had four deaths by suicide just in the past semester. There’s a real mental health crisis going on, and the lack of transparency about it, especially earlier this semester, has been disappointing to say the least. I think it’s important to be optimistic about the future, but it’s equally important to recognize and grieve.
Every year, I like to think about what my own word for the year would be. (By the way, did you know Oxford’s word of the year is “Goblin mode”? No. I’m not kidding.) This year, I keep coming back to the word hopeful. There’s been a lot of lows this year, of which I’m not going to get into here, and at the same time there’s been a lot of highs. Maybe it’s because of my age, or maybe it’s because I’m an optimist at heart, but even through all the disappointment about the present and fear about the future, I can’t help but be hopeful. I really think that most people are drawn to what is good, and that most people care about one another. At the very least, I think there are more people who care about each other than people who don’t.
As we ride out the last few weeks of this year, reflecting, grieving, and celebrating, may we look forward to 2023 with a sense of hope. If you have the chance, I highly recommend checking out this poem by Adam Zagajewski called “Try to Praise the Mutilated World” that really accurately encapsulates the need of having hope even when things are hard.
honoring the writer you were, the writer you are, and the writer you will be (re: an unconventional love letter to my childhood aspirations)
It’s been a minute, hasn’t it?
Between moving apartments, working full-time, visiting family from out-of-town, and getting to see one of my dear college friends get married (shout out to Victoria and Kobe!), the past few weeks have been jam-packed, but in a good way. Even though I’ve been busy, one good thing that’s come out of it is that moving and visiting home has allowed me a chance to visit a lot of my childhood writings that I’d forgotten about. I’ve been posting some of these in a series called “Holly’s World,” on my blog, and as I dive deeper into my old journals, I have to wonder– what would younger me think of future me posting some of her innermost thoughts on the internet for the world to see?
To be clear, I am only posting excerpts from my journals, not my diaries, because I kept those, too. I’m a firm believer that most diaries are sacred, and meant to be hidden away unless explicit permission is given by the author. That’s not to take away from the intimacy of my journals, but after reviewing my diaries alongside my journals, I find it hilarious how careful I was to never let the line between my fictional stories and real-life happenings blur too much, at least as I got older. There is one instance of a playground rant from third grade in one of my journals about someone cheating at a game of tag (you know who you are).
But, even though my journals aren’t quite as intimate as my diaries, I never actually intended for any of these things to be published, not even on a silly blog on the internet. Sure, I would occasionally let family members read my work, or teachers as some of these journals were written in school, but getting published wasn’t even really on my radar until I was in sixth grade. So, if I never intended for these pieces to be publically released, is releasing them doing a disservice to my childhood self, to my inner child?
I deliberated over this for a long time, but I eventually decided that while the younger version of myself may be slightly apprehensive, she would allow it. I think the younger version of myself would be more than happy to support myself however I can. I went through lots of career options before I settled on wanting to be a writer and a writing professor, but I was still notoriously young, and I feel like a lot of people probably thought it was just a phase, and understandably so.
I think I’ve mentioned it before, but the moment I realized I wanted to be a writer was when my sixth grade English class participated in National Novel Writing Month in November (NaNoWriMo). The novel is a total dumpster fire, but it was my dumpster fire that ignited my passion for writing.
Anyway, that first dumpster fire in November 2011 turned into a second dumpster fire in November 2012, and a third in November 2013, and then a fourth in November 2014 that turned into a year-long writing binge that churned out a series of five novels plus two additional stand-alone novels. November 2015 brought on my eleventh novel, which developed into a two and a half year writing binge that churned out novels twelve and thirteen. And in between all that, there were poems and short stories and half stories and everything in between. Thousands and thousands and thousands of pages and hours and tears and smiles, and even though at the time I thought that writing was great, I can honestly say that 90% of all of that writing totally sucks.
It’s just bad, y’all. Like hide-under-the-bed-in-embarrassment bad but do you know what? I absolutely love it.
There’s something so humbling about reading what you wrote as a kid, and something encouraging about seeing yourself grow. At the time, I wasn’t writing to get better, I was writing for myself. Anne Frank wrote in her diary, “I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.” I think that’s why I fell in love with it—I think I’m most myself when I write.
And what feels “most like myself” has changed since then. I’m not the writer I was when I was a child, or even when I was a teenager churning out several novels a year. You know, I’m not even the writer I was six months ago, and I won’t be the writer I am six months from now. That terrifies me, but it excites me. I want to always be growing, always be evolving, and there is no better way to see that growth than to honor where you’ve been.
So I’ll keep posting my silly childhood stories, and who knows, maybe one day I’ll revisit one of those novel dumpster fires and really make something of it. And that’s the beautiful thing about writing.
When you write, especially with the reckless abandon of a semi-feral child, nothing is wasted.
letting rejection fuel your (metaphorical) fire
As of today, I have received sixteen writing rejections in a row.
Since the start of summer, I have submitted 27 pieces of work for reviews in journals or contests, and so far of those 27, 16 have been rejected. It sounds kind of depressing for me to type that out, and I’m not going to lie, getting a rejection isn’t my idea of a good time, but after I mourn for a bit, I remind myself of one simple truth: my identity, my worth, is not defined in how others view me or my work.
Now, I should also say that every rejection I’ve received has been very kind (so far), and that I have no ill feelings toward any of these publications or contests. If you’re a writer, or any kind of artist, you just have to realize that rejection is a large part of it. I’ve heard the writing advice, the first time from a friend who heard it from a writing professor (I can’t remember who for either), that you shouldn’t take either rejection or acceptance personally. Neither one really means anything, at the end of the day, just that your piece got into the right pile at the right time. Celebrate the acceptance, but stay humble. Mourn the rejection, but stay confident.
And that’s the beauty of writing, isn’t it? That two people can read the same exact thing and have wildly different reactions to it? That’s not what defines my worth as a writer, or even as a person, and it shouldn’t yours either. I know I’m a better writer than I was a year ago, or even a month ago, simply because every time I write, I get better, and with each new piece I crank out, I learn something. I stand by it- you’re a writer because you say you’re a writer, you’re a good writer if you’re always learning and improving.
There’s always all those jokes about writers being depressed or introverted or alcoholics or tortured, or all of those things and more. While I do agree being a writer gives you a certain kind of sensitivity to life, the kind that makes you wonder just how scared a baby bird is before it takes flight for the first time and makes eavesdropping on old ladies gossiping in the produce section irresistible (okay, maybe that’s just me), that sensitivity should be viewed as a gift, not a curse. One of the worst things to learn growing up is just how ugly and hard this world is, how things are usually never fair, and things happen that we don’t understand. One of the best things to learn, a skill only a fortunate few develop, is that beauty lurks everywhere, it’s just harder to see sometimes. You have to remember that the sun is always shining, sometimes, it’s just hidden behind the clouds.
Easy to say.
That may all sound great, but like most things, it’s easier said than done. There’s a lot of trial and error, but my biggest piece of advice in remaining (somewhat) sane is to really think about why you’re doing what you’re doing. Why do you write? I write to connect to other people, but before I can do that I have to write for myself. Here comes that psych degree- motivation of extrinsic things (things “outside” of yourself like recognition, money, etc.) will lead to burnout and feelings of apathy while motivation of intrinsic things (things “inside” of you, such as doing something just because you enjoy it) are far more sustainable. Things like writing are going to be a mix of the two, especially if writing is something you do as part of your job, but I urge you to occasionally examine what your primary motivation is.
Now, you may be wondering, how exactly does this all translate into letting rejection fuel your (metaphorical) fire? I think it just depends on your personality. For me, I look at the rejections as evidence that I’m trying and that I’m putting my work out there. Additionally, I see them as future opportunities, and, even though this may sounds a little crazy, the rejections make me want to succeed more. I think that’s it for me- it’s the rejections that help make that success all the sweeter.
For other people, they turn it into a game- okay, I’m going to keep submitting until I get 10 rejections, and then 15, and then 20, and so on. Their rejection teaches them how to persevere. For others, rejection is a more tender thing, and they hide such things away their heart, letting the callouses build not out of bitterness, but out of hard work. Their rejection teaches them how to keep moving even when you don’t feel like it. And that’s all rejection should be- a teacher, one that maybe you don’t like, but you at least respect.
You’ve all heard how many times famous authors have gotten rejected (note: it’s a lot), so I’m not going to bother barking up that tree again. Instead, I want to leave you with this quote by Sylvia Plath that sums it up nicely- “I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.”
“sometimes the doodles in the margins mean more in the long run”
I joke all the time about thriving off chaos, but to every joke there is a kernel of truth. Writing is chaotic by nature, and I think when you really embrace how little control you have over a story, that’s when the story truly blossoms.
I should make a confession upfront: secretly, I’m a type A person. I love spreadsheets, I love to-do lists, and I live by my Google Calendar, which is backed up by an old-fashioned paper calendar. Staying organized is truly the only way I can function in society. If you’ve ever had a conversation with me for more than five minutes, you’ve probably noticed it doesn’t take much to distract me. That being said, I know if I try hard enough, I can focus and get things done, and I’ve learned through much trial-and-error that lists and color-coding help me get there.
Now, here’s my second confession: I’m more of a type a, lowercase a, because if you live your life according to an inflexible schedule and constant pressure, you’re just going to burn yourself out. You have to give yourself, and others, grace, and sometimes, you just have to embrace the chaos of life. It’s okay to color outside the lines sometimes. In fact, sometimes the doodles in the margins mean more in the long run than the notes themselves.
I promise this relates to writing.
The thing about writing that if you say you’re a writer than you are. But, in order to be a good writer, you actually have to write. And the more you write, the better you get. A lot of more seasoned writers give this advice to beginning writers: to write a little bit every day. I think that’s awesome advice, extraordinary even, but I think you should take it with a side of caution. Writers write because they love it, because they must, not because they need to check something off a to-do list. I think all writers should strive to write something, anything every day, but it is so important to give yourself rest, too. My advice is, if you’re trying to write and nothing happens, give it a good go, a good ten minute try, and if nothing springs up, try again either later or the next day. You shouldn’t feel bad for needing a break. That doesn’t mean you’re not serious or trying hard enough, or anything other than you’re human.
We live in a culture that is obsessed with a capitalistic definition of success, and by that, I mean every hobby we have be a source of income in order to be deemed “successful.”. I think that’s where a lot of this “I have to write x amount everyday” comes from. We suck the joy out of our hobbies with this constant chase of success. What happened to doing things for the heck of it? Forget what the world tells you success is. Success is writing something you’re proud of, even if you’re only proud of it for finishing. That’s enough. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Joan Didion once said, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” I think that pretty much summarizes what I’m trying to say, though I’ll add on that you should write to connect. Personally, I think you should write to connect to other people, but I’m also that weirdo in the checkout line who will strike up a conversation with you about the weather or the purple crocs you’re rocking, or how the NCAA hates NC State (#sorrynotsorry). Even if I think that, the beauty of being a writer is you can have a completely different motivation and, as always, you should connect to yourself first. Not everything should be said out loud, sometimes, it should be written down and ruminated on.
I think I’m starting to get distracted.
I’ve gone a lot of different ways in this 600ish word blogpost, but I guess what I’m really trying to say is this:
- Embrace the chaos of writing, even if it’s hard for you
- Write, even when it’s hard, but always give yourself grace
- Success is arbitrary. Find your own definition of it, because if you go with the world’s you’ll never be satisfied.
Now, here’s the part of the blog where I talk about what personally works for me when writing, in addition to what I’ve talked about
- Keep your ears open. Some of my best story ideas have come from things I’ve overheard (it’s not eavesdropping if people are talking so loudly you can hear)
- I keep a running list on my phone of story ideas as I come up with them, and I put them all down, even the bad ones, because sometimes you’ve got to work through a few bad ideas to get to a good one
- Just tell yourself you only have to write one sentence. Then write another, and another.
- Find a community of writers you can share stories with (this is going to be a whole blog later on).
- A first draft is meant to be [censored, because I’m trying to keep this thing family friendly, but it starts with an s] (shout out to Anne Lamott)
- Rewrite and retype. Literally. I retype almost everything I write, even this blogpost, because having to manually retype the words you’ve written helps grow your writing in ways more than you know. Make it a game if you have to- so far, the most I’ve ever retyped a story was 16 times.
You’re a writer because you say you are; you’re a good writer because you try; and you’re a great writer when you finally start believing in the legitimacy of your work. Don’t sell yourself short. Language always endures.
Quote: https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/238.Joan_Didion
“I’m certainly no writing expert”
My life’s calling is not to be a writer, but to love other people.
Now, that’s not to diminish the fact that I also know without a shadow of a doubt that I was meant to be a writer. It’s just that, at my core, my writing always has been and always will be an avenue for that bigger purpose. What is writing, what is the point of writing, if it doesn’t connect you to other people?
I remember the first time I ever let anyone read my personal writing. I was so nervous about the whole thing, of somebody staring at my soul on a page, that I was physically sick. It’s easier now to share, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I still get a little anxious. Just writing this blog post makes me a little nervous, even though I feel a bit like I’m talking into the void.
But isn’t that kind of the point? Arthur Miller said that “the best work anyone ever writes is the work that is on the verge of embarrassing him, always.”
I want to make it clear right here, right now that I’m certainly no writing expert. I feel like I’ve been very clear about the whole “I have no idea what I’m doing” thing and the reason I advertise it so proudly, so blatantly, is because I think that’s part of the beauty of being a writer. I honestly have no idea what I’m doing, but it doesn’t matter because if I say I’m a writer, I am. I was a writer when I was eleven years old churning out my first dumpster fire of a novel, and I’m a writer now, at twenty-two, almost done with my first non-dumpster-fire of a novel that’s had two chapters published.
This leads me back to my original statement—that my purpose is to love people, not necessarily to write, and now is where I admit that was kind of my clickbait sentence because I have found that writing is one of my favorite ways to love other people.
As a child, I was an avid reader. In fact, it was reading in the dark (okay, and bad genetics) that landed me with glasses in sixth grade. I read everything I could get my hands on—mysteries, romance, YA, thrillers, biographies, historical fiction, graphic novels, anything—and in every book I read, I found a piece of myself. A line I related to, a character I loved, a problem similar to any of my own. Each book I read, no matter what it was about, screamed back at me You are not alone. It’s corny, but it’s true. It’s the universal human experience.
And that is exactly why I write. Because one day, someone is going to sit down and read one of my stories or one of my poems or one of novels and find something relatable and feel me, no matter where either of us is at in the world, screaming at them You are not alone. And it’s not going to matter to me if it happens once or if it happens a million times because if there is just one person who reads one thing I write and feels any semblance of hope, it will have all been worth it. The hours and hours of writing, revising, editing, the thousands upon thousands of pages written, the middle-of-the-night wake-ups where I scribble something down on my phone that sounds absolutely bananas when read the next morning. It’ll all have been worth it if it touches even just one person.
One of my favorite things to do is smile at strangers. Not in a weird way (I don’t think), but chances are if I catch your eye in public, even if you don’t know me, I’ll probably smile at you and maybe even wave. It’s encouraging to me that almost everyone smiles back: the lady with the purple dress and matching hat in Ross, the baby in the stroller in front of me at Walmart, and even the elderly woman who tried to run me over with her shopping cart at Aldi.
People crave love, in its simplest and purest form, and there is nothing more loving than feeling understood and seen, even if only for a moment.
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