The Key To Success In the Analytical World (Or, How To Survive College With a 4.0)

From a young age, Mirko has always reached for success. From his Slovenian roots, he gained an admiration of all things honorable, a love for truth, justice and family. His drive to succeed guided him through law school and twenty years of work as a prosecutor before he finally became a partner in an independent firm. In those twenty years, he married a beautiful woman, and together they built a family. They are still together today; their youngest daughter will graduate from college next spring. Mirko was and still is everything one wants for their sons; he is a pillar in the community, earns a very high yearly wage, and a respectable man. His sons have taken after him, becoming successful businessmen and lawyers. Together they work to defend innocent people and seek justice for those wronged. But Mirko has a secret.

Holly is much younger than Mirko, but she shares his values of truth and justice. From a young age, Holly was always active in her community, working alongside her parents and other concerned citizens to do everything possible to better her town. As a teenager, Holly was an avid speech and debate competitor, routinely placing highly in national championships. After her high school graduation, Holly took some time off from community involvement to focus on her degree, as well as to spend a year of intensive study and work in Europe. Holly graduated with a Political Science degree when she was only twenty, and how works part time in a law office, dedicating the rest of her free time to providing hands-on help for disadvantaged, abused, and enslaved women. Her work recently expanded to an international mission, as she now travels to foreign countries to provide support for new help centers. Holly has a secret, too.

Aurelio came to the United States as a refugee. As a four year old boy, his parents had woken him one night to rush to the last open airport on Cuba, racing to leave the country before Castro’s soldiers captured them. Of the blur of memories of Cuba, Aurelio remembers most vividly running across the tarmac, listening to the boom of gunfire as they made one last effort to reach safety. His status as a political refugee offered him little in the way of advantages. He grew up in the slums of New York, having little but his own drive and his mother’s encouragement to finish high school. He battled with post traumatic stress, which a school counselor mis-diagnosed as insanity, then refused to assist his family in providing the proper treatment. He finished high school, then, on his own, worked night and day to put himself through college, eventually managing huge budgets and projects for companies such as Ogilvy. Yet, Aurelio has a secret, too.

Mirko, Holly, Aurelio. Three individuals, that have never met—and, very likely, never will. Yet they all share the same secret. One that they share with thousands of other highly successful people. They are artists. Their pastimes are creative. Mirko draws and works with the theatrical arts. Holly writes stories. Aurelio paints and writes. Whenever they face a problem that they can’t find a solution to, have a bad day, or simply lack motivation, they turn to a blank sheet of paper. Mirko even credits much of his success in the courtroom to the time he spent drawing, finding that the more complicated the case, the more he needed to set aside the case and pick up a pen. If he pushed aside the urge, and soldiered through with his research and arguments, he would lose his case. Thus his art has found a prominent place in his life, even though it would never be his profession.

 Mirko is not the only lawyer I know who draws. I know many others. One, a water attorney, cooks gourmet foods. Another writes poems. The phenomenon of successful people being artists isn’t limited to lawyers. Even Albert Einstein would turn to artistic expression when he felt stressed, had a bad day, or couldn’t figure out an equation. He turned to his violin.

I considered all of this as I stared at a textbook. This is the lightest semester I have ever taken, but it is the semester I have struggled the most with my grades. While mulling over my predicament, I go back to my heaviest semester, where I took twenty units at one time. What did I do differently? I spent hours comparing schedules, assignments, and workloads. Everything indicated that I should have better grades this semester than that semester, but I’m struggling to maintain a B in two of my classes, and I have nearly given up hope of doing more than barely passing the third (I carried a 4.0 in my twenty unit semester, by the way).
Finally, I realized. In that huge semester, I had unconsciously worked in artistic outlets. Once a week, I would spend an hour at a coffee shop, killing time between classes. While I was there, I would draw bones. I wrote it off as study time, since every bone I drew was one that I was studying in my labs. At the same time, I spent roughly two hours a week writing stories; that was marked down as homework for an English class. Being a good anthropology student, then, it was time to test my hypothesis. It was time to see if artistic endeavors really did make my grades better.

I started off spending about a half an hour a day writing stories. Some were weird, some didn’t make sense, some were absolutely beautiful and if I showed them to you, you would cry (I won’t show them to you, in the interest of keeping crying at a minimum). I started carrying blank paper around with me, and took advantage of the odd half-hour break I had three times a week. Sometimes I would draw, sometimes I would write. Last week I spent nearly an hour working on a manga Viking. Silly, I know. But I was taking the time to be artistic. The semester isn’t over, but the time I’ve taken to let my imagination run free seems to be giving good results, so much so that I’m confident that I might even get a high B out of my most worrisome class.

It was shortly after this that I walked into work one day to be handed a drawing by Mirko. It was a cartoon of my father, one that he is very pleased with. That was the day I found out that Mirko draws. He had always been the analytical lawyer; I never knew that he drew. That was the moment it began to make sense. Creativity isn’t just about being weird, dressing funny, and throwing paint at a canvas. It is about crafting an expression, working out a solution to a problem that we’ve artificially created for a person that exists nowhere but inside our minds.

I never told my mother about the stories I write. Growing up, I knew she had a strong dislike for fiction, and she still regards it as a waste of time. I know she approves of my drawings, but merely because she finds them “useful”. All my childhood paintings and drawings have disappeared from her house, though the ribbon I won at a State Fair for one of those drawings still hangs visibly. I wonder if she even remembers that that particular ribbon was connected to a cash prize, or if it is merely a subconscious leftover. I don’t know where my other ribbons hang, or if they hang at all. Perhaps they are lost to the dusty corners of my memory.
Don’t get me wrong; I love my mother very much, and I think she gave me the best possible upbringing she could. Yet, sometimes I wish she could feel how I feel when I’ve finished a drawing or a story. It isn’t a feeling of pride, though; it is one of peace and clarity. So the creative balances the analytical, the peace of the one gives way to the solutions of the other, and we begin again, with a new course of study, a new court case, or a new mission in life, knowing that soon, it will need its own story. Perhaps that is why I can never quite write “The End.”

Wanted: A Literary Artist of Good Repute

In an effort to fund the last part of the degree I am currently working on, I am turning to literary scholarships for funding, which has been an interesting--and positively scary--experience.

Several days ago, I made the horrible realization that I am the oldest member of The Tea-Spitters (which may explain why I often feel slightly out of place). While most of our group lands below the magical age of 18, only one other member rises above it, and I pre-date even her. With that in mind, then, I am faced with a somewhat unique quandary: paying for college. Thus far, between my parents' assistance and my own funds, I have navigated a debt free existence. Looking next year's budget in the face, however, has been nothing short of daunting. It is very obvious that next year, I will not be able to make ends meet unless I get some outside help.

Cue going homeschooler on the problem. There are very few things that cannot be solved or accomplished when one is armed with a library card and the ability to read quickly. I happen to have both. After an hour or two of reading and transcribing, I had a newfound hate for the fact that I do not have any politically correct minority blood in me, as well as a list of 69 possible scholarships. While I am proud to be Irish, you do not get a lot of love from your fellow Irish when it comes to college. Incidentally, anyone of Slovak, Cherokee, Hmong, Navajo or Cuban decent that wants to adopt me is more than welcome to do so.

Now that I have a list of scholarships, it is time to methodically work through each scholarship. I am glad I had such a large starting list, because the list is rapidly getting cut as I research each one. Some get discarded because I am too old (bother being old), others because I am not of the proper minority...take your pick of reasons. My most recent discard, however, had an interesting reason for falling by the wayside: I tossed it because do not know any "established Bay Area literary artists and who possess extensive knowledge in the various genres that the Awards seek to recognize."

The wording struck my fancy. While I most definitely do not have such a person to sponsor me for the scholarship, I began musing over the impact that having a relationship with an established literary artist would have on both my life and my writing. It wasn't until last year that I realized my professors did not really challenge me to be perfect in my writing. I even had one tell me that the class would be a skate because I obviously already knew how to research and write, so she would not send things back to me for rewrites. At the time, I thought that was a great compliment. Now I wish she had. The end result was, unfortunately, that I got lazy. Instead of writing, reviewing, and rewriting my work, I would simply turn in my first draft--often without even proofreading. I started using excessive contractions in my work, a nasty habit that I now have to proofread for (even after proofreading this, I'd be willing to bet that I left some in...like that one). Further, and probably the most detrimental, was no one was truly interested in reviewing what I had written outside of class.

There was one exception, however. Doctor Rennicks. I am truly afraid that I wore him out at the end of the semester, as I not only did every assignment, but every extra credit opportunity and even sent in other things that had nothing to do with his class. He reviewed it all, and send it back. At an early age, I had sworn off writing poetry, claiming that rhyme and meter were too much for me. He taught me the value of free verse, and pushed me to write my first long poem--a rewriting of a Greek tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, from Eurydice's viewpoint. His class opened up new horizons for me, and I felt the motivation to think bigger and write better. I never feel afraid to show him my work, because I knew he was going to help me make it better, not try to change it. He respected my vision, and would only question it when he thought I could articulate it better.

I like to think that knowing a literary artist would be like taking a class from Bob. His classes were discussions, not lectures--enjoyable and friendly. Almost like the same discussion could have taken place .3 miles away at the local Peet's. I doubt I will find an established literary artist who possesses extensive knowledge of all genres in time to sponsor me for a scholarship, but maybe someday...someday, I'll meet one. And when I do, I can only hope that we become great friends. Then we can sit together and drink tea in a coffee shop and pour over manuscripts. Then I will never be afraid of showing someone my work, because they won't critique it just for fun; they will do it to make it better.

To Be Feared or To Be Loved

This post was written in reply to Chamomile's  Am I Bonkers?

"Why do they adore her but not me?"

"I cannot fathom it. You are far superior in all ways."

"I know, but Mirana can make anyone fall in love with her. Men...women...even the furniture."

"Majesty, is it not better to be feared than loved?"

"I'm not certain anymore. But let her have the rabble. I don't need them."

As I writer, I have never felt confined to a single genre. I've found expression for myself in many different forms of writing, sometimes making it hard for me to focus on one specific project. Recently, however, I discovered that I have one trait that plagues my main characters, no matter the setting. My characters lack love. 

The Tea-Spitters were, in part, what made me realize this phenomena. While they were discussing their OTPs and 'shipping characters, I was sitting in the corner alternating between plotting how to turn a princess into a beastly Robin Hood by destroying her family and writing extensive papers on the survival and suppression of a handful of languages (only one of which is still alive and flourishing today). At first, I only paid half a mind to what they were saying, thinking it was only two or three couples that they were oogling over. Then I started to realize that everyone had a main couple, and my poor characters were the punk goths in hoodies that were left scribbling death notes on paper hearts in the rain outside of their high school homeroom on Valentine's Day.

Since I made this dreadful realization, I have spent a good amount of time contemplating what it means. Obviously, I feel insecure about deep personal relationships, even if I don't realize it. My characters are hypersensitive about such things and come pre-equipped with defense mechanisms to keep the world at arm's length--something I have done for years. In fact, I don't remember a time when I wasn't suspicious of people. Unfortunately, it goes beyond suspicion. I would rather willfully be alone than risk not fitting in or having to deal with the rest of humanity. Even when I do find friends, they are merely that, and nothing more. Even worse, I expect them to choose to move out of my life in a few years. I was burned one too many times; I've forgotten how to be vulnerable.

To be able to truly express something in writing, it has to be real to you. If the author has not experienced and contemplated and wrestled in the mud with an idea, a concept, or a feeling, it isn't real to the reader. Our job as writers is to tell a story that originates in our very bones, give the idea flesh and then let the imagination breathe life into the creation. Unfortunately, many authors have a quirk that inhibits them from writing a certain type of story, or force them into one mode of character arc or storytelling. This either makes for brilliant writing in one specific area, or causes an author to run the risk of simply mirroring the life of the compassion-fatigued introvert.

The reason why people in old French and Spanish paintings had such pointy beards. 

With Chamomile's conundrum, I can argue that her insane characters are what bring depth and conflict to her stories. I have no such excuse. Families provide billions of opportunities for drama and conflict. My only excuse is that families are too much work. Think about it. What would your mother say if you went traipsing across the universes on adventures or lived in a round treehouse for all of your life? And what would you do with your two year old when you have to defeat evil on the home front? Strap her to your back in a papoose while you go into hand-to-hand combat with the minions of darkness? Leaving him with a baby sitter is out of the question--we all know baby sitters are really witches waiting to cook little kids as soon as their parents leave for an extended weekend of rest and rejuvenation (kids, I promise that only happens in books. Well, for the most part. Normal looking but crazy Norse god worshipping people who use battle axes in their ritual ceremonies do exist in the real world, too).

Even while logically arguing against any psychological bleed-through, I know that isn't why I fail to give my characters families. I can be lazy, but not that lazy. Beside, making my characters orphans doesn't preclude them from having a love life, yet I routinely refuse my characters the safe haven of a significant other. My own bad romantic experiences rear their ugly heads by denying even my favoritest characters the simple pleasure of loving another being. Instead, their worlds run on fear, power plays and the need to be self sufficient. Who needs Prince Charming? my MCs chorus, each polishing her weapon of choice.

Who indeed.

Introducing Gunpowder Organic

It was a dark and stormy night.

Suddenly, a shot rang out.

A door slammed.

The maid screamed.

Suddenly, a pirate ship appeared on the horizon!

While millions of people were starving,

the king lived in luxury. 

Meanwhile,

On a small farm in Kansas, 

a boy was growing up. 

~It was a Dark and Stormy Night, by Snoopy Brown

Most of my life, I have felt my writing has had Snoopy's characteristic scattershot style to it. No one is quite sure where any idea came from, or why they are all connected, but I promise that it will all tie together...in the next book! 

The earliest story I remember writing was a revisionist history novel, which I wrote when I was seven or so. It was awful, but I managed to turn out a very impressive word count for someone so small. I remember hitting ten thousand words. I don't remember if I wrote more after that. That computer bit the dust many years ago, for which I am truly thankful. While some early works of authors can be hilarious, any remaining copies of mine should be collected and burned, and the burners should enjoy a pizza afterward for a job well done. 

I have written a lot since that era of young folly, but all of my completed works are short stories, or novels that I co-authored. When I am left to my own devises, I often leave a trail of unfinished works behind me. Stories that have no end, or are missing a middle, or various chapters that aren't attached to anything. These sit, usually, until they are lost or mislabeled or ever so rarely, picked up and reworked. The majority of my writing for the last ten years has been in the form of writing circles in Ditto Town, an old haunt of mine. For some reason, Ditto Town has kept me writing, not matter how busy I am. I fail to understand this, mainly because all of my friends who have left Ditto Town did so because they were too busy and could not find time. I still regularly visit Ditto Town to this day.

College took me farther away from work on novels, due to the highly analytical nature of my degree program. With room for very few English Lit classes in my schedule, my nervous pencil energy was diverted to drawing bones, and the smoke rising from my laptop was more from the frying of electronics than from my furious typing (yes, I did cause my computer to literally explode). In an odd twist, my artistic writing tendencies started expressing themselves in my secondary language, French (English is my mother tongue, but I first learned French as a child). I immediately found this frustrating as I didn't have the breadth of vocabulary to accommodate my writing style, yet I struggled even more with expressing basic plots in English. I felt as if my brain had caged up my Muse and refused to let her out, so she had dug an escape route to my composition centers through a foreign language. I shudder to wonder what stories she would have come up with if my secondary language was German!

The main story that I wrote (and continue to work on) from that time is called Balafre, and if I were to give it an English title, it would be Scarface. It is a topsy-turvy story of fairytales gone wrong, but is mainly based on the tale of Beauty and the Beast. Of course, my Belle is Balafre. Rereading the tale consistently reminds me of early storytelling ventures. I suppose writing skills grow the same in any language.

It was with great relief, then, that I finally realized I have a new story idea, one that I hope to be able to fully develop this year. My friends sometimes joke that I am really a secret agent, spying on mutinous agencies and protecting the world from their malice. While I'm afraid this is simply not true, I hope to put the skills that  they point to as evidence of my double life to work in my newest story, one that actually has a secret agent in it. Meanwhile, I shall spend my evenings with the lovely Tea Spitters, sipping hot beverages, typing in all caps, and preparing to dazzle the mad, mad world with our collective brilliance.

Oh, yes. I forgot one thing.

The name's Organic. Gunpowder Organic. And yes, that is a tea.