This story is not mine to tell, so I will not say one word. I want to share the things it has made me realize about myself though.
I spoke with a friend from Australia today, one who knows me well enough to know that I have a lot to say all of the time. My stories are lengthy, this is not a new find. However in serious situations, I am one of very few words. It is what it is, and discussing in circles is a complete waste of time.
He recognized the severity of the situation because there was nothing to say back, no joking, no laughter, just acknowledgment of a terrible occurrence. It was a bite size story but I appreciate his ear for those short six words. I'm grateful he allowed me to say them and that he listened intently. Sometimes six words is all you need, this time six words was enough. And for that I need to say thank you, because its nice to have a friend across the world with whom I can share a story that isn't mine to tell.
I'm not one to get shaken and I do not dwell. I don't let situations take my attitude, because really in life that is all we can control. I find easy solutions and I make myself believe them. I convince myself to move forward and swallow any emotions that might get stirred. I don't lay down to be walked over, but I figured out today, that I don't fight either, instead I turn, leave, and don't ever look back. After discovery of this inherent truth, I have to ask myself if I believe that this is an admirable quality, and at this point in time, I just don't know the answer.
One thing I do know is that over the last three years my life has been a bit unstable. I learned to walk away and I do it very well. I figured out how to be happy, and how to ignore the things I can not change. I learned to be unattached. I always expect my expectations to be completely wrong. In several ways it has made me a hell of a lot stronger. It's taught me to focus and to be independent. In these types of situations though, it has chilled me to the core. I can feel it. I had to teach myself to be the way I am today, but I can say with intense conviction that these behaviors have become habit. I'm just not sure if I will ever be one to commit, not after my life and definitely not after today.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
saying goodbye
Travelling is exciting. Being out on your own, seeing new places, meeting new people, tasting new flavors, hearing new accents and languages, if you couldn't tell there is a pattern here, travelling is "out with the old and in with the new." That's why it is so attractive, that's why we love it, that's why we make sacrafices and do it.
I wouldn't lie, I was ready to step on that plane on July 9th. I knew I wouldn't miss Australia, my time there had come to an end, and I was going out with a bang. It was meant to be because for the first time ever by a very slim and unlikely chance, I got upgraded to business class.
Let's pause and view why this was such a significant event in my life. Well as you probably already know I am six feet tall or one hundred and eighty-four centimeters (however you want to look at it) so flying coach is, to put it nicely, absolute agony. I sit cramped, figiting, re-adjusting, and restless on every plane seat that has the daunting "Economy" label. I'm not afraid to fly, but I often hate it because of the lack of room issue. I almost always exit the plane with a tweaked neck and sore tailbone. So flying isn't scary, its just insanely uncomfortable.
Business Class is luxery. "May I bring you a moist towlette Ms. Denaro?" a moist towelette, seriously? Yes please!! As if I could ever afford to fly business class, (one day after I become a famous writer...I'm very good at dreaming.) but being upgraded doesn't cost a thing. The odds of that actually happening are slim. The chance you get upgraded on a sixteen hour international flight are one in a million, and the only quote that comes to mind, "so your saying there's a chance!!" I was confused when they called my name to print me a new boarding pass, I was shocked to find out that I would not be sitting in coach on this particular day. No, on July 9, 2010 I flew the 7,500 miles from Brisbane, Australia to Los Angeles, California in complete comfort. I was saying goodbye Australia in Business Class style.
I was ready to leave. I wasn't going to miss it, but here I sit three weeks later, unsure if July 9th will really be my final australian goodbye. If I am honest, I miss Australian accents, I miss their attitude, I miss the quarkiness down under, and I really miss my friends. Only three weeks later Australia feels a million years away. The only thing that time warps me back is this funny program known as Skype. All the sudden I can hear and see everything that goes on in my former country of residence and I long to be there, to smell it, to taste it, to feel it. On July 9th I was sure I would not go back, at least not for a long while, on July 29th I'm not so sure how that will actually pan out.
The next year of my life is basically planned out, go to France and get paid to play water polo, awesome and exciting life. I know better than anyone the length of one year. When everything is new, a year feels both extremely long, and unfathomably short all at the same time. At the end of the year though, when I left the lovable country down under I convinced myself that I was ready to leave for good. Bon Voyage Australia, I'm off on a new adventure. Three weeks after my concrete goodbye, I'm looking back and wondering what significant event will bring me back there again...
I wouldn't lie, I was ready to step on that plane on July 9th. I knew I wouldn't miss Australia, my time there had come to an end, and I was going out with a bang. It was meant to be because for the first time ever by a very slim and unlikely chance, I got upgraded to business class.
Let's pause and view why this was such a significant event in my life. Well as you probably already know I am six feet tall or one hundred and eighty-four centimeters (however you want to look at it) so flying coach is, to put it nicely, absolute agony. I sit cramped, figiting, re-adjusting, and restless on every plane seat that has the daunting "Economy" label. I'm not afraid to fly, but I often hate it because of the lack of room issue. I almost always exit the plane with a tweaked neck and sore tailbone. So flying isn't scary, its just insanely uncomfortable.
Business Class is luxery. "May I bring you a moist towlette Ms. Denaro?" a moist towelette, seriously? Yes please!! As if I could ever afford to fly business class, (one day after I become a famous writer...I'm very good at dreaming.) but being upgraded doesn't cost a thing. The odds of that actually happening are slim. The chance you get upgraded on a sixteen hour international flight are one in a million, and the only quote that comes to mind, "so your saying there's a chance!!" I was confused when they called my name to print me a new boarding pass, I was shocked to find out that I would not be sitting in coach on this particular day. No, on July 9, 2010 I flew the 7,500 miles from Brisbane, Australia to Los Angeles, California in complete comfort. I was saying goodbye Australia in Business Class style.
I was ready to leave. I wasn't going to miss it, but here I sit three weeks later, unsure if July 9th will really be my final australian goodbye. If I am honest, I miss Australian accents, I miss their attitude, I miss the quarkiness down under, and I really miss my friends. Only three weeks later Australia feels a million years away. The only thing that time warps me back is this funny program known as Skype. All the sudden I can hear and see everything that goes on in my former country of residence and I long to be there, to smell it, to taste it, to feel it. On July 9th I was sure I would not go back, at least not for a long while, on July 29th I'm not so sure how that will actually pan out.
The next year of my life is basically planned out, go to France and get paid to play water polo, awesome and exciting life. I know better than anyone the length of one year. When everything is new, a year feels both extremely long, and unfathomably short all at the same time. At the end of the year though, when I left the lovable country down under I convinced myself that I was ready to leave for good. Bon Voyage Australia, I'm off on a new adventure. Three weeks after my concrete goodbye, I'm looking back and wondering what significant event will bring me back there again...
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Writing my life away...
I have a theory that people who talk a lot make the very best book writers. If I dug up every single report card, from each teacher I had in elementary school, they would all have one thing in common, and it had nothing to do with my grades. No, the noticeably similar attribute on each academic report would sit there looming in the citizenship column, “Hard worker, but talks excessively,” or “Talking interferes with progress,” or “Very talkative.” In school, talking was always a negative thing. So when I got older, I was self conscious about my habit, but did that minimize my gab? Apparently not. In college, I was nicknamed motor mouth and people often commented on my voice volume. By the time I was finished, I had accepted my talkativeness as a stubborn quality that was never going to change, I don’t think it was something that I quite loved about myself though, it just was kind of the way it was. While travelling, people continued to make comments about the amount of words that would spill out of my mouth, but something changed. In countries outside of the United States, people blamed my trait on being American; I refused to accept that as the truth. In fact, when I was told that I was talkative because I was American, I would defend my mannerism as a unique quality. I decided that having a lot to say was a gift to be cherished; the characteristic that everyone viewed as “the worst feature a person could possibly have,” was going to be the very thing that made me great.
In Australia, I wrote an entire book in one month. It hasn’t been published or edited, but I still wrote a book in thirty days. So at 25 years old, I have written a book, and whether or not it ever makes a single dollar, that’s already a huge accomplishment. Even though I grew up being the most talkative person I had ever encountered, I’m quite positive that there are many others in the world who could gab up a storm, so being talkative becomes nothing special. But if you took every individual who told long winded stories and asked how they made that attribute work for them, I don’t think many could answer, “I wrote a book by the time I was 25, and by the time I turn 26 I plan to have three done.” Please notice that I am not promising greatness, there is absolutely no guarantee that any person on the face of this planet will read one of my books, let alone pay money to buy it. But I wouldn’t let that stop me from writing them in a million years.
I’d say I’ve lived an unplanned life, sometimes it’s messy, and others it is exciting. I can declare with the deepest conviction though, that I am grateful for the way my life has turned out so far and I am interested to see where it goes from here. I know I want to write, so while I get to work on my second book, I’ll write all sorts of other nonsense here.
In Australia, I wrote an entire book in one month. It hasn’t been published or edited, but I still wrote a book in thirty days. So at 25 years old, I have written a book, and whether or not it ever makes a single dollar, that’s already a huge accomplishment. Even though I grew up being the most talkative person I had ever encountered, I’m quite positive that there are many others in the world who could gab up a storm, so being talkative becomes nothing special. But if you took every individual who told long winded stories and asked how they made that attribute work for them, I don’t think many could answer, “I wrote a book by the time I was 25, and by the time I turn 26 I plan to have three done.” Please notice that I am not promising greatness, there is absolutely no guarantee that any person on the face of this planet will read one of my books, let alone pay money to buy it. But I wouldn’t let that stop me from writing them in a million years.
I’d say I’ve lived an unplanned life, sometimes it’s messy, and others it is exciting. I can declare with the deepest conviction though, that I am grateful for the way my life has turned out so far and I am interested to see where it goes from here. I know I want to write, so while I get to work on my second book, I’ll write all sorts of other nonsense here.
How do I know when I'm ready?
For a mountain climber, Everest is the toughest that it gets. A traveler should be satisfied once they have visited each and every country on all seven continents. A designer feels accomplished if they have received countless reaffirming reviews on the red carpet. A writer, just like the others, strives to be published in the ever daunting “New Yorker”. This is the best that it gets; it’s the top, and based on our nature, we will do everything it takes to get there.
They tell you there is a process, they say you shouldn’t do it unless you are ready, but come on, what does “ready” really mean? If you are a mountain climber, you can train everyday for seven hours; as a traveler you can read several books; a designer can draw and sew until a dress is produced; a writer can write. At the end of the day though, no matter the amount of time you have spent preparing, Everest is still the tallest mountain, traveling is fearfully unfamiliar, and dresses can only be reviewed if you are willing to put them on the red carpet. For me, I could write a thousand and one pages, but the New Yorker will defiantly never publish my work unless I hit the submit button at the bottom of my screen. The question still remains though, “Am I ready?”
I have researched the topic; “Am I ready to publish?” and I feel like Google has failed at giving me a sufficient answer. Each page that comes up as a search result offers the same advice, “Don’t publish until you are ready,” thanks a lot Google; apparently I am right back where I started. My Everest, if you haven’t figured out, is writing, yours might be college, or a promotion, maybe it’s a complete career change, but before we actually decide to step out into the unknown, we all question whether we are equipped to make successful decisions. The fact of the matter is, change is scary, rejection is terrifying, and failure, well I’m just not quite sure if there is a single sole on the entirety of this planet who attempts with the intent to fall face first in the mud. If I’m truthful though, in my experience, most people don’t get it right the first time around or the second or the twenty-eighth. Isn’t that motivating?
I met a boy while traveling in Australia, he commented on my “overzealous” willingness to ask questions, he also complained about how the world is always in my favor. First of all the universe or world or whatever force that is out there is not really in anyone’s individual support, but if you are keen to ask, you automatically increase your chances of getting what you want by fifty percent. I like those odds so I open my mouth, I act.
Let’s not forget though, that I am also fifty percent more likely to get rejected straight to my face, to be told “no”, to be brushed off as inexperienced, and to be informed that I in fact am not, and will never be, quite good enough. I smile, say thank you, and continue doing whatever it is that I love. I practice, I write books and articles, I submit my work, I ask, and I repeat the damn process until I am successful. I fake it ‘til I make it, as they say, and I stop worrying about whether or not I am ready.
This year, wait let me rephrase, this June I wrote a book, cover to cover in thirty days. Was I ready? Well, according to the research I did on Google, hell no!! I had never written a book before. I wasn’t an English major at Harvard University. I had not attended workshops or night classes. To be honest, I hadn’t even researched it on Google (I did that after I finished). I didn’t know if it was inappropriate to write a book on a ten inch computer. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to sit at a café for eight hours in a row and create twenty-five pages of nonsense. I didn’t do an outline. I had no idea about style and I broke almost every English grammar rule that exists in the written record of language. I fully accepted the possibility, NO wait, the probability that there was a very slim chance that outside of my family, no one would ever actually read the words I put on paper. I never thought for one moment that I would be paid a single dime for the hours that I spent; I haven’t made any money for writing anything at all, ever in my entire life. But this June I wrote a book, so I guess the rest of it doesn’t really matter, not in the end anyway.
Today I’m writing three measly pages, comparatively to a two hundred and fifty-nine page memoir, three is insignificant, unsuccessful, and pointless. Why bother waste my time? This isn’t really a short fictional story, it doesn’t exactly follow nor break any rules, and there is the always the gloomy and looming likelihood that these three pages could possibly be the absolute worst grouping of words ever transcribed in the history of mankind, however here I am putting fingertip to keyboard at the young inexperienced age of twenty-five, with the direct intention to get published by the New Yorker, yeah I admit, I’ve got huge dreams and they are probably insanely premature.
That said though, who really wants to sit at a dead end job, making cold calls from nine to five, and bringing home two thousand dollars a month? I know I don’t, actually, I won’t. Unfortunately, if you look at a majority of Americans, the growing half is slowly convincing themselves that dead end is exactly what they deserve; that grey “really brings out the color in their eyes”; that those few extra pounds around the middle does not really negatively affect their health.
I have been out of the country for the past two years, defying all odds and traveling the world. I didn’t save a single penny before I left. Needless to say, I have worked some interesting gigs just so I could eat barely enough to survive, but when you constantly have to think on your feet, you end up getting really creative; colors aren’t scary anymore and change becomes exciting, exhilarating, and preferred. Being away though, in a weird way, always brings you back, and coming home becomes just as thrilling as leaving for the very first time. In July of 2010, I flew the 7,500 miles from Sydney, Australia to Los Angeles, California and noticed my once vibrant home country is currently very drab and grey.
There are however hidden splashes of vivaciousness in the slightest yet most eager comments. There is a definite lack of much needed laughter, but if I am enthusiastic about sharing my dreams, I have noticed that the wealth created is contagious. The dormant flowers bloom as if the first spring has finally sprung, and a once dull room with no ambition becomes lively and vigorous in a matter of seconds. So I pause in that moment and breathe it in, it smells as fresh as rain, it looks like a perfect summer day on the beachside cliffs of Malibu, it feels like love at first sight, and I am hooked, addicted from the very first taste. Their dreams give me confidence that I will surely achieve my own and the colors that rush into the room spill over onto the street where I live. They rush towards the next town and break through the thousand different shades of black. It travels at the speed of light. The abundance of energy seeping out of one dream is enough to fill a thousand souls with hope, drive, and motivation.
It is so effervescent, that it swallows the worry to fail in a full embrace of the process. One dream brings life, if a person is bold enough to step out and scream, “Today, against all odds, I am ready to conquer Everest.” His cries will be heard by the yearning traveler who decides to stop reading and buy his first plane ticket to everywhere. That ticket stub will fall in the lap of the designer who finally agrees to shout out that her designs would be perfect for Cameron Diaz to wear on the red carpet at the Emmy’s and that dress will be the inspiration to write an Earth-shattering article for the New Yorker; a story to reach the world, to arouse each individual to pursue their dreams, even if Google says they will absolutely never be ready. One cry will induce the domino effect to instigate profound change.
So I choose to kick and scream. I will pour every inch that I have into a very concise three pages. I will encourage you with all of my being to convince the world that you alone are ready to achieve greatness because inspiring your dreams makes me confident in my own. There is always the possibility that I am not ready, but I run towards my dreams as fast as I can anyway, I hold my breath to retrieve my desires from the deepest trenches of the Indian Ocean; I travel on planes and trains, in cars and buses. I shout with the deepest conviction along the way, I recite my wishes out loud, I write them on napkins and other scraps of paper. I polish, I type, I close my eyes and then, I press submit. I take a deep breath and smile. I don’t regret or look back for even just a moment. I never stop to question whether or not I am ready because maybe, just this once, the World is ready for me.
They tell you there is a process, they say you shouldn’t do it unless you are ready, but come on, what does “ready” really mean? If you are a mountain climber, you can train everyday for seven hours; as a traveler you can read several books; a designer can draw and sew until a dress is produced; a writer can write. At the end of the day though, no matter the amount of time you have spent preparing, Everest is still the tallest mountain, traveling is fearfully unfamiliar, and dresses can only be reviewed if you are willing to put them on the red carpet. For me, I could write a thousand and one pages, but the New Yorker will defiantly never publish my work unless I hit the submit button at the bottom of my screen. The question still remains though, “Am I ready?”
I have researched the topic; “Am I ready to publish?” and I feel like Google has failed at giving me a sufficient answer. Each page that comes up as a search result offers the same advice, “Don’t publish until you are ready,” thanks a lot Google; apparently I am right back where I started. My Everest, if you haven’t figured out, is writing, yours might be college, or a promotion, maybe it’s a complete career change, but before we actually decide to step out into the unknown, we all question whether we are equipped to make successful decisions. The fact of the matter is, change is scary, rejection is terrifying, and failure, well I’m just not quite sure if there is a single sole on the entirety of this planet who attempts with the intent to fall face first in the mud. If I’m truthful though, in my experience, most people don’t get it right the first time around or the second or the twenty-eighth. Isn’t that motivating?
I met a boy while traveling in Australia, he commented on my “overzealous” willingness to ask questions, he also complained about how the world is always in my favor. First of all the universe or world or whatever force that is out there is not really in anyone’s individual support, but if you are keen to ask, you automatically increase your chances of getting what you want by fifty percent. I like those odds so I open my mouth, I act.
Let’s not forget though, that I am also fifty percent more likely to get rejected straight to my face, to be told “no”, to be brushed off as inexperienced, and to be informed that I in fact am not, and will never be, quite good enough. I smile, say thank you, and continue doing whatever it is that I love. I practice, I write books and articles, I submit my work, I ask, and I repeat the damn process until I am successful. I fake it ‘til I make it, as they say, and I stop worrying about whether or not I am ready.
This year, wait let me rephrase, this June I wrote a book, cover to cover in thirty days. Was I ready? Well, according to the research I did on Google, hell no!! I had never written a book before. I wasn’t an English major at Harvard University. I had not attended workshops or night classes. To be honest, I hadn’t even researched it on Google (I did that after I finished). I didn’t know if it was inappropriate to write a book on a ten inch computer. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to sit at a café for eight hours in a row and create twenty-five pages of nonsense. I didn’t do an outline. I had no idea about style and I broke almost every English grammar rule that exists in the written record of language. I fully accepted the possibility, NO wait, the probability that there was a very slim chance that outside of my family, no one would ever actually read the words I put on paper. I never thought for one moment that I would be paid a single dime for the hours that I spent; I haven’t made any money for writing anything at all, ever in my entire life. But this June I wrote a book, so I guess the rest of it doesn’t really matter, not in the end anyway.
Today I’m writing three measly pages, comparatively to a two hundred and fifty-nine page memoir, three is insignificant, unsuccessful, and pointless. Why bother waste my time? This isn’t really a short fictional story, it doesn’t exactly follow nor break any rules, and there is the always the gloomy and looming likelihood that these three pages could possibly be the absolute worst grouping of words ever transcribed in the history of mankind, however here I am putting fingertip to keyboard at the young inexperienced age of twenty-five, with the direct intention to get published by the New Yorker, yeah I admit, I’ve got huge dreams and they are probably insanely premature.
That said though, who really wants to sit at a dead end job, making cold calls from nine to five, and bringing home two thousand dollars a month? I know I don’t, actually, I won’t. Unfortunately, if you look at a majority of Americans, the growing half is slowly convincing themselves that dead end is exactly what they deserve; that grey “really brings out the color in their eyes”; that those few extra pounds around the middle does not really negatively affect their health.
I have been out of the country for the past two years, defying all odds and traveling the world. I didn’t save a single penny before I left. Needless to say, I have worked some interesting gigs just so I could eat barely enough to survive, but when you constantly have to think on your feet, you end up getting really creative; colors aren’t scary anymore and change becomes exciting, exhilarating, and preferred. Being away though, in a weird way, always brings you back, and coming home becomes just as thrilling as leaving for the very first time. In July of 2010, I flew the 7,500 miles from Sydney, Australia to Los Angeles, California and noticed my once vibrant home country is currently very drab and grey.
There are however hidden splashes of vivaciousness in the slightest yet most eager comments. There is a definite lack of much needed laughter, but if I am enthusiastic about sharing my dreams, I have noticed that the wealth created is contagious. The dormant flowers bloom as if the first spring has finally sprung, and a once dull room with no ambition becomes lively and vigorous in a matter of seconds. So I pause in that moment and breathe it in, it smells as fresh as rain, it looks like a perfect summer day on the beachside cliffs of Malibu, it feels like love at first sight, and I am hooked, addicted from the very first taste. Their dreams give me confidence that I will surely achieve my own and the colors that rush into the room spill over onto the street where I live. They rush towards the next town and break through the thousand different shades of black. It travels at the speed of light. The abundance of energy seeping out of one dream is enough to fill a thousand souls with hope, drive, and motivation.
It is so effervescent, that it swallows the worry to fail in a full embrace of the process. One dream brings life, if a person is bold enough to step out and scream, “Today, against all odds, I am ready to conquer Everest.” His cries will be heard by the yearning traveler who decides to stop reading and buy his first plane ticket to everywhere. That ticket stub will fall in the lap of the designer who finally agrees to shout out that her designs would be perfect for Cameron Diaz to wear on the red carpet at the Emmy’s and that dress will be the inspiration to write an Earth-shattering article for the New Yorker; a story to reach the world, to arouse each individual to pursue their dreams, even if Google says they will absolutely never be ready. One cry will induce the domino effect to instigate profound change.
So I choose to kick and scream. I will pour every inch that I have into a very concise three pages. I will encourage you with all of my being to convince the world that you alone are ready to achieve greatness because inspiring your dreams makes me confident in my own. There is always the possibility that I am not ready, but I run towards my dreams as fast as I can anyway, I hold my breath to retrieve my desires from the deepest trenches of the Indian Ocean; I travel on planes and trains, in cars and buses. I shout with the deepest conviction along the way, I recite my wishes out loud, I write them on napkins and other scraps of paper. I polish, I type, I close my eyes and then, I press submit. I take a deep breath and smile. I don’t regret or look back for even just a moment. I never stop to question whether or not I am ready because maybe, just this once, the World is ready for me.
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