Well, this is the 6th incarnation of an essay about my dysthymia. I think it is my clearest work yet on the subject, and I'm actually rather proud of it. It's 8 pages of raw emotion and a bit of tweaking for privacy purposes, mainly name chances and such. Anything that anyone has to say about it would be greatly appreciated.

Well, here's my latest essay rewrite. It wasn't easy, but here it is. Comments are always appreciated.

This is one of the various journal entry prompts I was given for my Art of the Personal Essay class. It felt appropriate to post it here.

What role do I play in life that I can name and describe?

 

            I play the role of an aspiring author in life. I officially declare myself a writer, because that is the biggest passion currently in my life. I can declare myself a novelist, because I have written a complete novel length plot. I have yet to be published though, so I’m not yet an author. But I believe that my writing will someday be publishable. I don’t expect to make millions, or be the next Tolkien or Rowling or Pratchett, although I’d like to be. I don’t expect to even make a livable source of income off of my writing. I figure that I’ll be an elementary teacher, and do writing on the side.

            Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to devote my life entirely to writing. But I realistically believe that my chances of finding a job that will let me do so will be remote. I could try to go into journalism, or be a freelance writer. But with the eventual release of e-paper, the current day newspaper will undoubtedly be phased out eventually. But then again the whole point of my writing isn’t for the money, or even for the publication.

            I write because I have countless ideas, characters, plots, scenes, lines, and names floating in my head, demanding to be written down. I know in every fiber of my being that I am meant to write. Why else would my mind be able to come up with all these plots that seem to amuse other people? I find that I am best entertained when I’m reading. What better way to entertain myself and others by writing? It would make my life complete if I could publish a novel that would entertain others.

            I know I sound idealistic and “hippie-like” according to some friends, but I believe that there’s some shelf space out there for me, waiting to be filled with my print. It’s just a matter of time. With November coming up again, I’ll soon have two finished novel length plots under my proverbial belt. With a judicial amount of editing, I am confident that in a year or two’s time I could send either of my novels out for submission. I may not get accepted; in fact I expect rejection the first time out. I have yet to prove my mettle in the literary world, so I have to build up my pink slips until I’m worthy of the publishers’ notice.

            It will undoubtedly take a while, but that’s why I’m starting early. Not every aspiring author in college has written a novel yet, and that gives me a little one up on them. All I can do is take the various lessons I’ve learned from my college career about writing and grammar styles and adopt them into my writing style. The rest is up to my creative mind, and the opinions of the publishers that’ll someday read my work. Until then, I can but do what I do; write.

I have a story in my head;
I see it in my dreams.
I wake it up.
I write it down.
I tell it to my friends.

This was the little poem read during reading time in the class I'm tutoring. They apparently read it every day before reading time and then are encouraged to write down stories of their own later, usually with pictures. I miss that part of school, where we still had the freedom to draw outside the lines and write down run-on sentences and plots revolving around a bunny outside the window or somesuch. Now it's all about proper grammar and coherent plots and three dimensional characters. But the principle still remains. We as writers have a story in our heads, that we've created or dreamed up. We wake up the story to see how it plays out and write it down so others can read it. It's amusing to know that these practices are being taught as early as first grade around here. I wonder if any of them will become writers someday.

Writing a plot is like creating a beer or a wine. In some cases aging is appropriate, to let the plot ripen into maturity and flavor; while others need to be written quickly, lest they grow stale and bland. - Me

Well here's another personal essay. This one is more about my time in the psych ward. This one was strangely easier to write than my other essay. Than again I wrote this essay in a more natural style. I'm actually kinda proud of how this one came out. Comments aren't necessary but always appreciated. =D

Essay # 1: My Love Hate Relationship with my Mother

 

I believe there’s only one person that I can say I both loved and hated. My mother, the one who gave me life, the one who watched over me over the first seven years of my life, was a caring alcoholic. She started drinking before I was a mere possibility of existence. She favored vodka over most other alcohols but settled for whatever was available in emergencies. She was a tiny one too; she was only five foot one and a half inches. That half inch was very important. That shortness of stature didn’t help her deal with the alcohol any easier. The lack of body weight made her get drunk quickly.

When she was sober, she was the most loving, caring, entertaining person I knew. She read me stories, and had me read them back, ensuring my eventual obsession with books. She used to tell me stories, which would send my imagination soaring, ensuring my eventual obsession with storytelling. She used to take me out on picnics at the park, ensuring my obsession with nature.

            It’s when she was drunk where things got tricky. She used to hide bottles of vodka underneath my stuffed animals. She used to pretend she was drinking water and not alcohol. She used to hide it from me, sometimes even hiding it right in front of me. She used to sleep like a nocturnal creature, after drinking all night. She used to argue with my grandmother, her mother, almost to the point of physical violence.

Despite her constant cravings for that special buzz, she abstained for eight months, just long enough for me to be born. She managed to hold off her addiction for eight long months, just for me, and she hadn’t even met me yet. Once I was born she did her best not to drink around me. If she did it was always in a non-descript glass, never from the bottle. After divorcing my father after only a few years of marriage, she took me to live with my grandmother in New Canaan Connecticut.

            We moved to “get a better environment”. My grandmother detests drinking, and made the point clear to my mother, her daughter. My mother accepted the change, for me. She still drank, but it was in binges, usually out in the woods at our house. There was a convenient boulder that was large enough to lie out on and rest. There were also conveniently placed grooves to hold a bottle.

            My mother’s new hideout kept her sufficiently inebriated throughout the six years we lived in that house. Every once and a while she’d go overboard and need to be taken to the hospital by ambulance. Every time it happened, my mother told me not to visit her. She didn’t want me to see her in that condition. I’ve seen it anyway. I knew how she got when she drank too much; belligerent, confused, and lacking in coordination. Yet despite it all, no matter how drunk, how buzzed, how distracted, she always cared for me.

            I didn’t realize it until later, but anytime my mother was publicly drunk and I was with her, she always made a point to know where I am. No matter what. She made sure that regardless of what happened to her mind and her body that I was taken care of. I hated her for always going away to rehab, for always disappearing into the woods without me, for always acting so strange when she was drunk. And yet I loved her not just because she was my mother, but because she cared for me unconditionally.

            I hated her when she accidentally rear ended a cop car at a stop light because she was too drunk to drive coherently. The cop was stopped at a red light, and my mother decided the light was green and tried to go. The light was still red, and the cop car was still stopped. The result was inevitable. We had to go to the police station, and my grandmother had to pick me up, while my mother stayed in a cell overnight. I hated her for arguing endlessly with the police woman who was just trying to do her job and explain why you can’t hit a cop car without getting in trouble. I hated her for trying to explain why the cop was at fault for not moving in time. I hated her for trying to refuse being taken in for driving while intoxicated. I hated her not coming home with me that night.

            And yet I loved her for watching over me even then. I loved her for having the first words out of her mouth after hitting the cop car be, “C. J. are you alright?” I loved her for trying to convince the cop not to scare me with the flashing lights and loud sirens. I loved her for having a cop stay with me in the waiting room until my grandmother came to pick me up. I loved her for being sorry for what she did, after sobering up. I loved her for watching over me even when she was in trouble.

            I hated her once for disappearing one night during a vacation to Cape Cod. I hated her for not being there when I woke up in the darkness, alone. I hated her for returning, drunk and limping. I hated her for falling off of the deck onto the beach because she was too drunk to maintain her balance. I hated her for holding onto the broken remains of the bottle even after she had fallen. I hated her for kicking me in my sleep afterwards while we shared the same bed. I hated her for making me move onto the ground with a blanket to sleep, just so I wouldn’t get kicked anymore.

            And yet I loved her for going outside so she wouldn’t drink in front of me. I loved her for worrying about me after she had fallen. I loved her for forcing herself to get back up after falling; forcing herself to come back inside to make sure I was okay, even though it was her that had fallen. I loved her for picking me up off the ground and putting me back on the bed after I had fallen asleep, while she moved to sleep in a chair. I loved her for watching over me even then.

            I hated her for dying. I hated her for leaving me alone in the world, with no mother to turn to. I hated her for going without letting me say goodbye. I hated her for not trying to quit drinking, before it was too late. I hated her for not caring enough to stay with me.

            I loved her for who she was. I loved her for the caring and devoted mother that she was. I loved her for watching over me from heaven, where she no longer hurts, or gets cravings, or needs to drink. I loved her even after she died and left this world. I love her still, because she will never leave me, not in my memories, or my heart.

Here's the rewritten version, unedited

Edited: 07/16/06

This is The Hammer,
I'm not in much of the story yet, but believe me, once I let loose, you'll know. They don't call me the Hammer for nothin'. Just wait until I bring the mosh. I don't need no fancy title from some organization out in the water. My moves speak for themself.

*Ahem*

Pigturducken. Pigturducken. Pigturducken. Wheeeee!

Just for all you wee people out there, I don't use nice language. I'm a filthy mouthed braggart, and I'm not going to change for some pansies that can't take a bit of harsh language. So if you're too much of a nancy for swear words, skip over me.

Hey fucker, remember me? Yea, it’s me, Captain Carasin. You’re first well thought out character. Where the fucking hell are you man! I’ve been sitting on your shelf for year! YEARS! Why haven’t you come by to talk? To share a cup of tea? I mean, am I that despicable? Granted I’m dead, but that doesn’t mean you can’t come by and visit every once and a while.

Or how about that nice plot overhaul you were planning on. Admit it, the story as it stands sucks right now, and it needs severe changes. How about a love interest? That would be nice. This sausage-fest of soldiers isn’t really doing it for me.

And while we’re at it, YOU KILLED ME! Why did you kill me! I could have been a good guy, I could have redeemed myself. But no…you had to have me devoured by a sandshark…A FUCKING SANDSHARK! You should be ashamed of yourself. Really. Shame on you.

And General Frinkton gets to live happily ever after, that’s bullshit. He was just lucky to get out alive. I should have flayed him when I had the chance. Or better yet, put him in my place so I could have lived ‘happily ever after’. That’s how Captains should live man, not being eaten out by a pancake with teeth.

I don’t think I want to talk to you anymore. You sicken me, bastard.

Hello? Am I doing this right? Man, I should have asked for help when I decided to do this... I am the great Pantano. I am also a character in The Final Faerie, which has yet to be finished I might add. *cough, cough. hint hint* I figure since Adara and Kamion had their chances to speak, I might as well add in my thoughts on the whole subject. I mean I do play a fairly prominant role in this story, do I not?

Hey C. J. It’s the Great Pantano here. I know we don’t speak often, and I know you don’t have a great opinion of me, but be merciful. I may not want to face my fears, but being on my way to face them for several months now is getting nerve wracking. Either let me go, or make me face them already! I can’t take the waiting anymore.

At this point I’ll gladly ask Missi out, if it means that you’ll release me from my midstride through the city to her house. Especially since my only company right now is Chartep. I mean he’s actually beginning to make sense to me, and that scares me. I don’t want Chartep to make sense, especially if all he speaks is gibberish. That means that I’m going crazy, and as the town’s physician I can’t afford to be crazy. If I was a town philosopher maybe, but I’m not that privileged.

So, if you ever get some free time, I would appreciate it if you did something about our respective situations. If you don’t I hear that Adara and Kamion are planning a rebellion, and I’d join willingly, and gladly. And I’m sure Chartep would have a few words to say about the matter as well. You may not understand anything he has to say, but he’ll definitely have something to say.

Oh, and I've been meaning to ask you, WHAT THE SNIT IS WITH CHANGING ME INTO A WOMAN ALL THE TIME!?!?!?! It's degrading, emberassing, and distracting. Does it really have to happen so often? I mean, can't I just change skin tones or something? Why do I have to have sex changes so often? It's not fair to me, or to the poor readers out there.

Hello I am Kamion, Adara's brother. Seeing as how we are the biggest players in C. J.'s mind at the moment I guess that I should put my two cents in here. My first cent is: Adara, you're a big pushover and threatening your creator is never a good way to make friends...bitch.

My second cent is a letter to C. J., the creator:

Hey C.J. It’s Kamion here. I know you’ve been ‘busy’ with schoolwork, and your ‘social life’ and all that. But it really would be nice to get some sort of progress done on us. I mean we’ve been stuck in the same positions for months now, and my muscles are starting to cramp up. I’m not going to order you around like my sister Adara, but you have to admit, that you do have time every once and a while to get to us. It doesn’t have to be much, just a little here or a little there, but it would be progress. If anything, at least finish the chapter so we can have a bit of resolution.

Besides, I want to know how the rest of the story is going to go. You never did tell me exactly what’s going to happen. I mean I have vague ideas of what’s going to happen, but not clear ones like you do. You do know what you’re doing, right? I mean, I wasn’t created by some childish hack that ran out of interest, was I? I don’t think I could live with that. I was under the presumption that you were a writer worthy of my character. Why else would I have come to you in your time of need. I shudder to think of what other character might have come by that would have taken my place. I am obviously the best choice for the role you have put me it, but it would help if you continued the role, so stuff could happen.

If you don’t I’ll work with Adara, as much as I hate to. I mean if Adara, Laré, Chartep and I go up against you, what chance do you have against us? I’m sure we could even get Pantano in on it, or possibly even Missi if we explain the situation right. Do you think you can handle that many of us? Try us buddy, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

Hello there, I am Adara, the Goddess from C. J.'s Novel The Final Faerie. Being the most fleshed out character to date I feel it is my duty and priviledge to christen this journal. To start off, a note to our illustrious writer and creator:

Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Shouldn’t you be working on your NaNo novel…from LAST YEAR! Come on! I mean, you know how you want the plot to go, why won’t you write it? Don’t you like us any more? Are you going to cast us to the side of the road, never to write us again? Our characters aren’t fully fleshed out; we’re mere wraiths at this point. I mean, I know you have feelings for Pantano, and Laré, and definitely Adara. I mean you based them off of great personalities. Are you going to leave them to die? I certainly hope not.

If you don’t get back to them soon, you might never get back to them, and then they’ll just fade away, never to be heard from again. They are too precious and interesting to just throw away out of laziness. I command you to work on them, even if it’s just one hour a week, I mean at this point any sense of progress would be nice. I mean you even started ideas on letting your characters speak for themselves in a journal, but how can they do that if they’re not complete yet! They're flat, stale, immaterial at this point. You need to deepen their characters, make them three-dimensional, believable.

I mean even Chartep has possibilities, if you only give him a chance. I remember when you started writing that story last year that you had grand plans for each and every character you wrote. Even the petty gaurds had purposes, or they would eventually. How can you murder so many innocent people. You gave them life, it’s your responsibility to keep them alive.

I mean how long have you been telling people that you’ve been working on a story of some sort or another? Since high school!!!! Come on!!! You have the ideas, every once and a while, you have the time. I’m giving you the motivation.

If you don’t do this soon, I’m going to haunt your dreams, and as many waking moments as I can get into until you’re overwhelmed with my presence. I won’t give up on this. Being one of your characters, my existence is in jeopardy as well. If I die, this story will die as well. And I refuse to let that happen. You will listen to me! Do you hear me! WRITE OUR NOVEL GOD DAMNIT!!!!!!! If you don’t I’m also going to get Chartep, and have him go after you, and you know you don’t want that.