This is what I think when I’m stuck in Friday 4:30 p.m. LA rush hour traffic:
The Denver, Colorado to/from Santa Ana, California flight route (preferably on Southwest, potentially on Frontier) is as familiar to me as my weekly drive to the grocery store. Since 2006, how many times have I trekked that portion of the sky? At least a few times a year since I was fourteen. And I always say that’s when my memory kicked in, that’s when I fee like my (independent) life began. I don’t remember much before fourteen, remember close to nothing before ten. So, for me, the SNA–>DEN/DEN –>SNA flight is a more normalized of an event than paying rent.
And last Monday, I flew from Denver to Orange County for the last time. And a week from yesterday, I’ll make my final trip from Orange County to Denver. (Okay. Not necessarily for forever, but potentially. I don’t intend to live in Orange County longterm again, nor do I anticipate any returns to Colorado in the immediate future.)
In May, I’ll leave Colorado via the I-25.
This is weird. The idea of Colorado Springs not being my home, or a home, or the place I’ll return to within the next four months, is weird.
The last place I’d want to be during an earthquake is on a under-construction crumbling bridge in Los Angeles that sits above a dried-up concrete river of a reservoir waiting for a rusty Amtrak train to pass. Naturally the only way to distract myself from the horror of sitting on said bridge in said situation is to take a photo of another bridge.
In similar news…
Last week I asked my mom if it’d be crazy of me to stay home through next autumn so I could experience the season’s potential fires. She confirmed my suspensions by saying yes and I agreed that, yeah, that’d be silly, and that was that, and so now it seems the most likely place where one will be able to find me in September is Washington state.
This possibility makes me happy.
And though seeking out a career, an office job, a something-something seems to be what is expected of me, I rather work a night job on my feet. I rather serve food or drinks for a year or two or three. Is this throwing away my degree? The last three years? No. I didn’t go to college for a career. I went for my education, my growth, myself. Me. Not you or him or her or them. And right now, I need to do what’s best for me.
This is what I know:
I’m far less inclined to write-write after a day of sitting in a chair and blinking at another computer screen. I can produce incredible copy, edit material until it shines, master graphic design, rock whatever industry, and I have the resume to prove it.. But that’s not where I want to put my energy right now. I’m happiest when I’m deep in fiction. When I’m writing or revising the work I write for me. And, from experience, I recognize that I’m more productive in that arena when I’m not expending that part of my brain for other forms of writing.
Does that mean I’m resistant to a desk job forever? Absolutely not.
It’s what feels right right now. That’s all.
If high emotions manifest more potent memories does that mean emotional people have better memories than those more prone to apathy?
Just wondering. Really.
Last week, when I was sprinting towards my Wednesday thesis deadline, I realized a critical aspect of the plot no longer fits. It feels wrong, forced, but I couldn’t figure out why. I went on walks. I cried in bed. I drank too much coffee. And then, yesterday, I collapsed on my parents’ living room carpeting and it hit me that, in this rewrite, my characters (and their relationship) have evolved so dramatically that the action that I once thought was the crux is no longer true to their nature or their story. It wouldn’t happen. Not like that.
Which means I have to go back and critically revise what I just rewrote and that, really, the only similarities of this book and the book of last summer is that there is a wildfire.
A fact that is horrifying as it is exciting.
I should stop taking photos while driving.
Spring Break is refreshing. California (90F degrees in March!) is not.