Typewriter.

What did I want to be when I grew up?

A Typewriter.

That was my response. It often garnered a good laugh amongst the adults, though I didn't laugh. I meant what I said and I said what I meant, only at the time, I hadn't yet developed a sense of what it meant to be a writer, let alone the specific career choice to be an author, and that a typewriter was only one of many tools a writer used to do what their title suggested: Write.

The clanking, arrogant ego of my mother's typewriter filled the entire house whenever she pulled it out and put it to use. Click after click after click, somewhat harmonious and somewhat random, I could hear those beats in jagged rhythm. She worked for an airline insurance company at the time, and her meaty fingers would pound down on the keys so hard that I used to wonder how the machine didn't just give up and shatter. Just take a hammer and hit a vehicle; the sounds would resemble each other.

It was a strong machine, built as metal upon metal, none of this plastic stuff fabricating today's everything. It was a mechanical monster, and whatever you fed it, the thing would regurgitate dutifully. I remember playing around with it, loving the way the wet ink appeared on the paper like a stamp for each letter, the way my ethereal nonsense became physical, that ringing bell whenever you slid the shaft back.

I just wanted to create something. That desire never left me. In Junior High I created the rough map of a place I've never seen. There were mountains and rivers and an ocean, and there were entire territories tapered off for the varying peoples of my own conceived island. I knew next to nothing of how it would grow, but by High School I created a couple hundred pages detailing specific people and history. I was a simpleton, and so the story was simple... The south was sovereign, the east was at peace, the west had been destroyed somehow, and the north was simply uncharted. I kept the draft of that story for no particular reason at all other than I wanted to help it grow someday.

In college I chose to focus on psychology. My original goal--if I even had one--was to go into psychiatry. Throughout the years, I took the necessary courses--biopsychology, psychopharmacology, behavioral and abnormal psychology--before I realized it wasn't correct... though I enjoyed the information, I had no passion for it at all. I took various courses detailing human sexuality--biology of human sexuality, psychology of human sexuality, philosophy of sex and love, the psychology of human intimate relationships--and by then I desired to become a sex therapist. But no matter what I decided to do, no matter which path I found myself on, the one constant was writing.

I spent a lot of time in the campus library reading through their available books. I did this during breaks, during lunch, during the time I showed up early, during the nights when I stayed late... I read, and read, and read. And then I took various English courses--introduction to creative writing, horror literature, fantasy literature, science fiction literature (and I would have taken detective and romance literature had I the time and money)--and after a while I began writing new material again. I finished about ten short stories, various unfinished works of zero merit, three or four half-finished full-length novels, and a blog story that some friends got a kick out of called Pandemonium.

Over the years, my desire to write became the source of confused discussion:

The general surrounding population would say something along the lines of, "Why didn't you major in English if you wanted to be a writer?"

And my colleagues in the realm of psychology would show signs of surprise, saying, "You're a psychology major? I always thought you were some crazy writer or something. I was in that writing class with you! Remember me?"

To be honest, I didn't have a direct answer for any of them. I simply told the former that it wasn't my original plan. I also told the latter that it wasn't my original plan. Truth is, my original plan seriously was to become a psychiatrist, and once I realized too late that psychiatry was definitely not a path I wished to continue, I was sort of lost--and I'm still sort of drifting, to be absolutely blunt. If there comes a day when I muster up enough money, perhaps I'll spend it on attending another University where I'll continue on my path to become a sex therapist. 

And do I regret not majoring in English? Or do I regret focusing on Psychology? No, absolutely not. If anything, I hope the path I've taken thus far will help steer my writing in a separate direction, to increase salience in my work--hopefully in a good way.

Bottom Line: There's been progress.

A couple of years ago I earnestly decided that a writer should do just that, and write. I could talk about writing, I could join several reading/writing groups, I could produce business cards and make a website... but the most important thing to do is take action and produce something tangible. So I read through some of my old creations and decided to use what I've learned throughout the years to beef the draft up, train it and let it grow. It's been an egregious task, but it's also something that can't be taken away; it's not a job to be laid off from or fired, and it's definitely not a job I can quit--not that I would even if I could. Like attaining an institutionalized degree from academia, it's on record for however long my record survives.

The genesis of this beast began a little over two years ago. Since then I began a story from scratch, a prequel to the original, and it grew to over four-hundred pages in length. It's the most I've written under one title thus far, and I don't know if it'll become more than it is now or if it'll flop completely, but as of March of 2014, it became whole. It's currently in its final stages, and I'm learning how rewarding it is to edit something of my own conception. It's a strange thing. It's my first, and I love it.

So, it's 4/28/2014, and as of right now, I have something to be proud of, even though it's currently a secret. The academic degree I've earned a few years ago... it was something, sure, but so many people have one so closely identical to it that, though I definitely felt I'd earned it, I never really felt much love towards it--and I know, I've received much grief over my opinion, and I do understand how important the accomplishment is... but in comparison, I'm finding that this four-hundred page body of work, even in its unpublished state is much more of a reward. It has yet to provide any sort of monetary value, and it has taken quite a chunk of time to create, but unlike the B.A., it's something that wasn't entirely expected. There were no professors asking for a certain amount of pages, there were no managers or trainers telling me to continue when I felt like stopping, and there may never be any physical reward, yet that is why I hold such value to it.

The fact of the matter is, I've built something of my own. In it, I see many of the people I've met, and the places I've visited. I can see the ups and downs that show in the work.  Soon it shall be finished, and there's quite literally nothing else like this particular sense of accomplishment, wonder, anticipation, and awe. 

Finally.

Eyelashes

It's time to talk about eyelashes.

Since I was a child, eyelashes would constantly get into my eyes. These would be my own eyelashes, not somebody else's, though it has happened once or twice. In any case, my eyelashes have always found a way to disturb my daily activity, be it work, or play. They also find a way to disturb my sleep.

This particular scenario happens about a couple times a week. I'll be sleeping, dreaming, doing whatever it is that I do in my dreams, when suddenly I wake up to a sharp, erratic pain. I open my eyes to the darkness when my lids force shut of their own volition. I have to consciously will them to stay open when this happens.

In the darkness, I climb out of bed and make my way to the restroom, my eye burning, watering, my nose filling with liquid, stumbling, stubbing my toes, until finally I reach that which I've sought. I turn on the light, and upon the initial brightness to which I have not yet had time to adjust, my eyes shut.

The attacked eye stings, for the eyelash is somewhere upon my lid, and each time the lid closes, the lash stabs directly into the area of my pupil, causing strict consequence. The problem here is that the eyelid shuts automatically to protect the eye, but what attacks the eye is within the lid itself, so my own protective mechanism dooms me.

By this time, I am trying to adjust to the light, and, as I am standing barefoot upon the cold restroom tile, I now have to urinate. So I let my bladder loose, daring not touch my eye, trying to keep it open. The pain doesn't dissipate, only remains stern. I finish, flush the toilet, and wash my hands thoroughly--certainly, my finger will soon be rubbing my eye and I do wish for cleanliness.

I dry my hands and look in the mirror. Half-adjusted to the light, I see my open eye, red and watering... I can visually see the itch that my senses absorb. I search for the eyelid using both the unharmed eye and the attacked eye. When my eye seeks, it moves, and when it moves, the lash indicates its location by scratching my eye. I see it, half stabbing, half hanging upon the edge of my lid. I reach up, careful not to let my short fingernail touch my eye.

I sort of scratch, sort of flick at my eyelid with one finger while my other hand holds it open. By this time I'm breathing through my mouth because my nose is full of mucus. I flick the lash until it falls... directly into the center of my eye, to which my eyelids shut and the pain extends into a dark flashing of green orbs, shaped like that which I was previously observing. I reach for a tissue, blow my nose, wash my hands again, my eyes still closed. I force them open while I dry my hands. I try again, this time the lash is in the white of my eye. The pain fades as I poke the white, hoping the lash sticks to my finger.

Eventually, it does.

I go to lay down, but after that mess, I am no longer tired.