The End

"...not with a bang but a whimper."

It is not without a touch of emotion that I at last arrive at the final day of this blog. But I'm ready. There is little to be said by way of a conclusion that has not already been said several times over. I was not very consistent. But I learned a thing or two about myself as a writer along the way.

A new blog will be starting soon. It is called Centaur and there's nothing on it now but there will be something on it soon. Not tomorrow (our originally planned start date has been postponed); but soon.

I could drag this out a bit longer, reminisce, pontificate, but it would only be delaying the inevitable. This blog has officially served its purpose. I'm ready to say goodbye.

Au revoir.

Post-twenty-five blogging prospects

It's probably not such a wise idea that I (nearly) always reserve my blogging duties as my final activity of the day. Late in the evening, as I'm preparing to go to bed, my mood is pretty much always the same--tired--and this is almost unwaveringly expressed in the tone of my writing. My writing also just isn't quite as good when my body and mind are totally worn out and ready for sleep.

Happily, the lingering question of whether I will continue to blog after I turn twenty-six is now ready to be answered: Yes, I will continue to blog. But, no, it won't be every day. This blog and the daily discipline of adding something to it have been immensely helpful and I feel as though I've grown and learned quite a bit from the experience. But I'm ready to graduate.

This new blog, scheduled to launch--unintentionally but quite fittingly--on my twenty-sixth birthday, will be a collaborative effort between me and my dear, talented, imaginative, brilliant friend Ashley. Together, we will focus on separate but related weekly assignments, our goal being to post updates every weekend. Perhaps I've already given too much away, but I'm really looking forward to taking some of the unpredictability out of my daily writing and allowing myself the time to plan, reconsider, and revise. And, of course, I'm excited to be working alongside Ashley to receive even greater motivation and inspiration. Alright: I had better not say anything else about it for now. More information will be coming your way soon.

Un-twenty-five-ication

With only two weeks left until my twenty-sixth birthday, I find myself considering, with increasing anxiety, what direction my public writing will take in the near future. Though I feel that the process of being twenty-five and blogging about it has matured me in several ways, evidence abounds that I still have a long way to go.

"Any poet, if he is to survive beyond his 25th year, must alter; he must seek new literary influences; he will have different emotions to express."
--T. S. Eliot

My twenty-fifth year, in case you haven't noticed, has been largely characterized by spontaneity: a road trip through California, working for UPS, two months in France, and, most recently, my application to the Master of Divinity program and Fuller Theological Seminary. Perhaps the mold and mission of my next blog (for, having kept a blog for the last four years, it is difficult to imagine divorcing myself entirely from the practice), in keeping with the rest of my big decisions of the year, will have to wait until the last minute.

Reflecting on the Experience Thusfar

Writing essays for graduate school admission was tough. But it was kind of great. It stretched me. I couldn't just write anything I felt like (...ahem...like I do for this blog...); I had to write something good.

It was the first time in a long time that my writing had to follow any sort of assignment. The prompts were exceptionally challenging to properly address within the allotted word count. Initially I approached the task a similar way as I approach most blog entries: just sort of choose an idea and run with it, freestyle. But I quickly became aware that this method would not be sufficient if I was going to produce anything suitable for submission to the office of admissions. If I wanted two eloquent essays that faithfully encapsulated my personality and my scholastic aptitude, I was going to have to work for them. I would have to labor over the theme and the structure, and I would have to make multiple drafts. It was mentally exhausting work, but it felt excellent to be doing it.

I'm ready to be a student again. Though I've learned a lot in my experiences since completing my undergraduate studies and would not trade them for anything, I think that much of what I've been up to in the last four-and-a-half years has distracted me from the vocation that I have long perceived to be intrinsic to my identity: academics.

Even if I don't get accepted, this experience will not be a loss.

My Day of Writing Essays

As it turns out, a good night's rest, a well-balanced breakfast, prayer, and little bit of yoga was exactly what I needed to get me into essay-writing mode this morning. With the day off from work and the whole house to myself, I utilized the time to the fullest, stopping only for a tiny lunch (I didn't want digestion to interfere with cognition) and to occasionally pace back and forth, attempting to work through my thoughts orally before transcribing them to paper.

Okay, in all honesty, I was not quite that dedicated. It's amazing how, in a time crunch, activities that normally slip under my radar--things like peeling dead skin off of my sunburned legs or finally getting around to figuring out how to use Twitter--suddenly seem to be of the most urgent importance. But nevertheless, with perseverance and the help of a very smart friend who knows me well and is good at proofreading papers, I completed my application and submitted it, two days before the deadline.

Now all I have to do is wait for the wonderful people who have agreed to serve as references for me to submit their online recommendations.

Though I was happy with the way that both of the essays came together, I was especially pleased with the form in which my thoughts found expression in the first essay. I'm happy to share it below:

Traveling—my experiences living, working, serving, and visiting abroad—has had a profound influence on shaping my spiritual life. It is impossible to imagine what my relationship with God would look like today if I had never gone on a short-term missions trip to Kenya, studied abroad in England, or taught English for two years in Japan. My experiences overseas, varied and uniquely meaningful as they may be, have corporately pointed me toward the awareness that God is present and at work in every culture and corner of the world. They have alerted me repeatedly to the fact that God is beyond the limits of my personal worldview, which, incidentally, has been expanded greatly on account of all that I have witnessed and participated in in other countries.

Of all the people I have met, the one who impressed me as best exemplifying the teachings of Jesus was a Muslim woman living in a Nairobi slum. Her cramped little house, smaller than my own bedroom back in the U.S., was home not only to her and her two children, but also to five orphans, unrelated to her, whom she had taken it upon herself to provide for. Though this woman had almost nothing, she gave freely, joyfully, and without fear to those in greater need than she. The impact of her example made Christ’s words in Matthew 25:35-40, “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat…” more relevant to me than ever before. This encounter continues to influence me in my job, in my volunteer activities, and in my relationships, as I am reminded to choose love rather than fear and generosity before self-interest.

While living in Japan, I was blessed with a situation that led me to a deeper love and appreciation for the Church. Though I mostly grew up going to church, I later became disheartened by the constantly conflicting personalities and opinions in my congregation. I felt compelled to participate in church leadership, but my frustration at fellow members for not sharing my passions and perspectives often drove me away from attending church for a month or longer. In Japan, however, without the close presence of a supportive group of fellow believers, I became aware of just how vital community is to Christian life. I began to attend a small Japanese church and, despite linguistic barriers, was comforted by the communion of saints who, like me, loved Jesus and were trying to discern what it means to live as a Christian. Now that I am back in the U.S., I have a renewed sense of purpose and gratitude for attending my church. The former frustrations still arise, but I know that our love and togetherness will always be, in the words of Thomas Merton, “the resetting of a Body of broken bones.” With confidence that God’s grace is sufficient for all situations, I am grateful to bring my creativity and the unique worldview my experiences have given me into my role of service within that Body.

One Last Hurdle

Writing essays for admission to graduate studies is, like, really hard.

The prompts that they've given are unfathomably complicated to break apart. I've been spending the evening grasping madly for a way to structure my responses tidily into the demanded length of 250 to 500 words each. I'm beginning to doubt whether it's possible.

No doubt, fatigue is rendering the task even more seemingly insurmountable. Though I feel the pressure of a looming deadline, perhaps my best option is to get some rest and hope that I will wake refreshed, inspired, and ready to pound out two stellar personal statements.

Life After Twenty-Five?

In a few short weeks, both this blog and my twenty-fifth year of life will simultaneously meet their conclusions. It is with mixed regret and relief that I consider my scheduled abandonment of this little writing project I have kept to with varied levels of dedication. Though I am indebted to this blog in the structure it has provided, encouraging me to establish a routine of writing on a daily basis, I am exhausted by the lack of continuity from one post to the next. The discipline of daily writing has, I believe, enabled me to grow somewhat as a writer; however, the limitations of the medium inhibit continued substantial artistic development. Though I do have concerns about decreased accountability, I am looking forward to drawing away from the ever-scrutinizing eye of the invisible public and doing more of my writing in private. I anticipate that, without the demand of creating some coherent, cohesive, well-packaged article every evening that is at least somewhat suitable for publication, I will be free to dedicate myself to longer-term projects. Stuff that will stretch me and help me to grow. Stuff that--who knows?--I might be able to sell or at least get published on a blog of which I am not the sole manager.

How are you doing?

Nearly every evening, when I sit down in front of my computer to compose a new blog entry, I feel momentarily terrified of that blinking cursor dancing lonely on a blank white box. But it is a sensation that quickly passes; I type a sentence and, just like that, the hardest part is over. This is not to say that the sentences that follow flow effortlessly, but the terror of nothingness has been replaced, at least, by something. And that something, whatever it is, is almost always better than nothing.

Today, a man at church asked me how I am doing these days. My mind went to my job and the state of dissatisfied sadness I've generally found myself in lately, and, in that regard, the "All right," I responded with sounded optimistic. But, upon further reflection, I remembered the CouchSurfer from England who had just been staying with us and the two girls from Montréal who will be coming next week. I remembered that, though I earn a pittance at my job and live with my parents, I get to do the two things that bring me the most fulfillment--writing and cooking--every day and that I have the freedom to partake of simple pleasures--going to the zoo or just relaxing and reading--on my days off. And, taking all these factors into account, I quickly amended my reply. "I'm actually doing really well," I told him, "Yeah. Really well."

Words of Encourragement

An eventful day. I went kayaking on the bay with Chris, a current CouchSurfer from England, and, on the way back home, was involved in a little scrape between my dad's Jeep, which I had borrowed to transport the kayaks, and another car. It was my fault.

But tomorrow morning I am scheduled to offer some Words of Encouragement during the church service, and, having thought of a topic which I can hopefully wedge into my alloted time of "under three minutes," I'm going to have a go at organizing these thoughts in writing.

It begins with a story:

When I was in the ninth grade I was not a good student. I got mostly C's, and I was pretty much okay with that. I had always been a "C" student and rather apathetically assumed that I would always be a "C" student. In my mind, trying hard in school just wasn't part of who I was or who I identified myself to be.

In the ninth grade, I was sure my English teacher hated me; and, even now, looking back, I don't think I was too off the mark. She often made it very clear that she was disappointed with me and my lack of consistency in completing my homework. But one day, after class, she pulled me aside and said, "I was talking to Mrs. Anderson today"--Mrs. Anderson was my History teacher, whom I was also convinced hated me--"and we both agreed, 'That Meghan Janssen sure knows how to write an essay.'"

It was a simple comment, made by a teacher whose projected dislike of me I certainly reciprocated. But it changed everything. If I was really good at writing essays, then I was going to be good at writing essays. After that, my grades began to make a drastic turn-around. I had always liked to read, but now my favorite school subject was English. In college, I studied English, and, after graduation, I went to teach English in Japan.

What my ninth-grade English teacher did for me is something we all have the capacity to do for one another. Each of us has the ability to affirm and positively influence those around us by speaking words of truth and encouragement into their lives. Because when someone genuinely affirms you--when they really listen to you and are willing to extend themselves in order to show you something about yourself that is good and special and unique--it doesn't just make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It also implicitly calls out a responsibility for you to be a good steward with what you have been given.

We have been called the beloved of God. God affirms this love in so many ways. And if we truly believe that--that we are absolutely loved, not in spite of who we are but really as we are, then, sure, that makes us feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy inside, but it also calls out a great responsibility. A responsibility to live, not as what we previously apathetically assumed ourselves to be, but to live as the beloved of God.

Writer for Hire (?)

Nothing makes me happier than food. Few activities bring me more satisfaction than an hour or two spent in the kitchen, preparing something good to eat. And yet, the idea of cooking on a professional level strikes me a wholly unappealing. I fully suspect that, were I do do it for money rather than sheer pleasure and for strangers rather than friends, family, and myself, the joy I now receive from preparing meals and other tasty treats would rapidly be snatched away. It pertains largely to the removal of the element of independence; I don't want customers telling me what to cook.

I feel a similar way about writing. I've been very resistant to the idea of pandering out my writing skills for cash, taking orders from a boss or client who needs some text on a subject that may or may not be at all interesting. I worry that, were I to spend a significant part of the day writing something that someone else wants me to write, I would have no energy left to spend on writing something I want to write. But desperate times call for desperate measures. As it turns out, a part-time job earning minimum wage is not sufficient to pay the bills. I've had to all but forget about moving out of my parents' place any time soon. So I've created a profile on Elance.com, a website where a friend of mine has formerly been able to find freelance writing jobs. I'm not absolutely confident I'll be able to secure clients there, but, if I do, I'll be more than grateful for the opportunity to supplement my pathetically minuscule bookseller income. In the meantime, I've added the "food / bev / hosp" category to the types of job listings I regularly check on craigslist. As I said, desperate times.

Shakespeare Spirit

This week and last I attended two separate productions for the 2011 Shakespeare Festival at the Old Globe in Balboa Park. Last Wednesday was The Tempest; tonight, Much Ado About Nothing.

Watching a Shakespeare production, especially one as well-acted and well-directed as the one I had the pleasure of viewing this evening, I am overcome by the giddy sensation that language is imbued with unbridled possibilities. Though, for my own purposes, I often find language a bit cumbersome, struggling for the right words in conversation and constantly consulting a dictionary while I'm writing to ensure that I'm using terms correctly and that no undesirable connotations are riding piggyback in with them, Shakespeare harnesses, manipulates, and invents words, stringing them together in such ways as no other person ever has. I am so in awe that I come home and pull out my own copy of Shakespeare's complete works. I heave the hefty tome open on my lap and skim through the text of Much Ado About Nothing, slowing down when I get to my favorite parts. I want to find one good line or two that exemplify Shakespeare's genius, but, to my slight disappointment as much as to my utter delight, I cannot chose just two. Because they are all good.

Writing About Writing About Nothing

It's one of those days. Where there really is nothing--nothing--for me to write about. So I convince myself that browsing blogs constitutes as research and that a bowl of Almond Dream Non-Dairy Frozen Dessert with almond butter and chocolate chips constitutes inspiration. But still, nada. Woe is me.

I'm currently reading Nicole Krauss' most recent novel, Great House. She spends a lot of time, especially in the first chapter, depicting the writer's creative process and the dreaded experience of writer's block. Though I find some commiserative comfort in the neuroses of the character Nadia, an anti-social novelist who is suddenly overcome with inexplicable fits of anxiety whenever she thinks of her work, Krauss' narrative also alerts me to how horribly self-absorbed and utterly useless my lamentations over my lack of inspiration must sound: "Wah, wah, wah. I can't think of anything good to write about, so I'm just going to write about not being able to think of anything to write about."

Um. Sorry about that.

I'm getting worse and worse at coming up with titles

There's a realization that's been growing in me lately. A ripening awareness that the thing I've always known I wanted to do, the thing I keep siphoning of into some immaterial ideal for my future life, the one thing I know I would regret not having done more of were I to die tomorrow...well, I should probably just haul off and start doing it.

I'm speaking, of course, about writing.

It has to go beyond this blog. This blog--when I've been disciplined enough to keep up with it--has served its role well. But it's like going to the gym every day and always only doing the same exercises. The muscles don't atrophy; but they don't get stronger, either. I want my writing to start on some heavy lifting. I want it to get into marathon shape. And I don't mean some day when I have more time or when I've got my metaphysical shit together. I mean, like, now.

This is France in a Nutshell: "Ai! 'elp me! I'm een a nutshell!"

In mid-December 2006, after the conclusion of Michaelmas term but before I returned home to the U.S. from my semester abroad in Oxford, I went for an evening stroll in Port Meadow. Bundled up against the crisp night air, I walked through the dark field, gazing up at the starts, and I knew deep down inside, beyond a doubt, that this was the best life was ever going to be.

My two months in France were better.

Tonight I leafed through the journal I kept while I was traveling. Inhibited by an erratic schedule and my own pure laziness, I didn't write about my experiences as regularly as I would have liked; but, occasionally, I did take the time to jot down at least a few thoughts on the beautiful, marvelous, challenging, humorous, life-changing experiences I was going through.

Since I was unable to be faithful to this blog during most of my time in France, I'd like to share a few key passages from my journal, just to fill you in a bit on my activities and impressions from the months of April and May:

26 mars 2011
...Deciding to stay in Paris for three weeks was a really good decision. It's basically the world capital of art, literature, and philosophy, and attempting to take it all in while staying in a hotel or hostel for a week or less would be exhausting and incomplete...

12 avril 2011
...Time's winding down so quickly. On the metro I read A Moveable Feast and when I get off the metro I find myself thinking the way Hemingway writes, only less clean and far less gripping. The other day, as I was walking along, I started imagining that Hemingway was walking beside me and we were talking and he was telling me I only need to write one true sentence, but he was talking more about life in general than about writing when he said this...

17 abril
Time to start thinking in Spanish...
...I'm very satisfied with my time in Paris. It was more expensive than I ever would have anticipated. But Paris is worth it. Paris will always be worth it. Even though it's expensive. Even though it's touristy. It's still Paris...

4 mai 2011
...Since returning to France after the stint in Spain, it seems I love each place I visit even more than the place before. Arles was amazing, but I liked Avignon even better. And Vaison la Romaine pretty much sealed the deal today on an inkling I've been having this week that I ought to come back here in a few years with my kids. I almost want to have kids so that I can bring them here...

9 mai 2011
...I really like milking the goats. That's something I look forward to. That and eating. Eating! It is an event! As it should be! I love eating in France...

17 mai 2011
...At Taizé, I'm able to slow down a bit and do some thinking. But it seems I have too much to think about. There's my education. My relationships. What I have experienced on this trip and how does/will it contribute to my decision-making process for my future. Should I extend the length of my trip? No. I think not. But maybe...

20 mai 2011
...As I was walking down to the Source just now, I had the thought that prayer and art are an awful lot alike. Both require so much work, but the rewards, when they come, are sublime. Because truly nothing in this life compares to the goodness of that moment when I feel the closeness of the Spirit, I will continue to search and to wait. How do we grow? We force ourselves to look past the unpleasantness of the current situation, to focus on the loveliness of the thing we are working for. And yet, when we get it, it is a gift. The closeness of the Spirit, the awareness of God's love, when it comes, is so much greater than anything we could ever get to by our own efforts. Great authors and painters have made similar observations about their work: you spend time with your work every day and often it is frustrating and essentially fruitless. But when the masterpiece at last reveals itself, it is something beyond you. It is a gift. It is grace...

May 24
Aboard the plane, awaiting take-off. Two months in France sounded like it might be too long; but, now that it's over, I know I could have stayed longer...

And that, in a nutshell, is what two months in France looks like.

A Brief Personal History of Journaling

I was ten years old when I started keeping a diary. Back then, the sentences I scrawled in pink ink and unpracticed cursive attempted to mimic the corny vernacular patterns of the boy-crazing young girls I'd seen portrayed in teen dramas and sitcoms (à la Clarissa Explains It All). Keeping a diary coalesced naturally with wearing high-heeled jelly sandals and hair scrunchies and founding a babysitters' club with my friends; they all served to establish and reinforce a certain image that I aspired to: the shining ideal of the well rounded, positive minded, fashion savvy preteen.

Over time, the person composing the entries in my diary began to sound less and less like a Judy Bloom character; still, it was several years before my writing began to take on a voice of its own. On through high school, the pages of my journal remain filled exclusively with my gushings and pinings over boys who liked me or didn't like me; however, no matter how stupid the subject matter, the style evidences definite improvement.

This blog is kind of like that. No, I don't discuss boys or experiment too wildly beyond my established writing style (I save both those things for my private journal!); but I do write a lot of crap. Stuff I don't necessarily feel proud of. But that's okay. Through this process, my approach to journaling and writing in general continues to evolve, and I'm learning.

Inspiration/Motivation

Four years ago at this time, when I was smack-dab right in the middle of a mission to write an entire novel in just 30 days, I established a set of "rituals" to help guide me along and keep me focused. One of these rituals was a specific dress code: whenever it was time to write, I would change into a bright red whale-print sarong and a tank-top without a bra (for obvious reasons). It was an extremely practical costume, considering I lived on the second floor of a two-story apartment building and it was the middle of summer in east L.A. county. But it also helped to get me into the mindset that it was now writing time, a time set apart from all the other times of the day when I might be found wearing something a little more--um--fashionable?

A second ritual manifested itself in the form of the food I ate. Perhaps I have been too swayed by the marketing claim on the Old Spaghetti Factory's menu that Homer, while composing the Iliad, lived on Spaghetti with Mazithra Cheese and Browned Butter; but, I swear, it is the most inspirational/motivational dish I know. And I devoured it almost daily throughout my one-month journey to novelisthood.

I also sort of took up smoking. But that's a story for another day.

For lunch today I had a nice big bowl of pasta, topped with shredded myzithra cheese, melted butter, and a sprinkling of dried parsley flakes. Did it inspire me to sit down and write? I don't know. But I'm writing now, aren't I?

Rituals help us to keep our lives in check. They keep us organized. They give us direction and motivate us to complete tasks that we might otherwise have a difficult time finding the motivation to complete. When I started this blog, with the earnest intention to make updating it a daily practice, I didn't establish any rituals to help me toward my goal. That was a mistake. As I leaned in my eighth-grade Study class--a course that I and all the other Seminar Program kids with ADD were forced to take that year if we wanted to remain in GATE (Gifted And Talented Education)--I need rituals in order to accomplish my goals. Without rituals, I get distracted. And fail.

So, obviously, I haven't been updating my blog on a daily basis. While I was in France I had an awfully good excuse, because I didn't have my computer with me and I spent large chunks of time--especially toward the end--away from Internet access altogether. I wasn't going to pass up the chance to work on a goat farm in rural France or to stay in a monastery with monks and young people from all over the world just so that I could remain somewhat dedicated to my cyber-duties! But that still doesn't account for all the other times in the past nine-and-a-half months that I've gone for days or even weeks without so much as a photo or a recipe.

Concerning the mission I had for this blog when I started out, I've already failed. But that doesn't mean that I can't make the last eleven weeks of this little blog's life the best ones it's ever known!

So...a ritual. Here's what I've got in mind:

There are seventy-eight days left until my twenty-sixth birthday. Seventy-eight more days of twenty-five. Just now, right before I started this sentence, I took a very brief break and ran up to the attic to find a big glass jar. It is now sitting on my dresser, empty. Every day, after I have written something on my blog, I will drop a (can you tell I'm making this up as I go?) button...no!...a dollar! in the jar. If, on September 4th, I have at least $75 in the jar, I will use the money to buy something beautiful. If, however, I have less than $75 in the jar, I will write a check for $75 to Sarah Palin's Political Action Committee (do you see a slight Radio Lab influence creeping in here?). My parents would definitely disown me. I'm dead serious. It's on.

However, since this ritual is really more of a psychological device designed to deter me from laziness, I'm adding one extra piece of positive reinforcement: Whenever I'm writing something for my blog, I also get to have some ice cream. Starting now!

9,999 hours to go...

"In the face of frustration, your best tool is a few deep breaths, and remembering that you can do anything once you've practiced two hundred times. Seriously."
--from page 1 of The Daring Book For Girls

When I read it a week ago, this quote was a healthy reminder of a concept that I've encountered elsewhere before: that progress is the product of repitition. And though practice--in my experience--doesn't usually make perfect, practice almost always does make passably decent.

I listen regularly to the podcast published by WNYC's RadioLab. It's pretty entertaining and consistently fascinating stuff. On the 07/26/10 short episode, "Secrets of Success," one of the show's hosts interviews Malcolm Gladwell, who discusses the idea that in order to be good at something, you must practice at least 10,000 hours. According to Gladwell, geniuses, from Bill Gates to Mozart to Wayne Gretzky, are not so much people who have been endowed by fortune with superlative skills or talents, as they are people who possess "an extraordinary love for a particular thing." Because of their love for whatever it is they do, they are so consumed by it that they only can devote themselves and their time fully to it.

Today was the first day (of, I'm sure, many to come) that I considered not updating this blog. I just didn't have anything interesting to write, and I couldn't think of any good stories from my past to transcribe, either. I wanted to just let it slide, shrug it off as one day lost, and get back to finishing season one of Heroes.

But I couldn't.

Remaining faithful to this 365-day blogging program is not just about integrity or proving a point. I'm really trying to improve myself here. And I don't honestly think that, if I spend 10,000 hours writing, I'll be able to write the Great American Novel; but I do believe that I'll be a better writer.