I am particularly practiced at pushing aside stress. Well, it's less pushing it aside than it is shoving it in a box with all the other stress and anxiety I have, taping up that box, and compressing it into as small a thing as possible. Damn, is it dense, with how packed that little box is. All that stress sits right between my ribs. I call it The Void.
For the most part, I can ignore The Void until a more appropriate time. Meaning that, in the moment, that terrible thing will be put away until I have time to unpack it and deal with it. Put it in the box, figure out how to handle it later when I have the time, or a clearer head, or am not in public, whatever. The problem is, when I finally get around to opening The Void, it's sort of a Pandora's box situation. I am not able to take out only one thing to analyze at a time. Everything sort of...spills out. And when that box is overpacked, I usually don't have a say in when it's open because it will just explode. What a mess that is.
This week was a lot, for a lot of reasons, but chiefly among them are the increased hours at work, a busier personal life, and missing my family. The perfect storm for The Void to grow large enough for me to lose that control I practice so hard to maintain. And guess what happened? The box opened. Exploded. It made a mess, and not at an optimal time.
Thursday at work, I had a panic attack. It was of the lowkey, quiet variety where customers (or coworkers) wouldn't notice, but it was a bad one. Really bad. The thing is, I've been lucky. I haven't had many panic attacks at work (four, maybe?). Mostly, my bad days at work are ones where my anxiety is on constant high alert. My base line of anxiety and stress is MEGA HIGH but an inch below panic, so I tolerate it. I deal. The last panic attack I had was way back during the holiday season, where the store I work at was so busy, crowded, and hot that I couldn't calm myself down. I think I finally was able to work my way out of a panic back in December when it happened because I was sent to work in a cold part of the store in the back where I freaked out for a little and then it was over. Thank god.
So what happened Thursday? What triggered this panic attack after working for so long without the interruption? The Void. I was tired. The store was busy. I was mildly overheated. Add all this together, and I got flustered and suddenly it felt like there was something wrapped tight around my neck and I couldn't breath and HELLO PANIC ATTACK it's been a while! To make matters worse, this all began an hour into my shift. It was still going to be a while before my shift ended and I went home, and even if things got worse I couldn't leave. (You see, I have this thing where my anxiety becomes even more unbearable if I feel that I'm inconveniencing others. Leaving the store short staffed -- especially when I was to help close that night, and we were busy -- would be the epitome of inconveniencing. So that option was out.)
Thursday was awful. Yet here I am, alive. I'm okay. I didn't leave the store and run home when my panic attack begun; I knew that that would only make things worse, if it were even an option for me at that point. I knew that if I let panic stake its claim at my work, I would never be able to go back in without having major spikes of anxiety and panic. And what if I had another panic attack at work? Would I leave again? If that happened, the cycle would never end. I had to stay, I had to survive. I had to deal with it head on. And I did. I stuck it out so that by the time I left work that night, I was calmer. I had something other than panic to associate with my shift for the day.
I get a lot of people asking me things like: How do you cope with/manage your anxiety? The answer, as shitty as it is, is that you just do. You take it one minute at a time. Sometimes ten seconds, if that's all you can manage. Grit your teeth and stay where you are, no matter how loud the urge to run is screaming in your head. If you run, you let your anxiety win, and slowly your world will shrink smaller and smaller until nowhere feels safe. Don't let that happen. It's miserable, trust me.
My panic disorder will never go away. It's something I've found hard to reconcile with, but this is something that will always be with me. It is mine, and I have to own that. There will be times when it is hardly noticeable; there will be times when it's all I can see. But I won't let it dictate my life, like it used to. I'm so tired from running all the time that I'm ready to stand there and fight. Because that's what a panic attack is: fight or flight. You survive it but surviving it. You just do. Make the decision to not give up and see how strong you really are. I bet you'll impress even yourself.
I am a middle class, white female. I have a privilege that I was born into just because of circumstances and it is my responsibility to keep that in mind in everything I create. Just because privilege isn't intentionally sought doesn't mean I don't receive it because of who I am and what I look like. And how stupid is that?
I'm a strong proponent of diversity, especially when it comes to all things fiction: books, television, films. Why not have a more diverse cast of characters? Aren't we tired of seeing the same paper person over and over again? Give me characters of color, characters with complex gender identities, characters of mixed sexual orientations, characters with disabilities, characters with mental illnesses. Give me more real people!
Diversity and representation in young adult is pretty pathetic; it's getting better, but there's still loads of room to grow. And I hold myself and some of my early work under this microscope of scrutiny, as well. All too often, I find myself automatically making my characters straight white women because, well, I know how to write that easily. What a lazy excuse! If I can write about demons and angels and ghosts, I can damn well include characters that aren't "like me." Aren't I doing that already? (God I hope so, otherwise I'm probably a psychopathic killer who loves torturing people and summoning demons.)
I'm more conscious of the characters I craft now, and am proud of the diversity I have in my stories. The Ignite series alone has a cast of characters that is as diverse in appearance as it is in morality. Kala's a one-winged, black, lesbian angel with the mouth of a sailor and a heart of pure gold. Gus is a shy, bisexual book worm in Hell. Zo is an Asian angel with more allegiance to man than to Heaven.
In The Empath, my main character (Odessa) is described as black. Originally, I wrote her as a pale girl with red hair and freckles. Why? Just a knee-jerk reaction. But changing her race didn't make a lick of difference to the story I was telling; in fact, it aided in the story, as Odessa faced prejudices as a psychic. Adding in the factor of race in the late 1800s made that sense of "not belonging" and mistrust stronger. It added another layer of tension.
I want to be sure my characters are diverse and representational of the real world--even if they exist in a fictional one. And I want them to be in roles where they are not defined by their skin color/sexual orientation/disability. I want that to just be a trait of theirs, just an underscore of their voice. There's a quote from Orphan Black (which you should be watching, if you aren't already) Cosima says that really nails this idea: "My sexuality's not the most interesting thing about me."
In my works in progress, I've written characters with crippling anxiety; I have a gender-bent Robin Hood story where Robin still falls in love with Maid Marian. In my sci-fi, multiple cultures and races are represented, along with a spectrum of sexualities and genders. In Lyra, my story Patchwork Press anthology, my main characters (Orpheus and Eury) are an interracial same sex couple with a wide division in their castes. Why write characters like this? Why not.
I have an issue with authors who are over ambiguous with diversity in text and only reveal in after-interviews/blog posts "Well, that character was gay" or "Actually, that character was Muslim, though it was never mentioned or even alluded to once." I'll do all I can to make it clear just who my characters are, and I can guarantee that they'll be more complex than just an aspect of diversity. Diversity doesn't overshadow a character; it makes them stronger and more realistic. And don't we want characters that feel more realistic??? I know I do!
Don't be a lazy author that excuses the lack of diversity in your books. Find a way to fix that problem, because diversity and representation matters, and you should be writing it.
This post is from the archives, originally posted February 2015.
I'm a strong proponent of diversity, especially when it comes to all things fiction: books, television, films. Why not have a more diverse cast of characters? Aren't we tired of seeing the same paper person over and over again? Give me characters of color, characters with complex gender identities, characters of mixed sexual orientations, characters with disabilities, characters with mental illnesses. Give me more real people!
Diversity and representation in young adult is pretty pathetic; it's getting better, but there's still loads of room to grow. And I hold myself and some of my early work under this microscope of scrutiny, as well. All too often, I find myself automatically making my characters straight white women because, well, I know how to write that easily. What a lazy excuse! If I can write about demons and angels and ghosts, I can damn well include characters that aren't "like me." Aren't I doing that already? (God I hope so, otherwise I'm probably a psychopathic killer who loves torturing people and summoning demons.)
I'm more conscious of the characters I craft now, and am proud of the diversity I have in my stories. The Ignite series alone has a cast of characters that is as diverse in appearance as it is in morality. Kala's a one-winged, black, lesbian angel with the mouth of a sailor and a heart of pure gold. Gus is a shy, bisexual book worm in Hell. Zo is an Asian angel with more allegiance to man than to Heaven.
In The Empath, my main character (Odessa) is described as black. Originally, I wrote her as a pale girl with red hair and freckles. Why? Just a knee-jerk reaction. But changing her race didn't make a lick of difference to the story I was telling; in fact, it aided in the story, as Odessa faced prejudices as a psychic. Adding in the factor of race in the late 1800s made that sense of "not belonging" and mistrust stronger. It added another layer of tension.
I want to be sure my characters are diverse and representational of the real world--even if they exist in a fictional one. And I want them to be in roles where they are not defined by their skin color/sexual orientation/disability. I want that to just be a trait of theirs, just an underscore of their voice. There's a quote from Orphan Black (which you should be watching, if you aren't already) Cosima says that really nails this idea: "My sexuality's not the most interesting thing about me."
In my works in progress, I've written characters with crippling anxiety; I have a gender-bent Robin Hood story where Robin still falls in love with Maid Marian. In my sci-fi, multiple cultures and races are represented, along with a spectrum of sexualities and genders. In Lyra, my story Patchwork Press anthology, my main characters (Orpheus and Eury) are an interracial same sex couple with a wide division in their castes. Why write characters like this? Why not.
I have an issue with authors who are over ambiguous with diversity in text and only reveal in after-interviews/blog posts "Well, that character was gay" or "Actually, that character was Muslim, though it was never mentioned or even alluded to once." I'll do all I can to make it clear just who my characters are, and I can guarantee that they'll be more complex than just an aspect of diversity. Diversity doesn't overshadow a character; it makes them stronger and more realistic. And don't we want characters that feel more realistic??? I know I do!
I'm still learning and growing, in both my writing and my life. Writing diverse characters can sometimes feel like I'm writing with my left hand, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't try. My handwriting may still look sloppy to some people, but I will always work my hardest to focus on the soul of their character while also acknowledging their diverse traits. And don't let the fear of not knowing how to write diverse characters stop you. Do some research, and write. Write it again. The more you practice, the better you'll be, and eventually, you'll be ambidextrous.
Don't be a lazy author that excuses the lack of diversity in your books. Find a way to fix that problem, because diversity and representation matters, and you should be writing it.
This post is from the archives, originally posted February 2015.
In college, I changed majors a half dozen times. There's no exaggeration there. I couldn't seem to settle myself into one specific course of study because I wanted to study it all. And all of it, many would argue, were degrees that would lead nowhere.
I fell in love with the humanities. My mythology class was so interesting I became obsessed with the texts we were assigned -- so much so that I decided to read and research more on my own, outside of the context of the class. My philosophy classes were gripping, and I discovered how much I enjoyed engaging in intellectual (and passionate) debates over morality. Of course there were a number of literature and publishing classes that lifted me up into the clouds and ultimately convinced me to take the leap and major in creative writing and English. But one of the classes that sticks in my mind even to this day was my art history class.
Art was always something I appreciated, but from afar. I cannot paint, I cannot sculpt. Hell, I can't even sketch well. (Though I can draw a pretty wicked Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Not exactly museum worthy work though, is it?) Because I'm so atrocious at art, I'd only taken a few necessary art classes during elementary and middle school. They were tolerable, but never took hold in me because, like I said, I sucked. I sucked hard.
This art history class, though. This one hit the mark -- I didn't have to draw, I only had to look. Sitting on the bottom shelf of my bookcase is the Big Art Book, and I take it out at least once a month to stare at some of my favorite pieces. Like I did during the class, I study the techniques and colors, the styles and the artists. I read as little or as much into the art as I want; create my own story or read about the artists' intentions. God, I love it. And I love art. But that's not what I do: I write.
Which leads me to the literature bit of this post. One of my lowkey favorite authors of late is Donna Tartt. The first novel I read of hers was The Secret History and I have never sat so in awe of a work of fiction as I did when I finished that book. She had such an artistic way with her words -- something that stretched beyond poetry. Her language wasn't necessarily overly flowery or complicated, it was the ideas that brought the fascination; the crafting of her characters, of the world they occupied, was stunning to say the least. It took little convincing for me to want to pick up another one of her novels, and so I did.
I just started reading The Goldfinch this morning. It arrived in the mail yesterday and I was surprised at how big the book is. It's easily twice the length of The Secret History. I hardly read the synopsis when I bought it off Amazon, but this morning, when I woke up early so I could start this beast (yes, I get it, I'm super lame but whatever), I scanned the back cover.
Here's what I know about the book: It follows Theo after he loses his mother in an accident. (That accident is an explosion at a museum. I just finished that bit this morning. Wow, was it well written.) He's taken in by a rich family because he is fatherless (presumably because his father left, I'm gathering). Dealing with his grief over the loss of his mother, he becomes obsessed with a small painting of, you guessed it, a goldfinch. Somehow, this leads to him discovering the underworld of art and shit gets real.
Already, I'm hooked. Anything with "the underworld of art" in the summary, and I'm in. I can't wait to read a book that contains the cross section of all that I love: art, mystery, and incredible writing.
One thing I will say about Donna Tartt is that her novels are not only interesting, and her writing is not only crisp and exact, but her work is inspiring. After The Secret History, I was compelled to sit down and write something that could be even half as masterful. Of course, I could never replicate her style, even if I tried. It's a style I enjoy reading, but not a style that comes naturally to me in my own work. And that's okay. Art isn't supposed to be the same, and the voice of an author should be as unique as the brushstrokes of a painter. I'm turning that envy in to drive and determination, and someday, I hope it will all click into place.
Comparison kills creativity. And courage. And confidence. And probably a lot of other things, but let's end it there because I like the alliteration and grouping of three. Anyway, what I'm getting at is that when you stop focusing on what you're doing and begin to look around at what everyone else is doing, shit goes south fast.
Like, remember in school, when you took a test and felt like it was going really well until you looked up and around at the desks near you and realized that they were a page ahead of you? Or even worse...people were already turning in their work and how is that possible we just started this test and it's only been like ten minutes tops?!!??!? You know the feeling. I'd argue everyone knows it. Because, for some reason, we all decide to look up and check on how those around us are doing. Curiosity killed the cat (creativity/courage/confidence) and all that.
I'm 23 now. I don't think it's ever been harder to stop comparing myself with my peers. Social media -- I'm looking at you Facebook -- makes it even more unbearable. In my mid-early-twenties (roll with it, that's what I'm calling 23 now), I still have a million insecurities about the choices I'm making with my life. What do I want to do as my career, or what can I realistically do? Should I follow my head or my heart? Pursue passion or secure safety? Am I doing this "adult" thing right or royally messing it up?
Meanwhile, as I'm asking myself all of these major life questions, my social media feed is littered with people sharing pictures of their fiancés. Status updates about the amazing jobs they work, or spectacular trips they fly off to, are distracting me. In all honesty, they make me more than a little envious. Not that I want to be engaged or married now; not that I'm sure I want to be locked in to some career path that would be difficult to get off of, if I were to change my mind; not that I'm not proud of how far I've come just because other people appear to have gone further.
The thing is, I like my life being up in the air right now. I mean, I don't love it, but the freedom of being able to change everything about my life on a whim does give me a certain sense of freedom. I can decide tomorrow to pick up and move across the country and very little in my life would be upset. How many people can say that? How many people would love to be able to do just that? Leaving my options open while I figure it all out gives me comfort. There's nothing I hate more than feeling trapped, or believing I've made some monumental mistake because I've chosen the wrong person/career/place to spend my life tied to.
I still have time. There's always time.
What's important (and I've said this in a previous post but I think it deserves restating) is to focus on what I'm doing, what I want, and where I'm going -- not the perceived success of those people I know through social media. I'd rather focus on how far I've come than how far I've left to go. Peeking over my shoulder at those around me and thinking that I haven't done enough simply because other people appear to be doing better or more is bonkers. I'm doing fine. Look at all I've done!
Besides, we all know Facebook only shows a small slice of someone's life, and often it's the prettiest picture possible. Not many are willing to share the low points of their lives. That awful day at work, the stress that comes with their "glamorous" career, or the nit-picky annoying arguments they have with their longtime boyfriend or girlfriend won't surface on social media. No one's life is as perfect as they depict it online. It's airbrushed and only fractionally real.
We all need to stop looking at that dude over there and focus on what's in front of us. It doesn't matter what they're doing; it matters what you are doing. While it may seem like others are doing better than you, they're not. They're doing different than you. Don't ever mistake the two. You are doing great and you will be fine.
Like, remember in school, when you took a test and felt like it was going really well until you looked up and around at the desks near you and realized that they were a page ahead of you? Or even worse...people were already turning in their work and how is that possible we just started this test and it's only been like ten minutes tops?!!??!? You know the feeling. I'd argue everyone knows it. Because, for some reason, we all decide to look up and check on how those around us are doing. Curiosity killed the cat (creativity/courage/confidence) and all that.
I'm 23 now. I don't think it's ever been harder to stop comparing myself with my peers. Social media -- I'm looking at you Facebook -- makes it even more unbearable. In my mid-early-twenties (roll with it, that's what I'm calling 23 now), I still have a million insecurities about the choices I'm making with my life. What do I want to do as my career, or what can I realistically do? Should I follow my head or my heart? Pursue passion or secure safety? Am I doing this "adult" thing right or royally messing it up?
Meanwhile, as I'm asking myself all of these major life questions, my social media feed is littered with people sharing pictures of their fiancés. Status updates about the amazing jobs they work, or spectacular trips they fly off to, are distracting me. In all honesty, they make me more than a little envious. Not that I want to be engaged or married now; not that I'm sure I want to be locked in to some career path that would be difficult to get off of, if I were to change my mind; not that I'm not proud of how far I've come just because other people appear to have gone further.
The thing is, I like my life being up in the air right now. I mean, I don't love it, but the freedom of being able to change everything about my life on a whim does give me a certain sense of freedom. I can decide tomorrow to pick up and move across the country and very little in my life would be upset. How many people can say that? How many people would love to be able to do just that? Leaving my options open while I figure it all out gives me comfort. There's nothing I hate more than feeling trapped, or believing I've made some monumental mistake because I've chosen the wrong person/career/place to spend my life tied to.
I still have time. There's always time.
What's important (and I've said this in a previous post but I think it deserves restating) is to focus on what I'm doing, what I want, and where I'm going -- not the perceived success of those people I know through social media. I'd rather focus on how far I've come than how far I've left to go. Peeking over my shoulder at those around me and thinking that I haven't done enough simply because other people appear to be doing better or more is bonkers. I'm doing fine. Look at all I've done!
Besides, we all know Facebook only shows a small slice of someone's life, and often it's the prettiest picture possible. Not many are willing to share the low points of their lives. That awful day at work, the stress that comes with their "glamorous" career, or the nit-picky annoying arguments they have with their longtime boyfriend or girlfriend won't surface on social media. No one's life is as perfect as they depict it online. It's airbrushed and only fractionally real.
We all need to stop looking at that dude over there and focus on what's in front of us. It doesn't matter what they're doing; it matters what you are doing. While it may seem like others are doing better than you, they're not. They're doing different than you. Don't ever mistake the two. You are doing great and you will be fine.
She had a smart mouth.
Not necessarily because of her intellect
— though she had plenty of that.
It had something more to do with
the way she held her lips,
How she’d smirk just an inch
while insulting someone.
Sarcasm laced heavy
through her sentences,
sure,
but it was the silence
that was truly damning.
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