Moving Forward on a New Path

No man is an island, blah blah blah...
Sometimes being surrounded by a large body of water can be a good thing. Especially when all you want to do is cry, scream or punch a pillow until you're covered in feathers - which would be impressive from a cotton pillow.
I've always been a believer in moving forward. You keep going and when you accidentally eat something you shouldn't you add the offending food or ingredient to the do-not-eat list and get back to cooking. When the rejection letter comes in, you send it out again. You make short term goals with the long term ones in mind. You make lists and pinpoint when you will accomplish them.
The hardest part isn't finding the time, which is almost impossible, it's sticking to it. It's doing what you know you should even when there is no immediate reward. It's when you can't catch a break and no reason is given. You can do everything right and still feel sick, you can write what others call brilliant and still be told 'it's not for us'. When that happens, all at once, how do you keep from giving up?

I've been stuck on that question for a while now. As I search the web for other Celiac suffers and writers/editors/agents with advice to give I realize that maybe the answer is to reach out. To extend a hand over the wall, lake, or whatever isolation unit best describes your methods and ask for a little guidance. Turn down the ipod and listen to someone else. After all, you shouldn't stop moving forward but maybe it's time for a new path.

Same Unique Ideal

I recently picked up a book by a popular author that I had, up until that moment, avoided. Something about the covers, overly bright and slightly out of focus, as well as the writer's website, which was somehow both apologetic and condescending, turned me away from their work. I will confess that even the popularity itself made me uncomfortable in my jealousy. But obviously the writer knew something that I did not, so I picked up their first novel and was disappointed to find that I could see the plot laid out before me by the third chapter. Worse yet was the exertion involved in the writer's attempt to be unique, bleeding through every sentence. How could something so loved be so transparent? Should the reader be comforted in knowing what was ahead or was I somehow tuned into the writer more than the character that traipsed blindly through her creator's plan?
I was ready to give up and turn to another author to learn from, when I saw it; an image I had used in my own writing staring up at me. It was a well known concept and it had been used in a different manner than my own. But still, there it was and I hadn't put it there. How could my own unique voice somehow not be mine alone?
From that moment I had to know everything about the writer.
We grew up on different sides of the country and our education was worlds apart, literally and figuratively. They had more connections, more opportunities and an easy to market hook for readers. We were nothing alike. Yet as I read of their experience, motivation and theories on writing I realized that being a writer isn't just about who you are at the moment but who you wish to be. The writing isn't just a reflection of yourself as you are now but the expression of what you are trying to become. While no two writers can be exactly alike, perhaps they both can be striving for the same ideal.

Condolence Cake

Not too long ago Starbucks introduced a gluten-free cake plastic-wrapped to prevent contamination. Then it disappeared. It's not that I miss it really; it tasted good enough, but for its calorie count I would have expected something more decadent. After all, this is the place that took the basic black coffee and added flavored syrup, sprinkles, chocolate, whipped cream and even crystallized ginger. They could have made a gluten-free version of any one of their cakes. (How I miss the pumpkin cream cheese muffin and chocolate chip banana cake.) Instead they came out with a rather tame orange cake. The cake didn't really taste like a treat, instead it tasted like a condolence prize. It's no wonder that no one bought it, it was the first cake to make you feel bad while you were eating it.
Now Starbucks has healthier fruit & nut bars as their gluten-free option. Bars you can pick up in any grocery store that offers gluten-free food. It tastes healthy and is much more favorable calorie wise. But who goes to Starbucks, home of the Peppermint Mocha Twist (530 calories for a venti, if you're wondering), to be healthy? The price alone tells you a trip to Starbucks is a treat, a reward for getting through a tough day or a boost for a challenging day ahead. Or, as in my case, motivation to keep writing. I can only hope that Starbucks won't stop at the bars as their only gluten-free option for food. And if they're reading, might I suggest something with chocolate?

Finding a place

My writing is kind of like a relationship, one second I'm in love with it and the next we can't exist in the same room. I'm madly in love as I see all of its strengths. The next moment I hate every aspect of it, especially the quirky bits. The parts that make it unique I wind up criticizing over and over again. Without those parts though what would make it stand out? What would be left to love? It's an endless cycle as I go through edits. One draft after another; polished until it's smooth and gleaming.
Finally, it becomes like a child you send off into the world to be rejected over and over again until it finds its place.
Ultimately though, it's me out there, my talent, my skill, my experience. Once more, I'm going out into the world to be rejected again and again until I find my place; it's scary and thrilling.

Stronger than Cake

Everyone brings something - except the men of course. They'll tear themselves away from their desks twenty minutes after the birthday party or baby/wedding shower has started to polish off the rest of the pizza, to dump the crumbs at the bottom of the bag of chips onto their plates and take the last can of soda. But as a woman I'm expected to bring food. I offer to bring the chips - the kind I can eat. This isn't to make sure that I'll have something to eat - who could make a meal out of potato chips while everyone else devours the 'best pizza in the city' - it's to make sure that I have something to do. I can pick at a plate of chips while everyone else eats their meat lover's slice and deli sandwiches.
I sit near the super skinny girls. The ones who talk about their running time while flexing their tiny calf muscles and how they're trying a new cleanse next week. Since I've never starred in a Michael Bay movie, I never run, and as a Celiac sufferer the concept of a cleanse is too ironic to contemplate. But I'll happily nod and smile while they frown at my choice of grease and salt for lunch. They eat the vegetable-ridden pasta salad, only eating the vegetables as they envy my every crunch. What they don't know is that I'm jealous of every pasta-contaminated broccoli floret they put in their mouths. Each of us thinking the other one has it better.
Later we'll be even when the cake is cut. The super skinny girls and I will keep passing the buttercream-icing topped dessert to the person next to us. Taking a second longer each time before deciding to be strong. For them, they need to be strong until he proposes, until they fit back into their size zero jeans or until it's cold enough to wear bulky sweaters. For me, there is no cut-off date: I need strength for life, the kind I can't get from running.

Writers' props

Kids are always asked what they want to be when they grow up. The answers are always doctor, lawyer, veterinarian, and of course teacher. I even heard the rather specific orthopaedic surgeon once. I've yet to hear anyone answer with "writer." There are no uniforms or props associated with being a writer, except for a laptop, but doesn't every profession use a computer? (And how do we know they're writing instead of looking for photos of their most recent vampire crush?)
Wanting to be a writer as a kid didn't come with a stethoscope and over sized plastic syringe. The best I could do was put a pen behind my ear and a notebook in my pocket. Of course, that just made me look even more like the student I already was.
In fact, it was as a student that I was most comfortable with wanting to be a writer. So long as I could write in the warm cocoon of knowing I already had an audience, I was not just content but confident. Teachers were paid to help me write better while fellow students got me past my overuse of the word beautiful. Every piece was a shared experience, a creation brought to life. Even if no feedback was offered they still listened. It was listening that made me feel like I could call myself a writer; my story in someone else's mind. The characters were outside of the world I had created for them, now existing in another's universe.
Once graduation came, the audience was gone and suddenly writing became a very isolated event. A refuge at times, a saviour always, but lonely never the less.
As I slowly start to build my life, I know that one thing I need is to find an audience again. Someone to listen... now that would be beautiful.

From the beginning... again

How do you start a life? From scratch would be easy, a blank canvas to fill with all of your favorite colors. But the canvas I'm working with is a bit frayed along the edges, not to mention filled with chipped paint and colors you'd never find in the kid-friendly Crayola box. How does one move everything already there to create a picture of yourself that you like, that you recognize as being you and not just a reaction to other people's expectations?
I couldn't tell you the exact day or time (although I have a few theories and my mother has even more) but at some point a switch was flipped in my body and it no longer worked the way it should. I'm lucky though - it's completely controllable so long as I have a will of iron. Unfortunately, the diagnosis took eight years - eight years of pain so bad that I woke up each morning wishing my life away until I could escape again in sleep. Eight years of no energy, of countless doctors prescribing infinite pills, and one unnecessary surgery. Not to mention all the doubt, self loathing and depression that goes with every hopeful savior in a white coat hinting that it might just be all in your head.
I admired everyone else's Manolos while the money was spent on chiropractors, acupuncturists, herbs and vitamins. I tried whatever I could afford. I researched every lead, experimented with every suggestion.
It took eight years and a rather odd game of connect the dots to realize that I had something called Celiac Disease. There are no pills to take, no surgery to recover from. I just have to revamp my life.
At the time of diagnosis I was overwhelmed, too tired to even know where to start. While there are several books on Celiac Disease and even more websites, there is no instruction manual the doctor sends you home with. There is just one rule: No Gluten. The first few months I spent searching every website, reading the best reviewed books and trying every brand of gluten free food available. I did this all while still dealing with the all too familiar pain as well as the newly added detox experience - I was no longer dreaming of that Louis Vuitton bag but of French baguettes. It's been six months and every day is something new, two steps forward and one step back. It was predicted that I might not start feeling any relief until after a year, maybe even two. It's a long time to wait, then again I've already waited eight years. I'm looking forward to starting my life, not just surviving it.