Entering the Matrix

Nearly four months ago, I moved the furniture around on the second floor of my house to create a bright, orderly, sunny, inviting new office. I'm typing there now, sipping coffee and gazing at the winter morning sun reflecting pale and clean off of telephone wires and buildings.

This was a great move, except for one thing: when I created my office, I left behind another room. A room with too many furniture pieces, a room where we discarded everything we weren't sure what to do with. Every time I entered this room to clean it up, my thoughts seemed to disperse, fleeing in every direction as an overwhelmed feeling washed over me and I shut the door again. I literally pretended this room did not exist in my house for four months.

Yesterday morning I stood in the living room with a pill in my hand. I felt a little like Neo in the Matrix, on the precipice and able to choose between two worlds. I tried to remember what I'd told my rational self: if I had a chemical imbalance anywhere else in my body, I would have no moral objection to medicating it. I had completed a rough draft of a novel, and not finishing it would be devastating. I wasn't getting what I want out of life. Oh and hello, I had been living minus one room in my house for months.

So, with some trepidation over how I would feel, I took it—ritalin.

I make mention of ADD as it relates to work and creativity on this blog fairly often, but I don't get nitty gritty about what my life is like. Honestly, it's a little upsetting. But at some point recently, I realized that being strong-willed and high-functioning might not get me everywhere I want to go. I had long ago accepted that life was just going to be harder for me. I could have some of the same successes others had, maybe even more, but I would have to work far harder. And outside academia, where I had the benefit of not needing to try to succeed, I was losing some key battles. Most importantly, I was tired of existing at a baseline of anxiety and panic mixed with persistent lethargy—it is one of the most uncomfortable feelings I can imagine.

So what happened? Internally, I felt calm and quiet when I needed it, plus an exhausting sense of focus (I say exhausting because I never work on anything continuously for that long, and I was beyond tired by the time I was done). The curtain call finally came for that clamoring need to do 10 things at once, and somehow when I opened the door to that room I felt okay. I understood that some things needed to be thrown away, some taken downstairs to the tool chest, some put in the storage room, and others given away. After a couple hours of work I looked at the floor and was dismayed at how much I still had to do—until I realized I had sorted everything into bags according to where they needed to go in the house.

My husband came in to help me untangle a huge ball of yarn. I watched him work on it until he told me to start winding it into a new ball and realized that usually, watching him work on a task like that would have made me feel like I was about to climb up the walls. I would have gotten impatient, yelled at him for taking too long, tried to rush the process by grabbing at a piece of the yarn, and eventually frustrated him enough that he would walk out of the room, leaving me to work alone. This time we worked as a team. I stayed calm and grounded and in control.

By 2:00, I had earned the prize I'd been waiting for: a trip to Target to shop for an area rug for my new room. Not only that, I had found a significant amount of cash laying around as I was cleaning—enough to cover the cost of the rug, two 16x20 photo frames, and some new Christmas decorations!

Unfortunately, I don't have 'before' photos. I should have taken some, but if you've seen Clean House, you know what a room looks like when the furniture is thrown in every which way and a lot of random possessions are discarded in the space. I couldn't walk across the room without tripping or stepping on something. And by dinnertime, the room looked like this:

Sometimes people refuse to believe I have a problem. I think this is because my primary motivator is fear of failure. Things really get accomplished when my stress levels about them reach a breaking point. That's why I'm great on a team, I get the important stuff done at work, and I always got good grades.

However, I've always been hiding something: the incomplete personal projects, the closed-off room in my house, etc. And the worst thing about having ADD as an adult is this: no matter how successful you are where it really counts, you still don't feel like a successful person. You still feel like there's something wrong with you, or like you may never achieve your dreams or be as successful as those around you. It becomes almost impossible to relax because there are always things looming at the edge of your mind, even though you aren't doing a thing about them.

The act of actually finishing a project really gave me a boost in self-confidence. And while there's no magic bullet—medication doesn't make you feel like a regular person, your mind and body are both aware that something external is making you productive—there are tools we can fall back on. In this case, I used a tool that allowed my mind to understand a complex task and take it on. The decision to enter this experiment pitted me against my own stubbornness and willpower, which is why it took me years to get here. I'm sure I'll continue to have thoughts on it (which I will share, of course), but hopefully I'll have more to report than just making my space more inviting: things like completed manuscripts, more days at the piano, a nice little art corner in the basement.

If you've had any similar experiences, I'd love to hear them! I know the issue of medication and attention disorders is a contentious one, especially among adults, but I also know a lot of people close to me have had their own struggles and successes. Feel free to share your story as well!

A Video, and Something Unexpected

I may have an office job (albeit in an office that looks and often feels like someone's house), but every once in a while I give thanks for my background and formal education in the arts. It's easy to assume we wouldn't mix well with the business world, but I have a bias for the BFA-holding members of our staff. In many ways, I think that degree unlocks as many secrets to career success as one in business.

Last night, my job gave something back.

My education taught me how to take critique, when to defend, and never to assume a piece is "done" just because I can see the whole thing in front of my eyes. Yesterday morning I thought I had a finished product. Instead, my colleagues got into an argument in my office at 10:30 and ended up telling me to reshoot the first portion, take it home, work it in, and re-render the video. All before the tech run-through for our biggest event of the year at 5:00.

No sweat, right? We managed to get it in a few takes, and I had time to fit it in and do some last-minute editing in time to help everyone else get ready at 3:00.

After going through hell for that video, seeing it projected at the front of the room might have made me cry if it weren't for the guy at the mixing board asking me if I thought the audio sounded good. Suddenly I felt nervous, nervous in the way I used to get before a performance when we had just a few minutes to warm up before the doors opened. We'd cut off in the middle of a phrase and it would be time to get backstage and hope I'd nail the tough parts.

At the end of the evening it felt the same: applause, house lights going up, and a sea of mingling conversation. A few people—always the important ones—finding me in the crowd to tell me it was great.

I don't know if I have the right words for how much I miss that feeling, or how glad I was to realize this was another way I could have it again. Suffice it to say it's the only thing I've ever loved going through weeks of hell for.

But enough sentimental stuff. I know you really just read to the end so you could see the video.



If you'd rather watch in HD just like the computer gods intended, click here.

Where My Hours Have Gone...

This morning as I sat in a meeting I noticed something: my eye was twitching. Everyone's eyes get twitchy, but this kept up all day. In fact, today may be the twitchiest day my eyes have ever had.

Why? Well, I suspect it's because this is all I've been looking at lately. Fortunately, I just polished up what I think could be the final version of my video—a product of over 30 hours of work and 90 minutes of footage. I have to keep it under wraps until it shows at our big event for work tomorrow, but after that you can be sure it'll find its way onto the pages of this blog.

Wish me luck!

New Office!

People who know me well likely know how much I love the back room on the second floor of our house. The walls are a pleasing color, the south-facing windows let in an abundance of natural light, and I have managed to keep it more clutter-free than any other room in the house. I decorated it with an area rug and futon I love. I wrote the first draft of my manuscript at the tiny brown desk against the outside wall. It's a fantastic room. I even wrote about it during my 28 inspirations in February.



Well, today I destroyed it. I had originally planned to make this room my office once we remodeled the basement, but suddenly realized I could move it along more quickly by just switching the furniture in our upstairs rooms. After all, our ugly office in the middle room couldn't get much worse, right?



When we actually started moving furniture, though, it didn't seem like such a great idea anymore. I was about to ruin my sanctuary and change my favorite spot in the house forever. Also, look how much dust was under my Doug's desk. Gross!



However, I'm typing this sitting not in a windowless room with walls painted a blue-green I can't stand, but in the back room, looking out the window (yes, I do type and look out the window at the same time) and listening to nighttime bugs outside. My desk is amazingly clean. I feel like I'm sitting in an open space where I can do a lot of writing, not in a dark and stuffy clutter-cave that feels like a chore to be in.

I haven't forgotten that we worked really hard today and still didn't finish the job. The green room is such a disaster I had to close the door and pretend it doesn't exist. A few random items are still littering the floor in our new office. But I don't have classwork for a few weeks and Doug promised to keep working with me until we get it done. For now, small victories: look at this nice space! I'm really close to accomplishing one of my big goals for the year: creating a dedicated space for writing where I can be productive.

Out of My Element

I've been avoiding drafting out a short film idea, presumably because I've never written a script before and I'm not sure how to start. The feel of it in my head has me enamored, though, so today I set to work writing it as a short story.

I found myself out of my element again when I realized that half the subject matter required me to break out of the old write what you know comfort zone. I was writing an intense narrative about an experience I only knew peripherally.

When I'm evaluating an artist, versatility is one of the first qualities that comes to mind. When I watch American Idol or So You Think You Can Dance (no spoilers! I haven't watched the SYTYCD finale yet), contestants can really only impress me one of two ways: make the hair on my right arm stand up or give an amazing performance outside of their style. I love Chuck Palahniuk, but I'm often disappointed that his style and plot structure remain so constant across his body of work. The worst thing an artist can do is fail to evolve, grow, test new boundaries.

That said, write what you know is such ubiquitous advice it's become cliché. It's how I wrote 50,000 words in one month last November.

But it's important to remember, Annie Proulx wrote Brokeback Mountain as a 60-something-year-old woman who had spent all but a few years of her life in the northeast United States. She won an O. Henry award for the story, and the movie adaptation won a slew of prestigious film awards. That's pretty amazing, and it reminded me how important it is to stretch my artistic muscles.

Inspiration #25: Dredging

Almost a year ago, I came up with a big idea for a new photo project.  The subject matter was much more personal and far less pragmatic than my previous photo work, which I'd generally describe as a little quiet and intellectual.  It also tried to take on portraiture, which had never really been an interest or a skill of mine before.

Tackling a personally tough project at the same time as a new style can be a little daunting, and sure enough my lack of that special Avedon-esque touch in my portraits gave me just the excuse I needed to shelve the whole thing.

A week or two ago I got into a conversation that dredged it up again, and today new ideas finally broke free and got me scribbling out notes at the office so I didn't lose my train of thought.  When I got home I wrote for two pages in my notebook about audience, medium, process, and narrative.  The project has gotten big again, but this time I'm feeling really engaged in figuring out how I want to make it happen.

Sometimes an idea seems really good, but it's just not ready.  Did I mention I first came up with the idea for the novel I'm writing now 13 years ago?  Sometimes we realize those ideas weren't so great after all, but sometimes they speak to us in a new and different way when we pull them off the shelf and wipe away the dust.  Hopefully that's what happening now, and I guess time will tell.

Inspiration #11: Note Cards

Thanks to a suggestion from the internets, I've started writing down ideas on index cards and accumulating a stack for later: things I know about my characters that the reader might not (yet), questions I have about characters' feelings and actions, plot concerns, etc.  At some point I'll play around with sorting them into stacks and finding that strange order that's supposed to reveal itself.

Characters

Though I haven't gone into it in depth in this blog, I define myself by the breadth of my creative experiences. I enjoy spending time with creative people of all breeds and have explored a lot of artistic avenues on my own. Sometimes this makes me fear trying to do everything and never really getting good at anything, but it also gives me plenty of room for comparison when I need a new perspective.

A day or two after I intended but still more or less on target, I've started to tackle this manuscript. At first I felt so resistant to reading it at all. I found any excuse not to break open the thick folder, didn't even want to look at my 291-page manuscript.

But eventually I settled in and devoted a bit of my Saturday to it, burning a sweet-smelling candle and listening to Tim Buckley with my cat and papers on the couch. Eventually notes started to come out like I was giving stage directions, telling my characters to spit words out like they were too bitter to keep in their mouths anymore. I hope that means the characters will eventually feel more three-dimensional, like I can feel them in the room with me as I tell them how I want them to be.

This is going to be a long process though. They're only on their first read-through of the script, the set is still being built, there definitely aren't any real props yet. The characters are still sort of a mystery. Months from now, they will feel like real people existing in a little world inside our own.

Incidentally, after I'd finished finding the copy engaging and quick to read, after I'd marked up a good 40 pages before the end of my CD, I found myself hating everything about it. The flat characters and the plot that was unbelievable, immature at best. Then the worry started sneaking in, the suspicion that it was really just unsalvageable.

Going back, though, why can't this feel like I'm preparing for a play or a concert? Why can't my plot and characters be revealed in layers over the course of months? Why should I be embarrassed to show my friends a draft and ask for suggestions when I know everyone knows it's undeveloped? It's like showing my brown underpainting, my storyboard, my initial sketches. Certainly no masterpiece yet, and no way to know where it will end up when it's done.

Taking a cue from NaNoWriMo itself, when I was motivated by the fact that I'd told so many people I was writing 50,000 words in a month, I've set another deadline. I've told some friends I'll give this thing to them by Christmas, and I intend to do just that. No matter how much editing I have done. Because you can't start working on your character before you've read the script, and you can't prepare for the concert without attending your first rehearsal. At some point, everyone's work looks like a vague sketch or a bad sightread, right?