chrysalis.

(Nonfiction from a third person perspective.)


"Chrysalis"

When she left the apartment that Monday evening to go to her meeting, she had expected it to be as dark as it was. Winter in Chicago was privy to such early, black evenings. What she did not expect was the wet, slick, impossible-to-see ice that sheeted the concrete sidewalk as well as the road.

Slippery, she thought, hobbling towards the opposing street corner.

She slid violently, righted herself, and hesitated. A few more tentative steps and then it was as though gravity had tilted like a pinball machine, or someone had given her a hard bump in the wrong direction.

She went down hard, her legs swinging, and she threw her weight to the left, rolling and landing on her left arm and knee on the cold, wet ground. Dampness seeped through the sleeve of her coat and the stretchy fabric of her jeans, and she carefully began to get up again.

There was nobody around to see her fall. If she hadn’t fallen so well… She might still be lying in the street, clear in the path of the next car.

Focusing more on moving slowly now, she shuffled penguin-like to the sidewalk. A car honked; the ice was causing it to fishtail as it drew nearer to the crosswalk. When it stopped just before hitting her, she hesitated and looked through the headlights’ glare. The driver, a youngish, panicking woman, waved emphatically and apologetically, mouthing, “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry!”

She hobbled onto the sidewalk at last, out of harm’s way, and slowly went on from there to the train.

When she was on the train, and the city of Chicago spread beyond the windows in the dark of winter and her body began to recover, she realized what the fall had actually been: it was an announcement. It was an omen, to inform her that everything she had spent the last two months adjusting to had changed.

Several hours later, her boyfriend of two months reluctantly informed her that he had been lying to himself, and was still in love with his ex.

It was, as far as she was concerned, an awful Monday.

The rest of the week was a dull ache that inched by the way an icicle forms. When her emotions became fragile again on Friday, a coworker generously swapped shifts with her, so that she could take the entire weekend off to gather her wits about her.

On Saturday, she tried retail therapy with some friends in Wicker Park. Coffee houses, antiques, and vintage boutiques eased the bruised ego, reminding her of herself. She spent way too much money; it was exciting. They went to an enormous, sprawling used bookstore, and she thought about how badly she wanted to be published, to find a physical copy of the books she had yet to write, of her own work. It began to make her sad, so she moved on.

That night, after a great deal of ice cream and pizza, she bawled alone in her room until she could no longer keep her eyes open and was forced to go to sleep far too early for a Saturday night.

On Sunday, she thought about editing her novel. She thought about reading it, taking notes, and giving it some thought and attention. While checking emails, she became distracted by audition notices (or lack thereof) and somewhere along the way she found herself on the phone with her mother, who was really only trying to help encourage her and find new opportunities, but it proved to be a far more difficult conversation to have at that moment than either of them realized. Her frustrations and confusion surfaced with distress and tears of self-doubt were shed.

She wanted to find a corner somewhere, a small space with tight walls where she could be safe against the enormousness of her own feelings, her own fears of the unknown. The world was too large for her to understand, and her tears blinded her from seeing it clearly. She had thought, all through college, that she wanted to fly, to achieve extraordinary things on her own and soar. Now, faced with real life, she wanted to be cooped up and quiet and safe somewhere, and not have to fight anymore.

When she finally hung up an hour and a half later, she was exhausted and wanted to go back to bed, although it was about noon. The novel would have to wait. She made an appointment to get a haircut at a place that was far enough away that it would take up most of her afternoon to get there and back. She rallied herself, and left.

She sat in the salon chair in Logan Square and stared at herself in the mirror, blankly at first, then with more and more scrutiny. The hairstylist, tattooed and bleached and painted with pin up girl lipstick, politely asked her about her profession, and so she told her the usual spiel about acting and writing. The stylist seemed only marginally impressed, but definitely interested, so she kept talking. She listened to herself talking, how she presented herself to a stranger cutting her hair. She studied the stylist’s colorful tattoos, quietly jealous of the confident identity spread across the chest and both arms. The intensity of the ink work actually comforted her rather than unnerved her; it was as if the stylist’s sense of self was reassuring and made her want to trust her even more. She relaxed.

Afterwards, her hair felt infinitely lighter and her mind was eased. She felt marginally sane, in fact.

“Thank you,” she told the stylist, whose name was Sky. “I feel like a person again.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t feel like a person before,” said Sky, genuinely, “but I’m glad I could help.”

She left a twenty dollar tip for the tattooed stylist.

The rest of Sunday was quiet, an adjustment to new feelings and old ones alike. She thought about her uncertainties, her future, and about how painful metamorphoses are. She wondered how much pain a new butterfly experiences when emerging from the chrysalis. She did not think of herself as a butterfly, but she wondered at the profound pain of the week behind her. Does the caterpillar know it will overcome its lowly beginnings, or does it go mad with anxiety and pain before it transforms? Are they really one being, or two separate lives in one biological timeline? Does the caterpillar long for the tight, silent safety of the chrysalis or does it see the cocoon as death?

It seemed impossible for a human to understand the possibility of a butterfly’s pain. She decided to try not to think about it anymore, and went to bed, hoping for a better dream to carry her out of confusion.

After all, she thought, I’m only twenty-two. I can’t stay frightened forever. I have to move on.

Exciting things!

Today, my mom decided that she is taking myself and my younger brother to Disney World. The trip is January 28-31 and we are so damn excited. We have been several times in the past, but this trip has been much-anticipated and much-talked-about... If my brother could live inside one ride, it would be the Haunted Mansion -- he is Jack Skellington. I would live inside Pirates of the Caribbean forever if I could -- the detail, the music, the half-heard dialogue, the props... my mind is bubbling with memories and I can't wait to be there again.

Today, I bought a really gorgeous Marc by Marc Jacobs purse at my place of employment (a fabulous resale shop). I am in love with it. I am very excited about it. Here's what it looks like. Ob-sess'd.

Today, I got asked to do some more writing for YKYLF in the department of Vampire Diaries -- I said yes, I'd love to. I need to catch up on the whole show by the 31st. But the more writing the better.

Today, I also got asked by a playwright whom I have recently become better acquainted with to co-write a stage adaptation of a very famous noir/crime drama book/film.... and subsequently to act in it once we've written it. It is an enormous undertaking. But something about how huge and intense and unknown the proposal is strikes me as absolutely aggressively attractive. So I said yes.

Tomorrow, I have things to read, things to write, things to research. Tomorrow, I have things to make, things to finish, things to clean. Tomorrow, I have dreams to become. And the day after that, and the day after that... until I am all the dreams I ever dreamt. It started off as just an internet handle: dreamstobecome. But it has become a very personal mantra, and a completely honest summation of my life goal, my purpose, my direction. I am becoming my dreams because it is most certainly the thing I was born to do. We should all be so attentive to ourselves, I think, as to identify our dreams and become them, to make them our reality. It's just how I feel. I'm certainly not trying to be pretentious; I wanted to explain the moniker, explain why I use it here and on Twitter and email. As they say in Rocky Horror: "Don't dream it, be it." I say, Dream it First, Become it Over Time.

<3

MORE BLOGGING OMGGGG

Great news! My great friend Alexis has started a group blogging effort called LAAADIES (and books). The Laaadies include myself, Alexis, Atra, Erin, Emily, and Elise. Three A's, three E's. Maybe we should spell it LAAADIEEES? Whatever, you have to sing it when you say it anyway.

We will be blogging collectively and individually about books and writing and writers and readers and things. HOORAY.

Just wanted to let anyone who's out here know.

OHMIGOD, OHMIGOD YOU GUYS

Once upon a time,

I realized that I wanted to do way more writing than normal. I realized that the social media of the internet holds great sway in the hearts and minds of our generation. I realized that the addictiveness of Twitter must have a purpose. Sort of. Right?

I will try to blog more. I really will. I just worry that I'm not really saying anything on here. Also, I'm pretty sure only about five people read this. Just saying. Maybe that'll change in 2011. Lots of things will.

I am about to put my natural born wit to work in the discussion of the fashions featured on the glorious hit show Glee. These witticisms and joyful recaps will be featured on the killer blog You Know You Love Fashion which has just hired me to be a writer for their new addition of Glee recaps! As you can see if you click on the link, they started off with Gossip Girl, which makes absolutely all the sense in the world, but they will be expanding to several other hot, fashionable shows.

Needless to say I am obscenely excited about this and cannot WAIT to get started. But obviously Glee has to come back first.

I'm going to go practice my "A Chorus Line" routine to get in shape for when the episodes start up again.

A-five, six, seven, eight!

Write or.... die!?

Oh man. Self-pep talk from my first Write or Die session. 794 words in 11 minutes.



10/5/10

So there I was, sitting at the computer waiting for November. It sounds funny, to wait for a month to begin, you know; time passes slowly when you wait for it and quickly when you're not paying attention so it generally seems more logical to not pay attention and just LET time be what it is, which is relative to the individual person anyway, isn't it? The point is. I was waiting for November. Things are supposed to finally HAPPEN to me in November. Life has been just one long grace period since graduation. The summer was about fixing myself up to get a real job (which was accomplished after a minor depressed phase of me sitting at home in front of the internet, still in pajamas at four in the afternoon with three mugs of half drunk tea and a half eaten sandwich on a paper towel -- not even a plate -- next to me at the desk when my roommate would come home that night) and enjoying said job (which was easy since the job deals in fashion resale and the people are outgoing and fun and generally very nice aside from the occasional crazy coo-coo for cocoa puffs type of customer that we get every other day) but also about stabilizing myself in the idea that acting will not come as a given thing anymore. Being in school for theatre meant that to a certain degree I would be guaranteed something every now and then: a directing scene, a one act play, a staged reading, what have you. But also the mainstage and studio productions were available to me. But being OUTSIDE of an academic program where I am known as an individual with great talent and drive and intelligence and vast passion for the theatrical arts in general and as a whole is very different and quite difficult. This summer was about me driving myself forward, pushing myself to send out my information for auditions, go to the auditions, and fight for the parts. It was about me getting used to the nerves of a pre-audition prep, the anxiety of navigating the Chicago Public Transportation System on my own time and getting there IN TIME for the auditions, and killing the material, forcing the auditors to bend to my will and appreciate me for thirty to sixty seconds as a real human being with drive and talent and intelligence. Even if it was only the thirty seconds in which they listened to me, and even if it didn't last past that one night, that one moment. A lot of the auditions meant nothing. But some of them were really invested in, some were intriguing and entrancing, and some I really wanted. Some, as usual, and totally unshockingly, I cried over afterwards. Some I got called back for. But I still haven't been cast, and that's what I'm waiting for. Maybe in November, "IT" will happen to me. Maybe. But all I know is I have plans for November, and even if theatrical endeavors don't take a part in my life for months to come, November will be mine. November will mean something great. And I will, once and for all, prove to myself that I am a real live breathing passionate driven intelligent human being with strength of will and discipline of body enough to complete a hitherto unknown, unwritten story that is directly delivered from the depths of my own psyche via dreamscape, and I will produce it as a work of art, raw and uncut, and hand it to the world on December the First, 2010, without shame or consequence for the 50,000 words I am about to embark upon. And others will read it after I have written it, and people will be amazed by my creativity and strength, as I have always hoped that someone out there would be. I know it is in my blood to do this, and it is in my heart and head to complete the task at hand. I am ready now. I have been writing my whole life, and here I finally go, to create a new tale for the world to think of and remember and discuss and retell. I will give something new to my friends, my family, and people I've never met before. I will be a National Novel Writing Month participant, winner, and author. I will win. I will cross the finish line with miles to spare and words to give as gifts as easily and thoughtlessly as flowers or balloons to children at a carnival. I will ride this beast, and it will be tamed, without caution or hesitation. I will love my novel. And it will love me too. That is the story.

NaNo plotting....

So so so so so so so excited for NaNo. :D I'm totally geeking out over here. I have been plotting out my project and it's coming together slowly but surely. :3

I will now take suggestions for important events/works/people in art, music, literature, theatre, the humanities anywhere between the Renaissance and modern day. Bonus points if the event/work/person isn't a popular figure in current culture. If they are that's fine too. I'm just curious what you come up with. :D

WHEEE.

NaNoWriMo announcement

Okay, steampunks and steampinks.... It's official. I'm doing National Novel Writing Month this year. FINALLY.

In the fall of 2006 I heard of it for the first time and was determined to kick off my college career by completing NaNo. I stopped around 30,000 words because my classload and tech rehearsals for the play I was in (Midsummer Night's Dream, also conveniently the inspiration for my attempt at NaNo that time around) became too much for me to juggle. I vowed that someday I would break free of the binding ties of college, and would rise again to battle the NaNo.

Now it's time.

2010, peoples!!!! LET'S DO IT.