tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65017515875579342162024-02-08T05:21:14.133-08:00Nicholas S JagdeoWriter. Blogger. ThinkerAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-16614897346348371442013-03-09T18:13:00.003-08:002013-05-19T21:35:29.196-07:00Jerusalem Syndrome<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">(An old blog I'd written - April 8, 2008)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">I am very much in love with this land, and in particular, this city of Jerusalem. Yes indeed - crazy, mad, passionate in love am I with this city. However, I have become well-aware of the seemingly high number of crazies who populate this magical city of mine. Oh, don't get me wrong - I'm not complaining in the least bit. Living in a virtual insane asylum city isn't the worst thing that can happen to a person. And besides, having a disproportionate number of mentally disturbed individuals living in the city (and, free to walk around in the sunshine without having to wear a straightjacket or any discernible mark of their insanity, mind you) just adds to the spice of Jerusalem and makes it even more alluring and more exciting, because one never knows what adventures can be waiting right around the corner. Indeed, the unexpected is always expected in this oddly-placed, mountain city. And I must admit, I do enjoy my daily encounters with crazy Jerusalem-ites thoroughly, thank you very much. But I just had to type up a note about some of my experiences here, just because some of my experiences here are just way too funny to not be told.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Wikipedia defines the Jerusalem syndrome as: "the name given to a group of mental phenomena involving the presence of either religiously themed obsessive ideas, delusions or other psychosis-like experiences, that are triggered by, or lead to, a visit to the city of Jerusalem. It is not endemic to one single religion or denomination, but has affected Jews and Christians of many different backgrounds. The best known, although not the most prevalent manifestation of the Jerusalem syndrome, is the phenomenon whereby a person who seems previously balanced and devoid of any signs of psychopathology, becomes psychotic after arriving in Jerusalem. The psychosis is characterised by an intense religious theme and typically resolves to full recovery after a few weeks, or after being removed from the area."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Funny, huh? To think that well-balanced, entirely sane individuals make the trek to Jerusalem and subsequently go mad is the most hilarious phenomenon which has ever happened to mankind (and it's only hilarious because when they depart, they revert to being bastions of sanity). I have encountered many such individuals: from the Charedi man who comes to Nadin's Bar every night without fail and sits by himself in a corner smoking nargila and eating popcorn, to the Palestinian shop-owner who yelled at me for thinking he was Jewish and calling him an Israeli; from the many Americans I've met who come across to do a year of study at Hebrew U, but ended up just never leaving and settling permanently here, to the sudden appearance of the Chassidim on Ben Yehuda dancing madly amongst themselves; from the black-hat Chabad man at the Kotel who talks to me for three straight about why I should wear tefillin and pray there every day in order to get everything I want, to the swarms of 10-year old Israeli children running around Yafo at midnight without any parental supervision; from the old lady on the bus who yells at us for talking too loudly, saying "Why are you talking? What do you have to talk about? Did you just visit Rachel's tomb? Did you just daven at the Kotel? WHY ARE YOU TALKING?!", to the Israelis who pass by a table of no Americans and yell out "Fucking Americans!", just because we're speaking English and they can't tell the difference between the varied accents that exist in the Anglo world; from random Korean Christian-Zionist tourists who organize a singing session to sing Jewish songs in a Korean-tinged accent of Hebrew in public, to the taxi-drivers who spend ten minutes driving you to your destination, but put you out after they can't convince you to not put on the monet... this place is funnnnnn-ky mad.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">I love it!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Case in point: last night I went out with my friend, Sara, her sister, Aliesheva, her friend, Shira, and her aunt, Aunty Yael. As it was Aunty Yael's last true night out and about in Jerusalem, we decided to make a big night out of it (which isn't saying much, since everywhere on the planet is mostly dead on a Monday night). We went to dinner, then for coffee and were about to go to a bar, but we had to wait on Aliesheva to get on the bus to head back to Ramat Beit Shemesh. Afterall, Aliesheva is only sixteen, and it wouldn't be the most responsible thing to traipse her into a bar with us.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">So there we were - minding our own business at the bus-stop when a guy, most obviously under the influence of this Jerusalem syndrome, comes up to us asking for money. Normally, being the mitzvah boy that I am, I would always give something to people asking for money - but this guy was the type who'd probably use the money for drugs or something, so I chose not to. I didn't know exactly what he was saying in the Ivrit-talk, so I just shook my head and said "lo" but he just stood in front of my shaking his cup over and over again. It was the most awkward thing you can possibly imagine. Finally, the guy gave up, looked at me with a look of loathing and moved on to Sara and did the same thing to her, then to her aunt, then to Shira. It's not that he was begging and possibly on drugs that was strange - it was that he was so persistent! He'd stand in front of each us for at least 3 minutes and keep insisting and mumbling something which sounded suspciously like "Hara!" when we wouldn't give in to his demands. Anyway, so Mr. Possibly-on-drugs Guy, after realizing none of us would entertain him fiscally, moved on to the other people at the bus-stop. Since all my attention had been diverted on focusing on Mr. Possibly-on-drugs Guy, I hadn't been paying attention to my neighbours at the bus-stop. And there was quite a Character there, I must tell you - a Character whom Mr. P-o-d guy made the unwise decision to move on to and harass for spare change.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Now spare me a moment to describe this Character to you in as vivid terms as I can, because he wasn't just a character. Oh no sir-ee. He was a Character... of the most colorful kind. He was dressed in suede electric-blue pants, a pink shirt, a purple bandana tied around his neck, a long blue necktie and to top it all off nicely... a pink cowboy hat perched comfortably on his 60 year old head. (It does sound terribly odd, but it suited this Character and the role he was about to play).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Now, the Character had no time for Mr. P-o-d's begging. In fact, he was tremendously annoyed by it. He quickly got up, and yelling at P-o-d in Ivrit-talk, he chased him down Yafo. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Naturally, we all started laughing - and me, uncontrollably. It was the most hilarious thing I'd ever seen in all of my nearly a year in this city, and I can tell you, I've seen a whole lot of hilarious things here. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">But that's not the end of the story.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">So after chasing Mr. P-o-d away, the Character comes back and seeing us laughing decides to entertain us. Standing with his feet apart, he does what can only be described as hip-replacement thrusting in the middle of Yafo, with Arab taxi drivers honking their horns at him and yelling at him in either Arabic or Hebrew - I'm not quite sure. Then... (brace yourself)... then, this Character had the audacity to start pointing at us and laughing his head off! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Only in Jerusalem...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">It was actually disturbing in a way, because I started to actually wonder if reality had gone topsy-turvy for a minute there and I wondered if we were somehow the crazy ones and the Character had become the sane one. But nonetheless, it was the funniest thing you can imagine, and when Aliesheva's bus came right then and she ran off to board it and we started walking away, the Character decided to follow us. As we were still in throes of uncontrollable laughter, the sight of him dancing and following us, while smiling and yelling in Hebrew, simply exacerbated the laughing situation and made it even funnier. We ran across the street and stopped to survey the Character. He kept right on dancing, and with a nod of his head, he ducked into Cafe Hillel and perhaps decided to entertain the patrons inside there.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">And that isn't even the end of the night, mind you... but I don't think I'll get into that, because I'm realizing, as I type this, that perhaps the reason I'm fitting in so well and loving everything so much is probably because... hmm. Maybe I have a touch of Jerusalem syndrome myself? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">The pot really does love to call the kettle black, doesn't it?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">My only hope is - if I ever disintegrate into becoming a Character in Jerusalem (as a direct result of having come totally under the influence of the Jerusalem Syndrome), may I never have to leave and re-gain my sanity.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">Being a crazy Jerusalem-ite seems much too exciting to have to revert to a life of monotonous normalcy back in the west.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">:-)</span></div>
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</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-45084113343579829402013-02-13T22:34:00.003-08:002013-02-13T22:35:28.206-08:00THE END<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">February 14th, 2013 - 2:28am. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This date and time will forever be remembered by me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After all these years of writing and re-writing and editing and re-editing, I've finally come to a close and finished the final two chapters and epilogue of "Avi Resurrected: Alive and lovin' it." True, I will probably go over it again tomorrow and do some editing and re-editing, but the fact is - those final two words have been typed: THE END. I've finished it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It is completed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I feel a sense of relief right now. Maybe also some tiredness in there as well. I'm searching my feelings and there is only a slight sense of accomplishment and pride in what I've done. Maybe I'm just tired cause it's so late. Or maybe I've talked about it so much/sent it to other people/sent out queries too prematurely to feel super excited. I don't know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But I'm done.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And this moment will never come again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So I had to come on here and capture it as best I could on this blog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tomorrow: maybe some editing, yes, but never again will I be able to type THE END on this book. It's officially finished.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yay me :)</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-16835950895288416092013-02-04T20:37:00.002-08:002013-02-04T20:39:03.562-08:00My first review<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ok - it's not exactly a professional book critique, but I received my first full-length review of my manuscript from one of my dear friends, Resa Gooding-Eshed, who's taken the time out to read it. I've had three previous critiques which were very positive (one from my writer-friend, <a href="http://www.racheleddey.com/" target="_blank">Rachel Eddy</a>, author of the hilarious novel "Running of the bride" released in 2012; another from a friend, Kirk John-Williams; and finally from my esteemed rabbi, Rabbi Marc D Angel), but this was the most in-depth response I've received so far, which has just tickled me pink and humbled me all at once. I've started sending out requests to literary agents (again) but am not finding the responses I wish I could get, and, so this was quite uplifting to read such a positive review.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The review came in the form of an e-mail which I received yesterday and runs thus: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>What can I say? This is the best relaxed reading I've done in a while. I'm totally enjoying this book and reading it slowly so I can catch every word written. But as I go along I just wanted to share my thoughts about it so far.</i></span></div>
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<strong><u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Observations::</i></span></u></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>You did a HUGE aamount of research in writing this book or you must be very knowledgeable about all this Jewish stuff. I'm amazed at how many Jewish "terms/references" are in here. I feel like I'm in my conversion class...just the Orthodox version :) Really good work!</i></span></div>
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<strong><u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Things I LOVED</i></span></u></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>1. Your style of writing is unlike ANY I have read thus far and I think I have read quite a bit in my lifetime. Your descriptions and explanations of events are so vivid it doesn't take any effort at all to bring to life the story in the reader's imaginations.Really effortless to read which makes it an added joy!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>2. In Chapter 2 I loved how you broke up the analysis for each character, Tzippy, Max and Natan, as they both got ready to encounter Avi for the first time. This is why I love reading because in a movie you would totally miss this!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>3. Loved the dialogue between Avraham and G-d. I think it will be a good reminder for readers to reflect on how often we abuse G-d and doubt what he says or promises us.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>4. I liked how you chose to use Avraham in the story. Once again you reminded us that he was the only one who actively sought G-d at a time when he was difificult to find....something I did not know but it's interesting to read it here in this context as it brings another side of the story of the Bible to life.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>5. Loved the way you littered your paragraphs with Hebrew using the English transliteration.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>6. I loved the way you started each chapter with a unique Bible verse. I think it really opens the chapter nicely and sets the tone of what to expect....really great work!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>That's my two pence for now....just absolutely brilliant work! You are a perfect mix of VS Naipaul meet Amos Oz with a twist of Rabbi Shmuley. I would say you're even better than any of them as your use of modern sattire and language revives their work (makes me feel like pullin out Oz's "Tale of Love and Darkness" and re reading after). Remember I was the first one to tell you that you are the BOMB when you win your Nobel Prize for Literature! :)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Do you even know how this made me felt? I've been smiling for the past two days and I can't stop! I know she's my friend, but those words really have bolstered me and made me more determined to fight and get my book out there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To my wonderful friend, Resa (and also to all the other who've taken the time out of their days and lives to read my manuscript), thank you for this!</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-33819395422607176272013-02-01T10:02:00.004-08:002013-02-01T10:09:56.318-08:00Multi-verse; multi-me<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am no scientist or philosopher - but I am an amateur enthusiast of both these fields, and when the notion of a multi-verse theory came to me, I was captivated, to say the least.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To quickly explain it to you (in my humble, layman's understanding!), the multi-verse theory posits that our universe is just one of many, many, many trillion-gajillions; ours is just one in a sea of universes so large that it makes the mind-boggling number of stars in our own universe seem like the number five. What are these other universes - what do they contain? Some scientists theorise that they are different realities and different possibilities of "what could be/what could've been". Some of these universes are supposed to be very akin to ours; others, absolutely different, with an entirely different set of physical laws holding them together (I'm supposing in universes where their basic laws of physics are very different from ours, there may be square planets, or incorporeal life, or no matter exists, or only anti-matter exists, or something so bizarre and odd, not even the most imaginative of us can possibly visualise the type of reality that exists there). Different universes, with different realities - utterly mind-shattering!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Within the multi-verse theory lies the assumption of parallel universes, where different realities - similar to our own, yet, different - are happening all at once. That is to say: the possibilities which we didn't choose in this universe are happening in another. For instance, in this universe/reality, I have chosen to sit here and type this blog; but in another universe/reality, I am reading a book, or driving, or even typing this blog, but chose a slightly different title to head this article. In another universe/reality, I'm a Nobel Laureate recipient. In another universe/reality, Hitler succeeded at his final solution for the Jews. In another universe/reality, Kim Jong Il rules the world. In another universe/reality, everything is upside down, and what we think is negative in this universe/reality, is positive in that universe/reality. The multi-verse theory puts forward a theory which assumes that there are so many possible options of realities. For every action we choose to not do, or for every thought we don't express, there is a reality where it is happening. All combinations of possibilities are probable and expressed in these alternate universes/realities.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sometimes I sit and think about this multi-verse theory and wonder about the other "me's" who probably exist. There may be billions of them - some very similar to me, others quite dissimilar (not only in terms of life-paths, but also in terms of personalities and character traits). Are they me? Are they just different expressions of myself, and still, integrally connected to me somehow? Or are they not me, and if they fell into my universe/reality would there be some sort of conundrum where our very existence is so diametrically opposed that we have to try to kill the other (<i>only one can live!</i> - cue the Hollywood soundtrack)? Very ominous, indeed, to think about these other "me's" who aren't quite Me. I'm sure that in another universe/reality there's one of me who's uber-successful at writing and has fulfilled all his dreams. Yet, in another universe/reality, there's also a very probable me who died at the age of nineteen, or is a bum on the street with no one to love me. There must even be a universe/reality where I was never born. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In an odd way, the conception of other me's gives Me a sense of warmth and gratefulness. I'm happy to imagine that in another universe/reality I'm the successful person I'm desperately striving to be in this life; but, more importantly, at the same time, the idea of another me makes Me grateful to know that I am living <i>this</i> life with all the wonderful people who constitute my life and who contribute to my life. I wouldn't trade my parents for any other; or my relatives for any other (ok - maybe some of them I'll trade, but they're mostly tolerable); or my friends for any other; or even my life experiences for any other. The weird thing about the multi-verse theory is that it makes me so happy to be Me, and not a version of myself who's unhappy to be me, or even a version of myself who's happy but not blessed with the experiences and people I've had/have. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, at the end of the day, the multi-verse theory (at least at present and as far as I know) is just that: a theory. We are only sure of this life we're living and so, while it's nice to fantasise about super-happy/uber-successful versions of ourselves, that's not the universe/reality we have to live in, so let's all "It's a wonderful life" things and get back to reality and realise: we've got it pretty good.</span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-39174839128267107652013-01-31T12:14:00.002-08:002013-01-31T19:38:05.146-08:00Watchwords<div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All my management texts - those about leadership and sociology and human behavior and influence and negotiation - come to one solid and final conclusion about the issue of people: there is <b>no</b> one defining characteristic which makes a person more successful than the other. In my own small world, I've come to realize that what determines success is specific and unique to each person. Strengths and weaknesses vary by individual: the surmountable and insurmountable challenges of one man/woman will never coincide exactly with those of another. We have to find our own weaknesses and try to find ways to surmount them (or even use them to our advantage) - and we have to find our own strengths and find ways to harness them for the fulfilment of ourselves. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In my specific world, I have to face the challenges of being able to manage my time properly and wisely, being overly-sensitive, being unmotivated, being quick to throw the towel in on projects if I don't manage to get it off the ground in one go and being afraid to speak of dreams for fear of being ridiculed. I have to learn that while my project is part of me, it isn't all of me - and a rejection of my project is not a rejection of my self-worth (despite how hard it is to make that distinction at times). My challenges are all interlinked and they impact each other. It's a domino effect. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But this year - 2013 - while I haven't been particularly sorted in any of these areas, I've managed to push myself a bit more into attempting to sort them. True, I could do more, but I'm making these crucial and (oftentimes, most) difficult first step in trying to surmount them - or finding ways around them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Focus</b>, <b>discipline</b>, <b>diligence</b>, <b>determination</b>, <b>gratefulness</b>, <b>organisation</b> and <b>time-management</b> are my watchwords for this year. More than the dreamy goals I've set, I realise that these specific watchwords are what are needed to guide my very blasé and easily scattered and shattered self into staying on track in achieving my goals. I've chosen these words because are specific to my situation and my personality. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>Focus</u>: because I'm easily distracted and always find ways to make excuses to procrastinate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>Discipline</u>: because in losing focus and in becoming distracted, I lose structure, and structure is key to success. But it takes discipline to remain focused, structured and successful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>Diligence</u>: because success will never happen overnight. It takes a constant approach - a constant and diligent nurturing of your dreams to make them come true.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>Determination</u>: because you can't expect anyone else to open the doors for you, or keep you on track. You have to do it yourself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>Gratefulness</u>: because in being grateful for what I have, I'll remember to not be discontented by what I don't have - and I'd remember all the wonderful doors I've already come through and dreams I've already accomplished and things I didn't succeed at which compositely came together to make me who I am today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>Organisation</u>: because I am naturally a scattered and unorganised person, and while this is not often a criteria for most creative people, for me, I need this to make me keep within those watchwords above.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>Time management</u>: because I always think, if things are going perfect right now, I can put it off tomorrow and spend the rest of the day moping that I'm not being productive. Time management involves splicing the day into segments and accomplishing something within each segment. While I may not succeed at a particular segment, at least I won't put a mess of things off for tomorrow, because I can just start on something new in the next segment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My watchwords for this year are all inextricably linked (as you can probably tell from my explanations for choosing them above). They are specifically Nick-centered. I'm going to write them down and put them on my desk and ever so often take a look at them - hopefully they'd keep me grounded: focused, diligent, determined, grateful and time-managed. And more than that - I know they will guide me into bettering myself and finding ways to accomplish what I'd like to accomplish. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What are your watchwords for the year? What do you need to do to manage your time better and be most efficient every day?</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-29061772520693195352013-01-30T21:45:00.001-08:002013-01-30T21:49:45.262-08:00 Publishing process - May it be easier the second time around<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<ul class="weebly-content-area" id="secondlist" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; margin: 0px; min-height: 380px; padding: 0px; position: relative !important; text-align: left; width: 960px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">When I completed my first manuscript in my very early twenties, I was ecstatic. It was somewhat autobiographical, and I was so </span><em style="line-height: 19px; position: relative; text-align: justify;">unbelievably </em><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">happy. I still remember that day I typed in the words THE END, and then, as an after-thought, I jotted in the time and date of completion: 2:20AM - January 16th, 2006.</span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">I came across this manuscript, tucked comfortably away in the Documents file on my computer at the of 2012, and feeling nostalgic after not having seen my creation for maybe four years or more, I figuratively dusted off the old book and settled down for a nice read. Unfortunately, I couldn't exactly enjoy my read of first baby: instead, all the thoughts of the laborious and emotionally draining process of searching for a literary agent came flooding to my mind. My writing is never very genre-specific, so I understand the automatic aversion within the rigidly structured, label-loving literary world - but the struggle for authors, particularly first-time authors, to capture the support of a literary agent can be the absolute most painful thing a writer ever has to go through. Ok, literary agents are all generally quite nice, and in their defense, they generally tend to stick to certain genres because they've carved out niches and made the appropriate in the publishing world geared towards those specific types of books. Sadly, the rejection they send can (and oftentimes does) make a writer feel consistently more and more despondent - eventually resulting in many an author tucking away their work into files and folders and packing them away into the recesses of their minds. </span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">For writers, writing is a joy: a true expression of their innermost selves. The putting together of a manuscript - whether the result is excellent, mediocre, or awful as hell - brings a writer such an incredible feeling of accomplishment and fulfilment. You look at the manuscript like it's your child. You've nurtured it; you've made sacrifices to write it; you've given it your all - and no matter what the world may think, it's yours, it's wonderful, and it's perfection. </span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">And then comes the publishing process - and you realise that the process of birthing your manuscript was actually the easiest part of the whole thing and would probably be the last time you'd feel happy until you get signed by a publisher, or start writing again.</span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">Because, now comes everything that has nothing to do with creativity. Now comes the agonising waiting, and painful rejections, and crazy bureaucracy that sometimes you think was formulated for no reason other than to frustrate and annoy writers. First you have to find a literary agent. Then you're going to be told that your manuscript needs to be edited. After that you're going to have to deal with being rejected by publishers. And interspersed throughout it all, you're going to have to find the ability to patient, and if you can't be patient? - well, you're just going to have to learn how to be, the hard way.</span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">You either come of it all with a book deal, or you come out of it without a book deal. Either way, the emotional strain and unnecessary anxiousness would have taken it's toll. No writer is exempt from this painful step when it comes to publishing (unless they go that taboo route of self-publishing and are thus treated as outcasts in the publishing world); even JK Rowling - the most commercially successful author of all time - writes openly of the constant rejections she received from every literary agency she contacted. This crucial first-step of finding a lit agent (which some hypothesise is an unnecessary layer in this complicated procedure) is the most harrowing of them all as it is the most difficult to check-off on your list of getting published. Like an upside down pyramid, there's a tiny, narrow opening into the publishing scene, through the rejection-happy conduit of the literary agent. After that, things get generally easier. The stamp of "represented by" (insert agent's name here) gives an author a sort of visa in their literary passport which allows them to travel freely - vertically and horizontally - throughout the publishing world.</span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">Some are lucky, however. A wonderful, plucky friend of mine, came across an editor and managed to inveigle a book contract for her excellent manuscript after nearly two years of trying to get signed by an agent. Yes, it is possible to by-pass the literary agent step, but one has to be well-researched, and, more importantly, well-connected in the publishing world. For the vast majority of writers, we are going to have to fight through the established channels and accept the status quo as it has been since books began to flow freely throughout the world and writing no longer became a purely creative process.</span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">In my first attempt at writing all those years ago, I struggled to find an agent, and, like the thousands of other writers who went before and came after me, I sent out queries willy-nilly and received the expected "Thank you, but this is not right for us. But keep in mind, this is a highly subjective industry and while we may not be right to represent your work, someone else will" standard rejection time after time after time. Of course, I also received the occasional "Yes! We accept!" from the conmen who abound in publishing like they do in any other field (be aware of them! Any literary agent who charges to read your manuscript, or accepts you unconditionally without having read your manuscript in it's entirety, or will conflictingly act a money-collecting editor is, undoubtedly, not a literary agent and is just in this to wheedle money out of you), and I was lucky to receive critiques from two literary agents - one of whom actually became a regular pen pal of mine (the late Harry Preston - may he rest in peace). </span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">I'm the sort of person who isn't very thick-skinned, and so, after a month of non-stop querying, I threw in the towel, shed a tear or two, and put my manuscript away. Did I give up too easily? Perhaps. But remember, I was only twenty-two at the time - and very inexperienced about how things worked in the publishing world. I will be honest with you, my writing wasn't the best thing out there: my manuscript was a bit messy and not very focused - there were parts which were very literary and very avant garde, but reading it today at twenty-older-than-twenty-two, I can ascertain that it wasn't the best thing out there and it reflected my immaturity. The fact that I managed to capture the attention of two literary agents and become long-term friends with one of them really was quite lucky! </span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">So although my first manuscript reminds me of that not-so-good month of fighting for a literary agent and being left down in the dumps and feeling rejected, I am proud of it - and I stand by it. It is a part of who I am, as a writer and as a person. As I said, it was a somewhat autobiographical piece of work, and having captured that special moment in my life in my manuscript makes it all the more cherished to me. Writing, like any skill, can only be honed with time and with an undue amount of practice. Read the writings of any writer at an early stage in their career and then read them again in five years, or ten years, and you are amazed at the transformation and ripening of skill and ability. I am of the school "Everything happens for a reason", and my reason in writing my first manuscript was multiple-fold: </span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">1. I had to learn to not be so sensitive; a rejection of my query to an agent means that agent simply doesn't have the contacts to connect my work to (and their loss, at the end of the day, right?! Ha!),</span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">2. I deepened and honed my writing skills - in reading the beginning of my manuscript, and reading the end, it is an obvious evolution in the voice, tone and maturity of the writer. Furthermore, in comparing writing from today to my first manuscript, it's almost like reading the work of two entirely different people (although the humor is still most assuredly mine - no matter how immature I was then, and how mature my writing is now!). I can't wait to write something when I am ninety years old! - definite Nobel Laureate in Literature, definite!</span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">3. I made friends with Harry Preston - a brilliant writer who was published at the early age of fifteen, and went on to write way into his eighties. The advice, correspondence and overall friendship we developed will be something I will cherish forever. Had I not been despondent about rejected by him (and all those other literary agents), he wouldn't have continued correspondence with me, because he was an encouraging fellow all-around.</span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">So, it all happens for a reason - or in this case three.</span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">But I'm once again at a juncture - I've written my second manuscript and very nearly done and ready to move on from the creative portion of publishing (writing the story) and onto the daunting and tedious portion of publishing (trying to get published). I'm excited, and a bit apprehensive, but I'm not the thin-skinned person I was at twenty-three (God, I hope not. I hope I don't get my first rejection and say to myself "So it's happening again? Better give up while you're ahead of yourself, Nick." I hope I don't have a hard fight to get recognised, to get accepted by an agent, to begin the process of publishing. As much as I've spent all of this blog touting my first manuscript and how much I love it - I also love my second manuscript, which reflects a deeper part of my soul, and a different aspect of who I am. It, too, is my baby - and I love them both.</span><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">As I begin this process again, I hope to succeed - please keep your fingers crossed for me. </span></span></ul>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-89261261080560541122012-09-25T12:54:00.004-07:002013-01-30T21:49:53.744-08:00Atonement musings<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Since Elul began last month, I've purposely been doing a lot of introspection and, in many ways, have found myself changing - ever so subtly and slightly, but changing nonetheless. It's not so much that I'm learning new things: the positive things I need to implement in my life and the negative things I need to omit from my life, are things which I have always known and things I knew I needed to do. Call it laziness/procrastination/downright complacency, I've just never done what I needed to do. But Elul came about, and, with it, came a forceful push to look at myself properly, and, more than that, get the ball rolling on changing. With the introspection came, for the first time in my life, a hand-in-hand approach to change. I married the two together in my head, and, so, couldn't do one without the other. It was a conscious decision to do this - and while the journey of introspection will never be over, my current push for introspection/self-evaluation/change was all geared towards the coming of this awe-inspiring Day of Atonement which begins in a mere few hours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Yom Kippur: the final realization of these past six weeks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I've been thinking alot about perfection in general and I posted a blog about this elusive state of perfection a few weeks ago. Perfection, to me, is a very relative and personal thing. What can be considered to be perfection by one, is perhaps utter imperfection to another. We all have different standards, different goals, different outlooks, different purposes, different abilities, different talents, different experiences, different personalities, and, as such, we all have differing views on what perfection entails. A six year old child draws a picture of a horse and, to her, that is perfection. Leonardo da Vinci paints a painting of a mysterious woman, and to him (and many in the world) that is the (or, one) overarching standard of perfection. Much as personalities, values and goals change with time, so too does personal measures of perfection. The six year old child who drew that picture of a horse may look back when she is ten and be astounded that she ever thought that was the highest she could achieve. Perfection (or, let's use the word contentment, but to me, they are interchangable as they are both desired states where we wish do to be, but oftentimes, are not) is a clean, orderly, yet cluttered room and rainy weather - whereas to someone else, it would be sunny weather and a minimalist decor. Perfection depends on the person. Happiness depends on the individual. I'm not sure if there is an overriding Standard of Perfection somewhere out there in the universe, but somehow I don't think there is. I think life is simply too varied for there to be a particular, generic standard. Life isn't the ISO; it is not always ordered like a stately British manor. Life is chaotic and unpredictable; life abounds with differences and uniqueness. This is what makes Life beautiful: that in it's chaotic and many varied differences, life doesn't present us with only one type of perfection, because Life has seen to it that we are all different. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Perfection is in the eyes of the beholder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">In many ways, Judaism as a spiritual pathway agrees with me on this point. We are not given a model of someone to emulate and follow. There is no WWJD equivalent in Judaism; there is no hadith to tell us which side of the bed we should sleep on or how many women we can marry because our chief prophet did so. Instead, the Tanakh captures the stories of very many individuals, each of whom went through very different, very unqiue experiences; each of whom were faced with different goals to accomplish, different hurdles to cross; each of whom whose stories captured their imperfections and failures, but, in so doing, highlighted their greatness precisely because of their ever-steady quest to achieve their missions. There was never One Prophet in Judaism - there were Prophets and great people; each of whom had a unique story and a unique purpose to fulfill. Ask a roomful of Jews who the most important prophet in Judaic history was and you'd be greeted a compendium of answers: Moses, Abraham, Jacob, Deborah, Herzl. We were not given one man/woman to look up to - we were given many. Many men and many women, whose greatness was in their journeys, whose greatness was in their attempts to achieve their missions/unique perfections, whose greatness was in their constant determination to try, to try and to try again. This is what makes Moses, Ruth, David, Abraham, Daniel, Esther and all the rest great. This is what made them worthy of being remembered. They didn't try to emulate anyone else; they were ever faithful to charting their own course/story and trying to achieve their personal best/perfection. This is what we must emulate: we must find our own unique destinies, our own unique missions and try to fulfill it using our unique abilities, skills and talents. God did not intend for me to emulate anyone else, because He made me who I uniquely am, just as much as he didn't intend for you to be Sarah or Joshua. If He had wanted us to emulate any of the great prophets or sages or great people who populate the wide scope of Jewish history, well, He would have made us exactly like them, in exactly their time, with exactly their life circumstances, and exactly their genetic make-up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I am who I am. You are who you are. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Find your unique perfection and strive to embrace it, while being inspired by others, but not trying to be them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Yom Kippur, to me, is more than just my atonement of my past transgressions. It's the culmination of an annual journey - a day to do more than beg forgiveness. It's about realizing that mistakes made in the past are just that, past. Judaism is a verb - it is a religion of doing more than it is a religion of faith. It is easy to have faith, easy to believe, easy to know what's wrong and right - but it is much more difficult to do, to act. Forgiveness is not just in saying sorry, it's about doing sorry - showing that one has realized the mistakes of the past and will actively not seek to repeat them in the future. Yom Kippur is the final day of a six-week journey that we are blessed with each year to look closely at ourselves and to evaluate where we are and where we want to be. It's the time when we pick up that puerile picture of the horse we drew this past year and realize that we can do even better, and, thus, set an even higher level of perfection for ourselves. </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-49786720893483893422012-09-08T23:45:00.001-07:002012-09-08T23:46:25.384-07:00Perfection<h3 style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Attempting perfection is worth more than achieving perfection. It's the effort that counts.</span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(A personal pep-talk for myself)</span></h4>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In my life I've found that I've always had this odd preoccupation with "perfection". Not in the conventional sense of perfection in everything I do (because truth be told, I'm oddly attracted to flaws), but rather perfection in the direction I want my life to take. I guess "perfection" is not the right word to describe what I'm looking for - maybe I'm not that good at writing as I think I am. How can I explain it properly? When I was younger, I'd chart out my week by breaking it down into little bits and pieces and have a rating system down next to each bit and piece. Then, I'd cumulatively sum the score and and rate the day as a whole based on the scores for each bit and piece: was it an amazing day?, an ok day?, a day which fell below my projections? I actually felt fulfilled in making these timetables, and a lot more satisfaction in checking it off at the end of the day. I still make these sort of lists in my 20's, primarily concerned with those areas of my life that need structuring: my writing, my studying, my Hebrew, my Jewish studies, my eating, my exercising, my smoking; but it was in those early years that my list-making compulsion bordered on the somewhat... obsessive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's not the list-making that I want to write about tonight: it's this penchant for wanting to compartmentalise all the various aspects and areas of my life, and, thus be able to ascertain whether or not I'm succeeding in where I want to be in life, where I want to go. It's a sort of control mechanism, and over the years I've come to realise that in trying to structure things - while it does bring me a great amount of satisfactory joy - I'm never exactly able to reach the lofty, albeit daily, goals I set for myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm not an unhappy person in the micro-sense of the word. But when I step out of myself and look at everything from the point of view of the big picture, it can and does make me worried and somewhat... afraid, simply because I hardly ever achieve what I want to achieve. It's a matter of discipline, of inspiration, of dedication, of motivation, of focus - and the sad thing is, it's so easy for me to lose all of these sources. I'm so easily distracted. So were I as fastidious as I used to be in my childhood, I'd probably be rating each day as highly unfulfilled. It's a sad truth, but it's a truth - one I must come to terms with and accept, and even more importantly, try to change.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have to understand that if I falter in one minute, it doesn't matter. The upcoming minute is a fresh new start. There is no need to throw the towel in on everything if one tiny bit is compromised. Just dust yourself off, Nick, and try again. When I look back on all my days, as separate composites within a greater whole, I realise that the days where I at least try, are the days where I can, in hindsight, feel proud.</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Take writing for instance. I've divided this wide area into four distinct groupings: working on my book, blogging, writing in my diary, and writing articles. In the past 48 hours, I've managed to do three out of the four. Awesome check next to those three, resulting in a cumulative score of awesome, resulting in a very happy Nick.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm not sure what the purpose of this particular blog is: is it about my quest for daily and overall "perfection" (for want of a much better word), or is it about my weird compulsive trait of listing and comparing and determining results? Perhaps it's a bit of both. I'm probably always going to be making lists and resolving to be better in the next minute/hour/day/week/month, and I'm probably always going to falter in achieving these goals I set, but I've got to try. My parents are both quite organised people, and I suppose this desire to structure my life is a genetic boon (or flaw, depending upon how you look at it), but the attempt to accomplish my targets is a struggle I'm going to have to embrace. It's the attempt that counts, right? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the past few days, in re-reading the current manuscript I'm working on, I'm finding the writing not as up to par as I thought it was ten months ago. Have I grown in that time? Have I progressed as a writer such that I'm no longer satisfied with what was considered "perfection" back then? I know that in writing, it makes no sense to continuously and endlessly edit, because I'm always going to find errors and find things I want to change, link, develop, omit, add. I know there will come a time when I'll have to say "Ok! This is it! Time to get a move on with literary agents, etc.", but I don't think this is what's going on right now. I've ignored my manuscript for the past few months - perhaps on purpose, but I'm not ashamed to throw in the possibility that it was sheer lack of motivation which led to the aforementioned abandonment - and this current re-reading isn't leaving me a very happy camper. True, yesterday wasn't a very good day for me, as my sleep cycle had been wack (as usual; this is another area of my life which is in desperate - extremely desperate! - need of fixing), so maybe that's why I thought my writing wasn't very good, but I'm also reading V.S Naipaul's <i>Among the believers</i> and I can compare the two styles, and, truth be told, my writing isn't even near his level. And the thing is, and I'm not being egotistical here, I know I have the talent and ability to write with comparable flair. Yes, there were bits of my manuscript which still stood out as "perfection" but so many others are leaving the "imperfect" aftertaste in my mouth... I don't think I'm being too harsh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Writing is an art form, it's a skill, and like any creative subject, it needs practice to be properly honed and perfected. The writer of today is going to be a vastly different writer in a year, or two, and even more vastly different in a decade. Creativity is never going to be the same, and the artist will forever be growing and moving upwards.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I admit, in my weird quest for perfection, in the past few hours, I've thought about abandoning my manuscript and starting on something else. But that's what I've done all my life. When "perfection" hasn't been achieved, I give up and let go and wait for another time to try again. I can't do that now, can I? I've nursed this story for so long (granted, I haven't really put enough time into it, and, in hindsight, I haven't truly dug deep and can go a whole lot deeper), so why do that? It's time to just do it. Just do it, Nick. Just stop being lazy, just find the motivation, just dig deep and do it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Attempt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then, when I look back next week, I can feel fulfilled; even if I didn't exactly reach my targeted mark for the week, I can, at least, have that feeling of satisfaction of knowing: at least you attempted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And who knows, maybe I might succeed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So the goals will be set (as per usual), but I'm going to make the effort after setting the goals - I'm going to try.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-3768503642839470452012-05-23T03:04:00.002-07:002012-09-08T23:47:43.688-07:00I am officially a non-smoker...<div style="text-align: justify;">
... well, almost, anyway.</div>
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<br /></div>
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For a long time I've been thinking about giving up cigarettes; as much as I enjoy smoking (and I most certainly do), I've decided - after much deliberation - to put the lighter away, throw the cigarettes into the bin and just stop. </div>
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And that's what I did today: I've officially quit smoking.</div>
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Cigarettes, we've had a joyous time together, but enough is enough.</div>
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That's not to say I just woke up this morning, decided to stop and boom!, all my cravings just magically went out the door and was immediately transformed into a non-smoker. Not in the slightest. This was a planned and entirely deliberate - but also extremely private - decision that I made for myself. Throughout my long years of being a smoker, the compulsion to stop almost always found its way into my head; I'd always plan ahead to quit, but somehow just never did. "Ok, I'll stop on my birthday/on New Years Day/after exams/for Rosh haShanah/on Sunday morning/on Bastille Day/whenever the sun is shining." Quitting smoking, like expecting Godot to show up, seemed a very pleasant thing to plan for, but would never truly come to fruition.</div>
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Yes, I enjoyed smoking, but the long-term, negative effects of this pastime of mine were never lost on me; I knew I had to stop. I knew the odious repercussions that inevitably come attached with being smoker, and now, today, being a (somewhat) former smoker, I am not going to list those health problems here, primarily because, as a (somewhat) former smoker, I know there is nothing - <b><i><u>NOTHING</u></i></b> - more annoying than a non-smoker, former smoker or (somewhat) former smoker coming to a smoker in almost gleeful, smug, self-righteous pretend-concern and outlining those possible health repercussions of smoking. </div>
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"Why do you smoke? Don't you know you can get lung cancer? Or emphysema? Or throat cancer? Or tongue cancer? Or mouth cancer? Or esophageal cancer? Do you think you weren't loved enough as child? Is that why you started smoking? You really should try to stop. It's not good for you. Plus, you just burnt me with you cigarette."</div>
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No shit, Sherlock. I didn't know. Thanks for telling me.</div>
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(Also, at this point, let me just pause to apologize to the very many people I did indeed burn with my cigarettes over the years. I am profusely sorry. When you start smoking, you are welcome to attempt to return the favor - but as a former smoker, please note that I might just look at you with concern, and almost gleefully, smugly and self-righteously outline to you the possible health repercussions of smoking).</div>
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Yes, it can be annoying when others try to force it upon a smoker that he/she should stop. </div>
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Just don't.</div>
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If someone wants to stop smoking, or to attempt to stop smoking, it will be their decision that they will make on their own on their time. Just let them be. Hand them an ashtray and direct them to the smoking section, but please, curb the smoking-will-kill-you speeches.</div>
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<i>We know.</i></div>
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But I digress. Back to the point.</div>
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Me: a non-smoker.</div>
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I started smoking when I was sixteen. Yes, people may say I was peer-pressured (I wasn't - although I was, at the time, dating a smoker, and this did directly contribute to my initial foray into the world of smoking); people may say I was trying to be cool (bullshit - I'm cool whether or not a delicious menthol cigarette is dangling from my lips and anyone who's met me can attest to this glorious fact); people may say I have an oral fixation (which, I admit, I do - just take a look at the dozens of chewed-up pen covers in my desk draw); or they may even say that I suffered from a lack of love in my childhood which caused me to turn to this awful habit (parents get the blame for a whole lot - but come on, blaming them for smoking? That's a tad bit unfair - and I'm all for blaming my parents for everything. Just not this. This was all me). </div>
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The truth is, I started smoking because, plain and simple, I loved cigarettes. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I love the smell of cigarette smoke.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I love the smell of a fresh pack of cigarettes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I just love cigarettes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Growing up, my maternal grandfather was a smoker, and there was nothing in the world I thought smelt better than the fragrant cigarette-y smell he left in his wake. Perhaps it is genetic: a disposition towards smoking, because I just loved, loved, <i>loved</i> the smell of cigarettes as a child. But then again, perhaps it's not genetic, because except for my grandfather, no one on my mother's side are smokers. At the end of the day, however, this is neither here nor there: the fact remains, I was attracted to the smell of cigarettes, and so, I think it was inevitable that I would eventually succumb to my fascination with the smell and resultantly become a smoker. Coupled with this was the whole romanticism of smoking; the idealism of the act: there is something very appealing about that slim, delicate stick hanging tantalizingly at the side of a mouth - <i>my</i> mouth. It made me feel grown-up and intelligent; after all, every writer smoked - didn't Hemmingway smoke? And what about Paul Sheldon of Stephen King's <i>Misery</i>, whose ritual of smoking only after completing a manuscript had managed to pique my adolescent, smoker-to-be imagination? Holding a lit cigarette and going through that ritual of Cigarette-to-mouth, Inhale, Deep, Exhale, Repeat, made me feel rebellious and smart, mysterious and cool all at once. As I continued smoking, I began to enjoy the taste of the tobacco - ascertaining which brands of cigarettes appealed to my taste-buds, and eventually settling on a preferred brand and flavor (I started out with Du Maurier regulars, then switched to Du Maurier menthols, then Benson & Hedges menthols, then finally choosing Dunhill menthols and Marlboro menthols as my preferred choices). Cigarettes were physically satisfying: the feel of the smoke entering my mouth and ever so slightly burning as I inhaled it into my throat and lungs brought me the most delicious feeling of marvelousness which can never be translated into words for the non-smoker to ever understand. The smell of the cigarette smoke - which had been my initial pull - became only part of my reason for falling in love with this delicious (and, admittedly, dangerous - but for reasons other than health, which I will elucidate on further) habit; now it was the taste, the feel and the look of the thing, and when something is so all-encompassingly satisfying, it becomes more than just an habit: it becomes something you depend upon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As a (somewhat) former smoker, I think it necessary at this juncture to admit the most embarrassing thing of all, the real danger of my smoking: I became so dependent on cigarettes that, for the past twelve years, they governed my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You hear stories of people hooked on meth, cocaine, heroin and all these other drugs and you automatically think to yourself: can a person really become so addicted to something? I'm not at all equating my fixation on cigarettes with the horrors that drug addicts go through - but being a (somewhat) former smoker, I can, to some extent, understand why and how it is a person can become addicted to a substance (drugs, gambling, sex, food, etc., hell, we humans can get addicted to anything, really!); and I can understand, how, eventually, that thing can consume a person's life. Cigarettes may not be as harmful or as devestatingly addictive as drugs or alcohol, but it does cause a dependency which can be equally as controlling. The first thing I'd do most mornings is smoke; the last thing I'd do before bed was smoke. My days were filled with 3 minute slots of smoking where I'd manage to inhale just shy of full pack of 20's. If there was family around, I'd find ways to leave the house or to dismiss them in order to smoke (though my parents know I smoke, I've never had the balls to do so in front of them); I'd make up excuses to go outside, or go to the store - something, <i>anything</i>, just to get my cigarette to my lips. Cigarettes became more than just something I did to relax, or to unwind, or to just have a time-out: my days revolved around when I smoked. I smoked when I was bored, I smoked when I was having fun. I smoked when I drove, I smoked when I walked. I smoked when I was relaxed, I smoked when I was stressed. I smoked and I smoked and I smoked - every day, for twelve years, I consumed at least one cigarette. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We are a fragile race, us humans; it is easy for us to fall into a routine, to develop habits... to become addicted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For less than a year, up until March of this year, I took ambien (the sleeping pill), at first infrequently, and then, almost every day. Ambien is marketed as a marvelous sleep aid (and it is, when used in the proper capacities): not particularly strong, it allows one to drift off to sleep, but doesn't knock one out with a punch that leaves one groggy and glassy-eyed the next day. Rather, ambien lulls a person to sleep and regulates sleep patterns. Much touted as a drug which one cannot become addicted to, ambien seems like the perfect sleep aid, almost too good to be true. And it is: <i>seemingly</i> perfect and <i>almost</i>, but not quite, good. You see, there is this tiny window of... opportunity, shall we call it?... where, after taking ambien, you can experience the most delicious high ever. At first, when I took ambien, I'd crawl straight into bed and did not know about the high as I'd just fall asleep. But one day after taking ambien, I didn't go under my covers; instead, I picked up my cigarettes (damn you, cigarettes!) and rather than falling asleep, I experienced the high of a lifetime (or at least my very sheltered lifetime): the ambien high. All inhibitions are lost: phone-calls are made (that you can't exactly remember doing the next day); emails are written (that you can't exactly remember doing the next day); Facebook statuses are updated (that you can't exactly remember the next day); a bottle of wine is finished (that you can't exactly remember doing the next day); pasta is eaten (that you can't exactly remember doing the next day) - wonderfully asinine things are done as the ambien magic grips you, causing you to drop all inhibitions in the moment, but bringing on a surge of powerful remorse the next day as you painfully (but not always) recollect the things you did the under before.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I became so entrenched in the routine of taking ambien - no longer to fall asleep, but now to experience this unnatural high. It became a routine for me, and nights when I didn't have any ambien felt wasted. As the days slipped into weeks, and then into months, I realized that I was addicted to the high; not to the ambien itself. While in normal doses ambien doesn't leave a person groggy, I was abusing it so frequently that my days would pass by like a dream. I read up on ambien addiction (yes, it is possible to become addicted - despite the manufacturers' grand claims otherwise) and I realized that I was possibly on my way to becoming an ambien addict. Ambien addicts are unable to fall asleep without ambien (I hadn't reached that level just yet, as I would manage to get to bed, even without the ambien and it's accompanying high), ambien addicts experience awful nightmares when they manage to sleep without it (I only, usually, have very pleasant dreams - unless, of course, I ate something particularly sour right before bed. One can never have pleasant dreams when one's stomach is churning), and, most importantly, ambien addicts experience painful withdrawals when they stay away from it (which I never experienced). Given that I'd experienced none of these things, I definitely was not (yet) an ambien addict.. Friends would joke and call me a junkie, and though I scoffed (and still scoff) at the idea, the truth is, I probably would have eventually ended up thus had I not gone to Israel in March and made the decision to go there sans ambien. I don't think the situation was that precarious, to be perfectly honest, because when I left Trinidad, I had no problems falling asleep, and, indeed, for the first few weeks, managed to regulate my sleep-cycle according to Israel time quite easily, waking up bright and early each day and going to bed at reasonable nightly hours. I didn't even think about ambien at all, and it was only when I returned home that it hit me: I didn't have any ambien for over six weeks, and you know what, Nick? - that's fine. But then my ultimate test came: I found an ambien the day after I returned, lurking ominously on my bedside table in an innocent clear white plastic bag. I was tempted to throw it away, but I wanted to see: was this really worth it? Was I really so enamored of the ambien high? I knew it was a dangerous game to play, but for old times sake, before bedtime, I popped it in my mouth and went through the old, familiar feeling of high. I very vaguely remember making phone calls whilst on this most recent binge, but when I woke up the next morning, I came to the final realization: I didn't need this. It was fun, yes, but it was keeping me back. The mortifying after-effect of cleaning up whatever uninhibited mess I'd made the night before (the odd Facebook statuses, the querulous emails, the ranting phone calls) coupled with that dazed feeling which accompanied me for most of the day absolutely and resolutely cut any and all desires I harbored for ambien.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was completely, totally and utterly over my fascination with ambien. It was as simple as that, and though it's only been a little over six weeks since I stopped taking ambien regularly (and only a week and two days since I last sampled it), the end synopsis remains the same: ambien and I have parted ways and thankfully, it was a most amicable split.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After this epiphany, I began to reflect on the issue of addiction as a whole. True, I'm not and was not an actual ambien addict, but I found a tagline, which, to some may seem silly, but it's a mantra which I think is applicable in every potentially negative situation: Is it worth it? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've used this line on myself many times: when shopping for superfluous things, when gearing up for an argument, when pausing by KFC - I ask myself, "Is it worth it?", and more often than not, my mind answers me with a quiet "No", which, later on (provided I've listened to my mind), leads to me feeling very satisfied that I didn't waste money on unnecessary clothes, or waste an hour arguing, or gobble down the KFC that would automatically perch it's fatty self around my midsection.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Is it worth it?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Pretty simple.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now, as you may have guessed, I do have a rather addictive personality, and there are many things which can hook me, be they ambien, cigarettes or the host of other (thankfully, non-substance) things, which I won't mention at this time to bore you with the trivialities of my life unconnected to this particular post. My little ditty of "Is it worth it?" worked with ambien, with shopping, with the associated fat which sneakily shadows the unhealthy foods I sometimes (ok, oftentimes) choose to eat...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">... but what about the biggest addiction in my life: cigarettes?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Would my miracle cure of "Is it worth it?" work there, too?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Perhaps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's worth a try, isn't it?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of course, I'm not puerile enough to think that this would be an addiction I can beat on my own with my little mantra. As powerful as "Is it worth it?" may have been to work at beating, curbing and preventing little hiccups (even a big hiccup like my ambien phase), with cigarettes I know I need something stronger and more powerful - because this addiction is not merely psychological like the others, there is also the tangible and very physical aspect of this addiction, that is to say, that all-consuming, powerful nicotine, which hooks the smoker and reels him in. Yes, "Is it worth it?" is going to play a part, but I need an accomplice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Which brings me to today: May 22nd 2012 - today, I started the Nicoderm patch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am officially a non-smoker... well, almost anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They say to get over any addiction, you need to get through the toughest hurdle: the first three days; and then, the second toughest hurdle: the ensuing three weeks. Get through those and everything will be easy as pie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But then again, while you may overcome the addiction, you are, after all, still an addict. The temptation is still there and probably always will be. Which is why you have to keep reminding yourself why you chose to no longer indulge in your particular drug of choice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My reasons are varied, and, admittedly, very cliche. In no particular order of importance, they are as follows:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1. <u>Health reasons:</u> I find my laugh to no longer be as easy as it once was. I have a smoker's laugh - there is rattling, throaty, wheezy sound which laces what used to be an easy, pleasant laugh. While I don't suffer from any sort of short-breath, I do notice that my chest seems congested and I am slightly phlegm-y at times in my lungs. My gums and lips have darkened as a result of my smoking as well, and while this is a purely cosmetic reason, I've grouped it in here, because, obviously, clearly, that is not good.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2. <u>Smell:</u> While I would probably always love the smell of cigarette smoke and cigarettes in general, I have to admit, I do not, under any circumstances, like the lingering smell of old cigarette smoke. I used to smoke in my room, but in 2010, I made the concerted effort to stop and haven't since done so. Cigarettes, when fresh, have a very appealing scent to my nostrils, but the the staleness of old cigarette smoke is not something I particularly like. The smoke clings to one's clothes, one's hair, one's body and to be perfectly frank, it's just gross. Of course, I still would kiss a smoker, and, would still very much enjoy kissing a smoker - but I'm tired of waking up with the taste of last night's cigarette's on my breath. I love when I don't drive my car for a couple days and it's been washed and there's no stale cigarette-y smell permeating the interior of my car - but I hate when I open the door and see those little specks of white cigarette ashes all over the place and am greeted with stale cigarette smell. I hate when I put my finger to my nose and am confronted by the smell of cigarettes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3. <u>Vanity:</u> There are no visible wrinkles in my skin (fingers crossed!), but I know that a forgone conclusion for smokers is that one's skin ages prematurely. Not to mention, my right index fingernail has a yellowish tinge, which, I'm told is an indicator of a smoker. Furthermore, my teeth: while I do take care of them and don't have a smoker's smile, per se (thank you Crest Whitestrips!), my teeth aren't as brilliantly white as they used to be. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4. <u>Dependence:</u> I hate being dependent on cigarettes. I hate that my days, studies, time spent with family, trips and everything else is governed by this all-consuming dependence on cigarettes. I want to be able to do what I want, when I want, without having to chaperone my addiction and need for cigarettes. "Is there a smoking section in that restaurant? No? Then I don't think I'll go." Enough. Stop governing my life, cigarettes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">5. <u>Money:</u> I waste copious amounts of money on cigarettes. Cigarettes, by themselves, are increasingly expensive, but whenever I go to fetch myself a pack, I never buy just a pack of cigarettes. I end up buying food, or snacks, or some other unnecessary something, which, in most instances, is just as unhealthy as the pack of cigarettes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I know it's important to keep reminding myself of these reasons, because even though it's been just a day, and even though I've plastered my Step1 Nicoderm patch onto my arm quite securely, I felt the desperate desire for a cigarette at various points throughout the day, which, when you think about it, goes to show that addiction (to substances) is never a purely physical thing, and needs to be worked at daily. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I managed to get through today - not easily, mind you - but I got through it. Every time I thought of putting a delicious cigarette to my mouth and lighting up, I kept thinking of my reasons for quitting and thinking to myself: "You've made it three/four/five/fifteen hours - do you really want to let go now? Is it worth it?" and I struggled through the minutes of craving and, surprise, surprise, it wasn't worth it anymore. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Cigarettes: be gone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ok, truthfully, I don't know if I'll smoke in social settings. Perhaps I shouldn't, because if I have one, I'll probably want another, and then another, and then another, and then I'll end up buying a pack and smoking it on the way home, which would probably inevitably lead to having cigarettes at home, which would obviously mean that I would smoke at home, which would mean, ta da!, I would have defeated the purpose and would have fallen off the bandwagon. Look, I'm a realist. I know that if I drink, I'm probably going to want a cigarette. Does that mean I'll never drink again? Of course not. But at least for the eight weeks I'm on Step1 of my Nicoderm course, and then for the four weeks of the Step2 and Step3 phases, I will not be drinking since in my head drinking+cigarettes=completion... at least this is how I feel right now since I am not a former smoker just yet, but a (somewhat) former smoker. Ok, I know my birthday falls in the middle of all of this Nicoderm-ing, and I know I'll want to celebrate, but for now, I'll just say I'll drink moderately and, well, if it comes to smoking, I'll have my friends to pull me up by my britches, won't I?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Giving up smoking (as with quitting any addiction) means cutting the triggers which remind you of indulgence in cigarettes. Unfortunately for me, there are many, many, <i>many </i>triggers which set me off thinking about smoking. The trick that has worked for me (at least in my +24 hours of having quit smoking) is the constant repetition of: "Is it worth it?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I didn't intend to publicize this decision of mine to quit smoking, because I felt if I fell off the bandwagon, it would be easy to not have anyone know and thus, judge me. But when I think about it carefully, I realize that publicizing it would work towards keeping me in line precisely for the reason that I wouldn't want to be judged as a failure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So there you have it: I am a (somewhat) former smoker.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And yes, it's worth it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wish me luck.</span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-6823546131349336522012-04-19T02:17:00.002-07:002012-09-08T23:49:32.173-07:00Yom haShoah 2012<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Today, in Israel, Yom HaShoah - Holocaust Remembrance Day - is being observed. It is, at once, a most profound day: a day of mourning, a day of hope; a day to remember and reflect, and a day to look forward and look beyond. On this day we, collectively, as a nation, remember those whose lives were brutally extinguished at the hands of barbarians - not just Jews who suffered under the Nazis, but all Jews who were persecuted from time immemorial: from the ancient Hebrews in Egypt all the way down through the generations to modern Israelis today. HaShem warned us, quite correctly, that in every generation they shall rise up against us - and even the most casual skimmer of Jewish history will be able to attest to the fulfillment of this prophecy. I find it to be particularly poignant that the State of Israel chose this day - so close on the heels of that holiday which excitedly celebrates our freedom from Egypt - to remember that though we are a free nation, we are still plagued by those who hate us and seek our destruction. Pesach compels us to celebrate that we are a free nation; Yom haShoah comes a few days later to remind us that the struggle for freedom is an on-going one.</span></div>
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I came to Israel at this particular time for a number of reasons. One, I simply missed it. I just missed being in Israel with all my heart and soul - and so, I needed to be back, even if for this very short burst of time that I am here. I needed be back in haAretz, because, sadly to say, as much as I love Trinidad & Tobago, and as much as I love the Jewish community there, there is simply no outlet for a modern Orthodox adherent to channel his yiddishkeit. But I chose this particular point in time - during Pesach - to be here because I missed the religiousness of this powerful chag. Yes, I knew Yom haShoah, Yom haAtzmaut, et al. were to follow quickly on the heels of Pesach, but they weren't my main focuses for being here now - but, as with all things in life, these "by-product" Days (particularly Yom haShoah) have managed in a very subtle and wily way to affect me just as profoundly as the magnificent holiday of Pesach.</div>
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I am a convert - and a proud one at that. Insomuch as I chose Judaism, Judaism chose me - we found each other through the conduit of a loving, merciful and wonderful God. In the religious community - particularly in Israel - I am never identified as the convert, per se. People here are more aware of the halacha surrounding this sensitive issue and - even if they peg me as a ger or not (I've gotten numerous quizzical questions in Israel like "Temani?" "Cochin?" I've even gotten, once, when I was wearing a cap and looking particularly dark "Beta Israel?" - which is all very hilarious. I once ran into a group of Indian Jews one Shabbat and they were so excited to see me, just as much as I was to see them. They were visibly disappointed that I wasn't an Indian Jew of their community - but when I told them I was from Trinidad & Tobago, the men in the group lit up with questions about Brian Lara and whether I knew him) they never make me feel uncomfortable about it. In Trinidad, however, where the community has such a loose understanding of the religious aspect of Judaism, I've been introduced as "the convert", and I've heard a man (whose own Jewish ancestry is very vague and questionable) make the comment that there are only a few "real Jews" in Trinidad and then the rest are converts such as myself; a statement which rests on the assumption that I, and the rest of the Jewish-Trinidadian population, am and are not "real", whereas he is. It's hurtful, but I don't hold it against anyone in Trinidad for thinking along those lines because Judaism in it's spiritual/religious form, sadly, has no root in my home country, and the simplistic religious understanding that a Jew is a Jew is a Jew, regardless of where he/she came from, will probably never be understood halachically there.</div>
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The reason I bring this up at this juncture is to connect the thoughts which are running amok in my head as a result of this day: Yom haShoah. The fact remains that, until mashiach comes, in every generation they will rise up against us. Yes, us. Wherever I may choose to live in life - be it Trinidad, or back to England, or back to Israel, or perhaps even the States - I will be branded a "Jew", with all the negative connotations that word conjures up in the mind of the antisemitic. I have chosen a path which will lead my children, and their children, and their children after that, into certain heartache, pain and, dare I say it?, death. The prophet Jeremiah speaks of the matriarch, "Rachel weeping for her children" - and wherever she may be, Rachel has wept a lot, for her children has suffered and continue to live under the threat of continued suffering. My children will be part of Rachel's progeny - some of them may stay within the garden of Judaism, some may choose to leave - who knows what the future holds?, but the fact is, that, some of them will remain Jews in perpetuity, and, they will have to live with the national, ancient remembrance of heartache and sorrow that this day signifies. There are times, particularly on days like today, or days when I read of the existential threats Jewish people in Israel and in the diaspora face, and I falter within myself and feel like crying. My commitment and steadfastness to the religion of Avraham is unwavering and unquestionable - but this is my choice that I made for me. What of my kids and their kids? I'm pulling them into a place where there will be the very real possibility of much suffering.</div>
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But then - I give them a gift unlike any other which I can give to them. The thing that many people fail to realize is that when we, converts and born-Jews alike, choose a life of derech haTorah, we are not making a decision which affects just us in our solitary lives. We make a decision which will reverberate through the generations which will follow us. Yes, my kids - as Jews, be they Israelis or whatever - will have to face unspeakable horrors which I can't predict (but I hope and pray, these horrors will never come), but my kids will have a gift: they will be part of Israel. They will mourn on Yom haShoah and Tisha b'Av and all the other mourning days - but they will celebrate on Pesach, they will feel their hearts lift when the Israeli flag flies proudly on Yom haAtzmaut, they will banter in midrashim, they will enjoy the culinary pleasures of being shomer kashrut, they will fight to defend their faith, their people and their land: my kids will follow the faith that I have chosen - and they will understand that it's the best inheritance I could have given to them.</div>
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Yom haShoah has relevance to our lives today as Jews. The Holocaust may have happened 60+ years ago, but the evil which fueled it is finding ever-new, ever-ingenius ways to try to attack us. The founders of the modern State were wise to place the national Day of Holocaust Remembrance smack dab in the middle of the end of Pesach, and then the beginning of Yom haAtzmaut next week. The Jewish story is one of rebirth and the fight for life wherever death faces us. </div>
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As I stood quietly for the two minutes when the sirens sounded, I focused my thoughts on the victims of the Nazi regime. I let my mind think of those faces I have seen in pictures whose sunken eyes and skeletal frames are forever burned into my memory. I thought of them and wept and I spent the two minutes praying for them - hoping that they have found peace wherever they may be. The two minutes went by in this way and then, at the end, when it was over, when the people started to walk again and the cars started to drive again, I was forcefully reminded: life goes on. Judaic life has continued, despite the better efforts of evil. Israel was born - the Jewish population in the world is steadily increasing and nearing the peak it was prior to World War 2.</div>
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As long as God lives - we will live.</div>
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Never forget the Holocaust - and, never forget there is a future.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-18290257427944858102012-02-07T00:21:00.000-08:002012-09-08T23:47:13.281-07:00There is only up from hereIt's been a while since I've used this blog. I always think to myself: I need to blog, I need to capture my thoughts, I need to chronicle what's happening in my life.<br />
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When I was a child, I used to write religiously in a journal of sorts; in an odd way, I knew there would be a time when I would want to revisit those puerile thoughts and feel the nostalgia of my youth - and I was right. Those journals lay quietly in a box below my bed, and from time to time, they emerge from their holding place and are carefully unwrapped, touched, opened and eagerly read.<br />
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But as I grew older, into a teenager, and as the excitement of life took hold, the excruciating detailing of my (mundane?) life in a personal memoir became less and less important; less and less necessary. I started to write emails, sending them to my friends - emails which had nothing to do with anything, but everything to do with who I was, who I was becoming. There were replies, which provoked replies, but the truth is, the emails were never meant specifically for any person. I wanted an audience for my thoughts: as facetious, narcissistic and mad as they may have been. I wanted someone - anyone - to understand.<br />
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But again, as I grow older, into a man, and the excitement of life continues to take hold, the sometimes painful detailing of my (thrilling?) life becomes more and more important; more and more necessary - for my own, personal reflection. I tell myself I would write in this blog more frequently; but procrastinating tendencies - and sheer laziness - stop me from putting finger to blog, and, instead, I find myself whipping through the pages of Facebook, excitedly noting the updates in my newsfeed, or thinking up interesting things to plot in my status.<br />
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I am at a low-point in my life. I'm losing friends at an alarming rate; I'm taking ambien to fall asleep often; I'm struggling with my Finance course to complete my MBA for the past year; I'm disappointedly discovering that within my local Jewish community, egos and desperate attempts to secure recognition are dividing the community and keeping it from fulfilling its truest potential.<br />
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I am at a low-point in my life.<br />
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I know what I need to do: I need to re-think my strategies, my priorities, my goals. I need to re-dedicate myself to my purpose which I have forgotten as the excitement of life takes hold and the hopeful goals I secretly wish to achieve are overshadowed by my mundane problems, worries, and everyday, unnecessary concerns.<br />
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Where is the boy who struggled for God? Who struggled to find meaning in life? Who yearned for more? Who was supposed to grow into a man much different from the one who exists today?<br />
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Is it ever too late?<br />
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No.<br />
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It never is.<br />
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I am an optimist, wrapped up in a pessimist, but an optimist nevertheless.<br />
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I believe that everything happens for a reason; that the universe presents us with ample, abundant opportunities which we must grasp at, embrace, and use to achieve our aims.<br />
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The fact of the matter is I've failed. I don't pray the way I used to; I don't read the way I used to; I don't think about God, my guardian angel, my Judaism the way I used to. The distractions have gotten in the way: television, Facebook, liming, drinking, ambien, smoking, friends.<br />
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I'm at a low-point in my life.<br />
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I forgotten what's important. I've forgotten what I've wanted to accomplish; to discover; to be.<br />
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I am at a low-point in my life, but the only place to go is up.<br />
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I need to recognize the offer the universe makes me to on a daily basis; the choice is mine, the change is within me.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is my attempt to chronicle my thoughts from this point, this terrifying low-point, and allow my God to pull me back up. In writing I feel cleansed, and in writing, I feel happy. In writing I will record my thoughts and analyze the pattern of change.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In writing I will break this cycle.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the morning I will pray. In the morning, I will open my siddur. In the morning, I will study my Hebrew verbs. I know that change never comes in the morning - it comes now. The wise, Jewish sages of yesteryear were wise in discerning that the beginning comes at dusk: at the darkest hour. The change doesn't come in the morning, although we go to bed thinking that it will; the change starts from before - it starts from now. This is why I'm writing this now - to remind myself, to prod myself, to give myself hope. This is a poignant time to make this change: the night sky shines through my open window - the seducing slant of the almost full-moon light pouring onto my bed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A new cycle begins with the waxing of the moon, and at 4:28PM today, it will reach it's maximum potential and begin anew.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so will I.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The complacency which has besieged me must go, and the only person to expel it from my life is me; the new cycle starts from here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I will commit myself to being better - whatever that may mean, however I may interpret that to be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I will find the strength, determination and grit to realign myself with my already-discovered purpose. So I went off-course a bit for the past couple years - so what? It's never too late.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Be the change that you want to be... or something to that effect.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is only up from here.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501751587557934216.post-15064001172402539552010-12-07T18:48:00.000-08:002012-09-08T23:49:18.615-07:00I'll have to start at the beginning<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You know those movies that begin somewhere near the end? I'm talking about those movies which show, at their earliest stages, a teeny tiny of clip of some time-period near the ending of the movie, and then the title character jumps in and gives a little synopsis of what's going on, and then says, "But to make you understand where I'm at now, I'll have to start at the beginning... the very beginning", and then the movie really begins, taking the viewer back to when the principal character being born, and how life shaped the character to be what he/she is, etc., etc. I'm sure you know exactly the kind of movie I mean!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, that's what this post is going to be like. My first blog - the first of (I hope!) many. But, I am starting this blog in the middle of my life, after much has happened and exploded to shape me into the Nick I am today. So, like the character in any cliche movie which follows the plot I outlined above, I have to hold your hand and ask that you let me take you back in order for you to understand how it is I came to be here tonight and why it is important for me to jump (admittedly, quite late!) on this bandwagon of blogging. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I won't take you too far back - not way back to when, as a baby, my dad would put me on his chest and I would fall asleep, and I won't bore you about the blackberries my mom and I would pick on the side of the road as she walked me to school in the sleepy town of Colchester, England where I was born. No, I'll only go back to six years ago, when I first signed up for this space on blogspot.com, back when, I suppose, Julie Powell had first started writing her own now-famous blog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The thing is, although I'd come up with the idea that I wanted a blog, I wasn't sure what to <i>put</i> in a blog. Being a Cancer, I can be quite secretive and coy about my life, so I wasn't (and still am not sure) if I wanted to detail my life in a blog - and to be perfectly frank, I felt as if what I wanted to say really wasn't worth anything in the grand scheme of things. And perhaps, I really didn't have anything worthwhile to say. Although I was at that ripe old age of 21, and I'd been exposed to a lot, I still hadn't found my place in the world. I didn't know who I was. Not really. I'm the kind of person who believes that life is more than just a series of unfortunate (and sometimes deliciously fortunate! Sorry Mr. Snickett!) events. I believe that everything happens for a reason, and I think... no, I<i> know</i> that there was a reason I wasn't able to fill even one post on this blog before tonight. Don't get me wrong, I do have many unfinished posts that are saved in my drafts folder of this blog site. I just really never had the ability/motivation/capacity/fate-on-my-side to finish a single one of those posts. But, I'm no longer 21. I'm 27 - ancient and old that I am, and I've recently found myself being able to write pieces that have substance, that have emotion; pieces that have resonance and meaning and the possibility of impact. And, most importantly, I have the capacity to actually finish a post. I think that Life is ready for me to fill the annals of my blog with posts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Recently I've realized (and it has been quite a strong realization) that writing is the career path I want to take. Oh, I'm not naive enough to think that writing would ever afford me the life I want to live, but more than anything under the sun, I have the most fire-hot passion for writing. I know I'll never be a JK Rowling, and so, I know I must pursue a simultaneous career in some more lucrative field than this business of writing, but the fact is this: I have realized that no matter what, I want to be a writer. And, thus, in the past couple years, I've started writing mini-articles and sending them off to people saved in the address-book of my Gmail account. Surprisingly, a whole lot of the things I was writing and intrusively sending out was being received positively by the various friends, family, and assorted acquaintances I sent them to. For me, it was a wonderful validation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You see, in 2005, thanks in part to the mentoring of the now deceased author, Mr. Harry Preston, I managed to complete a 240,000 word manuscript and was coasting high on the personal satisfaction of having been able to accomplish something so personally fulfilling. Of course, when one writes a manuscript, one expects the natural second step would be, of course, publication. But for those of you wonderful people who are reading my blog and have had your own experiences in the dauntingly scary world of publishing, you'd know that life in the publication lane is anything but simple. Writing encompasses a helluva lot more than simply... writing. It involves literary agents, and lawyers, and contracts, and negotiations, and editing, and changing content, and more politics than I was possibly able to stomach at that young age. I sent out query letters to numerous literary agents - and, while I did receive some positive feedback, the general was consensus was: "Not interested.Sorry." Oh, but I'd be a lying self-piteous sonofabitch if I didn't tell you that I did receive positive feedback. Yes, siree, I did. I was advised to edit down, much in the way Tim Gunn would suggest his Project Runway proteges do (apparently, 240K words is simply much too much for a first-time hopeful-author to publish!). What's it that Tim says? "Edit, edit, edit!" Unfortunately for me, I am the most loquacious person I know, and while my scholastic life has validated my language skills (sorry for boldfacedly tooting my own horn, but I did receive the highest grades in my high school for English, English Literature and Cambrige GCE Advanced Levels General Paper, thank you very much. Trust me, intellectually speaking, I am no Einstein, no Shakespeare, and will probably never make any sort of lasting mark on this world, so please indulge me by not judging me for being proud of my little accomplishment!), I cannot for the life of me summarize. Just as some people simply do not have the abilities to sing, or do math, or stay slim and trim without afflicting themselves with diets and exercise (I, too, possess none of virtues), I simply cannot, not even if you offered me the world on a silver platter, I <i>cannot</i> summarize. But I did try - I honestly did. And, somehow or the other, I managed to cut it down to 204,000 words. It wrenched my very soul to eliminate each of those 36,000 words, but I did it. I sucked in my pain, and I deleted. Yet, it still was not enough. Then, there was the added problem of the content of my book not being "marketable. The content, while well-written, humorous, and intriguing, will not generate sales and buzz," one lit agent told me. The thing is, being declined by hundreds of lit agents does a lot to shake a person's self-esteem, and, eventually, I gave up my hope of having my manuscript see the light of the NY Times Bestseller's List (yes, I really was that naive, conceited and hopeful), and so, into a folder in My Documents, I've packed away that first-child manuscript I gave birth to, and, for five years, was quite celibate when it came to writing. My ego had been shattered, and it has taken five long years for me to think to myself: "Perhaps I can?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't know. Perhaps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Recuperation is a process. What do they say in AA? One day a time? Baby steps? Right - that's the tune I'm whistling. I've started writing blog-like emails, sending them to the people I know, and with every bit of positive feedback I receive, the spark for writing is being reignited in my soul. I know you're probably thinking "Why does anyone need anyone else to validate them?", but I'm the type of person who craves/needs/desperately seeks validation in everything I do before I can proceed. I can totally identify with that line Grace Adler once said on Will & Grace, "How will I know if I like myself if they don't like me?!" You know the quote I mean! But that's just like me - I don't know if I'm good, unless someone else says it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">However, I do have a love for writing - and whether I'm good or not, there is nothing more fun or fulfilling to me than sitting in front of my computer screen, tapping away at my computer, just writing something for the sake of writing. True, being sometimes vapid (cause come on - who isn't vapid from time to time?), my choice of writing topics can be sometimes... well, vapid. But it gives me great joy to write my vapid and not-so-vapid pieces and feel so content and satisfied with myself for being able to get my thoughts on virtual paper.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so, we arrive at this point in the movie; back at the place where the movie started and where it all ties in: I'm back at the start of this post, and I hope you understand why I'm here. I'm here because I love to write - and, if someone happens to tell me they like my writing, well, that's just icing on the cake that is my self-esteem :) Perhaps one day I will start on a story again. But for now, I have this blog, and I hope that I can find solace in here, in being able to pour my thoughts, fears, hopes and dreams into this site, and perhaps, hopefully, re-gain the courage to write another 240K manuscript; a manuscript which would make it through the publishing obstacle course and manage to cross the finish line of the New York Bestselling List :)</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13607146893366881090noreply@blogger.com2