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Writing as a Multipotentialite

A writer's artfully messy desk.
Mess. Mess. MESS. It’s fine though, I styled it this way.

You’d have thought I would realize being a multipotentialite would affect me as a writer as well. You’d have thought I would see myself jumping ship on writing projects, having millions of disparate ideas, and being constantly interested in other types of writing and say, oh, right, multipotentialite. Duh…

You can see where this is going. I didn’t see it or say that. I applied the same old toxic thought processes I’d had for myself on a grand scale, back before I found out I was a multipotentialite, and ground myself in the mortar and pestle of guilt and shame about how I wrote.

Ever find these thoughts ranging about in your head like chickens?

“I have to finish this before I can work on that.”

“I shouldn’t be blogging now – I’m in the middle of a story!”

“I haven’t blogged in months, but I don’t feel like it. God, I’m the worst.”

“I want to work on this story, but I also want to write a D&D campaign, and I want to write in my journal, and an e-course sounds fun to write too…”

ad nauseam.

Sounds a lot like what you tell yourself about all your hobbies and career interests before you find out you’re allowed to have many passion, don’t it? Hmm? HMM? Yeah, I wasn’t too smart.

The thing is -and there’s always a thing, isn’t there – we don’t hear about multipotentialites in regards to things like writing or sub-sects of our own hobbies a whole lot. I get it; the entire idea of being an awesome multipotentialite/scanner/multipod/renaissance person is fairly new, so we just haven’t seen the explosion of advice on the internet. It’s a baby in the self-help world still.

But it affects it. And I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that it’s affecting painters and comic makers and sewers and other creative types as well. We’re varying our interests within an interest and it’s hard not to come down, well, hard on ourselves.

I’ll be writing a separate article about tips and tricks for writers, but if you’ve felt like me – in other words, constantly guilt-ridden over not following all the advice of writers out there – know you’re not alone. And know, just for now, that you’re perfectly wonderful and normal and you need to jump between writing projects as much as writing and life in general. Like, I don’t know, writing and professional knife-throwing. Or cliff diving. Whatevs. (Why do I assume other writers are so much more badass than I am? I write and, uh, knit. And play D&D. And wish for a cat. That’s a Friday evening for me.)

I always eat alone; Stories of Adulthood

Correct me if I’m wrong, but if you’re single, roommate or no, you probably eat alone the majority of the time.

I do. And have, for nearly the past decade. Except on dates, the few occasions I eat with my brother while we watch Youtube, and the rare all-family dinner, I eat alone. I eat breakfast in the car on the way to work on in front of my computer. I eat lunch either in my car during the work day or also in front of my computer. I eat dinner…the same way. See above.

I never really thought about it, to be honest. I mean, food’s food, right?

Then I went to Korea, where food and community and bonding are tightly twisted and knotted together, leading to taboos for eating alone. There’s a whole Korean drama about a woman who finds an eating pal because she loves to eat and can’t eat in restaurants alone. I mean, we don’t really do that in America, either, but it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

I was thinking about while eating a salad a few days ago, because it’s not easy to eat a salad delicately. Unless you take the trouble to cut up all your lettuce into easy-to-fit-on-fork pieces, you’re stabbing some big leafy bits that inevitably end up depositing a nice rim of dressing around your mouth on the way in. It’s irritating, but when you eat alone, who cares?

So then I thought, whew, it’s a good thing I’m not on a date, because then I’d have to spend some brainpower to make sure I wasn’t being Ralphie’s kid brother Randy on A Christmas Story. “Show me how the piggy eats,” indeed.

Maybe no one else has this issue. Maybe most other people learn to eat nicely when they’re young and it just takes hold so they never have to think about it again, like holding your pencil the right way. So they don’t have to think in their cars about how much thought they’ll have to put in on dates. Maybe. Or maybe most people are like me, slobs and messy when they’re alone and have time to fix their makeup before going back in to work, and overly careful on dates and in public because eating cleanly isn’t a habit.

Or…just maybe, I’m overthinking this. Well, that’s what being an adult means, right? Overthinking, worrying about dates, and being alone in cars during lunch to get away from work. Yeah, nailing this thing.

Is there anything you do that makes you wonder if you’re the only one who does it?

New Year, New Series

Blogging has always been a form of experimentation for me. There was my stint with doing the journal excerpts, the brief period where I posted poetry, and the general dumping of my life into the internet and seeing what happens. I tried to make a series out of that, with the Hello, I’m…Discovery series, the Game Master series, and so on, and now I’d like to add one more.

The Stories of Adulthood series. Really, it will be just another way for me to clarify my intentions with posts instead of rambling on and on (like this one does).

Blogging, to me, feels like community. I like hearing about other people’s lives, and I think they like hearing about mine, so with this new series, let’s all laugh at ourselves and share ridiculous stories about being an adult, eh?

Here we go.

Hello, I’m a Feminist.

Dangerous. Subversive. Radical. Selfish. Sensual. Worldly. Evil. Shameful. Shameless. Foolish. All words used to describe feminism in my circles.

Growing up, feminism was a bad word in my community. Church, family, and friends alike treated the word and people who identified with it as either criminally naive or just plain evil.

It was in this atmosphere I grew up, independent, fiercely sure of my own worth and intelligence, but also firmly aware of my place in the world.

I’ve been a feminist for a while, but it took me quite a long time to accept the word. Accept, and them embrace.

At first, I was careful. I believed in equality, I stressed. Not women’s superiority, so it wasn’t really feminism. Never mind that I had never done a lick of research into feminism. Never mind that the only things I heard about feminism were from its opponents. Feminism was a bad thing. Like liberalism. Destroying America, and the family, and worldwide faith.

So in the beginning, I was careful. Not real feminism, but equality. Women could do anything. They just shouldn’t do…certain things. It wasn’t right. 

But that didn’t mean we were unequal. Nope. No way. Oh, dear young self. Dear many, many younger selves who are stuck in this loop.

I am feminist now. Adamantly so. I take issue with how women are portrayed in media, how words associated with the feminine are used, and how the idea of the female has been relegated to a secondary status in almost all areas of life.

I’m not starting a lecture. I’m not going to get in a debate or list all the ways women have been subdued or oppressed. It’s not my time for that. For now, for the first thing, I’m just declaring what I am. I am a feminist.

One Year Later

It always surprises me how quickly a year goes by. Today, December 22, marks the one year anniversary of the day I came back from Korea. If you haven’t been around, I had an epic health meltdown that prompted my quick return, and this past year has been one of healing, discovery, and baby steps on the path to…well, something. The future, but that sounds cheesy.

Taking stock, I’ve done a hell of a lot this year.

You can see that in between the small things, life has taken a quick upswing in momentum. I got a job, a car, and a new home all within about four months, and those were four of my five big milestones for my life I wrote back at the beginning of this year.

One year later, everything is coming up roses. I’m still stressed out about money and life and the future and everything, but I’m learning to live with that fear. I’m learning to walk with it instead of constantly fighting it, and overall, I’m feeling eager, hopeful, and curious about life. If this past year has taught me anything, it’s that life can change in a day, and what you thought would be the trajectory of your life is but the next ten feet in the fog, and you really, really can’t see beyond that.

This next year, I have so, so many plans, and some of those will succeed and most of them will fail, but always, I will strive to fail better, and so life will go on.

Happy New Year, friends, and happy anniversary to me.