Visualizing Success in Writing and Public Speaking for Authors

         I stand outside with my group of three peers, and we have less than five minutes to make something up. Reading the textbook, I ask my group what success made them think of. Sports, one says, so we talk about fighting and basketball. How do we visualize success, I ask. We stand under the buzzing light of a neighboring portable, thinking about it.
         On Thursday nights, I attend a three hour course on developing career and life directions. We've been discussing what colleges have been looking for, but public speaking came up this past Thursday, when we were told we would need to perform a short, two-minute skit in front of the class.
          Public speaking is the number one fear in the world, not spiders or HIV. On a daily basis, we put ourselves into situations that require us to speak publicly, yet our bodies begin to break into shakes and sweating when we're told suddenly to perform.
          As writers, we don't feel the necessity to speak aloud to crowds of people; our work is solitary. But that's not the truth, for writers are those who sell their books. Writers go to conferences to meet publishers, other writers, and working editors. Your publishers, I argue, do shit of that. We are put on the front lines.
          The professor assigned topics on what builds self-esteem. The professor put us outside in the dark lighting of a parking lot at eight, P.M.. He gave one group determination, another persistence. We got visualizing success.
          Visualization, thankfully, can be used in multiple situations such as speaking publicly and writing. It helps move us forward in our writing. We all start with one word, Stephen King says. One word leads to a sentence, which creates a paragraph after a while. By visualizing this or performing well in front of a crowd, we feel the difficulty of our crafts drop and our confidence rise.
          We're the last group to walk in when the professor presses the door open with his foot. As group one, we go first. We're standing at the front of the class, looking towards football players, adult students, coaches, and a champion softball player. Say your names, the professor says. I say mine first, and we move down the line. One breath. I think about the next, first word, and we start.
         Two minutes become five minutes, and our class looks at us with open jaws. One group gets up and leaves the room.

Spring in Academia

          It wasn't until I parked that I realized how much I had to rush. Cars lined the fences of Mt. San Antonio College. A breeze had picked up, and crowds hunkered around the crossing sign at the closest intersection, one parking lot away. For the start of a semester, this wasn't too bad.
          My classes are mixed throughout the week: Mondays and Wednesdays are Speech, Tuesdays and Thursdays are Nonfiction, and Thursday nights are Career Development. I decided to take a lighter semester as I work in other classes, tutoring students and preparing them for their next courses. Nothing too hard, I said.
          I'll be working forty hours a week, at least.
          Crossing the street, I had to squeeze my way through trudging students. I then had to climb the hill. My phone said it was 8:35, which meant that I was later for an 8:30 meeting.
          The American Language department wasn't too much of a walk from where I was. There, I would find my first work section, a linked or connect unit of two classes leading from 9:45 A.M. to 2:05 P.M.. A line led out the front doors. Students of various nationalities fidgeted, sighed, groaned. Those at the end of the line didn't seem any happier, speaking in broken English.
          Eight minutes passed until I found the office of the professor I would be working under. The office hid at the end of the hall, but when I stepped in, the professor greeted me and pulled me to a chair. I was given a textbook, syllabus, and discussion of what to expect. Smiling, I agreed that this semester would be interesting, fun.
          Class started on time, and I might another professor. She gave her name, office hours, and expectations. Halfway through, she introduced me. I stood in front of the class, eyes watching over me. Day one, and I knew that I was in for a ride.

Open Arms and Manuscripts: Writers' Weekend and the Jitters

          This past weekend in sunny Southern California, Mt. San Antonio College hosted its Writers' Weekend event, a three day conference consisting of students, professors, published writers, and professionals all following one passion: writing, of course! It started on Friday with opening ceremonies and pushed through to Sunday with hours of creativity and socialization. And as a writer with anxiety, this was an amazing experience.
          At the beginning, I was a bit nervous on what would happen, but in an hour of that, every sign of worry went out the door. Yes, I hand the schedule in my hands, and I had planned which events were my go-to choices, but that didn't make things easier; even with a clear path and destination, my mind is working overtime to try and plot possible scenarios. However, I found myself enjoying the plan I had set forth, and each panel was educational and enjoyable. One of the highest points was having the chance to meet Bonnie Hearn Hill, an author and one of the friendliest persons I have ever met. Walking in, I didn't know what to expect, but the discussion, which progressed for fifteen minutes, was amazing. We discussed writing in its structure and even found ourselves on the topic of Virginia Woolf. I passed a story to her and was ecstatic to find it was taken well; being creative, I take my work as what it is, but hearing someone compliment it nearly gave me heart-palpitations. The session reminded me that everyone in the writing community is there for each other, regardless of level, and that was a special thing to experience. While meeting other writers was a special moment, the panels were just as eye-opening.
          Sunny Frasier, an acquisitions editor and mystery author, hosted a panel on genre fiction, which presented the world of publishing in a realistic, understandable way. As artists, writers have multiple reasons for why they create, such as passion or hobbies. For me, writing is a form of release and meditation, communicating to the outside world what the darkness is and how to overcome it (Stephen King calls it telepathy in his memoir, On Writing [which you all should read!]). But, like everything, we writers need to make a living, and Sunny presented how it is possible to do so with publishing. Genre is a form of entertainment, like all forms of reading, but it's more commercial than literary fiction, text that is seen regularly in College. Sunny's words of encouragement and wisdom were entertaining on their, and I know that I'll be keeping these notes with me every time I write.
     While not as big as major writing conferences, Writers' Weekend brought me further into the literary world; I engaged myself with people of similar interests, and the anxiety and fear washed away at how excited and friendly everyone was. Of course, that's the case for everything, but in an art form that relies heavily on solitude, it's nice to remember that there are others out there pulling their hair just as much as I am.
          I highly recommend Writers' Weekend, whether handling anxiety, publishing, or not. It's a glorious event with educated, creative people, and they gave away free pizza (now, let's not make that the only reason it was great). Looking forward to returning, I plan to spread the word out, and use what I've learned for writing sessions to come. Kudos to John Brantingham, Llyod Aquino, Michelle Dougherty, and the volunteers who put it all together.

A New Chapter

     With the last chapter written, I'm happy to say that my work-in-progress horror novel, The Neptune, has its first "book" completed. Yes, this is just the drafting stage, but it's a benchmark for me that I've never felt would ever come.

      One year ago, I had just came out of a dark, dark place in my life, and was working towards recovery in any way I could. School was a part of my life and I couldn't give that up, so I took extra classes to try and stay focused on something physical, rather than worry on something mental. I met an amazing professor who showed me I did have something to add to this world, and she allowed me to meet another professor, a great man who has become my mentor in creative writing.

      Now, that's not to say I'm completely recovered; I still have times where depression kicks in, or I get lonely and afraid. But those are only bumps in the road in comparison to what I've been through; those are only pebbles in comparison to what I have in store for me.

      I have a great job that keeps me on my feet, working hard, and while it can be stressful and draining, I love it so much and wouldn't trade it for anything. I have a plan to get my A.A. and transfer out of my school to CSUSB for their MFA and English program, and I--as of currently--want to become an editor; though, each and every day I find myself interested in becoming a professor at the community college level. And my writing craft keeps me going and knowing that I have a purpose, and I have a voice; I have a way to show the world I can add to it, rather than take, even if it bugs the heck out of me at occasional times.

      The Neptune is at just a slice of the full pie, and I'm planning to add another sixty-five thousand words to it before I get into the revision process. With luck, it'll progress into a great first novel, something I can be really proud of.

      Everything's been a roller-coaster the past two years, but I want to thank each and every one of you that have stood by me, guided me, assisted me, and been there for me when I need them. If this all works out, I dedicate The Neptune to you guys. Just, you know, please don't be turned off that it's a space infection horror story.

Finals--Chaos And a Word-processor

     Working in the Writing-Center, it's a lie to say we don't notice the holiday chaos. The computer lab has been at, if not completely, near full capacity; the tables, reserved for one-on-one tutoring, are filled with papers, laptops, and every type of pen and pencil, making the center look as though there was a massive printing deadline at the Campus's Journalism department, but it's not the Journalism department--it's the entire school It's the end of the Fall semester at my community-college, and students are hunkering down, cogs spinning, working towards the end with a final push for the questionably well deserved A+. 
     As another student, I make sure I wake up with enough time to shave and make myself presentable, record and go over the day's plan, review any writing or revision notes I have for stories, and ultimately scarf down a boiling bowl of burnt oatmeal before the clock hits 8:05 A.M..
     The drive is pleasant, and my twin-brother, manning the radio, makes sure there's enough music to keep it interesting. Parking isn't an issue anymore; at the beginning of the semester, the lot, and street, would be filled at 8 A.M.. Once I get to school and set into the greatest parking spot in the world, and situated for work at the center, I have no idea what goes on outside the doors.
     Today, It took me until after my first shift to remember that I had a math final this upcoming Monday and I would need my shift covered; it took me until my final shift to remember I even had a twin-brother. The constant barrage of students, each with their reasons why the paper's due tomorrow, and they are barely drafting a thesis, boggles the mind, and forces us tutors to keep quick and adaptable. We're kind, understanding, nurturing people, and if we weren't then by God we shouldn't be tutoring. It's not just the students, however, caught in this mad frenzy, but we too are affected by this rush.
     Some of us could be on our breaks, or in-between shifts, crumpled away in the break-room, studying or reworking a thesis paper. Others of us dash to the computer-lab on these off times before a computer could be swiped--respectfully, of course--hurrying to type up the next essay, story submission, and lab-report. The winter mindset has befallen us all, and turned the population of college students into ravenous creatures.
     By the time I return home, I'm dead tired, and forced to scribe out around 50 equations of Algebra before I can write. When I hit the word-processor, nothing comes out but dull ideas, unoriginal plots, and dialogue that could make the writer's of the recent Twilight films into Shakespearian poets; tutoring, let alone School, is a mind-numbing, creativity-sucking time of the year. With the holiday season in swing, it's just two more weeks and we'll be home safe and free. The idea of presents, Christmas lights, cookies, and emasculating drinks at Starbucks just thrills the inner young-adult inside me.
     Whatever your profession be--tutor, teacher, professor, writer, student, parent--good luck and enjoy your holidays; be grateful for what you have, the time spent together with friends, and the hard work you put towards your passions and studies.


But don't even get me started on Winter Intercession.