My Quarter-Life Revelation, or Enjoy the Journey

My entire life, I’ve looked forward to turning 25.

As a child, I viewed it as the final milestone to reaching “real” adulthood. At 25, you’ve been out of college for three years–long enough to get your life together and know who you are, but not so long that the world has totally beaten you down. You’re old enough to be taken seriously, but not so old that you take yourself too seriously.

However, the closer I got to 25, the more I realized that people this age (at least in my generation) don’t have it all figured out. You see, by the age of 25, my parents owned a successful business, had built their own home (literally, my dad is a carpenter), were married with a three-year-old daughter (yours truly), and carried all the other trappings of “full adulthood.” Me? I’m married (check), but my husband is still in graduate school, we live in a crappy rented apartment, and while I’ve started my own business, I’m nowhere near what most people would consider a success.

But I had a consolation. When the calendar rolled over to my birthday, I would still have something awesome. My quarter-life crisis.

Seriously, no sarcasm. I’m the kind of person who thrives under stress. I love sitting down and analyzing who I am. I adore writing lists and making goals. So, I couldn’t wait to wake up, be racked with healthy nerves, and puzzle out the solution to all my problems.

The only issue? As my birthday dawned, I laid in bed and waited for the crisis to hit. And it never came. By looking for problems with my life, I realized that I’m actually happy.

Honestly, it came as a surprise. Ever since moving to New Haven, all I’ve done is complain about how much I loathe this city. On a weekly basis, I gripe about my commute or my job. Just as often, I’m frustrated with budgetary constraints and my lack of free time. But all of those less-than-ideal circumstances stayed at the surface, and when I dove down deeper, for the first time in my life, I couldn’t find anything really wrong.

A few days later, by pure coincidence, I had to confront this realization again. I have a friend who likes to ask random questions, just as a way of generating conversation and creative thinking, and he asked me to answer yes or no to the following statements: A) I am happy with my life. B) I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do to survive.

I answered yes to both. He called bullshit. And we started a debate.

During this episode, I thought again about all the surface-level problems I face. And you know what hit me? Gratitude.

Yes, Daniel and I live in a crappy apartment in a noisy, dirty city. But we live here together–and after two years of long distance, I am so thankful for that. Yes, I have a long commute and my job is not my dream job. But I can use my commute to read/write, and my job has a lot of cool perks and has paid Daniel’s tuition and all of our living expenses. Yes, living here expensive and our next home might be too. But it’s all temporary while he’s in school. Eventually, we’ll choose an area more suited to our desired lifestyle.

My friend still challenged me. Paraphrasing here: “Sure, you might be content with where your life is, but that doesn’t mean you’re happy. You haven’t reached all your goals.”

No, I haven’t. But if I had achieved everything I want to by age 25, the next 50-plus years would be pretty damn boring.

And that’s when it hit me. My big quarter-life revelation.

Life is about enjoying the journey. I’d heard it before, read it in a thousand cheesy memes, but it had never really sunk in. Is my life perfect? No. But for 25, I’m doing pretty well, and I’m on a trajectory to reach my goals in the future. Somewhere in the last year or two, I’ve stopped agonizing over the past–over the mistakes I’ve made and the things that have hurt me.

At the same time, I’ve stopped looking at the future as something I lack. The future isn’t the lost puzzle piece that leaves my picture unfinished. It’s the landmark in the distance, and while I watch it grow closer, I also get to drive a fun car and rock out to my road trip soundtrack. And when I reach that landmark? I get to enjoy it for as long as I want, then head off for the next adventure.

The final layer of gratitude, the proverbial icing on my revelatory birthday cake, is that I recognize my privilege. I’m so lucky to be in a situation in which my biggest problem is that I haven’t achieved my dream yet. As my friend’s question revealed, I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to for survival. Not everyone is that lucky. Hopefully, by appreciating what I have, writing books that offer escapism or education, and being a more positive, caring person (one of my 2017 goals), I can give a little back to the world and help someone else live better.

So that’s what I’m taking into my 25th year: forgiveness of the past, appreciation for the present, optimism for the future, and compassion for others. I only hope that I’m blessed enough to receive the lessons of ages 50, 75, 100, and all the years in between.

Step Into My Office (Or, Where I Write)

As a reader, I love learning more about how my favorite books were written. Fun facts like how J.K. Rowling wrote the initial idea for Harry Potter on a napkin, or how Ernest Hemingway only wrote while standing (in a pair of oversized loafers, to be precise) always intrigue me.

I’ve shared by original inspiration for the Desertera series before (you can read about it here), but I realized I rarely talk about how or where I write. Admittedly, my “office” isn’t glamorous, but it’s gotten the job done twice now (14 times if you count my nonfiction projects).

Some writers swear by the coffee shop – the white noise, the social pressure to look busy, the caffeine! – while others can’t imagine writing in public. I used to be in the second group. In fact, when given the option, I’ll always choose to write in the solitude of my office (aka the spare bedroom my husband also works in), wearing my cozy sheep robe, with a steaming up of chai tea (made with almond milk, of course) resting on my Kansas coaster.

On the weekends, I get my way and can write in my private little haven. But you know what? Most of the time, I can barely drag myself to the keyboard. Between the adorable meows of my feline son Thomas, and the seductive “buh-uh” of Netflix (don’t look at me like that – you know the sound!), and the pathetic reality of the empty refrigerator, there are about a hundred distractions that keep me saying, “I’ll write later.”

Sometimes I do. Other times I don’t. It’s always a gamble, and the voice in my head has a fantastic poker face.

Luckily for my readers and my sanity, the weekdays arrive again. Every morning, I pack my trusty laptop in my bag. (Disclaimer: I’m obligated to mention that it was a birthday present from my husband and I love it.) Then, I head to the train station, find my favorite seat in the “quiet car,” and write for the entire ride to work – and again, on the way home.

If you ask me, I’ll tell you that I hate writing on the train. Bumpy spots in the tracks make me commit unforgivable typos, the doors let in chilly breezes, and the other passengers take up more than their fair share of seat space (Can’t they see I’m writing, here?). But remember, inner me can’t be trusted.

When it comes down to it, I actually love writing on the train. The quiet car provides that crucial white noise – you wouldn’t believe how easily you learn to tune out conductors and announcements. The other passengers, while not always respectful of my space, provide that awful social pressure. (After all, I can’t have my laptop out like some kind of professional and not work.) And, I have to admit, I get a burst of satisfaction whenever I catch the person next to me reading over my shoulder … especially when they have a kind smile on their face!

And yes, I have written steamy scenes on the train. And yes, making eye contact with strangers when I do is hella awkward.

But the best part of writing on the train? It alleviates my writerly guilt. Like when you curl up with a book and ignore your family or friends, writing is a solitary craft. I hate spending evenings or weekends locked away in my study when I could be spending them with my husband or our friends. As long as I can get a seat on the train, I can easily write 1,000 words during my commute. So, when I get home, it’s all about enjoying dinner and each other’s company (and yes, Netflix).

As I said, it’s not the most glamorous office, but it gets the job done. Hopefully, I’ll be able to prove that to you again in a few months!

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Do you have any fun facts about the writing of your favorite books? Where do you feel most creative or productive? Any other questions for me? Share in the comments!

For the Love of Coffee (A Mostly-Fictional Short)

Recently, I received an ominous Facebook message from Jonas Lee, a friend and fellow author. It read: Describe that first cup of coffee in blind man’s detail. This is your daily challenge 🙂 Okay, the smiley face ruins some of the menace. Now, I’m not normally one to take on writing challenges. A) I generally stumble upon them at times that are not conducive to writing and then promptly forget about them. B) I am incredibly insecure about putting “unedited” or “free-” (as in free-thought, not $0) writing out there in the world, because I do not want people judging me based on something I just slapped together in a creative frenzy. But coffee? Surely a writer must jump at the chance to muse on coffee! Ha! I hate coffee. In fact, that silky whore and I have a score to settle… The following is a slightly fictionalized, mostly exaggerated account of my daily interactions with coffee.

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My husband crawls out of bed at six-thirty a.m. He knows the shifting weight will probably wake me. Even if it does not, he knows his heavy footsteps, shaking the floor like thunder rattles windows, definitely will. But he doesn’t care. He needs her. Now.

As I leave the warmth of our bed and get ready for the day, I hear her begin to stir. A soft gurgle, a steady babble, a short beep. Her mating call. When I tiptoe to the stairs, her scent greets me at the top. It is the only thing I like about her –natural, nutty, a hint of spice. The aroma grows stronger with every step I take, until finally, at the bottom of the stairs, I can feel it tingle my lungs.

My husband is sitting on a stool, having his way with her on the kitchen counter. His lips press around the edge of his mug, letting her slither over his tongue and slide into his gut. At first, the sight repulses me, reminding me of my few tastes of coffee. Water, flat milk, ground plant –mixed together to create something that, contrary to the barista’s smirking insistence, tasted nothing like chocolate.

Upon a second look, I wonder what my husband tastes. The steam has fogged the bottom half of his glasses, but I can see that his eyes are closed, his hands cradling the mug. A moan escapes his lips, guttural, animal. We don’t call coffee his “mistress” for nothing.

Opening his eyes, he notices my presence in the kitchen and smiles, motioning for me to come closer. I obey, holding in air to avoid his sour breath. He kisses me, and when he pulls away, instinct makes me lick my lips. Her taste lingers in his kiss. Bitter.

We say our goodbyes, me rattling off a honey-do list — Call the leasing agent, Make your doctor’s appointment, Write your grandmother — and him reassuring me — I’ve got this, Have a good day, I’ll have dinner waiting for you.

When he wanders back upstairs, refilled mug in hand, I grab a pen and sticky note. I know that I can never replace her. Caffeine is a drug, and I am merely a woman. But I also know that, while she may warm his stomach and awaken his brain, only I can touch his heart. Today, my touch will begin with a smile, sparked by a poem, stuck to the coffee pot.

I want to be your sugar

crystals melted on your tongue

sprinkled in your coffee

black

Now What?: A One Year Post-Graduation Reflection

One year ago today, on May 18, 2014, I graduated from Baker University. As my Facebook feed filled up with friends graduating this weekend, this fact weighed on me more than it normally does.

Looking back at my time in university, I realize I didn’t appreciate it nearly as much as I should have. Yes, I was (and still am) grateful that I was able to attend university. I know not everyone can say that. And yes, I was (and still am) grateful for my scholarship and parents’ help and my professors and classes and extra-curricular opportunities. I know I was lucky to have such a wonderful team around me and to graduate debt-free.

However, I took two things for granted in university. First, time. I thought I had no free time. Ha! If any college students are reading this, trust me, you have plenty of free time. Try working 45-50 hours a week with over an hour of commuting time while planning a cross-country move and then tell me how much free time you don’t have. Seriously, though, while your free time in college is limited, the quality of it is so much freer than after graduation when all those “real world” responsibilities kick in. Cherish it.

Second, I took for granted what would happen after graduation. You see, I did really well in university. My whole life, I have judged my self-worth on my academic performance. School was my job. I mean, I worked during university, but priority numero uno was always my education. I thought when I graduated what I did in university would matter. Don’t get me wrong — it does. That 4.0 GPA and those awards mattered at graduation, and they matter for my self-worth and for my parents and husband. But everyone else? Their interest stops at what degree I received.

All the accolades fade away. With the rising credentialism in society, my degree is not special. I’m just another college graduate — the same as someone who lived by the motto “Cs get degrees.”

Okay, I’m done whining about the system. I don’t want to let this post spiral too much.

If you asked Graduation Day Kate, what would she have said about where she would be one year after graduation? Well, she would have tittered off this list:

• Daniel’s immigration completed
• Married to Daniel
• Living on our own
• Undertaking her first “big girl” job
• Preparing for graduate school in the fall
• Having written one novel

Well…two out of six isn’t terrible. There’s an old adage, “If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans.” I don’t know that I believe in a “God,” per se, but I do believe that life takes a million twists and turns, and every time we think we’re on track, it kicks us over to another one. So, where I am at one year after graduation?

• Still waiting on Daniel’s permanent residency
• Married to Daniel
• Almost living on our own (as of August)
• Applying for “big girl” jobs
• Starting my own business
• Having written (and preparing to publish!) one novel

While almost everything has taken a bit longer than I expected, and some goals I’ve traded for new ones, I can’t help but feel at peace with where I am now. I’ve had extra time to spend with my family and friends in Kansas, Daniel and I have had plenty of time to save and prepare for the next phase in our marriage, and I have grown professionally (at least in my indie author goals) faster than I thought possible.

Sometimes, I still expect to go back to school in the fall. It still hasn’t sunk in that this isn’t vacation — this is my life now. Will I go back to academia one day? Maybe. But I’m happy to take a few years to earn my stripes in the “real” world and work on my author-entrepreneur business. As much as I love being an academic, I know that I need to separate myself from that world, to do things for me, to learn that I don’t need grades to be fulfilled, to judge myself based on my character — not someone else’s judgment of my intellect.

One year out, I’m still a work-in-progress. And I always will be. And that’s okay. I’m 23 for goodness sake. This is a marathon, not a sprint, and I’ve barely started.

As the graduation speech I heard yesterday said, “In the phrase, ‘you can do anything you think you can do,’ it is what you think you can do that matters most. Figure out what you are passionate about, think you can do it, then go do it.”

If I studied my passions, English and Sociology, even when I knew they would not be as exciting to employers as job-specific degrees (ie: Marketing, Nursing, Accounting), surely I can live for them — no matter what the job market hands me in the meantime.

Living for passion? Chasing that full-time author dream? I think I can do that.

My Life’s Soundtrack (Side A)

I’ve mentioned before that I do not listen to music while I write fiction (although Amanda gave some great tips on that!). However, I hope that has not given you all the impression that I don’t like music. In fact, I love music. The reason I cannot write to it is because it distracts me; I enjoy listening to it too much to focus on much else at the same time.

Music is a wondrous art form. It is, arguably, the art form that brings up the most emotions and memories instantly upon contact. While I love books, reading a certain passage never quite strikes me the same way as hearing that perfect lyric or that gorgeous guitar chord. So today, I want to share with you ten songs I love. However, these are not just songs I enjoy, these are songs that carry specific, personal meaning for me. If my life were to have a soundtrack, these would make up Side A.

1. Helena by My Chemical Romance

Confession time: My Chemical Romance is my band. I can’t describe it to outsiders. Gerard Way’s lyrics speak to me in a way that no other verbal art ever has — books included. I feel the music in my blood. The first song I heard by them was “Helena,” which is also one of their most well-known songs. I was thirteen, and I learned the lyrics from a friend while we swam in the Lake of the Ozarks before I even heard the band perform it. I listened to it on repeat for the three hour drive home. It was love at first listen.

2. Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas

This may be my favorite song of all time. I’ve always loved it, but it first grew meaning for me as the season finale theme to the TV show Supernatural. As a teenager, I grew a bit away from my dad, as girls are wont to do. But Supernatural brought us back together and bonded us stronger than ever (which is a feat, because I’ve always been a daddy’s girl). Now, we have matching Supernatural tattoos, and we danced to this song at my wedding.

3. American Girl by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

Every summer, my parents and I drive down to Stockton Lake. It’s our favorite relaxation spot. When the Kansas City radio stations begin to crackle out, we put in Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’s Greatest Hits. This is the first track and my favorite. It always takes me back to those lake trips and that feeling of being young and not quite sure how to grasp life yet (which I still experience as a young woman).

4. Second Chance by Shinedown

When I was seventeen, we had to put down my first horse. I had lost pets (which I consider siblings) before, but I had never witnessed the process of putting an animal down. After it was over, I had to move my car to a different spot in our driveway. This song had just started. The lyrics are strangely fitting, and now it always makes me think of that day. Luckily, it has also extended to remind me of all the happy memories I shared with my horse.

5. Kids by MGMT

Once upon a time in middle school, the “cool” thing to do was wander around this one subdivision late at night with friends. One night, we all went back to someone’s house and had a “rave” in the basement. This song brings me back to wandering the streets and feeling absolutely free with my friends. For this freedom connection, it is also the song I listen to when I need help getting in the right mindset to write.

6. Kerosene by Miranda Lambert

I’ve been told that everyone has a break up song. This was mine in high school. It’s about a woman who is cheated on and burns the guy’s house down. If my MCR love and the plot of The Cogsmith’s Daughter didn’t clue you in, I love revenge tales.

7. Bastards at the Gate by The Architects

I can already tell you, when I move to Connecticut, this will be my homesick music. The Architects are a local band; I would argue the best in Kansas City. This song swells my KC pride and reminds me of the many KC and Lawrence adventures I’ve had with my best friend, Sam. I will always think of driving around with the windows down with her when I hear this band.

8. Homecoming Queen by Hinder

Hinder was my first “real” concert. I attended with my best friend, Jess. Hinder always makes me think of her. It was also my paper writing music in university. I don’t know what it is, but I can listen to music while writing academic papers, but only if it is Hinder. Listening to this song still makes my eyes strain and brings hints of late night Mountain Dews to my tongue.

9. Take Me for a Ride by Bad City

Incidentally, Bad City was the supporting band for my first concert. Jess and I are the only people I know who have heard of this now-gone gem, so again, it reminds me of her. However, more strikingly, it reminds me of driving home from university. First semester freshman year, I hated my roommate and always went home on the weekends. I drove home eating a green apple and listening to this album. This is the song that came on as I reached the city limits of my university’s town.

10. Gone, Gone, Gone by Phillip Phillips

Daniel and I have many songs — a whole album’s worth. But, if we are being honest, this is probably our song. In late November 2013, we were stuck on a bridge due to an accident. It was the holiday season where the PS4 and XBOX One were both coming out. The radio DJ was on an idealistic rant about how maybe his wife would buy him one (or both!) for Christmas. Whenever he did, he played the “I would do it for yoooou!” lyric. Daniel and I thought this was hilarious, and it has been our “true” song ever since.

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What are your favorite songs and/or artists? What songs will always carry special meaning for you? Music lovers unite in the comments!