Sometimes Inspiration

A few years ago I read a book about writing. In fact, quite enough years have passed (and it was at a time where I was practically inhaling different books on methods of writing) that I have no memory of the name or author of the book, but something I recalled today from that book, was something the author said about how sometimes, seemingly out of nowhere, an idea strikes a writer. He (or she?) called it inspiration, something that just happens to writers (the author then followed up by saying that this is not necessarily a common occurrence in writers and therefore, the best way to produce a flux of ideas was to make a pattern for yourself: writing at the same time daily so your brain knows: now is the time to come up with ideas).

Inspiration does not happen to me often. And even though I semi-regularly sit down to write each night, I often sit there, writing because I know I must, but grimacing at the page, thinking 'Idiot, that line sounded so stupid, you're going to have to go back later and completely revise that entire section.' (Another thing that book--or possibly a different book I read that summer--told me was that you must silence your inner critic to just get everything down on the page, I have as of yet, to learn to silence the critic in my head).

Now, when faced with less than two weeks to write 3 essays (2 of 1,700 words and 1 of 3,000 words) the pressure is on to write, but (in my opinion) the most stressful/difficult form of writing: essay writing.

'But you're an English major!' all my friends protest whenever I groan about it, 'All you people DO is write essays!'

True, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it.

I have a method for essay writing. It comes in stages.

Stage 1: Procrastinate. Television, Doritos, rereading books you know you love,
youtube.com, iwastesomuchtime.com, collegehumor.com. Put off the writing
as long as possible.

Stage 2: Open the word document, adjust the settings to 12 size font (which for some
reason never stays that way. Write name in top right corner. Write a title
if you can come up with one or if professor has provided one. Add page
# to bottom of screen.

Stage 3: Stare blankly at screen. 15-18 min (Itunes playing optional)

Stage 4: More youtube! You deserve a break! 5 min

Stage 5: Begin writing, not your essay, but an angry letter to your professor/TA
about all the reasons you cannot
write this essay and how stressed out you are and all the reasons you are
currently stressed (profanity and emotion encouraged).

Stage 6: As you are writing your angry letter, use specific details about the book
you're supposed to write the essay on about how stupid it is. This will
somehow (about 1/2 to 3/4 of the page down) begin to turn into an idea (ex:
and I don't know how the HELL to write about the oppression of women
expressed through Jane Eyre! The
entrapment of Mrs. Rochester in the attic perfectly exemplifies a physical
entrapment of the female in the nineteenth century, while Jane portrays the
emotional and psychological aspect) This can also lead to a thesis
statement.

Stage 7: Delete the angry letter portion and continue writing off of your idea.
Open your essay like your ENGL 200 professor taught you: with a specific
line showing that you did close reading. Then use an overabundance of
textual support to make it look like you know what the hell you're talking
about.

Stage 8: Finish and proof read. Despair over how horrible it is and the terrible
grade you will receive.

Stage 9: Get A- to A+ on the paper.


Yes, it's a long process, but like I said, it normally works out for me.

Except now, I am in England, and my whole system is out of whack.
Things are different here. For the first time, I am in an upper level course (here it's actually considered to be senior year courses!). They have a completely different citation method (called MHRA which is completely stupid and confusing in regards to footnotes vs bibliography vs in text citations) and I actually have absolutely no expectation of getting a good grade. I have worked hard the past 3 semesters to get straight A's, while I'm here, however, I'm here for the experience. If I leave with C's, I'll be satisfied. Because I've already gotten out of this adventure more than I could have hoped for.

Like yesterday, for example.

Yesterday I went with Don't Be a Tourist to Warwick and Stratford Upon Avon.

We spent around 3 hours in Warwick Castle and it was (I think I can safely say) one of the most beautiful place I have yet been to in my life.
To anybody else, it might seem cool, ok, but nothing fantastic. The reason I enjoyed myself so much was that it inspired me. I mean HELLO it was a literal castle that people once lived in! I was walking through living quarters that Duchesses had stayed in and walking up ramparts and towers and there were peacocks in the gardens and I got to see a catapult shoot a flaming boulder across a field! I saw a vulture, an eagle, a knight, wax figures, and went on the ghost tour.

The trip gave me so many ideas for creative writing and I took so many pictures, my tiny memory card couldn't hold them all, and I had to delete some so that there was space left for Shakespeare's grave.















And here's some of Shakespeare

His grave:


His grammar school:


His Bust by his grave (the only true likeness ever recorded of him, approved by his wife)




I may also add now, that this entire blog post was my attempt at procrastination on writing my essays. However, I do already have one page done of one essay and have a pretty strong thesis (I hope?) for another. So...yeah.

Pizza with a side of Embarrassment

Tonight my dorm had a pizza party as a 'get to know your neighbors' event.
I went down, plate in hand, ready for some good old fashioned (and might I add free) pepperoni.
The pizza was late.
Not so horrible, I socialized, met some new people (and was surprised by the large number of children that reside in the dorm.) I mostly hung out with the people I've already met and hung out with.

The pizza arrived, delivered by a hot pizza guy (seriously--WHY are all the guys in England so attractive?) and to my...dismay? Surprise? Shock?
Let's go with surprise.
To my surprise, these were no mere common pizzas. Nay! Grayson Heights is far too posh for a simple pepperoni and cheese. We had peppers and pepperoni, eggplant and feta cheese and sausage, chicken and pineapple.
To my delight, however, the pizza was actually pretty good. And I got to spend some time talking to some other people about Harry Potter, Doctor Who, South Park, Jersey Shore and Hoarders.
Always a good time when you're talking about television.

The slightly embarrassing part of the evening was when the drinks arrived: glass bottled Coca-Colas.
Delicious? Yes. Awesome? Obviously. The problem: they require a bottle opener.

Anyone who knows me, knows I'm not a big drinker. Alcohol has never really been my thing. So while I'm here (and it's legal) I think I've probably had 2 drinks.
At home, I don't drink much either.
What all this comes down to, is that I'm not very familiar with drinking culture and I don't know names of different kinds of drinks and I don't know how to open a beer with a bottle opener, because I've never done it before.

Well...the dutch guy had a bottle opener.
And though I protested, the group gathered around me to watch me struggle for two minutes as I tried to pry the damn lid off the top of the Coke bottle.
Lack of familiarity with bottle openers and my low upper arm strength made it a tad embarrassing. Once I finally managed to pry the top off, my flatmate said condescendingly, "Congratulations, you're an adult."
I laughed, pretending I was jokingly British as I responded "Sod off."


A good meal is nice, a free meal is better. And I had a nice pizza night, despite the little set back.

Living on PB&J Sandwiches and Tears

To anyone reading this (and myself) my first few days here would be a disappointment.
Or, I suppose, my first few nights.
The first two days were spent on campus, busily running around from getting my student ID to taking campus tours to having my first pint in The Old Bar in the union (which reaffirmed my belief that all beer tastes disgusting).
But my evenings have been spent in my quiet, distanced, cold dorm. Where for the first two nights my window was broken so the heavy winds went through it like a sieve and made a noise the equivalent of a shrieking tea kettle. My first night, I simply put in my headphones and blasted Coldplay's The Scientist and when I'd fall asleep the earbuds would fall out and the wailing, piercing wind would wake me. I'd just put in the headphones again and continue the process 5 more times through the night.
The second night, despite my reporting the window to the front desk (where I was told that the window had been reported broken DAYS before I'd even moved in) the window was still broken. When I was walking down the hall towards my room and with the door closed I could still hear the piercing shriek of my window, I decided to sleep on the couch in our living room.
It was stiff, and I woke up a few times from the pattering of the rain on the wall sized window, but all of that was less disturbing than the box (I shit you not) of chicken bones, completely devoid of any meat on them, that my two Chinese flatmates had stuck in the corner of the living room.
As I dozed off, I imagined the ghosts of all those angry chickens, pecking at me.

My evenings were bad because I'd become overwhelmed with homesickness. I skyped my aunt each night, sobbing about my misery. It must have been very hard on her, and my Canadian flatmate that lives beside me actually heard me and asked if I was alright. (Needless to say, I was properly embarrassed.)
But last night, for the first time, I had a good night.
I still felt the homesickness and sadness that seems to take me over in the evenings, but instead of letting myself be overwhelmed, I took out my security blanket: Gail Carson Levine's Ella Enchanted which was my favorite book when I was a kid and has been read so many times, the binding is cracked. I got into bed, read my familiar and comforting story for a few chapters, and peacefully went off to sleep.

My days, however, have been a different experience.
Leeds is an absolutely gorgeous city and the campus is equally beautiful and lively.

I've met a lot of new people and have managed to remember most of their names (thanks to Mindy Kaling's audiobook chiding people that 'aren't good with names').

I've done the "British" things. I've had a pint at a pub. I've been called 'Love' by multiple shops people. I've had discussions about Sherlock, Harry Potter, Hugh Laurie, Doctor Who and (surprisingly) Buffy.

The homesickness takes a lot. Almost like I'm not letting myself have fun. But now, it is 10 PM (I hate those dreadful 24 hr clocks) I have eaten my 3rd PB&J sandwich of the day and am going to a night club called Halo which is in an old church (yeah...how awesome is that?) And maybe I'll come home so knackered I won't remember homesickness or skyping, but only the comfort of my springy mattress.

Stumped, Stuffed, and Slightly Nauseous

They said at all the study abroad meetings that you should really only bring 1 suitcase. And when you pack it, you should unpack it and take about 1/2 the stuff out.
At risk of sounding redundant (or making it my mantra) the study abroad people forgot one thing:
I am Cuban.

I do not 'pack light'. We arrive with boatloads of stuff, we leave with boatloads more.

This has had me struggling for the past two days.
I'll look at my suitcase, which is a little more than half my height (not that I'm that massive at a whopping 5'1) and I'll think
"Damnit! That's too much."
I'll begin removing things (question: who needs 7 pairs of jeans?) then I'll think
"I'm going to be there six months!" (answer: I do!)
I am bringing too much and not enough.
And let's not neglect to mention my Cuban grandmother who is like a Spanish speaking second person in my brain "Of COURSE you'll need that! Don't take that out! It'll all fit! Can you take this as your carry on? Will this go on your carry on? Are you taking this as your carry on?"

And my answer to her is often, "Yo no se". I don't know what I'm bringing and what I'm not. I'm not sure if I'll need my running shoes, an extra towel, my face cleanser. I am flummoxed.


Another thing (I'm not proud of) is that I'm a stress eater.
And I am immensely stressed.
My bonus Mom BZ made me the most delicious (no hyperbole) cake I have ever tasted for my going away party a few nights ago.


The frosting, the cake, the layer of ice cream, the layer of fudge....
Needless to say, I have been stuffing my face for the past couple of days.
I've been having my 'lasts'.
My last jibarito from Borinquen.
My last ceasar salad from Noodles.
My last ranch chicken.
Food that I very likely will not have until my return six long months from now.
The result: feeling overly full.



One of the joys of being me is my lovely habit of psychosomatic problems.
I am nervous and excited about my trip.
I am waking up earlier and falling asleep later (mostly because I can't turn my brain off).
I am in a constant mode of excitement which has lead to me being an anxious ball of energy. And when everything seems to be causing me trouble, the anxiety builds:
My laptop has failed (in the most literal way where it is now completely empty of all the songs/tv shows/movies I actually paid for on Itunes.) The energy converter I ordered still has not arrived in the mail. My suitcase might be too big and/or heavy. I don't understand my class schedule. And on and on and on.
All of this tension manifests itself as a feeling of tight nausea in my throat.


It's all so unimportant and ridiculous.
In the end, I will have a suitcase, I will have clothes to wear, I'll be fine,
I'll get to England in one piece.

It's the unknown.
Everything ahead of me is still up in the air (and over the ocean).
I don't really like the unknown.
But if there's anything I've learned about myself over the past 5 years (moving from suburbs to city, house to house, city to university) I've learned that I always land on my feet.

And I hope that when I'm miles in the air tomorrow, instead of feeling claustrophobic and panicking about the future,
I hope I take a moment to remember that this is not a frivolous trip. I did not randomly decide to study abroad in England. It's something I've literally dreamed about since child hood.
Rather than seeing it as being alone in a new country,
I'll try to see it as fulfilling my childhood dreams.

Spic: a Definition

I am Cuban.

That's what I normally say when people ask me.
It's not just a geographic location of my ancestors for me. It's my culture, my family, an all encompassing word meaning
family gathering for holidays
family meaning aunts, uncles, grandparents and my 30 thousand cousins (and they're all as close to me as an American's 'nuclear' family.)
It means that what others see as 'yelling' is our normal mode of speech.
We do everything passionately and loudly: whether it's love, eat, talk, laugh, cry or scream.

In less than a week, however, I will be embarking on my journey to Leeds, England for my semester abroad. When I'm asked what I am, I'll probably answer "American" because that is where I was born, that is where I grew up.
Being American hasn't ever really sat well with me.
I speak fluent English (and not fluent Spanish). I've got that Chicagoan accent where I hit my A's hard. I like most 'American' things, I've got American values instilled in me (mainly the notions that hard work and education are required to have a successful life in which after graduation you get a job and work til retirement). I've got all of those things down.
But I was aware, as I child, that we were different. I am not light skinned like all the blonde haired white girls flouncing around at recess. And I doubt many other American girls had someone approach their mother in a parking lot and tell her to go back to her country.

My point being,
I'm not just an American coed doing a semester abroad. I won't just have one cultural identity to learn to assimilate with the British. I have two.
I am a Spic. Yes, Spic, usually used as a derogatory term for Latino people (normally from Cuba or Puerto Rico) is a word I've taken as my own. It's something I'm proud of. It doesn't mean stupid, it doesn't mean we clean your houses and serve you meals at those 'authentic' restaurants people seem to adore.
We're people. We laugh. We love. We cry. And we've got our own set of values.

Family.

To the isolated American, I've noticed that leaving your family to go away for college is normal. Expected.
I decided to attend a University that's a 3 hour drive from home and for the year preceding college, I got asked multiple times (by multiple family members) "Are you sure you want to go so far away?"
Now I'm getting on a plane to attend a school that is an 8 hour plane ride away. To which 3 male family members (both grandfathers and my younger brother) said "Aren't there a lot of terrorist attacks in England?" Translating to: you should stay.

England has been a place I have longed to visit since my early years (yeah, it's stereotypical, but it did start with Harry Potter). So go, I will.

But don't mistake this for an 'Eat Pray Love' adventure. This is not a white woman's marvelous foray into strange new lands where at first she struggles but then meets a charming gang of locals and then has adventures and is accepted and has a readymade group of friends she can go out and dine with at her leisure. I am not Julia Roberts.

I will go out.
I will meet new people.
I will be in awe and excited about my new surroundings.
I will try to make new friends and have new experiences.

But all of those experiences will be perceived through the 2 lenses: that of an American college student
and
of a Spic.