NaNoWriMo '15: The Scholar Returns

Trigger Warning: references to death and suicide

Like a beacon unto the shadows, National Novel Writing Month has returned, and in the process drawn me out of hiding. To be sure—for those of you who follow me on Twitter or know me personally—I haven't exactly been "off the grid". But as a friend recently observed, there's less of myself in what I do post these days, and I think that's a fair assessment more often than not. Truth is, in the time since my last blog post, a great many things of transpired—wonderful things and terrible things and at least two full seasons of the year. So before the veil between Now and Beyond winnows to mere gossamer, and our purviews turn irrevocably away from the warm season that was, allow me to close the gap between entries and bring the Fane back into the present. 

I've been dreading the writing of this post for some time. In the wake of the struggles referenced in last year's two-part entry, The Times That Try: A Scholar in Crisis, 2014 ended on a discordant note at best. As 2015 began, it seemed that the arbitrary boundary between years had done little to keep that string of hardships in the past. By late February I'd decided I'd had enough. I couldn't continue living in perpetual reaction—I needed to exercise some agency, starting with walking away from unnecessary pressures and obligations. This is how my blogging/writing hiatus began.

In the year leading up to that point, life presented me with no small number of indicators that perhaps I should become more health minded. Not the least among these was the fact that my summertime stress eating had led me to my highest recorded weight, just shy of 300lbs. Add a few weight-related health scares in the family, and it became imperative that I enact some lifestyle changes sooner rather than later, and hopefully before it was too late. 

What began as a light breeze in a more favorable direction soon became a whirlwind. Leisurely strolls gave way to determined hikes, simple home cooking became "clean eating", and while I should very much like to explore this particular journey in greater detail allow me to summarize in a few pictures: 

Now, the "Before" shots here are from 2011 and 2013, respectively; there are no pictures of me at my peak weight, but the difference is hardly significant in light of the fact that I am now 80lbs removed from that dangerous height. To say I have become obsessed with healthfulness seems an understatement, but I can at least assure you that it has not been to my detriment in the least. I'd long planned to return to the blog with professions of devotion to the websites and apps that helped facilitate this journey, even before reaching my current fitness level seemed plausible. For the first time in my life, I was intentionally losing weight. I felt more in control of myself and my destiny than ever before, more sure of myself, more optimistic about the future, more positive and fulfilled in general.

After nearly two full months of tracking meals, and exercising almost daily, I decided I deserved a cheat day. They aren't the most advisable of practices but it helps me to recharge my willpower if I give in to a craving every now and again. I worked out hard, made room in the day's caloric budget, and ordered a pizza. I ate the entire thing while marathoning the latter half of Daredevil season 1. I made dinner date plans with friends. I reveled in my recent successes. I went to sleep fatted and contented and happy. I don't think I can say I've been truly happy since.

That night, around 2:30am, I received a call from my brother. At 10:16 the previous evening, while I was basking in my triumphs, our father—who had for so long struggled with alcoholism, depression, and hardships innumerable—had called the Help Hotline for what might have been the thousandth time. It was also to be the last. By the time they'd sent someone to check on him, he'd already hanged himself. The attempts to revive him failed. My father was dead. 

Someday I will address this tragedy as thoroughly as it deserves, but for now I'll share what I'd written in the immediate aftermath:

I feel as if I should be writing to capture the feelings as they happen but there's either too many or too much or something about the timing seems off. I'm not sure what to do with myself and so I just sit here and it seems wrong, so I get up and move around and it seems wrong, and in either case the thoughts flare up and subside, visions of what happened, intangible imaginings of the loneliness and despair that must have preceded the act, and always this sadness not for my own loss but his, the loss of the last of whatever fledgling hope had kept him going for this long. His had been a long-endured suffering, from his earliest memories to his final moments, with only glimpses of happiness like starlight bright shimmers amidst a black sea of night sky. His pain was constant and total, so frequently all consuming, and his long-term degradation at the bottom of the bottle only deepened his capacity for more. Displaced and broken, downtrodden and alone, it's only too easy to see from this vantage how he could have lost sight of his own agency, only too readily comprehensible that he could think that this was his only escape. 

His final status update—the last I heard from him—was an assertion that no one would care whether he died that night. My comment—the last he heard from me—was that it wasn't true, but that it didn't matter whether it was true or not because HE needed to care. I'll no doubt spend years torturing myself over whether or not I should have taken a warmer tack, whether I should have called the Help Hotline for him long before he'd called them himself only too late for them to prevent what happened from happening...but it was also true. I couldn't do that caring for him, none of us could. 

I don't know what the future might have held for my father had he soldiered on long enough to outlast the mounting troubles which led him to this tragic choice. It's my belief that suicide isn't a wish to die, it's a wish to stop living life as it's being lived at the moment. When one can't see another means of affecting change, death begins to appear the only option. He'd rallied for a time, after surviving a first attempt on his own life back in January. But he fell back into old habits, his choices caught up with him, and he couldn't see a way of escaping them. Jobless, facing eviction, had he asked me to find a solution I would have been at a loss. I couldn't have painted a picture of a more successful or easier life ahead, or drawn a map of how to get there. But I believed in general that he had a future. I hoped, at any rate. I knew there was a chance he'd try again, and I was prepared for it, but one can only prepare so much for something this hard. 

We don't know yet whether or not he left a note before he departed. Maybe we'll never know what went through his mind that final, tragic day. It's easy enough to guess, but we have no business trying to know. For us, it is enough to know that one of our own felt so irreparably damaged, so hopelessly alone, so impossibly powerless, that the sum of his available agency was expended exiting a life of pain the only way he thought he could. I will never not miss him. I will never not wish that he had chosen life. But I hope his suffering is at an end now. He endured more inhumanity and degradation than anyone I have personally known, and right now all I can wish for him is that his pain has finally come to its end. 

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, dear father. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Robert Craig La Salandra, Oct 30, 1955 – July 25, 201

There was no funeral for my father. These are the only words that were ever said for the occasion of his passing. Instead of a service or memorial, there was me, alone, viewing his body in the back room of the funeral home, just before it departed for the crematorium. There was no interment, either, at least not yet; at present his ashes sit in a makeshift shrine of sorts, next to my writing desk. Someday soon, I'll find a way to properly lay him to rest, and then the matter will be finished. That, sadly, will have been the story of him.

What does one do under these circumstances? There are no guidebooks. I'm sure there are a fair few volumes on the grieving process, but they can only ever treat the subject in a general way. Last year I remarked that Robin Williams' suicide had hit me hard, for if he couldn't make it what chance did I have? How much closer to home was this, now, for my own father to succumb to his demons? 

I'd like to say I did the normal thing, flailing about until the loving support of friends and family helped set me aright, but in reality all I could do was cling firmly to the simple fact that he had been proud of me, in the end. I think people kept expecting that I'd fall apart, but it never really came to that. We'd had our differences, sometimes violently so, but we'd found common ground and ultimately repaired our relationship as best we could. To be sure, there were weeks of depression, and I'm not entirely certain they've come to an end, but early on I realized I had to accept that it happened, that these were his choices and not mine, and then carry on as I'd been before his death. It's what he would have wanted, I'm sure; for the loss to undo so much hard work would've been adding insult to that final injury. And so, if a bit shakily at first, if a bit coldly even now, I did just that—I've carried on. 

I still miss him, of course. I still grieve and mourn. As his birthday nears, he is more in my thoughts than he had been in recent weeks, but progress yet continues apace. Most days, I remember to dedicate my efforts to him, to continuing the work that made him so proud of me, even as his own life deteriorated into a miserable chaos. I think he'd forgive me the days I forget. What I do for my daily exercises, I will now do for NaNoWriMo. I'll dedicate this year's novel to him, and forge ahead. I almost didn't sign up for it, I wasn't sure I had it in me, but I realized I really couldn't stand for that. While his death will forever be a part of my story, I can't allow it to become a negative influence. I can't let it stop me, no matter how tempting that may seem. The most fitting tribute I can imagine is for me to win the day over those same demons which for so long assailed him, for his legacy to be found in the perseverance of his sons, and for his name to grace the dedication page of what I hope will be my first completed manuscript.

While there's life, there's hope. And so it goes...

In Memoriam: R. Craig La Salandra, 1955-2015

Quick Update from the Fane

Spring is nearly upon us and I haven't blogged a thing since the aftermath of last year's National Novel Writing Month. It's been a struggle just making it through most days; sometimes, that's just the way reality rolls. 2014 was a rough year, and 2015 hasn't been doing me many favors, either. But, after a few months spent in search of a firmer footing, I finally feel like I'm back in the swing of things. 

Just this past week, I managed to write an entire story with a beginning, middle, and end, an accomplishment never before achieved despite years of writing. It's nothing earth shattering, and won't be longer than a thousand or so words when all's said and done, but that's the plan for this year: No more Great American Novel, no more trying to make an impact or leave my mark; I just want to get some completed works under my belt, a few practice runs so I can develop the necessary discipline and fine-tune my understanding of the fundamentals of writing. 

That having been said, I'm not sure I'll be blogging with any appreciable zeal, at least not for a little while. I might even wait until the site proper has been built. It's a delicate time, and I'm being patient with myself. Whatever comes of it will hopefully have been worthwhile, in the end. Thanks to anyone who still checks back for updates every now and again, as well as to those who might be happening across the Scholar's Fane for the first time. Things'll be moving and shaking eventually, in their own due time. See you back here when they do.

—James La Salandra

NaNoWriMo '14: Trials, Triumphs, and Take-aways—Reflections on the WriMo that Was

By all accounts, this post would've been better served by having been written earlier in the week, but the final days of National Novel Writing Month were such a challenge that my fingers still ache from the number of keystrokes necessary to earn this:

As was evident from my previous post, every WriMo has been unique for me. Of course each year differed due in part to the fact that each year featured a different story, but on a statistical level, too, has the experience been varied. 2011's steady climb was capped off by a down-to-the-wire flurry of words I still don't remember writing; 2013's effort would have been completed within the first two weeks had it not been for my taking a week off to watch a marathon of Doctor Who episodes leading up to the 50th anniversary special. 

This year's WriMo, however, was nearly a disaster. After building momentum over the course of Week 1 that left me feeling perhaps a bit too confident, I languished terribly. With only three days left in the month, I had written barely more than 20,000 words. I took Thanksgiving off—to celebrate, decorate, and summon as much literary fortitude as I could possibly muster. The run-up paid off, and by the morning of November 30th I'd crossed the 50,000 word mark, and successfully completed NaNoWriMo for the third time.

Now, obviously I wouldn't recommend this course of action. It's much, much better to maintain a steady effort; covering so much ground within a span of so few days was an exhausting experience, and i'm sure to some extent the work suffered for it near the end. And I'm certainly not boasting about my success here, but I do think it's worth noting that the feat can be accomplished. One of the biggest obstacles to reaching the end of NaNoWriMo with 50,000 words—and, indeed, to reaching the end of any writing project—is yielding to the sense of hopelessness that plagues nearly every work, especially for beginners. The lesson here is simple: Don't give up. If you want to be a writer, all it takes is the sometimes seemingly Herculean task of never giving up. You must see the work through. As Neil Gaiman has said, "It's that easy, and that hard."

With another WriMo in the books, it's time to turn an eye toward the holidays, and the spirit of reflection they so often inspire. Looking back on the past month, and 2014 as a whole, I'd have to say the most important lesson for me has been that regular writing begets better writing. As I'd observed in June, it takes a fairly consistent writing schedule to elevate my work to a quality I dream of maintaining as a writer. This proved true during NaNoWriMo as well, with the best work of the month coming after—and only after—I'd been writing for a few consecutive days. 

There's evidence elsewhere to support the claim—science fiction author Jamie Rubin recently reached the milestone of having written for 500 consecutive days, and noted that the benefits of his discipline include increasing his rate of sales from 1 story every 3 years to 1 story every 45 days. It's not that a higher volume of output leads to more frequent sales, he explains, but that more frequent work leads to better work. As it was his blogging that inspired me to establish The Scholar's Fane, I can't help but consider taking yet another leaf from his book. I've seen it evidenced in my own work, on a small scale, and in his claims on a much larger scale. Writing daily must become a priority for me in the year to come.

The other major take-away from this year's NaNoWriMo is this: I need to trust that I've chosen this path for myself wisely. Part of what bogged me down through the middle of the month was pressure I'd been placing on myself to compose an almost perfect first draft, despite every assurance that first drafts are inherently, more or less awful. Everything had to be properly organized, continuity had to be maintained, the writing had to feel right or I'd despair and flail. At some point, I completely lost touch with myself as a writer, given the poor job I'd been doing. What saved me was trusting that, having set myself on this course long enough ago, and having worked at being a writer for years, I must have had good cause to do so. Maybe I'd lost my way—maybe I'd lost my will—but I owed it to my more confident former self to see things though as best I could. And that's how the WriMo was really won—throwing myself into the work, almost mindlessly obedient to the decision to sign up back in October. I discovered I had faith, not in my current self, but in the self that had led to this one, and the one that will undoubtedly follow. 

If anything can be said of this year in general, it's that persistence pays off. Oftentimes, under duress of the many challenges life throws one's way, Perseverance is the name of the game. That's held true for most of this year, more so than in years past. And while reaching one's goals takes more than mere survival, there's no climbing to the top without occasionally hanging on for dear life. This year I've learned i'm capable of doing just that and, it is hoped, with the insights gleaned from NaNoWrimo and earlier fits of writing, I'll soon be able to resume my ascent toward the realization of my dreams. 

It seems so simple now, but I'll no doubt need reminding as time rolls on. Though it's 11 months away, I'm looking forward to the next National Novel Writing Month, which I expect will present whatever lessons I'll have forgotten by then, as well as a host of new insights that will once again spur me on to an ever better future as a writer. 

The Times That Try: A Scholar in Crisis—Part II

[This piece is the second in a two-part series on the experience of enduring hardship while suffering from Bipolar Disorder. Click here to read the first installment, The Times That Try: A Scholar In Crisis—Part I]

Still rising...

Though much of these events have already come and gone, their gravity continues to pull at me, warping the shape of the space which surrounds me until nothing is familiar save the prone position in which I so often feel I am forced to exist. I know that survival ultimately lies within reach of my own agency, and my escape is inevitable—the question is, what form will I take once the worst has passed?

I have long held that the nature of the universe is heavily dependent upon the fact of consequence; every effect is the cause of another, the very course of Reality amounting to an infinitely complex mosaic of cascading dominoes falling in endless succession. The tiles which so chaotically tumble now are very much the result of events which transpired in the summer of 2009. This crucial tipping point, five years in the past, seemed even then to herald no small amount of difficulty to come. I learned rather quickly to avoid clinging to an anxious anticipation of the "other shoe" dropping; "Everything changes", Heraclitus said, "and nothing stands still." Rather than dread the eventual outcome of that conspiracy of triggers, I looked forward to the adventure of navigating their results. But in the five years that followed, I'd forgotten a great deal, having grown complacent as those changes failed to materialize. I took for granted the illusion of stability, yet another example of naively setting myself up for a painful surprise.

Days of Summer Past

In the wake of the economic collapse, my family had been struggling. Additionally, my grandmother—with whom we had lived all of my life—had begun to suffer from Alzheimer's and dementia to such a degree that we could no longer adequately care for her. In response to the latter, after much guilt-ridden consideration, we opted to find a nursing facility that could more capably contend with the many challenges presented by my grandmother's condition. Though our hearts were heavy with self-recrimination at our failure to care for her ourselves, it was a relief to find the home more than sufficient to the task. Her condition began to improve, and we enjoyed a brief period of relief.

In response to the economic hardship that had befallen us, just as it had befallen so many, my parents sought to restructure their mortgage, hoping to lower the monthly payment enough to afford a little more breathing room in the budget. They were told by their lender that, in order to qualify for refinancing, they should forego payment on the house for two months, after which they could then enter negotiations for new terms. 

One night, at the end of June, we received a phone call from the nursing home—my grandmother had contracted an infection, and it had spread. They informed us that she had been rushed to the hospital and was being treated now for septicemia, or blood poisoning. At nearly 89 years of age, she was not expected to survive. The next morning, my mother woke in a daze, her vision blurry, her speech slurred; she, too, was taken to the hospital.

A few days later, we received notice from the mortgage lender that due to the lapse in monthly payments, they had begun the process of foreclosing on the house.

My response to these and other circumstances was, as I've said, to embrace change as the natural order of things. Thankfully, my grandmother did survive, my mother recovered without incident, and though the house was in foreclosure it remained more or less in our possession for years after. In fact, it wasn't until a few months ago—just days after the tragic event that preceded July—that my family finally received word that the house was to be sold, at auction, in the beginning of August. I hadn't realized until the day that noticed arrived just how much of my breath I'd been holding all that time—finally, the end was in sight.

August - 2014

I had thought, with no small amount of optimism, that the sale of the house would provide the motivation necessary to bringing so much of my family's affairs into order. I suffered no delusion that I held any power over these events—indeed, the affecting of this boundary has been integral to my survival over the course of the entire season. Whether or not matters were resolved should never have been such a concern that a failure to do so could impede my own progress, but I must admit that, as the sale came and went without much notice or fanfare, I found my optimism quickly replaced by still more despondency than I had already experienced through much of July. The bank, it seems, had purchased the house from itself, prolonging the foreclosure even further, and so the process of moving on from the old home life still has yet to proceed. 

I had managed, however awkwardly, to find some semblance of "footing" in spite of these events. However, this tenuous stance suffered a major blow from well beyond the sphere of personal matters, in the form of what can only be called a national tragedy—the passing of Robin Williams.

I should like someday to expound upon the influence that Robin Williams' work has had on me over the years, the ways in which his roles have so greatly informed the man I have become. While I know enough to credit the writers and directors behind these roles nearly as much as I credit him for so perfectly portraying them, in the wake of his passing those characters have become as patron saints to the cause of my progress toward actualization. While not everyone mourned his loss, those of us who did felt it deeply, and fiercely. Then, when further details of his life emerged, I found even more reason to grieve: Robin Williams suffered from Bipolar Disorder, and his death was no accident. I was left wrestling not only with the absurdity of grieving for a man I'd never met, but also with a question: If someone like Robin Williams could lose the fight against this condition, what hope do I have? 

It was a question I would continue to ponder as the month dragged on, but I had little time for it. That very same night, my mother was rushed to the hospital. A few days later, so was my grandmother. Though it astounded me to see the same confluence of issues resurfacing in tandem five years from their first convergence, I could not claim enough recollection how how I rode out the storm then so as to similarly weather it now. Things were much more serious this go around, as well; though my mother is doing well, she faces the possibility of fighting against a chronic condition for the remainder of her life. And although my grandmother did recover from the illness which sent her to the hospital that terrible week in August, it sapped from her whatever strength she would have needed to contend with the next blow only three weeks later. 

Everything After

For a time, however, it seemed the tumult of the season had finally begun to subside. The matter of the house remained unaddressed, but it was a trivial matter when held against the question of our very mortality, which stood at the forefront of my mind following the tragic and near-tragic events of August. Through the entirety of the season, I was confronted with my own powerlessness in the face of so many aspects of my own existence. With the family health scares seemingly behind us, a birthday fast approaching, and my own finite nature well grasped, I was resolved more than ever to rededicate myself to the portions of my life over which I did have power. I'd allowed the instability of my condition to become the sole focus of my attention, at a serious cost to the goals I'd set out for myself. I'd forgotten one of the most important lessons I'd learned over the course of the past few years: the answer to any situation, no matter the size, is to keep moving forward. And forward I moved.

This time, no episodes coincided with my effort; though I experienced an elevation in mood, I refused to allow things to grow beyond my power to contain them. Inspired by the acquisition of a new electric typewriter and acting on a whim I'd shelved some weeks before, I repurposed an old dining room table as an work station, for arts and crafts, to accompany my writing desk:

Although I had managed to chronicle the most pertinent events that had transpired over the preceding months, I'd done little in the way of proper writing. Struggling to resume the practice, I instead turned to less serious endeavors; thus, the ScholarDoodle was born.

"Normal is an illusion..." - Charles Addams

For the first time in months, I remembered what a joy it is to create again. "The old juices", as Hemingway would say, were flowing. Though I still found work on my novel to be too daunting to undertake, I began conceptualizing on its structure, and arrived at a better understanding of the form it should take. In addition to reinvigorating my work, my confidence was boosted as well; i suddenly discovered myself to be more capable than I'd ever thought. Seeing these projects through from conception to completion has been more rewarding than I'd imagined. I've even opened a Tumblr account for exhibiting these and future works. 

"Gather ye rosebuds..." - Robert Herrick

Not only did this personal renaissance open new channels for me creatively, but it also drew a rousing burst of support from my closest artistic friends. Once again, I discovered the essential role that community plays in the life of a creative individual. No longer did I find myself questioning my chances given Robin Williams' passing; instead, I came to realize how much farther he must have made it with the help of his friends and loved ones. And, thanks to the support I received for these new efforts, and the rallying of the family in response to my grandmother's health scare, I was able to see, finally, a light dawning at the end of this long, dark season of my soul. Though I often approach birthdays with nothing less than the most dismal of depressions, I now viewed the upcoming birthday as a bright new year in my life, a means of putting all the darkness of the previous season—indeed, the previous three seasons—behind me. I was ready to move forward, and seize each day with aplomb. And then the other shoe dropped.

On Saturday, September 6th, my mother received yet another call from the nursing home: my grandmother had a fever. It seemed so insignificant at the time, though we were of course aware that she had become much more susceptible to a sudden decline. Nevertheless, it still managed to catch me off guard when, just after midnight, on the morning of September 7th, after she had once again been rushed to the hospital for the treatment of a potentially systemic infection, my grandmother reached her limit just as the nurse was to administer a dose of antibiotics. At the age of 93 years and exactly one month, the life of our family's matriarch came to its close. My grandmother was dead.

It was my grandmother's wish that we eschew the traditional arrangements after her passing. There was no viewing at the funeral home; there was no church ceremony, with grandsons and nephews escorting her down the aisle to an awaiting hears; no interment at the cemetery where so many of our family have been previously laid to rest. In the end, by the loving graces of her eldest grandson, we gathered as a family two weeks after her passing, broke bread together, and celebrated her life. I'd never realized how much I'd come to depend on the pomp and circumstance of the traditional funeral, but seeing the entire family gathered together—people I have not had the good fortune to see in years, otherwise—did bring some sense of closure. 

So it goes. I will arrive at the dawn of my 36th year without grandparents for the first time in my life. The house, while still filled with what familial possessions were left behind following the heinous act at the end of June, will soon enough be out of our hands. If ever it could be said that a chapter in my life was ending, let it be said now. The last vestiges of childhood are but a memory, now happy, now filled with regret, now tearful and joyful and filled with such life as I can barely contain. The trick is to experience these highs and lows without letting them run away with themselves, swallowing up still more months of this turbulent year.

My name is James La Salandra, and I suffer from Bipolar Disorder. When life is upon me—as ever it is—it can cripple and devastate in ways that confound the average person. The conspiracy of events that befell my family and me this summer have been absurdly severe, heartbreaking, and tragic. And for much of that time, they made the very act of surviving a day's duration the hardest work I have ever undertaken. But that survival, the endurance of these dark days, has taught me much about myself. It has strengthened my resolve to make the most of my allotted time, and sent me charging into the next chapter of my life determined to continue the fight to become whatever it is I may yet become. It's also reminded me that, despite the darkness, there is still beauty in this world. There can still be joy amidst so much sadness; one can still find kindness on the harshest of days; there is still life, so long as we have the strength and courage to live it. "Gather ye rosebuds", my friends, and just you watch as they bloom.

The Times That Try: A Scholar in Crisis—Part I

It's hard to believe that September is already past its midpoint, much less that fall has finally come once again. This is, in part, due to the fact that still-summery weather had only recently—and so suddenly—been replaced with the cooler days and chill evenings that presaged the impending arrival of autumn. Still, there are some warm days left in the forecast yet, and the summer has seemed longer, in many ways, than those of some years past. The quietude of June seems a lamentably distant memory. Indeed, it seems impossible to fully detail the events of the previous three months and their combined effect without enlisting the help of a novelesque backstory replete with specific dates, locations, and various dramatis personae. This season has truly been a dark one, and an integral chapter in the overall book that has become my life.

A bad moon's rising...

Although one of my aims as a writer has been to openly explore the struggles I endure as a sufferer of Bipolar Disorder, I must admit that thus far I feel I've barely paid lip service to the daily battles waged by myself—and others like me—against this debilitating condition. For my part, I'm fortunate enough to face only rarely the still-prevalent societal stigma with which so many mental health sufferers are confronted on an all too regular basis. In truth, the fight against this stigma is every bit as important as the fight against mental illness itself, for, as long as the afflicted are maligned for the very fact of their sickness, the pursuit and potential success of treatment will remain hindered, if not impeded entirely. To live under the conditions which these maladies impose is challenge enough; to do so in secret, as if in shame, is to invalidate so much of the dignity and humanity to which we earnestly cling, and of which we risk losing sight altogether.

I believe it is with these tools—what dignity and humanity I can muster at any given time—that the invisible prison walls of social stigma can best be dismantled. Dignity, humanity, and candor. The story of my summer is very much the story of a life lived under the pendular whims of Bipolar Disorder, and it is hoped that, by telling it, I might offer more than a simple update on my life as a writer. Although I must, for reasons beyond my control, remain vague in regard to certain details, I should very much like to convey the severity of the season's tumult, its debilitating impact and, finally, how it is I found myself back on solid ground.

A Case History (Abridged Version)

Life is, in many ways, a conspiratorial procession, a summation, of the events and conditions which, over the course of its unraveling in time, come together to inform the steadily changing concept of the Self. As Sagan remarked, "If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe." So it is with people, though we of course tend to excise the portions of our own stories which predate our births. While I've no wish at this juncture to present a thorough exposition of my mental health issues over the course of my entire life, I should like to preface with the most immediate—and ongoing—portion of that journey.

The current course of treatment began nearly a full seven years ago, and represents the longest such term in the 25 years that have elapsed since my first encounter with professional mental healthcare. Though at first I had considered myself to suffer only from severe and persistent anxiety, after sorting through the background noise of several aggravating factors it was deduced that an underlying thread of mood disturbances facilitated the majority of my issues, and I was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder. In short, am subject to sudden, often inexplicable shifts in mood, vacillating between sustained bouts of depression and startling fits of hypomania, which while not as severe as full-blown mania still presents enough disruption as to contribute to the condition's overall unstable and debilitating nature. After suffering adverse effects at the hands of a variety of medications, which only served to exacerbate my condition, it was decided that my treatment would be comprised solely of regular therapy sessions. Over the course of the ensuing years I have been exposed to various forms of psychotherapy, all of which proved fruitful, and all of which were administered by one extremely capable therapist—until earlier this year. 

I understood fully her reasons for leaving, and sincerely believed that she should have been—and, as best I could manage, was—afforded the freedom to depart without concern for my ability to continue my progress with her replacement. Still, the transition period represented an extremely turbulent time for me. My life during those first six years of treatment had been riddled with upheaval, and on more than a few occasions it was the consistency of my regular therapy appointments which helped me survive, hopping from one appointment to the next like following a stony path over churning waters. In the uncertain time between my last session with her and the building of a functional rapport with my new therapist, the instability of my condition began to grow to unmanageable proportions. It has been an almost miraculous bit of good fortune that her replacement has proven every bit as capable as she had been, but this fact did not emerge until tested by the events that transpired this summer.

July

As July approached, a sense of excitement and optimism began to build within me. It has, historically, been a good month for me, particularly these past few years. I had finally established a steady rhythm after the months of uncertainty surrounding my therapist's departure, and had distanced myself sufficiently from a number of other troubling events which had thrown the first half of the year well off its intended course. This sense of relief was noticeable in every aspect of my life; it was if the sun had finally risen after months of darkest night. Sleeplessness gave way to full nights of rest; a constant nausea subsided and the joy of eating returned; after allowing months to lapse without writing a single word, I suddenly found myself tallying over 10k words that I'd characterized as exactly the sort of work I'd always dreamt of doing. After months of intolerable malaise, life had finally become livable again. And so, as I awaited July's arrival, my mood continued to brighten until, just days from the first, it finally erupted into the most severe hypomanic episode I'd suffered in years. 

While in the throes of a hypomanic episode, I am fortunate enough to avoid taking full leave of my senses; this state is lacking in the grandiosity of mania. However, I do become possessed of an amount of energy that far exceeds my capacity for containment. There have been many instances in which this aspect of the condition has come in handy, whereby a mild hypomania, triggered by a sudden realization or the generation of a rare good idea, facilitated a level of productivity lacking in the weeks or months that preceded it. There have been many more instances, however, in which I merely became too excitable for my own good. Rational thought is dispensed with, and poor judgment reigns supreme until the repercussions set in and bring me tumbling back to earth. The hypomanic episode that occurred at the end of June was neither middling nor extreme, but sufficient to leave me feeling exhausted for the few days that followed. 

The exuberance of that single evening left me weary, and emotionally raw. I remember the psychosomatic manifestation of the plummet quite vividly: my body aching and weak, my extremities numb, my heart feeling heavy and drained. Though on the mend two days later, I was still extremely vulnerable, having not yet found firm enough footing to contend with much of anything, and certainly not what eventually transpired.

It's here that I must resort to an obnoxious degree of vagueness. Given the presumably ongoing nature of the situation, it might not be in my best interest to go into fullest detail. Hopefully, it suffices to say that I witnessed a transgression being committed against those close to me and, despite having seen said transgression as it was in progress, have yet to find a just and proper resolution to the matter. You see, there's more to being an eyewitness than mere seeing. Although what I saw was plain enough for the average person, in the very technical and specific court of law it would, apparently, not have been enough. It took no more than a few seconds after hearing this for the self-recrimination to begin: I could have done more. I should have done more. I could have done a better job. It was my fault that nothing will come of this.

Of course this line of thinking is both natural, and irrational, yet it persisted. Helping to pick up the pieces in the aftermath of such violation, burdened with an entirely unchecked sense of guilt for my failure, and all of this being experienced in the raw and vulnerable post-episodic state...I was thrown headlong in the opposite direction, into an anxious depression which arrested my thoughts, abolished my focus, and left me unable to escape a compulsive revisiting of that day's events. Even in my sleep, I attempted to pursue the culprit, and even in the best of those dreams I still failed. Convinced by my therapist that no feeling can last so long as we hope or fear it might, I waited as patiently as I could for an abatement of this agony, always mindful of the month's impending closure, as a duration of longer than one month could mean a state of post-traumatic stress. I had to be mindful of how far I allowed this damage to go, lest it become just one more unanswered crime added to the list.

But there was hope—near the end of July, I found I could make it through most of the day without obsessing or brooding. I began to sleep again, and dream my own dreams. Before the month was out, I even experienced an entire day on which I all but fully forgot about these things well beyond the scope of my influence. Rational thought returned. What's more, August would bring with it a closure to matters that predated this terrible event, and would force us to leave the entire scene behind. I felt ready to move on, to move forward. As relief finally began to set in, I turned an optimistic eye to the new months' arrival—and was thus entirely blindsided by the new, and far worse circumstances it held...

Rising still...

To be continued...

Summer's Fane – A Season in Progress

It's been in introverted/introspective time here at the Fane—quite a bit going on, but little to actually report. As was the case last year, summer feels as if it should be a season of growth and activity, of the sort that takes me outside and into a world of self-made adventure. This is as much for my writing as it is for my general health. The fresh air and sunlight don't just boost my mood, they help fuel my imagination, and they serve as a wonderful backdrop to what will hopefully become compelling scenes and plot points in future works. Maybe it's the warm weather, loosening up the creative muscles that are too often cramped and frozen in place; perhaps it's just the playful spirit which harkens back to summer vacation of childhood years past. At any rate, it feels like a time for activity, as if those creative juices should find their impetus in the bright summer sun—in reality, I've never spent so much time indoors.

Even in the arctic blast of a winter we endured, I still managed to get out more often than I have been as of late. It hasn't been the sort of seclusion which featured heavily in years past, however—I'm not avoiding the outside world, but rather finding myself simply more focused on activities here at home. I've been writing a great deal more, some of it proving upon review to be the sort of work I've always dreamt of doing. And I've been reading regularly, a habit I had only too recently lamented having let slip. Another habit I've let slip, with even more fierce recrimination, is blogging. It's been two full months since my last post, and I should like very much to see the end of 2014 without another such lapse. So, that having been said, I think an update is in order, before these recent bout of writing takes me over completely, and/or fishing season makes for another long hiatus until autumn arrives.

On Writing and Routine

I've long desired to become the sort of writer who, possessed of a certain degree of discipline, worked precisely when he meant to, and not according to the fickle whims of his inspiration. Much as it thrills to work under the direction of one's Muse, it's a far from reliable method. I've found that it's important to take heed when inspiration strikes—ideas have a pitiably short shelf-life—but it's also integral that I establish a regular routine, so that by sitting down with pen in hand I am in fact triggering the creative process, letting my brain know it's time to get down to work. 

As has apparently become a summer tradition, I'm once again reading about Ernest Hemingway. I offer neither defense nor excuse, at least not at this juncture. There is, I believe, as much to be said for the man as against, but that's another blog post altogether. For the moment, what matters are reports that his habit was to wake early in the day, so as to be at his desk by 6am. He would write until roughly noon, then tackle other important matters before heading off to the bar in the afternoon. 

Anyone who knows me knows full well that it's not generally in my nature to live according to a sensible schedule. My sleep cycle is haphazard at best, but as luck would have it said cycle happened to sync more or less with the average person's schedule. During this time, I made use of those quiet morning hours, and put Hemingway's method to the test.

I have yet to implement an alarm, as being jolted awake in the wrong phase of sleep can leave me feeling out of sorts for an entire day. However, provided I get to sleep at a reasonably early hour, I wake similarly early, and go about the day in this manner: First and foremost, I avoid media. It occurred to me that the programming axiom "Garbage In, Garbage Out" applies just as well to writing stories and the like—starting my day observing the outrage over Kendall Jenner's wardrobe choices just isn't conducive to the work at hand. So, foregoing Facebook, Twitter, and the news in general, I start with a light breakfast, and then head straight to my writing desk to start the day's work.

Would that I could add more detail, for anyone who might be looking for inspiration where their own routines are concerned, but that's honestly the long and the short of it. Wake up early, skip the drivel, and dive right into the work. I've added keeping track of daily word count, which has been helped encourage me by showing me just how productive I've been. I've also begun making use of the #WriteClub hashtag and participating in word sprints whenever the opportunity arises. Maybe there's something more to it, but I'm loath to over-analyse it. At the end of the day, I'm writing more, and I'm writing better. And, when I'm not writing, I'm doing a great deal more reading...

Everything Old is New Again

I feel at times more guilty than the average reader when it comes to revisiting favorite works as opposed to entertaining new titles or authors as often as I should. I make it a habit to re-read The Time Traveler's Wife every September, for example, and apparently enjoy reading Hemingway's works in the summertime. As I did last year, I'm reading Henry Miller, although last year it was the third book in his Obelisk Trilogy, Tropic of Capricorn, whereas this year I'm reading the first, Tropic of Cancer. But, as my introduction to Miller via Capricorn led me to my exhaustive study of Hemingway, this year I've been led instead to the works of Anais Nin, in the form of Anis Nin Reader, edited by Philip K. Jason. I've also been led to a painful and startling revelation: I don't read enough by female authors.

The reasons for this egregious imbalance are many, and again there might be cause for a separate post dedicated to exploring what amounts to tacit sexism on my part. For the moment, all I can do is protest my innocence, and declare an effort to rectify the problem. Thus far, I've read P. D. James's The Children of Men, with an eye on reviewing its laudable cinematic adaptation, and I've acquired Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale, which I plan to read once finished with Cancer and the Nin Reader. As these initial re-readings lead me to new territories, they will hopefully continue to encourage me in this way to grow not only as a reader, but as a man. 

On the Horizon

As the summer rolls on, I do expect to find myself venturing out of doors more often. So far, the heat has never been truly intolerable. I expect to acquire my fishing license in the next week or so, and it'll take more than a few trips to the lake to satisfy the urge to fish that's built up over the course of the year. I've amassed a sizable workload where Page to Screen reviews are concerned, and would like to begin adding blog posts to my daily routine. While I'm not entirely satisfied with my efforts to keep to my New Year's resolutions, I do feel quite close to the mark, which is good enough for me. And although I'm off the standard sleep cycle again, and spent the entire night awake, I managed to apply my new routine regardless, adding another 2,600+ words to the month's growing total. With the day's work effectively done, I think it's time for one of those outdoor ventures—it is a beautiful summer's morning, after all.

On Milestones and Moments—The Perks of Being a Twitterer

It may not always seem to be so, but it wasn't all that long ago that the Internet—for me, at any rate—was more or less a static collection of web pages, abbreviated in only a few places by the interaction afforded by message boards, IRC chat rooms, and instant messaging programs like AIM and ICQ. My immersion into net culture began with a WebTV purchased in 1998, and while the service did offer each user a personal webpage, the notion of "web presence" was, by and large, still unknown to me. Though I did eventually graduate to a proper desktop computer, my interactions with others on the Internet were still limited to a few personal contacts via IM programs, and perhaps three chat rooms that I frequented with varying degrees of enthusiasm. 

It wasn't until around 2007 that I encountered my first message board, and I didn't join Facebook until 2010—and that, I was more or less forced into, thanks to a friend who set up the account and then handed me the "keys". My reluctance to participate in the burgeoning scene that is now referred to as Web 2.0 persisted for quite some time. In fact, even now, I find myself often begrudging the fact that I have what amounts to a web presence, which must be regularly updated and maintained. I will admit, however, that this hesitancy of mine has waned significantly, from screaming refusal to resignation to, recently, a tentative embracing of what has become, for all intents and purposes, the new normal. It isn't a product of having accepted that I'm actually somewhat proud of my well-cultivated Facebook profile, or that I now have a blog; no, it's because of Twitter. And though I initially felt coerced (by myself) into signing up for Twitter for the sake of promoting this blog, the incredulity with which I viewed having an account has given way to a surprising degree of pleasure at realizing that I have finally reached the milestone of my 1,000th tweet. I thought it an excellent occasion to opine on the virtues, uses, and benefits of Twitter.

All the News That's Fit to Tweet

Though Twitter had been launched in July of 2006, The first I'd heard of it was in late April of 2008, via a CNN article. An American graduate student, James Buck, had been arrested while covering anti-government protests in Egypt. En route to the police station, he sent out a tweet—"Arrested."—and it was this message to his Twitter followers that led to his eventual release. At the time, my interests lay more in international affairs than technology, and so the story was more intriguing for detailing the treatment of journalists during a time of unrest. Looking back, however, it was not only my introduction to the existence of Twitter, but the first sign of just how powerful it—and social media in general—could be. 

By now, of course, news is broken and spread on Twitter sooner and faster than anywhere else on the Internet, if not all media. It's a stream of information—sometimes serious, sometimes trivial—that never seems to stop, and when important information enters the stream, retweets and commentary send it rushing across the globe in seconds. Follow enough people, and you've got your ear to the ground worldwide. It's an excellent way to to keep abreast of news from anywhere in the world; it's also an excellent way to see the lighter side of the way the world turns.

London Calling

I'm sure its already made its way into the Twitter streams and Facebook news feeds of just about anyone who has a mind to care, but I think it bears repeating: The exchange below was—without reservation—a truly hilarious thing.

It may be hard to tell from these screenshots, but I happened to spot Patrick Stewart's reply only minutes after he posted it. I captured the image, intent on using it in a post on my recently-developed love for Twitter, only to see scores of major news sources had picked up on the story by the end of the day. I'd been scooped, and for a moment that stung, if only for the fact that I was slow on the draw. But that feeling eventually gave way to the realization that I'd witnessed the story being reported as it unfolded. Silly as it may sound—particularly for what amounts to little more than a Twitter-enabled joke—I felt as if I'd been witness to history.

Now, I suffer absolutely no delusions that this exchange will mean anything in the long run—it's obviously just a brief moment in which we all happened to chuckle that one time Rob Delaney and Patrick Stewart made a funny—but I'd SEEN it happen. And this sort of thing actually does happen quite often. Celebrities and various Important People interact on Twitter all the time, in ways you just can't observe elsewhere. It's not always a send-up of the supposedly-serious, a blending of real news and parody within the span of a few minutes; sometimes its as simple as two people conversing the way any two people might, but extraordinary for the fact that it's people of note. 

And this is something I love about Twitter most—it enables us to observe the daily interactions of people whom we admire, who inspire us, who make us think or smile or laugh. Whether its shenanigans or touching exchanges, it's an opportunity to see that they, too, are just as human as we. This doesn't just go for famous people, either. As I've remarked before, participating in a community of like-minded individuals has been invaluable to me, as far as my writing is concerned, and though I've done so on other platforms Twitter has always been the single greatest facilitator of that communal existence. For some reason, there more than anywhere else on the Internet, it's plain as day that we're all in this together.

...And They Said You Should Never Meet Your Heroes

Watching celebrities interact with each other is great entertainment, offers tremendous insight, and can even inspire at times; interacting with regular folks is integral to my daily well-being, and encourages me to continue my efforts as a developing writer. But on those rare occasions in which these two worlds merge? The feeling is indescribable. 

Last October, I had the good fortune of borrowing a friend's copy of The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman. It was a compelling and quick read, extremely enjoyable, and I took to Twitter to say so. That's how this happened:

I have long been a fan of Gaiman's works, and of the man in general. The "Quote of the Moment" that adorns my blog at present—taken from Gaiman's now-famous "Make Good Art" commencement address—has been in place for months, as I can't find anything better with which to replace it. But this exchange—my thanks and his response—sent my appreciation soaring. I know the man has millions of fans, and I doubt he too often finds himself feeling under-appreciated, but it still felt good to contribute in some tiny, infinitesimally small way to his day. And it meant worlds to me that he should respond as he did, contributing to my day/month/year so significantly. It means he's listening—many of them are—and the fact that they interact with fans is admirable, as it has been since the first celebrity responded to the first piece of fan mail. But I'd like to think it happens quite a bit more, more often, thanks to Twitter. 

And while I'm sure it all happens elsewhere as well—on message boards, Facebook posts, and the like—but it's all right there, included in the daily Twitter stream, all at once, ad infinitum. Writers reaching out to writers, news breaking minutes after the event, millions sharing in the joke, or the sadness, or the moment. Twitter is the digital mikveh, the communal bath in which we're all soaking and stewing, sharing, laughing, and dreaming. It's a surprisingly wonderful place, one in which I don't always participate as often as I should. But, whenever I happen to be there, I'm glad to be; touching base, staying "in the know", continually being inspired and influenced by the stream of information as it passes. 

Maybe someday, I'll be in the position to crack a joke that'll make it into the papers, or tweet at a grateful reader, making their day. Maybe I'll say something brief but inspiring, and others will be inspired to continue pursuing their dreams, and sharing those dreams on social media and in blogs, tweeting links to those posts just like me, continuing the cycle. You can never step into the same river twice, and the Twitter stream is ever churning, ever changing. Your mileage may vary, as they say, but this has been my experience. And I hope it continues to be my experience, as I begin my next thousand tweets, and the thousands that will undoubtedly follow.

From Resolutions are Revolutions Born—A Look at the Year Ahead

Sure, it's been another frigid week for some of us, and the snow has been a particular drag in general. For all intents and purposes, however, the last 24 hours have been particularly stellar here at the Fane. I was up until well after dawn finishing a recently-published scifi novel for review; I prepared a particularly tasty cheese omelet for "breakfast" when I woke in the early afternoon; I managed to survive shopping like a proper adult, scoring a host of healthy, whole ingredients without any accompanying junk "food"; for dinner, I had my first green smoothie in ages. All in all, a rather responsible and productive day for someone not yet fully accustomed to what most would call "normal life". In fact, while most of this likely seems more or less mundane, commonplace, or downright boring, those who struggle with particular breeds of hardship will understand that it was quite the adventure in accomplishment for me. What better way to cap a day such as this than to head back to the blog for the year's much-delayed first post?

A Quick Recap

The past few months have been anything if not exciting, though admittedly there's been precious little to report in terms of my NaNoWriMo novel. While there's much work yet to be done, the holidays obviously took precedence for much of December. I've expanded upon the outline, made note of a few dozen incidents that should be included, but beyond that I've focused mostly upon fleshing out the protagonist, by way of living his life.  

I'd neglected the previously year's festivities, mired deeply in an existential malaise which swallowed the final months of 2012 and indeed much of 2013, and so endeavored to compensate for those many lost months by embracing the holiday spirit as much as possible. I set my books aside and turned to the television. It's not something I often do, but I think I can be forgiven marathons of Doctor Who, Star Trek: TNG, and a dozen or so science fiction and action blockbusters. 

As Christmas itself approached I shifted to holiday themed films, encountering The Bishop's Wife and It's a Wonderful Life for the first time, both of which were exquisitely delightful, as well as five different versions of A Christmas Carol. I'd decided, having thrown up my decorations only days before Christmas itself, to celebrate the classic Twelve Days of Christmas, meaning my festivities continued well into January. After weeks that included many a feast, the exchange of a few thoughtful gifts, my first Boxing Day celebration, and a truly reflective New Year's Eve, it was time to strike the decorations and prepare in earnest for a year that had already arrived.

New Year, New You?

My approach to New Year's resolutions has always been much like the old cliched experience—make a list of new rules for oneself, maintain for a week or three, slip up once and abandon the effort for having failed perfection. It is—in my case, at any rate—as if resolutions were meant to be broken. They're almost intentionally trivial, and while the notion of resolutions (and the New Year itself) is a contrivance, I still feel I've been wasting an opportunity for yearly renewal, transformation, transcendence to the next stage of my personal evolution. It seemed to me that the crux of the problem lay in viewing resolutions as hard-and-fast rules which I must suddenly and unfailingly follow. Obviously, this just isn't the way to go about affecting change. As someone who's made a habit of taking progressive strides away from the chaotic existence of his past, I decided I ought to rectify this annual flailing, by trying a more balanced approach to the new year—one with a far better chance of succeeding. 

Resolutions Done Right

Rather than a new set of rules aimed at instantly correcting my behavior, I came up with a manageable list of gradual changes that will hopefully enable me to affect new habits over time. If, by year's end, I'm living my life differently as planned, I'll consider my resolutions successful. The first—and most obvious—problem to address is my writing.

• Though participating in NaNoWriMo has in both successful cases contributed greatly to my ability to write consistently, it's a discipline I've done little to maintain. In each instance, by the time the new year rolled around I'd already let myself slip back into the habit of writing only when the mood struck me, rather than in a disciplined, daily fashion. Still working with my old approach to resolutions, I'd at first thought I'd just make myself write daily, and that would be that. Having made that promise to myself numerous times in the past, I quickly realized how meaningless it had become. Instead, I'm easing myself into the practice, with only enough pressure to nudge myself from an inert state on a regular basis. If I write, I make a note of it on my calendar. If I don't, I'll try again tomorrow. The goal is to end the year writing daily, and there are still eleven months to work with.

• As far as reading is concerned, I'd found myself most often gripped by task paralysis whenever I so much as glanced at my reading pile, which had grown to roughly sixty or so titles piled high and wide atop my coffee table. In order to make the list less daunting, I reduced it to only five or six select titles. In order to ensure the reading of those particular books, I'm not allowing myself to add anything new to the pile until each of them has been read. While I have recently thrown a review title into the mix, I think that's an acceptable skirting of the rule, as it encourages me to continue writing for the blog, which is my next order of business.

• I had a good run during the fall last year, but blogging daily—or even weekly—is still sometimes a struggle. Hopefully, this post will be the first of many, but again my goal here isn't to suddenly exhibit the discipline required to produce on a regular basis, but rather develop the habit over time. I'd like to follow through with my original intent, continuing to post personal progress and musings, as well as returning to review work, adding original films and music to new book reviews and further analyses of page-to-screen adaptations. If, by year's end, I've managed to at least double last year's output, I'll consider the overall effort a success.

• One last resolution, set apart from those described above, is actually a daily practice which I've imposed upon myself, though with little difficulty and to tremendous immediate effect: Along with notes for having written, I've made a point of marking the calendar with a star for each solidly fulfilling or particularly enjoyable day. It may not seem like much, but that little record has enabled me to see just how much better I have it than I might sometimes think. Everyone has their down days, and on those days it's often difficult to keep in mind just how rare they are. With the visual aid of the calendar, I can keep things in perspective, and can honestly say that the practice has helped boost more than a few mediocre days back into star-worthy territory.

While it may have taken me a while to institute these resolutions, I'm still remarkably confident about my ability to continue striving to achieve their aims. In fact, I'm feeling remarkably confident about the year in general. I have a long-standing habit of tackling each year, regardless of circumstance, by boasting "This is gonna be my year!" And, truth be told, I haven't been wrong yet—though last year did seem as if it might finally buck the trend. But something about 2014 feels different; there's a surety which I can't quite explain. Maybe I'm just more prepared, maybe I'm in a better place, maybe the stars have finally aligned to agree with me more than previous years. All I know is, it's a very exciting time to be alive, and I can't wait to see how much more exciting it gets as my year stretches on.