The Path to Success: (Not) A Definitive Guide

I like to think of myself as a stable minded girl. The fact that I like to think of myself that way doesn't make it the least bit true, but let's not split hairs. So anyway, I was going through one of my non-stable-minded episodes (which sometimes last considerable amounts of time. Hey, I'm a college student.), and I came to the non-conclusion that I just...can't freaking decide whether I want to grow up or stay young.

I know this might seem like a typical 20-something woe, but hear me out. I'm literally completely torn about this. I think part of it might be the fact that I've perfected indecision to an art form, but really. Being 24 years old and almost the proud recipient of two bachelor's degrees, I'm kind of right on the cusp of real adulthood. Sure, I can already drink and sign contracts and I can almost rent a car, but those are only the tangibles of being "grown", as our parents would put it. And that's really the thing isn't it? Adulthood is a place where the tangibles pale in comparison to the intangibles--those things that just...are...about being grown. Paying your own bills. Moving out from under your parents. Having adult problems like meeting rent and programming your own VCR.

Wait...maybe not that last one.

Everything above was written this past summer, when I was about to graduate college (in August) and I was thinking that maybe now is the time where I'll grow up and be successful and suddenly become an adult, as I put it above.

But alas, I am still unemployed (not really a shocker in 2013 America), I still live off of credit cards, my mom still pays my rent (she now sends a check here to California instead of going online to pay my rent for my student apartment in Texas). It's been nearly 8 months since I graduated with honors (3.7 GPA) in two different disciplines from a pretty respectable university, and I'm still feeling like a child.

Why? Because no one actually cares whether you were top of your class or if you barely scraped by with C's all the way through. They want you to have gone to college, but how you did? That doesn't matter as long as you have that piece of paper that says you were good enough for them to give it to you (which, in reality, doesn't have to be all that good. Trust me.) I've only ever had one job application ask for my GPA, and that was for a teller job at a credit union, which leads me to believe they just want to know whether you can do math with any sort of proficiency. Want to know the hilarious part? I can add/subtract/multiply/divide (basically middle school level, though now that I think about it, some of the stuff I did in AP in middle school would blow my mind now...). That's it, though.

Yes, now go back up and re-read the part where I said I graduated with honors. With a degree in business, and another one in psychology, both heavy in statistics, probability, and mathematical prediction of outcomes. But I can't do derivatives or integrals or proofs or any of that stuff they call advanced or 'elevated' math. Sure, I could do it when it was required of me on an exam, but as soon as I walked out the door from taking said exam, I walked toward my next class and whatever 'knowledge' I'd used to get an A on that exam walked in the opposite direction and out of my life forever.

What is the point of this little side rant in the last two paragraphs? And more importantly, what is the point of this post? Well, let's recap: Is being an 'adult' a level achieved by completing a certain series of steps? And, if so, why don't the steps behind you matter once you've leveled-up in the game of life? If we're talking about actual steps--stairs in a building--the point of those is to get to where you want to be--namely, the second (third, fourth, fifth, etc.) floor. You can look back down at them and thank them for getting you there, because without them, it would have been impossible. There is no other conceivable way for a human who doesn't fly to get from the bottom to the top, except to put one foot in front of the other, step after step, in a logical progression.

But wait. What about elevators? A rope tied to a balcony? Climbing up a tower of your peers? 

Therein lies the point I'm trying to make. Throughout my life, I applied myself to climbing the socially accepted Steps to Adulthood: do well in high school, spread yourself over tons of extra-curriculars so colleges know you can multitask, get accepted to a good college, spread yourself even thinner with extra-curriculars plus heavier schoolwork (which sometimes ends up being totally useless 'busy-work' anyway, sorry), graduate with a high GPA to impress potential employers, go forth and make millions. Society tells us that this is what WILL happen if you complete all the steps. You need only to ascend one step for the next to be presented to you, ready to be conquered as well. Obviously, I'm still having trouble with that last part.

Why is this? Because our institutionalized perception of success is not in any way reflective of the real world.

I made a post a while ago about how school isn't like the real world. Well, the real world isn't like The Real World that school tells you about either. People become successful even if they skipped steps, or--shocking--even if they chose not to follow them at all. Some people choose the elevator to success, some choose to climb a tower of their peers. Does this diminish the value of their success in others' eyes? That's up for debate. Does it diminish the tangible value of their success? Snooki still has more money than I'll ever have, and I'm pretty sure she got to the second floor by way of teleportation. She's still considered an adult by the intangibles: she can pay her rent, she can relax with her baby without any worries whether she can feed it, she's independent and successful. But so are Rachel Maddow, Ariana Huffington, J.K. Rowling, and Ellen Degeneres. The key is: does your chosen path diminish the value of your success in your own eyes?

If and when I am successful (and when I figure out what I want to be successful at, because hey, sometimes people forget that part and just skip to the huge house and fancy cars), I want to be able to look back and value the path I used to get there. Can I truly say I believe in the steps I took? That remains to be seen. However, looking back on my life, I can't say I'd change any of it. Even though now I think the steps are kind of ridiculous and rigid, I clung to them so earnestly for the last 25 years that I find it extremely hard to discount them completely. I think, now, it's what I make of it, and how I tell my adoring literary fans someday that even though I nearly failed out of Calculus my senior year of high school, I still found my niche and they will too. You just have to believe in your path. More importantly, you have to believe in yourself and your ability walk it.

Or ride it, or fly it, or climb it...

Way back in the future...

"I moved to California when I was 24".

Someday I'll utter these words in nostalgic remembrance, preferably at some question and answer session--which I will audibly laud as terrifying but will secretly relish in despite my extreme social anxiety--in anticipation of the fourth book of my series or some such. I'll be answering some question like "How did you get started?" or "When did you really get into writing your first book?" or maybe even "When did your authorial life begin?". Some audience member will ask it in quiet earnest, possibly someone who wants to be an author themselves, and is at the time drowning in ideas that they placate in the form of various AU fanfictions of my characters. I'll tell them I moved to California when I was 24, just after I finished college earning two degrees which have nothing to do with what I'm making a living doing.

 I'll mean it as a caveat and as encouragement. This person may be a middle-aged mother of two who reads my books to escape back to her younger years, or it might be a 15 year old boy who spends his every waking hour (even on his phone at school) on tumblr or whatever site is the big deal at the time, flailing about the release of my book which is the ultimate reason for this gathering. I'll tell them I couldn't decide what the hell I wanted to do with my life until way too late, and not late enough. I'll tell them I just knew my life would start when I escaped Texas. And maybe I'll let them know I relied a little too much on the intangible and yet very real thing of just "getting out"; that I bought into the idea that if you can just get out, escape, get on the road, then things will fall into place. I'll tell them I rationally kept in the back of my mind the warning that this only happens in coming-of-age novels that sometimes end up as bestsellers (such as -hopefully- my own), but also sometimes end up in the bargain bin about a month after publication.

However, I will tell them that this shouldn't deter them from holding fast to the "get out" idea, if they so wish to adopt it in the first place. It's an infectious thing--it can make you happier just thinking about it. It works for me. I know I'm going to have a hard time at first, finding a job and settling in and everything, but to me its worth it. And that's what matters.

And also it will be nice to say "I moved to California when I was 24" someday. Because it will sound like that's when my life began, and in a way, it will be.

Overheard: Am I Really Stress-Free? Ha.

So I was going to wait a few days before making another post, considering there isn't much of interest happening in Lubbock, and I don't want to bore the readers of this blog with inane rambling about stuff that people outside of Lubbock wouldn't care about.

However, I was presented with an interesting (to me, at least) topic this afternoon while making my second trek onto campus via our wonderful bus system. (No seriously, they really are great. And they provide wonderful fodder for things like this.)

It was roughly noon, and having had my second morning class canceled and no classes until 2pm, I had gone home to relax for a while before heading back to campus. So there I was, on the bus near the back and minding my own business when one of my greatest pet peeves in the world made itself known: Ridiculously Loud Cell Phone User. It's not that rare a breed, they're everywhere. I'm starting to consider capturing them and selling them as entertaining pets. Enterprising, no? Anyway. Yes, more often than not in situations like this, such as public transit, I am caged in with a wailing iPhone lunatic with no escape until the nearest stop approaches. Usually I just try to grin and bear it and block out the news about grandma's colonoscopy or just exactly how many beers Big Tyler consumed over the course of an hour (which is apparently still under debate on a Monday afternoon) at whatever party in Lynnwood was the chosen destination last night. I don't want to know, and I don't care. Be that as it may, it's hard to miss everything.

Let me also say, as a caveat, that I have a hard time having respect for your privacy if you voice your private matters at such a volume that the driver can hear you all the way from the back of the bus. If you didn't want me to hear, and subsequently air your conversation on the internet, then you would talk in a more private level. So, you know, there's that.

Anyway, on with the particulars of this story. So, a seemingly sweet, nasally (and also blatantly sorority) girl sitting about two rows away from me is chatting it up with an unknown acquaintance when I hear first that she spent all of yesterday--Sunday--laying in bed. I started with longing to do the same. Innocent, right? Yeah. She went on to say it was well deserved, considering she partied until 4am Friday and Saturday (to be honest I wasn't all that shocked because hey, sorority). My thoughts at that moment started to lean towards pity. Is there no other acceptable topic on a Monday afternoon in college than partying? Apparently not.

Next, she began to complain about stress. I started thinking, okay...you would probably have less stress if you did your homework instead of partying, but that's just me. She then began to lament about something very close to my own heart, simply because I am practically the poster child for just such a statement. I will attempt to quote her as directly as possible, since I was petty enough to whip out my phone at that moment and start copying down her words. She complained that she wished she was "a little bit smarter. You know, like just a teeny bit"..."You know, like, there's, like, those people in class who, like, barely study for tests or homework or whatever, and they still make all A's. Like, they don't even try, and they ace everything." Her voice had taken on a particularly whiny tone at this point which was grating on my nerves most acutely, but lo and behold, my pity only grew stronger. "If I could just be, like, a teeny bit smarter and not have to study or whatever, my life would be so stress-free."

And that's where I lost my shit. (Pardon me.)

I had to actually fight off the urge to turn around and offer a decidedly socially awkward shoulder-pat. First of all, as I said, I'm basically the poster child for this. I hardly ever study, apart from skimming over the notes before whatever exam I'm walking into. And yes, I've maintained honor student status in this regard since high school. Hell, since middle school. I've never once actually taken heed of things like the 2 hour rule (in which you are supposed to spend two hours studying for every 1 hour you're in class, which is in itself an temporal impossibility given the limited number of hours in a day and the fact that I would like to sleep and eat somewhere in the midst of said day), or making flashcards for vocab or whatever. And yet, still, I get perfect scores on exams. It keeps happening, so the behavior is inevitably reinforced. It's worked well for me, and I'll graduate University with honors in two disciplines.

The kicker is this: no matter how much they try to shape it that way, school is not the real world. Face it, there isn't going to be a syllabus at your day job, in which the deadlines for the next six-eight months are clearly delineated for you, and you can bring an actual suit against the professor for requiring something that was not on said document the first day of class. No one is going to baby you about your performance potential and tell you there's ways to get extra credit and not to worry. I highly doubt that if you screw up the Graham case by forgetting to turn in your investigatory materials prior to the trial, your boss is going to relent and tell you that you can just provide a little more detail in the closing argument and you'll be fine. Not hardly. Graham has already gone to jail because you're an idiot and you chose to party instead of defend him to your fullest potential.

My point here, sweet sorority girl on the bus, is that life isn't about being smart enough to not study. Sure, it makes school a shit-ton easier at the time. I'm not going to deny that. However, I wouldn't call my life stress-free because of it. If anything, I'm more stressed, because Lord knows I'm going to have to learn time-management and study skills at some point in my life, and I look around and see everyone else developed them ten years ago while I'm still living in the "fly by the seat of my intelligence" thing. I'm a realist; I know this won't work forever. And the closer I get to "real life" as opposed to "school", the more antsy I get. I'm waiting for myself to grow up all of a sudden, and know how to function as someone who isn't an easy-going A student, but I know that's not going to happen. Therefore, until I get my butt in gear, so to speak, you (sorority girl) are actually ahead of me. At least you know how to really, truly work for the grades you get instead of relying on the genes your genius mother gave you. Sad, I know.

And let's face it, while I'm fretting over growing up in the next 4 months, you always have your MRS to fall back on. So really, your life is tailor made to be stress free. Have fun.

P.S. I stuck around through the conversation long enough to hear her ask for another thousand dollars by next week, and to tell her daddy she loves him.

It's about time to capere mea spes

I started the day with a spike in my tea at 10am. Why, you ask? I'm not an alcoholic, by any means. It's just that the world needs a lot of help to be tolerable. Well...sometimes. Other times, I need plenty of help to tolerate myself in the face of the world's tolerableness. (Google Chrome tells me that's not a word, but you know what? I'm on a reckless streak today). I tend to think of everything as...unduly difficult. Whiny 'the world is out to get me' stuff, usually. I know it's irrational, but sometimes I'm still a teenager at heart. Must be why I relate to them so much.

Which is most likely why I'm sitting in a sunlit campus apartment living room watching New Moon. Edward just left, that smarmy bastard.

I feel like Bella sometimes. I welcome whatever flaming I get in return for that statement. She's different from the normal YA heroine, in that she always seems to accept what happens around her and that she's unable to stop it. After all, she's painfully ordinary. Why would someone so powerful/beautiful/smart/etc. ever want her? It makes sense to her, for her to be alone. It's not until the end of the books (the series, or even just New Moon in particular in this case), that the audience can step back and go, "Wait a minute. Where did that conquering attitude come from?" We're led along with Bella to believe she's weak and has no bearing in this crazy supernatural world she's been thrust into. Which, let's face it, she doesn't. Not in any real sense. But if you pull yourself back from everything, and look at the tiny choices she makes in the face of everything, without looking for huge shows of grandeur and courage, it starts to become plain. The choices she makes that show her courage are the ones she makes when faced with something so basic that it seems ludicrous to her not to have it. Things like her friendship with Jacob, her relationship with Charlie, or her own baby. She sees these as belonging fundamentally to her, as opposed to things bestowed upon her by others, like Edward's love, becoming a vampire, etc.

And now I've made a post about the inner workings of a character I pretty much inherently don't like. If there is a point, let me try to find it within the rambly workings of my brain.

My point is that I have only recently found my Jacob, my Charlie, my Nessie. That thing that I feel belongs to me, and that I deserve it. Writing. For the longest time, I've denied myself the thought of actually getting paid for doing something I like. I've stuck to the gameplan of getting a degree (or in my case, two) in something "respectable" as some would put it. Psychology and Business. Sure I was told one can't make a living doing something artsy or whatever (despite the evidence to the contrary that takes up my bookshelf). And I believed it. I still sort of believe it, in the sense that I probably won't ever get rich off of it or anything. I might not even ever do it professionally.

Thing is, I will do it. And I will attempt to make it worth something to others who might potentially buy it and publish it. I'll still pull my weight in the corporate world, so to speak. I'm not dumb--I'd rather be comfortable than fight the good fight in the face of my own poverty when I could potentially be better. However, I'm going to write and I'm going to publish and I'm going to fight for my own dream. Because it's mine. (Yes, I said that Bill-style. I'm hopping between vampires, here. Plus, I can't help my ingrained southern accent anyway.)