On Failure

Hello, all!

Normally around this time, I'd be writing frantically in an attempt to finish my novel before the end of National Novel Writing Month. But this year, that isn't happening and I can't help but say that I'm a bit disappointed in myself. It seems like I've failed myself.

Failure is an interesting thing. It leads to feelings of inadequacy and shame and other unpleasant feelings. But it's not the end of the world. It doesn't mean that you shouldn't be proud of yourself because the thing about failure is that it means you at least TRIED. (In most cases; the case could be made that failing at something means you didn't try hard enough, but I'm trying to be positive here...)

I think it takes a kind of bravery to say that you have failed at something. It's admitting to yourself and others that you didn't finish something you said you would. It's difficult to claim failure because it isn't something to be PROUD of.

Really cliche quotes always say that you can't do everything perfectly on the first try, and every failure is a step in the right direction-- a way to help you learn and grow as an individual. While I have a tendency to scoff at these quotes, I have to admit that there is some value in them.

I've "won" NaNoWriMo for the last two years-- both times I've attempted it. This year, I was hesitant to even begin but thanks to the persuasion of a few of my writing friends, I started a novel this month. I doubted my ability to finish, based on my failure at NaBloPoMo in September. Furthermore, finals are coming up and this month has been the one where I have had more work to do in every class. It seemed like an impossible task-- throw in a novel on top of all that? No thanks.

But I can't be too upset with myself for failing. I keep reminding myself that I at least tried and though I've given up on hitting the 50k goal, I'm going to keep writing this story. Failing at NaNoWriMo doesn't mean that I've failed at life and to be honest, the only person I've let down is myself, namely because some small part of me believes that I should have been able to finish.

The truth is, sometimes failure is inevitable. Sometimes life gets in the way and sometimes it's hard to figure out what to do next and sometimes things don't work out the way you expect them to. However, that doesn't mean it isn't worth a shot, because with that risk of failure comes the chance of success and I'm a firm believer of trying.

And yes, failure helps you grow. It helps you learn. Failing gives you a perspective on your life and a chance to fix mistakes when the opportunity arises to try again.

So even though I failed at NaNoWriMo (and NaBloPoMo), it doesn't mean I'm giving up. It just means I'm trying something else out.

And now, I need to return to work that needs to be done. Failure isn't an option.

-Aly

Balance

Hello, all!

I was planning on writing a blog post about feminism today, but that is temporarily delayed because other things came to mind today.

Do you remember my New Year's resolutions?

Well, if you don't, one of them was to find balance in my life. I'm learning that this is REALLY DIFFICULT. I mean, seriously! This week more than ever, I'm realizing how badly I need to find balance and how hard it is to find it. I am a teeter totter, never quite equal, always leaning to one side or the other. Or scales. I don't know, choose a metaphor. Balance beam, teetering gymnast. Possibilities are endless but what it all boils down to is that I am currently incapable of keeping my life in any sort of equilibrium.

This week, it feels like I'm being pulled in all directions. I'm trying to sort out my suddenly very complicated and backwards social life, apply to Important College-y Things, work hard on school stuff, starting track, blogging, trying to figure out plans for this weekend, trying to figure out what to do for my friend in the hospital and when I can visit, and attempting to have enough time to sleep, eat, and talk to my family. EVERYTHING is being thrown at me at once, and while most of it isn't bad, I don't know how to handle all of it at once.

How am I supposed to pick priorities? I mean, obviously, some things are more important than others, but some things I want to do more than I want to do others. What should be most important, the needs or the wants? The needs, traditionally, but where does one find value in life? In doing what MUST be done or by doing what you WANT to do?

I mean, I know the "right" answer to that. Needs, obviously. Basics. But nothing in life is really basic (other than food/water/shelter, but let's be honest here, those are not overwhelming me right now). Basics are not a problem for me. Sleep is a basic, too, but that doesn't end up being a priority. I can function on five hours of sleep, but I'd rather not. So sleep is sacrificed. School is a Need, because education is important and school matters enough to my idea of success that I can't allow myself NOT to do it. But the homework is time-consuming, and there's that one class (math) where I struggle endlessly, and it feels fruitless. I'm not deriving (ha, punny!) any pleasure from doing the work that I don't fully understand, despite paying attention and taking notes. The homework feels endless and it's frustrating. Is that a priority? Work harder, until I understand? (Well, that's what I'm trying to do, anyway.)

I consider family and friends to be important. I mean, I like having dinner with my mom (and my brother when he's around/if he comes upstairs), and talking a bit. But lately I feel like I'm home far too often, and never see my friends. My social life is in a state of flux as I try to figure out what's going on with whom and where my relationships with different friends are at right now. And now time is eaten up by track and I find myself exhausted and sore, confined to a set schedule, the same old thing, monotonously repeated every day. Wake up, finish homework (I'm a night person but I focus best in daylight. I make no sense.), go to school, go to track, come home. There's no room for adventure when time is cut into slices that must occur in perfect order.

The thing about balance is that it's orderly and I am typically a mess. I'm disorganized and forgetful, a procrastinator (sometimes to the extreme). I'm terrible at prioritizing and choosing Important Things over my own interests (I'd much rather learn something I want to learn than work on something I don't want to do). Maybe I cling to what was too much, unable to move on or separate what's happening now to what I'm used to. Am I resistant to change? That's a different question entirely, but the point is that I am finding it incredibly difficult to balance my life as is and my life as I want it to be. There's no way to do everything I want or to be the best at everything, but at the moment, I'm not even sure where to start. I have ideas, sure, and I'm working on it.

Balance is elusive and difficult, something I think that not many people are good at. That's why it's one of my resolutions or goals or whatever they are for this year-- I want to change that in myself. My fear is that it will be impossible to change though.

So I'll start with this, the acknowledgment that balance can only ever be temporarily. Things shift and change and the balance is thrown off; I can only move in the opposite direction and see if I can get it just right.

A demain!
-Aly

The Math Class Narrative

I think there's something about this room.

I come in here smiling, usually having just laughed about something or other-- the subject is unimportant in the scheme of things-- and I take a deep breath, trying to hold on to that lightheartedness.

I sit down, waiting for the third bell to ring (the first announced the end of one period, the second announced 1 minute left to get to class, the final began class). I fidget a bit, nervous, but then grow still as the clock ticks closer and closer to my hour of impending doom.

The bell rings, echoing down the hallways and drowning out the raised voices of the students still dawdling outside the door.

I pull out my binder, catching my fingers in the metal ring to tug it from the overly crowded confines of my backpack. The plastic covering scratches as it slides across my desk and I reach into the pocket of my bag, fingers searching for the cool plastic of cheap pencils, a carefully cultivated collection of unextraordinary plastic, easily forgotten by other students until I claimed them as my own ad dropped them into this pocket.

My body is still awkwardly stretched into the aisle as my teacher finally enters, snapping the door shut behind him and locking us into this cinder block room. It's supposed to be a safety measure-- you can't come in here unless you're supposed to be here-- but, for the most part, that is entirely ignored. People wander in and out all the time, whether from tardiness, reluctance to be here, or the always-inconvenient call of nature. But me, I stay here. Exactly as I am, every day.

The teacher begins talking and I open my binder and reach for my agenda. The homework from yesterday has already been scratched out and a partially-filled page holds the promise of homework for tonight, too. I scribble the pages in, labeling it neatly with the class as though the contrasting handwriting styles balance out into the ideally-imperfect scrawl.

I close the agenda again, dropping it into my backpack to be forgotten until the next class. There is a rustling around the room as a few others begin to take out their materials for the class. Overly-stuffed binder, agenda, and pencil if you care enough, and a calculator if you retain hope of using it in this particular class, where archaic methods of actual "learning" defy the use of technology. It's a burden to think, of course; few of us know how to function without the comforting bulk of the calculator on our desk. I am one such person, but I have long since given up on the endlessly useful technology.

The teacher launches into class and I settle back in my seat, the connected desk allowing me to slouch, hoping that the teacher will not call on me for answers as he goes over the homework. His awful habit of making us think is largely centered on the front row and I am stationed here, my wish to be able to see overcoming my automatic tendency to settle into the back of the room where I can go unnoticed. He doesn't though, and I am temporarily saved. Part of me is annoyed, though. I had actually done the homework this time, but my crumpled sheet of paper is marked by the tiny question marks that indicate my confusion and the tell-tale remnants of wrong answers that I had erased. Of course he wouldn't check it today, the day I actually cared enough to struggle through the twenty problems we had for homework. I sigh and push the homework into the binder, where it will be forgotten until the next test and my confusion will be tripled by time and forgetfulness.

Homework questions are now irrelevant as class begins. I listen and copy down the notes dutifully, already feeling the twinges of confusion. Some (very) small part of me is interested in learning this, but for the most part, the part of me that is uncomfortable and unsure of this new topic is already winning the battle in my mind. Again.

During a moment given to work on the practice problems written on the board that I am still hopeless to understand, I turn to the friend that sits next to me, asking in a whisper if she understands what is going on. She is talking to herself quietly as she writes out numbers quickly and then smiles softly, proud of her work, before moving to the next question.

I sigh, my eyes flicking to the clock, counting seconds, and the inattentive murmurings of my classmates becomes louder. The teacher gives up his hopeless quest to shove inexpliquably complicated mathematical concepts into our heads and the period of math dissolves into a brief respite of social life when we should be working on the twenty-something homework problems for tonight.

At last, the teacher announces that he has our tests from two weeks ago. He calls our name and we shuffle forward to claim our own piece of failure.

My body freezes and I cross my fingers, wishing for an A. My name is called and my pounding heart is sufficiently masked by the din of the class. My fingers are clammy, trembling as I reach forward to take my last test from my teacher. I return to my seat with the paper facedown, all too aware of the expectant looks of my three friends that share my corner of the room. I sit, for a moment closing my eyes as I will for the grade to be decent.

I open my eyes and flip over the paper. An F, again.

I bite my lip, holding back the sound of despair by a hair and thinking about how much of a failure I am.

As I tuck the test into my artfully disorganized bakpack to be forgotten, I hope that my halfhearted ignorance of my failure will allow me to perform better the next time around.

But all I can think about is that this room is a trap, and I am trapped here, composing drawn-out odes to the class that always makes me cringe.