You can find "Ease" in Eraser, but that doesn't make it "Easy"

As I'm trudging through the work on my first novel's rough [and I do mean rough] draft, I can't help but liken myself to the daunting pages on the screen. Obviously, these are my

words, my thoughts, my characters. The draft is, in that sense, a part of me.

But I'm talking about something different.

I'm referring to actually being the rough draft.

It's funny how right you think you've got everything when you're writing. Or at least, I do.

I smile as I come up with the perfect metaphor, a vivid description for what I'm trying to convey.

Naively, I hand it in to my professor.

...Turns out, [and I know this is going to shock you] my work is not nearly as brilliant as I thought. It needed drastic improvements, changes for even my very best sections. It was disheartening. But also, exciting. The process is the fun part, after all. You work and work until the best version finally slaps you in the face.

Kinda like life.

I can always be edited. I can always be rearranged and improved.

The problem is allowing this to happen, allowing the editor to guide me.

So if I'm the rough draft, God must be the editor.

And he is a beautiful, just, and gracious editor, don't you agree?

He always gets it right. His ideas are always the ideal, the perfect ones.

And sometimes this editing process is hard. Sometimes, it just plain sucks. We become immensely fond of what we have written, the pages of our lives. We don't see

any good reason to delete, to start again, to write anew.

He erases the sentences, the metaphors that we think we just can't live without.

Showing us new possibilities, he steers us in directions we couldn't have

fathomed on our own. Out of love, always out of love for his creation.

And though the editing process may be difficult, we know the editor has

us in his hands. We know he cares for us, more than we can ever imagine.

Through him, we can be made into a moving, intriguing, whole stories. Without him,

we remain fragments on the page... incomplete and unfinished.

I can do anything good.

(Click me)

“Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.”

-Helen Keller

I thought I knew what homework was

...Until this semester.

I don't think I have ever been this overloaded. Sure, I've cried. I've panicked. I've invested in every color post-it note known to mankind in my not-so-distant college days. I thought I was busy; I wondered how in the world I was going to get everything done. But I didn't really know anything, I'm coming to find out. Cause busy has just reared it's ugly, hairy head at me.

I was like a kid in a pool freaking out over a soggy leaf floating next to me [thanks Doug Serven]. That was amateur stuff. And now, my friends, I'm hitting the big time. By "big" time, I mean "book" time, or "staring-at-my-computer-trying-to-write-an-amazing-novel" time. 

And it's just not all that fun.

My blogging life has suffered tremendously. Are you sad? Because I sure am. 

It's a real pain, this school thing. I love school, but I also kind of hate it.

I used to think that I would really enjoy college when I was doing what I wanted to do.

I'm doing nothing BUT reading and writing [lots and lots and lots and lots of writing] 

this semester and all instead of making my days that much more wonderful,

it kinda makes me want to curl up in a ball and die. 

My classes aren't necessarily hard [except the one major exception of novel class], 

they're just time consuming. And that's the worst.

It's my senior year, and there is just a whole lot I would rather be

doing than yet another reading assignment.

I guess, I shouldn't complain.

I could be picking the plaque off of someone's unbrushed teeth

like my roommate. Or I could be working on a dead body, fiddling with

the innards and memorizing all the little, gruesome details. 

Or I could be doing math, any and ALL kinds of math.

Still, I wish I had more time for things that are actually fun.

Dear Novel Class,

You will not defeat me.

Prepare to be dominated.

Love,

The Optimistic One