Michelle Rodriguez's Blog: A Little Bit of Me - Posts Tagged "writing"

I live my life under a misconception that I am Superwoman. I truly believe in some masochistic part of my mind that I can do everything. Let me give a vague idea what I mean.

I wake up every morning at 4:30 to write. For an hour and a half, I let my mind wander my imaginary world. Some would consider getting up so early just to write as extreme, but for me, it isn’t a chore or a sacrifice. Usually, when I’m working on a novel, I’m so anxious to write that I’m awake even before my alarm goes off with some absurd paranoia that I will miss my designated writing time. I will admit that is a bit crazy.

But mental escape is necessary because then comes the chaos. Mom responsibilities call, and I’m off to make lunches and get my son Noah ready for school. He is autistic, so everything must run to the clock and in the same exact order every morning. As soon as he is out the door, I practice my music for an hour and a half while my daughter Cordelia watches Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, stopping whenever she needs something or decides to have a random freak out. From the moment my last note stops, she consumes the rest of my morning and early afternoon: making her lunch, working on potty training (my idea of torture!), trying my best to get a few odd and end tasks accomplished with her help and attention. Her new interest is “helping” me with housework. It causes more of a mess, but it’s cute.

At 1:00, I’m off to pick up my son from school. As soon as he gets home, we have his routine to accomplish, which again thanks to his autism, must happen exact and unchangeably every afternoon: change from his uniform, a snack, his homework and reading, then some TV. By then, it’s time to start cooking dinner. Feed the kids, bath time, wait for my husband to get home which isn’t until after 6, and then bedtime rituals. We attempt sleep at 8:30, but again, Noah has his routine that can’t be deviated lest we want a tantrum.

That’s just a normal day. Now add into the mix that currently 3 days a week, I have rehearsals in the evening for The Magic Flute and therefore cook dinner at noon to make sure everyone is taken care of while I’m gone, and I guess calling myself Superwoman isn’t really that farfetched.

My life: singer, author, wife, mother to 2 little ones, one of which has special needs. Sometimes I don’t even know how I’m doing it anymore. I’ve been called “motivated” again and again, but I don’t agree with that. It’s just my life, and I deal with it as best I can. Is it too much? Maybe, but I can’t fathom giving anything up. I’m not me without every detail in my hectic and insane day.

Despite the constant rigor of my schedule, I’m trying to learn a certain level of balance. Most of the time, I feel like I am upon the proverbial balance beam, one wrong step from toppling, but if I approach things whole heart and without hesitation, I manage to stay upright and make it through. Sure, some things suffer; housework is truly the last thing on my list, and laundry is the bane of my existence! But I’m trying to cut myself a break in that department. The laundry will always be there tomorrow; missing a rehearsal or giving up dance time in the kitchen with my kids on Friday evenings is not worth the sacrifice.

One of my goals this year is to take a step back and appreciate things more. I never do that, and I’m terrified that one day I’ll look and my life will already be over. What’s the point of living if we don’t appreciate the small things? I’ve been making the biggest effort with my kids, reminding myself that they’re only little once. How often do my husband and I say that we can’t wait until they’re older and we can do more stuff with them? Especially in regard to Noah’s autism. It’s almost like wishing his childhood away because everything is so complicated. Of course, we see every advance he makes and appreciate it more than most parents could imagine. Just hearing him spontaneously say to one of his classmates last week, “Goodbye, I’ll see you tomorrow” made me cry; a small achievement for a regular kid, but a huge leap for a five and a half year old who rarely acknowledges anyone without a phrase being put into his mouth first. I appreciated that moment and stood back to truly look at it, and that’s what I want to do with everything.

We live in a world that is constantly spinning and can knock us off our feet. I don’t have control; I’ll never have control, but I love the things I do. I still need to work on accepting that it’s all right to fall every so often and ask for help. To prioritize, but forgive myself for not managing to juggle everything at the same time. My perfectionist streak makes it difficult, but I’m trying. I’m tired of being Superwoman!

Most of my fellow Phantom fans already know the story of my first experiences with “The Phantom of the Opera”. That I first heard the music in a high school freshman choir class. That I fell in love with the storyline at the same time as I was discovering my own talent for singing. That I felt like it was my story in some bizarre, alternate universe sort of way. That I used to act out scenes from the show in my bedroom behind locked doors complete with a Christine cloak… OK, I hadn’t gone into that much detail perhaps. Suffice to say, Phantom of the Opera is my obsession in life. It goes beyond just something I possess a great interest in to something that has shaped me as a person and continues to mold me to this day.

There is a very big difference between something we love and something that is an obsession. Things we love often change with time, and though they leave a lasting imprint in our lives, they lose a bit of their initial first passion. It’s like that cliché of a couple breaking up and one person telling the other, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you anymore.” I’ve had a lot fall into that category.

To me, an obsession is something we don’t grow out of; it grows with us. At 14, I fell in love with a disfigured, genius musician named Erik. A fictional character changed my life literally. At 14, I loved the romanticized ideal of his story, and I let it construct my changing views of life and the world. I was enamored with the basic principle of a man no one else could love and the undoubting assertion that I could be the one to love him (yes, a fictional character!) I was utterly determined to have my hands on any and everything Phantom related. I don’t know why in my twisted mindset owning things that embodied the characters meant so much, but I had to have every music box, ornament, doll, everything bearing a man in a mask or that could somehow be misconstrued to represent Phantom (ie. the Christine cloak, which was from some random Halloween costume!).

And what great lengths I’ve gone to in order to own such things! There used to be a San Francisco Music Box Company store in the mall, and since I was there weekly for Chinese food Fridays with my sister, I insisted on walking by the windows to see if there were any new music boxes. A few times I was lucky enough to have funds on-hand to buy one at sight, but sometimes I had to wait and became an impatient crazy person until I could go back and get it. One night I even made my mother drive the half hour trip back to the mall in the pouring rain because they only had one of the new Christine and Raoul “All I Ask Of You” globes left! Yes, that was insane, but obsessions have this tendency to consume.

My obsession wasn’t just for the musical version. I read every piece of literature ever created having to do with Phantom. At the time, I had to special order half the books because they were no longer in print…back when you had to actually go to a bookstore to do that sort of thing. Or I printed out page after page of fanfiction online. That was how I got started writing my own stories for Phantom. …And the obsession grows.

The first story I wrote was as a final project in my freshman choir class and it included a girl Phantom! It was silly and cheesy, but I did get an A+ on it, so I suppose it worked out. But it wasn’t until college that I decided to try my hand at writing the real, canon characters and developing my first real Phantom story. By that time, I had read dozens of other people’s stories online and was never completely satisfied. So many included a new female character, and to me, who wholeheartedly believes in soul mates and eternal love, that concept never sat right. Imagine any story you know picking up where it ended with one of the main characters replaced by someone new… It just felt wrong. I could never find enough stories that gave Erik a happy ending with Christine, which I felt was the ideal ending to the story. So I decided to write my own. Hence the start of my vast collection!

Obsession is writing almost 70 stories and 2 full novels about a set of established characters, throwing them into different scenarios and playing with them like I own them. When I first started writing, I never thought there were people who would appreciate what I do or share my so-called obsession. But two years ago I got up the nerve to post a story on the fanfiction websites online, and it changed my life. Before that, I lived in a bubble with the things I loved. I didn’t tell anyone (aside from those living with me who knew I had a sick infatuation!) and I kept my writing all to myself. On the day I hit the “POST” button and submitted my first story, I popped that bubble and opened my heart and soul to the world through my writing.

Obsession is something that is carved onto our very bones. It is something that hits you to your core and anchors inside of you, never letting go. I’ve grown and changed since my Phantom obsession started. I went from a daydreaming high school kid who kept fairytales always spinning in her head to a married adult who learned what love means and how to feel it and portray it in language. My life experiences have changed my views of the Phantom story, showing me new nuances and details, helping me put myself into the characters’ heads in ways I couldn’t at 14. I’ve grown, and instead of abandoning the story I love so much, I’ve let it change me and change with me. And the characters have become so real that they are practically friends. When I work on my original novels in between Phantom binges, I always have Erik and Christine to return to; I can fall back into their heads like a safe haven and build new dreams for my first love.

I would hope that everyone reading this could relate with things they have their own obsession for. Yours might not go to the extreme that mine does; I don’t fathom everyone daydreams of disfigured, masked men carrying them off to sing in an underground domain, but whatever it is, if it shapes your life and views of the world, if it has had such an impact that you could never imagine yourself as the same person without it, then it might just be an obsession. And that is not a bad thing!

I have a little man that lives inside my head. He isn’t a very nice person; he’s usually full of mean comments and criticisms. Incessant, unavoidable, and he truly talks more than anyone I’ve ever met. Some might think he’s another character waiting for his story to be written, and believe me, if he were, I would have written that tale long ago and freed myself from his aggravating presence. But I am not that lucky. No, he is my sometimes friend, sometimes enemy, Perfectionism, and we’ve been together for as long as I can remember.

To some degree, every person has a voice of self-doubt. Some are quieter than others’ and speak no more than whispers in the background that don’t interfere with life. Confidence is supposed to mute its volume, and proven triumphs should build a barrier wall between the truth outside our heads and that nagging voice within that questions it. For example: I am a writer; other people have told me that I am a good writer; therefore I should consider myself a good writer. If only it were that simple! But here is where Perfectionism puts a wrench in things. Trial and error should have made this fact to me, but I have that cursed little man running circles in my head and insisting otherwise. He never shuts up, no matter what proof I have that his claims are unwarranted. No matter accolades and compliments, no matter the depth to which I love what I do, that voice argues against me.

I look at Perfectionism as a curse some of the time. I cannot enjoy things for what they are because I’m so fixed on making them perfect, which is really sad when reality tells us perfection doesn’t exist. Nothing I do can live up to the standard I set for myself. That is the unfavorable truth of the matter. But…for every grief perfectionism causes, there are advantages. I am always pushing myself. Whether it is on the stage singing or devising a new story that is outside my comfort limits, I never settle for anything but throwing everything out there.

In singing, that is such an integral component. I have to get up onstage and just sing without the constant critique in my head. When singing, you can’t trust your ears. You have to trust how things feel on the inside. My teacher constantly tells me to stop trying to listen because that’s what I pay her for. And it’s true. Your ears lie. The sounds you hear are mere echoes of the sounds you’re making. For a perfectionist like me, that is practically torture. I have to discredit what I think I’m hearing and trust feeling instead. Gasp! When I’m onstage, I have no choice but to turn off Mr. Perfectionism and sing! He has his say later when we can overanalyze every show together and pick at our faults. But I don’t cower to his opinion and decide never to set foot on the stage again. Instead, I try to exceed what I did last time: make my coloratura cleaner, faster, make the high note blossom on the pitch. He is never happy with my performance, but he makes me a better singer because of it.

In writing, it’s an entirely different situation. I throw it all out there when a pencil is between my fingers, but later, I have the final product before me to pick apart as I please. A show is just that; once the final bows are taken, critique all you like, but the show is over. Aside from video copies (which I never watch), no one will relive it except in memories. With writing, I have physical proof forever before me.

For that reason, I cannot go back and reread any of my published works or posted stories. That probably seems odd. One would think I would draw inspiration by rereading, or that the mere fact I am so passionate about my stories and characters would mean that I revisit them often. But I can’t! I don’t read my own stuff for the enjoyment of it; I read and rip it apart. It literally is like both a writer and an editor live in my brain at the same time. That isn’t always a bad thing, but when Perfectionism gets thrown into the mix, then every critical word I have to say about myself gets amplified and overtakes.

Those of you who know me from my frequently posted Phantom of the Opera stories have had glimpses of my self-doubting nature and my addled nerves every time a new story goes up. What you don’t know is the true extent. I edit everything before it is posted, and as words fly by and I try to fall into my story, I am constantly critical about what others will think of it. That voice speaks up inside and insists that every reader will hate it, that it isn’t as good as some of the others I’ve posted, that it will make my every loyal reader turn away from me and wonder what the heck that particular story was. There have been times where I’ve edited a story and put off posting it for days because I was so full of doubts that Perfectionism created, and even though they hold no real validity, they make me hesitate and question. He’s never satisfied, and when I go back and reread, he makes me unsatisfied as well.

Perfectionism makes me strive for new stories in new places, makes me fight to write tales others wouldn’t touch, builds me up by promising if I have an idea, I can always work it out. But then in the end, its voice gives a skewed view of the final product and makes me want to interpret what my readers will say. How foolish indeed! Mr. Perfectionism is a cunning one, and he knows right where to hit me.

It’s so difficult to find a balance. Perfectionism is a curse and a blessing. I push myself to more and better things because of it, but at the same time, I am never satisfied with the things I’ve already done. But despite its undeniable power over me, I’m trying to chip away at its hold. At the end of the day, if I gather courage enough to post the story I mentally ripped apart in edits or sing with every bit of myself on that stage, then I’m winning meager battles. I’m never going to be cured or kill Perfectionism permanently, but for those few moments, I outwit his control, and I guess I’ll have to settle for that.

I can write anywhere; I’ve been told that’s a talent. I never considered it anything but a little freakish and further proof of social awkwardness, but I also never considered my stories worthy of sharing or that anyone but me could ever appreciate the strange, little world in my head. Just give me a pencil and a notebook, and no matter what is going on around me, I am content. I dive into the recesses of my mind and tune out everything else, and the world falls away.

I have written in the midst of rehearsal. Anytime I was not needed onstage, I’d plop down anywhere and pick up a scene wherever I’d left off, even with people chattering and walking around me. It’s always funny because someone will inevitably come along and say, “What are you working on, Michelle? Another novel?” And I’ll have to stop mid-line and answer, dragged back into the world of reality. But it’s like I hit a pause button in the ongoing saga in my head, and as soon as I’m left alone again, I resume right where I left off and never miss a beat. I’ve always had the thought that my novel is already written; I’m just putting the words down on paper. With that idea in mind, I never feel like I can go wrong. I’m just the instrument for my story.

I have written in the few minutes of passing period between classes in school, literally sucking every word out of every possible second. I never wanted to waste a single minute. I’ve even written during class, which is not something I recommend if it’s a class where attention must be duly given. But sometimes in performance class when we were supposed to be an audience for each other, I admit to sneaking my notebook out and getting a few paragraphs in. I suppose compared to others who’d be quietly whispering or messing with their phones, my offense was innocent. As a school obsessed, straight-laced student, my greatest crime was working on a novel at every second. Not really detention-worthy, I suppose.

I have written while feeding an infant, balancing the bottle with my chin and propping my notebook on the armrest; I’ve also used something akin to that position to type an entire novel during my baby’s bottle time. It always amazed me what I could manage to get done with a baby in arms if I was determined enough!

I have written in moving cars while traveling on vacation (I don’t recommend that if you are prone to car sickness because I managed to give myself a headache and will not be trying that again!). I have written on planes; I spent the entire ride on my recent trip to Colorado lost in a story to avoid any sound the plane wanted to make. I have written on the beach, and subsequently, got sand trapped between my notebook pages. I have written on a screened-in porch overlooking the ocean; almost all of “A Revenant’s Love Story” was written to the background of rolling waves. I have written in random hotel rooms on random trips in many states, curled in their armchair while my kids ran back and forth through the room, happy to be out of the car and shrieking so loud we were lucky not to get thrown out of the hotel.

I have written at every possible time of day. At college age, I preferred late at night and would get a lot done while waiting for my boyfriend and future husband to give his nightly call, at an hour I now never see on the dark side of it. As I’ve gotten older and had kids, I’ve learned to prefer the early morning before anyone is awake. I’m happily up at 4:30AM to work, but that’s not always enough for me. Any extra second in an over-packed day is subject to be filled with the scratching of my pencil on a blank piece of paper. Whether it’s mid-afternoon or the middle of the night; “Opera Macabre” was started at 3:30 in the morning one night when my insomnia was preventing me from sleeping. Any hour is a canvas for creativity if it strikes.

I write, no matter the time, no matter the place, no matter the way the world of reality is shifting on any particular day. My imaginary place doesn’t need a specific ambience to take me away.

But for that special time at 4:30 in the morning when all is quiet but my coffee maker, I do have a spot that beats everywhere else I’ve been. I made the perfect place for imagination and creativity to blossom. My bedroom walls are covered in quotes and pictures, everything I’ve ever seen or heard that I find inspiration in. And one specific corner, my “snow” corner is where my writing chair resides. The walls surrounding it are laden in more quotes, and when I’m finding myself at a loss for the correct words I want or the way to move forward, sometimes I sit back and read the walls for awhile. All of my favorites are there: from Susan Kay’s “Phantom” to anything by the Brontë sisters to song lyrics that make pictures in my head to even some of my own scenes. I wrote them all out on blue and purple legal pad paper, ripped the edges, and glued them to the random, mismatched paper stapled to the walls. I pity my husband and father because if we ever need to take my walls apart, I know the sort of damage I’ve done and what it will take to fix them…again! At our old house, I did something similar to one wall, and taking it down meant a mélange of holes and glue streaks, missing chunks of dry wall; that staple gun is a powerful toy!

My corner is my special place, but my creativity is not limited to its walls. It goes anywhere I go, and when I’m in the middle of writing a story, it overtakes me at every unoccupied second. Whether it is offstage at rehearsal or while I am keeping an eye on the dinner cooking on the stove, I write. I never want to waste a moment when that moment could have a dozen words in it. And maybe that ties back in with my obsessions in life, and writing is almost another one because I have no idea why I feel I have to do it. I just do it. But if the stories I’m telling are important and touching the lives of strangers I’ve never met, then I will happily be a slave to my writing bug for the rest of my life. If nothing else, it makes sure I’m never bored!