cynosure

If you want me to be honest, chances are you’ll never have to ask– sooner or later I launch into a long confessional ramble, opening up about something that before was not exactly hidden but perhaps was not obvious, not even to me.

These are my answers to questions about the chunk of writing that emerged from my loneliest, saddest, most heartbroken time… and why I chose to publish it. These are questions that I wanted to ask, and answer, myself– whether or not they have been swimming in your head, too, even if you don’t have the book or don’t give a flying fish about it, I feel compelled to express my answers anyway. This is clarification, for both of our sakes.

What is it [Pleiades], anyway? It’s not just one entity, a work in itself, but a whole menagerie of works. In fact, I only rather haphazardly named it Pleiades after a host– actually, really only two– of other names, mostly terrible (freeze fragility, for one– alright, that’s not terrible, just a tad corny). Pleiades was the name of the journal from my past life (what I call the entire period of my existence before a certain point in 2009) in which I wrote incessantly, as if talking to myself. It seemed fitting: past writing from a past life.

If you missed it, many all of my first attempts to “get published” absolutely failed. I submitted some of the stories to contests, magazines. I lost every contest, was rejected by every magazine– including the New Yorker (out of two total, I must confess). One of my stories was published in a student-run literary magazine… much to my chagrin, with formatting errors in every line and deliberately not under my pen name (though that was my only request!). I vowed never again to put my writing in the hands of someone– or something– else probably unreliable.

I first submitted it in book form to a literary magazine’s poetry book contest. I lost. I missed the deadline for the “women’s” book contest. I submitted it to another poetry contest. I realized afterward it probably didn’t even qualify as poetry, and I was relieved when I found out I didn’t win (the poets who did win, though, were professors of literature at national universities– go figure) because I realized eventually that I didn’t want anyone to publish my baby but me, me, me.

Why would I want to publish anything that had basically “failed” every chance tried? Better yet, why would you or anyone else want to read it?

Because each “failure” became more like a personal success. First, I succeeded in actually taking the risk of showing others my work– something that in the past I loathed to do, out of fear (and insistence) that nobody would understand my writing. Also, I realized that none of the places I submitted to were in the market for what I did. My writing was either “too weird” or “not weird enough”.

And most importantly, I secretly knew there was no point in seeking external validation for my work. (Plus, when did external validation ever really get anyone anywhere on a personal level?) I knew it wouldn’t become a international bestseller, and I didn’t really want it to be. I wanted it to affect people on a personal level, if they let it. Or they could simply choose to ignore it, pan it for the adolescent drivel that it surely would be revealed to be in some people’s eyes. But most importantly, I wanted to release it on my own terms, without genre or labels, without a synopsis that didn’t really mean anything, without an author’s bio because what would it even say? And I wanted to save some paper from the unnecessary waste of mass production, too. (I especially didn’t want the labels. If I don’t choose to label myself as anything, why should I let my writing be subjected to a worse fate?)

Would I have benefited from an editor to tweak my every letter? Probably. I know I’ve misused the semicolon one too many times throughout the text. At the same time, I like it much better that way– the purposeful imperfection of each word, stubborn not to change. In fact, I don’t remember a single story in the collection that I edited once for content after I had written it. I even left one of the few named character’s surname intact, though it seems self-absorbed now in the light of my identity. I didn’t even realize it until after it had been printed– hah, hah.

Why would you or anyone else want to read it? Because if it’s not premium literature, then it is at the very least entertaining, or perhaps a little bittersweet, maybe even moving. You’ll have to decide for yourself.

No, Pleiades doesn’t really have anything to do with happiness and loving yourself, the primary passion of my present life and the main subject of cynosure. In fact, it’s writing from the darkest, most sorrow-fueled era of my past, when the last thing I knew was how to love and respect myself, and when I was caught in the tangle of constant angst. But in that same vein, I felt like I had to release it out into the wild for people to read. It was my own way of letting it go.

I didn’t publish it to make money, propel myself to fame, or even because I think it’s the best darn work I’ve written (it definitely is not, at least anymore). I published it to share, and to let a big part of my past, of my life, free.

And if you choose to support that, all I can say is: thank you.

What’s next?

I was reading Pleiades yesterday myself, and though I still adore each story in its own way (and for the crystallized memories and nostalgia, though a little painful, that they evoke), it was clear that I needed to move on in terms of my writing (and already have).

To me, being a writer has always been more important than being a “published author”– at least, published in the sense of “on someone else’s terms, edited for the masses for easier digestion”. I’m always going to be a writer– it’s embedded deeper than the features of my skin.

So of course, I’m still writing.

But until my next creation is revealed, click here to get Pleiades while it’s still in print. I’m only going to release a limited number of copies into the world, so hurry up.

Testimonials (aka rave reviews– or rants) forthcoming. Got one? Send it my way.

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I’m grateful for all the depression, all the traumas, all the pain, all the disordered eating and all the sadness; without it, I wouldn’t have learned to fight, fight to be happy, be determined, persevere, overcome my own negativity, my own darkness.

Without it, I wouldn’t have learned to love eating, to love food, to really learn how to enjoy nourishing my body and taking care of myself. I wouldn’t have learned to be healthy, eat healthily, live healthily. And I wouldn’t have wanted to.

Without it, I wouldn’t have learned to eventually love life, to live in the present, to stop regretting, to stop worrying.

I wouldn’t have learned to carry on despite countless failures in the past; let go of the times I felt like I had ruined myself;

I wouldn’t have learned to not only love others but just as importantly, love myself.

I’m grateful for all the things in my past that I once regretted to the ends of the earth, that I once blamed myself for, despised myself for, wanted to destroy myself for.

Without the desperation that came with being up to my waist in sorrow, self-damaging thinking, destruction… I would never have been moved to change.

Without all the hurt, anger, frustration, guilt, ridiculously self-disparaging thoughts, and myriad of other uncomfortable or terrible feelings… and without the constant obstacles of the present that I now see as growth opportunities… I wouldn’t have learned to be strong, and I wouldn’t have had a reason to even try.

I’m grateful for everything that has happened, is happening, and will happen. Even if it kind of sucked at the time, and might not be so cheery in the future.

What are you grateful for?

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I woke up this morning four hours past my waketime. I had wanted to go on a long run today, to clear my head. I hadn’t run much in the past week or so. But I woke up too late. The sun was already stretching across the land and it was getting hot soon.

Plus, I felt a weight in my stomach. My after-dinner snack last night of lots and lots of cornbread, vegan cream cheese, dates, three too many skewers of Japanese dango with lots of sugary additives… The vegan cream cheese especially, as I put it, kicked my digestive system’s ass. I had overslept. I felt nauseous, groggy. My abdomen even ached and cramped and protested. Still, I did not regret. I accepted it. I wanted to eat more these few days to get more fuel anyway.

I drank water. A lot of it. My stomach felt like it was emptying eventually. I wanted to eat. I wanted to make sweet cornbread. Eat a bowl of oatmeal. I wanted to be hungry so I could eat.

But I didn’t wait for hunger, which on days like these can come like a lover in the night, forcing me to be patient the whole day. I didn’t want to wait. Instead, I ate half a pan of the plain cornbread I made the day before with gratuitous amounts of agave syrup and Earth Balance. And then multiple bowls of pumpkin flaxseed cereal (I hate cereal) with soy milk and peanut butter and banana. I thought it would taste like the oh-so-familiar oatmeal I loved to eat, with mashed banana and peanut butter on the spoon. It didn’t. But I kept on eating.

All before noon. All before I was to go to my neighbor’s house to play board games with a group of friends.

And I had that sinking feeling in my stomach, the literal feeling of the weight of the equivalent of several meals inside. The kind of feeling, that feeling of a binge, that in the past made me want to give up everything. Stay inside. Blow off my friends and our plans. Avoid seeing anyone, I felt too disgusting. Eat more, maybe. Grovel on the bed with a headache and bemoan a wasted day. I had ruined an entire day with the actions of a few minutes.

At least, that’s what I would have done. A couple years ago, maybe. A couple of months ago, even. Something I had done countless times in the past– avoided social contact as much as possible, for fear of this feeling. This feeling of self-disgust and grossness and being literally weighed down and feeling sick and tired from digesting, from too much food in too little time.

But this time, I didn’t.

I gathered up my stuff and left and played board games with friends for five hours. My energy level dipped back up to normal, then down again as my body continued to work hard digesting the sudden amount of food with which I had presented it. But I did it– I left my house during a moment I could have said, “Why not hole up and feel bad about myself and do nothing about it.” I didn’t eat while I was there because I wasn’t hungry yet. I didn’t let the actions of the already far away past (this morning) ruin my day. I didn’t let myself be immobilized by my own judgments about what had already happened. I didn’t say, “Well, today’s ruined anyway, might as well eat myself to the point of wanting to die.”

Instead, I moved on.

And I just came home. And I contemplated eating more. Cornbread dipped in an olive oil and spice marinade this time, maybe. Or maybe I’d make sweet cornbread and eat all of that. Maybe I’d eat some strawberries. Maybe I’d eat slices of tomato, make sweet potato fries, dip them in BBQ sauce leftover by a recent guest just because I didn’t want to waste it.

Or maybe I could wait until I’m hungry again. Continue to take care of my body. Because I am healthy. I am strong. And I love myself.

I chose love and health and strength.

And joy in the only thing that ever really exists: the present.

Today is the best day of your life. This moment, the best moment.

Because it’s the only moment you’re living in right now.

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“Failure does not exist. Failure is simply someone else’s opinion of how a certain act should have been completed. Once you believe that no act must be performed in any specific other-directed way, then failing becomes impossible.”
Dr. Wayne W. Dyer

“There are no failures– just experiences and your reactions to them.”
Tom Krause

Inspired by No Meat Athlete, here are almost all of the times I failed that have helped me become such an ongoing success (no, really!)…

• I failed to get into any of my top choice universities. I got rejected from 8 different schools. 2 of the 3 that did accept me were schools you couldn’t have paid me to go to. (And yet I went to one of them and look how I’ve grown. )

• I failed the first three times I tried to take calculus for a general education requirement. I even dropped it in high school, where dropping a class meant an F (probably leading to many of my many school rejections above).
• I failed the first three times I tried to stop eating meat.
• I failed countless times in three years trying to eat mindfully and healthily. I failed countless times to let go of addiction, depression, suicidal thoughts, self-mutilation, eating disorders, and self-hatred. But eventually… I succeeded
• My doubles partner and I were the bottom rung of the ladder in tennis in high school. (That was literally how the rankings worked: rungs of a ladder.) We never, ever won a game. Ever!
• I won last place in every single one of my track races in high school.
• I failed many, many times in pursuit of a successful loving relationship. I was also rejected several times in other situations.
• I failed to complete my Project 365.
• I failed to muster up the courage, self-confidence, and positive body image to attend my school’s Undie Run (running in your underwear from library to library during finals week) six times. (But not next time!)
• I’ve failed to floss every day for basically my entire life… but I’m going to start today, for sure!
• I’ve failed to stop peeling my lips (my most on-going & worst habit) for years. I’m going to stop, though, soon now!
• Pleiades lost two book contests before I finally fulfilled my dream of self-publishing. My story, spacedying, was rejected by the New Yorker, lost a short story contest, and was also rejected by a handful of other magazines. I also sent many, many of my stories to a certain literary magazine. Every single one was rejected for two years.
• I failed to love myself for over 18 years.

I’m sure there are others, but I’ve failed to remember them right now

What are the failures that have made YOU into the success you are today?

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The first time I chopped off all (well, most) of my hair, I was 13.

That weekend, I was going to dress up as Tokyo Babylon Sumeragi Subaru, a CLAMP character– for my first comic convention. (Incidentally, Subaru means Pleiades in Japanese, ahem…)

It was the first time I got my hair cut by someone other than my mom, with whose skills I had been less than satisfied as of late. I handed the lady at SuperCuts a print-out of a manga scan of Subaru and his twin sister, Hokuto, and she told me she couldn’t use it– it was a “comic book character, for deity’s sake!” She would not give me the faux-sideburns that the character required– instead, she proceeded to hack off everything into something much less cool than a bowl cut.

I looked like a boy. (Wasn’t that the goal, anyway?) No matter. I was mortified. I had Chinese school in an hour. Could I get by with wearing a hat?

And more than just feeling mortified, I was incredibly depressed every time I looked in the mirror. I felt terrible about the loss of my hair. At least before I had my hair cut, I didn’t look too bad.

Worse, being that it was middle school (the new version of high school in terms of being the epitome of peer pressure and meanness– kids start to mature so much earlier these days!), I became the brunt of bullying.

Not just being teased that I looked like a guy (and dressed like one already, too). Instead, I was “worse”– I was “a lesbian”, they jeered, staring at me and my hair with disdain, treating me like something absolutely grotesque.

For the rest of 8th grade I was ridiculed for looking “not straight”. I didn’t understand; why could the girls with makeup and long hair slap each other’s butts, laughing, and hug each other tight… but if I hugged my best friend, people would look at me as if I were not just weird but disgusting? Because I didn’t wear cute clothes or “look” like a girl?

I had serious gender identity crises. Why did I see a cute guy that I might even be attracted to, when I looked in the mirror? Why, if I tried to see myself as female, I thought I was ugly?

After a while, though, I became comfortable with my short-haired self, even reveled in the fact that I didn’t look like everyone else– but eventually decided to grow out my hair, citing a goal to grow enough hair to donate to Locks of Love, and the fact that I had never really grown out my hair past a certain length.

The second time I chopped off all my hair was the year I turned 18. I felt like I had to reclaim a part of myself somehow before I teetered towards the first number of “adulthood”– I was heart and stomach deep within an eating disorder, a different kind of depression I didn’t understand, a sort of quiet numbness that made me feel hollow– I felt like having short hair again was like coming back to myself, to the self that actually knew how to feel once upon a time, knew how to cry bucketloads instead of being a stone. Anything better than the soul-paralyzed anesthetic I constantly felt then.

So I took a pair of scissors (I never trusted SuperCuts again…) and chopped off my hair. Unevenly and unperfectly, but I did it.

I also dyed my hair black, the last time I ever dyed my hair, and the first time my hair was its “natural” color in 7 years. (I had dyed my hair at least once or twice per year ever since I was 11, convinced that black was just “so boring!”)

And I felt like I transformed somehow. I felt like I returned to my real self a little bit. But I don’t know what I was trying to accomplish. I don’t know if I saw it as a panacea for all my problems at the time. It was still a symbolic action for me, though. Something changed.

And then I grew out my hair again. I wanted to dress up as Tifa Lockhart with my natural hair at least once in my life, and I still wanted to see how long I could grow it out.

Recently, though, I’ve gotten a little sick of having so much hair. I love my hair, surely, but it becomes a burden when I run, it rarely behaves, and it always seems to get in the way. Even after my first haircut this month, after I showered, the generic style I got didn’t want to replicate itself again without the prodigious amount of products the hairdresser had piled on at the salon.

So I decided offhandedly that I wanted to go back to short hair. I really did feel different when I had short hair. Like it was a way of being true to myself, to the way I saw myself inside, within my spirit.

But this time, after I got it cut, I didn’t feel too different as I stared at myself in the mirror, waiting for my sister’s hair to be done as well. I do feel a little more satisfied with my hair (no more bangs in my eyes and excessive amount of hair left everywhere I go!), and that short hair suits me better and expresses my inner self more– but I don’t feel like I’ve changed that much.

I don’t feel like just because I look different physically, my internal feelings will change, too. Not anymore.

That’s my milestone. How I look on the outside doesn’t affect my inside anymore.

And it’s not just hair. But my body– my nose, my lips, my eyes, my legs, my arms, my hips, my stomach, or how well I fit my bras.

As long as I’m healthy, as long as I’m happy… on the inside.

And that realization, cemented in my heart, brings me more happiness than any physical change ever could.

(I can’t wait to shave my head in a couple years, too. Originally it was scheduled for my 30th birthday, but I figure why not sooner than later?)

Thank you India.Arie for the title… I was stumped for a moment

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