Author (n)

1. a person who writes a novel, poem, essay, etc.; the composer of a literary work, as distinguished from a compiler, translator, editor, or copyist.

A couple days ago, I wrote about at what point a person becomes an author. The thought of it still hasn’t left my mind. Everywhere I turn, there’s a saying or an inspirational quote saying something to the effect of; ‘You are what you think you are’. So maybe I am an author after all.

Today, I ran across a video that encouraged me all the more. I wanted to share it with ya’ll. (Okie… remember?)

So without further ado, the encouraging video!

Insert drumroll here




At What Point Does A Person Become an Author?

“So, what do you want to do with your life?” Every older adult asks me. I look like I’m about 16 instead of a person with an AS degree, so asking what I want to be seems understandable. My answer never gets a great reaction.

“An author.” Short, sweet, and to the point. After all, I know what’s coming.

A smirk comes next, and maybe an awkward laugh as they look at the person they assume is about 16, simply because I drove myself there. “Wellllll…” (yes, it is always said much longer than it should be) “Are you published?”

At this point in the conversation I feel ashamed. “No…”

“Oh. Okay then.” That is the end of the conversation and I retreat awkwardly. I know very well they instantly think something along the lines of; ‘Nah, she’s not an author. Just some kid who doesn’t want to put forth the effort.’ Granted, the bad part of my brain takes control whenever I consider what someone is thinking. For all I know, they could be thinking good things about me. I just never feel like that’s the case.

Regardless, it always makes me wonder, at what point does a person become an author?

If someone who writes a single essay in their lives claims to be an author – I argue. But is it the same case for a person who has yet to publish anything, but is working toward that goal? Does a person become an author whenever they publish their first work, or whenever they have a good number of books on the shelf?

I just wonder, at what point do I cross over the line from one who writes frequently to an author?

Thank goodness, I wasn’t making it up.

This is probably going to be one of my shorter posts, but I wanted to update people on the post I made a few days ago on the anxiety craziness.

I went to the doctor. I am confirmed to have ‘moderate to severe’ generalized anxiety disorder. Thank God, I’m not making things up.

I went in to the doctor today, terrified for two reasons:

I was scared the doctor would tell me I was fine and making things up.

I was also scared she would put me on medication.

Pretty much, the only two possible outcomes were scary.

I told my best (should have been sister) friend this as I waited for the doctor. She told me the most encouraging thing I heard all day about it.

“You are not fine. But you will be.”

Milly, if you were there, you would have gotten the biggest hug ever. So I thank you.

Now I have medication. Actual medication. I’m not used to a multitude of pills to take. I feel like a druggie of some kind. The giant red labels on the side warning me of all kinds of things scares me, but I’m glad.

I won’t have to continue going down the drain of constant fear, I can make it level out and feel normal again.

I feel just a bit more normal. And it’s nice. 

Panic Attacks

Warning: Serious and personal post… You were warned.

There are days when my mind gets to me. Days when it takes control and harasses me over and over and over and over and over and over again… It’ll go from calm to feeling like doom is immanent in about half a second. I start hyperventilating, my chest starts hurting, I get dizzy, I can’t see well, everything feels as though it’s shutting down.

And then after what feels like an eternity it stops.

When it does this, I can’t help but reflect back on what just happened. Usually, I try to come up with why it happened in the first place. I usually don’t come up with anything. Because of this, I start feeling stupid. I feel insane. I feel like a piece of trash that seriously needs to be picked up and burned (Preferably with dramatic music and a sad face on the person burning the trash…). Granted, this feeling doesn’t last forever. It’s only there between the crazies.

And then the monster comes back.

It goes on in a cycle for a long while, threatening to kill me. It makes me want to hit myself over and over again until I pass out and the torture ends. When the cycle continues on for a long while, it feels as though I need to duct tape myself to a wall to avoid hurting myself. I end up sitting in a safe corner where there isn’t anything I could grab on to. I put on headphones with calming(ish) music up loudly to try and drown out my own brain.

Eventually, the crazies slow down and I just become miserable. I know very well what’s happening, and it scares me. It scares me that it’s happening at all – because it makes me abnormal. It makes me insane. It makes me a freak.

Why am I writing this? Mainly to get it out of my head and in words somewhere. Last night I had one of these panic attacks go on for six or seven hours. Not constantly panicked but up and down from the crazy to the self hate.

Up until November or December of last year, I wouldn’t tell anyone what would happen – because I thought there was something severely wrong with me and I didn’t want anyone to know. But it began to get worse. Much worse.

I was taking a psychology class and mentioned something about it to the teacher. I didn’t actually tell her what was going on, I made a joke kind of thing about worrying about stuff. She made eye contact with me and said, “You have an anxiety disorder, girl!”

Being the hypochondriac that I am, I googled it. Everything I read on it – EVERYTHING matches. Perfectly. Both the social anxiety disorder and the general one. I told my mother, and she nodded as though she’d known forever.

The first attack I can remember was when I was seven or eight. It was over the fact that I didn’t know what kind of refrigerator I was going to get when I got married. I remember the distinct fear that the whole world was going to implode if I did not know right then and there what was going to happen. I did it a while later with the lawn mower.

There are streets I’m terrified to drive on.

Traffic terrifies me. A lot.

Not knowing exactly where I’m going terrifies me.

Not knowing where I’m going to be in the next six months terrifies me.

Talking to people who aren’t the core people in my life terrifies me.

And random crap that has nothing to do with anything terrifies me.

A few months ago it even attacked my writing. I still have been unable to recover from that. But, as writing is something I can’t do without, I constantly fight to get back through the pain to write yet again.

The fact that I know what’s going on helps tremendously. It makes me feel somewhat more normal. But when my brain takes control of itself and beats me up like a piece of trash, I’m terrified.

When Things Go Wrong

Warning: Rantish… thing.


When things go wrong, I usually try to fix them. I feel as though if I don’t, I will have failed at something that any average person could do. Thinking about it, I know that’s not the case. People fail sometimes and it’s OKAY. But it doesn’t feel okay. I honestly feel like I’m a failure as a human if I don’t succeed at something. I don’t mean job interviews or things like that. I mean aceing a class, reading a long haired book from the 1700s, graduating with honors, stuff like that. 

Pretty much, stuff I have control over has to be done perfectly. Or else I feel like a piece of mouse poop. As though I deserve to be shoved under some couch and forgotten about, because I’m not even important enough to be noticed.

Now, when it’s something I don’t have control over, I usually can get myself to be alright. I give myself the talk of ‘Not your fault. You did all you could. You did well!’.

Except this time.

It makes me wish I had control over my brain when it does things like this. But I swear, my brain is it’s own creature and will think what it wants and torture me in the mean time.

Socially Awkward… Yay

I’m socially awkward.

Aren’t all artistically inclined people? They tend to be strange. At least to the outside world. I did not miss that stereotype. I’m very awkward, and the awkward level I am at is actually ten to fifteen times better than it was two years ago. Thank goodness.

Seriously, I don’t know why anyone chose to remain friends with me.

One of the biggest problems is that I flirt. Not on purpose, I assure you. If I accept you as a human being, don’t hate you, and am in a good mood, I tend to be flirty.


I take a painting class with my boyfriend. It’s an eight week night class, so we spend a good number of hours in the classroom with acrylic paints two nights a week. No big deal.

This time however, I was an idiot. Accidentally, I must add.

There is this guy… (don’t all embarrassing flirting stories start with that?) He was painting at an easel not far from mine. I was done with my painting, but needed another opinion on what should be changed.

My boy was busy with his on the other side of the room. So I didn’t bother him. I really wanted a fresh idea of what could be added or taken away from the duck on the canvas. Besides, I’d asked my boyfriend many times earlier. So I asked the guy nearby.

“Hey, is there anything you think I should change?” I asked. I thought it sounded normal, but apparently not. I hadn’t really talked to him all day. Nothing more than the teasing everyone was doing for him missing Tuesday’s class.

“Huh? Me?!” His eyes got big and he stared at me for a moment. I thought it was an odd reaction whenever I asked such a question, but I didn’t think too much into it. Of course, I didn’t make eye contact. I never do. I avoid it like an awkward shy person. Maybe that made it worse.

“Yes… You’re a human and I need someone else to look at it. Because… I can’t find anything.” I took a few steps back and he reluctantly came over to look at the painting.

“It’s good. I really don’t see anything you should change in it. I couldn’t do it that well…”

“I’m sure you could! It’s not that hard.” I awkwardly gestured to the painting.

“Yeah… well yours is good.” He began inching away.

And this is when I finally realized how awkward the entire situation was. “Okay… thanks.” And then I realized my boyfriend was trying his hardest not to begin laughing.

He walked past me whenever the guy had left and whispered just loud enough for me to hear, “Flirting much?” And then he laughed. Again.

“N-n-no!” And this is when I realized, I flirted accidentally. Again. Badly.

“Uh-huh. You’re in denial.” He teased me for the rest of the class. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’ll tease me about it for the rest of the decade.

Writing down the approximate conversation makes it seem much less of a flirting one than it actually was. Maybe the case is that I laugh too much when I talk to people. Awkward giggles are bad. 

Regardless, I wish I had a warning bell that sounded in my head whenever I was about to do something idiotic. Like be a bad flirt.

Poor guy…


I thought I’d make a completely random thing. This has no purpose other than procrastination and happiness.

Why am I happy?

I’m writing. And by writing, I mean I don’t want to stop. At all. The idea that I have to open the store tomorrow is just a hinderance. Who cares about tomorrow, anyway?

Why am I procrastinating?

Because I need to go to bed (it’s midnight and I have to be at work by 9 in the morning) and I really don’t like that idea. It means a rude awakening by an alarm clock.

So, because I need to buck up and be an adult for a little while, sleep is necessary. Too bad I can’t write while I work in the morning.

Goodnight world!