Dvorak Typing: Taking The Leap

If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I just made the switch to the Dvorak keyboard layout. If you have ever tried this, you know that I am currently going nuts.

My fingers, just this morning able to fly across the keys without a thought, now stumble over every letter. (Except, of course, for the letter a. And m. Three guesses what my new favorite word is.*) It's maddening. It makes my fingers itch and my head ache. It has taken me half an hour so far just to type this post.

But here I am. Still plugging away.

When I first heard about Dvorak typing (which was last night, at Holly Lisle's blog,) I immediately knew that I had to try it. I did a quick web search, figured out how to switch my keyboard over, flew off to this handy typing tutorial ... and faltered.

Don't be stupid, said the mean little voice in my head. You're doing Camp NaNoWriMo in a month. You can't afford to mess with Dvorak right now. Besides, you have DEPRESSION. You barely made it out of bed this morning. DON'T YOU REALIZE WHAT THIS WILL DO TO YOU WHEN YOU FAIL?!

I have spent years with the mean little voice. I knew what to do.

Push off, I told the mean little voice. Then I started typing.

And it was HARD. Fifty minutes later, I was still struggling on the home row. The mean little voice was back, louder this time. You're worthless, it said. You can't do this. Switch back to QWERTY and go make me a sandwich.**

I wish I could say I blew a metaphorical raspberry at my imaginary tormentor and typed the next hundred words with a will. But I didn't. I caved. I switched back to QWERTY and I went to bed.***

And then, this morning, I decided to try again. I ignored the mean little voice screaming in my head; I ignored the fear and the shame and the WHAT IF I FAIL OH SOMEONE STOP ME. I opened my computer. I took the leap.

And, so help me, I am going to fly.


* If you guessed 'am,' you're wrong. Sorry, but all I want to type these days is 'MAAAMAAAA!!!'

** This is a dramatization, and as such, may be inaccurate on a few of the finer points. In this particular instance, the voice requested a drink of water, not a sandwich. I felt that the substitution better represented the spirit of the demand.

*** I didn't make anyone a sandwich, which would be more of an achievement if I hadn't made that part up for the post.

[P.S. If anyone's looking for a good book to read, MIND GAMES by Kiersten White is only $1.99 through June 24th! Sisters! Psychics! Teenage assassins!]

[P.P.S. Looking at the page, I see that PARTIALS by Dan Wells is on sale too. Post-apocalyptic adventure on an epic scale plus save-the-babies equals one of the best books I've read in years. Read it. You'll see.]

[P.P.P.S. And don't forget ONE by Leigh Ann Kopans! Teenage quest for independence! Superpowers! Kissing! SO MANY GOOD BOOKS!!! SO LITTLE MONEY!!! *passes out*]

Cleanliness: Next to Usefulness

Today's post is about showering. No, I am not going to tell you about how I read this book when I was eleven and became convinced that the bottom of my bathtub (nearest thing to a boat that I could find) was going to open up and reveal rows of zombie pirates clamoring for me to take their place. Nor am I going to tell you about how this image became so real in my mind that I developed a deathly fear of showering in said bathtub and still feel a tremor of horror when I even see the cover of Isles of the Dead.

It's a good book, really. Just don't read it in a boat/bathtub.

Instead of telling you that story, I'm going to tell you why I think showering is important. One of the wide-spread myths about both homeschoolers and writers is that we spend the whole day in our pajamas. 

This myth is completely true. And completely false.

Let me elaborate. I do, in fact, wear pajama pants ALL THE TIME. I have yet to venture out of the house in them, but as soon as I come home the jeans/skirt/whatever is immediately exchanged for pajamas. ALWAYS.

But this luxury is not without its limitations. I cannot go a day without showering. Not without becoming the most pathetic being on the face of the earth. There seems to be a switch in my brain that turns on as soon as I turn on the hot water. It tells me, 'Enough stalling. Go do something cool.'

Seriously. I don't care what I'm trying to do -- clean my room, write a battle scene, it all gets better if I just take a shower.

And yet I consistently put off that part of my day. I tell myself that I'll do it after I eat breakfast. Then it's after I write a few scenes. And five hours later, I've wasted my day tweaking a million things that didn't need to be tweaked and I still haven't showered. By then I'm so disappointed in myself that my entire day is ruined, and I settle into the Slump of Doom.

All that can be fixed by the Magic of the Shower.

This might be a Sarah thing, but I don't think so. I think there's a connection between cleanliness and productiveness, one we can all use to our benefit. So why don't you try it? Next time you're feeling useless, ask yourself, 'Have I showered today?' If the answer is no, do it.

Then report back, so that I don't feel like the only hygiene-challenged slug in the world.

*This post brought to you by the Magic of the Shower, which reminded Sarah to blog.
**Now Sarah is off to save the world. Or write that scene she's been dreading. Either one works.

A Confession

Do you remember this post? If you're too lazy to click the link, (and trust me, you're in good company if you are) it's a post I wrote last month, after my first dance class. I was horrible, and I made a lot of self-deprecating comments, which resulted in a self-examination and finally a resolution to be nice to myself, however poorly I do.

Well, I just came home from dance again, and I have a confession.

I have fallen in love with dance.

I love the music. I love watching other people move to it, and I love feeling myself keep time with them. I even love that burning feeling in my legs, when my muscles start spasming out of control until I simply can't take another step. It isn't like writing. I don't love it that much yet. But it comes closer than any other activity ever has.

It may seem strange for me to feel ashamed of this ... but I kind of do. Here I was, using my suckitude as a metaphor for perseverance and self-confidence ... and I went and got better. I'm actually pretty good now, to tell you the truth. Not as good as the girls who have been doing it for years, but I seem to have at least some talent. Yet another metaphor goes down the drain.

Except ... maybe not. Maybe the lesson has just changed. After all, I never would have come this far if I had been beating on myself like I did at the first class. Sure, I actually did have natural talent. But would I ever have discovered it if I hadn't given myself a chance? Just a little something to think about.

And lest you think I'm getting full of myself, I still can't touch my toes. At all.

I'm working on that.

Little Miracles

I am thinking about the little miracles today. This morning, I went about my usual routine (check email, check Twitter, check Facebook, slap self for wasting time, study scriptures, take out contacts, do stuff.) It all went splendidly ... right up until I went to take out my contacts. (Yes, I wear my contact lenses overnight. I am supposed to. They are magic.)

You see, my contacts are very expensive. Were I to lose one, it would cost a great deal to replace, and I would get to walk around half-blind for some weeks while I waited for the new one. That is why I am very, VERY careful when I handle those things. I close the drain, and then I plug the whachamacallems ... the overflow holes? ... with tissue. I will not lose these contacts.

Guess what? This morning I forgot. And what do you know, my contact popped right off my eye and fell straight down the drain.

Cue heart-stopping panic.

It took me about thirty seconds to stop hyperventilating and actually do something. Praying as hard as I could, I bent over, squinting into the drain. No sign of contact. I poked my finger into the limited space between plug and drain, hoping against hope I would find my contact trapped there. Nothing.

Now I panicked. I dropped to my knees and begged my Father in Heaven to help me, because I didn't have a clue what to do. I couldn't afford to replace my contact. I couldn't afford the guilt of having lost it. As I was on my knees, I noticed the cupboard under the sink, and the sight sparked an idea. I had q-tips in there!

I grabbed one and swabbed the drain with it, my heart in my mouth. I will not describe the gunk my q-tip produced, in case you plan on eating in the next few days. I will say that my contact did not appear with it. Undaunted, I soaked the (clean) end of the q-tip in my contact fluid, which is slightly sticky. Then I tried again.

And, miracle of miracles, my contact appeared. I absolutely cannot describe the relief that filled me when I finally worked it free from the drain. I fell to my knees and thanked God that I was saved, then scrubbed my contact for about ten minutes until I believed I could put it in my eye again.

Which brings me to the point of this post. I don't know what your religious beliefs are. You might be atheist, Christian or Zoroastrian. My goal is not to challenge your beliefs, or to change them. But today, I just want to invite you to notice the little miracles in your life. Notice and express gratitude, either through prayer or service or something else entirely. There might be a better path to happiness, but I don't know what it is.

(And on the subject of miracles, congrats to my cousin Tasha on her beautiful baby boy! I'm a greatcousin now! *happy dance* I want to kiss his beautiful scrunchy face!)

On Dance Class and Appearances

Today, I had my first jazz class. It went exactly as expected.

I stink.

I have no balance, no grace, no rhythm. And I'm surrounded by a lot of girls who, if not perfect, are way too close for me to tell the difference.

It's kind of humiliating. But that's okay, because I am not there to excel. I am there to improve. And when you're looking for improvement, rock bottom is a pretty good place to start.

Anyway, today's class got me thinking about something that's far more important to me than it ought to be. Three billion guesses what that is.

Yeah, you're right. Appearances. I focus WAY too much on how I appear to others. I obsess over tiny details of things that I say or write, terrified of accidentally insulting someone. Then I anxiously wait for their response -- and if they don't give one, or if it's non-commital, I'm sure I've committed some HORRIBLE social crime that will forever doom me to nerdy lonerhood.

Yeah. Seriously. My only solace is that lots of other people do the same thing.

But how much solace is that, really? If everybody else chewed on their shoelaces, would I want to do the same thing? It's not really my CARING about appearances that bothers me -- after all, if I didn't care about appearances I WOULD be an outcast. It's the way that obsessing about them changes my behavior.

Take jazz class, for example. I was horrible. I knew it, and I knew everyone else knew it. But there was a part of me that was terrified that the others wouldn't realize that I knew how horrible I was! What if they thought I was too stupid to notice? So I almost unconsciously fussed over my difficulties, grimacing when I stumbled and saying self-deprecating things like 'I can't even keep my balance' and 'I'm horrible at this'. It was effective -- I'm sure no one doubted my awareness of my own failings. But was it worth it? It didn't improve my dancing. If anything, it made it worse, because I became so preoccupied with my appearance that I couldn't focus on my feet. Talking myself down did nothing for my confidence and less for my ability. I would never have done it had the others not been there. But what did it do for them? It didn't help anyone's opinion of me. It was self-destructive. And I do it all the time, not just in dance.

This can't go on. I need to work on accepting and caring for MYSELF. I need to practice and not care what anyone else thinks if I'm going to improve my form. I need to have more faith in them. I need to believe that they want to think well of me. I need to allow them to be the best they can be. And if someone doesn't like what I do, I hope they'll care enough to let me know in an encouraging way, but if they don't, I need to move past it and try to better myself. That's the only way I'll ever get anywhere.

(Speaking of appearances, who likes the new color scheme on the blog?) (I do! I do!) (Blue! Blue! Blue!)