How I didn't become a professional bassoonist

Someone in my ADHD forum brought up the topic of ADHD and intelligence and/or doing well in school. My answer got pretty drawn out so I thought I might want to say some things about it here too. Because it is true, smart kids with ADHD fall under the radar of psychologists, teachers, parents. In my experience, a lot of us only get diagnosed much later in life, once we have reached the limits of our coping mechanisms.

I too did really well in school - albeit not socially - and graduated with honours from a school for gifted children. I never had to study for languages, and even in my weak subjects - that would be anything math or science or, well, boring (hello, geography!) - I got by with as little studying as possible and I got by pretty fine.

I played the piano first, then the bassoon. My teachers were tearing at their hair because there was this really talented girl who yet consistently resisted improvement by practice. I hated practicing. I just wanted to play. I'd show up at my teacher's house, grudgingly admitting the lack of practice I'd gotten in during the week past. So we'd just play for fun, duets, because he was a pretty awesome teacher who chose not to berate me for my lack of commitment. But he'd ring his hands in despair every single time because I played well and "imagine how well you'd play if you'd practice," he said. Eventually, the prospect of practicing six hours daily was what made me veer of the professional path - that and it would've meant giving up a lot of other things I loved, like writing. Unfortunately, I stopped playing the bassoon pretty much entirely once I quit school. Everything else had become so much to handle.

In retrospect I realise that graduating was a shock for me, because after school there was no system keeping me in place anymore. I spent two years in regular university, sleeping in, going out, studying whatever caught my fancy. I had a hard time concentrating during lectures and got the most miserable marks of my life. Hell, I cheated on exams I never would've dreamt of cheating on. It's not that I wasn't interested. I just couldn't concentrate either in class or on studying at home. Plus, a lot of university things come in the form of aural input which is simply a disaster for me. Does. Not. Stick.

I switched to a University of Applied Sciences which had more structure, and that eventually got me through to my diploma (a "Magister", which is comparable to something between a BA and and MA) in 4.5 years. Again, horrific marks! And quite a bit of... well... I'm not proud of it.

My therapist told me that in an ironic way my considerably high intelligence completely fucked with my chances of getting diagnosed with ADHD. And I tend to agree, I probably still wouldn't have cracked if my dad hadn't died. I'd still be muddling along at the edge of burn-out and depression, feeling like a failure most days of the week but always scraping by somehow. Usually by the skin of my teeth.

It's not that intelligent people don't have ADHD, it's just that no one notices with us. Under the radar, through the cracks. What teachers, parents, psychologists see is that these people "could do so much better" at anything they do "if they only tried harder". No one has an inkling - least of all the affected themselves - that they're already trying pretty fucking hard, harder than anyone else. It's exhausting and it leads nothing but complete and utter exhaustion, the one that makes you feel like an empty husk.

The funny thing is, had I gotten my diagnosis earlier, maybe when I was still in school, I'd probably be a musician now, sitting in an orchestra with my bassoon, blending in with the crowd. Or maybe I would've been a soloist. Either way I'm sort of happy I'm not. I'm quite content with where the drama of remaining undiagnosed has led me; to writing and telling stories. It didn't cut music out of my life, but going with music might have kept me from writing. And if I pick my bassoon up today I can still play it. I'd just have to practice a bit.

Objects in the rear view mirror....

2011.
2 0 1 1.
Asshole. Friend.
Fucked me up and built me up.
I honestly don't know what to think about this year. Maybe it's time for a pro/con list?


...


OK, I tried making a list, but apparently my life is not list-able. Instead I got this:


I got fired. From a job that could've been done by Grawp the giant.
But getting fired gave me the impetus to finally start being creative full-time.


I started running regularly and felt great about it... but my knee got fucked up and I had to stop doing sports altogether. Still can't run :(


I finally got diagnosed with ADHD and realised that a lot in my life was not my fault. But now instead of feeling crappy because I never managed to get anything done I felt crappy because of all the time I had lost.


I also learned that there are meds that could help me. But some of the meds fucked me up BAD. Like Charlie! But Charlie the elephant pales in comparison to throwing up into a trashcan at Praterstern underground station. Disgusting and humiliating - brought to you by Strattera (tm). Back to Ritalin then. I'm still not sure they're the right ones. However, when they do work, it's magical. I mean, shit is getting done! And instead of being "a person with tons of creative potential" I turn into a proper "creative person".


I finally had the courage to submit a short story to two literary competitions. I didn't get shortlisted for either one though.


I also submitted my first film treatment ever. This time I only barely missed the shortlist and ended up joining the team in a different capacity anyway.


I lost some friends. Because, apparently, 2011 was the year of people being pissed at me but not letting me know this. (Not a mindreader, I am.) To this day I still don't know the reason for one of those people's anger at me.
I made some new friends though.
And re-established contact with some out-of-touch old ones.


I wrote more than I ever did before. I didn't write nearly enough to satisfy me. But I started work on my first film.


I started film school.


I still don't have a paying job. But I feel I'm getting to a point where I could handle one.


My mother is nice to me again. Unfortunately, I think it is because now that I have a diagnosis she thinks I'm damaged goods and that I can't be held responsible for my own actions - and not because she sees her own faults in last year's ordeal. Oh, the irony!


I LEARNED TO SAY 'NO'!


We went to New York.
I FINALLY WENT TO NEW YORK!


I saw Beirut and Tori Amos and Amanda Palmer live.


I gave Neil Gaiman my short stories and didn't get any feedback.


A friend of mine gave basically forced Lee Sheldon to read my script and short stories and I got the best, most useful feedback ever.


I don't want to jinx it but so far NO ONE DIED THIS YEAR!


I realised what exactly it is that I'm exceptionally good at.


I finished therapy.
But most of all I fulfilled the one New Year's resolution I had: I scared the shit out of being scared.






Looking up/back at this I'm drawing the conclusion that 2011 was quite an okay year, all things considered. Definitely better than 2010. And hopefully 2012 will be even better.


What I wish for besides the basic health-no-one-dying stuff:


- Getting the meds thing worked out
- Making a good movie and getting it seen
- Lots of love and great music and good friends and some travelling




edited because I saw this on twitter and found it incredibly wonderful:

taken from http://dreamripples.tumblr.com/post/14900943949

Food Forgotten - Tonks and Lupin get down and dirty in my first fanfic

I have a blog post planned for tomorrow. Well, it has yet to be written, which is a challenge in itself that my blogpost tomorrow (if it actually gets written) shall explain. Confused yet? Thought so...

Anyhow, if you fancy some relaxation you could always read my first fanfic which I penned today. It's Harry Potter, more precisely it's a Remus/Tonks one shot of about 3,500 words and it's fluffy and awkward and sweet and angsty and of course it has some smut as well. Tehee, my mind... it is a dirty, smut filled place and I like it that way, thank you very much.

Here it is: Food Forgotten

I hope you like it, it has been beta-read so all kinds of major and minor mistakes have been ironed out, rectified or ignored for artistic purposes. No but seriously, it should be pretty much mistake-free and very readable. You would not believe the stuff I have read over the past couple of weeks in the lands of fanfic. Nasty nasty grammar-less mistake-ridden things. Mine is not like that. I am way too much of a grammar nerd to let that happen. Just saying.

So before I ramble on forever: Let me know how you like it by reviewing here or on fanfiction.net, favourite it, share it, love it, tweet it, treasure it, be turned on by it etc. And show me some lurve, my self-esteem will thank you ;) And in case you can't tell from my excitement: I immensely enjoyed writing it.

Open letter to Joss Whedon OR It's sort of your fault that I can't write dialogue

Dear Joss,

I need your help. I'm a writer. Well, filmmaker. Well... let's just say storyteller. I've quit all my day jobs and am finally focusing on telling stories. I was afraid I wouldn't have enough ideas but that, as it turned out, is not a problem at all. Fortunately. But lately I've realised that I have an even bigger problem than I feared: I don't write dialogue. I – or at least my creative subconscious – seem to avoid it at all costs. I have wonderful ideas for music videos, for short films that have the most impact without spoken word, for short stories that really don't need any more than one or two lines of dialogue.

So I lay awake last night wondering why that is. And I arrived at the conclusion that it's your fault. Yes, you read right. See, I am a huge fan of your work; and one of the things you do really well is dialogue. I think you write truly fantastic dialogue. It's funny and deadpan and conveys so many layers of meaning in text and subtext. That's great. I mean, it's great for you. Not so much for me, because it makes me completely and utterly scared to write dialogue. Every single line I write makes me cringe. To my ears it sounds so trivial, unimportant, un-heavy with meaning. And because this isn't only supposed to be a not-so-silent reproach on how you are too awesome to live up to but also a cry for help, here's my question: How the hell does one write dialogue?

I'm beginning to think it's a different species than narration but I can't figure out what to feed it exactly. On one hand it's supposed to convey everyday conversation, right? People in my stories would rely on the same words that every real-life person relies on. But to be honest, real life conversation does sound trivial once you put it on a piece of paper or on a screen. So I'd try to spruce it up, but then it just sounds fucking contrived.

I realise that in some way you avoided that problem by crafting a whole new style of speech for Buffy and the Scoobies, but you've got to have some input for me. Please?

I want to be able to write dialogue. Things are boring without dialogue. Characters are less well rounded. They can not express themselves, literally can't if I don't let them open their mouths. Please help my characters learn to talk. They would be eternally indebted to you.

-Andie

P.S. I hope you don't mind that I just totally used you for part of my daily word count goal.

being scared

"I'm scared right now, I'm just talking a lot so you can't tell." - Merlin Mann

I've been thinking all day today: Dear Universe, I'd like to read a book called "How to become a writer if you're scared shitless".

So I googled it.

Then I found Merlin Mann's talk from Webstock, which sort of comes close.



I have an inclination, a history and a habit of being scared. A lot. I'm not scared of spiders, I mean, I don't particularly like them, but they don't paralyze me. If there ARE spiders that can actually physically do that - just don't tell me. No, I'm not scared of bad stuff, at least not more than other people, I think. I'm scared of the good stuff.

I want to be a writer. But I'm scared of actually writing a book.

I want to make films. I'm scared of making a film. Hell, as far as I get is a screenplay!
Then I get scared and paralyzed and can't go on. But it's not like I can let go either.

But why would I be scared of creating something? Shouldn't that be something positive? Sure, if I lived up to expectations. Whose? Probably my own perfectionist view of myself.
But somehow I see a much bigger chance that I could create something that is complete and utter shit. And maybe my friends wouldn't have the heart to tell me and let me go on believing I made something fantastic. And how sad would THAT be? (btw if we're friends and you've read my stuff and you think it's shit: TELL ME!)

I feel like I don't have the tools (camera, lights, action) that I need to make something wonderful. But acquiring those tools scares me even more because then there'd be the possibility of failing under more favourable circumstances. See, that way I'd KNOW what I'd be doing and if I do it badly then... well then it would be even more my fault.

The funny thing is, my mother thinks I am over the top confident, to the point of arrogant. Yeah right. And although all I have are my words they desert me every single time she throws that in my face. If I had confidence in myself, in what I was doing, I'd actually have something to show for it. But she doesn't consider that. That I am constantly doubting myself to the point of paralysis. That what I do end up doing is never enough. Not for me. That a huge chunk of this specific blame goes to my parents for making me feel like success was just naturally to be expected. She doesn't remember it like that, but this is the memo that I continually got. And it is how I became this person ridden with fear. Fear of not being good enough.

And by not finishing anything I don't run the risk of finishing anything badly.
But really this is not an option anymore.

Mann shows an index card in his talk: "I was scared I wouldn't build anything important." He also shows AFP's index card "I was afraid that everybody would find out I was an inauthentic fraud performing my own life". This shit speaks to me.

But these people have done what they were scared of. And succeeded. I'm sure they sometimes failed too. I could fail. But then I already do that by giving up, don't I?

So I guess, this is the point where I, like Mann says, I have to start running through the shit storm. Because really, if I don't run, the shit is just going to cover me anyway with the distinction that I won't get out of it.

I'll start with a postcard (I don't have index cards at hand). And then I'll go write a little I think in oder to become less of a fraud.

Mann says "Everyone is scared shitless." I think he might be right but can't help wondering: Are they? Are you? What is it that scares you shitless? What is it that you want to do that scares you?

making myself write, making you read it

I made myself do a writing practice today, inspired by a photo I took while I was out in town today. It's certainly not genius but I think I need to write more to get going again, so here goes. Feel free to comment, I won't tear your head off.


ASSORTED MEATS, MEN & CHEESES

The machine slices effortlessly through the wonderful dark red of the meat. Somehow the cold steel of the slicer is in no juxtaposition to the warmth that radiates from the little shop. It looks like a cabin from the woods that came to the city, got lost and simply decided to stay right there, in the middle of the market, because it liked it there. Like a little piece of foodie heaven - prosciutto, foie gras, roastbeef; huge rods of chorizo hanging from the ceiling. The display window is bursting with cheeses, bottles of wine are cluttering the counter. You'd think one could barely move in between all these lovelies, that's how small the shop is. Yet at the counter there is a handful of patrons with wine glasses propped in front of them. They seem incredibly relaxed on this early Wednesday afternoon. Maybe it isn't just that they're basking in the warm light of the low ceiling lamp. It seems they're being entertained and you can see why. The guy behind the counter is beautiful. Sure, curls have always done something for you. The ones you are looking, well staring at now are of a very deep shade of brunette. You can't tell his eye color from where you are standing, but you can see that he's blessed with a capturing smile and a body that can pull off a simple clingy yet loose fitting shirt. He's showering the patrons with his easy smile while the machine under his hands keeps slicing slickly through the meat. He seems to love this place. Not coincidentally the shop and the guy emanate the same kind of calm. It's not winter in there. You check out the food on display, sneaking glances at him while he's happily chatting away. You're no less enthralled by the place itself – it looks like a happy place, a reprieve from the fast pace of the city, a place that lets you forget the constant drizzle of the rain that you just know will creep into your bones today. About three paces, you measure. Only three paces to the glass door that will seemingly lead you to safety. You step away, making it four paces, then five. You can't go inside. You think you'll ruin the atmosphere, as if bursting a bubble by opening the door and breaking the scene and the moment behind those glass windows. You wouldn't even know what to buy and you can't easily waltz in there and say: “Excuse me, I just wanted to come in to enjoy the atmosphere and bask in the glow of your smile”. Not really. Your physicality would take up too much space to not disturb. But it's not like you can leave either and break that tether. So you keep standing in the drizzle, staring in from the outside a while longer, the rain not the only thing creeping into your bones today.