What the Book is Going On?

Hi blog,

I know I said I would update you on Friday, but I didn't. I promise not to tell the readers if you don't, okay?

I had some CT (or CAT) scans done on Saturday of both my shoulders so the doctor could more accurate determine the amount of damage and what surgical possibilities are open to me. Unlike x-rays, CT scans get a 3-D image and shores the target in much finer details and with the extra dimension of depth. This allows for a much better understanding of the issues that may be present in the target. The technician who did the images said I should probably find out on Wednesday or thereabouts.

Anyways, I promised an update on the book, so let's get to it.

The last time I mentioned my book, I talked about finally getting out of the horrible year of 2008 and how great it felt to be free of that part of my life (in the sense of the book, obviously it's still going to impact me). In the three weeks following that post I've made it another three years to March of 2011. The rate of progress increased enormously once I was out of what I felt was the worst of it. I thought that it would get easier to write after all the nasty things in 2008, and it did, but not nearly as much as I figured it would. Things are still difficult, probably because I remember them better and more vividly than I had when I was writing about being drugged up and in the hospital. Those memories from back then were blocked out, but the more recent ones are not. The closer I get to the present, the better I remember and the more emotion is connected to them. For the most part, I've just pushed through it. In fact, I managed to write 30,000 words in the course of a week after really just going into hyperdrive. Those are the kind of levels of writing I achieved when working on my (fictional) novel (which was a lot easier to write due to the fact that it didn't bring up excruciating memories for me, being as it was fictional).

This is my greatest fear about the book...

I've been saying to myself "Oh I'll be done soon. I'm just about ready to finish up and this last bit won't take too long." I'm talking about my autobiography, just to be clear. Well, I seem to have a knack for making things pretty long (still the book), and the 100,000 word book I intended to write became 125,000 word book that I intended to write and is now just a smidge under 150,000 words long and I still have three more years to write about. Fortunately, one of those years is this year, so that might make it easier. I have a feeling I'll get about another month before I'm done and hopefully it'll stay under 200,000. I think that once I get to editing I can remove large chunks of it. The problem is, it's hard to cut out parts of your life that you think are important. It's difficult to tell the difference between what should be in the story and what shouldn't be. This is where other people come in. They can be more objective about it than I can and once I finish the rough draft I can start getting good insight as to what is important and what isn't. Now I just have to finish it...

Unfortunately, I need to take a break from writing for a couple weeks (insert sound of me screaming in frustration here). I have a final for my sociology class on Thursday and the final project the Thursday after that. The final project is some kind of scrapbook where you find 15 objects from your life and attach sociological terms to them, write a paragraph about why you picked that object and how it fits in with sociology, and then also write a two-page essay on why sociology matters or something like that. To be honest, I haven't really looked too much into any of it yet (although I have read through the prompt a couple times), so in order to make sure I put enough effort into this project to get a good grade, I need to set aside my writing until I can finish the project. The writing will be there when I get back (you have no idea how hard it is for me to say that. Writing is, and always will be, my deepest love [except maybe space]), but in order to do well in this class, I need to make that sacrifice. Also, writing about my past is stressful as all get out (which makes sense). So this might help some of the rising stress levels I've been facing lately between the writing and school and all the medical crap that's been going on. Look for the silver lining, right?

Anyways, that's about it with the writing. I'll include a sample of my work below once I figure out what to include. Not that you'll know how long it took me, because it'll just be a quick scroll for you. But for me, it'll take some figuring out. All you have to do is read.

Once I get an update about the shoulders I'll put together another blog post. I'm trying to be more regular about this while still providing actual information of interest. I know how much you like real information blog. Kinda.

Your creator and general kerfuffler,
Andrew

Book Excerpt:

Just as I was finishing up my semester, I got a message from my high school AP Biology teacher. He asked if I wanted to give a talk to some of his AP Bio students about my experience, since they were going over cancer in class at the time. Plus, after the AP tests the next week, his students wouldn’t have as much to do as a normal class. I told him sure, that would be fine.

Now what the hell do you say to a bunch of sixteen and seventeen-year-old kids who probably don’t want to hear about some former student talk about the horrific world of cancer? Jokes. You tell them jokes.

Although I’d just given a talk at the Relay for Life less than a month before, I was still nervous about doing this one. After all, that had been a two-minute deal, and this would last nearly an hour. A slight difference between the two I think. And this would be in front of fewer people, so I couldn’t just look out above the crowd or at my notes like before, I would have to make…eye contact! (Dun dun dunnnnnnnn)

Anxious as I was about public speaking, I started to come up with some ideas. I could just give a prepared speech, but I knew I would just end up reading from the piece of paper I brought from me and wouldn’t seem at all genuine. I could bring pictures too. Yes, pictures. A note card full of boring facts to present as punctuations of my narrative would be helpful as well. It was really a patchwork job, I always hated preparing for speeches. It seemed Improv Club would come in handy after all.

I showed up early with my cane and a small packet of pictures to pass around once I got started. “Hey Mr. Chrispeels,” I said as I met my teacher and shook his hand.

“Thanks for coming. You’re looking good.”

“Not even, but thank you.”

“Well you look better then.”

I laughed. “Yea that’s true I guess. So do they actually know what’s going on?”

“They do. I’ll get them settled in and you can start as soon as they’re ready. Have a seat.”

I sat down on a swivel stool and spun myself around while frantically constructing a timeline of the last two and a half years in my head. The students filed in as only exhausted teenagers at 7:30 in the morning can do, grumbling and mumbling and looking ready to collapse. Me, I was bubbling with nervous energy, despite a horrible night’s sleep and a persistent pain in my ankle. “Good morning,” Chrispeels said to the weary-looking class. A smattering of hellos echoed weakly back. “Our speaker is here today. One of my former students. He’s going to talk about, well he can tell you that for himself, can’t he?”

“That’s the plan,” I said, swinging forward and trying not to have a panic attack as I looked at the curious and tired faces of nearly forty students.

“You’re ready then?” I nodded. “Okay. I’ll turn class over to Mr. Bundy. Don’t mind me, I’ll just be in the back, watching you.”

“Gee thanks,” I tittered nervously as I got up and stood in front of the class. Standing hurt. I sat down on the edge of Chrispeels’ desk. “Hey kids. I’m Andrew Bundy…”

As I started to talk about myself and my experience, I could see the mostly shut eyes of the students start to widen and their slouching posture improve dramatically. Okay, this is good, just keep it up, I told myself. Almost every other sentence became some type of joke, more for my own sanity and to keep from collapsing into the fetal position than to entertain the class. I didn’t realize how difficult just talking about it would be (writing it seems to be even worse, hell if I know why), and the humor helped to dampen the blow of reliving it. When I joked, the severity of the whole debacle lost its edge and the emotional torture of remembering dulled significantly.

I lost track of time, and it was only when Chrispeels mentioned that I only had ten minutes left and that it might be a good time to wrap up and answer questions that I blinked and realized I’d been talking for forty-five minutes to a rapt audience.

“…and now I’m here, waiting to get my ankles replaced. Any questions?”

A young-looking (they all looked young to me, a whole four years their senior). “I never realized it got like that after cancer. I always thought it was just cancer and then you were done.”

“That isn’t a question but I’ll answer it anyways.” I smiled at the series of chuckles. “It is a good point though. I never knew about it, not even when I was in chemotherapy. Nobody really talks about it. Probably just easier that way. They don’t want you to worry about all the problems that come after. Their main goal is to keep you alive. Maybe that’s why the public doesn’t know about it either,” I mused. “Sorry I’m tangenting. Next question?”

There’s something here, I told myself after they left. You were going to write a book. You gave up on that to save yourself the pain. But why not? It’s a story that needs telling. How many people know about just how bad things get after the cancer? Hardly any. Why not? That’s a good question. They should know though. They need to know. Who better to tell them than me? Probably lots of people, but maybe not. I didn’t know why I got sick, but I could give this horrible chapter of my life a purpose if I wanted to. Maybe it was time to do that.

“That was really great. You need to work on your projection a bit, but otherwise, really good.” Chrispeels wrote my name up on the whiteboard and stood against his desk. “I didn’t realize it got so bad.”

“I don’t think that many people do. My family and I tried to keep a positive face on it. It was actually worse than what I said. I didn’t want to freak them out too badly. Just a little bit.”

“Well you certain did that. Welcome, sit down,” he said to the incoming class. “This is my normal biology class. We’re going to do a lesson so you can wander around or hang out here if you want. Up to you.”

“I think I’ll go see who else is around. Thanks Chrispy. See you in a bit.”

With each class presentation, I got a little better, remembered a little more, and told slightly better jokes. By the time I was finished with the last class, I was tired and very satisfied with myself. Some of the pain experienced in the first class wasn’t present during the last. By repeatedly exposing myself to the painful memories, they got slightly easier to talk about. Maybe one day it wouldn't be so bad.