… and this:

… and this:

… and a guest post for Writer Unboxed in which I say something a bit shocking:

Some people might view the change in my goals as a lowering of standards. For me, it’s about understanding and accepting my limits. I mean that in 2 ways. First: Neither literary acclaim nor blockbuster sales are within my control. That’s just the reality. And that’s okay. Second, and this may also be a reality: I might not be cut out to be a professional writer. After a lot of internal struggle, I realized that’s okay too.

To be honest, that post started out a bit differently. The point wasn’t just that I might not be cut out to be a professional writer, but that most people probably aren’t. However, it seemed safer/kinder to focus on my own soul-searching, and then let people see themselves in it (or not).

Also, to be clear: I’m still working towards publication. It’s just that I’ve realized publication shouldn’t be the benchmark for my happiness. If it is, I may or may not ever be happy. But if I focus on the writing, and I let that be its own goal, then I can be happy right now.

(Overcoming a mindset of 15 years is easier said than done, though.)

At first I feared that I would need surgery. To be honest, I wasted a lot of time and many tears worrying about that possibility. But several doctor’s visits — and even an MRI — revealed nothing to operate on. To my surprise, I was disappointed by that news. As much as I had dreaded surgery, I appreciated the concrete-ness of it. It was a solution. Once it happened, I could heal.

But that wasn’t going to be my reality, and no surgery meant no clarity. As of today, I still don’t know exactly what part of my knee was damaged in the fall. I probably never will. The only “remedy” my doctor could prescribe was time.

He also recommended that I try some physical therapy to strengthen the muscles in my leg, so that those muscles could then ease the burden on my knee. I was assigned half a dozen exercises, totaling half an hour, to be done twice a day. They’re not even as strenuous as most yoga classes. How could this possibly help? I wondered. But after just two weeks, my range of motion improved, and the frequency of my pain decreased. Once again, on the outside everything looked normal, but on the inside things were happening.

It occurs to me now that much of life passes in this way: below the surface, making progress that can hardly be noticed, much less quantified. How close are you to getting that promotion? How much longer until you’re over that breakup? When will your panic and your joy over having a newborn settle into a comfortable rhythm?

Of course it would be great if there were clear, concrete actions that we could take to speed up these processes, but in most cases all we can do is press on and hope for the best. We may feel like nothing is changing, because we have no proof, no measurements. But even the tiniest of improvements add up, like grains of sand, building upon each other gradually, until one day you’re on a beach.

Even though I can’t see it on an X-ray or calculate it in numbers, I know I’m headed toward that beach. Someday I’ll be running across the sand full-speed, with no pain in my knee. I just have to trust that I’m making progress each day. I just have to give it time.

You know, time really is passing us by, and while I’m sure you’re making great progress I wonder if you could be harder on yourself for your own good. I say this because I want us to be successful, the both of us. I’d really like for you to evaluate everything you do, everything you spend your time on, and see if it’s getting you closer to your goal or not. If not, cut it out, and re-examine every so often.

My longtime friend Aisha sent that to me in an email last month. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

She’s not the first to say something like that to me, and I’d had similar thoughts myself. But some revelations are like jars with the lids screwed on too tight: you’ve got to pass the jar around and have everyone give a twist, until finally it’s loose enough and someone manages to open it.

This jar is now open.

Like a scented candle, the revelation has been subtle but sweet, slowly spreading through the air, filling me more with each new breath. I haven’t cut much out yet — in fact, I added in piano practice and Chinese lessons — but I’ve been considerably more careful with my time. Guarding it like the precious resource that it is. Giving less of it to the internet and more of it to my manuscript. Spending less of it half-engaged and more of it fully committed.

It’s funny how time can seem bigger that way.

What I didn’t want to do was make a bunch of drastic changes and then find myself unable to stay committed to them. Instead I’ve been letting Aisha’s suggestion seep into me, like a plant soaking water up through the roots so that it can grow strong in the right direction. (Lots of metaphors today…) Only time will reveal what blossoms, but I’m optimistic.

“Yeah, I wrote a book, but I’m not a writer.”

Paradox? Allow me to explain.

“Yeah, I wrote a book…”

I met Andy as a freshman in college. He was a sophomore, and the Resident Assistant for my floor. (Don’t worry, we didn’t date until a couple years later.) Andy was a great RA — in fact, he inspired me to become one myself. And lucky me, I got to take over the exact same floor that I had lived on and that he had been in charge of. A floor called NEW HOUSE 5.

Yes, that’s the name of his book, and it’s about my freshman year floor.

Now, this is where it gets messy. Because the “characters” in the story are based on real people. (Yes, I’m in it.) But that doesn’t mean that everything in the book is true. (Having lived through it myself, I can assure you it’s not.) Problem is, the lines between fiction and reality can be blurry, and there was enough truth to upset people. Andy lost some things as a result.

First, he lost friendships. There are a couple people who haven’t spoken to him since the book came out, and several more whose opinions of him and relationships with him were changed forever. I think that was the hardest part for Andy. He’d wanted to do something special — to honor the great experiences that he’d had as our RA, and to paint an accurate picture of college life for other students, RAs, and parents to enjoy — but not everyone appreciated how he went about it, or the secrets he divulged.

Second, he lost his job. Andy was supposed to be the Community Advisor for New House (an RA for the RAs — i.e., my boss) but when the book came out, Student Life panicked and fired him. They had gotten some complaints, I think, and were probably worried about confidentiality, lawsuits, and the like.

(This, of course, AFTER the school had put out multiple press releases celebrating his accomplishment.)

The tizzy didn’t end there. Most students were oblivious to the book, and remain so to this day, but that didn’t appease the administrators. Supposedly all the deans were required to read the book and vote on whether or not to expel Andy from the university. Outside of that debate, NEW HOUSE 5 became taboo. One secretary even confessed to Andy that she loved his book, but she’d had to read it in secret, hiding it inside a different cover so she wouldn’t get in trouble.

Now, all of this happened within the span of a few days, and the Dean of Student Affairs was traveling during that time. As soon as she returned and learned of his firing, she apologized to Andy and reinstated him as CA at a different dorm. I suspect that she realized what the years have proven to be true: that the book would not ruin anyone’s life, and that almost no one would recognize the characters in the book unless they already knew the real people.

(Furthermore, Andy had discussed the book with the floor ahead of time and had support to publish it. He also took some steps to protect people by changing names, mixing identifying traits/actions, and creating new characters. I think any legal battle would have been murky, although I’m glad it didn’t come to that.)

Hard to believe that was 7 years ago. Whatever splash the book made has long died down, but occasionally we still feel a ripple or two. Like at our friends’ wedding this past weekend, when the best man referenced the book in his speech. Can you say awkward?

(Funny, but awkward.)

The book’s contract expired in January, and rather than renew with the publisher (who was offering less attractive terms than before) Andy decided to make use of the new tools that have cropped up. With my help and Stephanie’s awesome design skills, NEW HOUSE 5 now has a great new cover and is available in digital form — as well as print — from all the usual places (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.).

“…but I’m not a writer.”

Andy’s goal was never fame or fortune. He didn’t want an agent. His book was not meant to be a work of literary genius, or the first in a long career.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s a very creative and talented guy. (Especially on guitar. And Draw Something.) But business and baseball are what he loves, not books.

Andy is more than content to leave the publishing scene to me. To which I say, “Thanks! I think…”

…

Andy and I spent this past weekend back in Pittsburgh. It’s where we went to college, where we met, where we fell in love. The city is a beautiful mix of brick, metal, and glass — of old and new — of buildings short and tall, all standing shoulder to shoulder, dotting the hillsides. Nearly a dozen bridges lace back and forth across the river, and on a clear night, the downtown lights shine like fireflies.

(Unfortunately I didn’t get any good pictures of the skyline, so you’ll have to take my word on all this.)

It was nice to visit again, after so many years. But also weird. The trip stirred up a lot of feelings and memories, both good and not-so. I’m not even sure how to put it all into words… so for now, I’ll use photos and focus on the good.

The food — Pamela’s, Primanti Bros, Fuel & Fuddle, Coca Cafe

The fun — Penguins playoff game, the Toonseum

The fabulous — two of my dearest friends getting married to each other

These questions roll through my mind during the drive to Dallas. It’s been over 10 years since I last visited my aunt’s house, but 4 short hours later, here we are. The front walk is like memory lane, leading me to answers I didn’t realize I had forgotten.

…

I’m 7 years old, sitting at the dining table, legs tucked underneath me. I hold out one finger, my body tensed in fear of being bitten. Inside a brass cage, yellow and blue feathers rustle, punctuated by twin chirps. My aunt opens a little door and slips her hand in. Next thing I know, tiny claws are dancing across my pointer finger. I relax and smile.

…

I’m 9 years old, playing Hearts on my laptop. My cousin, older and wiser, leans over and shoulders me out of the way. “Have you heard of an mp3?” he asks. As I shake my head, he is already typing and clicking and downloading a few things from his server at MIT. “It’s the future of music,” he assures me. Soon we are listening to some song called “Sweetest Thing” by some band called U2 on some program called Winamp. Impressed, I nod to the beat and try to sing along with the chorus.

…

I’m 10 years old, knocking tentatively on my cousin’s bedroom door. He doesn’t say to come in, but he doesn’t say to go away either. I close the door softly behind me. He’s sitting on the bed, face red with anger, eyes wet with tears. I sit down on the floor in front of him, but he just keeps staring hard at the opposite wall.

After several minutes of silence, I ask if he wants to play Connect Four. He still doesn’t say anything, but he scoots off the bed and slides the board game out. We’re dropping our red and black checkers into place when his father comes in to apologize. But he never actually says he’s sorry. He just holds his arms out and waits. They hug silently, my cousin’s small body stiff, my uncle’s hand heavy on his back.

…

I’m 12 years old, up late for no real reason. While the rest of the house sleeps peacefully, my typing fills the darkness. A childhood friend is teasing me over chat, but I feel something else coming. Something exciting and frightening.

Oh god, there it is. But what do I do now? What do I do with those three little words? I want them — of course I want them — but not from him, not right now.

Joy, regret, and panic churn inside me. With tears in my eyes, I type, “I’m sorry.” I hit send. I sign off.

I don’t sleep that night.

…

I’m 26 years old, sharing a mattress with my mother. In the morning we wake to soft light filtering in through the windows. Still half-asleep, we stay in bed, lying on our backs and talking. Catching up, sharing stories.

Memories layer one on top of the other, new on top of old, hers on top of mine. It’s been over 10 years since I last visited my aunt’s house, but pieces of me linger, hanging on the walls next to the photographs. I collect them now, questions and answers no longer forgotten.

One tree. Brick. Still not sure.

Five years later, at a chic Italian bistro in the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco, Andy says out of nowhere, “I think my favorite thing in the world is traveling with you.”

 Classic San Fran icons.

I’m obsessed with jellies.

Typical SF houses in the Mission District. (I felt like I was in Lola and the Boy Next Door!)

Andy realizing that 300-400 ft. trees are really, really tall.

I could not stop thinking about the boats commercial from HIMYM…

(Also, I have other thoughts on #Linsanity that I hope to write about later. This particular angle was just at the forefront yesterday.)

As someone of Asian descent, someone who has always grappled with my identity in regards to race, I’m fairly sensitive to Asian American issues. So yes, my ears perked up when I started hearing about Jeremy Lin, this underdog Taiwanese American basketball player who went to Harvard, who might never have gotten a chance in the NBA, and who is now taking the sports world by storm.

I’m fully on board for #Linsanity. I’m so glad that Asian Americans can see someone like them succeeding in such an unexpected and prominent arena. (Yao was a start, but he always sort of felt “on loan” from China.) I think back on the guys who used to sweat through their shirts playing basketball during lunch at Chinese school, who watched NBA games when they should have been studying for calculus or biology, and I smile.

But it’s not all rainbows and bunnies. It’s not all celebration and progress. Behind the silly puns (Linsanity, Lincredible, etc.) the dark cloud of racism looms overhead. Or at least the dark cloud of racial insensitivity.

• Saturday Night Live’s spoof of a sports talk show demonstrates an unfortunate double standard: Chicken fried rice? Okay. Fried chicken? No way!

• The LA Times explains why the borderline racism in Lin jokes is so important: it shows us how far we still have go to. (“We” being both non-Asian America, and Asians in America.)

Part of what spurred both of those commentaries was a headline that appeared on ESPN’s mobile website (at 2:30 a.m. for a mere 35 minutes): “Chink in the Armor.” When I heard about that headline, I felt… unsettled. “Chink” is a derogatory term, but like the n-word, many Asians have reclaimed “chink” and use it when talking to each other, under the theory that a word is just a word and it’s our intentions that make them “good” or “bad.” Personally I didn’t find the headline cute or clever, but I wasn’t pissed off about it either. It just seemed tasteless.

Now, after hearing more about why and how it got there, I believe it was an honest, unfortunate coincidence. As I said to a friend on Twitter, I’ve made bigger mistakes than that under much better conditions. (Like the time in high school, as editor-in-chief of our paper, I let the placeholder copy “Headline headline headline” go all the way to print.) Sportscasters toss around lame, canned phrases like that all the time. Does that make this incident okay? Of course not. But did the guy deserve to lose his job and possibly his career over it? In my opinion, no.

(Reprimanded? Made to apologize? Educated? Yes yes yes.)

What if I blogged that an Indian author was trying to “curry favor” with a reviewer by sending them gifts? Would that make me a racist? Or maybe just a moron?

What if someone pointed out the potential offense in what I wrote, and I immediately took it down? What if I apologized for my mistake? Would you stop reading my blog? Stop being my friend?

What about the other night, when I DID tweet “Jeremy Lin + MSG = recipe for success”? Was that joke out of line? Did I make a racial slur? Or was I just having a bit of fun?

I believe that truly hateful and/or derogatory remarks MUST be acted upon. No question. But there’s a fine line between joke and slur, between enforcing political correct-ness and promoting censorship. We HAVE to consider that line. We can’t paint everyone with same brush. (“If you say anything less-than-flattering about his being Asian, then you’re racist.”) Because if we do that, then we’re just as bad as them.

I have been on the receiving end of ugly racist remarks. I’ve also been on the receiving end of racially based “compliments.” I’ve grown up surrounded by intelligent, hard-working men and women who were looked down upon, not taken seriously, discriminated against, just because of their accents, their grammar, their eyes, their height, their clothes. I know racism, and I hate it with a passion.

But I also grew up in an extremely diverse community, with friends from ALL cultures and ALL walks of life. (People used to tell me that my group of friends could have been a United Color of Benetton ad.) I know that race doesn’t have to be divisive. I know that there can be humor in our differences.

And I know that people make mistakes. They say things without thinking, or they say things they don’t mean. I don’t believe it does any good to persecute these people. I think that only reinforces the notion that race is a scary, dangerous thing, when the reality is that culture and ethnicity are wonderful, rich parts of history and humanity that should be understood, explored, and celebrated.

I’ll say it again: this country — this whole world — has a long way to go in battling racism. So let’s do that, let’s really battle real racism. Instead of kicking a man to the curb, let’s hold out our hand and help him cross to the side of cultural sensitivity. Instead of bowing to the pressure of outraged voices, let’s meet their call to action. In this case that might mean hosting sports camps for Asian youths, or creating scholarships for Asian American athletes. Whatever we do, we need to be curing the disease, not putting bandaids on the cuts and bruises. Because covering up an illness only gives it the opportunity to grow stronger while you’re not looking.