The Support of a Mentor

If you follow this blog regularly, it should be no surprise to you that I've had a hard life. I've been beaten, broken, abused and poor so how was I able to carry on? What ever made me think that I was capable of anything when the world was constantly telling me that I was worthless?

The support of a mentor is what gave me my strength and the belief I have in myself. Without someone taking the time to say, 'you can do this', I might never have tried. And that is why I owe everything I will ever have to Conrad Fink.

Every once and a while someone enters our life who supports us, encourages us, and wants too see us succeed because they believe we have what it takes. I met Conrad Fink during the fall of 2010 and the courage he showed me will last a lifetime.

You may be thinking, what could a Hispanic, college-aged girl from a rough neighborhood ever have in common with a white, 80-year-old former vice president of the Associated Press? Well nothing. I can honestly say that Conrad Fink and I probably had very little in common besides our love of writing and the thirst for democracy and social justice.

The first time I took a class with Conrad Fink, I was more than nervous. His classrooms are set up around a round-table, where everyone is expected to participate, and where everyone is vulnerable to his criticism, which hits like a nun with a ruler.

Rumor was that Conrad Fink was a grouchy old tyrant, who thought he knew everything about journalism and writing. There were some who even refused to take his classes because of the level of effort he expected from his students. Being the perfectionist that I am, I thought I was up for the challenge. And so my goal for the semester was to work hard and impress Conrad Fink.

Hours were spent, perfecting opinion pieces and coming up with ideas for future editorials.

"You've got good ideas, Villarreal." He said to me once after class. "I've been in this business for a long time, and I can tell you're different." He said. "You take the time to think about the world around you, something your other classmates don't do. Take that, and run with it." He told me and goddammit I did. That was one of the best moments of my life because a legend was telling me I had something special. I couldn't let him down.

When I went home that night, I was determined to write a new column that was going to blow him and the rest of the class away. I wrote about something controversial, but extremely timely. There was a young girl who'd been gang raped and the boys who allegedly committed the act had documented it with their cellphones and were putting up all over social media. This way my story. My chance to be heard. My chance to voice my concerns about sexual violence and social media. I showed the story to my editor and she wanted to run it the very next day. "Wait," I said. "Let me show it to Fink first."

Since the semester started, I'd made a habit of doing my homework on the floor outside Fink's office, waiting for him to be done teaching so I could badger him in to helping me with my writing. He never complained about me taking up all his office hours, in fact I think he was impressed that I wanted his opinion so often. He noticed everything. Even how I carried a notepad with me everywhere, something I'd been doing since fifth grade.

But when I showed Fink my story that day, after waiting for him for a few hours, he was furious.
"Did you watch the video?" he asked.

"No of course not," I replied. "It's child pornography. It's illegal."

"It doesn't matter," he shouted. "You don't write an article about a football game without having seen it. You don't do this Villarreal!"

"Fine," I shouted. "I'll take that part out, but it's going to run tomorrow."

Fink balled up the story and threw it. "No one should ever read this." he shouted. He accused me of not knowing the basic rules of reporting and he was right.

Conrad Fink (Associated Press)

"Okay," I said, picking up the story. "I won't let it run." I said trying not to cry. I grabbed my things and left, feeling awful for missing something so big and for letting Fink down.

When I got home that evening, I sent him an email, apologizing and attached a news article that had gotten attention a while back, hoping to gain his trust back. The next day he gave me a signed copy of one of his books, saying that he knew I was going to have a great career. He believed in me and it was because I didn't crack when things got tough, because I was still willing to try again even though I had failed the first time.

Fink knew that I wouldn't quit and for a long time after his death, I felt guilty. I wanted him to see me publish my first book, to prove that all his effort was not wasted, but he died before that could happen. For those of us who don't believe in the afterlife, I have to push everything that Fink taught me to others. That's how his legacy will live.

Love,
Kris

The Narrowest Standard of Beauty

This short film is a horrifyingly, beautiful and accurate depiction of Western beauty standards.

Supervenus by Federic Doazan showcases the trauma and harm that a certain aesthetic does to a woman's body. The film is quite gory, as a real woman is nipped and tucked. We often forget that real women are engaging in this drastic behavior everyday to prove their worth and value to a society that holds them to such a narrow standard of beauty.

The amount of women who seek out plastic surgery gradually increases every year, telling an awful tale of how we view women's bodies and how women are taught to view themselves. We often regard women's bodies as products, something to be constantly improved upon and re-constructed at all times, as our bodies are suited for the male gaze and nothing else.

Check out the film and reflect for a moment on the harm this has on a woman's self esteem and how she regards herself in society. This is something we all need to talk about. When we put so much brain power towards our outward appearance, we often forget about making strides for women in politics and in the workplace.

Love,
Kris

Six things I've learned as a struggling writer

Deciding to be a writer is just about one of the dumbest things you could ever do. There are no guarantees with anything. You could write the best damn book in the world and if you can't get it in the hands of the right people, it means nothing.

The writing process is filled with sleep deprivation, heartache, and the struggle to learn what is good writing. I've had my fair share of rejections, setbacks, and manuscript rewrites.
So here are a few of the things I've learned that may help you on your journey:

1. Don't just start writing a novel. Start by teaching yourself the elements of a book, and learn how to write well first. Write short stories before attempting a novel. Teaching your self the basics beforehand will save a lot of time during the editing process.

2. Editing is harder than writing. You've completed your manuscript and you're super proud of yourself, and you should be. But don't start celebrating yet because the hard work has just begun. Edit, then edit again, and then edit just a bit more. Get rid of those cliches. Round out those characters. Make that small town feel real. It takes work, but once you get it right, it's worth it. 

3. Read and write everyday. Now I know what you're thinking, if I'm writing and editing all the time how could I possibly have time to read? Well you better find the time, because without reading you won't have the tools to know what makes good writing. Read across genres and read books on writing, like The Elements of Style and Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark. And you know to write everyday because that's how you get better, it's how you hone your craft. You won't get better if you don't practice. And if you think your writing's already good enough, it's probably shit. 

4. Share your writing with fellow writers. If you write in a vacuum, you won't get better. You can't see everything that's wrong with your writing, and close friends and family can't either. Meet other writers through workshops or by joining a critique group. It might be uncomfortable at first, but it will teach you to handle criticism. Everyone has room for improvement.

5. There will be rejection. Get used to that idea. Let that sink in, and know that there will be many people who don't like what you've written, or who would have done it differently. Fuck those people. This is where belief in yourself becomes crucial. If someone offers some constructive criticism, then by all means listen, but if they're just saying that what you've written isn't right for them or they simply don't like it, then cry for a bit, and move on. Get over it as quickly as possible because there's more work to be done and lots more rejection to be had. 

6. Never give up. This is your dream, and even though it's a stupid, completely unrealistic dream, there exists something in you that wants to write. Don't deny that part of yourself, feed it as often as you can and just keep hoping for the best. That big publishing contract isn't out there for everyone, but that doesn't mean it isn't out there for you. Work hard and it could happen. You just have to keep trying.

Love,

Kris

The Black in Me

I am a mixed chick, and because of that racial identity has always been something I've struggled with.

Who am I? What category of people do I fit in to?

If we didn't have phrases like, 'acting white' or 'acting black', I'm sure it wouldn't matter much to me, but as our society is so focused on race and how it relates to our personalities and our lives, racial identity is often tied to our core.

I would like to say that race always matters, and it does if you're a person of color. When you're white, you have the privilege of not being burdened with thoughts about race. You are who you are, and your race is often invisible to others. You can be whatever you want. You can go pretty much anywhere, and feel like you belong, but for many of us that isn't the case.

For me, since I am a writer, I'm not just a writer. I'm a multicultural writer, meaning that I choose to write about more than just the white experience, and I do that because I know little to nothing about what it means to be white.

Of course the majority of books, TV, and film depict the white experience, so I know some in that sense. But my identity for much of my existence has more or less been tied to the black experience, and yes, I realize that I'm not black, but I really don't think that matters because as people of color, we should all be focused on the social hierarchy that exists in this country and that often places black lives at the bottom.

My grandfather was black, my mother is mixed. I grew up in south Atlanta, in a predominately black neighborhood. I experienced racism, poverty, and ill treatment firsthand because I was treated as someone who was black, and I saw myself as black, even though I am not.

And here is where it gets tricky, once I left my hometown for college and was confronted with the whiteness of the collegiate system, I came across many people; students, professors, who did not expect me to be black.

They wanted me to be something else.

They told me that acting like I was black would put me at a certain disadvantage my entire life, and that by claiming to be something else, anything else, I would be better off. That's pretty fucked up. And it was pretty hard for an 18-year-old to understand, but I did because I experienced it everyday.

I noticed the way white folks would look at me, judging me, asking me where I'm from. And if I were to say south Atlanta, I'd get the cold shoulder from most people I came in contact with, so I started saying California instead. I started telling people that I was mixed, and I would omit the fact that my grandfather was black, and you know where it got me? Absolutely nowhere, because people still saw me as different, as the 'other', not a whole person, not a complete person because I wasn't white.

But around that time, I was ashamed of the black in me because I let so many people's opinions dictate how I felt about myself. And it's hard because people will tell you that you're skin's too dark, or they'll say things like "you only got that scholarship because you're Latina," or they'll wonder why you're so articulate and they'll question your intelligence because someone who looks like me couldn't possibly be smart or hardworking.

I'm ashamed of the fact that I didn't own my blackness and that I was afraid of offending white people by mentioning it. I'm ashamed that I ever thought to omit a part of who I am, and in light of the intense amount of racial injustice taking place in parts all over this country, I just want to say that I'm proud of the black in me. I'm proud to be a person of color, despite the disadvantage that it puts me in.

Love,
Kris

Don't call me skinny, that's an insult

Any woman, entering in to any public space can expect to have her body judged by both men and women alike. We have so many ways to describe women's bodies, so many different criteria that we are constantly judged against:

How small are her breasts?
How big is her ass?
How broad are her shoulders?
How slender is her waist?

We describe women as curvy, thick, fat, skinny, slender, voluptuous, petite, athletic. While we often describe men in three ways: fat, skinny, muscular. It's no secret that women are held to a stricter standard when it comes to their appearance, and that's often because we're taught that a women's appearance equals her worth.

A fat woman, is an invisible woman, an ugly woman is someone to be ignored because when you're a woman, you must be attractive to prove your value to men and often to other women.

For a long time I bought in to this ideal. I didn't wanted to be stared at, judged, or worse, completely ignored because I couldn't manage to keep my appearance together. I developed an eating disorder, starving myself, working out excessively all to prove my value to society. And that's why I think as women, we need to stop congratulating one another for being thin or skinny.

It's not an accomplishment by any means, and calling someone skinny isn't a compliment, it's a body type. Some women look like that because of genetics without being healthy or exercising at all, meanwhile other women, not unlike myself, go to extreme measures to meet a certain ideal.

We continue to value one another based on weight, and it needs to stop. The body shaming needs to stop. The small, critical comments about each other's arms and legs has to stop.

And now there seems to be this influx of women's bodies that are sculpted, ripped, and muscular.

I will be the first to admit that I regularly lift weights at the gym, heavy weights, and I do it because I like the way it feels. Not because I'm trying to meet some new, trendy ideal of what's sexy. This new ideal is passed off as being about health, fitness, and loving yourself, and I just have to say that is complete and total bullshit.

If I have to hear, "your health is your wealth," one more fucking time I'm going to gauge my eyes out.

It's not about health, it's about vanity and you fucking know it. It's about shaming other women, who you deem as unhealthy, and you fucking know it.

There are overweight people who are healthy, so if it was really about health we would not praise some bodies while shaming others. It's a specific body, a look, that we deem as healthy and for most of us that look is completely unrealistic.

So I'm done trying to meet some fantasy ideal of what a woman should look like. This is who I am. This is what my body looks like, cellulite and all, and I don't give a fuck if it doesn't turn you on.

Keep your arousal to yourself.

My body isn't perfect, but it's mine so shut the fuck up. No one asked you anyway.

Love,
Kris

Because I AM the maniac: Living with mental illness

Times get tough. Folks get sad. Most days, it's easy to push through, to hold on until the next day and the next. And then there are those times when something just snaps deep inside. Can't think straight. Can't calm down. Can't get my mind to stop racing. I'm moving so slow, better move faster to keep up with the urges, the goals, but it's impossible. I can't keep up. Too much anger, so pissed, so frustrated.

Scream, yell, punch the walls but the pain won't go away. I can't get the feeling to stop, the itch to subside. So I hit the gym, work out for three hours straight, praying for a sense of relief, but there isn't one. Just want to calm down, want to slow down but can't.

The feeling persists. I don't want anyone to know. I don't understand the harmful thoughts and feelings. And if I can't understand them how can I ever tell anyone else about them.

Things get worse. It's time for sleep, but you don't sleep, nope, not anymore. Most nights just lay awake, thinking, replaying, can't sit still, can't calm down. I'm euphoric, on top of the fucking world, but I hate everyone. They're all too slow, moving like sloths. I can't deal. Need to separate. Need to get out. Need to do things that no one knows about. Hurting myself, hurting others. I  can't stop. I'm not in control, the other bitch is, she's confident, she calls the shots and I let her because I'm too weak. I'm lost inside myself.

Two years ago, right before Christmas I lost my shit. And I didn't even know I had lost it. I went something like two weeks without eating or sleeping, and I just remember feeling like my heart was going to beat out of my chest. I wasn't hungry, my stomach didn't growl. I wasn't sleepy, I  wouldn't yawn.

For a long time I just thought I was a superhero ( I actually believed this). I thought that I had some amazing super power that allowed me to work harder without sleeping or eating. And I ignored the itches and the urges, worked through the deep depressions that followed my manic states. So that only those close to me could tell that something was wrong, something just wasn't right with Crystal.

I once wrote an entire novel in two weeks, then turned around and wrote another in three.

I thought I was the shit. No one could touch me. Turns out I'm fucking crazy, and I did all of those things while in a manic state.

They diagnosed me with bipolar disorder and I had another stint in a mental hospital. It made no sense, but it made the most sense. I knew what I was doing wasn't normal, but I'm not in control when I'm manic. And then when I would come down from a manic state the guilt I felt would make me want to cut my skin off with a dull razor blade. But that was then.

Things are far from perfect, but with psychiatric help, medication, and therapy, I've managed to keep a hold on things most days. Stress is a trigger for me. I have to watch for the signs of mania, pay attention to my moods everyday. I have an alarm for sleeping, an alarm for waking up. Too much sleep and I could trigger a depression, too little and the next thing you know I'm bouncing off the fucking walls.

I just need balance and to appreciate myself despite my flaws, despite my illness. We all have obstacles to overcome, some of us have more than others and that's okay. You just have to keep fighting. Get help, because you can't do it on your own, and it's okay to lean on other people sometimes. You don't always have to be strong, you can be vulnerable and people will still love you. I promise.

Things are going to be okay because I am not my mental illness. I will have a life.

Love,
Kris

Excerpt from Logost, a Novel

My calves were sore from walking when I came across a stone, snow-covered bridge. It was icy, and I guessed that it would be unwise to cross it. But as I always went against my better judgment – trusting my own thoughts and opinions had never been easy for me – I trumped across it. It covered a small, man-made brook where water fell upon smoothed stones. An innate happiness flowed from the sound, and before I’d taken three steps to cross the stone bridge, I found myself retreating. I jumped down, and walked along the small ledge where the sound of the brook was heaviest.

The sound grew louder – a pulsating noise like the beat of a faltering heart. The act of blocking was becoming natural for me, and it took me only a moment before I realized that the sound was someone trying to break through my mental defenses. Someone stood behind me, attempting to cause me great suffering. I turned around to see Cassandra there, her friends Amy and Sasha flanked at her sides. Without hesitation, I froze several streams of water and shot the sharpened icicles at them. But Cassandra was clever and quick. She shattered each icicle in to tiny speckles of frost.

“That really is the best you can do.” She scoffed at me, and Sasha and Amy giggled. Cassandra’s eyes bore in to me, and I felt my access to oxygen cut off. She choked me with the strength of her mind, and I couldn’t scream out in pain – there was no air left in my lungs. The timing of my death beat closer and closer, but I refused to be killed by someone as trivial as Cassandra.

“I’ll be sure to tell Lucas how much you despise him,” she said. “And how peculiar it was that with your last dying breath, you told me that you wanted him to know you hate him,” she laughed, that piercing metallic sound. Happiness was unobtainable for Cassandra. She wasn’t happy even now that she would get her wish. To watch me die. Her eyes were dead, dark and emotionless. And even though she was killing me, I pitied her still. Poor girl, I thought as I waited for death.

The Earth quivered as it tried to save me from my untimely end. But I wasn’t the one controlling it. Cassandra fell to her knees and shrieked in torment. Her limbs flailed, and her body jolted upward towards the sky. Sasha and Amy made no move to help the girl, who they called a friend. They stared at me with horror-struck eyes, and jolted away from the scene. I got up from the brook and stood over Cassandra, watching as her eyes rolled to the back of her head. She would die soon, and I had no inclination to save her. But I also had no desire to watch her die, so I turned to leave.

It was then that I saw him there, out of the corner of my eye. He leaned against the bridge, wringing his hands and watching me. He came over to me and stood behind me to whisper in my ear.

“She’s not dead yet,” Drew breathed, his voice a low, creaking sound. “She made an attack on your life. It’s only fair to end hers. Look at her, Mina. Focus on her heart stopping.”

“No, I can’t.” I thought about leaving, but I couldn’t stop watching her die. She looked like she would ask me to save her if she could speak.

“You were meant for greatness, my love,” he whispered. “And this is what it takes to be great. She’s nearly there. It wouldn’t take much,” he said, persuading me. But I made no move to end Cassandra’s life. “Fine,” Drew said as if murdering her were inevitable. And I watched her body stop shaking.

Her eyes didn’t shut once she was unmoving. They stayed open, and I kneeled beside her lifeless body. It twitched again, and I felt her tormented spirit escape her chest. I waved my hand over her face and shut her eyes. Drew kneeled behind me, slowly placing his hands on my shoulders.

To read more purchase Logost.



Love,
Kris

In Search of the Great American Novel

When I was little I kept a running inventory of all my toys, and the names of every person I had ever met.

I sat on the sidelines during kickball, scribbling in to a beat-up composition notebook; crafting poems, drafting short stories.

When I was little I had a nervous habit of chewing on my fingernails and pinching babies when no one was looking.

I once went eight weeks without combing my hair, and wore the same pair of jeans for a year without washing them.

When I was little I pined over Judy Blume, R.L Stine, and recorded every early-morning episode of Sailor Moon.

Back then, I walked slower, rested more often, and had the time to stare up at the drifting clouds. I watched the stars at night, and waited for the leaves to fall. I felt change, noticed it through the seasons.

When I was little I dreamed, hoped, believed that the world would one day be a place I could call home.

When I was little a felt an emptiness, a hollowing out inside my chest. And I didn't know it then, but now I know that I was searching for something I had yet to find.

Love,
Kris

Handling Criticism

With the wide span of social media, it's easy for a new author to be eaten alive by the Facebook and Twitter masses. The reality is that even if your book doesn't become a bestseller, you will still have your fair share of critics. Everyone isn't going to like your book, and you need to be sure that you can handle reading those gut-wrenching, negative reviews.

Reviews are crucial. For most Americans, reviews of restaurants, books, and movies guide our lives.

If a book has too few stars, I won't read it. I'll typically thumb through the pages of the reviews to see why it was so poorly rated, but that's it. A few bad reviews on your book and it can be difficult to recover, and that's why it's important to prepare yourself for criticism and to learn how to handle it once your novel, which you love, is published.

It can be difficult to hear the opinions of others, and if being attacked on social media is new to you it can be earth-shattering. Luckily for me I have already experienced what it feels like to enrage thousands of strangers and can share with you what I'm sure you already know: it fucking sucks.

A few years ago when I was just catching my bearings as a writer, I wrote a column for my college newspaper on the implications of shopping at Wal-Mart. When I wrote the piece, I thought nothing of it, surely there were many people on my college campus who felt as I did, and those who didn't, I assumed would ignore the piece altogether.

But the demographics of my college skewed conservatively and the next day after the column ran, I got a call from my editor telling me that radio talk-show pundit Neal Boortz had read the article and was discussing it on his morning show.

At first, I panicked. I wasn't sure why of all the columns I'd written, this guy decided to pick up on this one, and I didn't realize just how popular of a radio host he was. Hate mail flooded in to the newspaper almost simultaneously. People that I didn't even know were talking about me, saying rude, judgmental things, and then to top it off this guy wrote a column about me.

I could have let this break me, shatter me to pieces and give up writing all together, but instead I used it as fuel to the fire. This guy thought I would never amount to anything, and I decided to prove him wrong.

With the release of my debut novel Logost, I'm reminded that there will be those who love the book, there will be those who feel they can't relate, and the there will be those few hateful people who never seem to like anything. Ignore those people, have faith in the product you created and don't let their opinions of it drive you crazy. Do you like your book? If the answer is 'yes' then that's all that really matters.

Love,
Kris

Writing through Trauma

In life, everyone struggles. We all have times where we can't see the good in the world, where too much trouble and uncertainty has crossed our paths. And in my short life, I've seen more bad than good. The situations and circumstances that have befallen me would make most want to give up, but I'm not about to give up because I have a rare opportunity on this planet to create a life for myself.

I could be bitter about things, internalize my hatred for everyone and blame the world for the trauma I've suffered. I could also say that everything happens for a reason and I'd be destined for something great in the future. But all of those things would be a false hope -- either clinging to one extreme versus the other. No one knows why bad things happen to good people, but I will never stop trying to be good.

I wrote my first book four years ago during my first-ever long term depression. Sorrow clouded my vision. I cried in the shower and in my car on my way to work everyday. I couldn't see past my miserable life, and then suddenly a brilliant idea: why not take your suffering and use it as something that someone, somewhere else could learn from. Why not write to understand what's hurting you and in turn help others to deal with their own hurt.

And just like that my debut novel, Logost, was born. And it wasn't just like that. It took years of writing, re-writing, fixing plot holes rounding out characters, getting themes and motifs to flow perfectly. And I love doing that shit. It was torture for me to write about sexual assault and mental illness. It was torture writing the book in general, but the added fantasy element made it seem more real, if that makes any sense.

Don't be fooled by the magic of the world. Decide for yourself what's real, and if you are so inclined, buy my book and write and review. We can only support each other.

Love,
Kris

You can purchase my debut novel here.

Competitive Women: Are you a mean girl?

I have an obvious confession to make: all throughout high school and much of middle school I was your typical nasty/pretty girl who put other people down to make herself feel better. I wanted to be the best at everything and any girl who came along and threatened that had to be put in her place.

My arrogance and insecurity proceeded all other personality traits, and my tongue was as sharp as a machete. I made people feel bad, really bad and I regret much of what I said and did during that time.

I developed the habits from my Mom, a mean girl in her own right. The key is to build people up when they please you and then completely destroy them if they do anything to upset you. You feed them compliments and they like the attention you're giving them because you're smart, pretty and popular and then you take it all away if they don't do exactly as you say.

I call it "meangirling" and we women do it all the damn time. We shun certain women while praising others, and we all have that bit of competitive nature about us because we live in a capitalist society. It's inevitable to experience, but not impossible to circumvent.

But I've grown past that now, or at least I'd like to think so. It's not as easy as you might think to reverse your mean girl ways, but at a certain point you realize that manipulating everyone around you only makes you feel empty and alone. It's much better to try to relate to others than to always prove to them that you're better than they are because you aren't. That shit won't get you anywhere and so I revamped my mean girl ways but a few traits still linger, and it's often subconscious.

When people like me and compliment me, I eat that shit up. I love it, and get off on being the prettiest bitch at the party, the smartest, most successful, but you can't always be that. And if that's the foundation for your self-esteem, it could crumble at any second.

A good friend of mind had an outing for her birthday and didn't invite me because she assumed it was too sporty of an event for me. What she forgot is that she'd mentioned the outing to me and I reluctantly agreed to go. The day of the outing came and I asked her what time we were meeting up and she let me know that I wasn't included.

She felt guilty that she left me out, but that wasn't enough for me. I needed to dig the knife in to her back a little deeper and make her feel even worse. That's what the old Kris would have done -- shunned her until she proved herself worthy and that's complete crap! You can't mean girl your friends, let that shit go and stop trying to compete with every woman you meet.

So she's prettier, skinnier and smarter, who gives a fuck? Do you, and stop worrying about the next girl, because it will only distract you from everything you're meant to accomplish.

If you find yourself always comparing yourself to other women, or disliking another woman simply because of jealousy, stop and evaluate your thoughts and feelings because it's just not okay to treat people that way.

Love,
Kris

Growing Pains

Growing up is hard to do, and over the last few years I've been struggling to keep up with the rest of my generation. I'm in my mid-twenties and for me adulthood has been a major adjustment -- both good and bad. I've struggled in my career, and that alone has me feeling like I'm one step behind everyone else.

I often set high expectations for myself, too high in fact. And while I did well in school and at university I had a difficult time finding a job after college. It took months, four months exactly before I landed my first job working in IT as a communications specialist for a major corporation.

It wasn't long before I realized I hated the job and wanted to quit, but I don't believe in quitting so I stuck it out until I was laid off only 10 months in to the job. I found myself on the job hunt again, landed a PR position at a healthcare company and was laid off again after working there for a little over a year.

So it seems that things just haven't worked out for me. I should throw in the towel, admit that I've failed at life and crawl in to a hole and die, right? Fuck that I will make my own way. I took matters in to my own hands and started writing books during that first corporate IT job. I've written four so far all unpublished, but I hope that changes soon.

My unsuccessful career in corporate America has taught me a few things:

Don't define yourself by what you do because it will leave you feeling empty.
Don't dedicate your life to a job.
Don't expect anyone to look out for you or your career.
Don't assume that just because you land a job you will be happy there.
Figure out what you love and do that because for some, corporate America can be a nightmare.

The 40-hour work week isn't for everyone. The monotony of the days can often be unbearable as once you're an adult everything starts to blend together like one big mural of time. I've learned to appreciate myself without my career path being set in stone. I've learned to value flexibility and to not worry so much about other's opinions because most people are fucking stupid unfortunately.

Through growing up, I've also learned that it's okay to ask for help, it's okay to admit your faults and to make mistakes. It's okay to be me, and I don't have to make excuses for myself.

But the most important thing that growing up has taught me thus far is that you have to live your life no matter what, and knock down anyone who's standing in your way.

And she thinks she's the pink of perfection...

That's a line from a film called "Summer Magic" that I watched as a kid. When I was little and did a good job someone would always drop the word "perfect." 

I was a cute kid so adults constantly gave me attention for my looks, and then when I did something smart I got coded as "perfect." 

"She's so perfect," they'd say. 

"You're perfect," my mother would tell me. "Not my perfect Crissy," she'd utter if anyone ever spoke a word against me. 

"I love how perfect you are," said my husband and I was always afraid to let everyone down.

Because I'm not perfect, and for the first time in my life I'm not trying to be.

I used to think that if I acted as perfect as possible my life would be easier and everyone would love me. I thought if I always looked beautiful, excelled professionally, kept my house clean and baked elaborate desserts for everyone, I wouldn't have a care in the world. 

Well, as I'm sure you've guessed by now it didn't work out for me. I became a warden of my own thoughts and actions. Anything that didn't seem perfect was banished from my personality, and anyone in my life who wasn't trying to be perfect, I condemned. And really all I was doing was condemning myself, judging myself along the same strict standards as I did every person I met. 

I felt as though I had to be perfect or my friends and family wouldn't be able to brag about me anymore. I was desperate to keep up my persona and then one day I just broke -- cracked right down the middle. 

There was no hope left. I couldn't be saved and so I had to give up the battle for perfection. I had to stop counting every single calorie I put in to my body. I had to stop punishing myself for my own mistakes and short-comings because no one is perfect, and anyone who might be perfect is probably horribly boring. 

So my point is that you should always do your best, but who gives a fuck if your house isn't spotless. Who cares if a few cookies have some burnt edges -- you'll eat them anyway because they taste amazing. Imperfection is beautiful, it's unique. 

Don't turn in to a drone, and don't have a break down like I did. Love yourself and your friends and family because they aren't perfect and neither are you.

Love,

Kris

On Weight and Self-Worth

Sitting in my neighborhood bookstore and having to hear a very young girl, around 18 or 19, describe herself as "chunky" breaks my heart. It hurts to hear her say that to her group of friends, but it hurts even more that they only offered their friend more negative comments about their own bodies.

I'm not judging these girls. Because I know where those thoughts come from and just how hard it is to constantly work against them.

We all do it. We criticize our bodies and in turn diminish our self-worth. And I'm one of the biggest culprits. I'll stare at myself in the mirror looking for dimples and extra fat to pull and tug on, comparing my body now to the body I had in college or in high school, and wondering why I didn't realize how I awesome I looked back then.

For women, it's often a constant struggle to learn to love and accept their bodies. For a large part of our history women felt that their appearance and beauty ultimately determined their survival, and it did. All women were expected to marry, and you married based on how attractive and complacent you were. We live in a much different era now, but these ideals still cloud our judgement because they're constantly recycled and repackaged in ways that we often don't recognize. We only know that we should feel bad about our bodies, that we should always be looking for a way to improve our appearance because for women our appearance is important..

And it is important, but it should never be the sole determinant of your worth as a person. I bet that girl had a million other things should could have been focusing on -- work, academics, art, culture, but we allow our obsession with our appearance to cloud our brains and shadow our true potential.

But you're more than your body and you're more than your weight, so don't listen to society's mantra of thinness equaling happiness, because it doesn't.

I've had times in my life when I ate very little to stay thin, and while I looked great I was the unhappiest I'd ever been. So let so and so worry about getting her boobs done or skipping dessert, while you worry about putting in overtime on that big project. One worry will benefit you while the other won't.

Determine for yourself what looks good and don't let the images on a telescreeen dictate for you. And banish the little voice inside your head that tells you you're fat. Cuz you ain't, honey.

Love,
Kris

When to Dream

That probably seems like a difficult concept, but for me the idea of when it's appropriate to dream is very concrete. I grew up poor, like a lot of people, and I rarely saw my parents dream, they only worked. And as an adult I feel guilty for quitting my corporate IT job and pursuing my dream of being a writer, but you know what... Fuck that!

It's my dream and I don't have any damn kids to support. It's just me that I have to worry about so why should I work a job I hate just to match up to some ethereal idea of success. I want to figure out what success means for me. I don't know what Kris Villarreal the successful novelist looks like, but I want to know that girl. And it's not as if I think fulfilling my childhood dream is going to banish all my problems and instantly make me a better person...

No... that's definitely not my anticipated outcome, but I have to hold on to this because if I let it go the pain just might kill me. I want more, and I'm going to get it. And I know it sounds arrogant, but I've always known that I was different. The way that I feel, the way that I internalize it's always made me feel like an outsider.

Growing up I was the lone kid on the blacktop sitting on the sidelines reading Emily Dickinson and scribbling my own shitty poems in to a beat-up composition notebook while the other kids played kickball. Writing is in my blood and that's why I know I can't give up and you shouldn't either.

Whatever your dream is, don't sit on your ass telling yourself you're not good enough, because that's bullshit. Who said you weren't good enough? No one! And if someone did tell you that I hope you stopped talking to that person because they don't know shit. Work hard and dream, dream on, dream until it happens, work until it happens. Good luck to you and to me.

Love,
Kris