Mindy Kaling describes it well in her memoir (or a book of her quips). It went something like this:

I spend all day organizing and preparing so that I can sit down in front of my computer and write.

And well that’s me. In fact, what I am doing right now, in writing this post is in preparation of writing my book. And also, I am preparing for my writing group by baking and cooking and cleaning so that the writing group will prepare me for writing my book.

That’s right. All my waking hours up until this very moment have been buying supplies for the food, baking fruit crackers, thinking about making slice-baked potatoes, making chai from scratch, and using up my old eggs. It was about washing my dishes and bowls, watering my plants, putting away my laundry, brushing my teeth, and making myself look presentable. Not to mention that I did the things that other typical people do in preparation: browse Facebook and twitter, eat strawberries, check email, and aimlessly scroll through Craigslist.

My title? Master of procrastination.

It never bothered me before, standing underneath the freeway overpass. The gigantic concrete thing that flew over 2nd Street. I have walked down that street many times as I strolled with my team for lunch to South Park. I have rode under it to get to the bike path on Townsend. The flurry and noise of traffic never bothered me until…

…I stood under it at the G-Food Truck Lounge.

I had been there once on my own and with a friend. And I don’t know how to describe it, the noise was suddenly overwhelming. And this is to someone who lives on a busy traffic where the sounds of cars and trucks clatter past my front door every day. The sound of traffic is meant to be soothing. But for some reason, this wasn’t. As the cars and trucks rode over the roads overhead, bumping over small road dividers, their engines, their whoosh echoed down below. And although I could occasionally block it out, the noise touched a deep fear circling in my heart.

Was it because I was afraid of being run over? Was it because I felt the noise closing on me? Was it the space of hipsters, office workers, tech people that squished me?

I only remember the same feeling when I stood in front of an ocean at Santa Cruz. The noise of the waves was oddly terrifying. They never bothered me before as a Californian. I have seen them repeatedly before. But the noise echoed and sounded louder around the cliffs…and my body instinctively wanted to get away. But instead, just like I did today, I stayed there and waited for what I sought.

Just under a year ago, Chris and I wandered into Taksim Square when we knew that riots were brewing. Granted, it was a crazy idea, but I loved the area before it was taken over by a mob. It was trendy and hip. The best restaurants with a real local flavor rather than the touristy Sultanahmet were all there.

I posted a picture of a graffitied message which referenced Game of Thrones: Tayip, Winter is coming.

I thought it was amusing at the time as I was strolling away from Taksim Square and down to the tram. Interestingly, moments later, the tear gas cloud had floated to that area, and my eyes achingly burned. The logical side of me kicked in. I wasn’t panicked, mostly annoyed. Nobody around me was angry, no fear, just focused as we rode the tram in silence. Someone gave me a lemon and said in hasty English, “Squeeze in eye.”

I posted the photo later that night, satisfied that the only casualty of that experience was 45 minutes in teary eye pain and the contacts that I had to throw out. A friend commented hours later, “Don’t be a dead journo.”

All I could think was “don’t be stupid”.

“Let’s do it again!” they both chorused as we spilled out of the ride.

I hesitated, scanning myself for any emotion of fun. Did I enjoy it? Did I really want to do it again? Did I want to stand in line, sometimes with annoying people behind me? Did I really enjoy the thrill? Did I delight in the acceleration, the sudden drop, the jerk to the left and right? Did I want to go through the story again? But I knew if I said nothing, there would a chance that the little itty bitty knot would rise up and suddenly it would burst open. I had to control it right now. Right now, instead of letting guilt lead me through something. “No, I would rather do something else,” I said, letting guilt spill through my cracks. “I can wait if you want to go again.”

The black pool of guilt did rush through me, and it yanked me to and fro for the next twenty minutes. Perhaps I was imagining their disappointment causing me to apologize. And it kept itching and itching. But then we went to other places and…most importantly, food was suddenly available. My stomach untwisted and relished in the fattening love of corn dogs and lemonade. The meter of optimism shot up, and my lips curled in a smile.

“So what’s next?” I asked happily. “Let’s do it!”

As much as I would hate to admit, I do love this feeling I get as I approach bedtime. The weight and fluttering of my eyelids. My mind tries to keep alert in making sure my phone is charged and I have activated the button on my Fitbit. Just those two last things…maybe one more thing…turn off light…maybe just three more things…and then I shift n my bed with my belly against the mattress, my head in my awkward side position that I have done many years, and let my mind drift off to sleep.

It’s because it’s that moment when everything can come to a halt. An appropriate end to the day. Where I can tell the world, this annoying demand from Facebook, twitter, email, whatever….is told I AM NOT AVAILABLE FOR AT LEAST 8 HOURS. I have rules in my life that communication unless I choose to initiate does not occur until 9 AM. And this is the divide of silence. Where silence is a choice that I deliberately make. Letting the words swirl and swirl in my head until they settle ready to spit out when I open my eyes and place my fingers on the keyboard.

You see, my favorite drug is sleep. And every day, I hunger for just one more drop. Every night, I crave for its sweet seduction into a dreamful, imaginary place.

The best first date? Yeah, it was this one. To this day, Chris and I always talk about it endlessly. At some level, we realize that most people wouldn’t appreciate the certain events…and how it demonstrated how we complemented each other, our strengths and weaknesses.

But the point is, I decided to rewrite the entire thing with a bit of flair and reorganization. One thing that I have learned in the past few years in studying the craft of writing is this: a writer’s job is to organize the words on the page.

Which matches my professional (paying) work. Design. It’s not about telling the story as it happened as I quickly wrote in November 2006. Rather it’s to lead the reader down a journey. A reveal at the beginning. A challenge, a question, a curiosity in the middle. Then to an ending that is both satisfying and complete. Whether the characters as portrayed is true or not…is not relevant to the piece. At least in terms of literary work. So I focused on that, trying to bring the scenes and dialogue to life.

An instructor once said, “Who cares about diary entries? They’re the worst. We as the reader care about the journey.”

So that’s what I did. At least I hope that’s what draws people in. Until I realized that the “competition” was more about popularity than quality of the reading (which translates to good marketing copy in the first few lines than a good story). Well, that completely sucks as the winning piece may be of a diary entry or a shallow story that someone famous tells. But I submitted my story anyway in hope.

And this is where I sell out (to nobody): Go and click “recommend”!

Because it’s a new beginning.

It’s an invitation to create. From nothing. It’s a place where my brain can finally output in freedom, its colors, its swirls, its magic, its unending rants. The scents of the future and the past can fall right here. The paint from my fingers can drip one drop at a time. Whoosh across the campus and then back again. The grains of the sands of where I have been is sprinkled, no wait, flung from one corner to the other! The taste of sweat as I move quickly across the campus.

The words. The figures. The stories I tell. The souvenirs. The careful placement of objects. The composition of frames, the border, the layers, the dividers.

I hold it all close and stand back to admire it. I press a button. Maybe two. Maybe three. It transforms, rotates, and turns. I filter. I unfilter. I twist a knob. I move a single object. A push. No, two pushes. A nudge.

I twiddle more. My heart falls. My head hurts. The fingers want to rest. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t work.

And now I look, it’s no longer a blank canvas. And this is where I want to stop and start again.

All I want to say is that I love the Game of Thrones “viewer guide”.

With any well-written review, I love reliving TV shows and movies. Alan Sepinwall, you’re my hero (especially for being able to write reviews only moments after watching the episode). I only wish that my skills in analysis and themes can get there one day too.

A few days ago, I read a sad secret about how someone felt their relationship was more like roommates than of a couple.

But then again, assuming that roommates are close, is that so bad? Is the insinuation that a couple must constantly have passion, must be full of lust for each other, and must be so ever so integrated?

*spoiler alert if you have never watched House of Cards*

After being spoiled by friends over and over again (stop it, you guys!), I forced myself to finish both seasons of House of Cards. And suddenly, I was in awe. It wasn’t the scheming or manipulation. It wasn’t the endless ambition to Frank’s political goals. It wasn’t the drama within the White House. It was the marriage of the Underwoods.

I would like to have that ideal marriage, Claire and Frank. The “ruthless pragmatism” appealed directly to my Asian frugal sensibilities. It’s not lust that I seek. It’s love and respect. Although I am not seeking power, I am seeking a partnership. A place where we work together toward a goal. Where we share the same value system. Most of all, although I do believe “we always talk to each other”, I was impressed with the line “we never avoid each other”.

I know that it’s a fictional relationship. But is there nothing more powerful than having the number one ally? An ally who would sacrifice themselves for your end game? And how you would do the same? And when you hit major challenges, you get angry and your partner gets angry and you spar, saying things like “figure it out”. There’s no shaming, no guilt-tripping. You send texts with the words, “It is done.” There may be angry moments and manipulation. But then you share the challenges and the nightly cigarette. You say, “We have worked so hard to get here. You and I.” Then the moment comes, and your eyes tell the truth. Your partner comes over and hugs you. You say, “We did it.” You always include the word “we”.

It seemed natural at first. There is a reason why our legs exist. There is a reason why we are bipedal. And that’s why running is supposed to be the easiest exercise.

In high school, whether it was for the appearance of student diversity or not, I joined the cross country team. It was the only sport that allowed everyone to participate. There were no tryouts. All I had to do was just…start running.

Back then, I did. I was the slowest, of course. My sister was one of the fastest, quite naturally. But I had endurance and would run miles just at my steady pace. What motivated me was likely not the running itself. It was purely because I had declared my commitment to the sport, because it allowed me to skip my most hated class, PE, and supported some resemblance of social activity (pasta feeds, anyone?) I remember training along the hills near my high school, where I ran past cow poo and trampled hay. I marveled at my own body, which suddenly felt rested with all its energy drawn out during the everyday practice.

Then I graduated. And that was it. I didn’t participate in any physical activity again until I realized that gym membership was included as part of my tuition. Not wanting to miss out on anything free, I went to a few classes. I discovered that I hated yoga. I enjoyed the kickboxing. I felt too timid to even try the machines as I watched dedicated student athletes un-self-consciously show off. Instead, I settled into a routine of me sitting at my computer, typing and watching a screen.

Then graduate school. Again, I discovered quite early on that my tuition included free membership to the campus gym. I swam. I took classes. And this time to bond with classmates, I ran. “Let’s go for a jog!” my roommate would say and we would take off through the local park to campus and back. At this time, I would make myself go…but then I would grumble on the way back, longing for the comfort of my desk and my computer…and all the projects that waited for me.

Then I moved to San Francisco. During the first few years, I would force myself to jog. Up the hills around the neighborhood. I would always want to slow down and creepily study the magnificent houses and their owners. But really instead of pondering how they chose their colors and materials, guilt would overcome me and then I would take off back to my apartment. As I reached my late twenties, I had to admit one thing clearly, I hate running. I hated the way that I moved slowly—that I would still see the same building for more than 30 seconds. I hated how my feet felt against the pavement. I hated how if I stopped running, that I would have to walk and that didn’t change one thing.

When I discovered my love of cycling and the fact that I could coast as much I wanted to coast, I declared one thing: the feet was made only for one thing—to push the pedal.

Today, I wore my yoga pants and a new headband pulling my hair back. My roommate saw me prepare to leave and asked, “Going running?”

“No, I don’t like running. I hate it.”

“But it’s so much fun!” he replied.

But to me, it isn’t. I am not judging the people that do. It just isn’t fun at all to me at all.