…and I voted today in the primary elections in what the media has predicted the lowest turnout in California history.

When I turned 18, I was so excited to vote. I remember voting for Al Gore and against proposition 22 (all because MTV said so). But then the world didn’t vote like me. And I wondered if that made me feel powerless. But I kept voting. For John Kerry. For everything else.

As I got older though, the magic disappeared. I didn’t understand the propositions, the measures, the state and city offices. I didn’t know how to decide. Everything seemed the same even though I do lean liberal. And I didn’t believe in any advertisements. How could I decide if I knew that the words said were manufactured to sway me on way or the other?

But today, because Chris was selected to be the Site Inspector, I decided that I had to do my civic duty. I walked to my polling place in a nearby school and voted. I didn’t know how to vote so I primarily voted by party lines and what the San Francisco Chronicle recommended. And then I walked out knowing my votes counted more than it normally would have. Simply because nobody was voting today.

“I read The Da Vinci Code It was so convoluted. A mess! I don’t understand why it became so popular!” a writer exclaimed. Her face contorted in disgust. “What is wrong with people?”

The other writer and I smiled. “Let me tell you this,” I began. “I read The Da Vinci Code and loved it then. That was a long time ago. Then I read his most recent book Inferno recently and absolutely hated it. I didn’t like how the plot just flailed about and how the characters barely any motivation. I hated how the characters were so flat and were being tossed around from setting to setting. But I realized that my younger self—the one that loved The Da Vinci Code would have loved it.”

(Okay, maybe I didn’t say it that eloquently, but in similar words.)

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s like ice cream. How can I tell someone that the ice cream that they had all their life—the one from the supermarket. The one that was artificially flavored with mint that has been overprocessed and dyed bright green. Or the strawberries that has been preserved for a whole month into just tasteless red blocks. How can tell that someone that their ice cream love was a facade? I can’t. They love it, because it’s what they are used to. And even I show them organic, small batch ice cream, they will never change their mind. We are just educated.”

I let the words hang in the air as we nodded in silence. “I would never write books like that,” the third writer suddenly spoke up. “What a waste of time.”

“That’s cheating!” Chris said about a short piece I wrote to a prompt. “You’re writing about something you already know.”

The funny thing about having someone who completely believes in you unconditionally is that you are unaffected by criticism. I am able to hear the actual words instead of piling into a “oh no, I am not a good writer!” So this time, I heard it. And all week, I thought about it.

Like many budding writers (and perhaps due to the writer’s block that I believe started when I was 7), I have trouble writing fiction. The creativity, the settings, the made-up characters rarely flow out of my fingers. I write about memories. It’s no secret that new writers can only write from what they know and as they get better, the worlds mold together easily like floating puzzles putting themselves together and together.

But that other day, the prompt, I read it aloud. A deep thinking about my own childhood experiences contrasting with more recent ones. After so many years of blogging, I am so good at creating a beginning, an arc, and an end. It bothers me that my own writing can barely last more than 1000 words and then suddenly the ending demands to be entered. Because that’s what my writing is like—it describes, it climaxes, and then it rests almost out of exhaustion.

But here is where my challenge was. I write from experiences, contrasting with the past, present and future. I write what I know. And yet. To this day, I rarely have heard any memoir-like pieces come out of Chris. It’s always dragons, crazy insane characters, and explosions. It’s Michael Bay spilling out of fingers and through the ink. It’s loud, obnoxious characters. And then some.

I want to write about technology and my mind tingles at the thought. A short story about privacy in technology. My stomach gets excited, but it lurches at the fact that these characters are not real. And the skill that I have honed over the years—to meditate on a memory—is not real. But here, isn’t that exciting itself?

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.