I am the little sister in the mosaic of my family. With that title comes a certain reputation: the spoiled one, the brat. I'm sure my siblings would agree with that stereotype. I even agree. It's okay. I've accepted it because, hey, it's okay to be spoiled. Being the baby also comes with its own set of negatives, though. Even though I'm mumble-mumble-mumble years old now, I'm still widely viewed as twelve years old.
As a perennial tweenager, clearly I do not have a career. How could I? I'm a child! All of my years of working with expectant families hasn't counted as a legitimate job. Writing certainly doesn't count, either, because I write in my pajamas while my kids (and usually other neighborhood kids) destroy my house. Plus, I like writing. People don't like their jobs. That's against the rules.
But writing is what I want to do with my life. It is what I want as my career, but I don't want to call it my career because that word just sucks the joy out of all of it. But this is what I do.
I didn't go to college and rack up student loans to learn how to write. I didn't intern anywhere to prove myself. I merely sat down with a laptop and the words in my head and let them fly off into the atmosphere. Most days it feels like I don't have a clue what I'm doing, but the words are finding other people and doing something so unimaginably far beyond me.
This is real. It doesn't feel real at all, but it's real.
Half of my family and a great deal of my friends don't really understand the person I've become. They don't appreciate the long nights composing sentences and developing characters. They don't care. Well, maybe they care, but in that disjointed way someone pretends to be interested so feelings won't be hurt. Truth be told, they don't have time for books, they'd rather save themselves the trouble and wait for the movie adaptation. If I waited for these people to open their eyes and see that this is important, even as their 9-5 office job is important, I'd be waiting a long time. Forever, maybe.
Is that discouraging? Sure. But I don't let it stop me. I pick myself up, knock the dust off my sandals, and find people who want to support me--and people I will support in return. My Cartel. My Skywriters. My posse. My kindred spirits.
.
Conditions will never be 100% perfect for me to write, and people in my own village will never fully respect me because they see me that same old bumbling kid, but I'm doing this anyway.
What about you? Do your friends and family support your writing or your career goals?
Showing posts with label Telling It Like It Is. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Telling It Like It Is. Show all posts
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
The Quitting Season
My holiday winter babies have come and gone and there's a lull until families start contacting me for summer due dates. The lull sucks. It's "woe is me" and "I never want to be on call ever again" all rolled into one confused but adorable me.
It's the quitting season.
It's the point of the year where I mull over each e-mail I get and wonder if now is a good time to hang up the rebozo and live the carefree life of someone who isn't constantly stressed about childcare and if the Doula Wagon will self-combust on my way to the hospital. I daydream about last-minute vacations not sandwiched recklessly between births and on-call periods. I fantasize about not having to navigate dark inner-city parking lots and the twisty-turny catacombs from the after-hours Emergency Room entrance to Labor & Delivery. I smile at the idea of sleeping in my own bed all night instead of contorted into a Cirque du Soleil performer in a rickety vinyl chair for broken seconds of sleep before I'm needed again. I dream about knowing I'll likely never be put in a position where I'm so tired I want to puke and/or cry.
And then I sigh and press the "reply" button to set up that interview.
Deep down, I don't know how to quit this. Not entirely. Because when I walk into that coffee shop and sit across from a mother who is full to the brim of hopes and possibilities, I know this is such an amazing thing to be part of. It's insanely difficult, yes, but nothing short of miraculous. And then I'm pulled back in to repeat the cycle.
It's the quitting season.
It's the point of the year where I mull over each e-mail I get and wonder if now is a good time to hang up the rebozo and live the carefree life of someone who isn't constantly stressed about childcare and if the Doula Wagon will self-combust on my way to the hospital. I daydream about last-minute vacations not sandwiched recklessly between births and on-call periods. I fantasize about not having to navigate dark inner-city parking lots and the twisty-turny catacombs from the after-hours Emergency Room entrance to Labor & Delivery. I smile at the idea of sleeping in my own bed all night instead of contorted into a Cirque du Soleil performer in a rickety vinyl chair for broken seconds of sleep before I'm needed again. I dream about knowing I'll likely never be put in a position where I'm so tired I want to puke and/or cry.
And then I sigh and press the "reply" button to set up that interview.
Deep down, I don't know how to quit this. Not entirely. Because when I walk into that coffee shop and sit across from a mother who is full to the brim of hopes and possibilities, I know this is such an amazing thing to be part of. It's insanely difficult, yes, but nothing short of miraculous. And then I'm pulled back in to repeat the cycle.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
This One's For the Fellas
Yeah, you heard me, guys..... And, when I say fellas, this isn't to exclude the ladies, should you be in a same-sex relationship. If you're in a relationship and not the one physically growing a human being, I'm talking to YOU. Filter off, and quite possibly, gloves off. I'm blaming this a wee bit on not being topped-off in the sleep department, but maybe just a little because I've seen a recurring theme over and over (which is what a recurring theme is, I guess). And, frankly, for you thrifty gentlemen, I think you could practically put me out of a job if you'd just pay attention and figure out how to put into practice what I'm about to say.
Since when did giving birth to a baby become strictly women's work? Because it involves extreme focus around your old lady's hoo-hah and bodily fluids? It's only okay to be interested in those things when something is entering, not exiting? Why should the weight of this experience rest on your babymama's shoulders? Why is she the one reading the books and scouring the Interwebs for every tidbit of pregnancy and birth-related info to ever be published?
"Whatever makes you happy!" is the knee-jerk (and only appropriate) response for when she asks you what color to paint the nursery or what she wants to eat for dinner, NOT for when she is asking what your opinion is on such hot-button topics as circumcision or immunizations.
What you're not getting is that this birth will affect your family and your family's family forever, meaning, like, a really long time. Your woman needs you to take some interest in what's going to be going on because she may not be 100% wanting to make all of these decisions in, you know, the minute she has to rest in between waves of the most intense discomfort she will likely ever experience. When you have no idea what the birth process looks like or what that machine over there does and why these people in Haz-Mat suits are swooping in like a scene from E.T., you are along for the ride, which is exactly what you've primed yourself for.
Your baby will have to live with his or her birth experience for the rest of their life. Your partner will live with the scars or badges of honor from this birth for the rest of her life. Let's face it, she may dump you somewhere along the road, but a child is forever, for all three of you. Whether you care about making this experience awesome for your partner, you should care for your little one. Protection of your baby doesn't begin the second you walk into your house. Know what typical birth looks like. Know what questions could come up in the course of a birth. You know that old saying -- "Failure to plan is a plan for failure." Some couples luck out just rolling the dice and showing up at the hospital with no clue, but those people also should buy a lotto ticket.
Also, don't make the assumption that picking a hospital full of all of the latest and greatest technology means that all will go according to [your woman's] plan. Statistics show that all the technology under the sun isn't improving birth outcomes. Oh, and your choice to go with Dr. Amazing doesn't assure that you will be transported on a fluffy little cloud from "pregnant" to "parents".
And, psssssh. Is this about blood? Most of us have an aversion to blood. And other things. If given the choice, I'd say your woman probably would choose to sit in the Waiting Room and let you handle this by yourself. Man up! I know you can! There are plenty of places you can sit and participate with this birth process that doesn't involve a front-row-center eyeful of the nitty gritty. Just pretend the doctors or midwives are working on your wife's carburetor. A carburetor with a baby stuck inside. I'm sure that'll help. But even if it doesn't, there are ways around it.... and I promise she won't let you forget it if you leave her to go it alone.
As a doula, I'm often hired because women don't feel the confidence in their partners to know what in the world is happening. And while I'm thrilled to support women and families who need it, I'd also be ecstatic if doulas were extinct like.... Sasquatch? Something that's extinct? I don't know... because partners were setting aside a little time to pick up a book or even minimally tune into that weekly childbirth class they've been forced into for the next month.
Am I ranting? Totally... but it is because I see your glazed-over expressions lock into place when the word "birth" is uttered in a sentence. I hear the way her voice raises a couple octaves every time you shrug your shoulders when she's looking for input on your child's birth plan. "That's just the way he is." They tell me, as if that makes it all okey-dokey. Odds are, if you're married, you had more opinions about your wedding.... And I'm pretty sure you spent longer putting together your bracket for March Madness, so why the complacency here? If I could take you by the shoulders and shake you for a couple seconds, I would. Care about this, goshdarnitall! I know you've got it in you.
I know you've got some brains in your noggin--that's why you chose your amazing partner. Why not use your powers for good instead of meh? Start by thinking of ways you can become more involved: Challenging yourself to five minutes of reading something birthy each day; discussing specifics surrounding the event of the year (your baby's birth day) with your lady; really shock her by putting together ideas for your birth plan; encourage her to practice her relaxation or all those silly positive sayings you usually make fun of her for.
Guys (and non-guy counterparts), you've GOT this.
Since when did giving birth to a baby become strictly women's work? Because it involves extreme focus around your old lady's hoo-hah and bodily fluids? It's only okay to be interested in those things when something is entering, not exiting? Why should the weight of this experience rest on your babymama's shoulders? Why is she the one reading the books and scouring the Interwebs for every tidbit of pregnancy and birth-related info to ever be published?
"Whatever makes you happy!" is the knee-jerk (and only appropriate) response for when she asks you what color to paint the nursery or what she wants to eat for dinner, NOT for when she is asking what your opinion is on such hot-button topics as circumcision or immunizations.
What you're not getting is that this birth will affect your family and your family's family forever, meaning, like, a really long time. Your woman needs you to take some interest in what's going to be going on because she may not be 100% wanting to make all of these decisions in, you know, the minute she has to rest in between waves of the most intense discomfort she will likely ever experience. When you have no idea what the birth process looks like or what that machine over there does and why these people in Haz-Mat suits are swooping in like a scene from E.T., you are along for the ride, which is exactly what you've primed yourself for.
Your baby will have to live with his or her birth experience for the rest of their life. Your partner will live with the scars or badges of honor from this birth for the rest of her life. Let's face it, she may dump you somewhere along the road, but a child is forever, for all three of you. Whether you care about making this experience awesome for your partner, you should care for your little one. Protection of your baby doesn't begin the second you walk into your house. Know what typical birth looks like. Know what questions could come up in the course of a birth. You know that old saying -- "Failure to plan is a plan for failure." Some couples luck out just rolling the dice and showing up at the hospital with no clue, but those people also should buy a lotto ticket.
Also, don't make the assumption that picking a hospital full of all of the latest and greatest technology means that all will go according to [your woman's] plan. Statistics show that all the technology under the sun isn't improving birth outcomes. Oh, and your choice to go with Dr. Amazing doesn't assure that you will be transported on a fluffy little cloud from "pregnant" to "parents".
And, psssssh. Is this about blood? Most of us have an aversion to blood. And other things. If given the choice, I'd say your woman probably would choose to sit in the Waiting Room and let you handle this by yourself. Man up! I know you can! There are plenty of places you can sit and participate with this birth process that doesn't involve a front-row-center eyeful of the nitty gritty. Just pretend the doctors or midwives are working on your wife's carburetor. A carburetor with a baby stuck inside. I'm sure that'll help. But even if it doesn't, there are ways around it.... and I promise she won't let you forget it if you leave her to go it alone.
As a doula, I'm often hired because women don't feel the confidence in their partners to know what in the world is happening. And while I'm thrilled to support women and families who need it, I'd also be ecstatic if doulas were extinct like.... Sasquatch? Something that's extinct? I don't know... because partners were setting aside a little time to pick up a book or even minimally tune into that weekly childbirth class they've been forced into for the next month.
Am I ranting? Totally... but it is because I see your glazed-over expressions lock into place when the word "birth" is uttered in a sentence. I hear the way her voice raises a couple octaves every time you shrug your shoulders when she's looking for input on your child's birth plan. "That's just the way he is." They tell me, as if that makes it all okey-dokey. Odds are, if you're married, you had more opinions about your wedding.... And I'm pretty sure you spent longer putting together your bracket for March Madness, so why the complacency here? If I could take you by the shoulders and shake you for a couple seconds, I would. Care about this, goshdarnitall! I know you've got it in you.
I know you've got some brains in your noggin--that's why you chose your amazing partner. Why not use your powers for good instead of meh? Start by thinking of ways you can become more involved: Challenging yourself to five minutes of reading something birthy each day; discussing specifics surrounding the event of the year (your baby's birth day) with your lady; really shock her by putting together ideas for your birth plan; encourage her to practice her relaxation or all those silly positive sayings you usually make fun of her for.
Guys (and non-guy counterparts), you've GOT this.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Waiting
As I led the pony to the mounting block, ready for our ride, my mother yelled from the back porch. Her voice didn't carry, only the sharp tone of urgency. Mom-voice.
"Can't hear you!" I replied as I settled in the saddle and moved my fingers to their mirrored positions on each side of the reins.
"LIGHTNING!" She tried again, louder. "Lightning from the clouds to the ground! We're going inside!"
Were there other kinds of lightning? I wasn't sure. My parents, Floridians at heart, couldn't shake the habit of going into hiding whenever a storm hit. "The lightning can strike a mile on all sides of the storm," I remember Mom telling me during one winter in the South. This is Michigan, though, and I'm pretty sure our storms are underachievers, like just about everything else here. Except for the storms that involved Mr. Ohboy's grandpa, who was struck by lightning on two separate occasions as he sat in the same chair in the same house. That was clearly bad luck--it had nothing to do with the ferocity of the storm or taking proper cover. Or the fact that he was wearing his tinfoil hat. (Totally kidding about the tinfoil hat, but it sounded good).
But back to tonight...
Above me the sky reflected back a clear robin-egg blue. To either side, grey clouds pushed forward with a rumble. The pony didn't fret like an animal about to be deep-fried by a stray bolt of electricity, but something told me it might be part of her diabolical plan to be rid of me forever. As the wisps of clouds advanced, I sighed and dismounted. We waited out the blast of wind in the aisle of the pole barn, which struck me as probably more dangerous than being out in the open, but made me seem more responsible to anyone paying attention. I'm not widely viewed as responsible. I blame that on being the baby of the family. And on being irresponsible, but whatever.
Eventually the sun broke through the clouds, and I led the pony back to the arena. Our ride went well (in case you cared), though I cut it short because more thunder warned of another storm inching our way. Before I could finish cleaning up and securing the barn for the evening, the canopy of sky overhead darkened.
Because I had walked down to the barn, I walked home. The pasture stretched before me, the breeze tickling the tips of the grass, and all I could think of was my vulnerability. The blackness feathering above me like the wings of a dark angel reminded me of my mortality.
If I died on that very spot, pierced through by pure energy, would my life have meant something?
Yes? No? I don't know.
My 35th birthday was a few days back, and I joked that I wanted warning if this was the year of the mid-life crisis. To be honest, though, I felt like I've been in a mid-life crisis for twenty years. Nothing is as I thought it would turn out, and that's not a bad thing, necessarily. My younger self didn't dream, something I've grown to accept as the dreams have continued to elude me. All I ever wanted was to be a horse trainer, rock star, and hopelessly in love.
My marriage does not resemble a chick flick, and I wish that was different, but we do the best we can clinging to each other as we roll with the punches. Parents who have been dealt the challenging hand of children with special needs can probably understand. To those who can't understand what that means to a family, to a couple, to a person--I pray you never have to understand, personally, but that you will understand anyway because others need your compassion instead of judgement. Somehow, through it all, we're still here. I don't know why we've been so lucky that way. And I do know that we love each other, though it's not like 'The Notebook'.
Ryan Gosling. Mmm. Oh, sorry... But, for real. Ryan Gosling.
I'm not a horse trainer like I always wanted, though I train my horses every day. In a way, I guess that one's true, too. Sometimes it feels so pointless, especially when I try my hardest and there's still so much I don't know how to do. Or when I spend my life building a relationship with a horse only to have to say good-bye, and usually on such tragic terms. Every loss is a blow I can't quite put into words.
I'm only a rock star when I'm driving down the highway and belting out impossible notes along with Florence + the Machine. Seriously, I am not sure what that sounds like to people who drive next to me with their windows down. So, yeah. NOT a rock star.
Writing was always a dream, but something that felt so utterly out of reach I never put much thought to it. In this age of self-publishing and vanity houses, it's completely attainable now. If I died tonight, I wouldn't be published. For all I know, my manuscript is buried in an inbox somewhere important, awaiting a double-click that may never come. If I died tonight, I'd spend the rest of eternity wondering if I'd ever have been worthy of an audience.
In the end, I obviously made it to my home without being targeted by my very own lightning bolt, but the night is not over. There are countless other things in my life that feel stagnant, blanketed in dust, ignored. I've been quiet here because there hasn't been much to say, and that's how the inside of my head feels, too. Still. Holding. Waiting.
But for what?
For dreams. For direction. For someone to tell me I'm better at this whole life thing than I think I am. Is this what growing older is like? Questioning and analyzing how differently it has all gone down?
"Can't hear you!" I replied as I settled in the saddle and moved my fingers to their mirrored positions on each side of the reins.
"LIGHTNING!" She tried again, louder. "Lightning from the clouds to the ground! We're going inside!"
Were there other kinds of lightning? I wasn't sure. My parents, Floridians at heart, couldn't shake the habit of going into hiding whenever a storm hit. "The lightning can strike a mile on all sides of the storm," I remember Mom telling me during one winter in the South. This is Michigan, though, and I'm pretty sure our storms are underachievers, like just about everything else here. Except for the storms that involved Mr. Ohboy's grandpa, who was struck by lightning on two separate occasions as he sat in the same chair in the same house. That was clearly bad luck--it had nothing to do with the ferocity of the storm or taking proper cover. Or the fact that he was wearing his tinfoil hat. (Totally kidding about the tinfoil hat, but it sounded good).
But back to tonight...
Above me the sky reflected back a clear robin-egg blue. To either side, grey clouds pushed forward with a rumble. The pony didn't fret like an animal about to be deep-fried by a stray bolt of electricity, but something told me it might be part of her diabolical plan to be rid of me forever. As the wisps of clouds advanced, I sighed and dismounted. We waited out the blast of wind in the aisle of the pole barn, which struck me as probably more dangerous than being out in the open, but made me seem more responsible to anyone paying attention. I'm not widely viewed as responsible. I blame that on being the baby of the family. And on being irresponsible, but whatever.
Eventually the sun broke through the clouds, and I led the pony back to the arena. Our ride went well (in case you cared), though I cut it short because more thunder warned of another storm inching our way. Before I could finish cleaning up and securing the barn for the evening, the canopy of sky overhead darkened.
Because I had walked down to the barn, I walked home. The pasture stretched before me, the breeze tickling the tips of the grass, and all I could think of was my vulnerability. The blackness feathering above me like the wings of a dark angel reminded me of my mortality.
If I died on that very spot, pierced through by pure energy, would my life have meant something?
Yes? No? I don't know.
My 35th birthday was a few days back, and I joked that I wanted warning if this was the year of the mid-life crisis. To be honest, though, I felt like I've been in a mid-life crisis for twenty years. Nothing is as I thought it would turn out, and that's not a bad thing, necessarily. My younger self didn't dream, something I've grown to accept as the dreams have continued to elude me. All I ever wanted was to be a horse trainer, rock star, and hopelessly in love.
My marriage does not resemble a chick flick, and I wish that was different, but we do the best we can clinging to each other as we roll with the punches. Parents who have been dealt the challenging hand of children with special needs can probably understand. To those who can't understand what that means to a family, to a couple, to a person--I pray you never have to understand, personally, but that you will understand anyway because others need your compassion instead of judgement. Somehow, through it all, we're still here. I don't know why we've been so lucky that way. And I do know that we love each other, though it's not like 'The Notebook'.
Ryan Gosling. Mmm. Oh, sorry... But, for real. Ryan Gosling.
I'm not a horse trainer like I always wanted, though I train my horses every day. In a way, I guess that one's true, too. Sometimes it feels so pointless, especially when I try my hardest and there's still so much I don't know how to do. Or when I spend my life building a relationship with a horse only to have to say good-bye, and usually on such tragic terms. Every loss is a blow I can't quite put into words.
I'm only a rock star when I'm driving down the highway and belting out impossible notes along with Florence + the Machine. Seriously, I am not sure what that sounds like to people who drive next to me with their windows down. So, yeah. NOT a rock star.
Writing was always a dream, but something that felt so utterly out of reach I never put much thought to it. In this age of self-publishing and vanity houses, it's completely attainable now. If I died tonight, I wouldn't be published. For all I know, my manuscript is buried in an inbox somewhere important, awaiting a double-click that may never come. If I died tonight, I'd spend the rest of eternity wondering if I'd ever have been worthy of an audience.
In the end, I obviously made it to my home without being targeted by my very own lightning bolt, but the night is not over. There are countless other things in my life that feel stagnant, blanketed in dust, ignored. I've been quiet here because there hasn't been much to say, and that's how the inside of my head feels, too. Still. Holding. Waiting.
But for what?
For dreams. For direction. For someone to tell me I'm better at this whole life thing than I think I am. Is this what growing older is like? Questioning and analyzing how differently it has all gone down?
Monday, February 25, 2013
Fifty Shades Of Frustration
I am on Twitter. I'm not too terribly proud of it.
My motives were good. I wanted to connect with other writers so I could stop boring my friends and family who don't really give a hoot. Twitter seemed a logical place, with people much like myself just a hashtag away. Or so I thought.
By searching out and following random (and not-so-random) writers and publishers and editors, I found myself eyeball-deep in self-promotion and little else of value. Tweets like these, by the thousands, sweep through my feed:
I nearly called it quits, deciding I'd failed in ferreting out real live people on Twitter. The best I could tell, Twitter was one big, soulless PR/Advertising dumping ground for authors and booksellers alike. Not at all the place where tormented artists were huddled together, whining about deadlines, writer's block, and plot holes. Something happened late last week to change that, though. An innocent question led me to small community of writers loosely tied to NaNoWriMo, and, finally, I found hope in the whole Twitter idea that I'd been scoffing at all this time.
Until last night. Yes, I had four whole days of Twitter happiness, and then I discovered something so..... so.... I don't have the words to describe it.
I followed a particular female author, just because. She's no one I'd heard of before, and I didn't remember her at all until something popped up on my newsfeed last night while I was watching the Oscars. This woman was interacting with her followers (something rare amongst authors on Twitter, with the exception of the incomparable Neil Gaiman), and I took notice. Authors/celebrities who take the time to talk to their fans impress me--it shows me they care... about something, at least. Her follower complained that her website had crashed, and the author explained it always did after she released a new book "teaser". They began talking back and forth about how wonderful and quirky the books' main characters are. Now, I had no idea who this lady was or what she writes, but I was intrigued.
I proceeded to download a free sample of one of her books from Amazon without reading the summary. The sample netted me 10 or so pages to read and decide whether I am interested enough to buy the entire book. At $10, I'm already fairly certain I'm NOT interested, but I wanted to see this quirky character everyone's in love with.
It took me about five pages before I realized that this series is completely hanging onto the coattails of Fifty Shades of Grey. (Please don't ask me if I am into Fifty Shades of Grey unless you want to hear me go off on a day-long rant.... I just.... Yeah, don't ask me about it, that's all.)
So, whatever. I get it. Sex sells. A lot. Like major best-seller a lot. That's not really my beef here, although it's really annoying. I'm taking a deep breath and trying--but failing--to climb down off my soapbox.
This morning I checked my Twitter account and came across this author again. At some point, she (or one of her followers) had shared something by an individual on Twitter pretending to be the main male character of her book series. Not that weird--I'm assuming that most fictional characters have a Twitter account maintained by some fanatic. Maybe someday even Liam or Claire will have their own Twitter accounts, too.
What disturbed me is that this fictional character was having fairly graphic Tweetsex (is that a term? If not, it is now) with his followers. I mean.... What??? Y'all have no shame. I don't want to imagine any of you doing any of that with any of that, knowwhatI'msayin'?
I'm not against romance novels. I like it when people fall in love, in real life or in a book's life. I've been known to drown myself in chocolate chip cookies and a trashy novel when I can't be bothered with thinking. Trashy novels don't require thinking. But.... some of these books are topping the charts! And I don't want to believe it for a single second.
It's discouraging to know that this is what I am up against. That most of the readers don't care what the plot is or how utterly unbelievable a character is as long as they are drrrrty birdies. That I will likely never see the same level of success because my main character doesn't let him x her y with a z. Depressing, really.
I'm not yet swearing off Twitter because luckily I did find a few quality individuals along the way, and a couple of them have helped quite a deal with my novel. However, I guess I will have to learn to be more discerning of the complete strangers I pay attention to. I suppose that's not a bad thing to apply to most areas of my life.
And even though it's disheartening to see, I'm not going to let the Fifty Shades of the literary world get me down. A captivating story can be created without all of that, I'm sure of it.
#rantover #amiright?
My motives were good. I wanted to connect with other writers so I could stop boring my friends and family who don't really give a hoot. Twitter seemed a logical place, with people much like myself just a hashtag away. Or so I thought.
By searching out and following random (and not-so-random) writers and publishers and editors, I found myself eyeball-deep in self-promotion and little else of value. Tweets like these, by the thousands, sweep through my feed:
BUY MY BOOK FOR .99, TODAY ONLY #bythewayitsucks
Mona doesn't need dignity where she's going... VAGUE BOOK TITLE #scrubyourbrainwithlysollater
#Write your #novel in five hours but.payme20bucksfirst.com !!!!
I nearly called it quits, deciding I'd failed in ferreting out real live people on Twitter. The best I could tell, Twitter was one big, soulless PR/Advertising dumping ground for authors and booksellers alike. Not at all the place where tormented artists were huddled together, whining about deadlines, writer's block, and plot holes. Something happened late last week to change that, though. An innocent question led me to small community of writers loosely tied to NaNoWriMo, and, finally, I found hope in the whole Twitter idea that I'd been scoffing at all this time.
Until last night. Yes, I had four whole days of Twitter happiness, and then I discovered something so..... so.... I don't have the words to describe it.
I followed a particular female author, just because. She's no one I'd heard of before, and I didn't remember her at all until something popped up on my newsfeed last night while I was watching the Oscars. This woman was interacting with her followers (something rare amongst authors on Twitter, with the exception of the incomparable Neil Gaiman), and I took notice. Authors/celebrities who take the time to talk to their fans impress me--it shows me they care... about something, at least. Her follower complained that her website had crashed, and the author explained it always did after she released a new book "teaser". They began talking back and forth about how wonderful and quirky the books' main characters are. Now, I had no idea who this lady was or what she writes, but I was intrigued.
I proceeded to download a free sample of one of her books from Amazon without reading the summary. The sample netted me 10 or so pages to read and decide whether I am interested enough to buy the entire book. At $10, I'm already fairly certain I'm NOT interested, but I wanted to see this quirky character everyone's in love with.
It took me about five pages before I realized that this series is completely hanging onto the coattails of Fifty Shades of Grey. (Please don't ask me if I am into Fifty Shades of Grey unless you want to hear me go off on a day-long rant.... I just.... Yeah, don't ask me about it, that's all.)
So, whatever. I get it. Sex sells. A lot. Like major best-seller a lot. That's not really my beef here, although it's really annoying. I'm taking a deep breath and trying--but failing--to climb down off my soapbox.
This morning I checked my Twitter account and came across this author again. At some point, she (or one of her followers) had shared something by an individual on Twitter pretending to be the main male character of her book series. Not that weird--I'm assuming that most fictional characters have a Twitter account maintained by some fanatic. Maybe someday even Liam or Claire will have their own Twitter accounts, too.
What disturbed me is that this fictional character was having fairly graphic Tweetsex (is that a term? If not, it is now) with his followers. I mean.... What??? Y'all have no shame. I don't want to imagine any of you doing any of that with any of that, knowwhatI'msayin'?
I'm not against romance novels. I like it when people fall in love, in real life or in a book's life. I've been known to drown myself in chocolate chip cookies and a trashy novel when I can't be bothered with thinking. Trashy novels don't require thinking. But.... some of these books are topping the charts! And I don't want to believe it for a single second.
It's discouraging to know that this is what I am up against. That most of the readers don't care what the plot is or how utterly unbelievable a character is as long as they are drrrrty birdies. That I will likely never see the same level of success because my main character doesn't let him x her y with a z. Depressing, really.
I'm not yet swearing off Twitter because luckily I did find a few quality individuals along the way, and a couple of them have helped quite a deal with my novel. However, I guess I will have to learn to be more discerning of the complete strangers I pay attention to. I suppose that's not a bad thing to apply to most areas of my life.
And even though it's disheartening to see, I'm not going to let the Fifty Shades of the literary world get me down. A captivating story can be created without all of that, I'm sure of it.
#rantover #amiright?
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
For Your Consideration...
Last week I attended my sons' Valentines parties with toddler in tow, even though school parties make me want to drink. If my kids didn't keep track of these things on some invisible ledger and then judge me with tears filling their huge brown eyes, I'd be happy forgoing them altogether. Ohboy #2 is especially sensitive to this, and shamed me for a solid week when I accidentally (really! I swear!) missed his Halloween party. Ohboy #3 usually gives me grief for overlooking the more obscure school celebrations like "Grandparents/Special Person Day". When they say "Special Person", apparently that means ME. It's appropriate, I know.
On Valentine's Day, I dragged myself from one classroom to the other, at the opposite end of the school. Ohboy #4 happily stomped along with me, and I found myself thankful that he was too big to carry. I dreaded class parties when he was unsure on his feet and spent most of his time in my arms. He's never been a small child--he's built more like a linebacker than his refined, aerodynamic siblings. In the early days I always left functions with my whole body trembling from muscle fatigue and dripping with sweat. Now that he can walk and throw a mean right hook, it is not quite so bad.
Except... When my baby is safe in my arms, he can't receive the full force of some kid's hacking cough right in his chubby little face.
Three days later--Sunday morning--he is running a fever and barking like a Sea World performer. Ohboy #3 follows his lead, spiking a fever soon after. The next morning Ohboy #2 follows suit. Luckily, Monday was President's Day, a day already scheduled off from school. I'm thankful for that built-in recovery time.
Only now it is Wednesday and everyone is still feverish, coughing, and miserable. And why? So someone could let their sick child attend a party at school? So they didn't have to take a day off from work? But where does that leave my family?
I have health insurance, but it is crappy. We pay around $80 per office visit because our deductible is, like, a trillion dollars. To take all three of my younger children in to be cared for, should I need to, I am looking at $240. Should they need prescriptions of any kind, such as Tamiflu, my out-of-pocket costs would reach nearly $400+. (And, if we're being technical, my doctor prescribed Tamiflu and when my husband went to pick it up, our insurance was being useless and he would have been required to pay $200 for the prescription for just one child... He opted not to buy said medicine because we're poor).
Also--what if I was a mother working outside of the home? I mean, I am, but only when this last birth happens, and then I'm off call for a little while. But what if I had a 9-5 that I had to take time off to care for my sick kids? That's a loss of wages for me, as well. So on top of the expenses for the doctor and the drugs, now I'm not clocking in hours at the job. And for what? But because I am a mostly-stay-at-home mother, it must not matter because, heck, I'm home anyway. Clearly it is not an imposition to me at all to have the plague hit us head-on and then pass through six individuals..... because I stay at home.
And this doesn't even really factor in what my children miss at school--especially Ohboy #2, who struggles more than his younger brother. I know I'm whining a teensy bit, but, for the love! This is the fourth round of major illness this winter! I'm not sure how much more I can take!
All I'm asking is for a little consideration, here. You and your family are important, but so is mine. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
On Valentine's Day, I dragged myself from one classroom to the other, at the opposite end of the school. Ohboy #4 happily stomped along with me, and I found myself thankful that he was too big to carry. I dreaded class parties when he was unsure on his feet and spent most of his time in my arms. He's never been a small child--he's built more like a linebacker than his refined, aerodynamic siblings. In the early days I always left functions with my whole body trembling from muscle fatigue and dripping with sweat. Now that he can walk and throw a mean right hook, it is not quite so bad.
Except... When my baby is safe in my arms, he can't receive the full force of some kid's hacking cough right in his chubby little face.
Three days later--Sunday morning--he is running a fever and barking like a Sea World performer. Ohboy #3 follows his lead, spiking a fever soon after. The next morning Ohboy #2 follows suit. Luckily, Monday was President's Day, a day already scheduled off from school. I'm thankful for that built-in recovery time.
Only now it is Wednesday and everyone is still feverish, coughing, and miserable. And why? So someone could let their sick child attend a party at school? So they didn't have to take a day off from work? But where does that leave my family?
I have health insurance, but it is crappy. We pay around $80 per office visit because our deductible is, like, a trillion dollars. To take all three of my younger children in to be cared for, should I need to, I am looking at $240. Should they need prescriptions of any kind, such as Tamiflu, my out-of-pocket costs would reach nearly $400+. (And, if we're being technical, my doctor prescribed Tamiflu and when my husband went to pick it up, our insurance was being useless and he would have been required to pay $200 for the prescription for just one child... He opted not to buy said medicine because we're poor).
Also--what if I was a mother working outside of the home? I mean, I am, but only when this last birth happens, and then I'm off call for a little while. But what if I had a 9-5 that I had to take time off to care for my sick kids? That's a loss of wages for me, as well. So on top of the expenses for the doctor and the drugs, now I'm not clocking in hours at the job. And for what? But because I am a mostly-stay-at-home mother, it must not matter because, heck, I'm home anyway. Clearly it is not an imposition to me at all to have the plague hit us head-on and then pass through six individuals..... because I stay at home.
And this doesn't even really factor in what my children miss at school--especially Ohboy #2, who struggles more than his younger brother. I know I'm whining a teensy bit, but, for the love! This is the fourth round of major illness this winter! I'm not sure how much more I can take!
All I'm asking is for a little consideration, here. You and your family are important, but so is mine. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Advice To My Younger Self
Write the letter, if you must. All 30 pages of it. Pour the words from your heart like water from a pitcher. Get it all out--every last drop--until you've said all you need to say. Then destroy it. I don't care how the letter meets its end. Fire. Paper shredder. Teething puppy. Computer trash can. Whatever.
Don't you dare send that letter. If you have a novella of angst and emotion pent up inside, sharing it all with that person isn't likely to change a thing. It will, however, come back to haunt you like the gamble you took when scarfing down that grey-looking burrito from the gas station that one time.
Keep a journal, a diary, a blog instead, but be prepared to cringe when you look back. You're constantly growing and changing as a person, gathering life experience and wisdom by the arm-loads. What you fiercely believe now will probably be only a speck of what you hold to be true 10 or 20 years from now.... Don't be a bit surprised if you don't even recognize the person you used to be a decade or two down the road.
The world is so different now then it was when I was younger and figuring everything out. I thank God that I was not born to this generation, where every racing, uncensored thought can be shared instantly. I didn't need the extra help, finding my way in the most awkward way possible. My younger family members are traveling these well-worn paths. They are falling fast and hard in love and lashing out for offenses they won't remember when the sun rises tomorrow. They are baring their souls on page and screen, words that can't be returned or wiped clean.
It's tough, this growing up. It's hard to look back and know where you would have chosen differently. It's even worse to have a liftetime witness.
Burn the letter. You are more incredible--today, yesterday, 10 years ago--than you will ever know. You don't need the letter to convince him, promise.
Don't you dare send that letter. If you have a novella of angst and emotion pent up inside, sharing it all with that person isn't likely to change a thing. It will, however, come back to haunt you like the gamble you took when scarfing down that grey-looking burrito from the gas station that one time.
Keep a journal, a diary, a blog instead, but be prepared to cringe when you look back. You're constantly growing and changing as a person, gathering life experience and wisdom by the arm-loads. What you fiercely believe now will probably be only a speck of what you hold to be true 10 or 20 years from now.... Don't be a bit surprised if you don't even recognize the person you used to be a decade or two down the road.
The world is so different now then it was when I was younger and figuring everything out. I thank God that I was not born to this generation, where every racing, uncensored thought can be shared instantly. I didn't need the extra help, finding my way in the most awkward way possible. My younger family members are traveling these well-worn paths. They are falling fast and hard in love and lashing out for offenses they won't remember when the sun rises tomorrow. They are baring their souls on page and screen, words that can't be returned or wiped clean.
It's tough, this growing up. It's hard to look back and know where you would have chosen differently. It's even worse to have a liftetime witness.
Burn the letter. You are more incredible--today, yesterday, 10 years ago--than you will ever know. You don't need the letter to convince him, promise.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
It Strikes Again.
My husband has the flu. Again. It's like the third time this winter.
It just hit me that this is his way of getting a day to lie around in bed. Thirteen years, and it's finally sunk in. Sure, he'll argue that he would much rather not get sick, but I know the truth. He's a baby.
When I had the flu nastiness a couple weeks ago, he left me for 10 hours to work. Working is good, don't get me wrong. But working on the weekend while four kids are home from school and wreaking havoc while the little lady--me!--is burrowed under layers of blankets trying to ward off the chills... Not so good. The shining moment of that particular day was having to fight the nausea and dizziness to walk down to the barn to take care of the animals because he forgot to on his way out... Not my favorite. And you better believe I am keeping score! ;-)
We have a long history of dramatic flu here. The most vivid was the flu bug of July 2009. Some guy (who will remain nameless) was up and down all night, illin', and then proceeded to nap in bed the entire next day. Meanwhile, it was actually THE due date of our fourth Ohboy. In the middle of early labor contractions, I ran to the grocery store to buy someone else Gatorade, popsicles, and chicken noodle soup, then spent the rest of the day taking care of the kids. As contractions picked up in the afternoon, I took the boys to the pool to distract all of us. At 6 p.m., with the clammy husband still lying in state in our bed, I marched in our room and demand he get up and pull himself together. Our baby was coming, and soon.
It was childbirth. By default, I won. His arguments were irrelevant. There was no way on God's green earth that I was having a baby--in the birth tub in our room or on our bed--with him lying useless under the covers. If nothing else, by forcing him to sit upright with a cramping, nauseated stomach, I was teaching him empathy. I'm not above feeling almost happy that he had to go through that with me. That's right, I'm kind of cruel like that.
Or the flu we all had when Ohboy #3 was a newborn. My husband left the room in favor of sleeping on the couch. He thought he was being considerate, but what that really amounted to was my having to get up to change and feed the baby by myself smooshed in between mad dashes to the the restroom. Yep, still keeping score.
So tonight, as my husband is curled up next to me sleeping it off and I gather up some extra oomph to get dressed to take care of the animals, I am notching one more point on my side. We'll never, ever be even, but at least now I know without a doubt that this man--strong as he is--is still a marshmallow..... or a really good actor.
Rest well, Mr. Ohboy, for you will pay tomorrow. Muahahaha!
It just hit me that this is his way of getting a day to lie around in bed. Thirteen years, and it's finally sunk in. Sure, he'll argue that he would much rather not get sick, but I know the truth. He's a baby.
When I had the flu nastiness a couple weeks ago, he left me for 10 hours to work. Working is good, don't get me wrong. But working on the weekend while four kids are home from school and wreaking havoc while the little lady--me!--is burrowed under layers of blankets trying to ward off the chills... Not so good. The shining moment of that particular day was having to fight the nausea and dizziness to walk down to the barn to take care of the animals because he forgot to on his way out... Not my favorite. And you better believe I am keeping score! ;-)
We have a long history of dramatic flu here. The most vivid was the flu bug of July 2009. Some guy (who will remain nameless) was up and down all night, illin', and then proceeded to nap in bed the entire next day. Meanwhile, it was actually THE due date of our fourth Ohboy. In the middle of early labor contractions, I ran to the grocery store to buy someone else Gatorade, popsicles, and chicken noodle soup, then spent the rest of the day taking care of the kids. As contractions picked up in the afternoon, I took the boys to the pool to distract all of us. At 6 p.m., with the clammy husband still lying in state in our bed, I marched in our room and demand he get up and pull himself together. Our baby was coming, and soon.
It was childbirth. By default, I won. His arguments were irrelevant. There was no way on God's green earth that I was having a baby--in the birth tub in our room or on our bed--with him lying useless under the covers. If nothing else, by forcing him to sit upright with a cramping, nauseated stomach, I was teaching him empathy. I'm not above feeling almost happy that he had to go through that with me. That's right, I'm kind of cruel like that.
Or the flu we all had when Ohboy #3 was a newborn. My husband left the room in favor of sleeping on the couch. He thought he was being considerate, but what that really amounted to was my having to get up to change and feed the baby by myself smooshed in between mad dashes to the the restroom. Yep, still keeping score.
So tonight, as my husband is curled up next to me sleeping it off and I gather up some extra oomph to get dressed to take care of the animals, I am notching one more point on my side. We'll never, ever be even, but at least now I know without a doubt that this man--strong as he is--is still a marshmallow..... or a really good actor.
Rest well, Mr. Ohboy, for you will pay tomorrow. Muahahaha!
Friday, January 11, 2013
Plan B
Hours ago I watched a baby slide into this bright world to the shelter of loving arms. A family's joy and wonder was renewed with the cry of life. For me, it was an evening of learning more about new friends, laughing together until baby was near and undeniable. Walking from the hospital with a grin--a nice reminder of how rewarding and powerful it can be as a birth worker.
At the same time, I know my days as a doula are numbered.... Or, at least, my days as a semi-busy doula are. The on-call lifestyle is difficult on families, bodies, and just about everything else. This week it is more apparent to me after a night spent away from home and the subsequent day lounging around the house required to recharge my energy.
I admitted it on the phone to one of my sisters this morning. My sister, in all seriousness, replied, "You need to write."
Where has she been hiding for the past year-and-a-half? Or, maybe, where have I been hiding for the past year-and-a-half?
In her defense, she does not waste much time on the Internet, so she has missed my million-and-one Facebook statuses/blog posts about my books. I'm sure she believed she was shedding light on something I'd been passing over all this time. At the very least, it made me laugh to myself several times throughout my morning.
Really? You think I should write? Eureka!
Make-up writing was my only weekend plan (besides make-up sleeping), but a simple text message looks like it may throw a wrench in those plans. Books never text with emergencies, and books can be written accompanied by a nice meal.... But books, as wonderful as they are, don't hug you at the end of the day with appreciation for the minuscule role you play in their life.
At the same time, I know my days as a doula are numbered.... Or, at least, my days as a semi-busy doula are. The on-call lifestyle is difficult on families, bodies, and just about everything else. This week it is more apparent to me after a night spent away from home and the subsequent day lounging around the house required to recharge my energy.
I admitted it on the phone to one of my sisters this morning. My sister, in all seriousness, replied, "You need to write."
Where has she been hiding for the past year-and-a-half? Or, maybe, where have I been hiding for the past year-and-a-half?
In her defense, she does not waste much time on the Internet, so she has missed my million-and-one Facebook statuses/blog posts about my books. I'm sure she believed she was shedding light on something I'd been passing over all this time. At the very least, it made me laugh to myself several times throughout my morning.
Really? You think I should write? Eureka!
Make-up writing was my only weekend plan (besides make-up sleeping), but a simple text message looks like it may throw a wrench in those plans. Books never text with emergencies, and books can be written accompanied by a nice meal.... But books, as wonderful as they are, don't hug you at the end of the day with appreciation for the minuscule role you play in their life.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Solitaire
They keep talking about how lonely it is, the life of a writer. Authors are driven to drink every day, taunted by their own words and the overwhelming quiet of it all. We're changing that, they say. Now you can connect with other writers who are on the verge of crazy, too!, they say. See Twitter, Facebook, Skype, meet-up groups, a million blogs from Joe Schmoes just like you--you get the idea. There's no reason to slog through this alone when you can share the [sometimes] torturous process with others. And when the madness strikes all of you, well, at least you're not drinking alone.
This morning I am feeling the isolation. I'm also confused because I don't know whether I should feel sad or if it is acceptable. To me, writing is exciting but also weighty. It's the warmth of sun on my face as well as the dark outline of a thunderhead off in the distance. This is what I want to do... But I feel the pressure of it, the frustration from wasted moments while pursuing other things. Or, on the other hand, there is the sadness from looking family in the face and saying, "It's been a long time. What have you been up to?" Then there's the agonizing decision of spending an extra hour or two to write in the evening or turning in early because I know I will end up at a birth sooner or later. Even taking the time to post on this blog seems foolish, a wasting of words, when I should be concentrating on my other works in progress. What's the payoff to hiding myself away in order to THINK, or sitting alone in a cafe with earbuds and a keyboard (besides the obvious--people-watching and caffeine!).
Balance. Reality. What to do, what to do.
I read somewhere that writers shouldn't write in order to be read, to which I agree to a point. But, really, I can't figure out why someone would spend hour upon hour building a story unless they planned to share it, at some point. All of this has to be worth it--has to reconnect you to the world in some fashion, or the world slips from your grasp.
It feels egotistical to say, but I need a writing village. Who's in?
Monday, December 31, 2012
Looking Over My Shoulder
2012. I wish I could say with any sort of conviction that I'm ready to see you go. The truth is, I'm not. A new year brings yet another milestone that puts distance between me and a best friend lost. Yes, milestones work in reverse.... Instead of triumphing in growing and becoming, I am painfully aware of the minutes as they tick away and disintegrate what we once had. The holidays are a time to spend with loved ones, a time to remember loved ones departed. I can tell you, for me, it's true. There is an odd comfort in missing him, in remembering and letting the tears come. The sadness means a part of him is still here. Maybe when he crosses my mind, it is because he is thinking of me. I realize perhaps that's a ridiculous notion, but I cling to it anyway.
Hand-in-hand with the passing of my dear horse, this has also been the year of perseverance. For so long I thought I would never have the opportunity to have a passion other than horses, something that I could pour myself into and possibly support my family... eventually. We should all be so lucky--to find that thing we love to do so much we would do it for free. Last year I realized I wanted to write something, just to see if I had it in me. As the words found their way to the page, a long-dormant part of me awakened. Purpose. Life.
And then I lost Moe, and, for a while, my purpose, too.
For so many weeks--months, even--following his passing, I stared at my laptop, fingers frozen in place. It would take me an entire day to form a few sentences, and even those lacked the spark of joy. Still, I pressed on, knowing there was no choice. I kept at it until I completed my second draft in October, took a week off, and dove back in to my next installment. There was no other choice. I could never be happy with this story left in limbo, one more thing to mourn.
2012 has been a year of dramatic change in my life and in myself. I've not figured out how to spin it all positively, because some things simply do not have a silver lining. But I am still here, and I'm glad you are, too.
May 2013 be a year of restoration and blessing for us all. I think most of us could use that.
Hand-in-hand with the passing of my dear horse, this has also been the year of perseverance. For so long I thought I would never have the opportunity to have a passion other than horses, something that I could pour myself into and possibly support my family... eventually. We should all be so lucky--to find that thing we love to do so much we would do it for free. Last year I realized I wanted to write something, just to see if I had it in me. As the words found their way to the page, a long-dormant part of me awakened. Purpose. Life.
And then I lost Moe, and, for a while, my purpose, too.
For so many weeks--months, even--following his passing, I stared at my laptop, fingers frozen in place. It would take me an entire day to form a few sentences, and even those lacked the spark of joy. Still, I pressed on, knowing there was no choice. I kept at it until I completed my second draft in October, took a week off, and dove back in to my next installment. There was no other choice. I could never be happy with this story left in limbo, one more thing to mourn.
2012 has been a year of dramatic change in my life and in myself. I've not figured out how to spin it all positively, because some things simply do not have a silver lining. But I am still here, and I'm glad you are, too.
May 2013 be a year of restoration and blessing for us all. I think most of us could use that.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
It's Not the End, But If It Were....
If this were the end, I'd want you to know:
I cared a lot more than you knew. So many times I bore your burdens around my shoulders and let them press heavy against my throat. Sometimes I made seemingly foolish choices trying to help you or protect you, and the scars remain red on my flesh. Just because I hurt myself--and perhaps you, the one I hoped to help--doesn't mean I would change a thing. We all need friends who will come beside us and carry us through; at times, there is a toll taken on beasts of burden. And that's okay.
You matter to me, and others, in some way. If you ever reach the end of a day where loneliness is your only companion and it all seems so worthless, I pray that somehow you remember that you add meaning and color--no matter how subtle--to all around you with every breath.
There is a hope for each of us. My hope has a heavenly name, God. I do not know if He is your hope, as well, but it is my deepest longing that you have a hope of your own.
You are loved.
I cared a lot more than you knew. So many times I bore your burdens around my shoulders and let them press heavy against my throat. Sometimes I made seemingly foolish choices trying to help you or protect you, and the scars remain red on my flesh. Just because I hurt myself--and perhaps you, the one I hoped to help--doesn't mean I would change a thing. We all need friends who will come beside us and carry us through; at times, there is a toll taken on beasts of burden. And that's okay.
You matter to me, and others, in some way. If you ever reach the end of a day where loneliness is your only companion and it all seems so worthless, I pray that somehow you remember that you add meaning and color--no matter how subtle--to all around you with every breath.
There is a hope for each of us. My hope has a heavenly name, God. I do not know if He is your hope, as well, but it is my deepest longing that you have a hope of your own.
You are loved.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
My Reach Is Too Short, For Now
Here I am, the first morning of December. Up too early on a Saturday despite having only one child in the house at the moment (two if you count Mr. Ohboy) who is still sleeping under a thick cover of Angry Birds and purring kitties.
I've been awake for an hour on the insistence of my bladder and that of the doggers. I don't mind because I have much to unravel from the knotted plot lines of my novel. My brain is not yet caffeinated enough to dig in fully, but the day hasn't stolen away all of my energy, so I'm not fighting drowsy-brain, either. All week I've struggled to write because I've been the only adult in the joint, and by the time I get everyone settled enough so I can sit down and think it's 10 p.m. and I'm nodding off at the computer.
So... National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) ended at 11:59 p.m. last night. Participants were supposed to hammer out 50,000-word novels in 30 days. I was participating in NaNoWriMo, therefore I was supposed to ring in December with 50,000+ words for my latest novel. Somehow I squealed into the finish line with a blistering 28,036 words, just over half of my goal. On the one hand, I'm disappointed that I fell short by so much. It's not like I had unrealistic goals--I wrote a book in a month last year, so I knew that it was a huge undertaking but something I'd been successful at previously. This time around, I guess I wasn't as interested in writing just to write, and maybe I stifled my creativity by trying to plan things out too much. My second draft from last year's NaNoWriMo novel is mostly unrecognizable from what I spewed out onto the page the first time around, and it took, literally, blood, sweat, and tears to make it into something more, well, less crap-like.
And, confession-time, I rode my ponies a lot more than I probably should have and soaked in as much sunshine as I could before winter hits and the ground freezes and thaws, then freezes all over again. There'll be plenty of hours to write then, hermitted in my house in my bubble of fleece. I welcomed two doula babies this past month and met with several expectant families. When friends asked me to go places and I wanted to take part, I did. No regrets--well, except for missing my goal. Ha.
I'm trying to be more positive about the missing of this lofty goal, telling myself I'll be happier to have taken a little bit more time with it. The process of writing subsequent drafts or revising won't suck quite as much..... but that darn number bugs me a little bit. Okay, a lotta bit. It's just a number, but I knew I was capable of it. I set so very few goals for myself, and fewer that I really care about reaching. To write 28k words on any subject could be considered impressive, I guess. However, the average reader can skim through that many words in the matter of an hour, if they really wanted to.
My new-and-improved goal is to reach 50k (or the end of this novel) by January 1st, 2013, should the Mayans be way off on this end-of-the-world business. This is NaNoTwoMo, and I may be on my own with this, the lone writer striving for that elusive word count amidst the holiday chaos, I don't know.
I will do this. I've got to.
I've been awake for an hour on the insistence of my bladder and that of the doggers. I don't mind because I have much to unravel from the knotted plot lines of my novel. My brain is not yet caffeinated enough to dig in fully, but the day hasn't stolen away all of my energy, so I'm not fighting drowsy-brain, either. All week I've struggled to write because I've been the only adult in the joint, and by the time I get everyone settled enough so I can sit down and think it's 10 p.m. and I'm nodding off at the computer.
So... National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) ended at 11:59 p.m. last night. Participants were supposed to hammer out 50,000-word novels in 30 days. I was participating in NaNoWriMo, therefore I was supposed to ring in December with 50,000+ words for my latest novel. Somehow I squealed into the finish line with a blistering 28,036 words, just over half of my goal. On the one hand, I'm disappointed that I fell short by so much. It's not like I had unrealistic goals--I wrote a book in a month last year, so I knew that it was a huge undertaking but something I'd been successful at previously. This time around, I guess I wasn't as interested in writing just to write, and maybe I stifled my creativity by trying to plan things out too much. My second draft from last year's NaNoWriMo novel is mostly unrecognizable from what I spewed out onto the page the first time around, and it took, literally, blood, sweat, and tears to make it into something more, well, less crap-like.
And, confession-time, I rode my ponies a lot more than I probably should have and soaked in as much sunshine as I could before winter hits and the ground freezes and thaws, then freezes all over again. There'll be plenty of hours to write then, hermitted in my house in my bubble of fleece. I welcomed two doula babies this past month and met with several expectant families. When friends asked me to go places and I wanted to take part, I did. No regrets--well, except for missing my goal. Ha.
I'm trying to be more positive about the missing of this lofty goal, telling myself I'll be happier to have taken a little bit more time with it. The process of writing subsequent drafts or revising won't suck quite as much..... but that darn number bugs me a little bit. Okay, a lotta bit. It's just a number, but I knew I was capable of it. I set so very few goals for myself, and fewer that I really care about reaching. To write 28k words on any subject could be considered impressive, I guess. However, the average reader can skim through that many words in the matter of an hour, if they really wanted to.
My new-and-improved goal is to reach 50k (or the end of this novel) by January 1st, 2013, should the Mayans be way off on this end-of-the-world business. This is NaNoTwoMo, and I may be on my own with this, the lone writer striving for that elusive word count amidst the holiday chaos, I don't know.
I will do this. I've got to.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Drop In the Bucket
Who am I, that You are mindful of me?
Who am I, that You care for me?
Who am I, that You allow my self-absorbed nonsense?
Day upon day upon day.
I am nothing, blank, zero.
And yet, You love me despite my faults.
***
I am feeling it today, the melancholy that visits me from time to time, even though my life is pretty fantastic. I'm feeling silly, impetuous, and highly imperfect. I'm thinking of these books I'm writing and chiding myself for considering people will ever give a flying Fig Newton what rattles around in my brain. I fail as a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, an aunt, a mother, a wife, and as a friend more often than I don't. I probably need chocolate and a sappy chick flick.
Correction: I need chocolate and a sappy chick flick.
The realization is that I am a drop in the bucket, a humming that is less than a disturbance in the symphony of life. Insignificant. No one cares--I'm not even sure if I care. God cares, and it shouldn't matter beyond that. I'll confess, it matters a little beyond that, but it shouldn't.
I'm sorry if I'm less than you expect. I'm resigning myself to it, this less-ness. For today, at least.
Who am I, that You care for me?
Who am I, that You allow my self-absorbed nonsense?
Day upon day upon day.
I am nothing, blank, zero.
And yet, You love me despite my faults.
***
I am feeling it today, the melancholy that visits me from time to time, even though my life is pretty fantastic. I'm feeling silly, impetuous, and highly imperfect. I'm thinking of these books I'm writing and chiding myself for considering people will ever give a flying Fig Newton what rattles around in my brain. I fail as a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, an aunt, a mother, a wife, and as a friend more often than I don't. I probably need chocolate and a sappy chick flick.
Correction: I need chocolate and a sappy chick flick.
The realization is that I am a drop in the bucket, a humming that is less than a disturbance in the symphony of life. Insignificant. No one cares--I'm not even sure if I care. God cares, and it shouldn't matter beyond that. I'll confess, it matters a little beyond that, but it shouldn't.
I'm sorry if I'm less than you expect. I'm resigning myself to it, this less-ness. For today, at least.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Breathe.
My client sent me a text confessing she is scared to leave the hospital and the comfort of having a nurse or lactation consultant one button-press away. I sent a text back to her to reassure her that we'd help her find support if it was needed. What I was thinking at that moment was:
"Sometimes the most important thing you can do is take a deep breath, let go of the hands you've been holding, and trust your intuition."
It can apply to so many areas of our lives, can't it? Along with being terrified of failing, are we also just as scared to succeed?
For me, this is significant because I've buried myself ridiculously deep, 8k-ish words, in my National Novel Writing Month word count deficit. The words seem to be dammed up today, and I don't know why. Is it fear? The complete scariness of letting go of control? Hushing the overbearing voice of that so-called "perfectionist" streak?
I need to let go of those things that are holding me back, to trust I can do this because, deep within, I know how to do this... and I want it more than anything. Just like this new mama, convinced she doesn't have the wisdom she needs to be the mother she was divinely designed to be. We both need to stop and realize that God has not given us these gifts without the necessary tools to enjoy them.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
"Sometimes the most important thing you can do is take a deep breath, let go of the hands you've been holding, and trust your intuition."
It can apply to so many areas of our lives, can't it? Along with being terrified of failing, are we also just as scared to succeed?
For me, this is significant because I've buried myself ridiculously deep, 8k-ish words, in my National Novel Writing Month word count deficit. The words seem to be dammed up today, and I don't know why. Is it fear? The complete scariness of letting go of control? Hushing the overbearing voice of that so-called "perfectionist" streak?
I need to let go of those things that are holding me back, to trust I can do this because, deep within, I know how to do this... and I want it more than anything. Just like this new mama, convinced she doesn't have the wisdom she needs to be the mother she was divinely designed to be. We both need to stop and realize that God has not given us these gifts without the necessary tools to enjoy them.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Rollercoaster Days
I rode my horse this afternoon while waiting for Ohboys 2 and 3 to be dropped off by the school bus. The bus driver won't let them off the bus unless she sees someone from our family, so I've taken to riding while I wait. What other kid gets picked up from the bus via horse?
My horse has been amazing lately. Today, for the first time in years she decided that she was okay with riding close to the border between the yard and the road, a mass of dark overgrowth chock full of boogey monsters and unspeakable terror. I've taken to putting pom-poms in her ears to block the noise, which seems to help her from jumping out of her skin but doesn't get us any closer to the bushes. It's also really helpful if the older gentleman across the street (hidden behind these trees and bushes) isn't out weed-whipping or dragging things around his driveway. I swear that man has spidey-senses and can tell as soon as I put my foot in the stirrup. The street could have been completely quiet when I go to the barn, and as soon as I go out to ride, he pops up like a really loud mosquito you're not allowed to swat. He's a nice man, but I know I've cussed him out in my brain more times than I can count. Today I won some kind of "perfect conditions" lotto--all things were in my favor. She did what I asked, even throwing in an automatic lead change as a bonus, until we both ran out of steam.
When I ride, littlest Ohboy sits in the yard with one of his beloved Angry Birds and the iPad, content to watch. Or at least he's being patient enough to wait without complaining. That little guy is better to me than I deserve. I always ask him if he wants to ride. Usually he says no, today he said yes. While we waited for the bus, I walked my mare around with little guy holding onto the front of my saddle. He was happy; she was ready to be done with all of us and eat some grass.
As soon as the bus dropped off 2 and 3, they came squealing into the yard. Ohboy 3 was mad because I would not drive him to the house (because I was still putting my horse stuff away), and he was not interested in walking to the house. He was jumping and throwing fits, slamming his backpack into things. I demanded (by counting to three) he ride the horse--poor horse--for four loops around the yard. It settled him down enough so that by the time we finish he was no longer screaming, but humming to himself instead. His feet touched the ground and he was okay for a few minutes until he realized that Ohboy 4 had the iPad and he wouldn't get a turn. At the end of the yard, next to the path that runs up to our private road, I saw Ohboy 3 and 4 in a pathetic competition of who could throw themselves onto the ground and wail the hardest. My horse was loose, but she was happy to eat the green grass, so I walked to them and tried to figure out what the problem was. I stopped having workable solutions years ago.
I sent Ohboy 3 home with the iPad, and Ohboy 4 was reduced to random grunting in lieu of words. The only thing that broke him out of his funk was asking if he'd like to give the horsey a treat. He did! Smiles abound!
When I reached the house, Ohboy 3 was famished. I made them all popcorn for a treat, but it was not enough. He wanted something else. I was not fast enough and he laid down to sleep in his room. I shouldn't have let him sleep, but I did for a little bit, anyway, because it was quiet. He'd been this way all day, based on word from his first-grade teacher.
Teenage Ohboy (1) was playing video games in his room. He was a couple days behind on his school work, and bolted from the house when I confronted him about it and confiscated his technology. Fourteen is a miserable age, and I wonder if we will all survive it with even a sliver of sanity remaining.
Ohboy 2 had spelling homework. He hates spelling (but loves writing, like his mama!), and he growled and kicked the cabinet the whole time. They are only learning six words at a time, and except for transposing some of the letters, he's got this. Spare me the drama.
The boys were all picking on each other, playing with toys they don't actually want to play with just to hear the other kid scream. Mr. Ohboy had been gone for 11 hours today, with no sign of return. The zen I had from riding was sucked from my soul, and I'm suddenly acutely missing Moe again, which is random. I realize that, on some very basic level, he was the steady person in my life. I could always count on him being the very same, all day every day, and always excited to see me and spend time with me. He never hit me with a backpack or called me an idiot, not even once.
This will all pass. Someday I'll be missing this. Riiiiight?
My horse has been amazing lately. Today, for the first time in years she decided that she was okay with riding close to the border between the yard and the road, a mass of dark overgrowth chock full of boogey monsters and unspeakable terror. I've taken to putting pom-poms in her ears to block the noise, which seems to help her from jumping out of her skin but doesn't get us any closer to the bushes. It's also really helpful if the older gentleman across the street (hidden behind these trees and bushes) isn't out weed-whipping or dragging things around his driveway. I swear that man has spidey-senses and can tell as soon as I put my foot in the stirrup. The street could have been completely quiet when I go to the barn, and as soon as I go out to ride, he pops up like a really loud mosquito you're not allowed to swat. He's a nice man, but I know I've cussed him out in my brain more times than I can count. Today I won some kind of "perfect conditions" lotto--all things were in my favor. She did what I asked, even throwing in an automatic lead change as a bonus, until we both ran out of steam.
When I ride, littlest Ohboy sits in the yard with one of his beloved Angry Birds and the iPad, content to watch. Or at least he's being patient enough to wait without complaining. That little guy is better to me than I deserve. I always ask him if he wants to ride. Usually he says no, today he said yes. While we waited for the bus, I walked my mare around with little guy holding onto the front of my saddle. He was happy; she was ready to be done with all of us and eat some grass.
As soon as the bus dropped off 2 and 3, they came squealing into the yard. Ohboy 3 was mad because I would not drive him to the house (because I was still putting my horse stuff away), and he was not interested in walking to the house. He was jumping and throwing fits, slamming his backpack into things. I demanded (by counting to three) he ride the horse--poor horse--for four loops around the yard. It settled him down enough so that by the time we finish he was no longer screaming, but humming to himself instead. His feet touched the ground and he was okay for a few minutes until he realized that Ohboy 4 had the iPad and he wouldn't get a turn. At the end of the yard, next to the path that runs up to our private road, I saw Ohboy 3 and 4 in a pathetic competition of who could throw themselves onto the ground and wail the hardest. My horse was loose, but she was happy to eat the green grass, so I walked to them and tried to figure out what the problem was. I stopped having workable solutions years ago.
I sent Ohboy 3 home with the iPad, and Ohboy 4 was reduced to random grunting in lieu of words. The only thing that broke him out of his funk was asking if he'd like to give the horsey a treat. He did! Smiles abound!
When I reached the house, Ohboy 3 was famished. I made them all popcorn for a treat, but it was not enough. He wanted something else. I was not fast enough and he laid down to sleep in his room. I shouldn't have let him sleep, but I did for a little bit, anyway, because it was quiet. He'd been this way all day, based on word from his first-grade teacher.
Teenage Ohboy (1) was playing video games in his room. He was a couple days behind on his school work, and bolted from the house when I confronted him about it and confiscated his technology. Fourteen is a miserable age, and I wonder if we will all survive it with even a sliver of sanity remaining.
Ohboy 2 had spelling homework. He hates spelling (but loves writing, like his mama!), and he growled and kicked the cabinet the whole time. They are only learning six words at a time, and except for transposing some of the letters, he's got this. Spare me the drama.
The boys were all picking on each other, playing with toys they don't actually want to play with just to hear the other kid scream. Mr. Ohboy had been gone for 11 hours today, with no sign of return. The zen I had from riding was sucked from my soul, and I'm suddenly acutely missing Moe again, which is random. I realize that, on some very basic level, he was the steady person in my life. I could always count on him being the very same, all day every day, and always excited to see me and spend time with me. He never hit me with a backpack or called me an idiot, not even once.
This will all pass. Someday I'll be missing this. Riiiiight?
Friday, July 27, 2012
Mothering the.... Oh, Forget It.
Tonight has been rough. Well, if I'm leveling with you (and I believe I am), the last 14 years have been varied shades of rough. Maybe you've already made the connection that my oldest is nearly 14. If so, you've won a prize. I'm not sure what the prize is yet, but it might be a glass--heck, a bottle--of wine shared with yours truly. And, truthfully, I'm not really a wine-drinker, but it makes me feel more sophisticated to say "wine" instead of just about anything else.
When I was a little girl, I played with baby dolls endlessly. I changed their diapers, I fed them little pretend bottles of milk. I patted their little backs tenderly so they could pretend-burp. We would stroll around the house with them strapped securely in their little teeny-tiny pink strollers...
Actually, no, no I didn't. That was some other little girl. I had one, count 'em, one, baby doll. She was beautiful, but her eyes were molded shut, perpetually snoozing. She never woke up to eat, just slept the day away, wrapped in the pink and brown afghan my step-mom crocheted for her.
You're looking at (well, looking at the words of) the girl who flunked her "egg baby" project in health class because I let my sweet little Shelly take a nap in the back of the family van for six hours while I schussed my Saturday away at the ski hill. Shelly even got a full-body x-ray when we had to go through the TSA line to go pick my sisters up from the airport. Mother. Of. The. Year.
When I played with Barbie(s) and Ken, they never fell in love and had children. They fell in love--that, friends, was my objective in life. Falling in love. Not having children. My big dream was to own a big riding stable, train horses, have a wickedly handsome husband. Period. The End.
Ironically, in my search for wickedly handsome, I managed to get the wicked part spot on. Nine months later, I had a baby and no dashing husband. That wasn't really the way this was supposed to happen. Love, yes please! Babies, meh.
Three additional offspring (and one devilishly good-looking husband) later, here I am. Ironically, I spend most of my professional time helping families welcome their little bundles of joy or figure out how to be their own brand of parents. I can really identify with the parents who are just plain shell-shocked, and I feel a twinge of guilt when I am around parents who are ALL IN when it comes to this whole nurturing thing. My kids have been short-changed. I am afraid for them, my example has been so atrocious. Good thing they're boys and don't have to emulate me--but goodness knows I wish a lot more for them in their future partners than what I am to them and to my husband.
Now, granted, parenthood hasn't been a skip in the park or anything. Boys 2 and 3 came with expensive (time- and money-wise) diagnoses which solidified in me that survival was the ultimate goal, any free-and-easy good times we managed were icing on the cake, especially in those early years. Boy 4 came as a surprise when we thought we'd made a surgical stand to be done with the procreating stuff, right when I'd chosen a brand new tack for life.
So, forgive me for my lack of warm fuzzies inside. I'm, frankly, still in shock. That makes me feel guilty, too, because I know plenty of couples who have been overlooked and wrenched in two in their agonizing quests for children. I've been given four--like swag just for showing up to the party--and I'm not entirely sure what to do with them now.... except maybe string them up by their toes when they're naughty monkeys (which is, like, always).
So tonight, for the bajillionth time, I am verbally duking it out with mouthy teenage boy, the one who started it all. He is too much like me, and yet so different. I realize he is smarter than even he will give himself credit for, and he has been able to sense the resentment I've only recently confirmed is simmering in my veins. Resentment. A life that hasn't played out as planned, even though my initial plan wasn't ambitious at all. It's so utterly selfish of me. Life is good, sometimes unbelievably so. I am lucky to wake up each morning on the very soil where I ran as a little girl. My dashing husband works hard so I can afford things I love like horses and impulse-buying on Amazon. No doubt, this is probably a much better life than what I'd planned for myself as a child. I just wish I'd been endowed with more of a mother's heart instead of whatever ended up in its place.
They keep telling me it gets better--holding onto that.
When I was a little girl, I played with baby dolls endlessly. I changed their diapers, I fed them little pretend bottles of milk. I patted their little backs tenderly so they could pretend-burp. We would stroll around the house with them strapped securely in their little teeny-tiny pink strollers...
Actually, no, no I didn't. That was some other little girl. I had one, count 'em, one, baby doll. She was beautiful, but her eyes were molded shut, perpetually snoozing. She never woke up to eat, just slept the day away, wrapped in the pink and brown afghan my step-mom crocheted for her.
You're looking at (well, looking at the words of) the girl who flunked her "egg baby" project in health class because I let my sweet little Shelly take a nap in the back of the family van for six hours while I schussed my Saturday away at the ski hill. Shelly even got a full-body x-ray when we had to go through the TSA line to go pick my sisters up from the airport. Mother. Of. The. Year.
When I played with Barbie(s) and Ken, they never fell in love and had children. They fell in love--that, friends, was my objective in life. Falling in love. Not having children. My big dream was to own a big riding stable, train horses, have a wickedly handsome husband. Period. The End.
Ironically, in my search for wickedly handsome, I managed to get the wicked part spot on. Nine months later, I had a baby and no dashing husband. That wasn't really the way this was supposed to happen. Love, yes please! Babies, meh.
Three additional offspring (and one devilishly good-looking husband) later, here I am. Ironically, I spend most of my professional time helping families welcome their little bundles of joy or figure out how to be their own brand of parents. I can really identify with the parents who are just plain shell-shocked, and I feel a twinge of guilt when I am around parents who are ALL IN when it comes to this whole nurturing thing. My kids have been short-changed. I am afraid for them, my example has been so atrocious. Good thing they're boys and don't have to emulate me--but goodness knows I wish a lot more for them in their future partners than what I am to them and to my husband.
Now, granted, parenthood hasn't been a skip in the park or anything. Boys 2 and 3 came with expensive (time- and money-wise) diagnoses which solidified in me that survival was the ultimate goal, any free-and-easy good times we managed were icing on the cake, especially in those early years. Boy 4 came as a surprise when we thought we'd made a surgical stand to be done with the procreating stuff, right when I'd chosen a brand new tack for life.
So, forgive me for my lack of warm fuzzies inside. I'm, frankly, still in shock. That makes me feel guilty, too, because I know plenty of couples who have been overlooked and wrenched in two in their agonizing quests for children. I've been given four--like swag just for showing up to the party--and I'm not entirely sure what to do with them now.... except maybe string them up by their toes when they're naughty monkeys (which is, like, always).
So tonight, for the bajillionth time, I am verbally duking it out with mouthy teenage boy, the one who started it all. He is too much like me, and yet so different. I realize he is smarter than even he will give himself credit for, and he has been able to sense the resentment I've only recently confirmed is simmering in my veins. Resentment. A life that hasn't played out as planned, even though my initial plan wasn't ambitious at all. It's so utterly selfish of me. Life is good, sometimes unbelievably so. I am lucky to wake up each morning on the very soil where I ran as a little girl. My dashing husband works hard so I can afford things I love like horses and impulse-buying on Amazon. No doubt, this is probably a much better life than what I'd planned for myself as a child. I just wish I'd been endowed with more of a mother's heart instead of whatever ended up in its place.
They keep telling me it gets better--holding onto that.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)