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 identity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label identity. Show all posts
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
2013: The Best of My Worst, The Worst of My Best
I'm in my pajamas on New Year's Eve.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. Say what you will, but pajamas make nearly almost everything better. Even Wal-Mart. Pretend you don't agree--I won't believe you.
My stomach is protesting for the fourth day in a row. I'm afraid to eat the salad with Italian dressing I'm craving knowing salad is never awesome the second time around, knowing I hold no interest in becoming a human Salad Shooter.
A pain throbs between my eye sockets and the base of my skull. I've seen movies like this, where a person's head splits in two, revealing the sparking, beeping innards of the robot menace within. I'm hoping there's a robot menace within, at least, because I have a busy weekend ahead and the human menace (me) doesn't want to deal with the holiday clean-up that this dumb virus has delayed.
It's probably dehydration. Darn.
Two Advil and a lot of water later and the headache's not getting better, so I pull on my sleep mask while Mr. Ohboy watches Moonshiners. Seriously, Moonshiners. I can't get behind this show, even with a main character, a full-grown adult named Tickle. No. With the twangy lullaby of sweaty gentlemen wearing overalls and no t-shirts, I'm asleep by 8:30p.m.
An hour later and the unofficial neighborhood fireworks wake me up. I proceed to text my friend Allison, who always seems to get the "Seriously? Fireworks?" texts from me and I don't know why, other than to also stress her out because now she owns a horse who may or may not appreciate said fireworks. We quickly established that my age bracket is sliding closer to that of a Medicare recipient than its rightful place of 35. (The fireworks and random machine gun firing awoke me again just after midnight. Happy New Year! Huzzah!)
On New Year's Eve I like to write a blog post reflecting on the past year. It's not happening tonight. The pressure of my pillows against my head and my back make me feel nauseated and sore. I'm in a bad mood. I'm uncomfortable from the tippy-top of my head to the ends of my toes. I feel sorry for myself, which makes me cry. Sad me is sad.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. Say what you will, but pajamas make nearly almost everything better. Even Wal-Mart. Pretend you don't agree--I won't believe you.
My stomach is protesting for the fourth day in a row. I'm afraid to eat the salad with Italian dressing I'm craving knowing salad is never awesome the second time around, knowing I hold no interest in becoming a human Salad Shooter.
A pain throbs between my eye sockets and the base of my skull. I've seen movies like this, where a person's head splits in two, revealing the sparking, beeping innards of the robot menace within. I'm hoping there's a robot menace within, at least, because I have a busy weekend ahead and the human menace (me) doesn't want to deal with the holiday clean-up that this dumb virus has delayed.
It's probably dehydration. Darn.
Two Advil and a lot of water later and the headache's not getting better, so I pull on my sleep mask while Mr. Ohboy watches Moonshiners. Seriously, Moonshiners. I can't get behind this show, even with a main character, a full-grown adult named Tickle. No. With the twangy lullaby of sweaty gentlemen wearing overalls and no t-shirts, I'm asleep by 8:30p.m.
An hour later and the unofficial neighborhood fireworks wake me up. I proceed to text my friend Allison, who always seems to get the "Seriously? Fireworks?" texts from me and I don't know why, other than to also stress her out because now she owns a horse who may or may not appreciate said fireworks. We quickly established that my age bracket is sliding closer to that of a Medicare recipient than its rightful place of 35. (The fireworks and random machine gun firing awoke me again just after midnight. Happy New Year! Huzzah!)
On New Year's Eve I like to write a blog post reflecting on the past year. It's not happening tonight. The pressure of my pillows against my head and my back make me feel nauseated and sore. I'm in a bad mood. I'm uncomfortable from the tippy-top of my head to the ends of my toes. I feel sorry for myself, which makes me cry. Sad me is sad.
My guitar hangs from a peg on my bedroom wall. I'm mediocre at so many things, but I especially struggle with the guitar. While my youngest was still in the womb, I took lessons with a little old Irish guy at a local music shop that has since gone out of business. In the hands of my teacher, my guitar sang like a heartbroken lover or a carefree dancer. In my stuttering hands, my guitar hesitates and falters. Practice makes things perfect, usually, but I haven't been able to bring myself to practice in a couple of years. Last night, so lost for something to do, I pulled the guitar down and tuned it. I thumbed through a few easy melodies, single notes, no chords. As I pick away at a phrase, my baby boy, now four years old, walks in and watched me.
"What are you doing?" He asked, sucking in his lower lip beneath his front teeth.
"Do you remember when I used to play guitar when you were in my tummy?"
"Yes." He says. I don't know if he really remembers, but I want to believe it's true. That even my imperfection means something to him. Even the best of my worst (or the worst of my best) tickles his memory of a time before.
I've managed a lot of good things in 2013. I've written two novels and a short story, all of which I hope to edit and do something with in 2014. I've randomly become a runner and completed my first race, a 10K (6.2 miles) in December. All good things, but I feel guilty. In pursuit of any of my goals I've been more withdrawn from friends and family and lately I've been feeling like I'm the reason why certain of my kids struggle in school or my house isn't very clean.
At the moment, all that I accomplished in 2013 matters little to anyone else, even my family. My kids don't care that I can run a mile in 11 minutes or that I'd like to try to run the equivalent of a half marathon in one outing before 2014 is through. They don't care what happens to Claire or Liam, or if Lucy figures out why she's in Mitte. They don't care if my horse gets ridden every couple of days or if there's manure in the pastures. Maybe they will care someday, but right now I don't see it.
2013 was kind to me, but I want 2014 to be kind to my entire family. For the blessings that surround me to surround them, as well. I want the best of my worst and the worst of my best to mean more to everyone I love. That's what I want for 2014, not just riding and publishing and miles.
To mean. To matter. To make a difference.
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?
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
2 Legit, 2 Legit 2 Quit.
I need help. I need your help.
I need you to throw anything you have at me--prayers, good thoughts, jingles, spare coins, whatever.
It's an unholy time of the morning and I am up because my blistering shoulders told me to get up and rub the lotion into the skin (I really did NOT want the hose again). Once the lotion soaked in, though, my mind couldn't turn back off.
This publishing thing has me all sorts of conflicted, y'all. Reviewing the facts (or lack of facts) I have on my prospective publisher, I should continue on my merry little way. But here I am, pausing. It makes no sense.
A friend of a friend told me that if my goal was getting my book out there no matter what, even at the cost of my own legitimacy, to go ahead.
At the cost of my legitimacy?
Ouch.
My work--my status as a writer--could be construed as unworthy should I chose Publisher B over Publisher A? Or, in another example, self-publishing vs. traditional publishing? I presented this idea to my husband, who assured me that reasoning was flawed. "If you're on the worst baseball team in the division, that makes you less of a baseball player?" Some would say yes, but I understood what he was trying to get through my skull.
I get it. I wouldn't have asked this friend of a friend to drop some knowledge (or, at the very least, scathing opinion) on me unless I didn't really want to hear it. And I'm trying to be open to what is coming back to me--good and bad. The problem with this particular company is that it sounds so promising, but it is so new that that's all there is right now--promises. I'd sincerely hope that people would caution me about what I'm considering. I'd likely do the same in their shoes.
The answer to all of this seems so clear sometimes, and, at others, I can appreciate the views on the other side. Frustrating. Where is my Magic 8-Ball when I need it?
I'm obviously still weighing the plusses and minuses of this particular company and publishing traditionally at all, and I'm still on the fence. That being said, I'm supposed to talk with their contract guy later today to explain their process. I'll update when I know more, if I even know how to decipher any of the legal mumbo-jumbo into words any of us can wrap our brains around. In the meantime, I'd reallyreallyreally appreciate it if you could think of me and help me to receive clear direction as to whether I should proceed or not.
Thanks. You're a peach, I don't care what the others say about you.
I need you to throw anything you have at me--prayers, good thoughts, jingles, spare coins, whatever.
It's an unholy time of the morning and I am up because my blistering shoulders told me to get up and rub the lotion into the skin (I really did NOT want the hose again). Once the lotion soaked in, though, my mind couldn't turn back off.
This publishing thing has me all sorts of conflicted, y'all. Reviewing the facts (or lack of facts) I have on my prospective publisher, I should continue on my merry little way. But here I am, pausing. It makes no sense.
A friend of a friend told me that if my goal was getting my book out there no matter what, even at the cost of my own legitimacy, to go ahead.
At the cost of my legitimacy?
Ouch.
My work--my status as a writer--could be construed as unworthy should I chose Publisher B over Publisher A? Or, in another example, self-publishing vs. traditional publishing? I presented this idea to my husband, who assured me that reasoning was flawed. "If you're on the worst baseball team in the division, that makes you less of a baseball player?" Some would say yes, but I understood what he was trying to get through my skull.
I get it. I wouldn't have asked this friend of a friend to drop some knowledge (or, at the very least, scathing opinion) on me unless I didn't really want to hear it. And I'm trying to be open to what is coming back to me--good and bad. The problem with this particular company is that it sounds so promising, but it is so new that that's all there is right now--promises. I'd sincerely hope that people would caution me about what I'm considering. I'd likely do the same in their shoes.
The answer to all of this seems so clear sometimes, and, at others, I can appreciate the views on the other side. Frustrating. Where is my Magic 8-Ball when I need it?
I'm obviously still weighing the plusses and minuses of this particular company and publishing traditionally at all, and I'm still on the fence. That being said, I'm supposed to talk with their contract guy later today to explain their process. I'll update when I know more, if I even know how to decipher any of the legal mumbo-jumbo into words any of us can wrap our brains around. In the meantime, I'd reallyreallyreally appreciate it if you could think of me and help me to receive clear direction as to whether I should proceed or not.
Thanks. You're a peach, I don't care what the others say about you.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Wanted
I want to be somebody.
I want to make a difference.
I want to touch hearts.
I want to smile.
I want to make others smile.
I want to be good at something.
I want to be good for someone.
I want to inspire.
I want to be inspired.
What do you want?
I want to make a difference.
I want to touch hearts.
I want to smile.
I want to make others smile.
I want to be good at something.
I want to be good for someone.
I want to inspire.
I want to be inspired.
What do you want?
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Friday, February 15, 2013
Labels
Labels.
We are all our own collage of labels, definitions of the person we are, collected piece-by-piece over time as we travel our path.
Business owner. Employee. Artist. Stay-at-home parent. Between jobs. Barely hanging on.
Mom. Dad. Sister. Brother. Aunt. Uncle. Grandparent. Caretaker. Zookeeper.
Parent of an special child. Survivor. The one left behind.
In love with a man. In love with a woman. Lonely. Confused. Misunderstood.
Hero. Drama king or queen. Class clown. Bookworm.
Believer. Not. Unsure what might be out there. Searching.
What are your labels? Do you wear them proudly, or do some of your labels make you feel ashamed? Do you shout who you are to anyone who will listen, 24/7? Or do you let people discover on their own? Can you look upon the labels of others without scrunching up your nose?
We are all our own collage of labels, definitions of the person we are, collected piece-by-piece over time as we travel our path.
Business owner. Employee. Artist. Stay-at-home parent. Between jobs. Barely hanging on.
Mom. Dad. Sister. Brother. Aunt. Uncle. Grandparent. Caretaker. Zookeeper.
Parent of an special child. Survivor. The one left behind.
In love with a man. In love with a woman. Lonely. Confused. Misunderstood.
Hero. Drama king or queen. Class clown. Bookworm.
Believer. Not. Unsure what might be out there. Searching.
What are your labels? Do you wear them proudly, or do some of your labels make you feel ashamed? Do you shout who you are to anyone who will listen, 24/7? Or do you let people discover on their own? Can you look upon the labels of others without scrunching up your nose?
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