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 journey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label journey. Show all posts
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
The Hows and Whys of Daniel
Two weeks ago, nearly to the minute, I made a decision. A big, scary, and, honestly, ill-advised decision. I was going to self-publish a silly little story I wrote last fall. And I was going to do it by the end of the weekend.
There were at least two reasons for this big, stupid goal:
Let's get one thing straight: I'm not afraid to share my stories. Against all common sense, I'll type the last words of a first draft and send it off to someone, anyone, who wants to read it. That's not the way it's supposed to work, so other writers tell me, but it's the way I work. The excitement of sharing and getting that early feedback from the poor shmoes who have to slog through my typos--well, it's what makes this writer thing feel more like a village and less like solitary confinement. Not that I have anything against solitary confinement.
Two weeks ago, "Daniel the Draw-er" was literally half the story it is now. Like, 6k words to its now-finished 13k. I knew the story needed to be more substantial, size-wise, but I didn't know how to do it. Some friends who read through pointed out some plot issues, mainly having to do with resolution of the various conflicts in the story (Daniel's mom's desire for Daniel to make more friends, Daniel and his best friend Annie's argument, etc.) and how the timing was way off. Story structure. It's a thing, apparently.
I would save myself a lot of time if I just learned how to outline. Know where I'm headed, what needs to happen, that kind of thing. But nooooooo. My imagination insists on working free of the constraints of detailed lists, especially when I'm operating as a nine-year-old boy with a magic pencil, where the sky is the limit. They call someone who doesn't plan out their writing a "pantser", meaning they're flying by the seat of their pants (versus the more serious and responsible "plotter", a. k. a. People I Don't Really Get). The fun part about zero planning is that every single thing I write is a surprise. I make myself laugh a lot. Sometimes my weirdness scares even me. But, anyway...
For a week and a half I spent night and day working on the story, holed up in my writing room in the basement listening to Bon Iver on repeat and eating cinnamon Fire Jolly Ranchers (!!). My friend Courtney sat across from me and dished out tough love ("draw a plot diagram," she said. I threw a tantrum like a two-year-old, no lie). I spent almost an entire day working at a Panera Bread. Two of my doula babies were born. We said good-bye, for now, to a beloved family friend. Life happened. A whole lot of life happened.
This story is important to me in a much different way than my others have been. "Daniel" came to be when I participated in an online writing course called The Story Cartel. Our assignment was to identify the audience we felt we were writing to and write a short story with them in mind. I didn't want to write a short story to teenage girls and bored housewives (you know who you are. I am one of you!), I wanted to write a book for my boys like Tolkien wrote his classic tales as bedtimes stories for his children. Like Dav Pilkey without the constant references to bodily functions and underwear. So I turned to my eight-year-old and asked him a good name for a main character. He picked Daniel. Then I wrote on, with my son peeking over my shoulder and laughing at all the funny parts. He soaked up every word, waiting for me to peck them out in my usual slow manner, until it was late and I had to send him to bed. This story is my nod to my boys--the introverted Daniel who doesn't mind having only one friend. The boy who hates meatloaf but loves pizza. The boy who fixates on capes (for us, it is hooded sweatshirts). The endless sketches of made-up creatures. That's all of them lumped up in one fantastic boy. That's why.
And now the "how". There are many facets to self-publishing that most people don't fully consider beyond just writing a story. Here are a few major points:
Editing
Like, thorough editing. It's best to use someone who edits as their profession, but I didn't have that option (see Reason 1 above). Instead, I recruited a handful of people to read through and make sure I caught typos, punctuation, that kind of thing. Then I gave it another read-through right before uploading it to Amazon and CreateSpace. I'm 100% positive I, and my troop of beta readers, still missed errors. I take comfort in knowing that even New York Times' bestsellers still have errors undetected by the people paid to do so.
Formatting
I write most of my novels using Google Drive because I insist on making my friend read along. Amazon and CreateSpace want authors to upload Microsoft Word files (or one of their other preferred file formats). Most of that formatting process wasn't a huge deal because I've been training myself to be better about indents and all of that mind-numbing detail. I did spend about three hours one night doing battle with Word 2011 about page numbers and section breaks while my family went to the school carnival. Bummer. Although I did hear, in great detail, about my eight-year-old's meltdown while waiting 45 minutes in line for a balloon animal. So, I'm chalking it up as a win in my column, even though I wanted to hurl my Macbook more than once.
Cover
Not surprisingly, the cover of any book might be the most important thing ever. I drew what I thought was a pretty cool cover, a cat with a pencil in his mouth. The charcoal on a plain white page was pretty drab, so I flipped it into a negative and thought it was good to go.
Except it frightened kids and adults, alike, so I had to draw a second cover.
And then I had to bug my brother to do about a million things to it until it was ready to upload at both Amazon and CreateSpace. Poor guy. If it had been up to me, the thing would never have a cover. Never, ever.
Marketing
I'm still in the middle of this, and it's all trial-and-error because I should have done things different, if not for the self-imposed time constraint. Cover reveal? Psssh. Blog tour? Ha!
BUT, you can buy a digital copy of Daniel the Draw-er here.
You can buy a paperback copy of Daniel directly from CreateSpace here. (In a few days the paperback option will be live on Amazon, just not yet).
Book reviews are very helpful, too. Even if you didn't buy your copy from Amazon, you can leave a review here for future readers.
If you use the Goodreads app/website, you can leave a star rating or a review for Daniel there, as well.
Side note: I am open to other methods of marketing, as I'm reaching the end of my friends and family and need to figure out other avenues of getting the book noticed. If you think of anything, comment here or contact me the way you know how.
So there you have it--a little peek into my hyper-accelerated process for the debut of my novella, Daniel the Draw-er. While it's certainly no War and Peace or Harry Potter or anything, I'm hoping it leads to bigger and better things in the future. I'm hoping Daniel is my little bit of magic.
There were at least two reasons for this big, stupid goal:
- My family needed the positive cash flow, no matter how small.
- I had something to prove. To my husband, whose favorite greeting is, "You finish that book yet?" (Grr!). And to myself, who rarely asks myself if a book is done because she knows how annoying that really is.
Let's get one thing straight: I'm not afraid to share my stories. Against all common sense, I'll type the last words of a first draft and send it off to someone, anyone, who wants to read it. That's not the way it's supposed to work, so other writers tell me, but it's the way I work. The excitement of sharing and getting that early feedback from the poor shmoes who have to slog through my typos--well, it's what makes this writer thing feel more like a village and less like solitary confinement. Not that I have anything against solitary confinement.
Two weeks ago, "Daniel the Draw-er" was literally half the story it is now. Like, 6k words to its now-finished 13k. I knew the story needed to be more substantial, size-wise, but I didn't know how to do it. Some friends who read through pointed out some plot issues, mainly having to do with resolution of the various conflicts in the story (Daniel's mom's desire for Daniel to make more friends, Daniel and his best friend Annie's argument, etc.) and how the timing was way off. Story structure. It's a thing, apparently.
I would save myself a lot of time if I just learned how to outline. Know where I'm headed, what needs to happen, that kind of thing. But nooooooo. My imagination insists on working free of the constraints of detailed lists, especially when I'm operating as a nine-year-old boy with a magic pencil, where the sky is the limit. They call someone who doesn't plan out their writing a "pantser", meaning they're flying by the seat of their pants (versus the more serious and responsible "plotter", a. k. a. People I Don't Really Get). The fun part about zero planning is that every single thing I write is a surprise. I make myself laugh a lot. Sometimes my weirdness scares even me. But, anyway...
For a week and a half I spent night and day working on the story, holed up in my writing room in the basement listening to Bon Iver on repeat and eating cinnamon Fire Jolly Ranchers (!!). My friend Courtney sat across from me and dished out tough love ("draw a plot diagram," she said. I threw a tantrum like a two-year-old, no lie). I spent almost an entire day working at a Panera Bread. Two of my doula babies were born. We said good-bye, for now, to a beloved family friend. Life happened. A whole lot of life happened.
This story is important to me in a much different way than my others have been. "Daniel" came to be when I participated in an online writing course called The Story Cartel. Our assignment was to identify the audience we felt we were writing to and write a short story with them in mind. I didn't want to write a short story to teenage girls and bored housewives (you know who you are. I am one of you!), I wanted to write a book for my boys like Tolkien wrote his classic tales as bedtimes stories for his children. Like Dav Pilkey without the constant references to bodily functions and underwear. So I turned to my eight-year-old and asked him a good name for a main character. He picked Daniel. Then I wrote on, with my son peeking over my shoulder and laughing at all the funny parts. He soaked up every word, waiting for me to peck them out in my usual slow manner, until it was late and I had to send him to bed. This story is my nod to my boys--the introverted Daniel who doesn't mind having only one friend. The boy who hates meatloaf but loves pizza. The boy who fixates on capes (for us, it is hooded sweatshirts). The endless sketches of made-up creatures. That's all of them lumped up in one fantastic boy. That's why.
And now the "how". There are many facets to self-publishing that most people don't fully consider beyond just writing a story. Here are a few major points:
Editing
Like, thorough editing. It's best to use someone who edits as their profession, but I didn't have that option (see Reason 1 above). Instead, I recruited a handful of people to read through and make sure I caught typos, punctuation, that kind of thing. Then I gave it another read-through right before uploading it to Amazon and CreateSpace. I'm 100% positive I, and my troop of beta readers, still missed errors. I take comfort in knowing that even New York Times' bestsellers still have errors undetected by the people paid to do so.
Formatting
I write most of my novels using Google Drive because I insist on making my friend read along. Amazon and CreateSpace want authors to upload Microsoft Word files (or one of their other preferred file formats). Most of that formatting process wasn't a huge deal because I've been training myself to be better about indents and all of that mind-numbing detail. I did spend about three hours one night doing battle with Word 2011 about page numbers and section breaks while my family went to the school carnival. Bummer. Although I did hear, in great detail, about my eight-year-old's meltdown while waiting 45 minutes in line for a balloon animal. So, I'm chalking it up as a win in my column, even though I wanted to hurl my Macbook more than once.
Cover
Not surprisingly, the cover of any book might be the most important thing ever. I drew what I thought was a pretty cool cover, a cat with a pencil in his mouth. The charcoal on a plain white page was pretty drab, so I flipped it into a negative and thought it was good to go.
Except it frightened kids and adults, alike, so I had to draw a second cover.
Marketing
I'm still in the middle of this, and it's all trial-and-error because I should have done things different, if not for the self-imposed time constraint. Cover reveal? Psssh. Blog tour? Ha!
BUT, you can buy a digital copy of Daniel the Draw-er here.
You can buy a paperback copy of Daniel directly from CreateSpace here. (In a few days the paperback option will be live on Amazon, just not yet).
Book reviews are very helpful, too. Even if you didn't buy your copy from Amazon, you can leave a review here for future readers.
If you use the Goodreads app/website, you can leave a star rating or a review for Daniel there, as well.
Side note: I am open to other methods of marketing, as I'm reaching the end of my friends and family and need to figure out other avenues of getting the book noticed. If you think of anything, comment here or contact me the way you know how.
So there you have it--a little peek into my hyper-accelerated process for the debut of my novella, Daniel the Draw-er. While it's certainly no War and Peace or Harry Potter or anything, I'm hoping it leads to bigger and better things in the future. I'm hoping Daniel is my little bit of magic.
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.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Third Time's a Charm
On July 22, 2011 I met Claire Darling for the very first time. At the time, Claire was an 18-year-old high school student by morning, horse trainer by every spare hour after that. She quickly became a friend of mine because she's sarcastic and self-deprecating, a good soul. Two-and-a-half years and three books later, she and I are pretty tight. I've fought for her to fall in love and I cried with her (over and over) when her heart was shattered into pieces. She's struggled and she's endured. She's no Super Woman, but that's why she's real. Well, real is a relative term, but you know what I mean.
Over the past couple of years, I've come to adore good guys Liam and Graham. I've loved to hate all those shady characters--Rayna, Rowan, and Maureen. Maybe you've found the strings of your emotions tugged by one or more of them, too. If that's true for you, then I thank you for investing yourself in my humble words.
There's so much I want to say, but so much I can't because I don't want to give anything away. That, and I'm so overwhelmed by the day that I don't know where to begin and where to end.
Maybe Liam says it best in the last paragraph I wrote today that brought the third and final novel to a close:
"With any luck, tomorrow his big heart will eclipse anything he lacks. At least, this is what I pray as I stare out at the stars strung in the deep blue. I want him to find his own place to belong, because I’ve found that place for myself, a home, and I’m homesick."
Like Liam, I've found a home in Hope Creek and I'm already homesick.
Thanks, guys, for everything you've given me. You'll never know what you've done for me.
Over the past couple of years, I've come to adore good guys Liam and Graham. I've loved to hate all those shady characters--Rayna, Rowan, and Maureen. Maybe you've found the strings of your emotions tugged by one or more of them, too. If that's true for you, then I thank you for investing yourself in my humble words.
There's so much I want to say, but so much I can't because I don't want to give anything away. That, and I'm so overwhelmed by the day that I don't know where to begin and where to end.
Maybe Liam says it best in the last paragraph I wrote today that brought the third and final novel to a close:
"With any luck, tomorrow his big heart will eclipse anything he lacks. At least, this is what I pray as I stare out at the stars strung in the deep blue. I want him to find his own place to belong, because I’ve found that place for myself, a home, and I’m homesick."
Like Liam, I've found a home in Hope Creek and I'm already homesick.
Thanks, guys, for everything you've given me. You'll never know what you've done for me.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Full of Win
In the wee hours of the morning--3:14 a.m. if we're getting all technical and stuff--I finally brought my current manuscript to 50k words, the length of an average novel (or so the peeps at National Novel Writing Month tell me). This story, best described as a young adult paranormal thriller, woke me up one chilly morning this past March. I read a lot of paranormal fiction, but it's nothing I really had any desire to write until this story shook me by the shoulders and demanded I pay attention.
In April I tried to take this particular story (currently titled In the Middle) from about 13k to 50k by participating in Camp NaNoWriMo. For those of you not familiar with the way NaNoWriMo works, allow me to explain. The other NaNos want you to write a 50k-word novel in one month (typically November), with emphasis on daily word count goals. If you've got a a big enough stash of junk food and are good at disciplining yourself and/or know how to blacklist most of the Internet from your computer, you will sit down at a computer, write for a month and magically a book appears at the end of it. You grin like a maniac and shake your aching fists in the air proclaiming your triumph over evil--I mean, words! Words! Then you quickly realize you haven't showered in a week (or three), clamp those armpits shut again, and wander off to tell your family they can call off the Search-and-Rescue mission.
If you're not so good at the whole NaNoWriMo thing, nothing happens. You probably have a social life, a job, a family who still likes/recognizes you--all bonuses. The most social we get during NaNoWriMo months is usually comparing word counts on our latest word battles. On Twitter. That's, like, not even a real website. That's people simultaneously yelling their opinions into a crowded room. #yesI'mtalkingtoyou. Sometimes I write on my porch just to remember what the air feels like on my albino skin.
Why do I do this to myself, again? Oh yeah, because I really, really love it.
All kidding aside, the lovely, caffeinated folks behind NaNoWriMo have inspired a staggering number of people to write books. Most of the time, that's a good thing. And, no, I'm not talking about you, E. L. James. Stopit!
The beauty of Camp is the ability to pick a goal for your month of concentrated writing that fits in with your life instead of 50k, which used to be the only option (go big or go home!) Optimistic, or possibly sadistic, I aimed high--That ended up too ambitious of a goal when it all boiled down to it. I lost a horse to old age and arthritis and gained two more within the same month. Historically, I'd say I'm pretty crappy with change, especially change involving the equine species. Emotional upheaval doesn't usually lend itself to my creative process unless you consider my creative process eating a ton of chocolate and threatening to move away because, and I quote, "y'all are crazy!"
I managed six-thousand words that month. That's, like, 1/8 of my goal. Or something. I'm bad at Math. Numbers aside, it was no bueno. My main character stuck in the middle of something big, something that changed the whole storyline... and I couldn't write myself out of it because I lost it all. Poof! The passion that woke me out of hibernation on a frigid Saturday morning fizzled away, even though I knew I had a story worthy of bleeding onto the page. I began to feel anxiety that I would never rescue poor Lucy from her predicament. I feared In the Middle would get buried in the old files on my laptop, never to see the light of day again.
A similar thing happened to me last July (and August. And Septem--do you see where I'm going with this?) while working on the second draft of my first novel. I'd lost my horse and best friend of 19 years to colic and the devastation wiped my mind completely clear of everything, including my creativity. My main character, known for her sarcasm, couldn't think of anything funny to say. For months, literally, I stared at my laptop screen all day, lucky to work out a couple sentences in all of that time. The whole thing seemed pointless and discouraging. I finished the redraft of that first novel only days before NaNoWriMo started up in November. When NaNoWriMo began, I started the sequel to my first novel, which I eventually finished up on January 15th of this year. Can't win 'em all, they say, but I won when I didn't give up. The second book was just the icing on the cake. (Did someone say cake? It is NaNoWriMo again, which means JUNK FOOD! It's for the books, I swear!)
Life, and death, runs in cycles--and I guess it is my Kryptonite, all this grief. And I need to learn to deal with it like Superman does. On second thought, no, probably not. Kryptonite renders him a whiny cry-baby. Dang it! That's the only comic book analogy I have!
Thankfully Camp NaNoWriMo occurs each July, too, which doesn't make a lot of sense to me because it is the worst possible month for a mom of four to accomplish anything beyond brushing her teeth each morning (and often that is questionable). But they didn't design their calendar around me, so I just have to deal. Camp is the perfect excuse to push myself to get back into the habit of writing a lot, so I went for it. This time, I set a goal of 26,394 words to bring "In the Middle" to 50k words. At 3:14 this morning, and six days before my deadline, I hit my mark. **
The novel's not completed, as much as I wish it was, but the finish line is so close I can almost taste it (have you ever noticed how much I talk about food? I have.). Now I'm pouring my focus into getting as close as possible to "The End" before July reaches its end. This month's success is the total opposite of last year's July paralysis
Being trapped inside your own head trying to figure out how to heal is not pleasant. Being able to look back and see how far you've come and realize you really CAN do anything is a feeling beyond words. Three-fourteen this morning found me staring at a blinking cursor and the word count screen with my heart bursting full of allllllll the emotions. No one can possibly know what it feels like unless it is your struggle and your triumph. Today I feel very powerful, kinda like the opposite of Superman hugging a bar of Kryptonite. I think the analogy worked that time!
Now back to the story...
**Special thanks goes out to my writing doula, Courtney, whose enthusiasm (or, at least facade of enthusiasm) keeps pushing me to press on even when my eyes are bursting into flames. Thanks to the Camp NaNoWriMo crew, of course. Also, a humungo shout out to the dude who wrote Write or Die! I don't know what it is about that red computer screen that makes me want to type complete gibberish just to make it go away. And, as always, a big "whaddup!" to my muses, Ish and Moe. Keep it up, boys. Mama needs a new pair of riding boots!
In April I tried to take this particular story (currently titled In the Middle) from about 13k to 50k by participating in Camp NaNoWriMo. For those of you not familiar with the way NaNoWriMo works, allow me to explain. The other NaNos want you to write a 50k-word novel in one month (typically November), with emphasis on daily word count goals. If you've got a a big enough stash of junk food and are good at disciplining yourself and/or know how to blacklist most of the Internet from your computer, you will sit down at a computer, write for a month and magically a book appears at the end of it. You grin like a maniac and shake your aching fists in the air proclaiming your triumph over evil--I mean, words! Words! Then you quickly realize you haven't showered in a week (or three), clamp those armpits shut again, and wander off to tell your family they can call off the Search-and-Rescue mission.
If you're not so good at the whole NaNoWriMo thing, nothing happens. You probably have a social life, a job, a family who still likes/recognizes you--all bonuses. The most social we get during NaNoWriMo months is usually comparing word counts on our latest word battles. On Twitter. That's, like, not even a real website. That's people simultaneously yelling their opinions into a crowded room. #yesI'mtalkingtoyou. Sometimes I write on my porch just to remember what the air feels like on my albino skin.
Why do I do this to myself, again? Oh yeah, because I really, really love it.
All kidding aside, the lovely, caffeinated folks behind NaNoWriMo have inspired a staggering number of people to write books. Most of the time, that's a good thing. And, no, I'm not talking about you, E. L. James. Stopit!
The beauty of Camp is the ability to pick a goal for your month of concentrated writing that fits in with your life instead of 50k, which used to be the only option (go big or go home!) Optimistic, or possibly sadistic, I aimed high--That ended up too ambitious of a goal when it all boiled down to it. I lost a horse to old age and arthritis and gained two more within the same month. Historically, I'd say I'm pretty crappy with change, especially change involving the equine species. Emotional upheaval doesn't usually lend itself to my creative process unless you consider my creative process eating a ton of chocolate and threatening to move away because, and I quote, "y'all are crazy!"
I managed six-thousand words that month. That's, like, 1/8 of my goal. Or something. I'm bad at Math. Numbers aside, it was no bueno. My main character stuck in the middle of something big, something that changed the whole storyline... and I couldn't write myself out of it because I lost it all. Poof! The passion that woke me out of hibernation on a frigid Saturday morning fizzled away, even though I knew I had a story worthy of bleeding onto the page. I began to feel anxiety that I would never rescue poor Lucy from her predicament. I feared In the Middle would get buried in the old files on my laptop, never to see the light of day again.
A similar thing happened to me last July (and August. And Septem--do you see where I'm going with this?) while working on the second draft of my first novel. I'd lost my horse and best friend of 19 years to colic and the devastation wiped my mind completely clear of everything, including my creativity. My main character, known for her sarcasm, couldn't think of anything funny to say. For months, literally, I stared at my laptop screen all day, lucky to work out a couple sentences in all of that time. The whole thing seemed pointless and discouraging. I finished the redraft of that first novel only days before NaNoWriMo started up in November. When NaNoWriMo began, I started the sequel to my first novel, which I eventually finished up on January 15th of this year. Can't win 'em all, they say, but I won when I didn't give up. The second book was just the icing on the cake. (Did someone say cake? It is NaNoWriMo again, which means JUNK FOOD! It's for the books, I swear!)
Life, and death, runs in cycles--and I guess it is my Kryptonite, all this grief. And I need to learn to deal with it like Superman does. On second thought, no, probably not. Kryptonite renders him a whiny cry-baby. Dang it! That's the only comic book analogy I have!
Thankfully Camp NaNoWriMo occurs each July, too, which doesn't make a lot of sense to me because it is the worst possible month for a mom of four to accomplish anything beyond brushing her teeth each morning (and often that is questionable). But they didn't design their calendar around me, so I just have to deal. Camp is the perfect excuse to push myself to get back into the habit of writing a lot, so I went for it. This time, I set a goal of 26,394 words to bring "In the Middle" to 50k words. At 3:14 this morning, and six days before my deadline, I hit my mark. **
The novel's not completed, as much as I wish it was, but the finish line is so close I can almost taste it (have you ever noticed how much I talk about food? I have.). Now I'm pouring my focus into getting as close as possible to "The End" before July reaches its end. This month's success is the total opposite of last year's July paralysis
Being trapped inside your own head trying to figure out how to heal is not pleasant. Being able to look back and see how far you've come and realize you really CAN do anything is a feeling beyond words. Three-fourteen this morning found me staring at a blinking cursor and the word count screen with my heart bursting full of allllllll the emotions. No one can possibly know what it feels like unless it is your struggle and your triumph. Today I feel very powerful, kinda like the opposite of Superman hugging a bar of Kryptonite. I think the analogy worked that time!
Now back to the story...
~~~
**Special thanks goes out to my writing doula, Courtney, whose enthusiasm (or, at least facade of enthusiasm) keeps pushing me to press on even when my eyes are bursting into flames. Thanks to the Camp NaNoWriMo crew, of course. Also, a humungo shout out to the dude who wrote Write or Die! I don't know what it is about that red computer screen that makes me want to type complete gibberish just to make it go away. And, as always, a big "whaddup!" to my muses, Ish and Moe. Keep it up, boys. Mama needs a new pair of riding boots!
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Back to the Drawing Board
And, in case you were wondering, I decided to pass on the opportunity to publish with the company that I mentioned a couple blog posts back. The individuals I spoke with at the company seemed nice enough, and I enjoyed our conversations, but the contract left a bad impression--like a crimson handprint radiating on my cheek.
Could it have worked? Maybe. I'd been speaking with another of their signed authors for a week or so prior to receiving the contract, and I guess he negotiated a lot of the things I took issue with to work in his favor. Probably I could have, too, but I didn't even wait for them to reply with a counter before I bid them adieu. In the end, I decided it was a divine hint that it was not the right timing or maybe not the right opportunity. I haven't even really tried to land an agent yet, so, in a sense, everything is a possibility. Well, except for that publishing company.
There'll be more doors to open and look inside, more lessons to be learned. This I know for sure, though: I will be published, one way or another. Mark my words.
Could it have worked? Maybe. I'd been speaking with another of their signed authors for a week or so prior to receiving the contract, and I guess he negotiated a lot of the things I took issue with to work in his favor. Probably I could have, too, but I didn't even wait for them to reply with a counter before I bid them adieu. In the end, I decided it was a divine hint that it was not the right timing or maybe not the right opportunity. I haven't even really tried to land an agent yet, so, in a sense, everything is a possibility. Well, except for that publishing company.
There'll be more doors to open and look inside, more lessons to be learned. This I know for sure, though: I will be published, one way or another. Mark my words.
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?
Friday, March 8, 2013
The Journey
She pressed her fingertips together, hesitating, with the demeanor of one who is far too familiar with delivering bad news to others, her eyes lowered to a haphazard stack of papers that may or may not have had anything to do with us. My husband and I sat opposite her at her desk, hanging on her every word. When she spoke again, she spoke words that changed our lives forever. What did it mean that our son probably had a place on the spectrum? The “spectrum” sounded like an airy, whimsical place where all might be sunshine and daisies. The scream and shuffling from the other side of the office door confirmed that was not the case. Of course, she added quickly, she didn’t have the ability to diagnose him, but she had seen hundreds, nay, thousands of children just like ours, and he fit the description.
Are you okay, she asked quietly and genuinely, leaning forward to peer over the top of her eyeglasses. A lump had formed firmly in my throat, and my eyes had moistened instantaneously. The voice of the child psychologist we had seen several weeks ago echoed in my ears, promising us hectic years to come should we choose to pursue finding help. Hectic but rewarding, he had promised in not so many words.
I looked quickly to my husband, who smiled weakly and perhaps tried to utter a shaky response, I don’t know. I turned away from him to try to regain my composure. What this translated to was that I was becoming lost in self-despair imagining my next few years saturated in driving, endless appointments, and medical bills beyond my wildest dreams. This moment was born and bred for self pity, it couldn’t be helped.
I felt my eyes inadvertently widen as we entered the large, yellow room. Most of the floors and walls were covered with padding. There were pulleys and ropes anchored to the ceiling, resembling what I could only imagine a modern-day torture chamber may look like. Nearby a child flashed an awkward and toothless grin at me and said “hello”, prompted by a woman shuffling through a binder. He wore large headphones on his ears, fastened in place with a sweatband. His legs and arms were wrapped in ACE bandages, as if at any moment Richard Simmons might walk through that door and lead him through a rousing bit of “Sweatin’ to the Oldies”. I had officially entered a brand new world.
There it was again. I groaned inwardly, wishing I could just bury my head under a pillow and pretend that I didn’t hear it. A loud, rhythmic impact to his door, followed and covered and criss-crossed, and, please God, make it stop, by ear-splitting shrieks. Maybe I had been sleeping for half an hour, perhaps an hour—my eyes couldn’t focus on the clock even with the aid of the blue light from the baby’s nightlight. My husband was still at work, plugging away at what had to be another one of the twenty-hour days that were becoming all-too frequent in his line of work. So it’s my turn by default.
When I reach the door, it is still quaking and threatening to splinter in an undertone to the commotion behind. He is there, hovering behind the door, with surprisingly dry eyes despite the fact that a messy homicide possibly could have taken place with less noise and much less dramatics. Already I can see that his forehead is dark in the old familiar place. His eyebrows are furrowed as he whines and attempts to push past me with his shoulders into the hallway. I push him backward with a hand, and sit down in front of the door, asking him to please, please, please! lay down and go to sleep. He wails, and, because I am blocking the door, decides that the wall is a viable alternative.
He bangs his head on the wall, a sickening noise for anyone who has been privileged to hear it often enough to make it an hourly occurrence. Sometimes it was a somewhat sedate clunk against a vertical or horizontal surface, depending on if he had thrown himself to the floor in a tantrum. At other times, it was a frenetic, arm-flailing, eyes-closed, full-out run into the wall head-first. Either situation should never, ever happen. I have long since grown tired of explaining the perpetual bruise to strangers, who certainly must think secretly I am beating my child for his obvious lack of manners.
I choose to carry him to my room so he can lay by my side and rest. Which he does for approximately as long as it takes for his head to hit the pillow, then he immediately sits up in bed, revived. I fall into a restless sleep, subconsciously aware that he is pacing three sides of a table nearby, studying it with first one eye, then the next, all the while cooing in his own unique way, over and over. When I pry open my heavy eyes again, he is staring at me, his dark eyes glowing in the dim light cast by the nightlight. He has turned away from me and is doing an odd, repetitive jerking motion with his upper body, stooping forward a little, then snapping upright, all the while cooing and occasionally turning his head to focus on me. I am scared.
His haircut is cute and close-cropped, showing off the deepness of his eyes. We are sitting at a booth in the restaurant, fawning over him and discussing how his lack of hair really makes him appear so much older. He is looking out of the corner of his eye at something in his line of periphery. And then he keeps looking, turning his head in the opposite direction while still looking out the corner of his eye. We laugh because we don’t know it’s not funny. And then he does it the other way.
The room is dark, the large window providing the only light. The chairs try hard to be comfortable and accommodating, but I shift and yawn and wish I was curled up in bed instead. We stare at them as we might tropical fish in a large tank. Just like those fish, we are unable to do much to affect their movements, their motions, but we continue watching and waiting for a single moment in time when we might experience wonder.
He is beside me, playing with a container full of small plastic animals the therapist has given him to help pass the time. I try to tune him out, as it is difficult to hear conversation over him. He has given to laughing and coaching his brother through the glass as of late
I feel a light touch on my arm, and turn to look at him. He is holding a plastic gorilla on my arm and smiling slyly, those liquid eyes swimming in the light from the other room.
Huntie, what is that, he asks, looking to me to repeat the question so he may enlighten me.
What is that, I ask quietly, smiling at his playfulness as the gorilla remains on my arm until I ask the question.
It’s a monkey… on shoulder, he states plainly, surprising me because I didn’t know he knew the word “shoulder”.
A small crowd has gathered, and we willingly place him on display like a sideshow act, or maybe, just maybe, like parents do when their children do something adorable that the whole world needs to know about and bear witness to: A child learning to shake a diapered behind to a beat, taking a precarious step, some milestone… Something altogether more normal, more right, than what we are showcasing.
The tip of the Sharpie marker is suspended over nothingness, placed with the utmost care by chubby yet dexterous hands and the precision afforded by eagle eyes. Everyone’s attention is fixated entirely on him, and he seems to notice none of it as he works. He has moved on to place another marker on the edge of the desk, tip over the edge the very same amount as the one before, and the one before that, and the one before that.
A devious giggle escapes from someone who has decided to disrupt the process by moving the markers from position. It is meant to amuse us only, because the panic he is stricken with as he tries to make it right again, as he tries to reorder the chaos in his life, cannot and will not ever be amusing to him.
The voice on the other end falters, hesitating a little before she blurts out that she doesn’t know what that diagnosis means. When she tries to pronounce it, it sounds a little bit like sensory disintegration dysfunction, which I can only imagine would assuredly be a pity to behold. I let out a slow, even breath, trying to hide my agitation at this young girl—and, more distinctly, the company she works for. No, no, it’s sensory integration dysfunction, and would the diagnosis codes I have here help? She jots the codes down in my paperwork and promises we will hear back from someone soon.
And we do.
A big, fat packet of papers arrives in the mail several days later, congratulating us, announcing to the world that we have been accepted for coverage by their fabulous company. What a wise choice we made! How easy it was to get excited and skip over the smaller print that informs us we will pay more because I am obese and my husband has mysterious health issues. With no word or inkling of any apology for the inconvenience, they inform us that our child is not covered at all. Thank you, and have a very nice day.
As I speak with Customer Service, I ask them, with some measure of disbelief, what this means, even though I am a bright person who can read and interpret for herself what seems to be very straightforward. My mind is not grasping it all: How can a child who is in many ways so normal not be granted even the most basic of medical care?
I find I am not above begging and pleading, just a little bit, as I barrage the Customer Service agent with questions leaping out of a very distressed and positively aching place in my heart. So what you’re telling me is that even if I promised to never, ever submit a claim pertaining to do with his delays and subsequent therapy, he still would not be granted coverage? She assures me what I’m saying is her company’s stance, and we part ways.
I’m not sure how long I cried, tired and angry and hurt and frustrated. Not only am I upset for my child, I am upset for what the thousands of families who are presented with this situation every day. The insurance company in essence, says my child is a liability, a loss, someone in whom it is not fiscally advantageous for them to invest. They are grabbing my son’s shoulders, spinning him about-face, and pushing him out the open door, only to slam it in his bewildered face. It is your problem, they mumble from the other side of the door. We wish we could help now, really we do, but maybe you should return when he is an adult and what we could have helped you change as a child cannot be reversed. The struggles he will face in school are not our concern—isn’t that what the school system is for, after all?
No, and no, and NO! It cannot be!
I curse the insurance company. I curse money. I curse my husband for leaving employment where the health coverage was not at all perfect but was one of a small handful of companies that did pay a percentage eventually. I curse myself for not knowing that I was going to have such difficulties procuring new insurance. Suddenly, the move from a job that assured us that Daddy was just a paycheck and quite possibly a figment of our imaginations felt like a huge failure in our strategy to live happily ever after.
My face glows red, and I start feeling condescending, inconvenienced eyes focusing, one by one, upon me, upon him. He is beside me, tossing and turning, screaming and screeching, occasionally surprising or hurting me by grazing my face with a limb. My bag of tricks is empty, torn to pieces, stomped into dust, and he is still making a scene worthy of an Oscar. Thank heavens no one has had the gall to walk up to us and make a snide comment, for there would be no stopping my tears.
I am tired, but no one ever asks if I am tired. Naptime for the children is the closest thing to liquid gold I have, yet it does not come often enough or coincide nearly enough to give me the time to recharge my batteries. When all seems well and children are resting, I find that, all too often, I must wake them up to pick up my eldest from school. Or perhaps children from the neighborhood come over to play and cause such a commotion that sleeping children arise too soon. There is little question in my mind that I am known as the grumpy lady on our street, and as much as I wish it weren’t so, I have little control over my emotions to be anyone different. I am tired of being compared to others in my family who are also struggling. I am tired of being told that God only gives us as much as we can handle. I am tired of being told that with great privilege there comes great responsibility.
All I want at this very moment is a sedate breakfast with my mother. I have stopped hoping that maybe he will eat this time.
The waitress brings us a children’s menu, the kind printed on a disposable placemat, and a small pack of crayons. He should be the age where coloring sparks some interest, but the effort to hold the crayon at all, no less with an effective grasp, is difficult and he has stopped attempting it long ago. Instead, he yells, eyes focused on the crayons, which I am thankful for. Often his cries are not accompanied by cues that let someone know what he wants, leaving that person to play a frantic game of Is this what you want? until he stops his tantrum.
The crayons are unwrapped and placed before him, where he grabs them quickly and begins his work. With the poise and precision of a surgeon, he places the first crayon on the table. It stands, now, balancing on the flat end, pointed end up like a colored picket fence. His hands move carefully away as to not ruin his masterpiece, fingers splayed outwards as he makes his cautious retreat. This calculated process plays over and over as crayon number two, crayon number three, and crayon number four all find their places in line.
My mother grabs another pack of crayons as he is working, and places them in front of him. He continues in relative silence, save for the ever-present coo that means he is ordering his world and trying to forget he is part of ours. With all eight crayons in formation, he is eyeing them with more wonder than pride. I am not sure whether I should be scared or amused or something else altogether, but I manage to squeak out a teary, weak giggle.
I’ve never seen anything like that, my mother says breathlessly.
Are you okay, she asked quietly and genuinely, leaning forward to peer over the top of her eyeglasses. A lump had formed firmly in my throat, and my eyes had moistened instantaneously. The voice of the child psychologist we had seen several weeks ago echoed in my ears, promising us hectic years to come should we choose to pursue finding help. Hectic but rewarding, he had promised in not so many words.
I looked quickly to my husband, who smiled weakly and perhaps tried to utter a shaky response, I don’t know. I turned away from him to try to regain my composure. What this translated to was that I was becoming lost in self-despair imagining my next few years saturated in driving, endless appointments, and medical bills beyond my wildest dreams. This moment was born and bred for self pity, it couldn’t be helped.
---
I felt my eyes inadvertently widen as we entered the large, yellow room. Most of the floors and walls were covered with padding. There were pulleys and ropes anchored to the ceiling, resembling what I could only imagine a modern-day torture chamber may look like. Nearby a child flashed an awkward and toothless grin at me and said “hello”, prompted by a woman shuffling through a binder. He wore large headphones on his ears, fastened in place with a sweatband. His legs and arms were wrapped in ACE bandages, as if at any moment Richard Simmons might walk through that door and lead him through a rousing bit of “Sweatin’ to the Oldies”. I had officially entered a brand new world.
---
When I reach the door, it is still quaking and threatening to splinter in an undertone to the commotion behind. He is there, hovering behind the door, with surprisingly dry eyes despite the fact that a messy homicide possibly could have taken place with less noise and much less dramatics. Already I can see that his forehead is dark in the old familiar place. His eyebrows are furrowed as he whines and attempts to push past me with his shoulders into the hallway. I push him backward with a hand, and sit down in front of the door, asking him to please, please, please! lay down and go to sleep. He wails, and, because I am blocking the door, decides that the wall is a viable alternative.
He bangs his head on the wall, a sickening noise for anyone who has been privileged to hear it often enough to make it an hourly occurrence. Sometimes it was a somewhat sedate clunk against a vertical or horizontal surface, depending on if he had thrown himself to the floor in a tantrum. At other times, it was a frenetic, arm-flailing, eyes-closed, full-out run into the wall head-first. Either situation should never, ever happen. I have long since grown tired of explaining the perpetual bruise to strangers, who certainly must think secretly I am beating my child for his obvious lack of manners.
I choose to carry him to my room so he can lay by my side and rest. Which he does for approximately as long as it takes for his head to hit the pillow, then he immediately sits up in bed, revived. I fall into a restless sleep, subconsciously aware that he is pacing three sides of a table nearby, studying it with first one eye, then the next, all the while cooing in his own unique way, over and over. When I pry open my heavy eyes again, he is staring at me, his dark eyes glowing in the dim light cast by the nightlight. He has turned away from me and is doing an odd, repetitive jerking motion with his upper body, stooping forward a little, then snapping upright, all the while cooing and occasionally turning his head to focus on me. I am scared.
---
His haircut is cute and close-cropped, showing off the deepness of his eyes. We are sitting at a booth in the restaurant, fawning over him and discussing how his lack of hair really makes him appear so much older. He is looking out of the corner of his eye at something in his line of periphery. And then he keeps looking, turning his head in the opposite direction while still looking out the corner of his eye. We laugh because we don’t know it’s not funny. And then he does it the other way.
---
He is beside me, playing with a container full of small plastic animals the therapist has given him to help pass the time. I try to tune him out, as it is difficult to hear conversation over him. He has given to laughing and coaching his brother through the glass as of late
I feel a light touch on my arm, and turn to look at him. He is holding a plastic gorilla on my arm and smiling slyly, those liquid eyes swimming in the light from the other room.
Huntie, what is that, he asks, looking to me to repeat the question so he may enlighten me.
What is that, I ask quietly, smiling at his playfulness as the gorilla remains on my arm until I ask the question.
It’s a monkey… on shoulder, he states plainly, surprising me because I didn’t know he knew the word “shoulder”.
---
The tip of the Sharpie marker is suspended over nothingness, placed with the utmost care by chubby yet dexterous hands and the precision afforded by eagle eyes. Everyone’s attention is fixated entirely on him, and he seems to notice none of it as he works. He has moved on to place another marker on the edge of the desk, tip over the edge the very same amount as the one before, and the one before that, and the one before that.
A devious giggle escapes from someone who has decided to disrupt the process by moving the markers from position. It is meant to amuse us only, because the panic he is stricken with as he tries to make it right again, as he tries to reorder the chaos in his life, cannot and will not ever be amusing to him.
---
And we do.
A big, fat packet of papers arrives in the mail several days later, congratulating us, announcing to the world that we have been accepted for coverage by their fabulous company. What a wise choice we made! How easy it was to get excited and skip over the smaller print that informs us we will pay more because I am obese and my husband has mysterious health issues. With no word or inkling of any apology for the inconvenience, they inform us that our child is not covered at all. Thank you, and have a very nice day.
As I speak with Customer Service, I ask them, with some measure of disbelief, what this means, even though I am a bright person who can read and interpret for herself what seems to be very straightforward. My mind is not grasping it all: How can a child who is in many ways so normal not be granted even the most basic of medical care?
I find I am not above begging and pleading, just a little bit, as I barrage the Customer Service agent with questions leaping out of a very distressed and positively aching place in my heart. So what you’re telling me is that even if I promised to never, ever submit a claim pertaining to do with his delays and subsequent therapy, he still would not be granted coverage? She assures me what I’m saying is her company’s stance, and we part ways.
I’m not sure how long I cried, tired and angry and hurt and frustrated. Not only am I upset for my child, I am upset for what the thousands of families who are presented with this situation every day. The insurance company in essence, says my child is a liability, a loss, someone in whom it is not fiscally advantageous for them to invest. They are grabbing my son’s shoulders, spinning him about-face, and pushing him out the open door, only to slam it in his bewildered face. It is your problem, they mumble from the other side of the door. We wish we could help now, really we do, but maybe you should return when he is an adult and what we could have helped you change as a child cannot be reversed. The struggles he will face in school are not our concern—isn’t that what the school system is for, after all?
No, and no, and NO! It cannot be!
I curse the insurance company. I curse money. I curse my husband for leaving employment where the health coverage was not at all perfect but was one of a small handful of companies that did pay a percentage eventually. I curse myself for not knowing that I was going to have such difficulties procuring new insurance. Suddenly, the move from a job that assured us that Daddy was just a paycheck and quite possibly a figment of our imaginations felt like a huge failure in our strategy to live happily ever after.
---
I am tired, but no one ever asks if I am tired. Naptime for the children is the closest thing to liquid gold I have, yet it does not come often enough or coincide nearly enough to give me the time to recharge my batteries. When all seems well and children are resting, I find that, all too often, I must wake them up to pick up my eldest from school. Or perhaps children from the neighborhood come over to play and cause such a commotion that sleeping children arise too soon. There is little question in my mind that I am known as the grumpy lady on our street, and as much as I wish it weren’t so, I have little control over my emotions to be anyone different. I am tired of being compared to others in my family who are also struggling. I am tired of being told that God only gives us as much as we can handle. I am tired of being told that with great privilege there comes great responsibility.
All I want at this very moment is a sedate breakfast with my mother. I have stopped hoping that maybe he will eat this time.
The waitress brings us a children’s menu, the kind printed on a disposable placemat, and a small pack of crayons. He should be the age where coloring sparks some interest, but the effort to hold the crayon at all, no less with an effective grasp, is difficult and he has stopped attempting it long ago. Instead, he yells, eyes focused on the crayons, which I am thankful for. Often his cries are not accompanied by cues that let someone know what he wants, leaving that person to play a frantic game of Is this what you want? until he stops his tantrum.
The crayons are unwrapped and placed before him, where he grabs them quickly and begins his work. With the poise and precision of a surgeon, he places the first crayon on the table. It stands, now, balancing on the flat end, pointed end up like a colored picket fence. His hands move carefully away as to not ruin his masterpiece, fingers splayed outwards as he makes his cautious retreat. This calculated process plays over and over as crayon number two, crayon number three, and crayon number four all find their places in line.
My mother grabs another pack of crayons as he is working, and places them in front of him. He continues in relative silence, save for the ever-present coo that means he is ordering his world and trying to forget he is part of ours. With all eight crayons in formation, he is eyeing them with more wonder than pride. I am not sure whether I should be scared or amused or something else altogether, but I manage to squeak out a teary, weak giggle.
I’ve never seen anything like that, my mother says breathlessly.
---
Several years have passed since the difficult start of our journey. You are still the same boy you always were, tender-hearted and passionate. Though your body is beginning to stretch and change, you still watch and absorb all around you with those liquid brown eyes the size of dinner plates. Nothing melts your heart quicker than a baby. You're a horse whisperer in search of a horse to listen. As much as it pains me, literally, you are especially gifted at building amazing things out of Legos--if only your talent extended to picking them up when you were finished. Most of the time, your best friends are your brothers, but you hold a special bond with a sweet little classmate who has loved you from the very start.
Besides the gift of having you as my son, besides learning how to float along in life when circumstances threatened to drag me under, you reignited my spark. With all of the struggles we went through, I had to write to make sense of everything. Writing reminded me of where we began, and gave me hope that our story would grow into something so much better. Words still aren't your thing. But I like to think you gave most of your words to me so I would have more.
Thank you for being my sweet bean. If I could go back, I would take away all the hard, all the sad, all the obstacles that you will face day after day. All of that I would gladly lift from you and place upon myself, if only I could.... but I would never change you. I love you.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Like Falling In Love
I'm currently in a holding pattern, waiting for beta-readers to finish up with my first book and get back to me with their comments. Another writer confessed to me that the waiting period always makes her nervous. It made me think.
As a writer, you spend thousands of hours pouring words onto a page or screen. Ideas are born, full of promise and excitement. You grow and change with each character. Together you encounter a full range of problems, from tiny bumps to impassable mountains. When tears roll down their cheeks, your tears follow suit. Heart in throat, you wait by their side as their last breath falls from still lips. After 'The End', you discover that you've become someone richer in experience than the person you were before it all began.
To share that with others, especially others whose goal it is to point out your scars and imperfections, is frightening. It is opening yourself--and your new friends--to attack, no matter how well-intentioned your attacker. It is lowering your defenses in the hopes that the arrows will serve to build you up rather than fatally wound. You make yourself vulnerable. Vulnerability is unnatural for us.
In many ways, this feedback process is like falling in love. It is delivering your beating heart on a platter and hoping it returns safely--that they love in return. It is trusting that the other person has only the best intentions, only the purest motives. It is the hope that they are skilled in architecture and demolish only what they must in order for us to rebuild stronger and more complete.
There is such great and awful responsibility in love and art.
There is such great and awful responsibility in love and art.
Maybe you don't write and you find it difficult to relate to my illustration because of that. That's okay. I think it still applies to many of our passions, not only the crafting of sentences. Do what you do with love, because of love. Accept the help of others with love. Extend your hand to others with truth and compassion.
Making yourself vulnerable and opening your heart to others is scary. Sometimes you'll bleed and wish you'd kept your shield tucked tight around your chest. At other times, bringing others alongside you on the journey reveals unspeakable beauty. The joy is nearly always worth the splinters along the way.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
I Don't Ask For Much
You may notice that I've added a "Make a Donation" button off to the side of my blog here and on my author page in a galaxy far, far away. It's not meant to offend anyone--because I know money is tight the world around.... but sometimes we don't have because we don't ask. Or, more accurately, we don't have because no one knows there's a need in the first place.
This blog post and Amanda Palmer's TED talk inspired this blog post. I'm too tired to do anything but borrow Amanda and Ksenia's work, but I am happy to have found both of them on the Interwebs tonight.
No pressure, folks. Just putting it out there and seeing what happens.
xoxo!
This blog post and Amanda Palmer's TED talk inspired this blog post. I'm too tired to do anything but borrow Amanda and Ksenia's work, but I am happy to have found both of them on the Interwebs tonight.
No pressure, folks. Just putting it out there and seeing what happens.
xoxo!
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?
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
I'm Still Here and You're Still Here. You Know What That Means....
Dance-Off!
Okay, not really. It just sounded exciting. I'm still in my pajamas weighing the pros and cons of doing anything else besides nursing my current mug o' joe. So far, nothing has been so important that I've moved.
The ringing in of 2013 was anti-climactic. Some tummy issue sidelined me from my family's annual karaoke/card game party, so I curled up in bed with my laptop, a tall glass of water (I'm a lush), and a couple of Twilight movies I haven't seen in ages but try to avoid watching when Mr. Ohboy is around. My husband is my biggest fan and would sit through a Twilight marathon if I begged him to--and secretly, he would like it just a little bit. That's the kind of thing he holds over my head, though. Eventually I pay a price for such injustices to his manhood.
But, getting back to New Year's Eve... The house was mine. Empty. Friends, I have never lived alone. Never. Maybe someday my own voice will echo back to me and I will miss the sheer chaos. For now, the solitude is as close as I will come to straight-up magic. My family's party could have gone for a week solid, and it would have been the next best thing to laying on a beach somewhere with a fruity drink in my hand. Sadly, the boys returned at about 11:30p.m., and we flipped on the t.v. ten minutes before midnight only to see Carson Daly and his female co-host holding a conversation they wouldn't shut up about until 10 seconds before midnight. Horrible--I want Dick Clark back.
Anyway...
Uninterrupted, I managed to plunk out a little over 1900 words, reaching my re-re-revised goal of 38k by the end of 2012. Shortly after the ball dropped, bringing in 2012, I was snuggled up with my laptop. A year later, I am in the same place, same characters, different story. My eyes opened this morning, and my first thoughts were, "Now what happens with my characters?"
Well, no. My first thoughts were, "Coffee. Where's my coffee?" But, the two kind of go hand-in-hand, so it's almost the same thing. The point is, clearly I am where I am supposed to be.
The end of the world didn't happen, not yet, unless we're already smack dab in the middle of the zombie apocalypse and we just haven't noticed. So what are you going to do to bring yourself to the place you want to be? I'm not talking resolutions, because there is something about a resolution that screams "You know I'm too hard. Quit already." It has to be something else--something you go for with fire, because failing isn't an option if you ever want things to change for the better.
Maybe you're stuck on a big picture, when focusing on a single baby step is enough to begin. Every journey starts with a single footstep... or keystroke... or glass of water. Take that single footstep every day and by this time next year, you're at least 365 paces closer. But I bet you're closer than that because momentum in one area of our lives tends to push us to take a step or two (maybe more!) along the way.
So tell me what your journey is, and one baby step you'd like to take to get there. Can I help you, even if it's just cheering from the sidelines as you baby-step your way through a year?
Okay, not really. It just sounded exciting. I'm still in my pajamas weighing the pros and cons of doing anything else besides nursing my current mug o' joe. So far, nothing has been so important that I've moved.
The ringing in of 2013 was anti-climactic. Some tummy issue sidelined me from my family's annual karaoke/card game party, so I curled up in bed with my laptop, a tall glass of water (I'm a lush), and a couple of Twilight movies I haven't seen in ages but try to avoid watching when Mr. Ohboy is around. My husband is my biggest fan and would sit through a Twilight marathon if I begged him to--and secretly, he would like it just a little bit. That's the kind of thing he holds over my head, though. Eventually I pay a price for such injustices to his manhood.
But, getting back to New Year's Eve... The house was mine. Empty. Friends, I have never lived alone. Never. Maybe someday my own voice will echo back to me and I will miss the sheer chaos. For now, the solitude is as close as I will come to straight-up magic. My family's party could have gone for a week solid, and it would have been the next best thing to laying on a beach somewhere with a fruity drink in my hand. Sadly, the boys returned at about 11:30p.m., and we flipped on the t.v. ten minutes before midnight only to see Carson Daly and his female co-host holding a conversation they wouldn't shut up about until 10 seconds before midnight. Horrible--I want Dick Clark back.
Anyway...
Uninterrupted, I managed to plunk out a little over 1900 words, reaching my re-re-revised goal of 38k by the end of 2012. Shortly after the ball dropped, bringing in 2012, I was snuggled up with my laptop. A year later, I am in the same place, same characters, different story. My eyes opened this morning, and my first thoughts were, "Now what happens with my characters?"
Well, no. My first thoughts were, "Coffee. Where's my coffee?" But, the two kind of go hand-in-hand, so it's almost the same thing. The point is, clearly I am where I am supposed to be.
The end of the world didn't happen, not yet, unless we're already smack dab in the middle of the zombie apocalypse and we just haven't noticed. So what are you going to do to bring yourself to the place you want to be? I'm not talking resolutions, because there is something about a resolution that screams "You know I'm too hard. Quit already." It has to be something else--something you go for with fire, because failing isn't an option if you ever want things to change for the better.
Maybe you're stuck on a big picture, when focusing on a single baby step is enough to begin. Every journey starts with a single footstep... or keystroke... or glass of water. Take that single footstep every day and by this time next year, you're at least 365 paces closer. But I bet you're closer than that because momentum in one area of our lives tends to push us to take a step or two (maybe more!) along the way.
So tell me what your journey is, and one baby step you'd like to take to get there. Can I help you, even if it's just cheering from the sidelines as you baby-step your way through a year?
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