Turn Around Tuesday Tailgate Party (aka Help!)

October 16, 2017 by

Nope, it ain’t Tuesday yet.
But I have some housecleaning
and decorating to do
and I need your help.
~April

I have transitioned to a full time Writer, StoryTeller, Content Creator, Consummator of Nouns and Verbs. It’s amazing and scary and wonderful and wild. Having the love and support available for this to even be an option for me is mind blowing.

I have been here before – writing for others. But it was always as a side hustle. As much as I enjoyed it, it had significant disadvantages – stress, missed deadlines, loss of focus, inability to produce quality work.

There is no more side hustle. There is only this. And I could really use your support.

1 – Let’s reconnect if we haven’t in a while. I know my life has changed a lot since the last run of TATs. I am sure yours has too.

2 – Share my stuff. The newsletters, the Facebook posts, the links. Check out other places here at See the Butterfly. You’ll see familiar stuff there as this is both a consolidation and the place for new stuff. If you enjoy it, share it. If there’s something you’d like to see there, suggest it. Subscribe to it.

3 – Recommend me. Been on LinkedIn lately? Check it out. Leave a review, click an endorsement. Met somebody who is looking for a story to be told, content to be created, copy to be produced? Let them know. Let me know.

4 – Keep me posted on how I can support you. I believe a rising tide lifts all ships.

Thanks for the coffee, the support, and I’ll see you tomorrow.

~A

Filed Under: Turn Around Tuesday, Writing Tagged With: ,

Does it Ever End Different

September 1, 2017 by

I recently had the opportunity to catch up with a friend I had lost touch with. She knew nothing about my divorce or the reemergence of “Our Story 2.0.” Like most every person that hears the story, she was surprised, encouraging, and a little giddy of the beautiful romance of it all. Her husband walked in and she cliff noted the story.

“Can you believe it?” She said. “Isn’t that just the sweetest thing!”

He turned and looked at me with a sincere and honest face.

“You ever read the same book twice?”

This was nothing I had expected and I was momentarily confused. “Huh?”

He repeated the question. “I said, have you ever read the same book twice?”

I knew where this was going. “I have.”

“Have you ever known the ending of any of them to be different?”

Knew it. “No I haven’t. Let’s hope this one is.”

“Well,” he says without a hint of condescension, “if you’re happy, let’s hope so.”

And he meant it. And I appreciated it. There are quite a few people that have various opinions concerning the numerous changes I’ve made over the last year or so. Some of those opinions are ill formed, selfish, and soaked in dripping amounts of high and mighty. I have learned to ignore those.

But this one…this is a question I had never been asked. I had to admit it was a good one. And it was asked in, what I perceived to be, all sincerity.

It stuck with me long after I told them both goodbye and went on about my week.

I am going to try and answer it.

I have read J. D. Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye” three times – in high school, during my brief tryst with college, and about 6 months ago. Not only did the words at the end not change, but neither did any other word in any other part of the book.

Except the story had changed because I had changed.

When I was in my teens, I loved this book. I was Holden Caufield – misunderstood, raging against the world’s ideas, alone, sad, looking for connection. I knew Stradlater, I wanted to be Jane. Salinger brought the teenage condition out of the shadows of my brain and showed me that I was not alone. Most teenagers, despite their belief to the contrary, have the same thoughts, fears, questions. I saw that there on the page. It was one of my first true experiences realizing that writing, telling the story, brings connection, validation, and understanding.

Later, in my 20’s, I picked up the book again. This time I was a young momma in the Navy. I had bills, responsibilities, taxes, and little Phoebes of my own. The book irritated me to no end. This little shit kid and his little shit attitude. I wish one of kids would act like that. Ungrateful and spoiled. Does he think the world revolves around him? Like the death of Allie hurt only for him? Like his folks hadn’t been through enough they have to deal with his entitled bullshit. I finished the book scolding myself for ever liking it at all. I scolded myself for ever reading a book twice. It would be a long time before I realized that reading a book again was not the problem – failing to realize perspective was.

A few months ago, I picked the book up again. I had since learned that great books should be read often. “A Catcher in the Rye” is a great book. Rarely have I enjoyed a piece of work more. Everything about the offering appealed to me. As a momma (of grown children this time), I ached for young Holden. This tortured teenager so much like my own and all other teenagers before him had to move through the process. There’s really little that can be done to ease this for him as his youth makes him unable to know all the things he doesn’t know. I hurt for the Caulfield family. That kind of loss, that kind of heartbreak, the aftermath of it all. How difficult it all must be. And as a writer – now there was the gift. To watch Salinger give voice in an authentic way so much so that you forget a gifted wordsmith has pen to paper. To be able to create pages that feel like a real teenage journal. To move a reader through this created persona in a way that forces one to engage at the character’s level. It was masterful and inspiring.

So no, the story didn’t “do” one thing different. When I turned the last page, Allie was still dead, Holden was still sad, the journey was still incomplete. But it was different because I was different. My world, my experiences, my choices were different.

And that is how I want to answer the brilliant and thoughtful question. Yes, in the ways that matter, the story did, in this instance, end differently. If it makes you feel better, I acknowledge the intent of your question and had given it careful consideration long before you asked it. I know better than anyone how the story ended 20 years ago. It is not lost on me that sometimes the end is just the end and it could very well be that way again. Before I walked too far down this road I conceded that this could be either the greatest love story of all time, or the most heinous train wreck ever witnessed. I decided then the book was worth picking back up. I decided the danger of losing all nostalgia and innocence was worth the possibility of gaining a treasure.

Filed Under: Chrysalis, Writing

One True Sentence

August 26, 2017 by

There have been a lot of “hard things” about writing and generally interacting with people since my marriage split up over a year a go. It isn’t the usual things you would think as the split was not emotionally difficult for me. I know that sounds like a horrible thing to say, but it’s true. Once it happened, once he moved out, I can honestly say I have never missed him a day.

See, that right there. That’s been one of the hard things about writing now. That sentence right there is where I have to start and I know it will sound awful and hurtful to people because it is awful and hurtful. But to me, and I have found I am never alone, it is also beautiful and magnificent.

I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, ‘Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’ So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there. It was easy then because there was always one true sentence that I knew or had seen or had heard someone say.

Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

I’ve never been to Paris, but I have sat on the shores of big water and watched as the tides moved and versions of my heart who live outside my body play in its offering. I know what it is to feel inspired. I know what Hemingway is saying. And it is easy because there is always a true sentence. And it is hard, because there is always a true sentence.

“There is nothing to writing,” says not Hemingway. “All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” That sounds like Hemingway. His name is often attached to it. It isn’t his. But I am sure he felt it. I find it impossible to believe that one would comprehend the “one true sentence” theory without feeling it.

Concerning the idea of bloodshed, the question isn’t ever confined to the writer alone. That would make it easy. To offer up oneself in fullness in order to release the pounding of nouns and verbs stuck inside a writer’s head is a ready option. All writers know this. There are few things as painful as a sentence on the inside that wants, needs, to be on the outside.

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

Although I love the phenomenal Maya Angelou, that quote, contrary to popular opinion, isn’t hers. It is actually from Dust Tracks on the Road by the brilliant Zora Neale Hurston. But you can find it everywhere, shared and shared again – just like the bleed quote – by folks from all kinds of different backgrounds.

I can only conclude then that it is a common struggle – to find the true sentence and then address the agony of considering the bloodshed. If it were simply the writer’s blood, my blood, the sentiment would be less than a fleeting thought. Writing is as much a life force and a necessity as the heartbeat. But it isn’t bloodshed of the singular. It is the bloodshed of the many. I do not live in isolation; I do not write about myself alone as my experience did not come in solitude. It occurs in the world and intertwines with the experiences of those in it. Others with ideas, memories, perceptions different than, sometimes in direct opposition to, mine. Others whose, deserved or not, feelings I consider.

As such, writing for me has been convoluted, disjointed, dishonest, vague to the point of absurdity, confined, or stalled completely. Working through that has been a slow and fearful process. The fear of writing is not new to me. For many years I was afraid to write. But the source was different. It came from the others. That’s a beautiful, albeit cowardly, hiding space as I decided I had to take no personal responsibility for it; I want to write, I should write, I have to write, but because of forces outside my control, I simply can’t. That isn’t true anymore. It really wasn’t very true then. But now I can’t even pretend that it is anything other than my own fear and hesitation.

And there is so much fear and hesitation. Every sentence is checked and double checked. Ideas that may come across as anything other than conciliatory and nice suddenly require encyclopedic levels of explanation and clarification. Caveats to thoughts in an attempt to tourniquet a paper cut that I fear may be a hemorrhage in the eyes of another become so numerous as to be exhausting and overwhelming. The writing becomes nothing more than a nearly incomprehensible apology for my very existence and a purposeless martyring of ink.

Even today, this is not what I sat down to write. The idea that started my time at the keyboard was allowed exactly 54 words before it went sideways into palliation. I decide to jot a few notes in hopes that one day I finish that thought. It was clear to me that I was risking nothing with that option. If I lose the idea as the moment has now passed, it really is okay; without doing this work first, that idea never really had a chance of survival anyway. None of them do.

It has become clear to me that unless I can honor the space where my true to me sentence can just breathe, I cannot write. That is not an option. Through the ages writing has always been a scandalous venture. Nouns and verbs remain the harbingers of misunderstandings, condemnation, ridicule, and ostracism. Yet still the quill was inked, the pen moved, the key stroked. In the face of obvious and time tested proof that the writer has control only of the delivery and not the reception, we still write. Why?

You write because you need write, or because you hope someone will listen or because writing will mend something broken inside you or bring something back to life.

Joanne Harris, Blackberry Wine

One day (hopefully sooner rather than later) I will go back and put nouns and verbs to the awful beauty of that true sentence and other true sentences like it. Today however, the ability to just leave it there and not delete it will take all the moxie I possess. Maybe today the point is to mend something broken. Maybe that is how we bring things back to life.

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: , ,

Neurotic About Reading what I Write

May 15, 2017 by

I hesitate to even admit to the amount of time I read, reread, and reread again things I have written. There is a little voice in my head that says, “If you admit this to them, they will know…they will know…they willllll knnnowwww.” Yeah, the voice in my head is just that much of a nag, and just that obnoxiously creepy. See what I have to deal with? Seriously.

However, if Hamilton can write the Reynolds Pamphlet, I can write this. Okay, so maybe one is way more serious than the other. I’ll let you decide which is which. I think it’s a no brainer. Really.

I reread my own words neurotically. I do not say that lightly, with exaggeration, or figuratively. I consume my own writing with anxious and obsessive repetitiveness. I am constantly going through, saying the words aloud, working through the structure, putting it down and coming back again, attempting to pretend like I am reading it for the first time with a different worldview. Sometimes I even attempt to read it with a different accent. Not a mandarin one though. That’s just too much. I have boundaries.

I often worry that this is an ego thing. I am sure there are some folks out there who will bet a paycheck that it is. One, it’s the easy answer. Two, it’s what they want to think about me anyway. But I am going to go ahead and let you know that it is not an ego thing. I have ego things – my hair, my gym time, the way my man looks, my hair (did I say that already – of course I did) – but the way I reread my shit, is not like any of those. So I can only conclude it is not an ego thing. I really wish we had bet that paycheck.

There is some embarrassment to admitting this. I have heard folks talk about what they don’t do with their work – actors who don’t watch their own movies, musicians that don’t listen to their own songs, children who won’t acknowledge their own mess. Okay, so that last one is not the same, but you get my point. I have heard folks say this and there is an air to that sentiment that suggests confidence, coolness, professionalism, comfort that I just don’t have. At all. And I really would like to use all those words to describe myself. Instead, I get compulsive. Yay.

But truth is truth and I am attempting to process it as it comes in its rawest form and see what types of interesting ideas I can pluck from the material.

The best I can figure is I just give a shit.

Writing is so amazingly personal for me. It’s a gift, really, as being able to put nouns and verbs together on a page in a way that seems to be pleasing to consume has helped me more than any other outlet in discovering my ideas, sorting my brain, and growing in myself. So I am appreciative.

But it is so amazingly personal. Words that I put on a page have always felt like an extension on myself – another toe, maybe an arm, most assuredly a piece of my heart. So I am critical of it. Concerned that I have presented it properly, was truthful, respectful, honest, not dodgy. I worry about how others perceive it, if I was responsible in the tone and delivery, thoughtful of others who may see themselves in it.

So I read it. And I read it again. And I read it again. And then again.

But the truth is no matter how many times I read it, I will still miss things. And I am not talking just about commas and misspellings (although I am sure there are both). I am talking about perspectives, nuances, thoughts between the spaces.

Because that’s where the real stuff with writing happens – between the spaces. And there’s nothing as a writer that I can do to control what happens there. I know this. The catch is that I have total control over what creates the space, therefore I feel responsible, to a large degree, for what happens inside the space. And, while I may be a bit harder on myself than I should, there is a real sense of responsibility and insecurity each and every time I push ideas into the public domain.

But I continue to do it because writer’s write. And the only avenue I have found to calm my nerves about the appropriateness of the thoughts I have put together is to read them over and over again. The repetition, as irritating as it is for me, does serve to either confirm that I have done the best I can do, or bores me to tears to the point where I just don’t care anymore and it’s fine the way it is. I’m not sure this follow through technique is the most productive proofreading style, but I work with what I have.

I felt compelled to share this little bit of explanation just in case someone gets twisted, disagrees, or generally hates something I have to say or that I felt the liberty to say it. I just want you to know that I read it, extensively, and so there is a bit of confidence that it was something I wanted to say, in the way I wanted to say it, that I felt I had the liberty to say. Also, I realize I get it wrong, so I am completely up for a discussion concerning what happened in the spaces when you visit what I create. But the neat thing about this journey is that I am learning that while I do get it wrong sometimes, I am not always wrong just because someone says that I am. My voice is valid. Yours is too. That doesn’t take agreement or submission.

Filed Under: Writing

It’s Not The Piece, but it is A Piece

July 26, 2016 by

I have fallen into a pattern over the years where I have a certain time of the day I like to write. It started, I think, because the super early mornings are the quietest time in my house. Everyone is asleep. There is nothing to distract, there are no people to entertain, there is no guilt about other things I could be doing…I just write.

The hours of writing are pretty rigid. 0400 until about 0800 is it. If I am up any earlier than that, I use that time to do whatever until 0400 because seriously, I cannot reward getting up earlier than four in the morning with extra writing time. It would seriously get out of hand. After 0800, the guilt starts to creep in around the other stuff that I should be doing. I fall straight into “oh my god you big piece of shit you aren’t even getting paid to do this so get up off your ass and wash a dish, cook a meal, pick up a sock, or something productive” mode.

While this time frame has served me well, there are some real drawbacks to it.

First, the obvious. Sleep. I like laying around in the bed as much as anyone else. I have to make the choice. Sleep or write. When I started running, the choices became even harder – sleep, run, write. It becomes pretty daunting to a schedule when three wonderful things are all fighting for the same time slot.

Second, I have a lot of unfinished stuff. Worse, I have stuff I just say fuck it and delete. The time slot feels like a deadline. If I can’t produce in the amount of time given to me, it just isn’t there (or so I have conditioned myself to think). Usually I just hit delete. Sometimes I will save it, but honestly, I rarely go back to any of it. I write in the moment so often, it is hard to put it down and go back to it later.No greater agony

The third thing is akin to the second. I don’t have a large project and I would really like to. But I never feel like I have the appropriate time to devote to a larger writing project. I also am afraid to commit to a theme that I feel today but won’t feel tomorrow and then what am I supposed to do with that? It’s almost the same way I feel when I am registering for a long race. This is so far out in the future. How will I ever be able to plan for this? What if something happens? Can I really be ready? What if I spend this money and then I just can’t get there? Won’t that be a waste? Won’t that make me feel like a failure?

Let me tell you that all those things happen in the brain of writers and runners. It really does provide a compelling argument to choose sleep.

writing garbage

Finally (at least for right now) is I think I have the misfortune of conditioning myself to both writing at this time,  and also to ONLY write at this time. If I don’t make those hours for whatever reason, I’m not writing. Even if I really need to. This is not productive. If an idea comes up outside of those hours, it gets very little attention paid to it. I don’t even make a note of it. I have become so accustomed to the time parameters that I have justified in my brain that all worthy ideas will happen during those times and any ideas outside of that time will not be worthy once I get around to them. I then further conclude that because those things are true, I am only creating mess and clutter by attempting to preserve these snipets of worthless thoughts and really, who needs that in their life?

Me. I need that in my life. I need to be more open to the words that come into my head, the ideas that rattle around in my brain.

Me. I need to be more flexible with my reception to ideas and times to just put words on paper. So writing at night feels different than writing in the morning. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe there is something there I have never discovered, a groove I’ve never explored because I have convinced myself that it just isn’t “the way I’m wired” or whatever.

write it down

Me. I need sticky notes every where. Journal pages scribbled on. Every where. Half formed ideas and snippets of thought snatched from a moment of time to be revisited later when their full worth or lack thereof can be better measured. My ideas, my thoughts, while not all spectacular, are at least worth more than a passing throw off because the timing wasn’t optimal.

Write for yourself

Me, I need bravery in the process. That it won’t all be good and that’s okay. That it won’t all feel good and that’s okay. That it won’t all be true and that’s okay. That it won’t all be my voice rather another that I am trying on because I have never walked that way before and how can I explore all the pieces of the world if I only take the same trips over and over again?

#nobow

 

Tennessee Williams Quote

Tennessee Williams Quote

Filed Under: Writing

Writing, Running, not pushing Post

July 23, 2016 by

The last few months have been pretty interesting for me. I spent a good bit of time nursing a running injury. The injury, which I have struggled with before, took way more time to heal than I originally anticipated. The rehab process, while doing much better now, was slow going. An unintended result of the extended timeline was a whole lot of time to consider my injury in a broader sense – were there underlying causes, what do I need to do differently, is it a natural consequence of age, is all this running just fucking crazy, should I hang up my shoes?

I came to a few conclusions. I have a very limited idea where this is going this morning so my conclusions maybe in some kind of cohesive flow and you may just have to shake and shimmy through them just like I am 🙂

writing monster

I run for the same reason I write. It keeps me sane. I have a tendency to pull towards the high and low extremes emotionally. When that happens, my brain tangles up and ideas get hitched. I am not always really sure what I think. When I am, I am not sure that I really think that. Maybe one day I will be able to explain that better, but for today, that’s just going to have to do.  For a while in the beginning, we worked on bringing that back towards the middle with meds. I won’t go into all that here, but suffice to say it was not optimal.  If fact, it became so counter productive that I ceased taking anything at all.

Writing has always been a great untangler of the brain snakes. I think we’ve discussed before the therapeutic benefits I experience in putting words on paper so I can consider whether or not they are mine.

answers four hour run

Running has the same untangling effect. Christopher McDougall has a great quote. “If you don’t have the answer to your problems after a four hour run, you ain’t getting them.” Folks have often asked me if I get a runner’s high. I don’t. I do get a runner’s level which, for me, is even better. Because I have high/low tendencies, running is a perfect tool. The endorphins keep my low end elevated and the run burns off the energy at the high end. It is a beautiful thing.

I have also fallen into the same mistakes running as I do writing. Most notably is ancillary work, consistency, and common sense activity.

I know I should stretch more. I know I should read more. I know I should should should….but I don’t. If it isn’t writing exactly, if it isn’t running exactly, it’s placement on my priority list goes way down. In case you were wondering, this is probably the worst idea ever. Okay, so maybe that’s overstated just a bit, but it’s a bad idea. Writing is hard. It is an emotional endeavor that leads to places I am not always ready to go and it changes me every time I do. As I look at that last sentence I realize I can say the exact same thing about running. It’s hard. It takes you places. It changes you. Shoring that up with the ancillary activities that support and care for that is important – maybe most important because it allows me to keep doing the main things longer with more effectiveness.

writing ink blood

I know I should be more consistent. I will go months without writing a word. Weeks without running a mile. Then I will explode into the gotta write every day and I gotta run 20 miles this week. This doesn’t work. The mind doesn’t function that way. The body sure as hell doesn’t function that way. It needs some warm up, it needs training. It needs consistency. Otherwise, the dormant / balls to the wall flip flop causes substandard performance with counter productive results.

I know that doing something, anything, is better than doing nothing. I know that. I know that. But I don’t always know that. I’ll look at my 20 minute training run and think, “Why in Sam’s hell am I even getting out of bed for 20 minutes?” Or I’ll look at the available time I have to write and think,  “There isn’t enough time to get this whole thought out and formatted. I just won’t write.” Or even worse is the, “I can’t post that so I won’t write.”

That’s probably the worst – I can’t do what I think is the natural outcome so I won’t start the journey. Maybe I can’t finish the race. Maybe that piece of writing will get too personal, too convoluted that I can’t publish it. So I don’t. The problem with that way of thinking is I never start and therefore never know what could have been…that’s no way to be.

Filed Under: Health and Wellness, Writing Tagged With:

Because Fear

June 14, 2016 by

I once heard Oprah say that she believed there were only two base emotions – fear and love. All other emotions, in her estimation, grow out of those root two.

While I didn’t know it at the time, that statement fundamentally changed the way I viewed damn near everything. I considered for a long time the validity of the statement. That it resonated deep within me was true. But if that resonation warranted root or to be dismissed as a superficial feel good was something I had to ponder. It wasn’t until years later, after countless episodes of employing this “love/fear” filter, that I realized understanding this concept made me a better person. It fostered growth as a better listener, friend, thought sharer, problem solver, empathy giver, and communicator.

It also allows, when I can stomach it, a deeper ability for self discovery. To understand better, I am a person who really, really, REALLY loves self discovery – in theory. In practice, it routinely makes me want to vomit. A lot. The work creates the best/worst versions of nearly every aspect of my character (and there are a lot of them). Whether I come out on the other side a rising sun of badass warriorness or reduced to a quivering paralytic ball is really 50/50.

I used to take that chance, in small doses. However, this toe dipping rarely allowed for any real discovery and still had the same 50/50 outcome. The bang for the buck sucked. So, I hit the pause button and called that “being comfortable where I am” or “settled in my own skin.” Which is all total bullshit. I am built for journey and growth. I am built for movement and dynamic shuffling of all my voices. Stunting that, interestingly enough, creates the exact same 50/50.

So I don’t write, I don’t interact well with others, I don’t grow professionally, my energy lags, my health suffers, my brain tangles up, my heart hurts, my family misses out, my surrounding reflect the mess that is my spirit. I don’t write.

Because fear.

When this gets completely oppressive, I have a few band-aids to get me through. One of my favorite is the bookstore. I have found that I get nearly the same brain yum when I walk into the bookstore as when I am in the presence of big water; my brain calms down, my soul gets big, and my heart opens up. Incidentally, I have a lot of books. This is my newest one, The Writer’s Daily Companion by Amy Peters.

The Writers Daily Companion
The Writers Daily Companion

I love writing prompts. I love books on sale. This was both. But I have thrown enough money at useless drivel to know that not all prompt providers are the same. So I put down my 10,000 calorie, $155 Starbucks latte to investigate it a little further.

Writers Daily Companion Day 1
Writers Daily Companion Day 1

I didn’t really look any further in the book. It was going home with me and we both knew it.

Flannery O’Connor once said, “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” Writers do write for those who don’t have words of their own. Sometimes, that includes the writer herself.

Because fear.

The book sat next to the Thinking Chair for weeks. I realize I have neglected this journal for sometime and have not properly introduced you to the Thinking Chair. I apologize. I will. So it sat among the stacks of Thinking Chair hopefuls. Picking it up meant writing. Writing could mean anything. I am not always ready for anything.

As fate would have it, two girlfriends (both exceptional writers themselves – coincidence?) posted this Tennessee Williams quote. (Full disclosure I spent about two minutes vetting the source of the quote and could not find anything concrete, so I went with Mr. Williams)

And I cried.

Yes, I do that. More often than I care for anyone to know for reasons I am not always proud of.

Now what Mr. Williams said, while beautiful and currently being committed to my memory, is not actually what I heard. What I heard was…

Fear is everywhere and will eat you dead. Love is the only liberator. You are compelled to live your love. Write or the body burns down.

It took me another 12 hours to touch the keys. Another hour of fucking around before I made the first word.

Because fear.

Maybe I’ll work it out. Maybe it’ll be another 18 months before I come here again. Who knows. I do know this is the point in my posts where I typically wrap it up real cute like and put a little bow on the idea. I don’t have a bow. I have a burning house.

Filed Under: Chrysalis, Writing

The Tale of the Sometimes Always Writer

January 25, 2015 by

Flannery O'ConnorI am a writer. I have always been a writer. Okay, so maybe when I was first born and not yet able to hold a pencil and all that literal shit, I was NOT a writer. But in my body, in my spirit, I have always been a writer.

Notice I didn’t say brain. Writing isn’t in the brain. Grammar, spelling, punctuation – that’s in the brain. Writing is somewhere else. It is ethereal.

When I was on deployment I always kept the pictures of my family put away. Tucked into my Bible is where they stayed. I didn’t pin them up, tape them to my bunk or inside my locker. I hid them. In order to remain sane so far away from them, I couldn’t look at those pictures unprepared. I had to be ready for it. Otherwise, it would throw me into a spiral of whatever that ache is that you get when you can’t put your hands on your children or kiss your lover’s forehead. A person can’t live like that.

Such is the danger of a writer. You can’t always go there. Well, put a better way – I haven’t always been able to go there.
Private Thoughts

I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say ~ Flannery O’Connor

And I am not always prepared to know what I think. There are some moments, days, periods of life that are just not appropriate for in-depth contemplation. Sometimes after the spouse is adored, kids are nurtured, career is clocked, food is served, teeth are brushed, I am grateful to maybe have enough energy to fold the laundry, and, if it is a particularly great day, have enough left in the tank to carry on an adult conversation with a girlfriend who has been seriously neglected. To add an in-depth conversation with myself? Yeah, no.

I am not afraid of my truthSo, no writing.

As a point of explanation, that entire “not prepared to know what I think” paragraph had to be paused, rewritten, edited for content as there is too much left to say and analyze between the spaces and commas. I don’t have time for that.

In addition to not having time, I don’t have the inclination. I have a hard time with private writing. I heard somewhere that George Washington said, “Never write down anything you don’t want the whole world to read.” I don’t care enough to google the authenticity of that citation. The point is I believe the sentiment.

Therefore, I rarely write what I can’t publish. I don’t trust it. That being true, there is a ton of stuff in my brain that will never find the page. While necessary, the downside of that is periods of time where I just will not write. It is just too much to figure out the best way to balance authenticity with tact, honesty with privacy, truth with rant.

I am a universe of secretsIt’s a conundrum really. Which I suppose is only fitting. I have often felt a conundrum myself; multiple ideas of a person wrapped in one flesh. It often leaves me with a feeling of anxiety based on the fear that I am, once again, overthinking a situation. The truth is, I probably am but anxiety in that area is unwarranted. The bigger truth is that I am learning to process and that single act has me on track to being a more comfortable me. It’s quite the experience to scratch the surface of the courage to embrace that odd cattywampus juxtaposition of self that so often feels…well…unknowable.

So maybe I will just have to write about it…

Filed Under: Writing

Yeah, We Got It – You Can Get Belligerent : #trust30 Challenge

June 12, 2011 by

This is the Day 10 Prompt of the #Trust30 challenge.

Day 10 Challenge | Eric Handler | Your Personal Message

To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men, that is genius. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

What is burning deep inside of you? If you could spread your personal message RIGHT NOW to 1 million people, what would you say?

I understand that being a media junkie can have a negative effect on one’s personal outlook. Oh well – I will just have to remain vigilant. I am an information junkie. I am always on the lookout for a new story, a new view, a new blog, new method, whatever – well, at least new to me.

Living with immediate access to internet and a 24 hour news cycle, this is an easy monkey to feed. But the personal outlook assault is a very real danger. I am not going to name drop those who I feel to be the first offenders – you already know who they are. They never show up to promote anything. But man, they are always looking to tear something down – bashing, fighting, condescending, insulting, slandering, disrespecting, offending. Never mind that they do more to fuel separation, constrain ideas and stunt progress – they just continue to rip away. Nice – that works, we should keep doing that (sarcasm intentional).

I will be the first to admit that there are things that I don’t like I have no problem naming them – The sexualization of today’s children (namely girls) being on top of the list. Ask most people who know me if I can be a snarky smart…well you know…and they will laugh and say, “duh!” I am opinionated and passionate. I believe in a right and a wrong and understand that the gray has to be muddled through. I understand that injustices must be named in order to be righted.

I get it – you can be belligerent. But can you be benevolent?

It makes me nervous when I realize I am dealing with a person about whom I am not sure of the answer. I tend to disassociate when I realize the answer is “no.”

Now, I will name drop. The wrongs of the world are a fact of life. Wasting time and energy raging against their existence is futile – not to mention soul sucking. These folks know that things can be better. They have decided to spend time and energy doing that. The wrongs of the world stir the belligerent in their soul. The goodness of their hearts harnesses that energy into positive creation. And isn’t that the highest and best use of our energy – not to mention soul filling?

Mothers Fighting for Others – Yes, I will mention them as often as I can. This group of fighters saw the injustice. They chose to focus on creating an environment of love, support and empowerment.  Can we rage against the injustice that brought these children to this place? Sure. But what about these children? They need light now – and that’s what MFFO provides. A light, a love, a hope.

What I want for them is simple. I want them to feel loved. I want them to feel safe and secure. I want them to go to school and grow up to be great women. What I want for them is what their Mothers would have wanted. That is it. It’s that simple.

Creative Coast – Those who don’t know Savannah wouldn’t believe half of it if we told you. Like any family, we have our issues – we are working on that. Creative Coast has done amazing things in feeding the diversity and beauty of our beautiful city. The mission statement reads:

To nurture the members of the Savannah community engaged in creative or innovative endeavors and to cultivate an environment in which they can thrive.

Nurture, cultivate, thrive – seriously? How can that NOT be exponentially more effective that continually attempting to condescend and destroy?

Dinner: A Love Story – I love to cook. I have a big family, a big job and little unscheduled time. Some days, getting dinner on the table from something other than a bag or a box might as well be as challenging as milking the cow, churning the butter, killing the chicken and picking the vegetables. But I want to. Lots of us want to.

Meet Jenny Rosenstrach. This chick gets it

DALS is a website devoted (mostly) to helping parents figure out how to get family dinner on the table. You can assume I know how busy you are and how many other things are ahead of “thaw chicken for dinner” on today’s to-do list. I will never fault you for firing up a frozen pizza when you can’t bear to turn on the stove. I will never judge you for not coughing up the extra bucks for the organic broccoli. And I will never promise you that family dinner is something that can be figured out in five easy steps!

Yeah, she could belittle parents like me as parasites attempting to kill the children we secretly loathe. Curse us working moms who put career ahead of family. That would mostly certainly encourage me to listen to anything she has to say, right! Yeah, right after I daydreamed about punching her in neck, I would go find some other cooking momma to appreciate.

TED – Hands down, this group is the best example of building up instead of tearing down. Will TED call out wrongs? You bet they will. Do all the TED folks agree with each other? Nope. Do I agree with every TED idea? Haha – for certain not. But agreement is not necessary for meaningful discussion of ideas. Sharing a value of mutual respect is. And these folks have that crafted to an art. From the website and repeated on their facebook page:

TED believes passionately in the power of ideas to change attitudes, lives and ultimately, the world. So TED is building a clearinghouse of knowledge and inspiration from the world’s most inspired thinkers, and also a community of curious souls to engage with ideas and each other.

Want to get belligerent – fantastic. Can’t wait to hear how that works out for you.

Want to do the really work of benevolence – fantastic. There is certain to be some effectual influence you are going to be proud of.

**Photo credit by Nancy McClure

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: , ,

Now that you are another year older…

July 2, 2007 by

’twas my birthday on Saturday 🙂 And we all know how much I LOVE birthdays. This one was no different.  Husband strategically placed a wonderful card, lots of kisses from the girls, full inbox of well wishes, myspace was hopping, and mom made dinner. Did I mention I had to work? Even that went well. Birthdays seldom disappoint.

My birthday is like everybody else’s traditional New Year’s.  I spend some time reflecting on the past year and planning the next. I never make resolutions. I used to develop expectations. This year I exchanged them for intentions (look for that explanation later in the week).

What went great:

  • We welcomed Morgan into the world!
  • Then I got off the baby weight 😉
  • I got comfortable in my writing skin and developed my blogs and website.
  • I became more involved in my community, both business and personal.
  • I have made some great friends.
  • My career is taking off.
  • I learned to create goals and think in a different way.

What didn’t go so great:

  • WHO CARES?!?! It’s my birthday! This is a whole new year.  I am a busy woman with no time to dwell on past mistakes, hurts, or missteps. I am here in the now, excited about tomorrow and having the time of my life!

That’s what it is all about after all. Recognizing that all the “errors” in life are only fatal if we let them be, hurtful if we carry them around, painful if we repeat them, and failures if we refuse to learn from them.

Happy Birthday!!

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: