Gratitude is ne'er too late: holiday tables and runners (of the road)

On a small brick wall beside me was this guy:

I was walking my dog while my children played on the park equipment nearby, and I noticed something move and looked up.  Like a member of the paparazzi, I followed him around, snapping photos.  Though he seemed nervous, he couldn’t help but pose and show me his tail feathers.

His kind I have seen before, you know; I live in New Mexico, and they are the state bird for a reason.

Have you seen one run?  It’s charming.  Two were sprinting across the dusty expanse near the glass recycling bin one day when I was pitching my myriad fragile receptacles in.  Watching those roadrunners fly (not literally) across the dirt - as if they were in a race and had left competitors in the dust, out of sight, far behind - made my day.  Maybe they were being chased by Wile E. Coyote.

Thanksgiving has come and gone, but I wanted to share that I’m thankful to live in the land of the roadrunner.

I’m also grateful that my father-in-law helped my husband and me build a grand table for our larger home that has room for the company of plenty of family and friends.  The new table in this friendly house is an entertaining dream come true. 

It’s pub height, so loved ones can stand or sit around it comfortably.

Of course, I wanted it pub height – taller than the original plans pulled from Ana White's website. 

Then I despised it for being so tall, as if it had chosen to be so against my will.  Without stools, it felt like a giant in my kitchen, devouring space while crowding the wall.  I argued with my husband on and off for weeks, practically demanding that he help me chop of its legs or at least bring me the ax.  He insisted that we would do nothing until we found stools for it; then, we would see!

It wasn’t until Halloween night when family came over for trick-or-treating, and all the adults stood around the behemoth with their sodas and pizza, gabbing, that I realized I had known all along what I was doing, and it was perfect.  The next day the extra-tall stools for it were delivered, and my table and I have had amicable interactions ever since.  It no longer sulks, pushed against the wall, out of place and under-purposed.  I no longer glare at it, wishing it were different.  My children sit at it every afternoon and evening, twisting on the swivel stools that look as if they were designed for it.

There are greater things to be grateful for post-Thanksgiving, beyond state birds and tall tables.

For one thing, I have the courage to keep writing even when it seems I may never be successful or have not worked hard enough yet or don't have the "right" ideas or the best methods of executing them.  And I am amazed by the support that my husband has and continues to give to me in my endeavors.  

More than anything I feel I am extraordinarily blessed to be surrounded by my family, so insanely, incalculably grateful to God for Matthew and our four children, Berto, Ana, Ella, and Daniel.  We are happy together in our new home.

And this year we spent Thanksgiving with extended family for the first time in many years, and in addition to our appreciation of the company of those loved ones, I'm thankful that I didn't have to make the turkey! (Mine always seems dry.)

Thanksgiving has passed.  This is my belated letter of gratitude.  I have done my duty. 

Come now, Advent.  Come Christmas.  My candles are lit.  I'm ready. 

The genesis and the realization

Last week I gathered up and organized manuscript pages from two different drafts of the book I mean to publish this year, putting them once again into numerical order and placing them, feeling fulfilled, in a neat stack on my humble writing desk.

I am done with my book.  And this organizing was a sign to my husband and to myself that I will no longer let my work litter the floor of our room and, more importantly, that I consider this story finished, as far as writing is concerned.

The desk at which I write and have worked for more than two months revising my story since we moved here is one my husband had before we were married 17 plus years ago and one that had its surface attacked by silver sharpie, wielded by the hands of our firstborn when he was little.  Its knobs fall off occasionally, and its varnish is worn away on the edges.  

But small and humble though it may be, it sits before two large windows with two more windows on its right hand side.  I have always wanted a desk with a view, and now I have it in our Albuquerque home, looking out over trees and flowers and bright blue southwestern sky each morning, dreaming and writing.

Those windows caused my manuscript to wander away a few pages at a time from their piles on the floor by my writing space; I often pushed the panes open to let in the breeze.  If I wasn't working from the pages that floated like miniature magic carpets stitched with words, I didn't mind that they seemed intent on leaving me for more exotic places.  Yet for weeks now it has been a huge mess, a reminder that work was ongoing, like some huge remodeling project: Pardon our Dust!

But now I am done.  And I wept tears of joy over my laptop.  I'm satisfied.  I have completed it.  It's finished.

My heart is in this story and has been since I first wrote a much shorter version of it for my high school creative writing class.  

I wasn't the star student of that class.  For one thing the teacher, a charismatic woman with long, wavy blond hair and a younger husband, often couldn't read my writing, even noting on one of my assignments, I bet this would be a pretty good story if I could read it.  I also struggled with dialogue and devising interesting plot lines.  But when I wrote this short story based on something that happened to my family when I was a kid growing up in Tennessee, the whole class applauded it and gave me wonderful encouragement and feedback.  Our "cool" teacher had that look on her face and tone in her voice that every creative person wishes to see and hear.  My story had touched her.

So I began writing the whole story, and from the beginning my dad and my writing mentor, author of the The Dragon at the End of Forever series, supported and encouraged me.

Wow, what a long road to fulfillment.  Over the years I have written many drafts of this novella, trying to improve it.  I didn't always succeed, for at least in one draft, I managed to completely destroy the tone of my tale while trying to satisfy my critics.  Early on, I sent off copies to publishers and received form letter rejections and personal rejections that addressed me by name in typed or handwritten particular notes of encouragement.  I saved those.

I sent this manuscript to my future husband before we met in person, and he thought it was a great story, and from then on he believed that I was a writer, believed in my dreams.  (And still does, though I have yet to bring in loads of money from my efforts.)

I've also, as I alluded to above, shared this beloved story of mine with a couple people who did not like it at all.  Even though it broke my heart, I did find nuggets of wisdom in their feedback, and I hope I have used those experiences to mold my novella into something greater.

A couple of years ago I read one of my earliest manuscripts - I went back to the beginning, one might say - to my children, and as they listened intently they revived long dormant hopes and plans.  Still, I wondered aloud as I read my own words, "How was I a better writer then than I am now?"

After my recent painstaking efforts, I know that is not true.  I have grown as a writer, and I know my story reflects that metamorphosis.

Now I will put it out there for everyone.  And it's a terrifying thing to let go of something held so dear, the genesis and realization of a dream, at last.  I could edit for years, tinkering endlessly with little words, and make excuses for not showing my heart, my work, to the world, but I have been guilty of telling my husband, "If I die young, please make sure my book is published.  Have my dad edit it, but make sure it's published."  So I know what I must do.

And I'm doing it.

I've done it! You can find my book, The Christmas List, on Amazon HERE.  It is a holiday story of love, family, struggle and faith based on real events.

Unanswered and Grateful

Gratitude can be found in unlikely places:

One can feel it while sitting in a chapel and listening to a fellow volunteer explain the Gospel parable to children, hoping to gain new insight, too.

One can experience it while watching bees hum around a honeysuckle bush that produced more reddish-orange blooms in a week than it has in a year.

One might find it in the simple yet challenging endeavor of winding pliable Eucalyptus branches around and through each other to form a wild wreath, however strange and ill-proportioned it may appear to visitors on your door.

Ironically, it can also be found in a change of circumstances that, on the surface, seems bad and unsettling.

And it can certainly be found, just like that classic Garth Brooks' song claims, in unanswered prayers.

Throughout this past summer and fall I thought the thing I really wanted was a new home for my family. I prayed diligently for God to guide us to the house that best suited us in the right location - not too far from work, church, schools and friends.

I walked into place after place and got discouraged. Often I didn't understand why I couldn't like a house. They were nice, but they elicited nothing from me save ambivalence. I kept praying, and - at last! - we encountered a house that felt immediately like home to me. I was so excited that I trembled as I texted my husband. It had the perfect rooms for our children, the ideal spaces to entertain friends and family. Unfortunately, it wasn't in the best location for schooling. We hesitated, and someone else made an offer while we were debating and sorting out the details.

Then another house, completely different from the first one we loved, came on the picture a few weeks later. It felt more like home than the first, seemed a better fit. As we quickly made our offer, however, other offers were coming in, and another family was blessed with that home.

So we toured more homes that made me feel uninspired, including one quirky one in a nice neighborhood in the right location that we didn't make an offer on because I was indifferent to its charms. Boy, was I being difficult!

Yet now I am grateful for the indecisiveness that resulted from my perplexing feelings.

Two days after Halloween we received some news that altered our circumstances; it could logically be perceived as an upsetting and unsettling change in our fortunes.

No longer could we continue to shop for houses. We needed to adjust.

My first emotions about this news were surprise and sadness at the conclusion of a long, important, and mostly fulfilling episode in our family's life. The news wasn't a complete shock, but it was of such a nature to make one take a step back to evaluate the future.

As for the house hunting? I was glad it was over! I was relieved!

It is always surprisingly refreshing to receive a slap in the face that reminds you of what's truly important to you in life. The larger, nicer home? Not so important to me it turns out. All that anxiety, all that discouragement for nothing. My faith is tried by silly things. Family, love, health and security - those really matter. Home is truly where the heart is. God didn't answer our persistent pleas, but now I understand why. Thank God for unanswered prayers. I cannot imagine the stress my family would feel at this juncture if we had gotten that big home we desired, that I desired for my family.

There was another feeling, too, that rushed in upon the heels of surprise, sorrow, and relief.

It was excitement. Perhaps a slightly inappropriate emotion to feel at the time, I definitely felt it. If the river suddenly changes course, one must anticipate adventure.

This change has come in Autumn, not the most auspicious time of year in which to face a drastic change in circumstances, but we have desired this kind of change for a while. It just came about in a more urgent way than expected, but I am resolutely - may God help me not to waiver - anticipating growth and opportunity to spring forth.

Lastly, though it is entirely secondary to more important considerations for my man and our kids, a most welcome opportunity for me followed the cease and desist of home shopping.

I got to write again.

I realized as I cried with joy the first day I earnestly played with words - not just spinning sentences in my head but actually putting paragraphs and ideas down - that no beautiful home could make me as happy as writing can, particularly writing on my book.

As I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving, these are the things for which I am personally grateful: unanswered prayers; another Thanksgiving and Christmas spent in the only home my kids remember; brave, new horizons, diverse opportunities, and wide open possibilities; and a chance to renew the pursuit of my passion.

May we all be blessed with a well-timed slap in the face occasionally in order to realize what we really value! And may we learn to, not just embrace, but squeeze the life out of change.

Moon River, dream maker

Sometimes I'm thoroughly entertained by the subject matter of my dreams, their landscape or the amazing detail and vivid color conjured up while I sleep. There are rare times when I truly appreciate how cohesive is the story told by my unconscious mind. I'm impressed!

I fall into dreaming very quickly, even when I nap. I remember quite a few of them when I awake in the morning. If he's very lucky, my husband will escape a retelling.

This morning I couldn't resist.

Last night I found myself in the large room of a university or public building erected in dreamland. The rich blue of its walls was such that I remember thinking I would love to see it in my dining room. On those deeply hued walls were sophisticated paintings in ornate frames. I had just been listening to a lecture on art or historical artifacts (a little vague, I know, but isn't the memory of all lectures so?) given by a lean older gentleman in dress shirt, tie and slacks. Getting up from a long, heavy table lined with wooden chairs, a group of us approached the doors to leave. It was then that I heard the music for "Moon River" playing over the speaker system. As I often do with beloved tunes, I began to boldly sing the lyrics aloud to match the melody.

It wasn't but a line or two before I heard a man's voice harmonizing with my own, and I turned and saw the gentleman lecturer behind his desk at the end of the room, singing and staring back at me behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He came around his desk and held out his arms in such a way, one extended high with flat palm and one making a lower curve, that I understood an invitation to dance with him. In a serendipitous move worthy of the silver screen, we met in the middle of the room and sang our duet as we danced to the haunting music. Smiling, he guided me around the large space.

Abruptly, as we glided about, his teeth began to fall out, and he quickly pushed them back in. At first I was startled, but I decided I didn't mind the awkwardness, not really; he was such a smooth dancer and so debonair, even gray-haired and careful in his movements as he was.

*************

I think my mind was making a connection of a strange sort in that charming little dream.

A couple of days ago, on Veteran's Day, I read a story of mine to my kids, one based on something that happened to my family at Christmas decades ago. It's a work my dad has encouraged me to look at again for years, but I've long been afraid to reexamine it, convinced it needed to be thoroughly retold, become more sophisticated than the simple tale it was.

The manuscript I read with my kids was one of my earliest ones, written before my marriage more than fifteen years ago. It was missing 50 pages, including the conclusion, but it surprised me. I had been a more capable writer than I remembered. I joked with my kids that I was a better writer then than I am now! How does that happen?

What gratified me the most, however, was how raptly my children, two of them already gifted writers, listened to this little book I began writing at 17 years old. My eldest son hushed his little brother repeatedly so that he could hear and give feedback periodically, and my older daughter went and retrieved a favorite pillow to hug as she snuggled with me and the tale progressed.

I had to contend with a few tears - my own. Reading details based on the struggles my family experienced during our lives in Tennessee overwhelmed me, more so because I had not really thought about those hardships in years and the great love and faith that carried us through them.

*********************

What was the connection to my little dream? Who was the old gentleman with whom I danced?

He represents my story, the one my husband read before we were even engaged, the ending of which he loved and perhaps made him more willing to fall for me.

It has come around to waltz with me after these many years, pulling me into the romance of following a dream whose strength and charm I had forgotten. It's got some loose teeth, yes, but I believe once more that wherever this story is going, I'm going its way.

It's where my heart has always has been.

Short thoughts in the last of September...

Can you believe such a huge flower can blossom from such a little cactus? I've been wanting to share that wonder for a while with someone. This one grows in our front yard, and we've witnessed it sprout a tiny fur ball from its side every so often. Just a few short days later, the fur ball has grown into an incredibly long, hairy stem with a tight bud at the end. We check on it regularly, anticipating the morning when we'll walk out and be greeted by an enormous, pristine blossom. It's a marvel we have yet to grow weary of.

************

I recently had the opportunity to read the manuscript of my dad's latest book, Darkness Manifest, that will be out mid-October. Dad claimed it was a draft, but the text was very clean (as in, not rough draft) and flowed so well; I'm a little skeptical. If it was a draft and not the final version, I told him, than I really wished I could write as easily as he does. I finished the nearly two hundred pages he sent me in less than a day. Considering that it is about Dracula (as this character was known once), is suspenseful, and the story takes off to dangerous territory immediately with "history" thrown in for such souls as myself, it's not surprising that I ate it up. I'll admit there were a few scenes toward the middle that made me nauseous and caused mysterious pains in my arms (I don't even like reading about blood and certainly not people who no longer have it), but I went through a slight depression when I reached the end of what he'd sent, feeling deprived without the conclusion.

Dad's Kelven's Riddle epic fantasy series is selling very well on Kindle, and is in the top #500 for epic fantasy in that format. And he just released a sixth book this summer called Doomtalon: The Legend of Ayrfel, a quick, enjoyable fantasy read that stands alone.

Bravo, Papa! You know how long I have loved Kelven's Riddle. I've discussed all my favorite scenes from all five books with you and Mama at different times, and it makes me amazingly happy that others are discovering it and Doomtalon, and more and more each day. You deserve it! You have worked hard for years, been diligent in your craft even when it was difficult to find the time to write, and you are now officially not just my mentor, but my hero. I am so immensely proud of you.

************

This beautiful time of year called fall, when at least the mornings are cool and refreshing in this desert town, makes me nostalgic for trick-or-treating, watching the leaves change in Tennessee, and spending time with families in the Moms' Group that began at my church when my daughter Analisa was not even a year old. 

The children in this group have known each other since they were babies; some of them are in middle and high school now! The parents have babysat for each other in emergencies, sponsored each other's kids for confirmation or stood in for absent family members. The families have celebrated many birthdays, holidays and baptisms together. Many of our children have continued to grow up near one another in this desert town, though some have moved away, and I thank God that my kids have these friends far and wide that they may never have found or known if our community hadn't existed.

I become wistful sometimes, because, getting busier as the kids get older, the families don't see each other as often as we once did. But Autumn is that time when we reconnect as Halloween approaches. May we never grow too far apart!

*************

The other day when my husband was pulling a splinter out of our six-year-old's hand, I bent down and kissed my Daniel, rubbed his blonde head, and thought with immense gratitude, This one is still little, thank God. He's still our little boy. 

Those days have not yet passed us by. We have many more moments to treasure with each of our kids. I hope we will always be mindful of that.

Perspective

During the past two days I have not behaved nicely. I may have yelled at my husband and cussed mildly but loudly a few times during an afternoon phone conversation. I may have slammed down the phone receiver after speaking to my husband in the late morning the next day - and that after pronouncing that I loved him. I may have been a polite witch - but still somewhat of a witch - to the checker at the grocery store, because I was in a hurry, had to bag my own groceries and didn't get my coupons applied.

I call it Vincent Van Gogh syndrome. (I'm sorry, Vincent.) 

I threw a creativity tantrum.

Oh, my tantrum really wasn't creative. I didn't yell, complain and gesture wildly while standing on my head and juggling balls with my feet. I didn't write elegant couplets about my disappointments. And there was zero oil paint in this house with which to make a permanent statement - all in bold strokes and colors - about my raging discouragement to hang on the wall, reminding me of my artistic pain.

The tantrum was directly related to my creative endeavors, though. Here was the setup:

Last week I wrote a little post for this blog, just a little theme that had been percolating in my head and one I had been planning to expound here for some time. I didn't really think people would like it all that much, but it was from my heart.

When I saw the next day that it had gotten many hits quickly (very relative, I assure you), I was taken aback. The thought came to me again: I really have no clue what will engage people and entice them to like and share my work.

It was a pleasant and welcome surprise, mind you. I had not worked all that hard on the piece AND I had considered not finishing the post or ever publishing it, uncertain about its potential to say anything illuminating.

Then, this week, I had a post published at a wonderful site created in honor of the great humorist Erma Bombeck.

I had worked really hard on this second post periodically for two weeks: editing and revising, printing out in hard copy and reading silently and out loud, marking up, recycling old drafts and printing again in improved form. The idea was something I had written out a few years ago, but I thought it needed much polishing and there were new threads of experience to weave into the old idea, so I worked and worked and worked on this thing until I felt it was as good as I could make it.

Granted, I did wonder a few times whether it should take me that long to complete a work of such few words.

When the site published it, the lovely lady who founded and runs that site praised the post, telling me that it was very well written and right on the mark.

My hopes were high when I shared it on Facebook (Are there other forms of social media? I wish I cared.)

But this post over which I had labored so faithfully was not well-received at all. It got very few likes and only one share. (Thank you, Vinca. You support me a lot, and I appreciate it.)

Thus began the torture. Why didn't people like it? Was it too harsh? I'm just telling the truth with slight exaggeration, and I wouldn't really hit my kids with a rubber mallet, you know. Was it too similar to some of my other pieces? Is it that I selfishly utilize social media too rarely, usually only when dealing with aspects of my writing or posting pictures? Were people just sick of my writing, period, because that earlier post involving less effort had been shared and viewed just a few days previously?

But, then, if they liked that one, why wouldn't they want to read another from me? Why?

Well, that brought me back, you see, to the only answer: most people who read it just didn't like my newest humor post. I wish I knew why.

And so I came down from my creative high into the suffocating mud of self-doubt, discouragement and childish resentment.

Honestly, I am a writer. I'm not fooling here. (Never back down from proclaiming who you are, I say - even if you have no proof.) I know how to write. I just don't know how to be successful at it.

And the truth is, I may not be good enough to be successful.

And when I think of that, when I get into these foul moods, all I want to do - as I told my husband and kids yesterday evening - is crawl into a hole and carve wooden figures just so I can throw them at the wall.

I'm not going to lie here. I cried. I called out to God for direction in a silly manner. I drank wine and trembled. I made heartless jokes and comments at my own expense. Last night I threw a tantrum.

And I asked my husband some important stuff that's been bothering me. What if I never contribute financially to this family? What if I try and try and try for years, and I get nowhere; I never succeed in a worldly sense? What if he gets to retirement age, and I have not earned a single dime through my own efforts - won't he be disappointed in his wife, view her as a perpetual ball and chain around his ankles?

What if he continues to succeed and I'm just a big failure?

No.

He replied that he knew I would do anything to help our family monetarily if needed. I would work at McDonald's if necessary.

"Yes, I would," I acknowledged. "I would convince someone to give me a job. I'd probably just clean other people's houses. A job for which I am the most qualified," I moaned, burying my face in a paper towel.

My husband Matthew pointed around at our children sitting nearby and watching Mama's come apart. It's not about jobs, about my career or yours, my husband chided me yesterday.

"This is good," he stated firmly. And his finger pointed around again to our beautiful children's serious faces. "This is all good. So I don't ever want to hear the word failure come from your lips. Because this is all that matters. This is a success. As long as this is good, we're all good."

Yes, thank God. I know true, lasting meaning is all about giving and receiving love. I do understand this.

Kerry Egan, a hospice chaplain, related in a CNN blog post just what people talk about before they die:

"...people talk to the chaplain about their families because that is how we talk about God. That is how we talk about the meaning of our lives."

If I found out I was going to die in a few weeks, I know my first thought would not be about what I did or did not accomplish with my writing. It would be about my incredible children and my loving, steady husband, about my mom and dad and siblings, about all the relatives and friends I didn't get to spend enough time with. That is who, not what, I would think about.

But I will continue writing. Matthew told me he wants me to do whatever will make me happy. Though sometimes I thank God for the desire and the gift and other times it makes me miserable to work for nothing, I can't stop doing it without some loss of identity.

So I'll keep writing, and maybe...just maybe...I'll start working on that mystery series I want so badly to create instead of waiting and longing for the perfect idea to come and perch on my brain in a supernatural way.

More importantly, I'll try. I will. I'll try very hard to keep my perspective.

Because my brilliant, kind husband, our four incredible children and all the love we have to give in this world is all that really, truly matters.

Know Thyself

I don't know myself at all. Not one bit. Could somebody introduce us? I'm so elusive, so capricious.

This is a cruel discovery to be made in the middle of my life. I wish I had known it from the beginning. Not sure what I would have done with that knowledge....can be so indecisive.

It took all my precious children abandoning the home front for school and bigger adventures to wake me up in order to recognize the stranger in the mirror.

How do I not know myself? Let me count the ways.

1. I thought I wanted an immaculate house.

HA!

Turns out, no. No, I don't. Not nearly bad enough, anyway. I have more time now to pursue and maintain a well-organized and spotless home, but cleaning a house isn't fulfilling in the least. It doesn't bring joy, and, trust me, it never stays that way.

Don't get me wrong. I work hard around here. I do most of the menial jobs including taking out trash, but as my son Berto told me not long ago, "Get a life, Mom." He meant it kindly, but he most certainly did not mean that I should clean more. He was encouraging me to pursue other things entirely, because it already seems to my kids that all I do is clean, clear out and straighten up.

2. I thought I wanted peace and quiet.

Somebody rescue me....from ME!

Turns out that peace and quiet are unsuitable companions if one has a rebellious, disgruntled mind well-endowed with imagination. Peace has left the building. Quiet is a vicious, gnawing rat.

3. I thought I wanted to write a lot more.

Guess what? Shhhhhh. Come closer. Writing is work, too. And it requires you to wear your happy, industrious pants. Well, I blame peace and quiet for stealing my happy pants, so I was too petulant to write much. I barely wrote more this year at all when I think of all the opportunities I should have had if not for my bad temper.

Writing - writing anything as well as I can - gives me a high not unlike a mother feels after giving birth naturally. If I could have just pushed through, ordered my bad moods out of the way, I would have felt much better most of the time.

Will and I need to have a talk about teamwork.

But, hey, I'm writing now.

4. I thought all I wanted to do was stay home.

I have always been a homebody. I remember my sister Vinca visiting me just after I had my oldest daughter Ana. We only had one vehicle then, and if I didn't walk someplace pushing babies in a double stroller, home was sweet. Vinca asked me how I could stand it, but I had never minded.

Even while growing up, my older siblings were out working in the woods with my parents rolling grapevine wreaths, and I was home cleaning. Of course, home back then was on 98 acres of green, rolling land with woods and a creek, so it was greatly prized and smelled like honeysuckle and rich earth.

Home now is a great little place in the city with a fair backyard in which my family plays baseball and soccer games on weekends, but it is not enough anymore when my husband and children are away so much.

I am craving adventure for myself or at least new friends and more exercise. I feel left behind in a special cocoon I have made, and I want to struggle out of it. That means I have to abandon the fear that I will be spending too much money, time, or pleasure on myself. I have to convince myself that I am worth it.

But am I? Yes? Shesh, I sound like such a baby, already so blessed! Perhaps I'll just go and watch It's A Wonderful Life again.

5. I thought I wanted to pluck my eyebrows and dye my hair.

Okay, this one is trivial, but it shows I don't know my own mind even where it comes to my appearance.

I began to "shape" the eyebrows  when I was thirty-five. Now, I'm approaching thirty-seven, and I don't want to anymore. My eyebrows are somewhat unruly, artfully imperfect, but I have decided that each hair is precious. And anyhow, I hate false eyelashes and fake nails, have never yet dyed my hair - though I was tempted not long ago to abandon my lovely chestnut color to go blonde - so why train naturally errant brows?

**************************

My children have just two weeks left of school, and now that I have finally realized how aloof I am, I have so little time to try and forge an acquaintance with me. Perhaps I should make a bucket list of sorts: 10 team-building activities Hillary wants to do with herself before her children get out of school. There's still time for adventure surely.

Next year, believe me, I am going to have a game plan. I'm not going to enter into blind solitude again. I'm going to learn to flamenco dance or take guitar lessons so I can play in local coffee shops. I'm going to get involved with some creative group of people, find my fellow crazies.

And I am - I truly am - going to write a lot more. This I know for sure about myself: it would do my heart good.

Berto, soccer star and writer

I have felt sad now for a while and for many different reasons, some profound and some illusory.

Yes, I know that's a brilliant beginning.

At any rate last week was a rough week and so I didn't write one bit. A successful writer once said that a writer can't help but write - especially when depressed. But I find that is not so with me. I avoid it, in a slump. Perhaps the fact that I didn't have a play date with words made me sadder than I had to be, though. I think it very probable.

The definite highlight of that week was an evening spent with my son Berto, watching his school soccer game during which he scored his first goal of the season with an assist from his friend Danny. Danny was taking a penalty shot, and Berto saw an opportunity and begged, whispering and gesturing, for Danny to pass it back to him. Being a good friend and teammate, Danny did, and Berto made a beautiful shot high in the goal over the wall of opposing players.

We went out to dinner afterwards, just my son and I. Of course, it was semi-fast food, but what a treat for us to spend an evening together.

Then I had the honor of taking him to an awards ceremony for narrative, poetry and essay writing in his school district. Berto won first prize for essay in 7th grade. I was so thrilled to see his name on the first line in the program that I kept grinning and embracing him until he whispered, "Mom, I have friends here."

When he was called up to receive his ribbon, certificate, and the commemorative anthology of featured writing, I could have kicked myself for forgetting to bring a camera. (Only for the thousandth time in my life, such is my technology handicap and prejudice that I cannot even recall it's there for my use!) I hadn't even thought to ask for his Dad's smartphone, so like an un-evolved ape, I held up my son's simple phone but couldn't figure out how to snap a shot, and so had to nod my head stupidly to imply I captured the moment when in fact I caught it with nothing but my poor faulty eyes and brain. Only later did Berto explain that his basic phone was not a touchscreen.

We were going to sneak out after the essay portion since it was a school night, but I decided against it and explained to Berto that I thought we should stay to support and applaud all the writers. It gave me a thrill to see these young writers walk across the stage, to see the expression of their different personalities - some in heels with coiffed hair, some in bow ties and dress slacks, some still supporting the grunge scene, it seemed - and to hear their different writing voices.

The parents were asked to stand up at the end, so that their support and nurturing of these young creative people could be recognized. I shook my fists in the air like a prize fighter until Berto knocked them down. But, hey, even in his Mother's Day card he recognized me as his editor.

Mid-thirties crisis

I’m going through a mid-thirties crisis.

My youngest child left me for kindergarten, my oldest started middle school, and my husband got two promotions in as many years.

I’ve been left behind, in a special limbo that belongs to stay-at-home mothers. Here I am with only the dog, the insuperable laundry and my confused thoughts for company, my ambitions littered about the floor with the dirty socks and the junk mail.

When my son bravely left home for the tot lot, he took my excuses and, it would seem, my purpose in life with him. Since that sad day I’ve been contemplating all the basic skills I haven’t yet mastered at thirty-six years of age.

Take cooking, for instance. My family has eaten the same rotating meals for the last decade, supplemented with five-dollar pizzas and frozen chicken nuggets. If they’re lucky, I introduce a new meal (usually featuring ground beef and starch) once a year.  

As if I didn’t have enough guilt over this, my husband has taken to watching Master Chef Junior, causing me to be depressed because I can’t smoke mussels, flambé a dessert or infuse poultry like nine-year-olds. I probably couldn’t win Master Chef Baby against a bunch of cranky infants throwing pureed vegetables and cheerios together on a high chair before naptime.

And my home? It still looks like Vikings attacked and pillaged; wild animals reclaimed the land; and I hired preschoolers with ADD to decorate. 

There are more modern skills I lack, too. I don’t know how to “pin”. When I take a selfie, I look like I have a horse face: prominent nose, wide jaw, tiny ears. I can’t express myself well in 140 characters, and while on Facebook I’m overwhelmed with regrets that I didn’t take cuter pictures of my kids to garner the  likes they deserve.

Perhaps most tragic of all, I don’t even know how to zumba like all my friends. I’m not even totally clear on what “Zumba” is. Spell check seems to think it’s a cross between the rumba and a zombie, or perhaps a zombie doing the samba…

And I’d really like to say that this crisis is not one bit about aging, but more and more these past few years I’m coming face to face in the mirror with my nemesis:  unsightly girl. She shows up whenever I am sleep-deprived or having a messy cry or experiencing bad lighting. I’ve had to invest in expensive makeup, face creams, vitamins and quality shampoos just to bribe her to stay away. What’s next? Monthly manicures?  Botox? Laser vein treatment? I’m like the two-faced girl in that Seinfield episode “The Strike” who appears pretty or hideous depending on the shadows.

I mean if I could at least look like I have it together! Alas, my slender brows refuse to be groomed into lush perfection, and I can’t put my hair up without the aid of a scrunchy. I also blithely wasted years of my life not realizing that there were proper techniques for applying makeup, including such a thing as blending. Instead of a chic smoky eye with vintage red lip, I’m the wrinkly raccoon with two lazy eyes that got into the Kool-Aid.

Thankfully, my husband and four kids have been very supportive in my crisis. They assure me that I’m youngish, pretty and successful with coupons. That I might be a famous writer before I die. That I could join Pinterest and actually learn how to make Fettuccine Alfredo or smoke mussels.

I think I’ll listen to them while there’s still time.

My mid-life crisis could be just around the corner. 

Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop

Hello, strangers.

I say strangers, because I took an unplanned sabbatical last week while working through a little depression. 

Actually, it was more like a sharp descent into a steep, lonely canyon where I tended sheep and sang plaintive cowboy songs to myself in order to retain sanity, because the sheep weren't talking.

That whole steep-walled canyon wandering began when I returned from the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop all high on inspiration and then looked at this blog the next day and saw how few people actually read my stuff. 

Geronimo!

Stats are the devil.

I was so exhausted the Sunday I flew home that I didn't discover I was truly home until the next day when I realized I had no clue whether the kids had food for lunch, clothes to wear to school, or where my own comfy sandals could be found. I had to wear high heels to drop them off.

My intention was to write about the conference right away, believe me. And I would like to say that I learned a lot while there, and I did - if one is talking about learning to laugh continuously for three straight days. There were so many stand-up comedians and humor writers leading the sessions - Alan Zweibel (an original Saturday Night Live writer), Wendy Liebman, Kathy Kinney (Mimi from The Drew Carey Show), Gina Barreca, Elaine Ambrose - that I only got a break from working out my abs through laughter when it was time to eat. I laughed and then ate to build up strength for more hilarity, laughed and ate. By Saturday night, the last of the conference, I was clutching my belly during Leighann Lord's brilliant keynote and exclaiming to my new friends Jeanine and Lou, "I can't laugh anymore! It hurts!"

You know I must have had a great time watching and listening to all those comedy pros, because when my husband came to bed Sunday night, startling me awake, I sat up and demanded, "Who's on stage?"

Like every message in life, what I heard at this workshop about the creative process, particularly the comic creative process, was not new, but it was said in an engaging and often hilarious way. It was, as the writer Elizabeth Gilbert points out in her book Big Magic, authentic. So what did I hear? Important stuff. How do I know? Because I have heard it from many successful and diligent people before.

Just write - every day. A writer writes! "If you're a writer, you can't help writing - especially when you're depressed!" - Amy Ephron 

Writing is a lonely process. Collaborate when you can. Get together with other writers.

Success is in creating what wasn't there before, in the completion of the work. "As a writer what you remember is not the product but the process." - Alan Zweibel. Once your work leaves you, "it's in the hands of other gods", as Zweibel said. You can't predict the response once you put it out there. As Wendy Liebman said, all you can control is the jokes, how you present yourself, how you feel and how prepared you are.

Persevere, follow your passion, be prepared for your big break. Have whatever your 1100 jokes are. (When Lorne Michaels asked Zweibel for an example of his work, Zweibel handed him a book of 1100 jokes.)

Books are written a sentence at a time. According to Zweibel who wrote a book with Dave Barry, by the 20th page your characters will start telling you what they want to do and say.

"Comedy comes from the same place as pain, touch your soul," says Zweibel. Pain breeds humor. "There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt." - Erma Bombeck.  Humor is redemptive, makes stories ours, something we can control, Gina Barreca pointed out.

Be specific.

"Every story you tell has the same message." - Judy Carter, author of The Comedy Bible. You're saying it the way only you can say it.

Connect with others to get feedback and support. Have "agenda-free" friends. Friendships are work, too. Work at them; it's worth it.

How would I sum up what I took from the conference? Joy, the kind you find in a community, your tribe. Sure, there were some moments when I took risks that didn't work out, like reading one of my pieces in front of a workshop and hearing crickets instead of laughter, then sitting there with a dumb smile on my face while others found kind things to say about my story. Or telling Judy Carter, who has had a very successful career in comedy and has written several successful books on the subject, on the shuttle back to the hotel that she has "a gift". Well, I never have been intimidated by fame or felt that my lack of it should keep me from complimenting a talented speaker!

At any rate, I learned from this grand experience at Erma Bombeck's alma mater, The University of Dayton, that I need to find a tribe of creative types here at home in Arizona, because the energy I feel and absorb while around other writers is powerful and fortifying. With all my heart I thank every speaker, presenter, faculty member, comedian and fellow attendee who made the 2016 workshop so magical. A special thank you to Teri Rizvi who founded it and who supports many writers' efforts through its website, humorwriters.org.

And thank you to my husband Matthew who at this juncture in my journey is the one who pays me to write and who paid my way to this amazing conference without complaining even once about the cost or inconvenience.

I can't wait for Erma 2018!

High-heeled sneakers

For the longest time I have labored under the belief that all I needed to reach my full potential was peace and quiet. I begged for peace and quiet. I extolled the virtues and possibilities of being left alone in my peace and quiet.

Now that it has finally arrived, me, myself and I are ready to strangle each other.

Perhaps that's because we're watching too many cop shows while folding the laundry.

It has been a surprise to come face to face with myself at last only to find that I don't know me as well as I thought I did.

Truly, instead of getting down to my life's ambitions, I just started to expose my shortcomings in timely fashion, pulling at all the loose threads with obsessive attention. I even minutely criticized my reflection.

I needed a purpose. Yes, yes, I have my writing and volunteering and all that, but - in addition - should I consider becoming a private detective who specializes in pet disappearances? Sell homemade pastries in the local library cafe? Start a 80's rock cover band and hold concerts in my carport on Friday nights?

Instead I rediscovered shopping.

For years I assumed that I didn’t like to shop, that I loathed it in fact. Now I realize I just hated shopping with children. Shopping for clothes has become utterly enticing now that there are no little people running down strangers with carts, begging for donuts where donuts aren’t sold, opening dressing room doors when I’m less than half naked, and playing hide-and-seek with sticky fingers in clothes racks.

At this point, it’s difficult to tell how far this shopping thing might go as a kind of therapy until I find myself again, but for now I feel a strange compulsion to supplement my wardrobe with articles that make me feel like a rock star or at least have “rock” in the brand name.

I bought my first pair of skinny jeans – the kind that feel like they’re relocating my kneecaps, suffocating my thighs, and are just one step away from those deconstructed things.  And I spent more than 50 bucks on a pair of high-heeled sneakers. Yes, high-heeled sneakers. (I’m still looking for neon leg warmers and a hot pink leotard to go with them.)

My new wardrobe has me seriously thinking about that rock band. We’ll name ourselves the Radical Thirty-Something Rebels; I’ll dye my hair blonde and invest in a pleather dress.

I would ask my friends to play in my band, but they’re far too sensible. Moms, too, they don’t seem to be applying black eyeliner, squeezing into skinny jeans and layering funky jewelry merely to drop the kids off at school.

But until I can become a celebrated writer or pet detective, it's all I’ve got.

The struggles of a humor writer

For a while there - not long ago at all - I felt like my creative aspirations were dust in the wind, at least where my humor writing was concerned. Primarily, my outlook was all wrong. I was attempting to take some real crises I was having and make them funny, but I wasn't in the mood.

I spent weeks working on and off on a few pieces, but I couldn't get the tone or flow right on any of them. They had no punch. It got to the point where I was chewing obsessively on petty words, paring paragraphs, and cutting and pasting content back and forth between posts.

Finally, I decided to write a little about my creative struggle here, and quite suddenly inspiration came back to roost. Not only was I able to finish pieces I had been working hard on with very little success, I wrote two more - one of which I thought needed very little editing.

Well, the one I thought needed little editing just got rejected. Such is life. Perhaps I should revisit my original judgment on its readiness for the online stage. And of course I will, because after asking for insight I received some constructive feedback on why the site declined to publish it. I'm grateful to know it was considered.

One of the former pieces I had been fiddling with for what seemed like far too long - perhaps a few months - I submitted this month to a prestigious humor contest. I was terrified that I would have nothing worth entering but was determined to jump in the pool. Whatever was least dreadful at deadline would simply have to be my submission. In the end - after inspiration found me again - it really only retained the bare bones of the original idea, but I was proud of and pleased with it. I believed I had finally made my crisis funny. My hopes? Very slim. But I'm not embarrassed. The past winners are hilarious and very talented.

A third piece just got published at Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop. It was inspired by a visit from my sister Annie over my birthday weekend. With her permission - and giving her credit, of course - I ran with her idea of "anger pies", Extra inspiration was provided by a recent visit with my in-laws at Christmas.

That last post is called Family Pains. Let me know what you think of it here, if you like. Can you relate? If you enjoy it, any shares would be appreciated.

Resolve

I think my phone is going to leave me someday.

I turn it off for church and leave it off for days. When I finally power it on, I forget sometimes to adjust the volume from silence, so I soon misplace it and can't find it. I drop it often and don't even apologize, because I could care less. I leave it at home by its lonesome while I'm out and about. I let it die from sheer neglect and don't notice til it's too late.

Phones are just not my thing. I wish it could understand.

Sheesh. I'm cruel. But I really don't like to be disturbed. Unless it's my husband or my kids.

The way I feel about my phone is how I feel about a lot of things come January. Every January as other bright and energetic people are making resolutions, excited for the opportunities of a new year, I am stuck in the blahs, ala Bill Murray in Groundhog Day:

"Blah-ba-blah-ba-blah....there is no way this winter is EVER going to end..."

It's not that I feel that way about winter exactly. I am fortunate enough to live where spring usually begins flirting with us soon after New Year's. It's not about winter at all. Nor do I think it is entirely about post-Christmas blues or travel fatigue. I just feel the blahs about anything that doesn't involve puttering around my home doing simple tasks and enjoying simple things and doing virtually nothing innovative or exciting.

During Christmastime I was off Facebook, email and NPPKS for over a week. The longer I stayed away, the more I wanted to run away. I didn't feel the urge to wish anyone a merry or happy or jolly anything unless it could be done in person. And I didn't feel guilty about not getting online to write, because I had written a short reflection just before Christmas. My email, I knew, was collecting junk faster than an old white guy in overalls with a farmhouse just off the highway. I really didn't want to view that mess!

It turned into an avoidance game, you see, and I was pretty sure that I was winning. I lived in a temporary blissful world where life was soothingly simple and old-fashioned. I had long conversations and laughed with family. I ate fudge and gingerbread cookies. I read. I baked. I did housework. I played games with my kids.

All without a computer.

But it couldn't last forever.

Because then I began to get worried. This pattern repeats each new year; my January malaise affects my writing. I get the blahs quite acutely there, and it's enervating. After fighting through December to carve out time for it, resenting the busyness of that month, I simply don't feel like writing come the New Year. I don't make resolutions, but even my steady goals elicit no greater reaction from me than an, Eh...bleh...maybe next month!

What's a writer to do? Stop writing? Surely, it's not good to be simply a housewife and stay-at-home mom? I always ask myself a little too earnestly (as if anyone ever could be simply anything!). Could I possibly get to all those photo projects, make elaborate meals every night, plant an expansive vegetable garden and maintain an immaculate, clutter-free house if I did?

No. I couldn't do that.

I had to get back in the saddle. And so I did.

Here I am, world!

Now I really must go find my phone.

Freewrite of sorts: Letter to Papa, because I can

Dear Papa,

It's been really, unexpectedly busy lately.

I know you're probably wondering why I'm not writing more, Papa....well, unless you're so busy writing your book that you haven't noticed my pitiful output of words. That's probably the case, so I'm good.

You told me to treat this writing business like a job and not to piece meal my time away. What you told me not to do, I did. I gave away a ton of my time. The kids' school needed someone to do copier pool this week, and the better part of three days I've spent there. Eventually while waiting for that mightier-than-thou copier to spit out 3,020,500,019 copies, I realized I should be using the wait time to write, so I scrawled on a scrap piece of paper. What I wrote wasn't very good, though. And the copier kept jamming and moaning, asking for more toner and begging for coffee, lunch, and nap breaks and just in general being an attention hog. We now have a toxic relationship, that copier and me. I hope I don't see it again for a while, but I'm not betting on it.

Oh, funny aside: that copier can copy several pages at once into a packet and staple each one, but I didn't know that, so I copied a bazillion two-sided pages for a teacher, and then had to sort them into individual packets by page number and staple each one by hand. 75 packets of several pages each, it took me a couple hours. Not very efficient of me.

Also, your grandkids have been terrible stinkers on and off. Berto is stressed out in middle school, and snapped at me all the way home yesterday afternoon about television and homework, mad because his siblings got a half day, and he didn't. Daniel throws fits, demands stuff, and tells me I'm mean for getting after him for treating me like carp. Gabriella smarts off. Ana is fine besides putting too much pressure on herself. I do alot for those little rapscallions; they should appreciate me more instead of complaining about what I pack for their lunches.

I still want to write that mystery novel, but I'm going to check out a book at the local library on how to write a mystery novel first. I never had your gift with plots, and it would probably be best if things happened in this book instead of everybody milling around and talking to each other or getting lost in their own heads.

Right now I have three humor posts I'm working on, but I may have to ask your help with editing. I can't seem to wrap any of them up or get the tone or punch of certain lines just right. I would really hate to lose my momentum there, and that's what I fear: that I can't perform again, that I'll backslide.

Annie's visit this past weekend was wonderful. She was awesome with the kids, even letting them each paint a part of her face and buying them craft supplies for Halloween costumes. They'll never forget that! I hope she got all that paint out of her hair. We went out to eat twice in two days which amazed the kids, because they're so used to their parents being cheap.

Annie gave me a wonderful gift. I'm sure she told you about it, but I was shocked when I saw what it was: an original Beatles Abbey Road record. I couldn't wait to listen to it, and I'm also thinking about getting a really cool frame for it, so I can stare at it regularly on the wall. "Oh Darling!" is on there and "Octopus's Garden" and "Here Comes the Sun" - do you remember when Freddy died, and I listened to that one all the time? Annie gave me some of our childhood back; we used to listen to that record constantly together. It was my favorite. I even called that beautiful maple in the field on the north side of the house my Abbey Road tree, remember?

(Why is it, Papa, that my siblings always give me such amazing gifts, and I just really stink at giving them something incredible back? I never seem to find the personal and memorable treasures they do. They spoil me, and I don't deserve it at all. Maybe I'm amazed.)

One last thing about Annie's visit: I bet you'll never guess what we did? We argued and debated and almost ran for our boxing gloves. And guess what we did after that? We made up, and we laughed our heads off about how we are as a family (it all comes from your side, you know). We were drinking some Muscadine wine, the kind that Vinca introduced me to and that tastes like those muscadine grapes we used to pick in the lane, and Annie kept cracking me up by imitating how our family is when we're together like some big, crazy Mediterranean family as in Big, Fat Greek Wedding. She was witty in describing how we take someone else's business and rub it into our faces (It's not uh my business? It's not uh my business?! There! *rubs hands all over face* Now it's my business!), and how we leave our business on the other's doorstep, waiting for them to step in it. I'm starting to laugh just thinking about it. Matthew couldn't survive the debating/fisticuffs phase, so he missed out on the awesome after party. I think he goes into a temporary coma induced by exposure to overly emotional people.

Well, now you know what I've been up to. Oh, that reminds me; I want to write a humor post about our crazy family antics during reunions, too. I might have to steal some of Annie's material; I hope she doesn't mind.

I promise to work harder on my writing. When Danny first went to school, I was beside myself, craving company in the silence, and now I just wish I had the time and the quiet back once more. We always want what we don't have in the moment, huh?

Give Mama a big hug and kiss for me and tell her I miss her and often wish I could talk to her about "woman issues". She's such a calming influence, just like Matthew, Dave and Keith - haha! We really need them, all of us passionate folk.

Love,

Hoodoo

Short, Mostly Unedited: To Fulfill or not to Fulfill

After just over two weeks at home in this house most of the day by my lonesome, I have come to a slightly greater understanding of myself and what I need as a person.

I need purpose, and I need fulfillment, whatever the heck that really means.

All I really know thus far is that housework is not fulfilling for me. I really thought it could be. I have wanted a clean, orderly house for so long. But, nah. It really does nothing for me to do, fold and put away loads of laundry all in ONE day. It really does nothing for me to trash a bunch of old receipts, recycle papers and get all of the trash out of the house on trash day. I have yet to get a high from really mopping my floors for the first time in months or maintaining an orderly, clean kitchen.

Housework is not fulfillment.

Yesterday, I spent the day folding laundry while listening to a self-help podcast. That is not fulfillment. That is desperation. Dangerous desperation. In fact, no one should ever read, listen to or watch self-help media unless they have a good friend or selfless family member sitting next to them who can hit them up side the head every few minutes while warding off their own desire to doze. Yes, I got my laundry all taken care of while in the throes of other people's problems, but I also got a severe case of soap-opera head during which I imagined I had, have had or will have all the problems discussed by the expert and his woeful guests.

That is not fulfillment. That whiffs of paranoia.

But I don't just want to abandon this house. I do not believe a job would necessarily be fulfillment. Working outside the home just so we can have extra money has never appealed to me. I am not money-driven, and a job just to pass the time would not be fulfillment for me or my family.

My husband - good, steady man that he is - says he wants me to do what will make me happy. My dad suggested I write a book. My big sister Vinca advocated volunteering more and catching up on my sewing.

I don't sew (well), but I would love to write a mystery novel. Though I have read dozens of them, for some reason I still feel ill equipped to write one. But I need a challenge. I need a new adventure, and that would be a great escape, something to test my mettle, my fortitude as a writer.

Volunteering? Absolutely, I should give some of my hours to helping others. I did in fact volunteer at my kids' school this week, and I was struck by just how important the work is that is done at the side of a little student who needs more attention, more assistance. I was impressed by the idea that such kind and patient intervention could make a huge difference in the life of a child who may be struggling in more ways than one.

Fulfillment. Defined as satisfaction or happiness as a result of fully developing one's abilities or character.

Don't we spend our entire lives chasing it? People start gardens, embark on new careers, simplify, volunteer, bake compulsively, have a mid-life crisis, buy time-shares, push their children to succeed, travel, and, yes, write novels or take up painting to seek fulfillment.

I want to fully develop my abilities and my character. As Dad would remind me, it's such hard work, though. Persistent work. Continuous work. I have to work really hard for my fulfillment in becoming a better writer and a better person. (Perhaps being a conflicted person would help with my writing, but being a calmer, humbler person would certainly help far more with life.)

Do I have a point? Yes, I know. All my posts seem to be circling like vultures over this one idea of, Where do I go and what do I do now? But, you see, I received a blow when my baby left me for kindergarten. Part of my purpose and fulfillment evaporated; my identity changed, and I felt a little deflated. Top that with the fact that I did not work as hard as I should have on my writing this week and that I felt trapped inside my own head in an empty world throbbing with anxiety, and you'll understand why I have gone on and on. I need fulfillment in a brand new way now. The time has come for something new.

And I can't just stay here. My world, the one that feels like it shrunk, freeze-drying over my stagnant goals this week, needs to expand again. I need to join a writer's group or at least hang out at a book/coffee shop while I write sometimes. Staying here every day, all alone, all day could drive me batty if I never see another friendly, creative face.

I'll figure it out. I'll seek my fulfillment like all my fellow humans.

I'll start my mystery novel.

A New Frontier

Each time someone figures out that all my children are now in school, I get peppered with comments and questions like:

"Are all your kids in school now? What are you going to do with yourself?!" 

"Well, I'm sure you'll enjoy all that downtime for a change."

"What will you do now?"

They make it sound like I'm being put out of work, like my "company" is downsizing and has no need for my services any more. I get knots at the thought of justifying my life at home and have so much trouble simply saying, "I'm going to try to get paid for my writing."

It's always the last thing I say after mumbling about projects and volunteering, as if I'm ashamed of it, as if it were not a valid occupation. I hate that I do that to myself, because write is what I'm going to do.

I think.

I've toyed with the idea that though being a writer, paid or not, is an essential part of my whole self and should not be given up, perhaps there is another road I need to take as well. For instance, getting a theology degree is something I've contemplated, but a. I feel like I would be stealing funds necessary for my children's education, and b. I study and read so many theology books and articles at home and never feel I have a complete grasp on the truth. Sometimes I just end up thoroughly exhausted from the effort of trying to understand and reconcile all the interpretations. I love Scripture, but I berate my own understanding. I love theology, but the subject is not an easy one. 

There are also so many laudable charitable organizations to which I could give my time in a way that might some day lead to a "job". And that is not a bad option at all, especially since my sense of social justice heightens with each world news article I read. If my family is in such a position that we do not need an income through my own efforts, should I not then give my time to improving the world on a larger scale? As a Christian I cannot view my time as mine alone, and as a mother it is impossible to do anyway.

Yes, volunteering will undoubtedly be a part of this new frontier. I will give energy to my kids' school now and to church as usual. But perhaps there is some other way I can and ought to be my brother's keeper, too - a way yet to be discovered.

As a lover of nature, perhaps I should look into becoming a park ranger. In fact, I have. A little.

I've always loved archaeology, too. I should volunteer on some digs, free menial labor in the cruel Arizona sun.

I understand where others are coming from with their inquisitions about my plans. They get up early each day and hurry to their job. Their jobs are often quite hard and under-compensated, and with that job they must balance family concerns. I think people who ask what on earth I plan to do with myself think I am going to watch a bunch of daytime TV shows while perusing fluff magazines and stuffing chocolates in my face as I compulsively buy stuff online - unfair! Or maybe that's just how my silly pride reads it. Still, I have not been a consumer of daytime television before; why would I start now if I wish to keep my self-esteem? I certainly do not intend to drink Starbucks every day/week or eat expensive chocolate; I am far too cheap, and I make no money. Fluff magazines make me feel bad about everybody. And I hate shopping and errand running, though the latter must not be avoided. 

So what's left? Is it scandalous to be at home, making a home by doing chores and projects that must be done (at least to maintain my own sanity in this place)? Is it shocking to want to write, to work with words? Because it is work, regardless of whether or not I get paid to do it. I have known many people who I believed could write very well, but they lacked the desire or the discipline to do it habitually. That's the difference. Yes, I love it. Yes, I am very lucky to have the time and energy and luxury to do what I love. Yes, I need to work harder at it, too. But it is work, and sometimes the words don't cooperate or simply don't come, and then my thoughts pace like caged, hungry lions in my head as I attempt to tame them. Still I keep trying.

Do not misunderstand. I do regret sometimes - often? - that I did not do as my pragmatic, smart husband did: go to college, get a degree in good time, and enter into a career posthaste after graduation. I don't regret at all that I missed out on college "culture", but I do bemoan the missed opportunities of the classroom, the delicious learning, and I do feel that my husband was the wise one, the grounded one. But I can't go back. 

All these years in the home, I have been truly grateful for the time with my children, for all the laughter and even tears, for the goofiness and craziness and witnessing all the firsts of the early years. I've been happy not to have to report to a different job after nights of seemingly continuous breastfeeding of infants and toddlers. I am so glad we did not have to spend a fortune on childcare or after school care and that my husband and I have not had to work multiple jobs to make ends meet, scarcely having time to say hello to each other. I love home. I love family time. I am so very grateful.

(But I must also here point out that one reason I have been able to stay at home with our children, to drop them off and pick them up at school and sports and other activities is because our family has lived frugally by design. In others' eyes I no doubt lack sufficient ambition, but earning money merely for more money's sake in order to buy more stuff has never appealed to me, especially if we are paying most of it for childcare. I'd rather live simply and stay at home, and I readily and humbly admit it's because of my husband's success in his career that I am able to do so.)

I would be lying if I didn't acknowledge how nervous I am about this new stage in my life when for many years I have been measured by the small children at my side. And being a mother will absolutely always be my most important job. We're forming human beings here who will form society. I feel my failures and mistakes, but I also bear memories of the triumphs and the redeeming moments, of the times I negotiated well with unreasonable individuals. That journey continues. But now it's also prime time for me to be a more productive writer.

Or something else.

I'll let you know.

A Writer Perseveres

A few months ago I received a handwritten letter from a dear friend in the mail. In it she spoke of my writing and offered some advice:

Don't Quit! We all have to learn & refine our craft AND find our own unique voice. I think this is where you are. Some people are gifted with what seems effortless talent. The rest of us have to work on it!

I am ashamed to say that at first blush my pride was hurt when I read her words. Instead of seeing the truth and encouragement in them at a time when I needed those, I fell into the familiar pit of discouragement and started wondering what was wrong with my voice, or if others thought I even had one as a writer, and why it was that I still had much to learn when I have written regularly for some time now. In place of these initial selfish thoughts, I could have been reflecting on my great fortune in having a friend who cared so much she wrote me a traditional letter by mail and dedicated some of its words to bolster me up in my dreams.

About that time - as I was feeling that familiar creative bleakness - I also read a post from Jennie Goutet, a blogger and author at A Lady In France, called A Mountain Meeting With God, and it humbled me to read her perspective of her own myriad endeavors, because to me she seems one of those gifted with effortless talent. And something struck me as I read it. Perhaps I am not the writer I believed myself to be. Perhaps I am just burdened with my own prideful expectations. That could be the reason why I have difficulty engaging people in such a way that they feel compelled to share my work or comment on it. Perhaps God has different plans for me (even though the idea of that saddens me - as if my God did not know me and the desires of my heart far better than I do). Perhaps I am expecting more from people than I am able to give through my words. Just because I have wanted to be a writer since I was a little girl does not mean I am a better one than someone who realized they wished to write for an audience last year. The pride must go.

And so must the discouragement.

I often wonder how far I might go in my writer's journey without this knapsack of discouragement I carry around perpetually, ready to hug it to me in some lonely place, sniffling as a shower of negative thoughts fall around me. What could I do if I stopped comparing myself to other bloggers? What could I do if I stopped beating myself up for not being "popular", squashing my inspiration in self-doubt?

Well, I could persevere and ditch that poisonous baggage I haul around on top of my dreams. My dreams might then be so buoyant, they could lift me up like a hot air balloon. I could write more and trust that somehow, someday all this work will pay off.

Because diligence does pay off. A post came around that illustrated my friend Camille's words perfectly. It was a piece about my 35th birthday, and it gave me headaches. I spent more than a week writing and rewriting it, wondering why it was taking me so long to say what I wished to say in the way I wished to express it. Then I asked the inevitable, If I am a writer, why can't I find the words to tell a story that I so badly want to tell? After writing for years why do I still grapple with the effect of my words so much? But I persisted in writing it, and the work did indeed pay off. It got a few comments, several likes, and some of my friends told me in person just how much they enjoyed it. (You can find that post HERE.) Camille's words of wisdom finally hit home. We are not given the same gift. Some do indeed have effortless talent and are quite prolific, too, the Agatha Christies of the world. The rest of us have to work on it, but in doing so we know we will "refine our craft AND find our unique voice". We may never receive the acclaim we desire, but in persevering we at least know we are using our unique God-given gift, doing what we were made to do.


I recommend this piece by Christine Carter on discouragement and gaining a renewed perspective: That Dirty Rag of Discouragement.

Happily Published Elsewhere

On this blog I have not done a very good job of sharing when my pieces are published elsewhere. I need to get better about that and start supporting more fully those who publish my work, because I appreciate their support.

So a huge shout out goes to Teri Rizvi who founded a website in honor of the late, great Erma Bombeck at the University of Dayton: Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop. Teri has accepted many of my posts for publication, and I am very grateful to have my work appear on such a wonderful, humorous, Erma-honoring site where many accomplished writers appear regularly. Sometimes I feel intimidated, because, really, I am being published alongside these talented people in a place dedicated to one of the greatest humor writers of all time, but I am supremely grateful for the opportunity to be in their company.

My latest post to be featured there actually explains how I got the title for this blog from something my dad uttered nearly every day to his kids for years while we were growing up. You can read all about it HERE. Please share!

The latest post of mine to be published is quite the opposite of a humor post. It is an exceptionally personal faith post. In fact it is so personal that sometimes I groan to think that people I don't know or barely know are reading it. Goodness, people I love madly who may have trouble understanding it, because it is from a decidedly Catholic perspective, are reading it. Nevertheless, it was such a profound experience that I needed to write about it, and my husband suggested I submit it for publication. In it I confess wholeheartedly that I am a sinner, one who often battles discouragement, and that it is by the grace of God that I stand. That post appears at CatholicMom.com and is called Jesus Always Has Our Back.

Thank you, readers and friends, for supporting my endeavors to become a better writer. I am always grateful for your readership and comments. God bless!

Identity Crisis....On Paper

Signature rehab. That is what I need, and I need it now.

By that strange statement I do not mean I need to go to an extra-fancy, personally-tailored rehab for some well-researched issue. I mean I need to seriously go to signature rehabilitation where I figure out how to properly sign my own name in a hurry...with style. After all, if I haven't worked out how to write my name nicely by 35 years of age, it's time to call in the professionals. Perhaps I need some tough-love boot camp where they make you do manual labor, take cold showers and eat nothing but stale grilled-cheese sandwiches until you straighten your cursive alphabet out.

Every time I sign my kids' agendas in the morning, I stare in horror at my handiwork, dreading what the teachers must be saying in the break room about how my kids can't get their mother to sign their agenda but have to enlist their little brother's help instead.

I'm so paranoid that I've asked my daughter Ana, "Has your teacher mentioned my signature? Does she know it's mine? What did she say?"

"Nothing, Mama...really. You're fine."

Yeah right.

I'd like to own my own signature, be proud of its "uniqueness", but as it is I really don't know who I am. I just can't figure out what it says. It could be my name - at least a couple letters from it (like the H and a...uh....hmmmmm) - or it could be some lost orc-speak from Middle Earth that could pull the whole world under the power of the one ring.

Scratch that. It's not pretty enough. Even an orc, twisted elves as they are, would be repulsed by it.

Every time I scrawl my X on the line of our tax forms or a check, my husband grunts in pure disgust. Each and every time. Yes, that is very ungallant of him, I agree, and you would think he had gotten used to its illegibility by now. I really can't call him on it, though, because "to love for beautiful cursive or for chicken scratch" wasn't in the vows. I probably shouldn't provoke him, either, because if he sees my signature too many more times, it could be bad.

I recently applied for a passport, and the forms asked for my "legal signature". I froze, started to sweat and stared blankly at the Postal Lady. Honestly I don't think my signature is real or "legal" in any language. Even if the US government accepts it, I could be dragged to the basements of foreign airports, detained by strange men with funny accents as they slam the table in front of me and shout ominously, "Our patience has run out! Now who are you really? Tell us what this says!" Covering my face with my hands and sobbing, "I don't know! I haven't known for years!" probably won't cut it.

If I'm to be brutally honest with myself, it's not just about the signature. My handwriting is atrocious in general. When I was in high school, I'm certain my teachers couldn't read my writing more than half the time and only gave me As because I did well on multiple choice tests.

As I persevered in writing a paper in my excruciatingly hideous scrawl one day in History, the pretty boy in the desk behind scolded me with, "Your handwriting looks like a man's!"

I didn't see what was so wrong with that at the time. It wasn't beautiful or feminine with soft curved letters or artistic curlicues, but what's wrong with writing like a man? Of course, judging by the tone in which he said it, what I think he meant to say was, "You write like a Neanderthal man, and not one who reproduced with modern humans!"

And that brings me to the love letters I wrote to my husband before we lived in the same state. He asked me to send them to his grandmother's address, because he was too embarrassed for his roommates to think he had an ape for a pen pal. His grandma opened a letter from me by mistake one day, and she apologized profusely. Matthew laughed and told her not to worry one bit. Then he held up the missive to show her.

"You wouldn't be able to read this anyway," he insisted.

She agreed, shaking her head and no doubt bemoaning the type of unruly girls her grandson insisted on courting.

But you have to give my man props for that. He spent a good deal of time deciphering each letter before he wrote back....or at least I assume so. Maybe that's why I received far fewer letters than I wrote; he couldn't quite make out my words or my feelings.

But at least I signed them.