I don't know where they're hiding, I don't know why they won't come hang out with me, and mostly I don't know ... what? That's the thing, my brain has decided to unfriend me. The steel doors have slammed shut, there's no more room at the inn, clever thoughts and finger translations have gone AWOL.
Not that I blame my brain for being somewhat pissy with me. I've put it through a lot and it's just tired. It's wants a vacation, it wants something else to do the thinking. It probably wants to have some fun. Right now it just feels like a blank expression.
I've been sitting here, so nicely propped on my bed, with laptop in perfect position. Finger's poised, head empty. I have added 73 words to my story in the last hour. Writing at the speed of light! It's just not coming, this story of mine. I'm pretty sure it's because I've taken such a break and this week has been super hell at work with 13th hour deadlines and my head is just tired.
Even this post is incoherent.
I'm going to get some chocolate milk and clean the kitchen. Maybe cleaning off dust and crumbs will clear some space in my head for my story. Maybe. Don't know. Gonna try.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Monday, July 29, 2013
My Horse And His Broken Back
So, exactly how many times have I climbed back up on the horse after a too long break from writing this story? I honestly feel really sorry for him. We hang out, we're best friends (or like Forrest Gump says, "peas and car-rots"), then I start to get moody and grumpy and I piss and moan and walk away from the stable. My poor horse hangs out there alone. No one puts a blanket over him, brushes his coat or coos in his ear. That is until I come bouncing back to him, spirits high and determination pumping. Until I get moody and grumpy and I start to piss and moan again.
I highly doubt I need to explain this rotten behavior, seeing as though I've said it way too many times already. I'm tired, blah/blah/blah, work is so busy, blah/blah/blah, I don't know what I'm doing, blah/blah/blah, I want to spend time with my family. Yeah, I'm not going to blah/blah/blah that one. These gripes are not specific to writing, anyone experiences them when trying to fit another thing in their life that they dearly want. And even though I don't need to explain, I probably don't need to apologize, it's simply in my nature to do so. I know no other way.
I'm sorry, I have been tired and full of stupid self doubt.
So, as I carefully walk back to the stable with a big cube of sugar in my hand (do horses like that? Or a carrot? Carrot cake?), I formulate my new strategy to climb on his back. Again. I went to the PNWA Conference this last week, and I have to say, I don't remember being around so many people that shared my love who were also genuinely nice and giving and talented. The experience was exhilarating to the point of exhaustion - no lie. I had the chance to pitch to several agents, which was an incredible experience alone (as a side bar, it felt a lot like what I imagine the kids on American Idol feel like, or a cattle call for a broadway show. It was crazy and exciting and terrifying to be in a group of 90 or so people lining up for 4 minute pitches to someone that could potentially be your partner in crime. Kinda like speed dating I suppose. Anyway - ), and walked away with 4 offers to submit portions of my manuscript. For someone like me, that is a pretty incredible thing! Actually, for anyone who wants to write and be published, it's an incredible thing. And terrifying. Regardless of any of that, my strategy is to follow the advice of Greg Bear, who was given the same advice from Ray Bradbury, "Don't get sophisticated in your writing, have fun!" Some people would call that an "Ah-ha" moment, I'm going to call it a "Duh" moment. And tack it onto the top of my laptop screen so I don't forget it.
So, thanks for listening, if you are. I don't know how long it's been since I posted, I honestly don't want to look. I might get depressed about it. So instead, I'm moving forward, climbing back on my horse. Thank God he loves me unconditionally!
I highly doubt I need to explain this rotten behavior, seeing as though I've said it way too many times already. I'm tired, blah/blah/blah, work is so busy, blah/blah/blah, I don't know what I'm doing, blah/blah/blah, I want to spend time with my family. Yeah, I'm not going to blah/blah/blah that one. These gripes are not specific to writing, anyone experiences them when trying to fit another thing in their life that they dearly want. And even though I don't need to explain, I probably don't need to apologize, it's simply in my nature to do so. I know no other way.
I'm sorry, I have been tired and full of stupid self doubt.
So, as I carefully walk back to the stable with a big cube of sugar in my hand (do horses like that? Or a carrot? Carrot cake?), I formulate my new strategy to climb on his back. Again. I went to the PNWA Conference this last week, and I have to say, I don't remember being around so many people that shared my love who were also genuinely nice and giving and talented. The experience was exhilarating to the point of exhaustion - no lie. I had the chance to pitch to several agents, which was an incredible experience alone (as a side bar, it felt a lot like what I imagine the kids on American Idol feel like, or a cattle call for a broadway show. It was crazy and exciting and terrifying to be in a group of 90 or so people lining up for 4 minute pitches to someone that could potentially be your partner in crime. Kinda like speed dating I suppose. Anyway - ), and walked away with 4 offers to submit portions of my manuscript. For someone like me, that is a pretty incredible thing! Actually, for anyone who wants to write and be published, it's an incredible thing. And terrifying. Regardless of any of that, my strategy is to follow the advice of Greg Bear, who was given the same advice from Ray Bradbury, "Don't get sophisticated in your writing, have fun!" Some people would call that an "Ah-ha" moment, I'm going to call it a "Duh" moment. And tack it onto the top of my laptop screen so I don't forget it.
So, thanks for listening, if you are. I don't know how long it's been since I posted, I honestly don't want to look. I might get depressed about it. So instead, I'm moving forward, climbing back on my horse. Thank God he loves me unconditionally!
Monday, May 13, 2013
It's the Journey
Well, it has been a while hasn't it? Admittedly, I've been wallowing in a world of spreadsheets and deadlines, in latent grief and general gloom. Some may say that the grief and the gloom is the place where writers live, though for me, this is not the case. I don't find gloom inspiring, it's that damn heavy blanket. Well guess what? It's time to get out of bed, so to speak.
This last week I've been on vacation. I'd planned it this way, scheduled it because I knew that after the many large deadlines I had I would be a crispy mess and would need some time away from customers and the daily fire drills of my job. I was right, the week was much needed. And as it turns out, quite thematic. It began with a college campus visit for my son and ended with the graduation of one of my daughters from college (followed, of course, by the consumption of the world's best chocolate cake). I'm the first to admit that I geek out about education, probably because I've never finished my own. I love the pursuit of learning and following ones dream. To me, it's the most amazing gift you can give yourself.
I was reflecting on all of this over my morning coffee and morning pages. I remember leaning over to another one of my sons yesterday who was getting fairly impatient with the 1,000 plus names that were being called during commencement. I told him that every one of these kids worked very hard to be there, didn't give up and kept going even when they were tired and frustrated. That they deserved our support and attention, as this is a huge undertaking. I reminded him that this is going to be him someday. He may have heard me, it may have went in one ear and out the other, I don't know. But it rang in my own ears, mingling with the many inspiring speeches I heard over the weekend.
While going back to school is not something I want to do right now, I can't help but draw parallels to what I'm going through in writing this novel. Yes, this is a big undertaking, and one that I have yet to complete - ever. It's a big, important dream of mine. There were several times that I didn't feel that there was any way I could write this story again, only to pick myself up and try one more time. I've cried, I've fist pumped the air when I nailed something, I've stressed over not knowing how to proceed and doubted my abilities. I've wondered if all the work would be for nothing, if I was worthy of the task. I've had moments where I was "in the pocket" and didn't have a shred of doubt that I was doing the absolute right thing. Sound familiar to anyone?
So, like I said before, it's time to get out of bed once again. To get dressed and go to class - or rather sit with my story and march it forward. Time to take each step in the journey. Every word written, every word revised, every idea that comes to me while washing my hair or chopping vegetables for dinner is a step toward commencement for me - the completion of a novel, the contribution of story, which I treasure in it's many forms.
I'm thinking now of one of the young men that was on the college tour with my son and I. He asked me if I was applying. I laughed and said no, that I was there to bring my son. He told me it was never too late. Of course it's not too late, but now is not my time. I'm revising that thought. My time is now. My time to keep going instead of giving up. I'm not working for a diploma, I'm working for the chance to type "the end".
And yes, when that happens, there will be cake!
This last week I've been on vacation. I'd planned it this way, scheduled it because I knew that after the many large deadlines I had I would be a crispy mess and would need some time away from customers and the daily fire drills of my job. I was right, the week was much needed. And as it turns out, quite thematic. It began with a college campus visit for my son and ended with the graduation of one of my daughters from college (followed, of course, by the consumption of the world's best chocolate cake). I'm the first to admit that I geek out about education, probably because I've never finished my own. I love the pursuit of learning and following ones dream. To me, it's the most amazing gift you can give yourself.
I was reflecting on all of this over my morning coffee and morning pages. I remember leaning over to another one of my sons yesterday who was getting fairly impatient with the 1,000 plus names that were being called during commencement. I told him that every one of these kids worked very hard to be there, didn't give up and kept going even when they were tired and frustrated. That they deserved our support and attention, as this is a huge undertaking. I reminded him that this is going to be him someday. He may have heard me, it may have went in one ear and out the other, I don't know. But it rang in my own ears, mingling with the many inspiring speeches I heard over the weekend.
While going back to school is not something I want to do right now, I can't help but draw parallels to what I'm going through in writing this novel. Yes, this is a big undertaking, and one that I have yet to complete - ever. It's a big, important dream of mine. There were several times that I didn't feel that there was any way I could write this story again, only to pick myself up and try one more time. I've cried, I've fist pumped the air when I nailed something, I've stressed over not knowing how to proceed and doubted my abilities. I've wondered if all the work would be for nothing, if I was worthy of the task. I've had moments where I was "in the pocket" and didn't have a shred of doubt that I was doing the absolute right thing. Sound familiar to anyone?
So, like I said before, it's time to get out of bed once again. To get dressed and go to class - or rather sit with my story and march it forward. Time to take each step in the journey. Every word written, every word revised, every idea that comes to me while washing my hair or chopping vegetables for dinner is a step toward commencement for me - the completion of a novel, the contribution of story, which I treasure in it's many forms.
I'm thinking now of one of the young men that was on the college tour with my son and I. He asked me if I was applying. I laughed and said no, that I was there to bring my son. He told me it was never too late. Of course it's not too late, but now is not my time. I'm revising that thought. My time is now. My time to keep going instead of giving up. I'm not working for a diploma, I'm working for the chance to type "the end".
And yes, when that happens, there will be cake!
Friday, March 8, 2013
How Do You Break Up With a Vampire?
I don't want to sound ungrateful, I really don't, but there is this thing that is sucking the life out of me. I try to resist it's charms, to just let it be a part of my life, but sometimes it consumes me to the point where I simply feel drained. On the worst days, I feel like I'm a shell of a person. Hollow on the inside - nothing left to give. This thing, this Vampire, is my job.
There are aspects of my job that I really love. The people I work with are tremendous, I wouldn't trade knowing them and spending time with them for anything. I love being able to utilize my brain, love helping out my customers when they feel like there's no way they can do it on their own, love conquering difficult problems. Fantastic. But all this love comes with a price tag: my energy. There's just not a lot left over after I'm done with my day. The charming Vampire has taken it to feed his own need.
So, what do I do? How do I keep my job but place enough boundaries on it so that I can function after I leave the office? I'm wading into a season of my work that is incredibly taxing (no, I'm not a CPA) - and well, wading is not really the word. I'm more "neck deep". This is the time where my greatest challenge is to keep my head above water, choke it out if I get pulled under, and move on. For months.
Is there a way to turn this Vampire into just a regular person in my life? Once turned to a blood sucking fiend, can it ever return? I'm not sure. Also not sure if I should break up and join the world of the living. This Vampire does provide me a lifeline. I wish I could figure out how to keep it at arms distance until I know I can sustain on my own. But, maybe that's not the way it happens. I have no clue.
Meanwhile, I want to work on that draft of my novel. I want to revise it, make it complete and get it out to readers. My goal is to do that before mid-July. The Pacific Northwest Writers Conference is coming then and it would be a fantastic thing to go and pitch to agents and editors, see what's out there, to learn some good lessons. Please, Mr. Vampire, leave a little blood in me so that I can do this? I'd appreciate it.
There are aspects of my job that I really love. The people I work with are tremendous, I wouldn't trade knowing them and spending time with them for anything. I love being able to utilize my brain, love helping out my customers when they feel like there's no way they can do it on their own, love conquering difficult problems. Fantastic. But all this love comes with a price tag: my energy. There's just not a lot left over after I'm done with my day. The charming Vampire has taken it to feed his own need.
So, what do I do? How do I keep my job but place enough boundaries on it so that I can function after I leave the office? I'm wading into a season of my work that is incredibly taxing (no, I'm not a CPA) - and well, wading is not really the word. I'm more "neck deep". This is the time where my greatest challenge is to keep my head above water, choke it out if I get pulled under, and move on. For months.
Is there a way to turn this Vampire into just a regular person in my life? Once turned to a blood sucking fiend, can it ever return? I'm not sure. Also not sure if I should break up and join the world of the living. This Vampire does provide me a lifeline. I wish I could figure out how to keep it at arms distance until I know I can sustain on my own. But, maybe that's not the way it happens. I have no clue.
Meanwhile, I want to work on that draft of my novel. I want to revise it, make it complete and get it out to readers. My goal is to do that before mid-July. The Pacific Northwest Writers Conference is coming then and it would be a fantastic thing to go and pitch to agents and editors, see what's out there, to learn some good lessons. Please, Mr. Vampire, leave a little blood in me so that I can do this? I'd appreciate it.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Looking at the Horse
Days like this remind me of recovering from a nasty cold. Days when I'd been feeling so poorly for so long that I'd forgotten what it felt like to be "normal". Then at some point it occurs to me that I'm ok, doing just fine, my skin is mine again. Lately, I've been comfortable in my skin again, which is a good place to be. That's not to say that my eyes don't look at things differently, that my heart doesn't want to reach out less, but it's more about being in harmony - head and heart working together, friends once again.
Which makes me think I should start looking at the horse again. The horse, namely, is my novel. It's been set aside for about four weeks, and rightly so, but I'm wondering if it's time to give it a look-see. I keep thinking "I need to get back on the horse", except I didn't fall off it. Or off the wagon. Or any moving article. I simply put the horse in it's coral, letting hang out without me. But now my skin is mine again.
Maybe it's time to get reacquainted.
I don't know if I'll like what I have any more, I don't know if I'll want to approach things differently or not. Will it be like meeting an old boyfriend for coffee? Yes, we had fire, my novel and I. We had great times and times when we fought. Times when my thoughts were consumed by it, dreams were filled with it, and wrists ached from typing it. It's been work and play, passion and fuel for what has been called my "grumpy pants". I've thought about letting hang out alone forever, possibly letting rot. But you know, that seems cruel - to it and to me.
It's time to look at the horse...
Which makes me think I should start looking at the horse again. The horse, namely, is my novel. It's been set aside for about four weeks, and rightly so, but I'm wondering if it's time to give it a look-see. I keep thinking "I need to get back on the horse", except I didn't fall off it. Or off the wagon. Or any moving article. I simply put the horse in it's coral, letting hang out without me. But now my skin is mine again.
Maybe it's time to get reacquainted.I don't know if I'll like what I have any more, I don't know if I'll want to approach things differently or not. Will it be like meeting an old boyfriend for coffee? Yes, we had fire, my novel and I. We had great times and times when we fought. Times when my thoughts were consumed by it, dreams were filled with it, and wrists ached from typing it. It's been work and play, passion and fuel for what has been called my "grumpy pants". I've thought about letting hang out alone forever, possibly letting rot. But you know, that seems cruel - to it and to me.
It's time to look at the horse...
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Peace (2nd try)
peace noun \pes\
- a state of tranquility or quiet
- freedom from disquieting or oppressive thoughts or emotions
- a pact or agreement to end hostilities between those who have been at war or state of enmity
--Or, In Italian, the language I most want to learn first
s. pace; trattato di pace; (Dir) ordine pubblico, queite pubblica; armonia concordia; traquillita, serenita
For some reason, this word has been going through my head these last few days. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, so bear with me if you will, while I noodle this one out.
Peace. The word echoes in my head when I drive to work, it interrupts the song on the radio on the way home, it repeats itself in Italian to me while I'm cleaning the pan after dinner. Peace while I'm brushing my teeth. Peace while I wait for my glass to fill with water out of the magic hole in the refrigerator door.
Peace.
It's a simple word for something that carries such a huge impact. I'm not sure why this word is sticking to me right now. It's not obnoxious like that dang song I can never get out of my mind (Carly Rae, I'm not going to call you. No offense, but quit asking). It's more like a quiet word born from a deep voice that really isn't my own. Maybe because the word is too important to be mine.
Peace. Is this what I'm striving for? To quiet the thoughts that creep in when I see a picture of Seth on my phone scroll by on the little tile? To calm my nerves when I'm frustrated because I didn't realize that being an analyst was synonymous with being a fire fighter? You know, I think that may be the easy answer. I don't think of this word in times of stress, I think of it in the quiet times in between.
But the frequency lately makes me wonder, have I been at war with myself? We've all been our own worst enemy at times and I almost think that my psyche is tired of it. I'm tired of wondering how life will turn out, if I'm doing the right thing for myself, for my family. Am I making the right decisions in my career - or should I bail on my career for that matter and do something else? Something less stressful or something terrifying - like risking it all. I feel I have been at war; my practical side battling my whimsy, both suffering casualties. I'm tired of war.
I think I crave peace. This must go back to the "be present today" feeling I've been having. I don't feel like worrying so much. I want to have a good day. I want to be at peace. What would it feel like if I just enjoyed my circumstances such as they are? And not just for a few hours, what if I enjoyed the entire day? I'm pausing now as I write this. I'm trying to think of days where I didn't worry or think about the future once. I'm finding it creepy that I can't think of one. Wow. I'm honestly not sure I'm capable of it, but perhaps it's time to give it a better - or conscious - try.
So, let's look at two definitions for this word that has been echoing in my head:
" A pact or agreement to end hostilities between those who have been at war or in a state of enmity". Let's start there. Why do I feel the urge to beat the present over the head with my stick from the future? Time to care for the present. The future can take care of itself. I can't control it or guarantee one darn thing in it, or even that it will happen for that matter. It's time to not obsess over it any more - or at least not nearly as much. Live today. Kiss my husband now, not later. Listen to my kids now, not when I'm less tired. Feel now, not when it's convenient. If I can work on that, then maybe - just maybe - I'll achieve the first part of the definition: "a state of tranquility or quiet".
Don't get me wrong, I have no illusions that my life will be like a Japanese garden, but if I can quiet just a couple of the voices in my head, that would be nice. I've got a few in mind that can take a hike. The perfectly slim woman in the power suit is first to go, she annoys me the most. Next is the eighty year old critic who's lower lip sticks out further than the top one. He is closely followed by the hipster. All those voices can leave me alone and let me enjoy my now, have some tranquility in my day. But that voice that belongs to the girl that likes to be adventurous? I might keep her around. I kind of like her...
Thursday, February 21, 2013
An Intentional Life
I've said before than I tend to be a very impatient person. Not with people mind you, but with my direction. Part of this, I believe, is that I'm always looking forward. The future is fascinating to me, rich with possibilities and dreams. The future holds the key to what I should be doing now. If I can see the end result, I can better prepare and take necessary steps today. Simple.
It's impatience that plagues me when I don't have the answers to the future. I don't have the plan, the thing I know I should be striving for. The what and the why. With the death of my mother, I thought I had a fairly clear picture of where I should head. It hadn't changed much from before her death, and if anything it got a hair clearer. The death of our Grandson, however, muddied my waters and nothing was clear. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I was searching so hard for answers, for meaning. I needed that path so I could direct my energy forward. Present was not pleasant, so to speak.
I've had so many questions, and I don't really think I've found many answers, but I've had some thoughts that feel right. Nothing can change what has happened or change how sad Seth's death makes us feel. However there's always one thing within our control: how we respond to events in our lives. This is the one thing that any of us has the power to choose.
I have little idea now what my future holds for me, or what direction I should take. Do I keep writing my novel, in one form or another, or is there something else that I should be doing? They say that grief sometimes makes you face your own mortality, makes you take inventory of your life. I believe this is what is happening inside of me. The one thing I absolutely know is this: I want to make a difference, I want to make it count.
I feel that the time is right to take a step to the side from the forward looking practice and look at the present day instead. To live with intention. What if I decided to challenge myself to seize opportunities to do something good each day? For example, today I've been thinking about a professor I had a few years ago when I took a Stress Management class. While most of the things that were taught were common sense, there were some things that I learned that helped me a great deal, mostly concerning how different types of people communicate. This one man changed the way I perceived myself and the world around me. Wouldn't it be nice if he knew that? If I were a teacher, I'd appreciate it.
So, this is what I'm going to do: I'm going to send him an email and let him know the impact he had on my life. This one thing, this small thing that will take me all of probably 15-30 minutes of my day at most, could possibly make his day. I don't expect anything in return, I don't need to strike up an ongoing conversation, but this one thing is a good thing to do. And I like that.
Which makes me wonder, what might be the good thing I do tomorrow? I'm not sure. I know my work day is going to be crazy busy and I may feel drained by the end of it. But perhaps, somewhere in the middle of it, a few kind words spoken at a time I'd normally stay quiet and keep my nose to the grindstone might be the ticket. Perhaps it's being more present with my family that evening instead of being wrapped up in my own head. Maybe I'll push some shopping carts into the corral on my way into the store. I'm not sure. I'm not even sure that I can remember to take opportunities every day.
But maybe part of the point is to try.
So, that's what I'm going to do. To try. To see life now as an opportunity. It's a precious gift and not one to be squandered and taken for granted. I want to lean another language. What's stopping me from doing that? I want to let people know how much they mean to me, what's stopping me from doing that? I want to spread some good in this world. What's stopping me from doing that? Usually the answer is "I don't have time, I have other things I have to do". Well, how long does it take to learn one word a day? How long does it take to buy a bag of pretzels out of the vending machine and leave it in some random cubicle with a note that says "enjoy"? Not long, I think. So I believe I should try.
Speaking of which, I have an email to write...
It's impatience that plagues me when I don't have the answers to the future. I don't have the plan, the thing I know I should be striving for. The what and the why. With the death of my mother, I thought I had a fairly clear picture of where I should head. It hadn't changed much from before her death, and if anything it got a hair clearer. The death of our Grandson, however, muddied my waters and nothing was clear. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I was searching so hard for answers, for meaning. I needed that path so I could direct my energy forward. Present was not pleasant, so to speak.
I've had so many questions, and I don't really think I've found many answers, but I've had some thoughts that feel right. Nothing can change what has happened or change how sad Seth's death makes us feel. However there's always one thing within our control: how we respond to events in our lives. This is the one thing that any of us has the power to choose.
I have little idea now what my future holds for me, or what direction I should take. Do I keep writing my novel, in one form or another, or is there something else that I should be doing? They say that grief sometimes makes you face your own mortality, makes you take inventory of your life. I believe this is what is happening inside of me. The one thing I absolutely know is this: I want to make a difference, I want to make it count.
I feel that the time is right to take a step to the side from the forward looking practice and look at the present day instead. To live with intention. What if I decided to challenge myself to seize opportunities to do something good each day? For example, today I've been thinking about a professor I had a few years ago when I took a Stress Management class. While most of the things that were taught were common sense, there were some things that I learned that helped me a great deal, mostly concerning how different types of people communicate. This one man changed the way I perceived myself and the world around me. Wouldn't it be nice if he knew that? If I were a teacher, I'd appreciate it.
So, this is what I'm going to do: I'm going to send him an email and let him know the impact he had on my life. This one thing, this small thing that will take me all of probably 15-30 minutes of my day at most, could possibly make his day. I don't expect anything in return, I don't need to strike up an ongoing conversation, but this one thing is a good thing to do. And I like that.
Which makes me wonder, what might be the good thing I do tomorrow? I'm not sure. I know my work day is going to be crazy busy and I may feel drained by the end of it. But perhaps, somewhere in the middle of it, a few kind words spoken at a time I'd normally stay quiet and keep my nose to the grindstone might be the ticket. Perhaps it's being more present with my family that evening instead of being wrapped up in my own head. Maybe I'll push some shopping carts into the corral on my way into the store. I'm not sure. I'm not even sure that I can remember to take opportunities every day.
But maybe part of the point is to try.
So, that's what I'm going to do. To try. To see life now as an opportunity. It's a precious gift and not one to be squandered and taken for granted. I want to lean another language. What's stopping me from doing that? I want to let people know how much they mean to me, what's stopping me from doing that? I want to spread some good in this world. What's stopping me from doing that? Usually the answer is "I don't have time, I have other things I have to do". Well, how long does it take to learn one word a day? How long does it take to buy a bag of pretzels out of the vending machine and leave it in some random cubicle with a note that says "enjoy"? Not long, I think. So I believe I should try.
Speaking of which, I have an email to write...
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Finding Some Good
My last post related a lot of questions I had surrounding Seth's passing. I realize I may never get to know some of the answers. I've had a few people say that none of us will fully know and understand until it's our time to pass. I tend to be a little impatient, so that doesn't sit very well with me, but what can I do?
I think that one thing I can do is attempt to point out the good that has come from this. While many can argue that no good can possibly come from such a small and innocent soul from leaving us all too soon, I have to disagree. Finding the good in things is in my nature, it helps me to cope, to understand. This trait of mine sometimes drives my kids nuts. I can't tell you how many times I've tried to talk to them when they're upset only to get a look that clearly says, "Shut up." My son has told me more than once that sometimes he just wants me to say "I'm sorry, that totally sucks and is not right". It's a confirmation and understanding that he needs. I catch myself and repeat that phrase back to him, then explain that finding the good is the thing that helps me to get through stuff I don't understand. When a stranger is rude to me, it helps me to not take it personal. When I make a mistake, it helps me to learn. When I feel hurt, it helps me to put it into perspective.
Seth's passing is still really fresh, so I feel my perspective is short sighted, but I can't help but try to find some good. It may not bring answers, but it does help me to feel at least a little better about the day I'm experiencing. And maybe finding the good is like finding some answers. Maybe. I know there is much more than what I'm listing here, but these are the things that are occurring to me today:
1. My Daughter's Strength. I relayed my feelings about this to a dear friend of mine this morning and as I wrote it, I couldn't help but be grateful and humble to be a part of her life. I talked to my daughter the day after Seth's passing and asked her that when she finds herself struggling and feeling lost that she remembers moments of incredible strength she has at her core. When she realized that Seth was trapped underneath the fallen dresser, she acted. She lifted the heavy oak dresser with a strength like probably came from adrenaline and immediately began CPR. Though she never took official lessons, she remembered what she saw on House and did her best. She paused only to call 911 and continued with the compressions while on the phone until the paramedics came. She told me later she was was relieved to see them giving Seth CPR the same way she had been. I can't begin to fathom what that was like, but am so in awe at how she reacted as there are so many other ways she could have. She could have panicked, froze, been to distraught to act, or not tried to give CPR because she didn't know how. But the strength that resides in her core allowed her to focus through her panic. This is just one moment I've witnessed from her in the days since this happened. I watched her in the hospital expressing concern for her fiancé and family members. I watched her set aside her anguish and fear to hold her dying son in her arms, to curl up with him in bed. I watched her and her fiancé move through wave after wave of emotions and both trying so hard to be understanding and respectful of each other and those around them. I watched them walk around the reception hall yesterday after the service, making sure to talk to all the friends and families that came. It would have been easy to avoid, to hide, but their courage and character is stronger than that. I know that they both have very hard days, weeks, months and years ahead. Days when the pain and sorrow will feel larger than I can conceive. My hope is that they remember the moments of strength that they possess in their core. That this memory helps to see them through.
2. The Love of People Connected to Us. I've written on my Facebook page my gratitude for all those who have poured their love, understanding and support for our family during this time, but it really does bear repeating. It is so appreciated and is definitely something that can be categorized as "good". It's something that touches my heart any time I see people band together for a common good. I think about 9/11 and remember how differently people acted on that day. Even in busy San Diego, all the way across the country, I witnessed people being uncommonly courteous to each other. It was a moment in time that petty thoughts were pushed aside and we thought of our nation as a family. While what has occurred to us is small and personal and not comparable to the tragedy of 9/11, I still feel that a sense of family and community was felt during this time. People that I didn't know, that my daughter didn't know, were praying and pulling for us. I don't think I'm wrong in believing that there were a few more hugs and words of love and appreciation to their own families. In my book, that's always a good thing.
3. The Amazing Strangers. I may never know God's plan, but I have to believe that he placed the exact right people in place to help my daughter's family, to help all of us. I normally don't like to discuss God, as I feel my relationship with him is very personal and doesn't necessarily follow the "rules" that others believe, but I feel it's important to acknowledge my beliefs here. I am a proponent of "everything happens for a reason" and I trust that he has some overarching plan here. I don't know all or possibly any of what that is, but based on the professionals and people that came into play during this time, I have to believe that he placed them here to help. My daughter has told me that the detectives that came to their apartment that day have been so caring. They've been in contact with her a few times since, checking in on her, they speak to her like she is their friend. The nurses and doctors at Sacred Heart were amazing, but I really was touched by the night nurse. She was both caring and sensitive as she was strong and firm. The Child Life Specialists were gentle and helpful, providing various copies of Seth's hand and footprints, providing emotional support and strength as well as some physical reminders to hold on to. The funeral director was so open and kind, taking in and guiding my daughter and her fiancé as if they were his own kids, connecting with them on a personal level. They met with the pastor who resided over the service a few days prior to it and connected with him as well, deeply moved by his compassion for them. I am so thankful all these people were in place. It would have been so much harder if even one of the individuals were uncaring or too business like. But they all helped. And that is a good. I hope one day I can be a good stranger to someone.
4. Seth's Gift of Life. This is also something that I posted on my Facebook page, but I can't discount it here simply because I said it there. This is definitely something that's not just good, it's amazing. The thought that three children have a new chance at life because of Seth fills my heart with hope. The women representing the organ donating organization (boy, I'm sure there's a real name for it, but I don't know what it is) stated that less than1% of people who want to be organ donors actually can. It depends on timing, what has occurred and how. This is a piece of the puzzle that makes be believe in the larger plan. It's a tangible thing that can be grasped. This goes beyond good.
5. Deepening Family Relationships. As with the love of people connected to us, I feel a deepening in my personal relationship with my immediate family. I do not want to discount the love of my parents and my siblings, my extended family of aunts, uncles and cousins. Their support has been incredible and I feel that without it my life would hold far less meaning. I am in special gratitude to my parents and siblings - in blood and by marriage - they make me proud to be a part of this family. What I want to point out here is my relationship with my husband and our kids. I find myself wanting to reach out more than usual, to accept more than usual, to show appreciation when I can step aside from myself long enough to do so. I feel in the last week I've been fairly self indulgent in my grief - and some would say that is normal and ok - but part of me wishes that I had been stronger, that my heart and my mind would have worked more harmoniously, that I could have been more of a pillar than a pile of sand. Regardless, my husband and kids showed wonderful respect and grace, even as they were going through their own long list of emotions and reactions. This last week I have grown to love them even more than I already had. And that is definitely a good.
I know there are far more things I could list, but I already feel like I'm babbling. But I guess if I have to babble, maybe it's a good thing to want to babble on the positive side rather than the dark side. After all, the babble brings attention and power to the good. And I would rather send it there than to the sad.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Questions
We lost our Grandson on February 7th. I was at work when my daughter called. She was frantic and on the way to the hospital, where her 1 1/2 year old son was being taken. He was stable but unable to breathe on his own. A senseless and horrific accident rendered his body still, kept going only by machines that worked tirelessly to pump air in and out of his lungs, to circulate blood everywhere except to his brain, where it simply could not find passage. That was Wednesday the 6th. Within a few hours, we knew the outcome was inevitable and irreversible. It became the waiting game. The "lets make sure game". In a way, that was a blessing. As each piece of medical equipment and tubing was gradually removed from Seth, more acceptance was allowed to take place. Time was given to my daughter to curl up in his hospital crib, to sleep beside him one last time.
I remember one of the nurses asking me if I had any questions. The look on my face must have made her revise her question: "Do you have any questions I can answer?". She was right. There weren't many questions I had that she could answer. A few she could. I have a million she can't.
I have a question going through my head this morning, and at this moment. Why do I feel the need to write this in my blog? Why do I want to put this out in cyber space, instead of keeping it private. Why not write it in a journal? Like all of my questions, I don't have answers for these, except that this is what I'm compelled to do at this moment. Will this help someone? Will it make them uncomfortable? Angry, disgusted or sad? I don't know. Will it cause more hurt than has already occurred? I hope not. I don't know why I feel the need to do this, but am trusting there is some reason. Some stupid reason.
I'm finding the questions don't stop, and maybe that's because there are no answers. One question leads to the next and the next and I feel I'm constantly turning in circles with no way to step out. Why us? Why in the world did God pick us, our family, Seth, for whatever it is he has planned. And if he felt the need to do this, which he obviously did, why can't he be good enough to at least tell us why? Perhaps he has, that's entirely possible, and we are still too dumb struck to see it. Or is it that we have some answers but our grief makes us crave for more justification? Sometimes, I feel that might be at least partly true. Seth is an organ donor, and three children have a new opportunity and life because of him. I know this is part of the answer, and that is is an honor that we were chosen - that Seth was chosen - but I can't help wanting more. I am not angry at God, I trust in him and I believe in him, but right now I don't feel like talking to him. I simply don't know what to say. I trust that he understands and is listening to the words my heart speaks which my lips cannot.
Why am I feeling so fragile? I am a strong person, despite the common knowledge that I am very sensitive. I think it's my sensitivity that helps me to be strong. But this week I have felt such a fracture. I have a portion of me that is sane and logical, that is whispering in my ear that what I am feeling and how I am reacting is fine. That quiet voice, not unlike the one that comes from the main character in my story, is attempting to keep me grounded. If I could describe that fracture, it would call it a slice that starts at my left temple. It arches over my eyebrow and jags its way down my face and into my shoulder, stopping just before it reaches my armpit. That smaller part is where the logic lies. It lets one eye see happiness and appreciate beauty, lets me half smile, gives me one arm - my right arm - to do the things that need to be done. That part of me does things and experiences things with real joy and happiness. The lower section, the one where my sadness, anger and confusion lie, is ruled by a part of my heart that has already been hurt. That part that still suffers the loss of my Mom.
Even as I write this, I know that I will not be fractured forever. The jagged slice will start to mend, probably starting with my armpit, and will work it's way up through my collar bone, through my smile, through my eyebrow. I have a feeling that I may have a scar, but I will be whole - smiling and crying with both parts of me in harmony. I don't believe I will look on that scar with disgust or anguish, but rather with nurturing and respect. My hope is that I will run my fingers over the skin that has mended and remember. Maybe if I do that, instead of covering it up with band-aids and scarves, I can help someone else mend. I don't know.
I called my sister the other day, crying. I had tried to go to work and found that I not only couldn't give a shit about what my clients needed or thought, but that it actually made me angry. How am I supposed to care about energy budgets? How can I empathize and care if someone's natural gas figures are X% off from prior year? My daughter is trying to plan a funeral for her infant while working so hard to keep her family together. Why should I care about Corporate America when my daughter is trying to find a way to tell her three year old son that Seth isn't going to come home? How is that family, who is so dear to me, going to survive? And why am I not with them? I question that even now as I sit here writing this. Why am I not with her now? Is it avoidance? Self preservation? How long does this last? Why can't I at least have a road map, a guide book, something that says "Sheila, this is what you need to do right now", so I don't have to figure it out? So I don't have to wonder if I'm doing the right thing or if I'm being a complete idiot. Why am I sitting here writing this now? I feel so unsettled.
The outpouring of love and support has been tremendous. Why can't I find it in me to thank each person? I really want to. I want to either sit them down or write them a personal note and tell them how much this means to me. Why can't I do this? I try to tell some, but feel I have failed to tell others. It's not that I think these people do not understand my silence, it's more that I feel I am cheating them.
Why am I taking this so personal? Am I that narcissistic? This is not my child that died, I feel I should be stronger than I am. Why do I have thoughts that circle around "what am I supposed to do with this"? What didn't I get right when Mom passed that I have to go through this again? Why did this happen on my birthday? What am I doing wrong? It's not that I feel I'm being punished, it's more that I feel I'm being pushed. Where? Why? Will I ever know? What's going to happen if I don't do what I'm supposed to? Who else has to die? What other loss are people going to have to suffer because I didn't get the message? That logical side of me is whispering to me now, trying to calm me down and speak reason, but that larger half is covering her ears and shaking her head like a child. Part of me needs to be self absorbed. Part of me chastises myself for feeling that need. It's ridiculous.
Now I feel like I've taken up too much of the morning. I have to go, I have to be with my daughter and her family. I need to help. I've sat here debating if I should post this. Should I copy it and place it somewhere private? I don't know. Should I post it? I'm worried that it's going to make people sad or worry about me. That's not my intent. I truly believe that I am going to be ok. That my daughter and her family will move through this, that we will all gain strength. Perhaps I have more answers than I thought I did. But what if some of my questions are similar to someone else's? Will reading mine help someone? I hope it does, though I don't know how it will.
And maybe it's ok not to know.
I remember one of the nurses asking me if I had any questions. The look on my face must have made her revise her question: "Do you have any questions I can answer?". She was right. There weren't many questions I had that she could answer. A few she could. I have a million she can't.
I have a question going through my head this morning, and at this moment. Why do I feel the need to write this in my blog? Why do I want to put this out in cyber space, instead of keeping it private. Why not write it in a journal? Like all of my questions, I don't have answers for these, except that this is what I'm compelled to do at this moment. Will this help someone? Will it make them uncomfortable? Angry, disgusted or sad? I don't know. Will it cause more hurt than has already occurred? I hope not. I don't know why I feel the need to do this, but am trusting there is some reason. Some stupid reason.
I'm finding the questions don't stop, and maybe that's because there are no answers. One question leads to the next and the next and I feel I'm constantly turning in circles with no way to step out. Why us? Why in the world did God pick us, our family, Seth, for whatever it is he has planned. And if he felt the need to do this, which he obviously did, why can't he be good enough to at least tell us why? Perhaps he has, that's entirely possible, and we are still too dumb struck to see it. Or is it that we have some answers but our grief makes us crave for more justification? Sometimes, I feel that might be at least partly true. Seth is an organ donor, and three children have a new opportunity and life because of him. I know this is part of the answer, and that is is an honor that we were chosen - that Seth was chosen - but I can't help wanting more. I am not angry at God, I trust in him and I believe in him, but right now I don't feel like talking to him. I simply don't know what to say. I trust that he understands and is listening to the words my heart speaks which my lips cannot.
Why am I feeling so fragile? I am a strong person, despite the common knowledge that I am very sensitive. I think it's my sensitivity that helps me to be strong. But this week I have felt such a fracture. I have a portion of me that is sane and logical, that is whispering in my ear that what I am feeling and how I am reacting is fine. That quiet voice, not unlike the one that comes from the main character in my story, is attempting to keep me grounded. If I could describe that fracture, it would call it a slice that starts at my left temple. It arches over my eyebrow and jags its way down my face and into my shoulder, stopping just before it reaches my armpit. That smaller part is where the logic lies. It lets one eye see happiness and appreciate beauty, lets me half smile, gives me one arm - my right arm - to do the things that need to be done. That part of me does things and experiences things with real joy and happiness. The lower section, the one where my sadness, anger and confusion lie, is ruled by a part of my heart that has already been hurt. That part that still suffers the loss of my Mom.
Even as I write this, I know that I will not be fractured forever. The jagged slice will start to mend, probably starting with my armpit, and will work it's way up through my collar bone, through my smile, through my eyebrow. I have a feeling that I may have a scar, but I will be whole - smiling and crying with both parts of me in harmony. I don't believe I will look on that scar with disgust or anguish, but rather with nurturing and respect. My hope is that I will run my fingers over the skin that has mended and remember. Maybe if I do that, instead of covering it up with band-aids and scarves, I can help someone else mend. I don't know.
I called my sister the other day, crying. I had tried to go to work and found that I not only couldn't give a shit about what my clients needed or thought, but that it actually made me angry. How am I supposed to care about energy budgets? How can I empathize and care if someone's natural gas figures are X% off from prior year? My daughter is trying to plan a funeral for her infant while working so hard to keep her family together. Why should I care about Corporate America when my daughter is trying to find a way to tell her three year old son that Seth isn't going to come home? How is that family, who is so dear to me, going to survive? And why am I not with them? I question that even now as I sit here writing this. Why am I not with her now? Is it avoidance? Self preservation? How long does this last? Why can't I at least have a road map, a guide book, something that says "Sheila, this is what you need to do right now", so I don't have to figure it out? So I don't have to wonder if I'm doing the right thing or if I'm being a complete idiot. Why am I sitting here writing this now? I feel so unsettled.
The outpouring of love and support has been tremendous. Why can't I find it in me to thank each person? I really want to. I want to either sit them down or write them a personal note and tell them how much this means to me. Why can't I do this? I try to tell some, but feel I have failed to tell others. It's not that I think these people do not understand my silence, it's more that I feel I am cheating them.
Why am I taking this so personal? Am I that narcissistic? This is not my child that died, I feel I should be stronger than I am. Why do I have thoughts that circle around "what am I supposed to do with this"? What didn't I get right when Mom passed that I have to go through this again? Why did this happen on my birthday? What am I doing wrong? It's not that I feel I'm being punished, it's more that I feel I'm being pushed. Where? Why? Will I ever know? What's going to happen if I don't do what I'm supposed to? Who else has to die? What other loss are people going to have to suffer because I didn't get the message? That logical side of me is whispering to me now, trying to calm me down and speak reason, but that larger half is covering her ears and shaking her head like a child. Part of me needs to be self absorbed. Part of me chastises myself for feeling that need. It's ridiculous.
Now I feel like I've taken up too much of the morning. I have to go, I have to be with my daughter and her family. I need to help. I've sat here debating if I should post this. Should I copy it and place it somewhere private? I don't know. Should I post it? I'm worried that it's going to make people sad or worry about me. That's not my intent. I truly believe that I am going to be ok. That my daughter and her family will move through this, that we will all gain strength. Perhaps I have more answers than I thought I did. But what if some of my questions are similar to someone else's? Will reading mine help someone? I hope it does, though I don't know how it will.
And maybe it's ok not to know.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Two Books? Again?
I've been trying to figure out some of the root reasons why I can't seem to eek out more than a few pages at a time. Yes, it's been a heck of a winter, but I can't help but feel like I should be a bit more fired up - or at least enjoying myself more when I write. Instead, I've been riddled with doubt and angst. Which may be completely normal, but I'm not going to lie, these feelings are not my favorite.
I sat down yesterday morning to do my Morning Pages (something of which I have been incredibly sporadic with) and posed the question: why am I not having fun anymore? And really, it came down to the question of when was the last time I had fun, period? I've had happy times for sure, don't get me wrong, but I had to think about the fun part. It's a depressing thing when you realize (again) how much of a fuddy-duddy adult you've become. I need to learn how to play more. Stinkin' responsibilities making me old ....
Anyway, some good came out of the session. I think part of my angst about laboring out each page is that I have so much to say for this section of the story that I've been feeling conflicted about how I was going to handle it. There is so much to explain, situations that need to be brought up. I was worried as the page numbers and word count was starting to increase and barely a foundation was being created for this part that I was going to do one of two things: either rush it to a close by not including what I felt needed to be included or have one massive manuscript that I would have to take a machete to later. It dawned on me yet again that it's possible I have two books on my hands. Yeah, again.
Suddenly, I'm excited. My perspective about what I'm doing has taken a hard right and I feel like I'm back on track. I've compiled my manuscript up to the point where I would cut it off for the first book and pulled it out to PDF form. It weighs in at about 60,600 words as is, which is fairly slight for a novel. My plan now is to print that baby up (hello Kinkos!) and sit down with it, pen and notepad at the ready. I need to see what I have, where it makes sense and where it can be strengthened. I really feel that if that first part isn't full of fluff and the components that are there are necessary, it would be best to separate it and treat the second half with the respect that story line deserves.
So, adding pages is officially on hold while I edit the first half. This isn't a tedious spell check/grammar edit, but a broad-sweeping brush edit. And now, I'm excited again. Hallelujah!
I sat down yesterday morning to do my Morning Pages (something of which I have been incredibly sporadic with) and posed the question: why am I not having fun anymore? And really, it came down to the question of when was the last time I had fun, period? I've had happy times for sure, don't get me wrong, but I had to think about the fun part. It's a depressing thing when you realize (again) how much of a fuddy-duddy adult you've become. I need to learn how to play more. Stinkin' responsibilities making me old ....
Anyway, some good came out of the session. I think part of my angst about laboring out each page is that I have so much to say for this section of the story that I've been feeling conflicted about how I was going to handle it. There is so much to explain, situations that need to be brought up. I was worried as the page numbers and word count was starting to increase and barely a foundation was being created for this part that I was going to do one of two things: either rush it to a close by not including what I felt needed to be included or have one massive manuscript that I would have to take a machete to later. It dawned on me yet again that it's possible I have two books on my hands. Yeah, again.
Suddenly, I'm excited. My perspective about what I'm doing has taken a hard right and I feel like I'm back on track. I've compiled my manuscript up to the point where I would cut it off for the first book and pulled it out to PDF form. It weighs in at about 60,600 words as is, which is fairly slight for a novel. My plan now is to print that baby up (hello Kinkos!) and sit down with it, pen and notepad at the ready. I need to see what I have, where it makes sense and where it can be strengthened. I really feel that if that first part isn't full of fluff and the components that are there are necessary, it would be best to separate it and treat the second half with the respect that story line deserves.
So, adding pages is officially on hold while I edit the first half. This isn't a tedious spell check/grammar edit, but a broad-sweeping brush edit. And now, I'm excited again. Hallelujah!
Friday, February 1, 2013
The Pact
Four years ago, I made a pact with my mom: The two of us would finally get off our butts and write. Both of us had put it off for too long and it was time to stop thinking about it and start doing it. The timing was perfect. She was turning 65 and I was turning 40 - good milestone years. We decided that we would start February 1st, on her birthday, and each of us would write and encourage the other. A writing group of two.
I took the day off of work and drove up to Kettle Falls on that first day of February, armed with paper and pencils, coffee and dessert, and a mind on fire with a story to write. We sat and talked, exchanged ideas. We were feeding off each other's energy and I'm not going to lie, I was exhausted by the end of the day. But it was a good, satisfied kind of exhausted.
Each of us got off to a great start, but like many things that we start with our fires blazing, it burns hot for a while and then peters out. Both of us got discouraged for different reasons, both of us had things blocking us, both internal and external. Mom ended up writing a small book, made up of mini stories from her childhood. She had it printed at the local copy shop and gave a copy to each of her loved ones for Christmas that year, which was received with "mixed reviews". I was proud of her for finishing, proud of her for putting it out there. It's not an easy thing to do. I think she mostly just wanted people to understand her. And really, don't we all want that at times?
My story gained some ground, the beginning of a novel that made a hard left to the ridiculous. I shelved it, so to speak. That was novel number 2 that was started and not finished. Number three came a few months later and was less of a start than it's predecessors. The age old issue of family/work life balance won out over this solitary activity so I stopped. And just like that, I broke our pact.
Mom was never upset, she totally got me. She said that she knew I'd write someday, when I was ready. She said that she didn't care if I ever got published, as long as I was doing what I loved. She's cool that way. When I started laying down words this last April, little bits here and there, she was really excited. She was really excited that I started this novel. This is the first time that I didn't feed her bits or let her read any of it. I wanted to wait until it was done. One of the last conversations we had was about this book. She was asking me when she was ever going to get to read any of it. And for that matter, when was she going to get to find out what happened in the first novel that I had started so long ago. One thing that bums me out is that she's not going to get to read any of what I write anymore. And if, by chance anything I write ever becomes published, I'm not going to get to call her. I actually pictured that in my head. The screaming, the jumping up and down.
Today's her birthday. I'm not going to lie, I'm feeling it today. My loss of her. Ever since the day of that pact, I've taken a day off at our birthdays and drove up to Kettle Falls to spend the day deep in conversation, laughter and tears. This week has been hard. I knew her birthday was coming, but I thought I could breeze through it.
Not so much.
After the third time of stopping myself from crying at work - which is an awful place to cry - I decided to throw in the towel. I could have stuffed it in again, could have gotten myself lost in spreadsheets for another few hours. But really? Maybe stuffing again and again is not the best solution. I decided I would indulge and let myself feel what was coming to the surface this time. I respectfully asked to take the rest of the day off and headed up to mom's house. I should have known this was coming, but I guess a half day spent at mom's is better than none.
I picked up a sub, a gorgeous bag of plain Lay's potato chips, and a single serving of mom's favorite birthday dessert - strawberry shortcake. I sat in her living room, eating my sub and smacking on my chips. Those Lay's are my stress food. If I'm feeling sad or stressed, I turn to Lay's. Not alcohol, not tobacco, it's all about the Lay's. Anyway, the conversation was extremely one-sided so I spent the afternoon looking through her photo albums and memory books. Unfortunately, the strawberry shortcake was super gross, so that was tossed. Sorry Mom.
I know I'm rambling on this post, but the truth is this: I simply miss her. And our birthdays for the last four years have been spent together, spurred on by the common desire to write. I wish I could say that I had that burning desire to work on my novel, but honestly? I'm feeling bummed. I'm not doubting I will finish, I absolutely know that I will not abandon yet another novel, especially when I am so far in, but I feel like I'm running in mud here. I'm sure so much of this has to do with just dealing with mom's passing. And it's winter. Blue skies and warm skin is a scarce commodity these days. I wish I could just turn that fire in me on, like the one in mom's living room today. Flip the switch and the orange and yellow flames ignite and capture your attention. Maybe that switch is coming. Or maybe it's something that I will simply have to keep tossing on logs and kindling. I don't know. But, one thing I do know, I'm glad I let myself feel today. There can never be healing unless you feel first.
Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you!
I took the day off of work and drove up to Kettle Falls on that first day of February, armed with paper and pencils, coffee and dessert, and a mind on fire with a story to write. We sat and talked, exchanged ideas. We were feeding off each other's energy and I'm not going to lie, I was exhausted by the end of the day. But it was a good, satisfied kind of exhausted.
Each of us got off to a great start, but like many things that we start with our fires blazing, it burns hot for a while and then peters out. Both of us got discouraged for different reasons, both of us had things blocking us, both internal and external. Mom ended up writing a small book, made up of mini stories from her childhood. She had it printed at the local copy shop and gave a copy to each of her loved ones for Christmas that year, which was received with "mixed reviews". I was proud of her for finishing, proud of her for putting it out there. It's not an easy thing to do. I think she mostly just wanted people to understand her. And really, don't we all want that at times?
My story gained some ground, the beginning of a novel that made a hard left to the ridiculous. I shelved it, so to speak. That was novel number 2 that was started and not finished. Number three came a few months later and was less of a start than it's predecessors. The age old issue of family/work life balance won out over this solitary activity so I stopped. And just like that, I broke our pact.
Mom was never upset, she totally got me. She said that she knew I'd write someday, when I was ready. She said that she didn't care if I ever got published, as long as I was doing what I loved. She's cool that way. When I started laying down words this last April, little bits here and there, she was really excited. She was really excited that I started this novel. This is the first time that I didn't feed her bits or let her read any of it. I wanted to wait until it was done. One of the last conversations we had was about this book. She was asking me when she was ever going to get to read any of it. And for that matter, when was she going to get to find out what happened in the first novel that I had started so long ago. One thing that bums me out is that she's not going to get to read any of what I write anymore. And if, by chance anything I write ever becomes published, I'm not going to get to call her. I actually pictured that in my head. The screaming, the jumping up and down.
Today's her birthday. I'm not going to lie, I'm feeling it today. My loss of her. Ever since the day of that pact, I've taken a day off at our birthdays and drove up to Kettle Falls to spend the day deep in conversation, laughter and tears. This week has been hard. I knew her birthday was coming, but I thought I could breeze through it.
Not so much.
After the third time of stopping myself from crying at work - which is an awful place to cry - I decided to throw in the towel. I could have stuffed it in again, could have gotten myself lost in spreadsheets for another few hours. But really? Maybe stuffing again and again is not the best solution. I decided I would indulge and let myself feel what was coming to the surface this time. I respectfully asked to take the rest of the day off and headed up to mom's house. I should have known this was coming, but I guess a half day spent at mom's is better than none.
I picked up a sub, a gorgeous bag of plain Lay's potato chips, and a single serving of mom's favorite birthday dessert - strawberry shortcake. I sat in her living room, eating my sub and smacking on my chips. Those Lay's are my stress food. If I'm feeling sad or stressed, I turn to Lay's. Not alcohol, not tobacco, it's all about the Lay's. Anyway, the conversation was extremely one-sided so I spent the afternoon looking through her photo albums and memory books. Unfortunately, the strawberry shortcake was super gross, so that was tossed. Sorry Mom.
I know I'm rambling on this post, but the truth is this: I simply miss her. And our birthdays for the last four years have been spent together, spurred on by the common desire to write. I wish I could say that I had that burning desire to work on my novel, but honestly? I'm feeling bummed. I'm not doubting I will finish, I absolutely know that I will not abandon yet another novel, especially when I am so far in, but I feel like I'm running in mud here. I'm sure so much of this has to do with just dealing with mom's passing. And it's winter. Blue skies and warm skin is a scarce commodity these days. I wish I could just turn that fire in me on, like the one in mom's living room today. Flip the switch and the orange and yellow flames ignite and capture your attention. Maybe that switch is coming. Or maybe it's something that I will simply have to keep tossing on logs and kindling. I don't know. But, one thing I do know, I'm glad I let myself feel today. There can never be healing unless you feel first.
Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you!
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Procrastabaking
Procrastabaking | pro-KRAST-a-bak-ing |
(v) : To delay or postpone doing what one knows they should do by baking and/or cooking.
I wish I was clever enough to have coined that term, but alas, I was not. I stole it and I'm adopting it.
Why, you ask, would I resort to thievery of someone else's intellectual property? It's simple. I like it and it fits.
It is, in fact, what I seem to do on Sundays when I know I could be writing. I may need to lower my expectation of writing on Sundays. The problem is, it seems like such a perfect day for it. The only chore I'm likely doing is laundry, which requires little or no attention from me. Most fun stuff happens on Saturday if it happens at all. I don't have work. It should be perfect.
Except for the small fact that lately I've felt like not doing ANYTHING on Sundays. And maybe I should listen to that and not fret so much. After all, I am a Mom and a Wife, I work a job that requires my brain to be alert and smart all day, I try to exercise and take care of myself and my family. Maybe it's not the worst thing in the world if I don't write on Sundays. Or at least not get bummed when I'm not and I just want to lay around and surf the internet or watch cheesy TV.
But then there's this little thing: this desire to write, to complete a novel. It's not something someone else can do for me. I can't ask someone to finish this chapter or this scene, like I can ask someone to switch over the laundry for me. It's something that I have to do. My fingers. My keyboard. My deal. I'm not going to lie. I'm tired.
Hense today's Procrastabaking. I frittered away the entire morning and at some point past noon I decided I simply wasn't going to write. I just didn't have it in me. What I wanted to do was cook. I love a good dinner on Sunday evenings. Last Sunday's Procrastabaking resulted in Pasticcio for dinner and for desert a Ginger cake topped with Raspberry glaze and fresh whipped cream. Today, I felt like stew and bread. So, I spent the next three to four hours chopping, braising beef, seasoning broth. While that sat on the stove, simmering and getting more delicious by the minute, my son and I made a couple loaves of bread together. And it was immensely satisfying. Dinner was good. And eaten and cleaned up by 6:30.
Time to write.
And I did. A little more than a 1,000 words. Where has my 2-3,000 word days gone? I swear it's all I can do to eek out a good 600 words. I feel like I've lost my muse - if ever in fact I had one. Or my mojo. And I feel like a spoiled brat. I did, in fact, write over 1,000 words today. I moved the story a little further. Threw a small monkey in the wrench of my character's progress - which is good. I think I just still have this underlying fear that I'm writing crap. I'm going to need to figure out what I need to do to get inspired again. Is this normal?
I wish I had an author's ear to bend. I would totally buy him or her a cup of coffee - hell, I would make them a Thanksgiving dinner - and ask them if I'm delusional or if I have something. Or maybe I would ask them if it really even matters anyway. Maybe, by their very nature, writers are in fact delusional. Maybe you have to be to even try to write so many words that make up an idea, a scene, people's lives - or their deaths, as luck may have it.
I don't know. I guess I can't figure it out tonight. Which means I'll just try again tomorrow. And keep trying until I'm done.
I've got to say though, that was a good dinner!
Total Word Count: 72,144
(Divided by the average 350 words per paperback page) 206 pages
(v) : To delay or postpone doing what one knows they should do by baking and/or cooking.
I wish I was clever enough to have coined that term, but alas, I was not. I stole it and I'm adopting it.
Why, you ask, would I resort to thievery of someone else's intellectual property? It's simple. I like it and it fits.
It is, in fact, what I seem to do on Sundays when I know I could be writing. I may need to lower my expectation of writing on Sundays. The problem is, it seems like such a perfect day for it. The only chore I'm likely doing is laundry, which requires little or no attention from me. Most fun stuff happens on Saturday if it happens at all. I don't have work. It should be perfect.
Except for the small fact that lately I've felt like not doing ANYTHING on Sundays. And maybe I should listen to that and not fret so much. After all, I am a Mom and a Wife, I work a job that requires my brain to be alert and smart all day, I try to exercise and take care of myself and my family. Maybe it's not the worst thing in the world if I don't write on Sundays. Or at least not get bummed when I'm not and I just want to lay around and surf the internet or watch cheesy TV.
But then there's this little thing: this desire to write, to complete a novel. It's not something someone else can do for me. I can't ask someone to finish this chapter or this scene, like I can ask someone to switch over the laundry for me. It's something that I have to do. My fingers. My keyboard. My deal. I'm not going to lie. I'm tired.
 |
Time to write.
And I did. A little more than a 1,000 words. Where has my 2-3,000 word days gone? I swear it's all I can do to eek out a good 600 words. I feel like I've lost my muse - if ever in fact I had one. Or my mojo. And I feel like a spoiled brat. I did, in fact, write over 1,000 words today. I moved the story a little further. Threw a small monkey in the wrench of my character's progress - which is good. I think I just still have this underlying fear that I'm writing crap. I'm going to need to figure out what I need to do to get inspired again. Is this normal?
I wish I had an author's ear to bend. I would totally buy him or her a cup of coffee - hell, I would make them a Thanksgiving dinner - and ask them if I'm delusional or if I have something. Or maybe I would ask them if it really even matters anyway. Maybe, by their very nature, writers are in fact delusional. Maybe you have to be to even try to write so many words that make up an idea, a scene, people's lives - or their deaths, as luck may have it.
I don't know. I guess I can't figure it out tonight. Which means I'll just try again tomorrow. And keep trying until I'm done.
I've got to say though, that was a good dinner!
Total Word Count: 72,144
(Divided by the average 350 words per paperback page) 206 pages
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Plot-Stuck
So, here's the deal. I've taken these kids, my characters, on a journey and now they have arrived and I don't know where to take them next. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a conundrum.
Part of the problem is that from the beginning, there were several ways this story could have gone. The beginning and the middle were basically the same - introduce characters and problem, have characters discover themselves/issues in the face of this problem. Then what was to come next could be open to many, many things. Much like getting your butt through high school or college. You do it because you have to, you learn a lot along the way, then once you graduate the big question mark comes and it's up to you what you do with it.
At first, my idea was that they would have a fairly peaceful and productive existence, probably because that's what I personally prefer. However, that doesn't always make for an interesting read. So, the next idea was to throw some conspiracy and conflict their way, raise the stakes and make it about a bigger picture they were going to have to solve. Which was great. Had the idea, knew about how to handle it. On my way. And so were my characters.
Until they decided that wasn't what was in store for them and the plot veered off to the left. Now I've got them on this side road, full of potholes and intersections, and no road map or GPS to know where the heck they are going. Never in my planning were they supposed to end up in Olympia. Uh-uh. And much like my characters, I've never even been to Olympia. Dang it. Why did they decide that's the place to go? In a world of politics and back handed dealings - which I admittedly have no interest in. So, to this I say, "Thanks a lot, Marcus. I despise you right now just as much as those kids."
My earlier inspiration has run it's course, and I am very grateful because there was some good stuff in there, tie-ins and imagery. I liked it! Now, at this very moment, three kids are in a car that smells of arthritis cream and pickles, stuck listening to disco with a wall-flower of a woman, and on their way to the state capital. They have no idea what's in store for them, only that they have to get there by morning. And, I find myself in the same boat. Minus the arthritis cream and pickles.
Not sure how I'm going to get us out of this mess, but I'm sure it'll come to me. Good grief.
Part of the problem is that from the beginning, there were several ways this story could have gone. The beginning and the middle were basically the same - introduce characters and problem, have characters discover themselves/issues in the face of this problem. Then what was to come next could be open to many, many things. Much like getting your butt through high school or college. You do it because you have to, you learn a lot along the way, then once you graduate the big question mark comes and it's up to you what you do with it.
At first, my idea was that they would have a fairly peaceful and productive existence, probably because that's what I personally prefer. However, that doesn't always make for an interesting read. So, the next idea was to throw some conspiracy and conflict their way, raise the stakes and make it about a bigger picture they were going to have to solve. Which was great. Had the idea, knew about how to handle it. On my way. And so were my characters.
Until they decided that wasn't what was in store for them and the plot veered off to the left. Now I've got them on this side road, full of potholes and intersections, and no road map or GPS to know where the heck they are going. Never in my planning were they supposed to end up in Olympia. Uh-uh. And much like my characters, I've never even been to Olympia. Dang it. Why did they decide that's the place to go? In a world of politics and back handed dealings - which I admittedly have no interest in. So, to this I say, "Thanks a lot, Marcus. I despise you right now just as much as those kids."
My earlier inspiration has run it's course, and I am very grateful because there was some good stuff in there, tie-ins and imagery. I liked it! Now, at this very moment, three kids are in a car that smells of arthritis cream and pickles, stuck listening to disco with a wall-flower of a woman, and on their way to the state capital. They have no idea what's in store for them, only that they have to get there by morning. And, I find myself in the same boat. Minus the arthritis cream and pickles.
Not sure how I'm going to get us out of this mess, but I'm sure it'll come to me. Good grief.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Today, I am a Writer!
Ok, super quick:
Today, I took the day off from work - because I could - and was hoping that I could get some respectable writing done. I was a little concerned about this because I'm at this really tough part of the story. See, it's taken an unexpected turn and I didn't know how the heck I was going to take it from there. All of the plans I had made for my characters were now pushed off the table. Something new was going to have to happen, something different and I had no idea what that was supposed to be.
So, after the family went off to work and school, I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down to do my Morning Pages. The temptation to bitch and moan was really strong, but instead I posed the question that was on my mind: "How am I going to move my story forward?"
And then it happened.
The answer came, it made perfect sense and I was excited again. Pieces were coming together, links attached, things made sense. Hallelujah Sister! Amen and Shazbot! I knew where I was going.
For the next several hours, I sat at the table. I wrote through breakfast, wrote some more, transferred to the kitchen counter and wrote through lunch. It wasn't until 2:00 that I realized I hadn't brushed my teeth, let alone take a shower.
I've picked at it a bit since then, but it's time to set it aside and get some dinner. Time to sit with my husband, enjoying a meal and a Redbox.
Thank you Morning Pages for the inspiration! It was a Writer's Day!
Today's Page Count: 8.75 - or 3,085 words to you and me.
Totals: 157 pages - or 63,891words.
Today, I took the day off from work - because I could - and was hoping that I could get some respectable writing done. I was a little concerned about this because I'm at this really tough part of the story. See, it's taken an unexpected turn and I didn't know how the heck I was going to take it from there. All of the plans I had made for my characters were now pushed off the table. Something new was going to have to happen, something different and I had no idea what that was supposed to be.
So, after the family went off to work and school, I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down to do my Morning Pages. The temptation to bitch and moan was really strong, but instead I posed the question that was on my mind: "How am I going to move my story forward?"
And then it happened.
The answer came, it made perfect sense and I was excited again. Pieces were coming together, links attached, things made sense. Hallelujah Sister! Amen and Shazbot! I knew where I was going.
For the next several hours, I sat at the table. I wrote through breakfast, wrote some more, transferred to the kitchen counter and wrote through lunch. It wasn't until 2:00 that I realized I hadn't brushed my teeth, let alone take a shower.
I've picked at it a bit since then, but it's time to set it aside and get some dinner. Time to sit with my husband, enjoying a meal and a Redbox.
Thank you Morning Pages for the inspiration! It was a Writer's Day!
Today's Page Count: 8.75 - or 3,085 words to you and me.
Totals: 157 pages - or 63,891words.
Monday, January 7, 2013
It's Good To Be Back!
I have to say, it feels like things are going right again. The world is spinning in the right direction and peanut butter is friends with jelly again. Doesn't make sense? Doesn't matter. I feel like life is returning to normal, and for that, I am incredibly grateful!
I am writing again. Perhaps not as many words per day, but doing it still. And really, after you hit the goal of 50,000 words and you realize that is not, in fact, the size of a novel, word count feels almost silly. I can't stop from seeing it tick up and realize what is a respectable amount to write today and what is on the puny side, but it almost seems like I need to look at estimated page count now. Which might also be silly, but we have to mark things somehow, right? If I can't have specific measure sticks, I feel lost and warbled, and I don't enjoy that sensation. So, page count it is.
In case you're wondering about word count though, since I up and changed the rules on the game, it's currently up to 58,818. Translated to the current game, that is approximately 144 paper back pages. Not too shabby, I think. Never mind that I have no idea how I'm going to end this story, or proceed for that matter, but I'm not fretting about that. After all, these characters are smart and they know what to do. And when there are times that I can't figure out how the heck something that needs to happen happen, more often than not, they let me know. And then it's obvious and I have no idea why I didn't think of it first.
So, new goal: Finish this novel by my birthday. Preferably Mom's birthday, which is February 1st. That would be cool. But, I'm giving myself a week leeway and February 7th will be just fine. Old game rules? That's about 1,350 words per day, in my estimation. Give or take. New game rules? That's right around 4 paper back pages a day. Eh, why not?
So here's to it! If I had a tasty adult beverage at the ready, I would raise a glass to worlds that have been righted and favorite childhood lunch mates being reunited again. However, the only drink I have handy is the swallow or two left of my Magnesium supplement, which I fondly call my "Crap". I don't ever mean disrespect to this lovely mineral, but it makes me laugh, so I do it. Anyway, I'll raise my blue plastic tumbler of Crap and say cheers to a New World Order.
Here, Here!
I am writing again. Perhaps not as many words per day, but doing it still. And really, after you hit the goal of 50,000 words and you realize that is not, in fact, the size of a novel, word count feels almost silly. I can't stop from seeing it tick up and realize what is a respectable amount to write today and what is on the puny side, but it almost seems like I need to look at estimated page count now. Which might also be silly, but we have to mark things somehow, right? If I can't have specific measure sticks, I feel lost and warbled, and I don't enjoy that sensation. So, page count it is.
In case you're wondering about word count though, since I up and changed the rules on the game, it's currently up to 58,818. Translated to the current game, that is approximately 144 paper back pages. Not too shabby, I think. Never mind that I have no idea how I'm going to end this story, or proceed for that matter, but I'm not fretting about that. After all, these characters are smart and they know what to do. And when there are times that I can't figure out how the heck something that needs to happen happen, more often than not, they let me know. And then it's obvious and I have no idea why I didn't think of it first.
So, new goal: Finish this novel by my birthday. Preferably Mom's birthday, which is February 1st. That would be cool. But, I'm giving myself a week leeway and February 7th will be just fine. Old game rules? That's about 1,350 words per day, in my estimation. Give or take. New game rules? That's right around 4 paper back pages a day. Eh, why not?
So here's to it! If I had a tasty adult beverage at the ready, I would raise a glass to worlds that have been righted and favorite childhood lunch mates being reunited again. However, the only drink I have handy is the swallow or two left of my Magnesium supplement, which I fondly call my "Crap". I don't ever mean disrespect to this lovely mineral, but it makes me laugh, so I do it. Anyway, I'll raise my blue plastic tumbler of Crap and say cheers to a New World Order.
Here, Here!
Friday, January 4, 2013
Found My Tracks
If I were a more uninhibited soul, I'd dance around the back yard in my robe with my hair blowing in the January night sky. Or, maybe not. I don't feel much like dancing outside in the 18 degree weather, but I have to say, it would be nice to let yourself be crazy once in a while. It has to feel pretty good, don't you think?
You wanna know what does feel good? A massage. Thanks to my brilliant husband, who guessed exactly right that what I really needed for Christmas wasn't things, but to be cared for and pampered, I feel more at home in my skin. I no longer feel like I'm rattling around in here, echoes bouncing off my inner walls. I booked Christmas present number 1 last night after work (Oh yes. There are 4 in total) and preceded to have a good 90 percent of my body's surface worked over. Knots were mashed, back was exfoliated, sore quads were kneaded to jello. Hell, even my toes were massaged! I honestly had a moment where I thought that this is what movie stars must feel like. It was a crazy thought, but then, crazy felt good.
So, not incredibly surprising, guess what I did today? I wrote. Not a few strangled words, but a scene. It's been since November 25th that I wrote a scene. Well, in honestly, it's not quite a whole scene, but it's nearly 1,300 words. I had moments where I felt like I was reading, which is so much nicer than pulling the baby out sideways. And this didn't feel crazy. It felt exactly right.
Because of that moment of feeling exactly right, I kind of want to do something crazy, like dance around a bonfire or do handstands on the beach. Lucky for me, bonfire burning in Spokane city limits is a no-no and the beach is a good 6 hour drive from here, because I'm also just plain tired. It's 9:04 on a Friday night and I'm excited to go to bed. I've had a good day. And tomorrow, I can sleep in - or at least not wake up to an alarm. And perhaps, I will write some more. After all, I have to find out how my characters are going to get out of this mess they're in!
It's good to find my tracks.
You wanna know what does feel good? A massage. Thanks to my brilliant husband, who guessed exactly right that what I really needed for Christmas wasn't things, but to be cared for and pampered, I feel more at home in my skin. I no longer feel like I'm rattling around in here, echoes bouncing off my inner walls. I booked Christmas present number 1 last night after work (Oh yes. There are 4 in total) and preceded to have a good 90 percent of my body's surface worked over. Knots were mashed, back was exfoliated, sore quads were kneaded to jello. Hell, even my toes were massaged! I honestly had a moment where I thought that this is what movie stars must feel like. It was a crazy thought, but then, crazy felt good.
So, not incredibly surprising, guess what I did today? I wrote. Not a few strangled words, but a scene. It's been since November 25th that I wrote a scene. Well, in honestly, it's not quite a whole scene, but it's nearly 1,300 words. I had moments where I felt like I was reading, which is so much nicer than pulling the baby out sideways. And this didn't feel crazy. It felt exactly right.
Because of that moment of feeling exactly right, I kind of want to do something crazy, like dance around a bonfire or do handstands on the beach. Lucky for me, bonfire burning in Spokane city limits is a no-no and the beach is a good 6 hour drive from here, because I'm also just plain tired. It's 9:04 on a Friday night and I'm excited to go to bed. I've had a good day. And tomorrow, I can sleep in - or at least not wake up to an alarm. And perhaps, I will write some more. After all, I have to find out how my characters are going to get out of this mess they're in!
It's good to find my tracks.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
New Year's
I can't deny it and I can't sugar coat it. I am bummed. I feel my life has gone off it's rails. Mom's death is still weighing on me. And it's to be expected, I'm sure. It's only been a little over a month. I don't think about it all the time, not even every day. But sometimes it feels like such a heavy blanket to live under.
I am bummed. And lately, it feels like the bummed is winning over the moments that I feel fine. Where I laugh, where I make food, where I put on make up to look and feel normal. I know I'm not going to be bummed forever. But today is apparently not that day. I was doing pretty good for a while, then another thing pops up and it feels like the shoes just keep dropping. I don't want anymore shoes to drop.
I need some good in my days. Lord, it is hard to pull through this, but I know I am going to. I will get back to me, though it will likely be a newer version of me. One that knows what it's like to face her fears and move through them to the other side. One who doesn't give up, even when she's tired. That new version of me? The new and improved one? It's in the making as we speak. Every time that I move forward, or even take a step back to let myself feel, that's the time that I sprout a little more. Growing pains are tough, aren't they?
I've been through this before, you know. Not this exactly, but such a thing that rocks you to your core, flips you off your rails and makes you claw your way back to good. I've done it before. I will do it now. So, if you happen to read this, please do not worry or fret. It's just me being honest. And if I can't be honest, what's the point of it all anyway.
I honestly thought that today I would feel better, that I would have a good day. Christmas time is over, house has been cleaned and the season of getting back on track should have wrapped up with going to bed last night. Weirdly enough, I woke up and it was the same. No inclination to write, just the damn heavy blanket. I'm not sure why I thought this symbolic day would feel that much different, but I did. And as shitty as all that disappointment is, I am here, at my computer. I am writing. It's not a fun read, nor is it likely funny or inspiring. But I am here, and I am doing it. This post may ramble and have crap for structure, but at this very moment, at 9:06 pm on January 1st of 2013, I don't give a damn.
I'm here. I'm writing. I'm sprouting. And yes, I am clawing my way back to good.
Good night.
I am bummed. And lately, it feels like the bummed is winning over the moments that I feel fine. Where I laugh, where I make food, where I put on make up to look and feel normal. I know I'm not going to be bummed forever. But today is apparently not that day. I was doing pretty good for a while, then another thing pops up and it feels like the shoes just keep dropping. I don't want anymore shoes to drop.
I need some good in my days. Lord, it is hard to pull through this, but I know I am going to. I will get back to me, though it will likely be a newer version of me. One that knows what it's like to face her fears and move through them to the other side. One who doesn't give up, even when she's tired. That new version of me? The new and improved one? It's in the making as we speak. Every time that I move forward, or even take a step back to let myself feel, that's the time that I sprout a little more. Growing pains are tough, aren't they?
I've been through this before, you know. Not this exactly, but such a thing that rocks you to your core, flips you off your rails and makes you claw your way back to good. I've done it before. I will do it now. So, if you happen to read this, please do not worry or fret. It's just me being honest. And if I can't be honest, what's the point of it all anyway.
I honestly thought that today I would feel better, that I would have a good day. Christmas time is over, house has been cleaned and the season of getting back on track should have wrapped up with going to bed last night. Weirdly enough, I woke up and it was the same. No inclination to write, just the damn heavy blanket. I'm not sure why I thought this symbolic day would feel that much different, but I did. And as shitty as all that disappointment is, I am here, at my computer. I am writing. It's not a fun read, nor is it likely funny or inspiring. But I am here, and I am doing it. This post may ramble and have crap for structure, but at this very moment, at 9:06 pm on January 1st of 2013, I don't give a damn.
I'm here. I'm writing. I'm sprouting. And yes, I am clawing my way back to good.
Good night.
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