I Didn't Know to Dream This

This weekend I had the pleasure of attending Gather at the River, a two-day choral conference put together by the New Hampshire and Vermont chapters of the ACDA. It was held at Dartmouth College, in the lovely little town of Hanover, NH. You can visit the link above to see the rundown of the things we did during those two days, but it was basically workshops, learning, and singing with dozens of choral directors and choir members from VT, NH, and MA. Friday night there was a more formal concert where three groups (including the Concord Chorale, my current musical family) performed for the public. On Saturday evening, we held an informal concert where we performed for each other to showcase the pieces we had learned over two days in three small chamber groups, as well as the whole group performance of the Duruflé Requiem under our guest conductor, Dr. Joe Miller of Westminster Choir College. It was an overall wonderful, enlightening experience.

During his keynote speech at the start of the conference, Dr. Miller talked about how his love of music and choral singing developed in a non-musical football family. Now that he's teaching at the Westminster Choir College, he said someone once asked if it was his dream job, and his response was, "I didn't know to dream this."

I didn't know to dream this.

Those words stuck with me. I find myself feeling similarly about certain things in my own life at times. I'm the type of person who likes to daydream about the best outcomes while acknowledging the possibility for the worst and knowing the reality will fall somewhere along that infinite spectrum. I generally try not to have too many big expectations about things. I go with the flow. And the result has been that sometimes the best outcomes are things I hadn't even imagined on the spectrum of possibility.

In high school. I attended a young writer's workshop for a few weeks one summer. The feeling of being among other young writers who loved this thing that I also loved, and who enjoyed learning and practicing and sharing our craft together the way we did there, had been something that, before I experienced it, I wouldn't have imagined possible. The same thing happened with this choral conference. I had never been to anything like it, and it exceeded what I could have hoped for. I had that same feeling of being a big old nerd finding the mother ship of other music nerds who just really love music and singing and learning about both of those. In a few short weeks I'll be attending the Romance Writers of America annual conference, and while I'm trying to do the whole "no expectations" thing, it won't surprise me to be overcome by the same sense of nerdy joy when I find myself surrounded by hundreds of other writers who want to geek out over writing and the same things that I love.

Going back to the idea of a dream job or profession, where I am right now in life is also a place I wouldn't have thought to dream. Nailing down what I "want to be" into a clear path and career goal was always something that filled me with dread and uncertainty. I just didn't know. I still don't know. I knew that I loved a lot of different things in different ways. I was lucky to find a college major at a school where I could combine a lot of different passions into one thing. But, as you can probably guess, that didn't translate to a clear, successful career path once I graduated. (Don't get me wrong, I don't regret my major or my degree one little bit. I loved every minute of my experience. It made me happy.) After fumbling around in retail for eight years trying to find the right company, the right position, the right place where I fit and could use my skills and love of fashion and do something I enjoyed without coming to hate it after a a year or two, I quit. I gave it up and turned toward some of the other interests I had. It was clear that this one passion wasn't enough to fulfill me.

If you had asked me at any point in my life, even right up until the start of this year, if I thought I could be happy doing three different jobs at once, I probably would've told you that that sounded miserable. And on the surface, plenty of people might agree that working three jobs is just nuts. But it's where I am, and I love it.

Earlier this year I started working as a speech and language annotator. It can feel a bit tedious at times because it's a lot of staring at the computer screen and clicking the mouse, but there's something about it that satisfies my love of language and the analytical part of my brain. I never even knew such a position existed until I was approached by a recruiter who found me based on my freelance transcription business.

I'm an author. I write and publish novels and short stories featuring the drama, humor, sexiness, heartbreak, and joy of relationships. I've also written some erotic scripts for a startup company bringing innovation to erotica.

My third job is my newest, and it's as a freelance copyeditor at Mistress Editing. After writing the romance and the sex and all that awesome stuff in my own stories and having friends ask me for help with theirs over the years, this seemed like the logical next step.

These three things together are how I'm currently making my living, and having a blast doing it. I now have the time to commit to rehearsals and performances with a community choir, which I wasn't able to do when I was working retail. I still love fashion, but my retail career made me miserable. Maybe sometime soon I'll be able to make the time and the space to do some fashion design sketches or start sewing at home again, for the love of it. Fashion, music, and writing. My three biggest passions. I never thought they could all coexist in my life and that I could also have a satisfying job(s) that paid actual money.

I guess my overall point is this: Dream your dreams, but keep your eyes open. Don't let expectations or even dreams blind you to potential opportunities that may just having you saying I didn't know to dream this.

Live Free or Die

Live free or die is the state motto of New Hampshire. My husband and I (and our dog, of course) moved here at the end of July, and I'm still discovering new and quirky things about the area that differentiate it from other places I've lived. We're enjoying it here so far and are cautiously waiting for our first New England winter. There are lots of things that I find awesome, weird, funny, or otherwise interesting about my new home, and I thought I'd share some of those with you.

Welcome to New Hampshire...

 

Pretty!

... where grocery stores close at 9pm during the week and 7pm on Sunday. What? I'm used to at least one 24-hour grocer nearby!

... where autumn is freaking gorgeous. There are trees everywhere, and they burst into the most glorious colors.

... where Dunkin' Donuts is king. This is true of New England in general, apparently. I grew up with Dunkin' on a much less intense level, so it's not that they were completely new to me. But it's practically a religion here. Cream and sugar in your coffee is "regular" here, whereas if you ask for it that way somewhere else, like in New York, as my husband recently discovered, they might look at you like you're nuts.

... where drivers don't know how to merge or yield. Yes, this is a sweeping generalization, but it has held up in my experiences so far. Many merge points around here are also much shorter than I'm used to. But they're twice as wide, meaning you can practically drive right next to the car you need to merge behind for a good 200 feet before you really need to merge. So it evens out, right? Granted, I've only been driving for three and a half years, and all of that in Pennsylvania, so perhaps my experience is different than most. I've also been told this experience is unique to my particular area, but I've seen it in some of my cross-state drives as well. 

... where the accent makes me giggle. I lived in Pittsburgh (PA, I've learned to stipulate, as there is also a Pittsburgh, NH!) for three years and that accent made me smile. I got used to it, though. Pittsburghese is sort of a midwestern and southern mash-up of accents, and the vernacular can be interesting, too. Growing up on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, I'm accustomed to a bit of twang, so maybe that's why Pittsburgh's dialect didn't feel quite as foreign. But the New England accent is something that I'm not sure will ever not make me laugh inside. Not because I'm making fun of it, but just because it's such a peculiarity to my ear. I suppose to a lot of people here, I'm the one with the accent.

"Hampton Beach, New Hampshire 2004"

... where the beaches sparkle, the water is freezing, and seaweed is unavoidable. We arrived in late July and within two weeks we made sure to hit the beach. Technically we went to Maine and Massachusetts and didn't get a chance to visit the NH coastline before it got too cold. But I'm fairly certain this observation will hold up when we get to test it next summer. The sand sparkles like I've never seen before. I'm guessing it's because of the quartz and other mineral content, but I have no idea. I just know it's freaking awesome. The water is colder than I'm used to, but still refreshing. It's clear to a greater depth than I ever encountered in my mid-Atlantic beach-going experience, and it doesn't taste quite as salty. No, I'm not drinking it, but it's difficult not to taste it while swimming in the ocean. New England beaches have climbed to the top of my favorites list, despite the need to fish out bits of seaweed from unmentionable places afterward...

... where you can buy beer at Wal-Mart! This may not seem so strange to some, unless you've lived in Pennsylvania or another place with bizarre liquor laws. After needing to practically jump through hoops in PA to be able to buy a six-pack of beer, it was a shock to the system to see it all over the place in stores here.

... where the speed limit is just a suggestion. I'll admit to having a bit of a lead foot, so I love to see the 65 mph speed limit on stretches of highway near me. Usually that means I'm doing 70. And yet people still speed past me quite often. And when it drops down to 55 mph after that exit? Nah, the flow of traffic is still going 70. When we first moved, we had movers to bring boxes off the truck and into our apartment. They were super nice guys and talked to us about the area and asked about my husband's job (which is the reason we moved) and gave us a word of caution about police being sticklers for the speed limit in his experience. Sadly, I think his experience may have been more a symptom of driving while brown, as I've seen many police cars monitoring traffic who don't seem to bat an eye at everyone traveling at least 5 mph above the posted limit. They do pull people over, but I wonder just how fast you have to be going or how erratically you have to be driving for them to actually stop you. I don't think I'll try to find out, though.

... where everyone is SO. FREAKING. NICE. There are nice people everywhere, of course, but I've never
encountered so much genuine friendliness in other places. Perhaps it has to do with it being a smaller city? I don't know. I live in the largest city in the state, but when you look at population density, it's the smallest place I've ever lived with the exception of perhaps my hometown. When we explored downtown, we stopped in the tiny little visitor's center to grab some brochures and the woman there talked to us at length about the area and welcomed us several times before we went on our way. Even in the grocery store, if I mentioned I was new to the area, people went out of their way to welcome me and ask about where I was from and how I liked the area. Today I had a physical with a new primary care physician and went for blood work immediately after and even there they were all smiling, friendly, welcoming, and enthusiastic. Having worked in retail for many years, I think I've learned the difference between genuine personality and a customer service facade (which isn't necessarily a bad thing to have perfected, of course). Everyone has been wonderfully genuine and authentic, and I've never felt like anyone was putting on a good show for the sake of their job.

"Old Man of the Mountain 4-26-03"

So thanks, New Hampshire, for being so dang cool. As an introvert, the abundance of friendliness can make me feel a little awkward and uncomfortable at times (I'm like OMG somebody is TALKING to me!) but at the same time it can be a blessing in disguise because it takes the pressure off me to be the one to initiate conversation in new social environments, like the choir I joined as soon as I got here. I don't know how long we'll be here, but I will certainly enjoy every moment of it! Now, bring on the snow! I mean... er... be gentle with me, Old Man Winter!

Tell me something quirky about where you live!

A Writer's Life in Thailand

I'm very excited to have a guest post today from Dannie Hill, who claimed this spot when he donated to the Indies Unite for Joshua Indiegogo campaign. Welcome, Dannie!

A Writer’s Life in Thailand

I’m excited about doing a guest post at JELLO WORLD with J. Lea Lopez! Thank you, kind lady.

I’m an American writer and I’ve been living in Thailand for the past 9 years with my beautiful wife. We have a small farm where we grow tropical and not so tropical fruits, veggies, and main crop of either corn or tapioca. I have also published 3 novels and have a new one coming out very soon.

Many people ask me, “Why Thailand?” The answer is: I needed to get away from all the hustle, bustled, electronics and decision making. My brain needed a break. Also my wife was born in Thailand and I had kept her away for many years raising a family and caring for a wonderful husband… me. I have wanted to take her home for a while, but the honest truth is I did it more for me than her. One of the things I’ve learn here in Thailand is honest thoughts.

Many foreigners who come here and to other exotic lands seek out communities of foreigners to live near. Me? I came determined to learn the language (or die trying) and just get away from it all for a while. I live in a rural area where I’m it when it comes to foreigners. That while has lasted nine years so far. I can speak Thai now. I don’t claim that I can stand up and deliver a speech about the meaning of life but I do well enough to get along with everyone.

I’ve always led a simple life—starving artists tend to do that—so the culture shock wasn’t a major player. The hardest thing that I still haven’t learned to do is stop waving or speaking to nearly everyone I pass. I’m a Southerner and I tend to talk rather than think in many situations. My wife got in the habit of walking behind me—way behind me—so she wouldn’t blush all the time. Over time my neighbors have learned the American ‘wave’ and laugh at my antics. My wife even walks beside me now. Yeah.

Thailand is known as The Land of Smiles and it is a befitting name. These wonderful people take life as it comes to them and always seem happy. I think it’s the heat. I love to go to the morning markets and watch the beautiful women gliding along buying fresh vegetables and everything necessary for the day. I walk around talking to the Mea Ka, the sellers, and Lukka, the buyers, and just enjoy myself.

Dannie and Sam the cat

I often ride my motorcycle out into the country just to see where the road leads. I usually end up in a small village where white guys are a rare treat. I always find a gathering place where the older men and women socialize and introduce myself. It takes a few minutes for them to realize I am speaking Thai and then the fun begins. The others of the village come to see the foreigner speaking Thai. The children are always shy at first, but after a while they try their best to wring out the secrets of my being with squeals and laughter. I have to admit it's a big ego boost for me. In the States I’d be just another old man, but here in Thailand I’m special. I do love it here, living with the most wonderful people I’ve ever met.

As a writer, the quieted sounds of English allow my daydreams to come to life in words. There is such a peace here my muse is happy and words rush out faster than I can write them down. Just ask my editor! I can write back in the States but it’s an effort to find the peace I need. In Thailand it’s just a morning away.

I was in a war two countries away, lived in Budapest for a short time, lived in the Marshall Islands for two years and visited a number of countries, and I must say Thailand is my favorite for the people, the beauty of the land and the food. It’s a place I know you would enjoy.

To learn more about Dannie, check out his blog here, or learn more about his books here.

#Scintilla Day 11: 23 Pieces of Me

This is the last day for Scintilla, so let me just take a moment to say thanks to everyone who has read and commented, and I do hope you'll pop in from time to time. I've read some great posts by immensely interesting people and will certainly be reading those blogs in the future.

I wasn't terribly inspired by the prompt options for today, so I'm going all the way back to Day 1 to do the other prompt from that day: Who are you? It's always a difficult and complicated question for me, and each time I answer it, I think the picture painted is a little different than last time. I was also inspired by this brilliant list of 23 combo post from another Scintilla participant, so I've decided to tell you who I am in a list.

1. I'm sensitive. Not in the derogatory sense. (Oh, she's just sensitive.) Not in the psychic sense, either. But I'm attuned to moods and can sense when those around me are unhappy, or when there's tension between people. I don't usually let it affect my own behavior, but sometimes I'd rather avoid you than listen to another complaint about anything. Sometimes I just need a break from other people's negativity.
2. Compliments make me uncomfortable. Praise for my skills, accomplishments, or other things I've done are easier for me to accept than compliments on how I look.
3. I love to laugh.
4. I'm a nice girl. But...
5. There's a snark monster living in my head. I try to keep her chained, but she slips out now and then.
6. I love dirty talk. I don't mean in the bedroom. Or maybe I do. You'll just have to guess on that one. But I mean I find it hilarious when men try to "clean it up" for my sake, or apologize to me for the sexual comments made to the other men in the room while in my presence. Hello. If they could see inside my head... I write erotica, for cryin' out loud. I'm not a prude. In fact, sex and sexuality - the emotion and psychology of it - fascinates me, and if you ask the right questions, I'll talk to you all day about it.
7. I'm a writer.
8. I am an introvert.
9. I'm shy.
10. I prefer beer over wine, and mojitos over everything.
11. I think jello is fantastic.
12. I'm a half Puerto Rican girl born in Jersey, raised on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, living in Pennsylvania, longing for the ocean.
13. I love to eat. Thanks to #12, a husband who went to culinary school, and a love for food in general, my tastes vary widely. I love scrapple, even though I know what it's made of. I'll sit around picking crabs for hours. And I would seriously kill for some mofongo with pork right about now. My comfort food of choice is ground beef with rice and beans.The weirdest thing (according to other people) besides scrapple that I love to eat is Ritz crackers topped with sharp cheddar and orange marmalade.
14. I'm childfree.
15. I get immense satisfaction from seeing people I love succeed, even when they succeed at things in which I still only aspire.
16. I spend way too much time playing Facebook games, games on my phone (Scramble with Friends! Draw Something!), chatting on Twitter, and otherwise being unproductive. But you'll never hear me complain about not getting stuff done or achieving what I want because I know if I don't, it's my own lazy ass fault.
17. I have clown feet. Size 11 EXTRA wide. I love looking at shoes, but loathe attempting to buy any.
18. I talk to my dog as if she were a person and can fully comprehend what I'm saying. (She totally can, by the way.)
19. I'm smart. People have said that to me in a way that I felt was demeaning. But dammit, I'm smart! And that's a good thing.
20. I love fashion and sewing. I made the corset and skirt I wore when I got married. It pains me to pay full price (and even sale price) for clothes from the store because I know what a rip-off a lot of it is.
21. I'm not the jealous type.
22. I'm not afraid of silence.
23. I am love. I don't say this to be overly dramatic or romantic or deep. But the more I think about it (and I've been thinking about it) the more I realize that love is the defining feature of my life, and who I am. More than any one idea of god or spirituality, I've always believed in love. I love easily, and completely. I probably love you and you don't even realize it. I love when I know the possibility for hurt is high. I love when that hurt subsides. I don't take back love once it's given, though I may change how I express it. I love platonically, and romantically, and a whole lot in between. From my every day interactions to the people I call friends to the fiction I write, my life is an exploration of the spectrum of love.

#Scintilla Day 9: Body Conscious, a Conversation

Finally current with Scintilla posts! Prompt for today: Talk about the ways in which your body is awesome.

Okay, let's see. My body. Is. Awesome?

Oh come on, you aren't going to bring everyone down with some kind of negative body image talk, are you?

No. I'm a realist when it comes to my body, both the flaws and features. I'm just trying to figure out what to talk about. How to frame it.

Well, what's your favorite thing about your body?

I really like my hair.

Your hair is not your body.

It's attached.

*hands on hips*

I've always liked my eyes.

Better, I guess. Still not very body though.

Very "body"? What does that even mean?

I don't know. Don't you think it should be something a little more sensuous? You know, all that stuff about curves and soft and inviting and womanly...

Bah. Boring. I certainly don't sit around thinking of myself that way. Besides, I have lots of "soft curves" in places I wish I didn't! Haha!

I thought you weren't going to do the negative body image stuff?

I'm not! It's the truth. And I'm well aware it's the truth. It's not negative body image when it's true. I'm laughing at  myself. Not everyone can do that, you know. It takes security and confidence to be able to laugh at yourself.

No, it takes not believing you're attractive to be able to laugh at yourself.

Not true. Maybe I think I'm really damn fabulous and just don't want less awesome people to feel bad if they hear me boasting about it.

Do you think you're really damn fabulous?

Eh. Not most of the time. But that doesn't mean I think poorly of myself or my body, either.

Okay, okay, whatever. I know what we should do. We should--

We?

Yeah. Me. You. Us.

Are you really referring to yourself in the third person?

No, I'm referring to your self in the third person. Anyway, you're the one having a conversation with yourself. Who are you to judge?

Touche.

Anyway. You should do like a sexy, suggestive kind of thing about your favorite body part. Or parts. Like your lips. You have nice lips.

Aww. Thank you.

You're welcome. Stop interrupting us. Where were we...? Oh yeah. Sort of like an "is this fiction or not?" kind post. About your lips or whatever. You know, the bottom one is nice and full, and it's kinda sexy when  you slick on that strawberry margarita lip gloss and pout a little bit and--

I don't pout.

Sure you do.

I do not. I don't frown, so I don't pout either. I smile. All the time. I think people think I'm a little strange sometimes because I always smile.

What? Shut up, they do not. And you do too pout. You know, a little sexy pout. Pout. Lips. Lip gloss. Red. Eyes looking up through your curly hair that you like, and maybe a wink, and a man should be so lucky to have that mouth--

Holy whoa! Stop right there. This is not going to be about sex.

*snort* Please. Everything is about sex with you, Ms. I Write Erotica and Find Innuendo in Everything.

Whatever. Why should it be about sex, just because it asks about how my body is awesome? Just because I'm a woman? And the only reason my body can be awesome is in a sexual context? For the pleasure of a man? Screw that! My body can be sexual on its own, but it doesn't have to be sexual. And it's not going to be about how awesome my body is because it has the potential to bear children, because it'll never do that, either. My worth is not related to my sexual organs and what they can do. Just because I have breasts and--

Okay, okay! My lord you have been reading too many feminist blogs lately.

What, I couldn't have formed my opinions on my own, they had to come from somewhere else? Why? Because I'm a woman? You can't gaslight me into submission and... oh. Okay, maybe you have a point.

Of course I do. I'm you.

Again, touche. You make some good points.

Of course I do. I'm you.

So what the hell am I supposed to write?

I dunno. I've got sex on the brain. You left those poor characters hanging right before a steamy scene in the short story you started weeks ago, you know. You should really finish that.

I know, but what am I supposed to write now, for Scintilla?

Write the truth. Isn't that supposed to be what it's all about?

The truth is that my body is not perfect, but it does what I need it do. Sexually or otherwise. *wink*

See, I knew you couldn't resist a sexual joke or comment.

Busted.

----------------------------------------------------

 ^^^THIS^^^ is why my brain is the reason my body is awesome. It never fails to amuse, enlighten, and entertain me. Sexually or otherwise. *wink*

#Scintilla Day 8: Childhood Friends

My best friend growing up was named Cassidy. We met in school at a young age, and were practically inseparable for a while. In middle school we had tons of classes together. We shared a lot of the same interests when it came to music, fashion, boys. We both played the flute in band. We both have curly brown hair, and struggled through learning how to care for/cut/style it without looking ridiculous. I would ride my bike across town to her house on the weekend or in the summer and we'd spend the day listening to the Cranberries, making cookies, freaking ourselves out with the Ouija board, writing, talking, or (for a brief period) smoking cigarettes along the railroad tracks, far from the prying eyes of anyone who might know my parents and tell them what I was up to. Cassidy and I were our own little clique of two.

I remember having a huge fight, I think in seventh grade, about a boy. Someone she had a "secret" crush on, but of course I knew who it was. You know how it is at that age. You write initials, or make up secret nicknames. I revealed the identity of her crush to someone who was asking about one of those initial/nickname doodles, and Cassidy was pretty pissed. It was a full-on fight, complete with angry hang-up phone calls. I laugh when I think about it now, of course. Part of me thinks that was around the time we started drifting, ever so slightly.

In high school, we rarely had classes together. Interests diverged a little bit. I was still in band, and joined choir (total band/choir geek, and I'm proud of it!) while she joined the marching band colorguard and took art classes. Another memory: Homecoming, sophomore year (I think). I had gotten up the nerve to ask someone to go with me - someone who'd gone to school with us in middle school, then changed schools. Someone I thought was cute. It was a huge deal for me, obviously. When we got to the dance, he ended up spending most of the night dancing with other girls, including Cassidy, while I danced with the friend of another friend's boyfriend - a sweet little Hispanic guy who barely came up to my chin and didn't speak English. I remember at one point looking at Cassidy as she danced with my "date" and she gave me this look of I'm so sorry, I have no idea how this happened. Part of me was pissed. At him, not her. Part of me thought oh well, that's what I get for going out on a limb. I should've figured I was just an "in" for him to spend the night checking out prettier, thinner, more "popular" girls. It's okay. My accidental dance partner kept saying I was pretty. In Spanish, of course.

Cassidy and I did drift apart, more significantly, as high school progressed. We were still friends, of course, but not really joined at the hip like we used to be. Then, somehow, after graduation, we lost contact completely. I don't know how it happened, exactly. I never thought it would happen. It was a strange feeling. Looking back, I feel like there were times where I sacrificed our long-standing friendship for... I don't even know for what, any more. For the opinions of people I didn't really even like that much, maybe. But also maybe it was something inevitable.

I remember my high school self wanting, in part, to figure myself out and create myself as something independent of my best friend. Somewhere along the line I'd found out that our guidance counselor had purposely made our class schedules as identical as possible throughout middle school. Her reasons for that were good, but on some small level it felt a little bit unfair to both Cassidy and I (in my mind), and I think I questioned whether our friendship would've been the same if the counselor hadn't orchestrated our schedules that way. And then, later, I think I used that as a reasoning for why we drifted apart and lost touch. Like maybe we weren't really such great friends for any reason other than spending so much school time together.

Because I think too much, and keep things to myself, and am prone to a touch of anxiety at times, this started to feel like a personal failure of the largest magnitude. I was sure I'd insulted her somehow, or hurt her terribly. It was my fault, because I was a bad person. I don't remember anymore why I felt these things then, whether they were based in fact or simply imagined. I tried looking her up on MySpace (MySpace! ha!) and later on Facebook, without luck. I knew I wanted to say I was sorry for anything I might have done, even back then when we were young and emotional and confused, or at least when I was.

Then one day on Facebook, I saw the little post that says "so and so is now friends with Cassidy Price" and I couldn't believe it. It sounds stupid, but I actually sat there and tried to figure out what to do. Do I friend request her? Do I send a message along with it, saying I'm sorry for whatever happened, but I miss having you as a friend? What if she didn't accept? Why wouldn't she accept? Yes, I admit it, I slipped back into one of my crazy moments where I'm convinced I'm a bad person and that thing that happened was my fault, even if it was just coincidence, even if it had nothing to do with me. Then I told myself to snap out of it and hit the button.

Thing about people you love - best friends especially - is that you always come back together. Even if one of you blabs the other's secret crush to someone else, even if feelings are hurt. Even if life happens and you lose touch for a few weeks, months, or years. When you find your way back, you'll talk and fill in the gaps and smile at the things about your friend that are still the same, marvel at the wonderful new parts of them that you get to learn about, and revel in the fact that it feels so good just to be their friend.

In case it isn't obvious, yes. Friend request accepted.

#Scintilla Day 7: Parental Personhood

(I'm playing catch-up with posts from Thursday and Friday of last week.)

Scintilla prompt for today: Talk about a time when you saw your mother or father as a person independent of his or her identity as your parent.

I'm not sure I can say that I've seen any of my parents as a person independent of their identity as parent, as it has been the trappings of that role - their responsibilities, their actions, and my expectations of them - that have shaped my ideas of them as people. Looking back, I feel like I've mostly seen them as people, most of my life. There are moments, memories, where I can point my finger and say parent, and that word encompassed everything they were for me, what they meant to me, what I wanted and needed them to be. Not really the other way around. Oddly, I feel more connected to them as my parents now that I'm a little older. Perhaps that's the universal experience of moving out of the immediacy of adolescence and into the adult ability to appreciate both hindsight and future possibility. In any case...

I didn't have what might be seen as the ideal or typical family structure as a young child. My parents were never married. I have no memories of my mother prior to our reintroduction when I was 13 or so. My older brother did, but it's all blank for me. My dad married my stepmom when I was little. I don't remember what age, exactly, but it was before I was old enough for school. If I count back based on when my sister was born, I was probably three or four years old. She's always been mom to me, never Regina, never "my step-mother." My younger sister and brother were never anything but that - half anything was never, and will never be, a distinction worth noting in our family. My mom mom came back into the picture when I was in middle school, which was a rough, awkward, strange, miserable time for me all on its own, without even tossing family into the mix. Family made it even crazier.

Maybe it's because I was a middle child, or because I'm an introvert, or who knows what else, but it was easy for me to see the inner workings, if you will. I was quiet. I watched. I analyzed. I thought. A LOT. I could see the aspects of personality that informed the words and deeds of those around me, my parents included. I saw them as clearly as strands of floss woven and coiled into intricate beings that I called mom and dad (or sister, brother, friend, etc.)

When my parents argued with my older brother, I saw those strands flailing, clashing. I saw the missed connections, the misunderstandings that only led to more clashing. For the life of me, I couldn't see the parenting in many of those situations, only the people acting in what I can only assume was the best capacity they knew how. That's still how I see it, thinking back.

When my parents argued with each other, or with my sister, or (much more rarely) with me, I saw people, and personalities, and the family ties were only relevant on the surface. It was the stubbornness, or anger, or ignorance, or self-righteousness at work, overriding whatever bit of parent was there.

When my dad used me as a shiny example of what he wanted my older brother to be more like, completely oblivious to the way it only made both my brother and I feel like shit and tarnished what should've been a more solid sibling relationship, there was no parent there. When my dad and my (birth) mother spoke negatively of each other, to me, as though I couldn't see the faults on both sides of my DNA chain for myself, there was no parent there. When my parents made comments about my mom making up for lost time and buying her way into my and my brother's lives and hearts, assuming I couldn't see that for myself, or that that was somehow counter to what I needed and wanted (because really, for a shy, introverted teen girl with no memory of her mother, gifts of what she thought/hoped I wanted said things, taught me things about her and I, and went farther toward building a relationship than my words ever could at that time in my life), there was no parent there.

Despite the proclamations of concern and just wanting what's best for me (or my brother), my parents were utterly absent in those cases, replaced by people. Scared people. Angry people. People who had been hurt and mistreated by life, by people from their pasts, and maybe even by each other, and who desperately needed that pain to be acknowledged and validated.

It's almost funny, when I think about it. I could already see the hows and the whys behind the "lessons" my parents were trying to teach me (or prevent me from having to learn). As people, sometimes we don't realize that our baggage isn't his baggage, or hers, or anyone else's. We assume that because this heartbreak handbag and that suitcase of cynicism have taught us and guided us and served us well (or not), then surely other people would do well to know the things we've learned from our baggage. But it doesn't work that way. Sometimes we forget that. We're only people, after all. Parents are no different. Maybe that's why I can't separate the two in my mind. Maybe that's why I've always seen the people behind the mask of my parents.

#Scintilla Day 6: Still, I Have Faith

I'm one of those people other people sometimes can't stand:

Always smiling.


Always optimistic.


Ready to give anyone the benefit of the doubt.


Positive that it will all work out in the end.

I am this way without irony or deceit or hyperbole. Sincere without being saccharine. I can't help but be this way, and I can't ever remember a time when I wasn't.

I have faith that people are inherently good. Yes, I know the depraved things we are capable of doing to each other, and yes, I have witnessed things that might test my faith in this principle. Still, I have faith.

I have faith that no matter the difficulties I face, there will always be a brighter tomorrow, a satisfactory ending, a way to make the hurting stop. Yes, I have felt pain, and a darkness I was certain would be impossible to climb out of, and I have watched those I love experience worse. I know many never live to see the silver lining. Still, I have faith.

I have faith that those I help along this road will appreciate it, and will be better for it. And I will be better for it. Oh yes, I have been taken advantage of emotionally and psychologically. Still, I have faith.

I have faith that loving another is never a mistake, and that love is possible for all. Yes, I have seen the way love turns to hurt turns to disdain, or worse. Still, I have faith.

Still. I have faith. Because if I don't, there is no point. For life to have meaning, I have to have faith.

#Scintilla Day 4: Leaving Home

The prompt for Day 4 came through Twitter, and was to talk about a time we left home. The most obvious time I could think of was when I went away to college. I still had the previous day's prompts in my head, though. Prompt B from yesterday was What's the story of the most difficult challenge you've faced in a relationship? Did you overcome it? What was the outcome?

I convinced myself I didn't have any stories like this. Certainly not with romantic relationships, as I've been strangely lucky in that area. I only ever had one boyfriend, and I married him. I can count on one hand the number of times in ten years we've had anything even resembling a fight.

What about other interpersonal relationships, then? Nah, I thought. I'm easy to get along with, forgive more of people than I probably should, and refuse to let worry and stress take up much of my time. Nothing to talk about there.

De. Ni. Al.

The truth of it is, I've had those difficult challenges in certain relationships, but I have no desire to share. Fear of judgment, maybe. Perhaps because I haven't yet overcome the challenges. To be honest, these are stories I haven't even hashed out on the blank white page. My reluctance share could be a result of my shy and introverted nature. Attention makes me nervous already, so I'd rather not shine a spotlight on the negative.

When the day 4 post came through on Twitter, I was still thinking about relationships,and the night before I'd heard a heartbreaking story on the local news that reminded me of someone, and somehow it all seemed to converge into whatever this is I'm writing now. So let me tell you about a little boy, who isn't so little anymore, but who will always be "my baby".

College was six and a half hours from home. It was a separation I'd dreamed of for years. Sometimes you can be too close to those you love, and a little space is all you need to smooth over the cracks. That's what I was looking forward to. That, and the chance to spread my wings and become whoever I was going to be. I wasn't the type to call home once a week, or even once a month. I'm still not. I was a pretty independent kid, and that didn't change. My family and I have a much better relationship now that we aren't all stuck in the same house. I think I could have drifted farther from my family once I went to college, if not for something that happened five years before.

My little brother, Ian, was born.

I was smitten from day one. I adore cute babies anyway, but as Ian got older and was able to communicate, he easily became my favorite family member (sorry everyone else lol) and even one of my favorite people in general. Given my age when he was born, and the fact that I was the oldest sister, I got to do a lot of maternal things when our mom was working, or running errands, which might account for the special bond we have.

He was a quick learner, inquisitive, funny, and the sweetest baby. He went through a phase of insisting that he was going to marry me, which melted my heart even more, if that was possible. While Ian was a smart kid and seemed to develop ahead of his age group in that respect, his physical development didn't follow the same path. We have this picture of him "standing", with the help of someone holding his hands. I remember him pulling himself up on the low windowsill of the picture window in our living room and "walking" by holding on and taking steps sideways. We never got to experience the milestone of watching him walk unassisted. Ian was diagnosed with Spinal Muscular Atrophy (Type II).

It's impossible to deny that this condition further strengthened the bond with my little brother. He could crawl, but as he got bigger, he wasn't able to do that as well, either. If he wanted a drink, or a snack, or to change the tape in the VCR, one of us had to do it for him. And as I said, if my parents were in another room, or out at the grocery store, I did a lot of those things for him. We have a lot of personality similarities, too, so we'd do things together just because we wanted to. We'd watch the Powerpuff Girls and Dexter on the Cartoon Network. He'd tell me (and anyone, anywhere, who would listen) all about dinosaurs. When he started going to school, one of our afternoon habits became watching Dragonball Z together.

Five years of bonding with my baby brother before I left for college. He was the one I missed the most while I was gone. He was the one I liked talking to most when my parents would call me at school. He'd fill me in on what I was missing on Dragonball Z, or what he was learning in school. I got e-cards in my inbox from my parents email address, but when I opened them they'd be signed Love, Ian. He sent me valentines and little pictures or notes in the mail. My younger sister became the default helper (aside from my parents) since I was away. Sometimes, when I came home for break or vacation, he'd call me by her name out of habit, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me a little jealous, even though I knew it wasn't anything personal. I liked being the special sister, and I missed being there for him.

When I started dating my now-husband my freshman year of college, I knew he'd have to have Ian's seal of approval. Needless to say, my husband passed that test with flying colors. He passed down his old Nintendo64 to Ian, and my brother and I found a new shared love: Zelda. We played Ocarina of Time together, and then Majora's Mask. In addition to the fun of the games, I saw his reading improve over the time it took us to play the games. (If you've played any Legend of Zelda games, you know it can be dialogue-heavy at times, but it's all written. The character's don't actually speak.) I loved hearing him read the text and helping him pronounce words, or explaining the meaning of words he didn't know.

Ian is 16 now. I still can't believe it. He has facial hair! It's surreal to me, sometimes. And he's still my favorite family member (again, sorry everyone else, haha). We still have a great relationship, and I still feel like he's "my baby". His SMA means he's confined to a wheelchair, and it poses plenty of physical and other challenges that our family has faced and overcome.

I have my own emotional challenges that I don't usually let show on the outside. I cried after a phone call from my mom once, when she said Ian might need to be put on oxygen and a machine to help him breathe at night. It turned out to be a false alarm, some mistake in test readings or something. He does use a CPAP machine at night now, but the impact was different when he was just seven or eight years old. He's been hospitalized with pneumonia a few times, and I always worried then. I cried again, privately, when he had to have a spinal fusion. He's had two.

This kid makes me so proud, so happy. He's inspiring. I love him more than I can imagine loving anyone. And yet I do struggle with those moments of nearly crippling sadness, and anger. Once or twice I've had dreams where he was walking, and once I woke, the guilt and tears weren't far behind. No, I wouldn't change him for anything. Everything about him, including the SMA, is part of the brother I know, and has shaped the relationship we have. But I'm still susceptible to the it's-not-fair blues from time to time.

When I left for college, I thought maybe it was the start of an exciting life lived in faraway places. I still want to travel, and my husband and I have moved to a few different places and will probably move a few more times before really settling in one spot. But one thing I know now is this: home is where my brother is. And I never want to be too far.

#Scintilla Day 2: Letter to my Rescuer

My selected Scintilla prompt for today:

2. No one does it alone. Write a letter to your rescuer or mentor (be it a person, book, film, record, anything). Share the way they lit up your path.

Dear Blank White Page,

A lot of people have come in and out of my life. They've taught me things. Supported me. Encouraged me. Some hurt me, intentionally or not. A few loved me. I suspect many have barely noticed me. Forgotten me.

I don't mind.

It isn't that I don't appreciate what people have given and taught me. There are so many who've been instrumental in shaping me over the years. And it isn't that I don't feel the sting of rejection, pain, sorrow, or anger that other people have brought to my life.

But it has always been the page that helped me make sense of it all. The good and the bad. You're the friend I could call even after a long absence and pick up like we'd never been apart.

I could live any life I wanted in the depths of your blankness. Meet the most unexpected kinds of people. I could explore both the dark and the light. I could do none of the above, and simply escape into my imagination after looking upon your blank face.

You asked hard questions, but waited patiently for my answers. You saw me through dark times, without judgment. I know you'll continue to be there, always.

Thank you,

Me

P.S. Do you think you could maybe start paying the bills some time soon? ;-)

The Scintilla Project: Day 1

Get ready, readers. I'm participating in The Scintilla Project! What does that mean for you? TWO STRAIGHT WEEKS OF DAILY BLOG POSTS FROM YOURS TRULY! What? Don't think I have it in me? Because that's more posts in one month than I usually do in three months? Well... You got me there. But I'll show you! The project starts today, and we were given two choices of these two prompts:


1. Who are you?

2. Life is a series of firsts. Talk about one of your most important firsts. What did you learn? Was it something you incorporated into your life as a result?

Who am I? Hell if I know. It changes almost daily. NEXT!

Most important firsts. Now there's something I can talk about...

The most important "first" of my life is one I've written about before on the blog, but one that continues to stick with me. I still remember this day often, and I still think about how far I've come from that day, because I never thought I'd get to that first, much less beyond it to where I am now. What was it?

The first time I drove a car.

Unlike a good portion of you, this didn't happen when I was 15 or 16. Not even at 17 or 18. It didn't happen until I was 25 years old. I had been married for almost a year at the time. I'd lived in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania (IUP, holla!), Towson, MD and then York, PA. I worked, part time while in school, and full time after that. I got by just fine without ever having to get my license and learn how to drive.

Why didn't I drive? Fear. Plain and simple. No matter how I tried to rationalize the decision, it was fear at the heart of it. (You can read about how the fear started here.)

The first time I sat behind the wheel.

I laughed. I don't mean a good-natured "hey, look at me!" kind of laugh, either. I mean a nervous, couldn't control myself kind of giggling. For a minute. Maybe two. That's the moment I think about so often.

If you look at the post about fear I mentioned above, you'll probably see how the fear developed, and how it grew, and you'll probably understand the why and how of it. But you can never understand just how real the fear was for me unless you've experienced something similar. Or unless you were there to see me that day.

I could see on my husband's face that part of him wanted to laugh with me (I bet I was a pretty funny sight, to an outsider, and laughter is contagious anyway) but I could also see another part of him that finally, finally, after six years knowing me, realized I was truly afraid.

I say often that my husband is my safety net. I feel safe with him in situations that might otherwise freak me out. He'd never pressed the issue of me not driving, but I still felt silly every time we talked about it. I felt a little bit sheepish whenever I explained my non-driving to anyone. Knowing my fear wasn't rational didn't make it any less potent.

But seeing the way he looked at me that day, at that moment, it was like I had suddenly been validated. The way his eyes said I get it now spoke to the tiny piece of me that had always whispered You're crazy. You know that, right? And it told that voice to SHUT THE FUCK UP.

It's something that I recognized only with a certain degree of distance. That whole hindsight is 20/20 thing. I'd never realized before that I was even saying that to myself and believing it until seeing the recognition in someone else's eyes that what I was feeling was real.

That first day was only the beginning of my long road to becoming a confident driver. We didn't do a lot of driving that year, and I let my permit lapse. I don't think I was emotionally or psychologically ready then, but that moment when my fear bubbled up in the form of laughter was a moment of release for me. Knowing my husband finally understood how much anxiety I had over the issue, and recognizing my own self-shame about it freed me, in a way, to deal with the fear consciously, rather than pushing it away as I'd done for years.

I did finally get my license, last May, three years after that first day learning to drive. There have been a lot of anxious firsts since then: first time driving alone, first long-distance trip (following behind my husband and his brother when we moved across the state), first solo long-distance trip (from Pittsburgh to Easton, MD - only five months after getting my license). But nothing compares to the first time.

What did I learn that I carry with me?

Believe it or not, I'm slowly learning not to care about what others think of me. Not in a big, monumental way. Not yet. I struggle with this every day of my life, and some days are better than others. But I've had to incorporate it into my life in tiny ways, related to driving. Sounds strange, I know.

You know how they say road rage happens because people feel anonymous or invincible in their cars? I'm the opposite. We'll call it road empathy. I'm always thinking about and aware of other drivers, anticipating what they're doing, where they're going. If someone is trying to merge on the highway, I'll let them in in front of me. These are all good things, of course. It does have a downside, though.

If someone rides my bumper, I'll probably speed up a bit, even if it makes me uncomfortable. I always use my blinker, and rarely merge/turn/whatever unless I have plenty of room, because I don't want to be rude, or inconvenience another driver. But goddamn, I live outside Pittsburgh now. Driving in the city can be crazy. I can't worry about whether the person behind me will think I'm a jerk for easing my front bumper into the next lane during rush hour, forcing them to let me merge whether they like it or not. Not everyone is as considerate as I like to be. I can't let someone else's impatience put me in a potentially risky situation.

It's only driving for now, but maybe... little by little... I'll let it seep into the rest of my life and stop caring so damn much about the impression I make on everyone else. I guess we'll wait and see.

A Birthday Wish

The day is barely half over and I've been happily surprised at the number of people taking a moment to wish me happy birthday on Facebook and elsewhere. It has been very sweet, especially since a number of these people are folks I know only through social media and networking as a writer. I've spoken often about my love of the writing community, sites like Agent Query Connect, and all the fun and support I get on Twitter. It amazes me every day how well I can get to know and care for people whose faces I only know from their online avatars. And I'm touched by your birthday wishes for me today.

I have just one birthday wish, and that's for everyone in my extended "family" - my network of writers, readers, and friends - to support a young man in the fight of his life. Let me tell you Joshua's story.

Just one month ago, Maxwell Cynn shared a very personal revelation on his blog: His 21-year-old son, Joshua, was diagnosed with acute T-cell lymphoblastic leukemia. Two days later, his heart stopped. Thankfully, the ICU doctors and nurses were able to bring Joshua back and he is currently undergoing chemo and treatment for his cancer. Read Max's heart wrenching post here.

Many of Max's friends were touched by the news and one in particular, Eden Baylee, sprang into action to help. She set up an IndieGoGo campaign, Indies Unite for Joshua, to help raise money for Joshua's treatment and other expenses. At the time of his diagnosis, Joshua was half a semester away from graduating with a degree in philosophy, with a 4.0 GPA. He had to leave school to enter treatment. The Indies Unite for Joshua campaign is seeking to raise $10,000 by the end of May to help Max and his wife offset the cost of Joshua's treatment and school loans.

Now back to my birthday wish, and all of you. Max is one of those online-only friends of mine that I mentioned above. He's always been exceptionally sweet and kind, and he's a long-time supporter of my writing endeavors. He's a writer as well, and his books are a great read (thought-provoking, smart, and sexy on top of all that!) My wish is for all of you do one small thing to help Max's son Joshua.

How can you help? The obvious answer is donate. You can claim lots of great perks for different donation levels (starting at just $10), ranging from ebooks to guest blog spots to professional manuscript editing. Eden also recently secured the support of Grammy-winning singer-songwriter Janis Ian, and you'll be able to see those contributions on the campaign page starting Monday, February 27th.

If you are unable to contribute financially, or would like to do more, there are plenty of options. Emotional and moral support is just as important. Here is what you can do:

•  Purchase one of Max's books.
• Snag the widget from the Indies Unite for Joshua page and display it on your blog or website (like I have in my sidebar here). Click "embed" on the campaign home page for the code for the widget.
• Share the campaign on Google+, Facebook, Twitter, and any other social network you belong to. Please use the hashtag #IndiesUnite4Joshua when tweeting. It'll help IndieGoGo see who's sharing the campaign and hopefully get more exposure that way.
• Re-tweet, re-share, re-post as often as you feel comfortable! If you see me (or someone else you follow) tweeting about it, re-tweet it for us!
• Visit Max's blog to read more about his brave son Joshua and leave a comment of support and encouragement.
•  Tweet Joshua and let him know you're pulling for him!
• If you would like to help in some other way that I haven't mentioned, contact me and I can put you in touch with the appropriate people.

If every one of my blog followers, Twitter followers, and Facebook friends shared this story, and even just two or three of their friends/followers/readers did the same, that would be a few thousand new people who would hear Joshua's story. Somewhere in that few thousand, I know there are plenty of people who would like to help, and with that help, I know we can reach our goal.

Keep fighting, Joshua!

This Isn't About Steve Jobs

[We interrupt your regularly scheduled Jello World programming of all things writing-related for a moment of personal reflection.]

Unless you've been hiding under a rock for the past 24 hours, you know Steve Jobs (co-founder and CEO of Apple) died yesterday, following a battle with pancreatic cancer. He was only 56. My Facebook and Twitter feeds have been flooded with quotes, pictures, remembrances, tributes, etc. related to this fact. It has been touching. And I have to admit, it's hit a little harder for me than I ever thought possible. I'm not spiraling into depression over it or anything, but still. It hurts. But it really has very little to do with Steve Jobs at all.

I do not own - nor do I really have any particular affinity for - any Apple products. Seriously. Not even an iPod. While Jobs was certainly an innovator in his industry, and is an iconic figure of this generation, he's hardly the most influential, important, or inspirational person to have graced this earth. I don't say that to detract from his accomplishments or diminish the grief felt by so many at his passing. On the contrary, I think it elevates the public outpouring of sympathy and grief. We grieve for the loss of human life - you don't have to have worshiped the man to feel a sting of pain now that he's gone.

Like I said, it's not about Steve Jobs at all. It's about us, and the thread of humanity and life that connects us all as we each try to find our way. It's about recognizing in someone else a hint of something you feel strongly within yourself. What struck me about Jobs' passing is the fact that his last public appearance was in June, and then he stepped down from his position in August. Two months ago. That's no time at all.

This drives home two powerful lessons for me. First, the human spirit is something fierce. He was hard at work - doing a job that would probably give most of us ulcers - until mere weeks before his death. Patrick Swayze, who also died as a result of pancreatic cancer in 2009 at the age of 57, was hard at working filming a TV show within a year of his death. In the face of such obstacles, we - human beings - can still do so much.

My mother-in-law, Elizabeth Dolk

Second, pancreatic cancer is a bitch. It's unfair. It sucks more than any amount of expletives can possibly convey. My mother-in-law passed away from pancreatic cancer a few years ago. It was only a few short months between diagnosis and her final days. She was 62. I've been pausing to wipe away tears the whole time I've been writing this post, because there's still a lot of grief and anger there for me. Pancreatic cancer is a beast of a disease that can steal the light from a person's eyes in such a short amount of time. It can overtake even the strongest of spirits and before you know it, the person is gone. My mother-in-law, Elizabeth. Steve Jobs. Luciano Pavarotti. Patrick Swayze. Carnegie Mellon professor Randy Pausch. And so many, many more. Just gone. That's terrifying.

But as much as this isn't about Steve Jobs, it isn't about cancer, either. It's about the dichotomy of being connected to the world while carving out your own space. It's about the ability to feel sorrow (or love, or anything, for that matter) for someone you may have never met, whose life may never have even impacted yours in any significant way, but who you know has touched others, and who is like you if for no other reason than you belong to the same species. It's knowing that none of us is a solitary creature (no matter how much I try to be, sometimes.) Some of us make waves while others make small ripples, but always know your life - my life - affects someone. Sometimes the thread of humanity that connects us all is there, glinting in the sun so that we can't deny its existence, but other times it's barely discernible. But it's always there. I have moments where I feel it so strongly it nearly suffocates me and I push it away, out of sight, afraid of what that connection means - afraid of what potential commitments or obligations (or opportunities to hurt, disappoint, or injure) I fear are hidden in that little thread.

Sometimes I feel crippled by the simple fact that you are human just like me. There, I said it. But what does that even mean? It means I live a cautious life - one full of admiration and love and affection for others, but one where I'm afraid to make those waves, or even tiny ripples, for fear of adversely affecting anyone else, because I sure as hell don't want to be negatively affected by anyone else's actions.

One of the quotes from Steve Jobs that I've seen a lot of since last night is this:

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life.

How much more fitting does it get? It's such a duh sentiment, but it's still like a punch in the gut. It was like Steve Jobs was speaking to me from the grave. I did a little digging and found more of his speech from the 2005 Commencement at Stanford:

Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure — these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

I didn't hear or read his speech when he gave it. It took his death to bring those words to me. It's been an emotional 24 hours inside my head. And even though Steve Jobs said those words, I'll say this again:

This isn't about Steve Jobs. It isn't about cancer. It isn't even about death.

This is about life.

So if you'll pardon me, I have some living to do. I hope you do, too.

Changing Tides

I feel like most of my posts recently have been of the "update" variety in recent weeks. My apologies. I'm trying to do better, I swear! But the past few weeks have been a whirlwind of changes that have kept me away from not only Jello World, but From the Write Angle, my friends and crit group at Agent Query Connect, and my writing in general.

First, my husband received an unexpected promotion at work, which came with an unexpected transfer across the state. It was only about two and a half weeks from the time we learned that he'd definitely gotten the promotion and his first day in the new place. So in that short period of time we had lots to do. Get our house ready to put on the market, and get me mobile.

If you've been reading this blog for a while, or if you know me personally, you may be aware that I've had a slight phobia of driving for a while. I never learned to drive when I was a teen, and after a while I had resolved to never learn. There was a lot of fear surrounding the act of attempting to control a motor vehicle for me. You can read a little about it in my May 2008 post, Facing Down the Fear. That was when I first tried to learn to drive. Needless to say, it didn't work out very well, and I did not get my license at that time.

Last October I renewed my permit to try again because I would need it for a job that I had started. It went a lot better this time around. When we learned of my husband's transfer, it became evident that I would be here for several weeks on my own while he went on ahead to start working and to find us a place to live. Suddenly I had a deadline. Not only did I need to get my license ASAP, I needed a car of my own. And guess what? I got both! I got my license on May 3rd, and we bought my car the week before that.

It's surreal. I'm twenty-eight years old and I'm experiencing a whole new level of freedom. I'm able to drive myself to and from work now, and my husband doesn't have to worry about me being here on my own because I can do everything for myself. I don't have to depend on anyone else to get around. When the move is final, I'll have a wealth of new job possibilities because I won't be restricted by distance.

Since my husband is already on the other side of the state, I've been taking care of a lot of things around the house. Paint, new carpet, major cleaning, and packing up stuff that we don't need to keep in the house at the moment. The house goes on the market this week and hopefully we'll be able to sell it quickly. Everything else has been going so smoothly, so hopefully this will also.

Okay, enough of that! One thing I do want to mention is that fellow writer and FTWA crew member Robert  Lewis is also blogging for the new Macmillan site Criminal Element. Even if you don't read/write crime or mystery, you'll enjoy Robert's current series of posts, Bar Noir. Parts one and two are up, and part three will be up Sunday. The old book covers pictured in the articles is reason enough to read. He uses a story to discuss pulp fiction writers - which really isn't a genre I read, but his voice has spunk and panache, and makes me want to read some of the authors he mentions. Be sure to check it out, and be on the lookout for other posts from him!

Art Imitating Life

I realized something the other day about my writing style and my real-life social preferences. Turns out, the same things I dislike about dialogue in writing are the same things I dislike when interacting with people: 

• Small talk and meaningless words.  I never really understood the point.  Some people are just uncomfortable with silence.  Sometimes characters are too.  If that's the case, and a character rambling on and on about nonsense is part of their personality, that's brilliant.  But just to fill space, it's no excuse.
• Sometimes you can get a sense that someone is saying something to you to get a certain reaction, for their own benefit - whether it’s fishing for a compliment, or making vague comments in the hope that you’ll ask questions and allow them to talk some more about their topic of choice. I equate this to dialogue that is rife with the author’s agenda instead of sounding true to the moment.
• Taking twenty minutes to tell me a five minute story.  Get to the point, already!  Better yet, don't tell me the story at all.  If it were that important, you'd spit it out faster.  In dialogue, this is using 45 words where 10 would suffice.  Again, if something is important enough to say in dialogue, you should find the most precise words to say it.

You could argue that this is actually a case of life imitating art - that I'm so entrenched in my writerly mind it's rubbing off on my real life.  But anyone who knows me - especially if they've known me a while - knows I've always been this way.  I was the girl in the middle of a crowded, noisy room, who could tune it all out and take it all in at the same time.  Listening, I feel, is infinitely more valuable than speaking.

 

Focus

Bye-bye, Authonomy.  I'll be taking down my books and deleting my Authonomy account.  It's getting a bit ridiculous over there.  Maybe after a bit, it will settle down again and regain some semblance of order, but I can't wait around for that.  I keep getting distracted by all the petty arguments - some shocking, some hilarious - in the forums, the begging for backings, the spam messages.  I did meet some awesome people there, and got some good feedback, but I think it's run its course for me.  I have to focus on other things.  My life, for instance haha.  And writing.  Editing.  Submitting.

So my last sort of cryptic post was about me looking for a new job.  I was thisclose, but the job fell through.  I'm looking to cut back to a part time job to make more time for writing.  I had something lined up, a part time assistant manager position, but then the store manager stepped down a week after interviewing me and took the position herself.  Go figure.  So I'm still looking.  Meanwhile, I'm still doing the 40 hour a week gig and trying to fit in the writing stuff around that.

I had my first short story published in Divine Dirt Quarterly a few months ago, and I have a poem forthcoming with them.  I also finished an erotic short story that I'll be submitting this weekend to Oysters&Chocolate for their print anthology.  Keep your fingers crossed for me on that one.  I also have another short story I want to polish and find the right venue for, plus a couple ideas for more erotic short stories.  Hopefully I can acquire some more publishing credits to put in my query letters, once I start querying again.  Sorry's Not Enough is simmering on the back burner, awaiting some major revisions.  I want to up the pace on Confessions of a Non-Believer and get that finished and out to agents.  Then I can delve right into my erotica series.

It's time to focus.  Quitting Authonomy cold-turkey is the first of many steps to do that.

How Can You Be Mad at This Face?

This is one of the reasons I haven't gotten around to the blog recently!  C'mon, look at those adorable little Mini Dachshund eyes!  You can't be mad at me now, can you?  A friend of mine rescued her from a neglectful home and now she's our little baby.  She's a bit needy at times, wanting always to be with you, to be touching you, licking your face, sitting on your lap.  But I can't refuse that little face.  Just.  Can't.  Do.  It.  So computer time has been challenging, especially since she always wants to be sitting on my lap, and when my hand strays for too long to type or move the mouse, she fusses.  She's getting better though.

Still, I can't believe how long it's been since my last entry!  I've gotten some writing done with Confessions.  Not a lot, but some.  Still some revisions and polishing going on with Sorry's Not Enough.  The erotica novel is basically on hold right now.  Just not enough time in the day!  I do want to get the corresponding blog up and running though.  I've set up the address, now I need to get some posts done and set them to publish at future dates so I don't have to worry about it.  I'm hoping to get some decent attention (and potential fans) with that blog, before the manuscript's even ready for an agent.  Can you imagine if I could go to an agent with the completed ms, a blog, and a built-in readership ready to go?  That would be awesome.

Meanwhile, real life is happening.  The day job is sucking me dry, but paying the bills.  I've started writing on HubPages, though I don't have too many articles just yet.  And I signed up for oDesk, but I haven't yet downloaded the software or bid on any jobs.  Should probably get off this dial-up and onto something a little more high speed so I can be more efficient while I'm online.  It takes me 20 minutes to get online and pay my phone bill for crying out loud.  I don't think anyone wants to pay me to work on my slow internet connection for their freelance writing jobs.

I'm still doing the Authonomy thing, too.  It's getting frustrating because Sorry's Not Enough is stagnating in the charts and playing the 'game' can get old really fast.  I'm hanging in there, though, hoping to get some good feedback I can use to improve.  So that's the update for now.  Hopefully the next one won't take me a month.  And maybe I'll have some more adorable doggie pics!

Resolve

It's that time of year.  You know which one.  When we all start resolving to do things.  Making resolutions and such.  I've never liked making New Year's Resolutions, and the very few I ever did make I (as you can guess) never kept.  In fact, I have some troubles with resolve in general.  Always have.  Call it indecision.  Or apathy.  I don't know.  It's difficult for me to make absolute decisions and to stick with them.  I'm more than happy to go with the flow, live with the status quo.... for the most part, anyway.  Now and then I get into a place where something is just so off that I make a decision and stick to it, finally.  I may be at such a place right now.

It's been a tough few weeks on the personal front.  All things writing aside.  I'm fighting against a little despair monster that's nibbling at my fingertips, waiting for the right moment to take my whole hand and drag me under.  Trying to deal with a sadness and stress I haven't had to deal with in a long time, coupled with changes at work.  Sometimes when something else is going on in my head, the usual little things I'd normally put up with seem a whole lot bigger.  I can't figure if my job is asking more of me than I ever wanted to give, or if my family crisis is taking so much from me that there isn't much left to give - to work, to writing, to anything.  I can feel a familiar dark space creeping up on me.  A place I left a long time ago, but that pops up now and again in the form of an irrational bad mood that I at once recognize and rectify.  But I'm afraid if I give into the emotion - if I let go of my apathy and cool exterior - I'll slip too far, into more than a mood, into something not easily rectified.

I'm afraid I won't be able to comfort the one person who needs me because I can't handle my own emotions.

And while this home life battle is raging in my head, it's compounding on the difficulties of losing one job and having to start all over new.  Different people, different place.  Completely different atmosphere.  In a field I told myself two years ago I didn't want to continue in.  Yet here I am.  When I found out I was losing my job, the sheer panic of being unemployed and not being able to pay our bills launched me headfirst into this new position with a new company, but doing essentially the same thing.  Just in a bigger place, with a faster pace, and more demands.  Did I make the right choice?  I thought I wanted to write more, try to get published?  What am I doing here?  Can I handle this?  I've never been a quitter.  I want to keep my word.  In my interviews I said that although there'd be an adjustment period, there wouldn't be any problem.  I'm adaptable, I said.  I go with the flow.  That's always been true.  So why now is the flow threatening to drown me?  I can't figure if I'm unhappy just because I'm unhappy, or if I'm unhappy because this job and me just aren't a good fit. 

So I'm at that place where I want to scream and cry and pull my hair out and have someone else make the best decision for me, except no one can decide for me.  I'm at that place I get sometimes where I just have to resolve to do something.  Have to make the decision.  But it's so easy to do nothing.  Much easier than holding yourself accountable for anything. 

Like it or not, I have to keep the job for now.  Not much choice there.  Bills have to be paid.  And in my podunk little corner of the country, there aren't a lot of "hiring" signs.  At least not at places that will pay me what I need.  And without a driver's license, I'm even more limited.  So unless it becomes really unbearable, I'll be staying put for a bit.  But I can at least try to do something about the rest of my life.  So I need to get on track with a few things in 2009.  Once I find my resolve, I'll be using it to:

* Stop putting so much weight in other people's opinion.  Know my own strengths and my positive qualities as a person, and believe in them first, before anyone else.

* Take care of myself, phsyically, emotionally, psychologically, etc.

* Get that damned license!

* Write more often.  Write with purpose.  Write with passion. 

* Get tons of query letters out! 

* Never take one day with my family for granted.  Appreciate everything, and everyone, in my life while I still have them to appreciate.

* Be happy.  :-)