I once read that a mark of an immature writer pursuing publication was experimenting in multiple genres. The blogger maintained that a writer who hadn't yet found his or her niche was probably not ready or mature enough to be published until (s)he found what (s)he was really good at.
I disagree.
Of course, I get it from a marketing and business perspective. You spend all this time trying to build a name for yourself, to gain a following. You give the people what they want, and you can't just go changing it up on them.
But I actually think a willingness to experiment shows a writer's creativity and flexibility. Maybe that's just my personal opinion, as I'm a writer who dabbles in both fiction and non-fiction.
I've recently been querying my non-fiction project, but I have two completed fiction novels that I've currently shelved, since the literary agents aren't exactly banging down my door.
In the face of rejection on my latest project, I've been thinking a lot as to what kind of writer I'd really prefer to be known as, assuming I eventually "make it" in the traditional publishing industry.
Fiction was my first love. I've always been imagining characters and situations, way back in elementary school, when I used to stare out the window dreaming instead of listening to lessons on long division (sorry, math teachers). I still remember writing a notebook length first novel (complete with illustrations) about a teenage protagonist named Anna who happened to meet an alien when his spaceship landed in her backyard. I was in the fifth-grade at the time, and my best friend Kristin and I had spent hours of our lives designing and drawing characters and composing stories about them, a whole high school soap opera world of them.
I was also "published" for the very first time way back in fourth grade, when I penned "The Christmas Tree Mystery," a rhyming narrative holiday poem that our local paper, The Delaware Wave, was kind enough to print after my teacher submitted it to them.
When I started writing "seriously" in late high school and early college, fiction felt more natural. Though often inspired by real life events, I liked the control I had over creating my own endings, doing as I saw fit with the characters I had so easily dreamt up.
My foray into non-fiction was not nearly as organic. Aside from an occasional memoir assignment, I never really wrote about my life (unless you count lousy teenage poetry and rambling rants in long lost diaries and journals). And then I took Dr. Vince Puma's non-fiction course as a junior at Flagler College. And it forever changed the way I thought of myself as a writer. At the time, I was still writing far more fiction, but it was under his instruction that I discovered the sheer joy of capturing a real memory, coloring it with my emotions and reflections, and sharing it with both those who had been there to experience that memory with me and those who were hearing it for the very first time. Dr. Puma, more than any other professor, encouraged me and inspired me. "I expect to see your name in print some day," he'd scrawled in his barely legible handwriting. I read it over and over again, this near-sacred compliment penciled messily onto the bottom of his comments on my final assignment for his course.
I am still trying to make him proud, to live up to that expectation.
But more than that, I write to please myself. And I love both, fiction and non-fiction. I am unable to choose between the two. Perhaps if I ever get published in one genre, I'll decide to focus more on that one. Maybe I'll continue to write both, one as a hobby, one as a career. Or maybe that blogger was right. Maybe I should focus on honing one, rather than dreamily drifting from genre to genre.
Or, maybe not. Maybe I'll write under a pseudonym for the second genre.
Or maybe not worry about it. After all, you can't lose sleep over an imaginary problem. I'd have to be published in one genre before I could worry about marketing or reinventing myself in the second genre.
All that to say, I'd love to hear your opinion.
I titled this blog honestly, wanting to feel free to share my love of writing events both real and imagined. But as I was glancing back over it, I realized I've been focused on my non-fiction, probably because that's what my latest efforts to acquire an agent have revolved around.
So because this blog has been inadvertently almost entirely composed of non-fiction, my second love to which I've been far more attentive to lately, here's a snippet from one of my book-length fiction works. It's been shared on facebook before--I posted it to celebrate reaching the 300 page mark, the longest work I've ever stuck with--so if you've read it already, you are dismissed from my musings for the day! But first: What do you think? Is it possible to publish in both genres? Which do you enjoy reading more? Am I stronger in one than the other? Those of you who've not yet seen it, take a look, then join in the conversation:
Matthew
I heard the grating metal scraping against the concrete floor as the barred gate of my cell slid open. I lay on the hard cot, head pounding, staring straight ahead at the dingy wall as Detective Arnold's voice sounded behind me, “Mr. McBride? Are we in a bit more civilized mood yet?”
I closed my eyes against his voice, running my hand over my face. I needed to shave. I needed to bathe. Bits of broken pebble and tiny stones came off onto my fingertips. At least I wasn't bleeding anymore. Though it felt like blood was still caked onto my face, my fingers came away dry, and not red.
“Mr. McBride?”
“Did you come to book me?” I asked hoarsely, not bothering to sit up or even roll over to face him. Some other town cop had brought me in here. I'd stopped fighting them in the fort parking lot, allowing them to load me in the police cruiser while I cried like a little bitch. The two extra officers it had taken to bring me to the ground hovered about anxiously until Detective Arnold waved them away, sending me on ahead to the station with only the red-headed cop to bring me in. He'd guessed correctly I was done resisting. The fight had all gone out of me. Nevertheless, I'd been allowed my phone call—I'd selected Tabitha, figuring she was the more reliable, with the choice being between her or Mikey—but through the entire process, the Irish guy had kept me in the handcuffs, not trusting me enough to unlock them. I guess he didn't want me to get any ideas.
I heard his footsteps pressing closer, pausing what must have been only a short distance from me. I still wouldn't give him the satisfaction of turning to look at him.
“Maura Taylor. June 15, 1984.”
I waited for some further explanation, but he left it at that. The silence continued to stretch on between us until, finally, I heard the soft shuffling of the last remaining step he was taking to close the distance between us. I felt my body tense involuntarily as I could hear him breathing above me, feel him bending down toward me. To my surprise, he inserted a key into the side of my handcuffs. A simple twist later, and I relaxed as I gingerly slid my wrists out of the cuffs.
“Who's Maura Taylor?” I reluctantly asked, pulling myself into a sitting position and sliding over on the cot.
To my surprise, Detective Arnold sank down onto the cot beside me. He'd left the cell door wide open. For a brief moment, I considered darting to my feet and scrambling out of there. Running back to the car and driving somewhere far, far away.
But it was just for a fleeting moment, and then the Detective began to talk.
“Maura Taylor. She was a year younger than Melody when I was assigned to her case. The first missing person case I ever had in which the vanished person was an adult, not a kid. She disappeared on June 15, 1984. It was also the first missing person case I was involved in that, to this day, remains unsolved.”
The big man shifted a little, reached into his pocket, removed a wallet. I sat silently as he passed me a faded picture, creased and ragged around the edges. It was of a beautiful woman... a girl who had maybe just graduated college. She had wavy golden hair, a shy smile. Dark eyes. She looked enough like Melody to have been related. A cousin, maybe, or perhaps even a sister.
I glanced up at him. “You still carry this around with you?”
He nodded. “I still see her. Everywhere I go. I wanted to solve that case so bad. I was young then, and she was my age. I couldn't understand how somebody with their whole life ahead of them could just... disappear. So I carry this picture, even though I have no idea what she'd really look like now, if she's even still alive. But I can't help it. She's stayed with me all these years, and so, I think I've caught a glance of her in the grocery store, or at an intersection. Any number of places. By the time I get my wallet out to check the picture, I realize it's just my eyes playing tricks on me. The girl I've seen looks like Maura back then, but she's too young to be her now. Or the woman I've spotted is the right age, but when I get the photo out, I see that even allowing for all the years that have passed and how much she must have changed in her age, that the woman on the street simply doesn't look like Maura Taylor.”
I sat, staring at Maura Taylor's smile. I wondered if she had a boyfriend or a brother who hung up fliers with her picture on it all over town.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Maura was my first unsolved missing person case. She wasn't my last. Tamara Drake, nineteen years old. She disappeared on November 14, 1997. Nicole Evans, thirteen. Missing since July 4, 1999. Edward Davis. Sixty-seven. Wandered away from a senior citizens home on March 18, 2000. Emily Walsh. Just six years old. Missing since January 12, 2002.”
I shook my head. “I don't... I don't understand.”
“They all stay with me!” Detective Arnold was screaming, suddenly. He snatched Maura's photo away from me, pounded a fist against the cot for emphasis.
“Do you hear me, kid? They all stay with me. I am very aware that when I fail, I not only fail them. I fail their families. The people who love them. You don't think I get that? You don't think I know that?”
I stared silently down at my hands, clasped in my lap, watching a tear drip down over the puffy purple bruises encircling my wrists.
“I get it. I get it more than anyone else. I understand that you are mad, frustrated, furious even. But you don't get to tell me I'm not doing anything. You don't get to decide that I don't care.”
“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I'm sorry, I didn't know.”
The detective nodded, staring straight ahead now. “We do want to do a search. We had to wait for 72 hours to pass in order to have any chance at convincing the chief that this wasn't a voluntary runaway. And then with the second storm coming, there's no way they'll spare the manpower. We can do a search when Hurricane Fred is over.”
“But then...” I stumbled. “What are the chances of finding her, then? If she's still out there... when a hurricane is coming? What are the chances of finding her... alive?” I hated the sound of the last word, struggled to even get it out. I heard it empty and echoing in the tiny cell. Was there any chance she was still alive?
Detective Arnold turned his glance my way, eyes paternal, sad, but truthful. “Matt,” he said. “It may be that this isn't necessarily a search for Melody right now... so much as it is a search for... well, a search for her remains.”
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Monday, February 17, 2014
Happy Presidents Day!
To celebrate, Rashieme and I challenged each other to a President Naming Contest. This is not unlike the "Name All The States Game" that makes you want to rip out every strand of hair on your head because, if you're like most people, you can name somewhere between 37 and 48, and you spend the rest of your day feeling like a complete idiot.
Rashieme and I fared even worse with Presidents, though he did better than I did. He came up with 28 (though if spelling counted, he would have had significantly fewer, and I think I would have came from behind for the win). The only name I contested on his list was Phil. He was going for President Fillmore (who had the unfortunate first name Millard).
I came up with 26, but Rashieme pointed out that "Calvin" was never a President, but rather, the first name of President Coolidge (whom I only remembered because he hailed from Vermont, a state I wrote a report on in the sixth grade). Also, he eliminated Benjamin Franklin from my list on the grounds that he, also, was not a President (so, why, I demand, is he on the 100 dollar bill??) Apparently, Russell and Mayfield are also not presidents, even though they are the names of streets in my Mommom's neighborhood where I thought all the streets were named after presidents (including Cleveland, the street she lives on, which successfully made its way to my list and not Rashieme's).
So the final count was Rashieme, 27, Jenny, 22.
We both missed just about everybody in between Lincoln and the Great Depression.
We did get Garfield, who Kaliah thought we made up.
I was most proud of finally remembering Carter, who I knew was a peanut farmer named Jimmy from Georgia, but his last name alluded me until the last possible moment.
So if you have nothing better to do today, challenge a loved one or friend to the Name All the Presidents Game, and see who earns bragging rights.
Then come back to check out these fun President Facts I googled last night:
1. Washington was not only the first President, but he was, apparently, a super successful liquor distributor, producing both whiskey and brandy in his own distillery.
2. Both Jefferson and Adams are said to have visited William Shakespeare's home and broken off pieces of Will's chair to bring home as souvenirs.
3. Martin Van Buren is credited with adding the word "okay" to our lexicons.
4. John Tyler had 15 children.
5. Fillmore became his first wife's husband after having been her student. That's right, a teacher-student relationship later evolved into a legitimate, presidential marriage. Not bad for a guy named Millard.
6. Abraham Lincoln was a beast in the wrestling ring. He lost only once in an estimated 300 matches.
7. LBJ supposedly whipped out a certain organ (which he called "Jumbo") during a Cabinet meeting.
8. Calvin Coolidge enjoyed breakfast in bed while having his head massaged with petroleum jelly.
9. Grant smoked at least 20 cigars a day on average. Unsurprisingly, he died of throat cancer.
10. Taft, the largest president in history, once got himself stuck in the White House bathtub and required the assistance of his advisers in removing himself from the situation.
For more fun presidential facts, check out these sources, which provided all of the above tidbits, and have many more random, hilarious pieces of information to brighten your day and add to your infinite bank of useless trivia:
21 Shocking Facts About U.S. Presidents
44 Obscure Facts You Didn't Know About U.S. Presidents
Rashieme and I fared even worse with Presidents, though he did better than I did. He came up with 28 (though if spelling counted, he would have had significantly fewer, and I think I would have came from behind for the win). The only name I contested on his list was Phil. He was going for President Fillmore (who had the unfortunate first name Millard).
I came up with 26, but Rashieme pointed out that "Calvin" was never a President, but rather, the first name of President Coolidge (whom I only remembered because he hailed from Vermont, a state I wrote a report on in the sixth grade). Also, he eliminated Benjamin Franklin from my list on the grounds that he, also, was not a President (so, why, I demand, is he on the 100 dollar bill??) Apparently, Russell and Mayfield are also not presidents, even though they are the names of streets in my Mommom's neighborhood where I thought all the streets were named after presidents (including Cleveland, the street she lives on, which successfully made its way to my list and not Rashieme's).
So the final count was Rashieme, 27, Jenny, 22.
We both missed just about everybody in between Lincoln and the Great Depression.
We did get Garfield, who Kaliah thought we made up.
I was most proud of finally remembering Carter, who I knew was a peanut farmer named Jimmy from Georgia, but his last name alluded me until the last possible moment.
So if you have nothing better to do today, challenge a loved one or friend to the Name All the Presidents Game, and see who earns bragging rights.
Then come back to check out these fun President Facts I googled last night:
1. Washington was not only the first President, but he was, apparently, a super successful liquor distributor, producing both whiskey and brandy in his own distillery.
2. Both Jefferson and Adams are said to have visited William Shakespeare's home and broken off pieces of Will's chair to bring home as souvenirs.
3. Martin Van Buren is credited with adding the word "okay" to our lexicons.
4. John Tyler had 15 children.
5. Fillmore became his first wife's husband after having been her student. That's right, a teacher-student relationship later evolved into a legitimate, presidential marriage. Not bad for a guy named Millard.
6. Abraham Lincoln was a beast in the wrestling ring. He lost only once in an estimated 300 matches.
7. LBJ supposedly whipped out a certain organ (which he called "Jumbo") during a Cabinet meeting.
8. Calvin Coolidge enjoyed breakfast in bed while having his head massaged with petroleum jelly.
9. Grant smoked at least 20 cigars a day on average. Unsurprisingly, he died of throat cancer.
10. Taft, the largest president in history, once got himself stuck in the White House bathtub and required the assistance of his advisers in removing himself from the situation.
For more fun presidential facts, check out these sources, which provided all of the above tidbits, and have many more random, hilarious pieces of information to brighten your day and add to your infinite bank of useless trivia:
21 Shocking Facts About U.S. Presidents
44 Obscure Facts You Didn't Know About U.S. Presidents
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Valentines Day Blues?
I've always loved Valentines Day. It never really bothered me when I was single (at least not too much, anyway), because I've found that whether or not you're in a relationship with a significant someone, hopefully there are plenty of other people worthy of celebration in your life to whom you can show your love and appreciation.
Mine went particularly well this year--my number one Valentine and I have been on and off for years (gulp, nearly fourteen!!), and this was our second one "back together." And while it was more family themed than passionately romantic, we had a lovely experience that included dinner out and chocolates for everyone, our eight-year-old daughter included.
I went to bed feeling very loved and blessed and thankful for the people God has given me to love.
And then, I woke up to rejection, getting a taste of what some of the poor, awkward middle-schoolers I chaperoned at yesterday's heart-plastered holiday dance go through on the daily. Checking my email, I felt especially keenly why the bitter, lonely, or amused and disgruntled have decidedly declared yesterday "Singles Awareness Day":
I woke up to a form rejection from an agent, who was declining to represent the short story collection she'd requested to read in full a couple weeks ago.
Rejection is a part of the publishing game, so it's not especially disheartening. Writing and reading are subjective, and what one person enjoys, another does not. This one did hurt though, not just because it happened the morning after Valentines Day, but because the querying process had BEGUN on such a high note.
I'd only sent out five letters in search of an agent when I received a very positively worded (but probably form) request to read the rest of the manuscript. It was the very first response I'd received, so I was at a 100% request rate (short lived as it was). I was feeling quite excited and encouraged.
But, such is life.
So what, I was rejected the day after Valentines Day. (I won't give the exact details, but while the letter certainly wasn't cruel, it was also a far fetch from a kind declination, which are also blessings to an extent, because at least they tend to praise aspects of the work and give legitimate reasons for passing).
I can think of many other highlights (lowlights?) that both pertain to my writing and other endeavors in life. I might not be the girl who gets dumped (by a boyfriend, not an agent) the day after Valentines Day, but I am (or have been) all of the following:
Yes, I'm no stranger to rejection, bad luck, and crappy timing.
But, I'm still a believer.
I believe in love, and also believed it was out there before I'd experienced it.
I believe in putting in one hundred percent, even if you finish last.
I believe that good can come out of even the lousiest of situations.
I believe in the God who loves us all, who gave us a gift far greater than chocolate, flowers, or jewelry, in the salvation found in His one and only son, Jesus Christ. And I believe in the talents and desires God has blessed me with and planted in my heart.
So I'll keep writing, because while the publishing industry isn't exactly fighting over me yet, I don't do what I do for them.
I do it for me, my God, my family, and my friends.
And if I happen to pick up some more fans along the way, that would be fabulous.
But whether you're being dumped at the prom, celebrating marital bliss at a 25th anniversary, or anywhere in between... Whether your dream is on the verge of coming true, or you're not yet brave enough to whisper it out loud...
You have to own it.
You have to love yourself before you can love anyone else. Seeking your own validation through someone else will always lead to heartbreak, if your happiness is dependent upon some definition of who you are through someone else's eyes.
I think writing is like that. I see myself as a great writer. I don't mean to brag about it. Not everyone will agree, and not everyone should agree, because we all have different tastes as readers. But I write what I love to read. Because my writing brings me joy, I believe my words have the power to reach others in the same way. But even if they didn't, no audience or publisher or agent could ever convince me that I'm not a writer.
So for me, I just keep writing, taking the rejections in stride.
I had to be happy with who I was, seeing myself the way God saw me, before I could ever really learn to be happy in a romantic relationship. I am so thankful to God and my Rashieme, that we are very happily treasuring each other, in the adventure that is our day to day relationship. But it didn't happen over night. We each had much to realize on our own before God could bring us back together.
And though I'm currently single in the author-agent realm, I still see myself as the writer I think God created me to be, knowing that if no one else ever read another word I wrote, that would be okay. So because of that, I believe, God will take care of the rest. I think He will bring success in His own time.
And if He doesn't?
Well, I wrote some pretty cool stuff trying.
So whatever your dreams and passions are, I hope you don't allow anyone else to fizzle them out. I hope you love yourself, embrace your gifts, and most of all, I pray you know the God who blessed you with them. No matter who is rejecting you, there is One who loved you so much, He declared His affections before you were even born. He spoke you into motion, loving each detail about you, designing each and every detail to his exact specification and liking.
You are beautiful just the way you are. Embrace your talents, love your life, and give it everything you've got.
Happy Valentines Day, everyone. Or better yet: Happy So-What-You-Were-Once-Rejected Day.
Don't look back. Just look up.
Mine went particularly well this year--my number one Valentine and I have been on and off for years (gulp, nearly fourteen!!), and this was our second one "back together." And while it was more family themed than passionately romantic, we had a lovely experience that included dinner out and chocolates for everyone, our eight-year-old daughter included.
I went to bed feeling very loved and blessed and thankful for the people God has given me to love.
And then, I woke up to rejection, getting a taste of what some of the poor, awkward middle-schoolers I chaperoned at yesterday's heart-plastered holiday dance go through on the daily. Checking my email, I felt especially keenly why the bitter, lonely, or amused and disgruntled have decidedly declared yesterday "Singles Awareness Day":
I woke up to a form rejection from an agent, who was declining to represent the short story collection she'd requested to read in full a couple weeks ago.
Rejection is a part of the publishing game, so it's not especially disheartening. Writing and reading are subjective, and what one person enjoys, another does not. This one did hurt though, not just because it happened the morning after Valentines Day, but because the querying process had BEGUN on such a high note.
I'd only sent out five letters in search of an agent when I received a very positively worded (but probably form) request to read the rest of the manuscript. It was the very first response I'd received, so I was at a 100% request rate (short lived as it was). I was feeling quite excited and encouraged.
But, such is life.
So what, I was rejected the day after Valentines Day. (I won't give the exact details, but while the letter certainly wasn't cruel, it was also a far fetch from a kind declination, which are also blessings to an extent, because at least they tend to praise aspects of the work and give legitimate reasons for passing).
I can think of many other highlights (lowlights?) that both pertain to my writing and other endeavors in life. I might not be the girl who gets dumped (by a boyfriend, not an agent) the day after Valentines Day, but I am (or have been) all of the following:
- The girl who got dumped on her front step on the exact day I'd bought my prom dress.
- The girl who received yet another rejection letter from a submission of a full manuscript (this one on my most recently completed fiction novel) from an agent on her birthday.
- The girl who was very excited to receive a third place medal upon finishing her very first five mile race. (Come to find out, there were only three runners in my age group. Fail.)
- The girl who, out of all drivers to collide with on the road at any given moment, managed to rear-end the superintendent of the school district I was employed with at the time.
Yes, I'm no stranger to rejection, bad luck, and crappy timing.
But, I'm still a believer.
I believe in love, and also believed it was out there before I'd experienced it.
I believe in putting in one hundred percent, even if you finish last.
I believe that good can come out of even the lousiest of situations.
I believe in the God who loves us all, who gave us a gift far greater than chocolate, flowers, or jewelry, in the salvation found in His one and only son, Jesus Christ. And I believe in the talents and desires God has blessed me with and planted in my heart.
So I'll keep writing, because while the publishing industry isn't exactly fighting over me yet, I don't do what I do for them.
I do it for me, my God, my family, and my friends.
And if I happen to pick up some more fans along the way, that would be fabulous.
But whether you're being dumped at the prom, celebrating marital bliss at a 25th anniversary, or anywhere in between... Whether your dream is on the verge of coming true, or you're not yet brave enough to whisper it out loud...
You have to own it.
You have to love yourself before you can love anyone else. Seeking your own validation through someone else will always lead to heartbreak, if your happiness is dependent upon some definition of who you are through someone else's eyes.
I think writing is like that. I see myself as a great writer. I don't mean to brag about it. Not everyone will agree, and not everyone should agree, because we all have different tastes as readers. But I write what I love to read. Because my writing brings me joy, I believe my words have the power to reach others in the same way. But even if they didn't, no audience or publisher or agent could ever convince me that I'm not a writer.
So for me, I just keep writing, taking the rejections in stride.
I had to be happy with who I was, seeing myself the way God saw me, before I could ever really learn to be happy in a romantic relationship. I am so thankful to God and my Rashieme, that we are very happily treasuring each other, in the adventure that is our day to day relationship. But it didn't happen over night. We each had much to realize on our own before God could bring us back together.
And though I'm currently single in the author-agent realm, I still see myself as the writer I think God created me to be, knowing that if no one else ever read another word I wrote, that would be okay. So because of that, I believe, God will take care of the rest. I think He will bring success in His own time.
And if He doesn't?
Well, I wrote some pretty cool stuff trying.
So whatever your dreams and passions are, I hope you don't allow anyone else to fizzle them out. I hope you love yourself, embrace your gifts, and most of all, I pray you know the God who blessed you with them. No matter who is rejecting you, there is One who loved you so much, He declared His affections before you were even born. He spoke you into motion, loving each detail about you, designing each and every detail to his exact specification and liking.
You are beautiful just the way you are. Embrace your talents, love your life, and give it everything you've got.
Happy Valentines Day, everyone. Or better yet: Happy So-What-You-Were-Once-Rejected Day.
Don't look back. Just look up.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Happy Birthday to A Beautiful Friend!
I have discovered a whole new meaning of the idea of "old."
If you have a lifelong friend, think about the amount of time he or she has been in your life. For me, I'm just on the other side of thirty.
And my closest friend whom I've known the longest is celebrating her 32nd birthday today. Cheers, Kristin!
So, considering the average lifespan, we're still relatively young. Or at least, that's how I feel.
But then I realized... having met on the playground in second grade:
We have been friends for TWENTY FIVE YEARS.
That's over twice as long as most of my students have been alive.
It's a quarter century. Our friendship is the same age as someone who has been legally allowed to drink for the past four years.
If our friendship was an automobile operator, it would now be eligible for cheaper insurance.
As old as this makes me feel, I wouldn't change it for anything. If you are lucky enough to have a friendship like this one, you understand it's like a favorite pair of jeans. You can go weeks or even months without any in-depth contact, but the moment you slip back in, it's a perfect fit. We don't have to talk every day to get right back into the real stuff when we see each other. Kristin has always been there for me. We've laughed and cried together. We remained friends not only throughout grade school through graduation, but went to college together, too, living as roommates for our freshman and sophomore years.
It's hard to believe that it's been ten years since our college graduation.
It's all been said before. Time flies. Time waits for no man. There's nothing new or profound I could write to capture it any better than the millions of writers, artists, and others who have already done it before me.
But if you haven't considered lately, take a moment and do so:
Are you treasuring the gift that is your time?
It's so easy to forget that it's a present-- in the midst of hectic work weeks, looming deadlines, jam packed schedules. I am guilty of trying to merely "make it through" a day or a week or even a month, looking forward to the next Saturday or the next special occasion or the next anything. But the truth is, doing that is the same as wishing your life away.
Instead of trying to make it through, we should be trying to make the most of every moment.
Because tomorrows aren't guaranteed. Nothing is certain in this life, and very few things are forever.
Thanks for being a forever friend, Kris. I love you.
And our most recent girl's night. 2013.
If you have a lifelong friend, think about the amount of time he or she has been in your life. For me, I'm just on the other side of thirty.
And my closest friend whom I've known the longest is celebrating her 32nd birthday today. Cheers, Kristin!
So, considering the average lifespan, we're still relatively young. Or at least, that's how I feel.
But then I realized... having met on the playground in second grade:
We have been friends for TWENTY FIVE YEARS.
That's over twice as long as most of my students have been alive.
It's a quarter century. Our friendship is the same age as someone who has been legally allowed to drink for the past four years.
If our friendship was an automobile operator, it would now be eligible for cheaper insurance.
As old as this makes me feel, I wouldn't change it for anything. If you are lucky enough to have a friendship like this one, you understand it's like a favorite pair of jeans. You can go weeks or even months without any in-depth contact, but the moment you slip back in, it's a perfect fit. We don't have to talk every day to get right back into the real stuff when we see each other. Kristin has always been there for me. We've laughed and cried together. We remained friends not only throughout grade school through graduation, but went to college together, too, living as roommates for our freshman and sophomore years.
It's hard to believe that it's been ten years since our college graduation.
It's all been said before. Time flies. Time waits for no man. There's nothing new or profound I could write to capture it any better than the millions of writers, artists, and others who have already done it before me.
But if you haven't considered lately, take a moment and do so:
Are you treasuring the gift that is your time?
It's so easy to forget that it's a present-- in the midst of hectic work weeks, looming deadlines, jam packed schedules. I am guilty of trying to merely "make it through" a day or a week or even a month, looking forward to the next Saturday or the next special occasion or the next anything. But the truth is, doing that is the same as wishing your life away.
Instead of trying to make it through, we should be trying to make the most of every moment.
Because tomorrows aren't guaranteed. Nothing is certain in this life, and very few things are forever.
Thanks for being a forever friend, Kris. I love you.
Kristin and I, 1999. From our junior year in high school, courtesy of the IRHS yearbook.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Are You Ready for Some Football???
A few years back, I decided to become a football fan.
Mainly, this was because I realized I was missing out on a lot of fun. As the yearly winter writing retreats held by The Eastern Shore Writing Project always coincided with the advanced stages of the post-season playoffs, I tended to, at frequent social events throughout the retreats, witness overzealous fans exalting in their teams' glory with every miraculous play, only to be crushed by the agonizing suspense that followed as the opposition pulled off an equally daring feat. The clock would wind down, the fate of the game coming down to the last minute or even last seconds.
All while I was left out!
It was a wild roller coaster ride that I wanted to be part of. Clearly, when something elicits such strong emotions, one should fully throw oneself into it.
I had a problem though. I had no idea which team to follow.
I grew up in a home that never followed football, minus the Super Bowl, which we watched mainly for commercials. As a former high school cheerleader, I had a limited understanding of the game. One reason I'd never cared for it when I was younger was due to the frequent starting and stopping (also why I'm not a baseball fan). As an adult, I've realized that the time-outs and time required to set up the ensuing plays are a much needed breather to give one's heart a chance to start beating again. (Or, you know, grab a beer).
Particularly because I decided to become a Ravens fan.
Now, I didn't come to this decision lightly. Two years ago, I resorted to a social media poll to seek rational, logical advice regarding which team to follow. What I discovered is that, ironically, even more than religion or politics, football will get people to arguing.
Anyway, I was really between a few teams-- Baltimore, Washington, the two Pennsylvania options--all because they were relatively close--and the Miami Dolphins.
The Redskins are pretty local, but they don't seem to win too often. Also, they were the favorite team of a late friend of mine's from high school. She passed away last year, just before the Super Bowl. Part of me thinks I hold a grudge against them for not making it to the Bowl last year (because, for once, they actually had a shot). Or maybe I just wanted to root for a team that wins more often.
The Steelers and Eagles both have significant followings around these parts as well, so I was pressured (especially by Steelers fans) to join their camps. I was leaning toward the Steelers for a bit, because, let's face it, they win pretty often. Also, many of my friends are Steelers fans. However, Rashieme hates them, so that sort of put an end to that. (I see no reason to pile on additional marital strife before our marriage has even begun). Also, I don't look great in black and yellow. (But they DID have that catchy Wiz Kalifa tune a few years back working in their favor. BLACK AND YELLOW BLACK AND YELLOW....)
Rashieme's team is the Eagles, but mainly because he likes Michael Vick. In spite of all the controversy surrounding Vick, Rashieme claims that he is (was?) the greatest quarterback in the league. Up until this current season, they also seemed to claim losing as a pastime, so for me, that was a strike against them. Also, I love Philadelphia-- love, love, LOVE the city, especially the cheesesteaks--but I wasn't sure I could live with myself if I became a Philadelphia fan. My grandmother, a Baltimore native, has a longstanding hatred for the Orioles' opponents, and the only team she dislikes more than the (you guessed it) New York Yankees is the Phillies. Something about rooting for Philadelphia just felt wrong.
So that took care of the local teams, minus Baltimore. I know you think I probably picked Baltimore due to the fact that they were last year's Super Bowl champions and I jumped on the bandwagon... but actually, I was verymuchthisclose to becoming a Miami Dolphins fan.
Here's why:
1. They are in Florida. (I love Florida).
2. Their jerseys are pretty. (I love turquoise).
3. They are featured in one of my all-time favorite movies, Ace Ventura, Pet Detective.
4. Once, I watched some Miami dude on defense with a lot of dred locks nearly annihilate some poor schmuck on the other team who was unfortunate enough to have the ball.
5. They are the only team I ever bet money on, and I actually won. It was the year they lost every single game except one, which, ironically, was against the Baltimore Ravens. Rashieme and I bet 50 bucks on who was going to win in overtime. I put my money on the Dolphins, and, somehow, someway, they managed to get their only win of the season.
But something about being a Dolphins fan didn't feel right. It wasn't just that they're thousands of miles away and there are virtually no other fans in this area. It wasn't just that they hardly ever win. It was, I guess, a combination of the two.
And the fact that, when we ventured out together to watch games, I found myself embarrassed to say I was a Miami fan.
SO, I was back to Baltimore. Really, it only made sense. They win a lot, but they lose a lot, too, so I didn't feel like I was too much of a bandwagon jumper. Note that I am still a fan, even after the travesty that was this past season.
Also:
1. They are as local as you can get, living in Delaware. Plus, my mom's side of the family is from Baltimore.
2. I look really good in purple.
3. There's the whole literary connection, which makes perfect sense, given my occupation. "The Raven" isn't my favorite, but I really dig some of Poe's other works.
4. Their players are truly giving. Though my late friend Karisa (whom I mentioned earlier in this post), was a Redskins fan, leading up to and then shortly after her death, several Baltimore players made donations to Karisification, the new charity Karisa wished to set up to raise awareness of adrenal cancer, which sadly took her life a little over a year ago. This was directly in the midst of play-off craziness, and some very selfless Ravens chipped in amazing donations for auctions to raise money for Karisafication.
5. Finally, Rashieme's brother works for the Ravens (and the Orioles). Richard, if you're reading, I'd very much appreciate some discounted (or, you know, free) tickets.
So sadly, the Ravens' season is over. But the Super Bowl looms in the near future! Who are you betting on? Denver or Seattle? What do you think of my methodology in selecting a team? Share your thoughts or love for your own team in the comments section!
Oh! And Happy Super Bowl Weekend everybody! Enjoy responsibly!
Mainly, this was because I realized I was missing out on a lot of fun. As the yearly winter writing retreats held by The Eastern Shore Writing Project always coincided with the advanced stages of the post-season playoffs, I tended to, at frequent social events throughout the retreats, witness overzealous fans exalting in their teams' glory with every miraculous play, only to be crushed by the agonizing suspense that followed as the opposition pulled off an equally daring feat. The clock would wind down, the fate of the game coming down to the last minute or even last seconds.
All while I was left out!
It was a wild roller coaster ride that I wanted to be part of. Clearly, when something elicits such strong emotions, one should fully throw oneself into it.
I had a problem though. I had no idea which team to follow.
I grew up in a home that never followed football, minus the Super Bowl, which we watched mainly for commercials. As a former high school cheerleader, I had a limited understanding of the game. One reason I'd never cared for it when I was younger was due to the frequent starting and stopping (also why I'm not a baseball fan). As an adult, I've realized that the time-outs and time required to set up the ensuing plays are a much needed breather to give one's heart a chance to start beating again. (Or, you know, grab a beer).
Particularly because I decided to become a Ravens fan.
Now, I didn't come to this decision lightly. Two years ago, I resorted to a social media poll to seek rational, logical advice regarding which team to follow. What I discovered is that, ironically, even more than religion or politics, football will get people to arguing.
Anyway, I was really between a few teams-- Baltimore, Washington, the two Pennsylvania options--all because they were relatively close--and the Miami Dolphins.
The Redskins are pretty local, but they don't seem to win too often. Also, they were the favorite team of a late friend of mine's from high school. She passed away last year, just before the Super Bowl. Part of me thinks I hold a grudge against them for not making it to the Bowl last year (because, for once, they actually had a shot). Or maybe I just wanted to root for a team that wins more often.
The Steelers and Eagles both have significant followings around these parts as well, so I was pressured (especially by Steelers fans) to join their camps. I was leaning toward the Steelers for a bit, because, let's face it, they win pretty often. Also, many of my friends are Steelers fans. However, Rashieme hates them, so that sort of put an end to that. (I see no reason to pile on additional marital strife before our marriage has even begun). Also, I don't look great in black and yellow. (But they DID have that catchy Wiz Kalifa tune a few years back working in their favor. BLACK AND YELLOW BLACK AND YELLOW....)
Rashieme's team is the Eagles, but mainly because he likes Michael Vick. In spite of all the controversy surrounding Vick, Rashieme claims that he is (was?) the greatest quarterback in the league. Up until this current season, they also seemed to claim losing as a pastime, so for me, that was a strike against them. Also, I love Philadelphia-- love, love, LOVE the city, especially the cheesesteaks--but I wasn't sure I could live with myself if I became a Philadelphia fan. My grandmother, a Baltimore native, has a longstanding hatred for the Orioles' opponents, and the only team she dislikes more than the (you guessed it) New York Yankees is the Phillies. Something about rooting for Philadelphia just felt wrong.
So that took care of the local teams, minus Baltimore. I know you think I probably picked Baltimore due to the fact that they were last year's Super Bowl champions and I jumped on the bandwagon... but actually, I was verymuchthisclose to becoming a Miami Dolphins fan.
Here's why:
1. They are in Florida. (I love Florida).
2. Their jerseys are pretty. (I love turquoise).
3. They are featured in one of my all-time favorite movies, Ace Ventura, Pet Detective.
4. Once, I watched some Miami dude on defense with a lot of dred locks nearly annihilate some poor schmuck on the other team who was unfortunate enough to have the ball.
5. They are the only team I ever bet money on, and I actually won. It was the year they lost every single game except one, which, ironically, was against the Baltimore Ravens. Rashieme and I bet 50 bucks on who was going to win in overtime. I put my money on the Dolphins, and, somehow, someway, they managed to get their only win of the season.
But something about being a Dolphins fan didn't feel right. It wasn't just that they're thousands of miles away and there are virtually no other fans in this area. It wasn't just that they hardly ever win. It was, I guess, a combination of the two.
And the fact that, when we ventured out together to watch games, I found myself embarrassed to say I was a Miami fan.
SO, I was back to Baltimore. Really, it only made sense. They win a lot, but they lose a lot, too, so I didn't feel like I was too much of a bandwagon jumper. Note that I am still a fan, even after the travesty that was this past season.
Also:
1. They are as local as you can get, living in Delaware. Plus, my mom's side of the family is from Baltimore.
2. I look really good in purple.
3. There's the whole literary connection, which makes perfect sense, given my occupation. "The Raven" isn't my favorite, but I really dig some of Poe's other works.
4. Their players are truly giving. Though my late friend Karisa (whom I mentioned earlier in this post), was a Redskins fan, leading up to and then shortly after her death, several Baltimore players made donations to Karisification, the new charity Karisa wished to set up to raise awareness of adrenal cancer, which sadly took her life a little over a year ago. This was directly in the midst of play-off craziness, and some very selfless Ravens chipped in amazing donations for auctions to raise money for Karisafication.
5. Finally, Rashieme's brother works for the Ravens (and the Orioles). Richard, if you're reading, I'd very much appreciate some discounted (or, you know, free) tickets.
So sadly, the Ravens' season is over. But the Super Bowl looms in the near future! Who are you betting on? Denver or Seattle? What do you think of my methodology in selecting a team? Share your thoughts or love for your own team in the comments section!
Oh! And Happy Super Bowl Weekend everybody! Enjoy responsibly!
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