Thoughts on Writing... I'm Done!

So, a few months ago, I had started a series of posts exploring my Thoughts On Writing, and I had ambitiously decided to come up with thirty-six reflections on my relationship with writing in celebration of my thirty-sixth birthday.

That was a stupid idea.

Well, maybe the idea was okay.  And if I really wanted to, I could probably continue pushing myself to come up with tidbits to share... but the problem is, as it usually is, that my intentions are good, but my commitment to my execution?  Not so much.

Maybe that should be something I learn about writing:  Follow through!

But the truth is, when it matters, I do.

I finished my dissertation--on time, even!

I've finished a draft of my latest book-length project--a memoir.

I finish short stories.  I finish essays.  Sometimes I even finish poems, though I rarely share those.

But just as often, I do leave things unfinished.  Maybe this is the life of the writer--abandon some projects in favor of others.  Know when to save it for later, or perhaps, call time of death.

I'm calling time of death on Thoughts on Writing.  Writing about writing is fun and all, and the thirty-six ways were a challenge to help me keep my commitment to post more regularly.

(You see how well that worked out).

But they've served their purpose--I got a few posts out of the project (three to be exact, for a grand total of EIGHTEEN THOUGHTS ON WRITING!), and as usually happens this time of the year, no matter what my intentions, blogging is now taking a backseat.

To grading and planning and meetings.

To school:  Both my own work (it is a nice change of pace to not be a student, for once in the last eight semesters!) as well as each of my daughters' schools (Yes, Shay goes to SCHOOL now--can you believe it?).

To searching for crock pot recipes.  To preparing crock pot recipes.

To losing the never ending war that is trying to clean my house.

To rooting for the Ravens and dealing with the jubilee and despair my fandom brings me.

To scheduling time with Rashieme and Kaliah and Shay--whereas lazy summer days allow us to spend time together--or not--as we see fit, I have to be more intentional about allocating time for and to my family when the chaos of the academic semester starts revving up.

To writing other stuff--for work, for me, for church.

So yeah, my thoughts on writing?  I've thought enough about it.  Lol.

I'd rather spend the time I would have dedicated to writing about writing to writing something else--because at the end of the day, our time is limited.  I've written enough about being a writer.

I want to write about living.

And as the great Henry David Throeau once said, "How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live."

Thoughts on Writing Part III... (The Potty Training Edition)

Potty training is on my mind today.

I wrote a funny piece about it, the process of potty training our youngest, and, actually, I am super excited to announce that its publication will be forthcoming in a hilarious collection of humorous literature online called Defenestration.  But in thinking about writing that piece (and dealing with the daily victories, frustrations, setbacks, and learning that is potty training), I’ve been thinking about how much of what I’ve learned about writing is similar.

So, for today’s reflections, here are six lessons learned about writing that also apply to potty training.

13.  Celebrate the small successes.  Joy hath no depth greater than that of a toddler telling her daddy she pee-peed on the potty.  We’d all be wise to celebrate accomplishments that, much like peeing on the potty, have gotten a bit routine over the years.  For writers, celebrate success however you can--share the good news with other writers, friends, your family--whoever will be excited for you.  

14.  Realize you’re going to get messy.  I won’t get into the details of the analogy to potty training here, as it’s both graphic and obvious.  But writing is the same way, whether you’re seeking publication or not.  Writing about painful memories is messy.  Getting rejected is a crappy feeling. Be prepared for it, and know it is perfectly normal.

15.  Reward yourself.  With Shay, we award her with a song and dance routine that reflects our joyous celebration of her successful use of the toilet.  And, often, we also give her a cookie.  Figure out what your goals as a writer are, and when possible, reward yourself for meeting goals, for sticking to your schedule, for landing a "no" that wasn’t a flat out form rejection.  Have a cookie.  A glass of wine.  A night out with friends, a pair of new shoes.  Heck, hang a favorite sentence on your fridge, and then reward yourself with something yummy inside of it.

16.  Speaking of sentences on the fridge:  Be your own validation.  My two-and-a-half-year-old, Shay, often exclaims, “Big girl!”  It’s both lovely and admirable, the sheer confidence she has in herself, the truth she feels in that statement, as she declares herself to be a big girl.  I mean, she’s wearing the panties!  Who am I to argue with her?  We struggling writers should remind ourselves:  “We’re writers!” No publisher, agent, teacher, or critic can tell us that we’re not, even if we’re not yet as successful as we long to be.

17.  Deny yourself.  (I know, exactly the opposite of number 15).  But with Shay on the potty, we don’t always allow her everything she wants—we sometimes hold out.  I’ll tell her she can’t have more juice until she uses the potty.  As writers, what can we deny or delay until we’ve reached our goals?  For me, in the summer, maybe I'll forgo a morning at the beach to finish revising a draft. (And then I can have an afternoon at the beach!)

18.  And about that—set some goals!  Maybe they’re obvious and you don’t need to write them down.  For example, I don’t need to write down that my hope for Shay is that her underwear stay clean all day, just like I don’t need to put it in print that I’m going to write five pages each day—I wake up knowing that is my goal!  But perhaps it will be helpful to write down an objective or two: Write a story that makes my kid laugh.  Be published in a particular publication.  Write a novel in x amount of time.  In other areas of my life, I’ve written down a goal and pinned it above my desk where I’ll see it every day.  That might be helpful for some aspiring writers, and you know what?  Maybe I’ll take my own advice, set some new writing goals, and tack them up above my desk or tape them to my mirror.  Just like I love crossing items off a to-do list, I am all about looking at bigger "to dos" and realizing that they have become "Done."

So while I'm thinking about my next steps, and what big To Dos I'm going to be brave enough to write down.... In the meantime, I’m going to try to keep my big girl dry in her big girl panties!  Stay well everyone—keep writing, mom-ing, and whatever else it is you are doing.

Shaylin acting modest... she's a VERY big girl!

Thoughts On Writing, Part II

As promised, I return this week with several more reflections on writing.  I began conceiving 36 Reflections on Writing last Thursday, two days after my 36th birthday.  I must admit that the number 36 is completely arbitrary, and that, like much of my writing, I began not knowing how I would end.  Of course I picked 36 as my number of suggestions in an effort to celebrate my 36 years... but I suppose time will tell whether or not we'll make it to the end.  That brings me to my first thought for today...

7.  It's okay to not know where you're going.  I hear that there are lots of authors out there who map out, in great detail, exactly where they are headed.  I must confess that I almost never work that way.  I start with an idea to follow it and see where it takes me.  Sure, there are some dead ends (and lots of u-turns), but for the most part, I almost never know where I'm going.  I personally think it's okay to write without knowing how I'll end something.  In fact, I prefer working this way.  This brings me to my next reflection.

8.  Just get started.  As mentioned above, not knowing how everything will shake out is no reason to delay a beginning.  I know some writers who talk themselves into writer's block because they don't have it all together in their head.  Whether I'm writing for academics or my personal life, the first step for me is always to start somewhere.  I'm not big into pre-writing, either (sorry, English teachers!).  I just need to start typing.  If it doesn't turn out, that's what the backspace key is for.

9.  Sometimes you find a gem in the junk.  I've written more than my fair share of garbage over the years.  I've never let that stop me from pursuing writing, but I've also learned that even in the worst writing exercises I've attempted, there's almost always something to be admired somewhere in there.  Sometimes you have to write a bunch of crap before you know what you want to say, and even after you know what you want to write, sometimes you have to write your way into it.  Thus, a lot of my most boring sentence structures, most trite descriptions, and lackluster language usage have paved the way for the kind of sentences I want to hang on my refrigerator.  (Relax, I'm not that big of a nerd.  The fridge has a ladybug made by Shay hanging on it now, as well as Kaliah's report card).

10.  Parenthetical casualties can save a chapter.  I learned this one while revising and editing my dissertation.  Having always been too fond of the Faulknerian sentence, it was difficult for me to balance the need to write clearly and concisely with my desire to vividly craft eloquent sentences.  I've probably always relied way too much on dashes, parentheticals, and other tricks that allow me to continue stringing words together when my poor reader is desperately seeking a period.  In the back and forth commenting my chair and I engaged in as I submitted draft after draft of my writing, I remember typing "another parenthetical casualty," with just a bit of resentment, as I'd removed yet another parenthetical phrase at her request.  "Yes, but you saved the chapter," she wrote back.  As I read my earlier versions of the work, I had to admit that she was right.  That leads me to number eleven.

11.  Get yourself a friendly critical reader.  You need them because they're going to give you a perspective that you can't find on your own.  When you're too close to your writing, you aren't going to notice all the ways it can be improved.  Notice I also said friendly, here--because, really, who wants an unfriendly critic?  You need someone who can be honest about both the good and bad.

And the last one for today...

12.  Picture your Ideal Reader.  Maybe you're not ready to share with a real reader yet.  Maybe time doesn't allow for this.  Maybe your readers are TOO friendly, and won't be honest.  When I was a senior in college, Rashieme came to my senior reading.  His resting facial expression isn't all that inviting, I suppose--my creative writing professor noticed him, and was, unbeknownst to me, watching him throughout the event.  Now, I didn't notice this, because I was reading--but apparently, as Rashieme got into the writing I was sharing, his expression changed.  He leaned forward in his seat.  He nodded along to parts of the writing that moved him.  "Did you see that guy?" My professor asked me, later.  Not knowing he was my boyfriend, my prof went on to describe how Rashieme arrived looking bored but became animated halfway through my reading.  "Write like you're trying to hook that guy with the first sentence!" Dr. Horner instructed.  Stephen King has called that person that you write for your "Ideal Reader."  Whether real or imagined, it might be helpful to envision how your writing will be perceived by someone else.

That's all for today, folks!  Speaking of ideal readers, I'm thankful for all of you.  Hopefully those of you who write found something useful here today, but even if that's not the case, thanks, as always, for dropping by!

36 Reflections on Writing for my 36th Birthday... Part 1.

Well, it's come and it's gone:  My 36th Birthday.

36 has an interesting vibe to it.  I'm still young in the general scheme of things, but I'm also on the other side of "middle life," if you figure we get approximately seventy years on the planet.  As I'm thinking about my time on the third rock from the sun, I am mostly reflecting on how blessed I am.  I have an amazing husband, beautiful daughters, a caring and supportive extended family, a teaching career that I love... Plus, I live at the beach.

Who could want for more?  Jesus already solved the biggest problem I'll ever have.  I enjoy great health, good food, a fun family.

The area of my life that is furthest from where I wish it was?  My writing life.  In a way, I've accomplished more in writing than I ever thought I would.  I've written a dissertation.  My writing has unlocked the door for me to be called doctor.  I've been published in a scholarly journal, and I've traveled to Illinois, Western Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, and even London to discuss my academic writing.

On the creative side of things, I connect with hundreds of readers instantly when I click publish on this page, a phenomenon that I never would have imagined possible when I was growing up and writing in spiral notebooks.  I've written three novel-length works to date.  That's sort of impressive, too, even if they aren't enjoyed by the masses.  I'm such a procrastinator, my entire house has never been fully cleaned within the same month, but somehow, little old me wrote three books?

Killing it.

But still, the little girl in 4th grade who wrote "The Christmas Tree Mystery," a lyrical poem that was my first actual publication, courtesy of our local paper, The Wave, still dreams of being a published novelist.  The girl who sat in creative non-fiction class fifteen years ago and read "I expect to see your name in print someday" written on the bottom of her final paper?

That girl wants validation.

Thus, even as I continue to seek traditional publication, I stop and reflect on lessons learned so far from my writing life.  I'm not where I want to be, yet, but I've also accomplished so much I never considered possible.  So in honor of my 36th birthday, here are the first of 36 Thoughts on Writing.  Hopefully they'll encourage some other writers out there.

1.  You are a writer.  This was the point that was always driven home to me by The Eastern Shore Writing Project, and I am so thankful to have heard it again and again in that context.  It's good advice for anyone who wants to be a writer.  If you are writing, you are a writer.  Simple as that.  Your publication status, the opinions of others, and even your own doubts have nothing to do with it.  You are a writer.

2.  Writing while mom-ing is hard work.  This one probably sounds like a duh.  But I can remember listening to one novelist who explained that she began writing when her son was born and her traditional career was put on hold.  She was at home everyday, and she began writing while he napped. Oh, how I wish it worked that way for me!  I was never the mom who naps when the baby naps, but I also don't accomplish anything else while my children are asleep.  I take a few moments to just be, and that's ok, too.  For me, admitting it's not easy to do much else while being a mother is helpful.  Motherhood is the most important job I'll ever do, and lofty literary aspirations have to take a back seat.  They just do.

3.  Writing dreams can sit in the backseat.  But they need a seat somewhere.  Having said that writing while mom-ing is hard work, don't kick writing out of your life altogether! (Whether for you, the challenge is mom-ing, or working, or dad-ing, or schooling, or wife-ing, or whatever!)  I write because I love it, because I need to, because I'm a better me for doing it.  When I don't write (which does happen), sometimes the world doesn't turn upside down.  But, I miss it.  So for me, it's about making time.  In the summer, my schedule is pretty relaxed, but I still try to beat my family up every day and write a few pages.  When I was working on my last book, and I had to finish it?  I set an alarm at 5 a.m. everyday and wrote five pages.  Doesn't matter where you get it in, just get it in.

4.  Querytracker.net is a great website.  That's it!  But if you're a writer who didn't know it existed, now you do.  You're welcome.  :)  It's a fantastic resource for writers who want to connect with agents and/or publishers.

5.  Revision is your friend.  I have a love/hate relationship with revising.  There are times when I've hated being forced to go back through a draft.  There have been lucky moments when I've written some truly strong first drafts, and haven't really needed to revise.  These moments inflated my already-too-big-ego and made me think that I'm a better writer than I really am... and what I've learned through the dissertation process is that revision really does lead to stronger writing, regardless of who you are and how good your first draft was.

6.  Rejection does not define you.  I've been rejected from agents more times than I can remember (although if I really wanted to depress myself, I could pull up my old excel spreadsheets as well as my current ones and give you a number).  But, I am not a poor writer.  My manuscripts were not necessarily even poor manuscripts.  They just weren't right for those particular agents at the particular times I pitched them.  It took the Chicago Cubs 108 years to win a World Series.  I've already spent about ten years trying to get published, so, I figure if I keep at it... only 98 more years to go!

But seriously... agented or not, published or not, see number 1.  I am a writer.

For more lessons on writing and life (from an unpublished, unagented author who stubbornly refuses to give up), look for the sequel to this blog post coming soon!


The writing starter kit:  Location you love.  Coffee.  Laptop.  Plethora of papers (notes, printed copies of earlier drafts, what have you).  Optional:  Hot Mama Boots.

Identity Crisis

A couple times this month, in the heyday of doctoral studies, two jobs, mothering, being a wifey, and just generally being swept along in the insanity of life, I found a few minutes to just write.  Finally, thank God.  Moments I'd been waiting for, moments I missed so much it hurt.  It was just me and my laptop.  I'd found time to blog, or work on a new novel, or write a short story, or resurrect an old novel.  I'd found time to write, and just be me.

And then, I sat down to write, overwhelmingly thankful that I'd found the opportunity to do so...

And nothing happened.

I had nothing to write about.

This has happened to me before, but this time, it's been really bad.  (Not really bad, compared to, like, your tax bill.  Or breaking an arm.  Or accidentally trying a brussel sprout later in life, even though you're pretty sure you still hate them).  But for me, pretty bad.

I think I don't know what to write about because I don't know who I am as a writer.

I know that I am a writer.  It's strange, in any situation where writers are gathered (like at the NWP Annual Meeting, where I was given a few topics and surrounded by other writers), well, then I can write my butt off.  About anything. 

But I don't know what kind of writer I am, anymore, if I'm not given a topic and other people writing around me.  Sometimes even if you give me a topic (my husband has an ingenious idea for a novel that could definitely be a best seller, a movie, what have you, if it were done right)... I still don't know if I can do it.  Maybe it's because I've been rejected so much.  Or maybe it's because I'm still torn between humorous non-fiction and fiction, and in that fiction category, I'm all over the place, vaguely claiming to write "women's" fiction, or "commercial" fiction.  Maybe it's because that fiction is sort of Christian and sort of mainstream, and I'm wondering if it has a place anywhere.

Or maybe it's just because I have nothing good to say right now.

I could write about how happy I am.  Have you ever been so happy, that you just want to hold onto that moment so badly, because it feels like you must be dreaming?  That was me the other day, in this beautiful, every day moment, when my husband smiled at me, and simply said, "The tree looks nice."  And in that moment, hugging him in front of our Christmas tree, knowing how far we've come, how much I didn't expect to be married in this point in time, how blessed I am to have a brilliant daughter and an amazing husband, and to be so surrounded by love that it feels too fragile, too perfect to be real... Words can't describe how precious life is.

Or maybe it's because the world is still so messed up, and my happiness, or my fiction (happy or not) seems small and insignificant in comparison to Ferguson, to the protesting, to the anger and injustice and frustrations that have come bubbling back up in society.  It's a helpless feeling, to see so much hurt, so many voiceless, infuriated people, who have something to say and no one to listen.  Sometimes it feels like, why add another voice, when I don't have anything to say?

Or maybe it's just because I'm too tired to think of anything worth writing about.  And in that case, maybe I just need some coffee.

I logged on to this blog today and noticed that I updated it only once last month.  Never the less, there were 120 views.  120 clicks that cared about what I had to say.  It's humbling, that even though I wasn't saying much, people were still listening.

I hope I figure it out--what I want to say.  I've always wanted to be a writer.  And I am a writer.  But the industry beats you down.  You're left feeling uncertain after multiple rejections from agents.  The form letters that remind you that this is just a business.  The ones that hurt more are the ones that liked your work.  That compared you to someone else out there, someone who's fortunate enough to have made it.  Then they let you down anyway, saying that in spite of it's merit, your work is too this or not enough that.

And I get it.  It's just business.

But writing is so much more than that to me.

I just need to rediscover what I need to say.

Thanks for sticking with me, dear readers.

An Ode to Childhood Summers on the Delaware Coast

I know.  I haven't been writing.

I have nothing to say in my defense.

Except that I just found this story I wrote for my non-fiction class in college, and I kind of fell in love again.

I'm not sharing the whole thing, because I want to be selfish.  And maybe because my boss has inspired me to enter a short story contest (through which she herself got published this year!  Yay!), and the theme for next year's entries just happens to be The Beach.

I wrote what you're about to read in March of 2004.  It has three parts--the one I'm sharing is essentially an ode to childhood.  The second part considers the longing to return to said childhood.  The third shows an actual attempt to do just that.  And I'm thinking of adding a fourth section, because my whole view on childhood has really been enhanced by, um, having a child.

But for now, here's the first section.  I hope you enjoy.

I know I enjoyed writing it.

Waves

I.                    Crest—The portion of a wave displaced above the still water line; the highest point of the wave.

We used to call it “Washing Machine.”

Washing Machine—our very technical term for what happened when the angry gray waves tore our tiny bodies off our fluorescent purple and orange Moorey Boogie boards; slamming us beneath a crashing current, boards flailing about above us, snapping our skinny arms back by the sea-soaked black leashes, sand invading every possible crevice as we tumbled into human pretzel shapes tossed about by the immense power of exploding murky swells, and we came up sputtering and choking, blinking in the bright sun and staggering to our feet above the frothy white aftermath which fizzled around our ankles.

Washing Machine.

And we would gasp for air, and tilt our heads to the side, banging the fists not restrained by the body board leashes against our skulls, in an effort to pound the sand out of our ears.

“Did you see that?” I’d scream to my brothers and best friend Courtney, charging back into the waves.  The taste of salt was overpowering, and I loved it in a way I wouldn’t come to understand until much later in life.  I would gallantly battle to throw my small body past the roaring breaking point, fighting my way back to my fellow adventurers, still rubbing my eyes, or tugging at my bathing suit, or briefly examining and then dismissing the scarlet scraping above my things and knees inflicted by my contact with the furious ocean floor during the last Washing Machine.

Ah, to have millions of grains of sand coat the top of my scalp, clinging to my clumped wet hair, and to not care!  To have the sticky residue of salt water paint my entire sun-bronzed body, and to not want a shower!  To be thrown violently time and time again from the slippery beast that was my Moorey Boogie board, and worry not once about twisting an ankle, or breaking what would become, later in life, my waitressing wrist.

What a wonderful thing, to be young and in love with the ocean.

**After submitting this piece to my professor, Dr. Vince Puma's comments included the most inspiring compliment I've ever received from a teacher.  He wrote, "I expect to see your name in print someday."

It's taking me longer than I hoped, Dr. Puma...

But I am still trying.

A Triumphant Return After an Unrealized Absence

So I'm glancing back over my blog entries, now that I've finally found a spare moment to blog, and I realize that, it has been nearly ONE WHOLE MONTH since I've posted anything.

Which shocked me, only because I can't believe I haven't updated this thing since my kid's birthday.

But also because my daughter's birthday seems like it was ages ago, yet it feels like I could not have possibly spent that much time not writing.

As a school teacher, during the summer time, I had a routine.  I woke up.  I read my Bible.  I wrote.  At least five pages.  Everyday.  And I ran.  At least three miles, at least three times a week.

This summer, I am no longer a school teacher.  I am the director of the Young Writers Summer Camps.  I am a manager at the Cottage Café.  I am a bride-to-be.

I am not writing on a daily basis (or, um, at all).

And running and I are in the midst of a lengthy separation, basically headed for divorce.

I can let the running go.  I ran my marathon.  I eat well (usually), and I get plenty of exercise at work.  So I don't need to be a runner right now.

 And temporarily, I suppose I've put my writing on hold (which is crazy for me, because I can't even think of myself in terms of who I am if I'm not a writer).

But the reality is, right now, I'm not writing.

What really strikes me about this situation is how sometimes, on the verge of so many new and exciting horizons, you become someone you never saw coming.

If you asked me who I was last year, I would have said:  A mother.  A Christian.  A writer.  A runner. A girl in love.

I'm still all of those things, but at the same time, some of them have slipped away from me.  Of course I'm still a mother--but I'm not making home-cooked meals.

I am still a Christian--but I'm ashamed to admit that today was the first day in a couple weeks that I forced myself to find time for my Bible when I woke up.  Why?  Because I've been closing at the restaurant, getting home around three in the morning, to barely find a few moments with my pillow before waking up and rushing off to the university to see over everything there.  And then the process repeats itself until I finally stumble into a day when I only have to work ONE JOB, and that's very exciting.

Nothing, and I mean, NOTHING, that I do is more important than my time with God.  Yet somehow, I've been letting it be stolen from me, in the distractions of business, obligations, the desire to do a good job.

Nothing that I've embarked upon is something I don't want to do.  It all matters, and I love it all.  But I have got to say that I was truly astounded that this much time has passed this summer.  And I need to remember that no matter how busy I get, no matter how many issues demand my attention:

I have got to keep my priorities straight, and I have got to stay true to who I am.

Because other wise, none of the rest of it will matter.

I saw a quote the other day that I'm taking to heart.  It said:  "I finally realized today that I cannot do everything.  So I have decided to do as much as I can do and do it fabulously."

And that's it.

So today, I read my Bible.  This is me writing.

I plan to do them both again tomorrow.

And no, I won't really see my daughter tonight, because she was asleep when I left, and she'll be asleep when I get home.

But maybe I will leave her a note or a little surprise, just to remind her, that I still love her, even in my absence. 

And the wedding stuff--every time I start to stress about not having the right color flower petals, or wondering if my shoes are going to be that special, magical height in between nope-that's-taller-than-my-fiancé, and not-so-flat-that-I-have-no-added-height-and go-tripping-over-my-dress-and-rolling-down-the-aisle--

I am going to remember that none of it really matters, aside from the fact that we love each other, and I am finally marrying my best friend.

And as the day throws more at me, I will recite to myself one of my new life verses:  Psalm 54:4-- "God is my help, surely the Lord will sustain me." 

Without him, I'm just a hamster on a wheel.  But with him?

Well, I'm doing the best I can, and I'm doing it fabulously.

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

Yes, I know, my blogging has been suffering lately.

To the point of fans (yes, apparently, I DO have fans...) asking me what happened to my blog.

Alright, "fans" with an "s" might be a stretch.  But one person asked, I was flattered, and so I'm going with the notion that other people might also be on the same page and be wondering what happened to my writing.

What happened to my writing is what happened to my life!  Which is wonderful, exciting, terrifying, and exhausting all at the same time, but mostly, right now, exhausting.

For anyone who hasn't heard, I've accepted a doctoral assistantship with Salisbury University.  In exchange for working with the Salisbury education department faculty in conducting research in the field, I'll be granted a tuition waiver.

Yes, I was blessed enough to be given a full ride as I earn my doctorate.

Words can't express how excited I am for this opportunity.

But, it's also a bit scary.  Per the terms of the contract, I'm not allowed to be employed full-time elsewhere.  So, just like He has always done for me, God showed up in an incredible way and opened doors for me to make up the difference in income.

The Cottage Café, an awesome restaurant with which I've been employed as a part-timer server for the last seven years, made me a front-of-the house manager.  Full-time in the summer.  Dropping back to part-time around my schooling schedule come fall, with the understanding that my duties to the education department receive priority.

I'll still be coming up a little short of the teaching salary I was receiving, but when you consider that I should be coming out the other side of this four years later with a doctorate degree valued at approximately $120 grand for FREE?  I'd say it's worth it.  No questions asked.

Even my principal said I would have to be a fool to turn it down, so she understands why I'm leaving.

But in the mean time--with the end of the school year closing, and all the emotional implications and chaotic end-of-year work, with training for my new position at the restaurant on the weekends and having basically said goodbye to such a thing as a day off for the past two weeks and at least one more week to come, with trying to ensure my responsibilities to the Young Writers program aren't suffering in the process--well, to say the least...

Things have gotten a tad bit crazy.  Maybe even crazier than usual.

Here's an example of how exhausting last weekend was.

Saturday morning, Oak Ridge Baptist Church held the first ever Stride for Supplies, a 5k race I helped organize.  Because I wanted to be there to help set everything up, I got up at 4:30 am.  It was a great time of fitness, fun, and fellowship.  We also raised tons of money for our partner schools to purchase school supplies with.

Sidebar, I also won my age group--in my first race after October's full marathon!

After the race, I tried to manage a quick hour or two of relaxation at the beach, as Shieme and Kaliah were out of town for Rashieme's grandmother's birthday.  So I went alone figuring it would be some much needed down time to relax.

This didn't really turn out to be the case, thanks to the group of high school graduates lounging out behind me who were BELLOWING out idiotic conversations in which the F-bomb was dropped in every other sentence multiple times.  I heard not a single intelligent comment throughout the forty minutes I endured attempting to ignore them.  It was impossible to block them out, and it was as if it had never occurred to them that they weren't the only people on the beach, and that the multiple families surrounding them with small children might not be interested in hearing about their drinking, sex lives, drinking, and astute observations of the human condition that couldn't be expressed without multiple mentionings of the terms "Dude, f***, bro, yo, f****," etc.

I know I was once young(er) and dumb, but this sad, shallow example of "celebrating" life following graduation by perpetuating the stereotype of idiotic drinking as the norm for the 18 and over young people crowd really made me worried for our future.

Anyway, onward I went to work.  I ended up closing and getting home at a little after three in the morning.  I didn't fall asleep until after 4 am, at which point I realized (a little deliriously) that I had been up for nearly 24 hours.

All that to come to this point:  After working another shift on Sunday and then heading to one of my final days of teaching on Monday, I arrived home completely exhausted.  Rashieme took one look at me and ordered me to bed.  I complied, and when I woke up, I panicked.

The clock said 6:50.  Kaliah's bus comes at 7:15.  I flew out of bed, skidding into the dining room and immediately reprimanding my daughter.

"Kaliah!  It's 6:50!" 

Why was she wearing her clothing from last night??

Hmm... maybe because it was still "last night."

I had automatically assumed that I'd been asleep for the entire evening and somehow missed my alarm, when in fact, I'd barely been down for two hours.

Lifestyles of the totally exhausted.

But alas, all this is coming to an end.

Yesterday was my last day with students.  Maybe ever.  At least for four years.  My head and heart are full of emotions.  This was a great year to possibly end my teaching career.  I will truly miss these kids, and my work family at MMS.  But I'm looking forward to my next adventures.  I'm looking forward to new possibilities and opportunities.  I'm looking forward to a more flexible schedule, and to, eventually, more time with my family and less time grading.  Hopefully more time for my writing.

But mostly?

As far as the immediate future is concerned?

I'm looking forward to a few good naps. 

Abort, Retry, Ignore?

So, THIS is gonna sound like fiction:

 

My fortune cookie's message from last night's dinner.

 

Hmmm.

 

So of course the writer in me is thinking:  should this become a True Tale of Everyday Crazy to add to my collection?

 

Or is this a brand new novel idea, ripe with potential?

 

I'll be pondering it on my run.  The run I'm actually going to take.  I'm feeling the need to assure everyone that I am still a runner, mainly because Rashieme commented this morning that he doesn't think I actually plan on running-- rather, he supposes I'll just put on my running clothes, go lie down in the corn field across the street for a few hours, and then pick all the crap off my clothing and return home, acting as if I've just completed an intense workout.

 

Clearly, this is preposterous, as not only do I use an app to track my runs (which no one except fellow runners really care about, so forgive me, non-runner friends, for all the Facebook updates, which were much more frequent during my marathon days, but probably just as annoying now)... but also, I hate bugs way too much to go lie down in a corn field for the sake of pretending to have run.

 



So I'll be actually running.  And thinking about that fortune cookie.

Feel free to share your thoughts with me, too!

A Somewhat Sappy Thank You

I had a hard time coming up with a topic to blog about this week.

Blogging, for me, is mainly an attempt to grow my fan base while also expressing myself through writing.  The fan base thing is a work in progress--while I still entertain dreams of being a successful, traditionally published author someday, I live in reality.  (Usually).  So I know the chances of that dream coming to fruition are small.

When I do receive encouragement online or in person to continue writing, I jump all over it.  I let it feed me.  I make more consistent efforts to share my writing with the world, because, well, people keep allowing me to continue.  (And by allowing me to continue, I guess I mean that no one is telling me to stop).  Also, sometimes people even praise my writing, insisting that I keep going, that I don't quit.  I'll never forget-- I was at a writing retreat a few years ago, and after having shared a couple pieces at open mics and during workshops, a stranger approached me and complimented me.  I remember blushing and stammering something about how it was the one time I was guaranteed an audience whom I could force to listen to me.  I said it as a joke, sort of, but after hundreds of rejections from literary agents, it was also a rather accurate statement. She seemed shocked that there was anyone out there who would feel differently than she did, and she reassured me that she had truly enjoyed listening to my words.

I don't say all that to fish for affirmation or gain any sympathy.  Just want to acknowledge that as a human... sometimes we need to know that what we're passionate about matters.  That someone else believes in what we do.

But the thing about writing for me, and I've mentioned this before, is that I would do it for an audience of one.  Who it is that's reading--that's rarely defined what it is I'm writing.

With blogging, however, it's different.  I'm aware of who is reading.  With my limited social media and elementary marketing skills, and all but nonexistent ability to make things look pretty... I consider myself fairly lucky that anybody comes by here at all.  :)

So I guess what I'm trying to say, really, is thank you.

Thanks for coming by my standard looking, sometimes random, little-engine-that-could-type blog.  Whether you're visiting once or often--I'm glad you're here.

Because while I would keep writing without you...

I wouldn't keep blogging.  And I know that there's nothing amazing, fancy, or even particularly practical about my little corner of the internet.

But I'm still so glad you took a few minutes to come read.  I happen to believe that someday, probably when we're face to face with Jesus, we're going to find out that those little things weren't just little things.

They were everything.

So thanks for taking a little bit of time and reading the musings of an aspiring author.  If I'm never known for my writing, I'd like to hope that I'll be remembered for my gratitude.  If not by thousands of fans, than by a few dozen supporters.  That is more than enough to fill my heart.  I've never been good at sticking with something that requires constant dedication.  Past attempts at blogging have fizzled and failed after a few months.  But this time, you've all inspire me to keep posting.

And while I couldn't come up with a good topic today, I think that actually turned out to be a good thing.  Because in my opinion, the world would be a way better place if we paused and thanked the people around us a little more often.

I appreciate each and every view I get.  And if you're reading this, I want you to know--I'm praying for you.  I don't believe in accidents.  I stopped believing in coincidences when I really found my faith, when I realized that Jesus wasn't just a guy who died on a cross a long time ago-- I discovered that He is a real, living, loving God who wants a personal relationship with me, and with you.  So wherever you're sitting, whoever you are, and whatever you're doing--I think that even in the small things, God doesn't believe in wasted time or insignificant moments.  I think it all matters, and I think you're reading these words because God put it on your to-do list today.  I know that even when we don't plan on things... God does.  I believe He wants to bless us even beyond the wildest dreams we have for ourselves.  So I thank you for coming here today, because I believe you are a part of the dream God has planted in my heart.  I want to pray that your dreams, whatever they are, are coming true for you.  Because while you've blessed me by stopping by, I pray that the greater blessing is for you.  That maybe you read something you needed to read today--not because I am an awesome writer.  But because I know a truly awesome God.  I pray for your health, and the health of those you love.  I pray for peace and joy in your life, and in your faith.

And a million times over--

I thank you.

Fiction, Or Non-Fiction? Whom Do I Love More?

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.”

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:

• 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.

Wishing on a Wintry Wednesday...

My routine's all out of whack.  We haven't had a normal week of school in all of 2014.  There's a good chance that we won't leave the house for days.  And, yeah, once again... I'll probably be in school until almost July.

Winter blues?  Sort of.  But then, I look out the window and see this:

 

How can you not find it beautiful?

 

 

(I guess talk to me at the end of February.  If we get any more snowstorms, I might lose that reverent feeling.  But for now, I find it soothing.  Romantic.  Enchanting).

It also reminds me of The Winter Writing Retreat, an event hosted by The Eastern Shore Writing Project.  Sadly, ESWP is currently on hiatus.  And despite the winter timing, the retreats I attended never looked quite like this.  But sifting through my old blog the other day, I found a piece that I'd written upon return from the retreat and wanted to share.  The thoughts I recorded in this post eventually played an important role in my deciding to travel to Peru in the summer of 2011 as a missionary, so this piece has a truly special meaning to me.

It is dedicated to all of my friends and colleagues who miss ESWP.

I hope you enjoy.

Originally posted Monday, January 17, 2011.


                                                                            A Love Affair

This weekend, I experienced one of those once in a lifetime, luxuriously refreshing string of events that you might equate with an unlikely romantic fantasy or an unspoken, secret dream: in a beautiful oceanfront hotel, where I watched the sunrise over the sea, talked all hours into the night and early morning, enjoyed laughter from the depths of the soul, invigorating intellectual conversation, and plastic cups filled with cheap wine, I fell in love...

It wasn't a weekend getaway with a long lost lover (though that might have been nice, too). This weekend, during the Eastern Shore Writing Project's Winter Writing Retreat, I fell in love again with writing, with living, and with people. It was a love affair of different sorts.

I engaged in a whirlwind romance of the mind as my colleagues and I examined the power of words, allowing ourselves to express heartfelt sentiments about writing, teaching, and communicating. I wrote, I reflected, I read my words aloud. I laughed. I felt deeply my own pain and joy, and that of those around me, as we captured the little miracles of life and typed them into existence on our laptops, jotted them into permanence in patterend journals and tattered spiral notebooks. We came together in a way that is truly rare. I realized, once again, that writing is a bridge across cultures, years, gender, experience. I smiled and cried as I was touched by the words of those around me, and I was humbled as I watched my words fall meaningfully onto the ears of others.

I was swept off my feet spiritually, as well. In a place when I was more inspired than I have ever been by the common bonds uniting us, so many vastly different people, I reflected on what God has done for me, the incredible gift of salvation that I believe is found in Jesus Christ. I ran across the boardwalk at sunrise, watching the incredible display of glowing pink rays lighting up a still soft, star speckled sky, the cold ocean consistently lapping the shore below. I thought of how big my God was, yet how accessible He is, to all who seek him. I prayed for my new friends, and thanked God for the amazing blessings He has given me.

Of course, it's all very noble to claim that I had planned this spirtual rejuvenation in conjunction with my adamant need to exercise. Truth is, I had to force myself to run. Self, I began, you've gained at least five pounds if not more over the holidays. You embarassed yourself terribly at your last 5K. If you don't run at least once this weekend, I'm going to kick your own butt later.

So I exercised my resolve and woke up at 5:30 in the morning, as to not interfere with the precious writing time or the socialization to which I had quickly become addicted, having come together with some of the most interesting and fantastic people I had ever known. As I'm too cheap to pay for a gym membership, and too much of a pansy to be hardcore with my running in the icy month of January, I decided a run in the hotel's treadmill would be a special treat.

Down I went to the gym on the second floor, and yes, it's quite possible that I forgot my sweats and had to run in my pajama pants (don't worry. They're gray, and except for the penguins and surfboards across my derriere, I don't think anyone would have noticed anything suspicious about my attire). Luckily, I was the only lunatic in the gym at what I would have thought was an ungodly morning hour.

*Sidenote--I just had to google "butt synonym" to figure out how to spell derriere. True confessions of the randomness of my life.

So anyway, I attacked the treadmill, and it attacked me back. I've only resorted to indoor running a handful of times in my life, and when I checked my mileage after twenty-five minutes, a timeframe when during my normal efforts outside I would have been at close to three miles, I had managed to run just over two. Sweaty, hot, and disgusted by the stuffiness of my gym and my poor performance, I jumped off the treadmill and wandered out to the balcony to breathe in some fresh air.

To my delight, it wasn't a frigid, furious winter morning, as I assumed it would have been. The cold that greeted me was exactly what I needed to refocus my mind. I jogged down the stairs, having found the inspiration to finish what I'd started. I ran the final mile down the deserted Ocean City boardwalk, awed by the spectacular display of nature in the sunrise, convinced that God had chosen this moment to talk to me.

It was a beautiful experience.

The people I spent the weekend with: dear older friends and instant newer ones, too, were truly some of the most fascinating I've ever met. Many of us are teachers. Some of us are students. All of us are writers. Stacie, the single mom of four I invited from my church, one of my favorite friends I made last year, discovered that she is, in fact, a writer. My friend Greg, a college student and full-time construction worker, held his own and kept us in hysterics as he carried his weight as one third of our entire male population (the only time you'll be in the minority as a white male, we joked). His creative documentary on seagulls is both hilarious and a bit scary. Once he posts it online, I'll provide a link. Laura, who has easily done enough living in her short time on this planet to have lived fifteen people's lifetimes, told of her adventures in twenty-one countries, and her Deep Conversations with Random Strangers, a brilliant book idea that stems from her energy and fearlessness in meeting and connecting with new people. I heard sentences from her mouth that I would never anticipate hearing again, things like "So I was in Chicago, and it was after I'd won third place in the Amateur Ventriliquest Competition..." We practiced the art of Deep Conversations with Random Strangers, marching into The Atlantic Hotel in Berlin, demanding to know if this was in fact the hotel Richard Gere stayed in during the filming of Runaway Bride. The gracious owner, who was sidetracked by her duty to check in actual paying guests, handed us the key to Room #20, and up the stairs we went. Cynthia touched the bed Mr. Gere slept in; we all admired the toilet he peed in.

We finished the weekend out with Jody Kelly Wright, a local author and partner of a West Ocean City restaurant. She spoke beautifully, encouraging us all, inviting us to celebrate whatever successes it is that we have achieved, and to constantly challenge ourselves to take it to the next level, whatever that may be. Jody is living my dream. She has had one book published by a small press, and is now an agented author pursuing traditional publication for another of her novels. I think given her energy, dedication, and obvious talent, she is a definite name to watch. As I sat in that room with other aspiring authors, I thought back to that grueling run on the treadmill, and how the moment I stepped outside, I was free to really run. It suddenly became easier, because instead of running in place, I was actually going somewhere. I think so many of us run, run, run through our lives going nowhere, just as I was struggling and huffing away on that treadmill. Only in breaking loose and running in the fresh air, which we are so often afraid to do, because of the cold, because of the inconvenience, because of the unknown, because of the challenge, only when we venture outside, do we find we are finally able to run somewhere. I don't even know that where you go is the important thing... I just know it matters that you are moving in a direction of your choice, as opposed to staying still despite your best efforts.

As I thought about God and all his majesty, the gifts he gives us that we take for granted or get distracted from (the most sacred of which is the gift of His own son), I vowed to not run in place any longer. I vowed to pursue my dreams and those God has for me, and to not settle for running in place, to exhaust myself in a struggle to make it through without actually going anywhere. I want to live life to the fullest. As I returned to Salisbury for church in the evening, my pastor's words summed up my realizations of the weekend:

"It is never too late to be the person you were always meant to become."

Why wait another day? We are given so very few, and they are truly precious. I'm getting off the treadmill now.

Will you?

Why settle for an affair when you could be married?

Here's to living each day to the fullest.

In Honor of Thanksgiving...

I am so thankful for my beautiful family, especially my daughter.

I am also deeply aware of how blessed I am that I have the ability to express myself in writing, and even more humbling... I am thankful for those of you who enjoy reading my thoughts...

So in honor of Thanksgiving (and the fact that I am now 100 PAGES IN!!! Woohoo!!) to my latest project, a collection of non-fiction...

I give you a crazy but true story of everyday life that celebrates the one, the only, Kaliah Rose McFadden:

The “Budding” Artist

            Considering how much crazy runs in our family tree, I count myself extremely blessed when I ponder how intelligent, compassionate, kind, and well-behaved our daughter has turned out to be thus far.  As a teacher, it is especially important to me that she treat her teacher and classmates with respect.  Rarely has she let me down in this aspect.  The one time she got herself in a somewhat serious bind occurred in the first grade.

            We were driving home from martial arts practice.  Each day after school, my daughter rides the bus to the martial arts studio, where she receives babysitting services and a tae kwon do lesson, two for the price of one.  So I hadn’t yet had a chance to ask her about her day when I picked her up from the studio.  She had barely shut her door and I had just climbed into the driver’s seat when she announced, “Mom, I have something to tell you.”

            “Okay,” I replied, backing the car up.

            “I don’t want to tell you,” she continued, seriously and honestly.

            I closed my eyes briefly before shifting gears and pulling out of the parking lot.  This had already been a long day (as most of my days dealing with seventh graders were).  I remember thinking, what now?, as I caught a glimpse of my daughter’s worried face in the rearview mirror.

            “Kaliah,” I said slowly.  “Whatever it is, I will still love you.  But you are going to be in much less trouble if you tell me the truth about it now than if I hear about it from someone else later.”

            “Well,” she began reluctantly, “I drew a drawing at school.  Because Kevin asked me to.”

            “Okay…”
            “It was an unappropriated drawing.”

            “Inappropriate how?” I demanded, feeling my blood pressure begin to rise, trying to keep my voice at an acceptable decibel.

            Silence answered me from the back seat.  I met my daughter’s eyes in the rearview.  They were shining with tears.

            “What did you draw, Kaliah?” I asked her, fighting to stay calm.

            “Well… Kevin asked me to draw a naked lady. So I did.”  She then burst into uncontrollable sobs.  “I feel so ashamed!” She wailed.

            For a moment, I nearly laughed.  My seven year old had drawn a naked woman, and now was beside herself, crying and apologizing.

            I grimaced to hide my smile.  “Kaliah,” I said sternly.  “You know better than that.”

            “Are they going to expel me?” she moaned.

            Again, I furrowed my brow to suppress a giggle.  “No, I don’t think so.  What else happened?”

            “I got into trouble with Mrs. Williams.  I didn’t mean to!  I’m sorry,” Kaliah melted into tears again, pressing her face into her hands.

            “We’ll talk about it when we get home.  It will be okay.  Thank you for telling me,” I practiced my best maternal discipline voice—firm but not heartless. 

            Upon arriving at home, as I fished my child’s folder from her book bag, removed her homework packet and placed Kaliah at the kitchen table with it, I rummaged through the take-home side of the folder, finding at once a handwritten note from Mrs. Williams.  I removed it from the folder, leaning over the counter to read the story according to Kaliah’s teacher.

            Dear Ms. Meister,

Today during reading time, Kaliah drew the following picture in her journal.  When I asked her about it, she claimed that a classmate asked her to draw it.  When I questioned her classmate, he denied asking her to draw this.  Kaliah approached my desk a bit later and claimed that actually, a family member had told her to draw it.  I sent a copy to Ms. Fox and explained to Kaliah that these kinds of pictures are inappropriate for school.

Thank you,

Mrs. Williams

            I could feel the blood rushing to my temples as I lifted the note to discover the drawing folded neatly underneath it:  Undeniably my daughter’s artwork:  The face, smile, and hair were mirror images of other artistic efforts she brought home.  The neck, the shoulders, and then, the reason she was in trouble:

            Two large round circles (each about twice as large as the drawing’s head).  Each circle had a carefully defined smaller, shaded circle within it.

            Boobs.

            The drawing continued to the end of the page with two long lines underneath the breasts to indicate the body, a dot in the middle of the parallel lines for a belly button, and then, thankfully, the end of the page.

            I spun around to stare at my daughter incredulously.  “You told Mrs. Williams a family member told you to draw this??” I waved the drawing in the air.

            Kaliah’s big brown eyes gazed up at me, swimming in tears.  “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

            “Which family member?” I demanded, barely recognizing my shrill, squeaky voice.

            “Um… I just told her a family member,” Kaliah said quietly.

            “Why?” I demanded, panic gripping me.  Oh, my God, Mrs. Williams was going to think we were all perverts!  A family full of them!

            “Well, Kevin lied and said that he didn’t tell me to draw anything.  Even though he did.  And I didn’t want Mrs. Williams to think that I came up with drawing the lady on my own,” Kaliah was crying again, refusing to look me in the eye.

            “So you let her think that people at home told you to draw this?  Kaliah Rose!”

            “I’m sorry, Mom!” Kaliah was dissolving into full break-down mode again.  “I didn’t want to get in trouble!”

            “Well, it’s a bit late for that!  Who’s Ms. Fox?”

            “The assistant principal.  Are they going to expel me?  I don’t want to be expelled.  I like school,” she was sobbing inconsolably again.

            I stared at my daughter, a mixture of emotions ebbing away at me.  I was humiliated that Mrs. Williams might be viewing our family as group of perverts or nudist enthusiasts.  I was proud of Kaliah for confessing her wrongdoings, and a little amazed at the degree of regret and shame she was displaying.  I was angry at this other kid, Kevin, who clearly had more experience with getting into trouble and lying his way out of it than my daughter.  Of course I believed that she had been told to draw the nude—every single day, when she finished her work early, she drew, probably to date, thousands of people, most of them girls.  Not a one amongst the thousands had ever been naked before.   Also, she hadn’t drawn it in some obscure place, knowing what she was doing was wrong.  She’d put it directly in the journal that Mrs. Williams was sure to look at. 

            At a loss for what to do, I called her father, relating the tale to him while Kaliah was taking her bath.

            “I think I did that, when I was her age,” he said vaguely.

            “Drew a naked woman?” I asked dryly.

            “Yeah… it might have been in kindergarten.”

            I hung up the phone.

            That evening, I wrote a long apology letter to Mrs. Williams, explaining that Kaliah and I had spoken about the situation, Kaliah was deeply sorry for her actions, and now she knew that drawing anything like that was completely unacceptable.  (Of course, I also mentioned that no family member had suggested that Kaliah draw a topless woman, and that we had also discussed how lying to make a situation better will inevitably make it worse.  I managed to jot down my belief that she had drawn her picture at the other child’s suggestion, but concluded that nevertheless, my daughter should know better than to listen to every idea her classmates have).

            To my daughter’s relief, no further disciplinary actions were taken.  She was not expelled, as she dreaded she would be.  The rest of her first grade year passed by uneventfully.

            Recalling the incident to a bartender at the restaurant I work at part-time, my free-spirited friend shrugged.  “It’s art!  How dare they limit her right to express herself!  Can’t anybody enjoy the form of the human body anymooooore?” he demanded, winking as he shook his dred locks from side to side.

            All’s well that ends well, I reasoned.  Taking some comfort in the fact that she had been so hard on herself, I hoped that in the future she would think before she… well, drew.

            And to this date, she has yet to be reprimanded for any additional nude drawings, nor feared expulsion for any other offense.  She may be taking less artistic risks… but in my opinion, it’s a fair trade.  After all, one year is down, and only eleven more remain.  Then, Kaliah Rose, you can draw all the naked women you want.

            Just don’t tell anybody I told you to do it.