So how can I say that? Because yes, there are days that I can sit at the computer and the words don't come. Other days, different things become more important and I put off the writing because it's hard. It's not writer's block. It's anxiety of my own making.
Writing a book, a poem, a novella, a short story, is a scary proposition. You put yourself out there, expose your emotions, your story, personal story. The anxiety of that can be overwhelming. My anxiety stems from the fact that I'm rewriting my former second book in the series called She Wulf. I'm using part of the original story and expanding on it to now fit in the new series arc. It's a daunting project and in a way, I'm tied to the series, and have to work within these new parameters.
There's been a lot of that thing called writer's block, that thing that doesn't really exist. So how do I get past it. I write. I'm not talking about amusing, well written, ready to publish writing either. I'm talking about raw, nearly outlining, crap. Stuff I wouldn't bother to show my best of friends.
Being a writer is just that. We write. Even though this is essentially a re-write, it is truly a new book that has to do more than one thing. It has to link all of the books together, it has to explain a lot of unexplained plot points, it has to be an interesting story. And when I struggle to sit down and write chapter 9 because in all other incarnations of the book, this scene was always troublesome and never worked well, I had to seriously look at how I put this scene together.
It took me two days to work through the problem and only tonight was I able to really figure out how it happens. It's a pivotal scene. It moves the story from here to there, it had to be right. It also stinks. The writing is poor, but the story is the way it needs to be.
I truly believe there is no such thing as Writer's Block. After working on my fourth book, I understand that when I'm blocked, it has more to do with anxiety of the scene I'm setting up. When I understand that I have the ability to forgive myself for taking my time, for wasting time away from the book. And when I release some of the anxiety I can I ultimately always do, return to the book and write past the block.
I think it's the same with anything in life. New experiences can cause us to put things off because we're uncomfortable. Or we can feel stuck at a job, or just feeling the blues. It happens. Life is tricky and I think the key to working past the bumps whether its life or writing books is to believe in yourself, believe in your vision or in my case my story, and chip away little by little at the problem or the plot point that isn't working.
Or in some cases, completely re-write the book to make it work. Don't settle. You are worth the effort.Continue reading
The mere idea of sending a book to editing is like sending your oldest child to college. You care for and nurture your child, feed and clothe them, heal their wounds, hold them when they cry. It's 18 years of care, to unceremoniously drop them off and drive away.
I'm not joking. Sending a book to the editor is much the same emotional roller coaster. I live with my book, everyday. I craft the story, I nurture the characters with words, I work the plot by adding conflict, I tear down my characters to let them rise up again. It's an up and down roller coaster of emotions, of story, and it takes a lot of time and hard work. And then you send them to college.
So yes, finishing my book and emailing it off to the editor for editing, is much like raising my children. While I don't tear my children down to build them up, I do hold them up when they fall and I encourage them when they need it. I'm there to nurture and raise them up.
After nurturing a book for a year (sometimes longer), you set it free. Let another set of eyes share in the story, connect with the characters, offer suggestions on how to improve the book. You know… editing. Sometimes the mere thought of having sent the book makes you break out in a cold sweat, jump on the computer and cry for the book back. “I'm not ready!” you might screech.
Though it's not my last, my latest book was the one that had me up at night. After sending the book to my editor, I kept thinking, “It's not ready.” “I'm not done.” “There's so much more I could have written.” I waited an paced, much like I do when I'm trying to reach my child who leaves me an email, “There's a problem mom,” but doesn't tell me what that problem is. You pace, you worry, you wonder.
Eventually you reach your child. The editor finally sends you editor notes. The wait is worth it. The product is strong, can stand alone, and your child, much like your book is better than okay.
It's the same roller coaster, children and writing. Both give you joy, both are pain. But in the end both are worth it.
Look for it! My newest book child is coming soon. November 1, 2018 on Amazon.com.
The greatest boost of confidence that I have ever experienced was writing my first book. The greatest loss of confidence started when I tried to sell the book.
Being confident is like riding a roller coaster. There are so many highs and lows, twists and turns, and big-ass drop that turns your stomach as you purse your lips to hold back the vomit.
Trying to sell books is that same roller coaster. There's tiny bits of good luck and lots of down turns-Much frustration and then the high when the story comes together in a way you did not predict when you first started writing the book.
I'm not the only one who struggles to remain confident. Life gets in the way, we all have problems, situations that are so overwhelming, all of this can attack our total being.
That's where I am right now. Honestly, my confidence, at this moment is low, I feel as though I'm the worst writer ever, not only as a fiction writer but as a technical writer. I sometimes feel as though I can't string words together to form a complete sentence.
I struggle to find something to change the tide of emotion, that one thing to make that upturn. Basically, I am looking for the path that leads me to a place where readers find me and read my books and get enjoyment from the story.
Though there's been some positive movement, there's been much disappointment. So much so, I've been researching options in which to find that boost, that change, a way out of this perpetual rut I find myself in.
At first I thought I'd, try some self-help books. I'm not great at self-help books. They may inspire for a moment, but I can't carry it through to a conclusion. They just don't get me.
Next I've opened myself to new experiences. This one is a work in progress. I've joined writer's groups. And as my schedule opens up, I plan on participating and trying to glean something from the experience. I hope this will finally convince me I'm actually a writer. If I keep telling myself that, maybe one day I'll believe it.
As I open to new experiences, I need to remember to acknowledge those moments. Single moments in which I feel confidence. When I feel fierce and indestructible. When I look in the mirror and confidence radiates from my face, in my clothes, in my psyche, there's no more brushing it off as if it doesn't matter. It's time to work toward the greater good. The more I tell myself I'm confident, the more I'll start to believe it.
I keep plugging along because I so believe in myself at times, regardless of the underestimation that comes my way. You can't win, if you don't play; you can't succeed, if you don't try. I can because I do. Join me on the journey, because someday is almost here.Continue reading
There's poetry in baseball. The movement of the ball as it flies off the bat; the slide into a base; the swing of the bat. Hot summer sun beats against your skin from seats in the bleachers, a permanent fixture since 1937. Animated crowds pack themselves inside for the widest view of the field. And if so inclined turn and wave upwards to the scoreboard operator, the third generation in his family to man the board.
Wrigley Field is the past, it is the present, it is the future. They are all linked by fandom, those of us who bleed Cubbie blue. We were raised by parents, who were raised by our grandparents, and we are linked irrevocably by the love of the game, and the history of our team. Collectively we hang on each hit, each ball carried on the wind. It carries our hopes, our dreams in each at-bat.
Each season ended with immortal words, “Maybe Next Year”. We would slink away and lick our wounds, another season lost to time. 108 years of time.
They rewrote the story, and those of us who bleed Cubbie blue, breathed a collective sigh of relief, only after we jumped up and down, let out energetic screams and some of us even cried.
I watched the series with my grandfather, who died in 1987. HIs picture lay on the table beside me;, facing the television. This he would have loved. That team would have sparked in him the delight of a child. How he loved baseball, how he loved the Cubs.
Live in the moment when it comes. Leave for the sporting goods store, 20 minutes after they win and bask with others as we wait to buy the prized “World Championship” gear. It doesn't matter that it's midnight. As “Go Cubs Go,” plays from someone's car, chat up the next jubilant fan and share the stories. “Where were you when the Cubs won?” For a mere moment, there was no division, collectively we were simply Cubs fans.
It was the fourth largest gathering of humans in the history of the world. They snaked along the parade route to the rally. We packed ourselves into the park. It was a sea of blue, thousands of stories jammed together celebrating for themselves and for those who never got to see what we got to see.
LIke nothing before, we rolled from the rally, stretched out along the avenue, steady and proud in gear. A club of millions.
We are now experts in rooting for the champions, we've been here before. And yet, my stomach roils with each error, I hold my breath with each swing. We are giddy with excitement, because we know, how few and far between this could be.
I've passed my affliction to my children; they are now the fourth generation of Cubs fans and they understand the suffering and jubilance of truly being a fan. I cried today when they squeaked out a win. I will always bleed Cubbie blue.
Anxiety isn't just something you can “Get over,” or outgrow. It's fear of the unknown, it can create low self-confidence and the fear grows more fear. It's just that … anxiety and if you don't have it, you just don't get it.
Though there's medicine that can reduce the stress, and therapy that can teach how to live with anxiety, what I've learned from raising a child with severe anxiety is, it just doesn't go away. No amount of yelling, screaming, or rationalizing with your child will accomplish anything. And trust me, I've done it all when dealing with my kid, because my stress level grows when I can't get her to do simple things, like be outside in the wind, or ordering a sandwich at the local Subway.
My daughter became a legal adult at 18, that was 1 1/2 years ago. I didn't expect the anxiety to go away, but I was hoping with some maturity, she would be more willing to help herself learn how to live with it. But now what I'm dealing with an adult who has anxiety. She's just as stubborn about what she won't do as she was before, but now I have some loss of control over certain situations.
Have you ever tried to talk to the doctor on behalf of your child and you can't because guess what? They're now an adult and the doctor legally can't tell me anything without permission from my kid. It's like beating my head against the wall.
It really wouldn't be an issue if said child felt comfortable speaking to others on the phone, which she doesn't, because you know why, anxiety. So what do you do when one doctor wants to sent your child to a specialist for a suspected issue and the billing office of another doctor needs to speak to your child and they won't even hint as to why. .
AS with everything with my child with anxiety, I'm looking for answers to help assist without completely letting her get away with not advocating for herself. I'm looking to create a legal document that gives me permission to speak with doctor's offices. If anything it should alleviate some of my stress. When possible, I do make her call and give permission, but sometimes, when I'm not there, she choose to be obstinate.
Yeah, its frustrating, annoying, drives me crazy but this is who my child is. I can only do the best I can to make her and my life easier.
It takes a lot of compassion and understanding to deal with what you don't understand. Some day I hope she remembers all I did to give her a good and full life, not defined by anxiety. One day I hope she finds a way to live with the anxiety so it doesn't rule her.
So why do I write? It's an intriguing question; to ask someone why they do what they do. What brought them to their profession, hobby, fandom? I took to reading early, ravenously read through entire series. It didn't matter if it was Nancy Drew, Judy Blume, Stephen King or Harry Potter. Always with each book, as I experienced all these adventures between the pages, what I really wanted to do was write my own story.
I am a self-proclaimed introvert, perfect personality trait to write. Being the center of attention is uncomfortable, confining. But when I write, I am free of anxiety, of fear. It is on the paper that I can write and re-write to craft the words that express my thoughts, my feelings, my emotions.
To be a writer, is what I have wanted to do since I was seven years old. I have never wavered from my desire to create my own worlds, my own stories and characters. To create something lasting. When I can't form the words with my mouth, I can always type them with my fingers.
I've always been able to write about anything. Though sometimes, I just don't know what to write. But when I do, it gives me power, it gives me confidence.
I love finishing that first book, letting the story pour out of me. It gives me a great sense of pride with each draft when I see the story fill itself out, when I link each book to the other as I tell a complete story. I don't feel as confident with anything else in my life as I do when I write.
And through the highs and lows in my life, to write it was keeps me sane. When I don't write, heavy emotions can wear my down. Writing is my therapy. It is my strength.
I write because simply, writing is a part of me. When darkness gathers and envelopes me, writing is my light. It is my fire. I was born to do nothing else.
I read a blog Tara M. Martin . It was there she answered the same question; why does she write? So I had this idea to share why I wrote. And then it occurred to me. I'm going to pass the question on. To all my writer friends, why do you write? To all my non-writer friends, what is your passion.
Life should not be passionless. We should dance, sing, write exercise, mediate; do something we are passionate about every day. Every day.
Life, my life has been a roller coaster, of highs and lows, some so low, I thought that there would never, ever be another problem to contend with for the rest of my life. I've struggled to get pregnant, I've gotten pregnant easily. I had a difficult pregnancy, I've had an easy one. I carried twins, I've carried a single baby. I've given birth to three children, one born with a genetic disability that took her life at 11 months old; I have a child with such severe anxiety, that it has been a struggle for her and the family to live something normal, and now I deal with a transgender child.
As soon as I think I'm coming to the end of the roller coaster, just as it's ready to pull into the station, I instead, and catapulted back to the first loop d'loop to start the journey again.
I could have become an alcoholic, or a drug addict or harmed myself, but I didn't. I thought for a while I was handling the lows, coming through them and surviving. What I was doing was merely surviving, allowing myself to merely be a victim of my circumstances. And yes, in that I felt sorry for myself. Sometimes it's hard not to do that. After all that I've seen, all that I've lived through, after life battering me, throwing me from one situation to another, I realized, it's okay to feel this way. Sometimes you have to let it go and simply feel for the loss of what you thought life would be. But what's not okay, is wallowing for too long in the low.
I've learned a lot about myself in the 19 years of parenting. It's okay to not be perfect. And it's okay to put yourself first. I've stood at the edge of the Abyss with the universe pushing me, pressing me against the edge, laughing as I slip on the weakened earth beneath my feet. And as it pushing me toward the deep end, the my bottom, I've learned one last thing about myself. I'm stronger than I ever thought I could be. And I shouted at the universe “NO! You can't have me!”
Writing is what saved me from losing my mind, from letting the weight of the problems overwhelm me and victimize me. Twice this week I've heard myself saying or thinking, “We write our own story. ” Literally and figuratively that is. Granted life has a funny way of shoving us down certain paths, but what we do with these changes, is up to us. We write our own story.
I write. It is my priority. It is my love and it is my passion. Someday I hope to do this as my living, not my “hobby” as I learn how to find a fan base big enough to allow me to live my dream. And what I've learned about that is, “You must never give up.” It's that drive, that desire that has kept me grounded, that has made me a better mom, a better person. It builds my confidence, it makes me whole. It is what keeps me from falling off the roller coaster when it whips me around.
This is my life for better or for worse. And I've made my choice on how I write it. The glass will always be half full as long as you have the confidence in yourself to make it so.
See the glass as half full and find me at the following book fairs, Summer, 2017.
She no longer throws temper tantrums when we hand her the keys to the car. Her voice is clear and thoughtful during sessions with the therapist, as if a light bulb clicked on inside her head. There's now a comfort and understanding that comes from the therapy and with time and practice it lessens the anxiety.
The anxiety, I'm sure, will always be there. That's not the goal of the sessions. The goal is to give her the opportunity to live her life as fully as possible. She's understanding how to recognize the unrealistic fears and to accept her homework, exposing herself to what frightens her.
There are no easy fixes, no cure-all pill. There's only a lot of little steps, tweaks to behavior that reduce the stress associated with the things that we take for granted. Will she be able to grocery shop and ask for help, explain to her doctor what hurts, ask her professor for clarification, find someone to have lunch with?
Taking in the whole picture is like eating an elephant in one bite. It's too big. But by breaking down the problem into manageable pieces to work through, with consistent practice, is the only way to break down the walls.
One problem at a time, whether it be driving, we make her do it more often, or order her sandwich at Subway, I always make her go in by herself. Because practice breeds familiarity which lessens the anxiety.
I hear in my daughter's voice it's stronger, less tearful, honest, with me, her father, her therapist. She understands why we're doing this, this intense training to overcome certain anxiety. She's no longer a reluctant participant. Though it's still not easy, it's manageable and that makes it worthwhile.
I’m an introvert; the type of person who if I have more than one scheduled event in a day, I’m not happy. It’s not because I hate doing things, it has to do with needing down time; time to recharge, to refresh and to get away from people.
As an adult I realized that I’m responsible for adjusting to situations that render me anxious. I can either hide from those experiences, or I can face them head on. Knowing this, I recently took a job at a small firm in which I was to sell a service to members. It was such a departure from the types of jobs I normally take that I wasn’t sure it was the right path for me. I’ve always hated speaking on the phone, I need visual cues to adapt my conversation, but this job, I lost that and talking on the phone is generally stressful for me. But I’m adult and I realized that the only way I can gain experience and feel comfortable was to make myself uncomfortable.
I took the job against my better judgment because I’m 46 years old. I have more experience, more live behind me and most importantly, the desire to make a change. But what I really have is a 16 year old daughter who I recognize in her, all of my struggles. And as I live through them once again and for my daughter, it breaks my heart.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing her struggles as she works through her fear and anxiety. The goal is to help her grow into a functioning adult and learn to enjoy her life, not hide from it. I recognize me in her and as a parent; I want her struggle to not be as hard as mine was. But when is the right to let go of our children and push them out of the nest?
We decided it was time to make her uncomfortable, to bring the fear to the surface and retrain her thought process on anxiety and fear, reconditioning her to learn what she needs to take a step toward what makes her scared. She doesn’t like it; it’s hard to watch her cry and fight it, but in the end, it’s my job to help her reach adulthood as happy and healthy as I can.
She may not like me now, but I’m hoping by the time she reaches adulthood, she will at least see that the emotional pain was all worth it. We aren’t always able to go against are basic personality. My daughter and I will always be introverts. All we can do is find a ways to deal with it so that life is better, more rewarding and fulfilling.
Sometimes raising kids is really hard and we have to do things that break our hearts, but in the end I know for my daughter, she will come out on the other side stronger than she started.Continue reading
Every bad situation has a rock bottom. That place when you just can't endure the sadness, frustration or pain any longer. For some it can sink deeper than others, we all have our limits. They're determined by our experiences; all that baggage we carry with us, our struggles our travails. We all have them, we all dig deep as we endure and our brick walls or rock bottom are ours and ours alone.
My rock bottom isn't one experience, it's a period of time, that encompasses a whole lot situations. A job, a personal relationship, health issues, regardless of what comprises my rock bottom, I think I finally hit it. I think the climb out of mediocrity and moving slowly upwards, the lack of sleep, the lack of fun, the constant work, the job change, finding myself taking one step forward and moving two steps back, finally crashed down around me.
I feel as though I'm walking through a pile of rubble. All of my experiences broken pieces lying on the ground around me. All examples of my trudge through mediocrity and I'm tired. Sleepless nights tossing and turning, dreading the daylight because its ugly and it doesn't lie. It shows everything for what it is, in all it's brightness, exposing what I try so hard to hide.
Near tears all the time, because what I do while awake is for everyone else but for myself because when I try to do for myself, the rest of my life crashes in around me. Things don't get done, kids get angry, guilt that I should be anywhere other than where I am chokes me. I clench my jaws as I keep the tears from falling.
I don't believe in self-help books because I know what the issues are and I know what I need to do in order to release the stress, remove the sadness and let go. I know what I need to do. But will circumstances allow me to make the changes and do what I need to do to not feel like this anymore.
It's the feeling of walking on a treadmill, the one in which I walk at a brisk and steady pace and yet I move nowhere. I think this is my rock bottom, my fork in the road. The time to make the decision on where I need to go. I just need to find my way out. It's not a matter of picking the path less travelled. It's about picking the path that will allow you peace and happiness. For some that's through the untamed jungle and for others it's the path that leads them to the dream.
I've given up the last year of my life for the dream. I've given up time with family and friends. I've given up time for myself, I given up hobbies and I've agreed to do things that I don't wish to do, things that are good for others but not good for me. Because somewhere along the line someone wrote doormat on my forehead.
It's my rock bottom. The place where I say Enough. Because I no longer want to settle for mediocrity. I no longer want to believe that someone else is thinking of me and this is good for me, especially when I know it's not. It's time to no longer let someone dictate what's best for me. Only I can be the judge of that.
This is my rock bottom. My acknowledging that this is no longer acceptable. I have a dream and not honoring me, is no longer allowed.Continue reading