Where have I been?

Here.

Living in my head, thinking about writing but never actually putting it on paper. It has been weeks since I’ve posted anything and I’ve kept my distance from social media.

Why? Why indeed.

Writing is a funny thing for me. It’s something I think about all the time. I churn out stories in my mind. I visit different plots. I imagine the book cover. The interview. The book tour. All of it. If I’m not thinking about my own writing, I’m reading someone else’s novel. It’s kind of exhausting yet I never accomplish a damn thing.

What is the barrier I can’t break through?

Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by the details. Great authors do their research. I can’t write about living in the south without knowing what it’s like to live in the south. I can’t talk about the engineering profession without knowing what they do. I can’t describe homes or foliage without knowing about style and biology. I’m not afraid of the research, I’m just frozen in fear.

Sometimes I lack the motivation. I wallow in the “it’s too late to do this” and then I scroll through the rolodex of my life to catalog all the places I went wrong.

AND on top of everything, I’ve put on some pounds so my vanity is getting the best of me. I’m obsessing about my one piece bathing suit and my jeans being too tight, my underwear being too small, my face being too full.

The dumbest thing of all is that all these things make up one of my main characters. If I just sat my ass down and put it into my story, I’d have at least a chapter done. But instead, I will put it in this blog and hope that someone out there is living this same freaking dream.

I will finish this book. I will be successful and then, won’t it be fun to look back on all this whining?

LASTLY, has anyone heard of The Novelry? I’m thinking about trying it. Obviously, I need some help.

When my kids reached the fifth grade, they were given a recorder. The one song they mastered was Hot Cross Buns. Over and over and over again. Hot cross buns, hot cross buns, one a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns. It haunts me. What the hell are hot cross buns anyway? And do they cost one penny or two?

So, why a recorder? The recorder is meant to introduce children to musical instruments. It’s like the pre-band class. The teacher must be a masochist to willingly give 30 kids somethings that takes very little effort to make horrible “music”.

Why am I reminiscing about the recorder? Because everything has to have a starting point. First the recorder, then percussion for my daughter, trombone for my son. Though they both played the piano and could read music, they learned to play as a group, waiting their turn to play, keeping count, making a not so pretty instrument sound pleasant in a group. Everything in this life has a humble beginning.

I started this blog in January 2022. It is still a bit ugly and I have yet to generate much interest. My biggest day was 16 views but that only happened once.

I thought it would be easy to just sit and write something that someone would want to read. Not easy.

I thought that having a Twitter account would launch me to something big. Not true.

Some people can tweet about their socks and have 547 comments. I can throw something personal out there and receive one like. I’m not sure how people do it (well, except the ladies with the cleavage pictures). In my defense, my profile is pretty anonymous. I don’t have any pictures of myself. Instead, I use a picture of my very handsome dead cat. So, I can’t rely on great aunts to like and retweet everything I say.

I feel a bit discouraged. I love writing but I’m also terrified to put my words out into the world. Somedays I just want to hide away and not be seen or heard. The worry and the self doubt is real y’all. (I’m not southern. I just thought a y’all suited that statement).

This career that I so desperately want is proving to be more difficult than expected. I suppose everything in life is; even Hot Cross Buns.

**Update on my book- I have not written a single sentence is over two weeks. I’m paralyzed with anxiety. Send help. Or wine.

Talk soon! Hopefully.

Ignore me, I’m just rambling…

My husband has the most annoying habit. He whistles. His favorites are: Joy to The World, Happy Birthday, La Cucaracha, and the theme song from Jurassic Park. If he’s trying to be extra irritating, he will imitate a siren.

I love my husband. He’s smart and handsome with a smile so big, it creases the skin around his lovely brown eyes. But the whistling. The sound of it makes my fillings vibrate to the point of exploding from my molars, exposing raw nerves that are then rubbed with aluminum foil and then packed with gobs of dry cotton. This is what whistling feels like inside my body. Apparently, I have “sensory issues”.

I love this time we are living in because everything gets a label. Things that used to just make me quirky are now conditions. It is true that noise makes me feel a little crazy and I hate the feel of wool and I’m really sensitive to smell (my husband thinks I may have been a bloodhound in another life). I also really hate olives and if one so much as grazed my pizza, I will know because I will taste it’s vile trail. But does all that deserve a label? Apparently it does.

When I was a kid, I spent many nights on the floor by the toilet. I would be sweating and whimpering, certain that vomiting was inevitable. But I never vomited. “She has a sensitive stomach,” they said. Nope. Anxiety attack. And there’s a pill for that and most people I know take it.

Mental health is no longer split personalities and hobos that hear voices. Mental health is everything and everyone talks about it all the damn time, which is wonderful. Really, I mean it.

I suppose there’s a little sarcasm there.

Does it ever seem like we have all become afraid of each other? Like we are so worried that one sideways glance or wrong word will fling someone into a mental health crisis? Like we are all made of china, precariously balancing on a narrow sliver of sanity.

Maybe we’re afraid of ourselves. Afraid to feel.

They tell us not to feel stress or sadness. Only surround yourself with happy and calm people. Make sure you are grateful and fulfilled every second of every day. (To me, this conjures images of cult members in togas with blank stares and frozen grins).

I want to feel.

I actually enjoy wallowing in a little self pity now and again. I am amused by people who see the world through a dark lens but can spin it into dark humor. I like to bitch about the weather so that I can really appreciate a beautiful summer day and I love the feeling of slipping into my bed after a really long, stressful, shitty-ass day.

I’m a feel-er. I live in my head and I analyze everything. When you notice everything, you feel everything and inevitably, most things will irritate you.

I know it’s weird that whistling bothers me. I recognize that Costco makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I accept the fact that nausea usually equals anxiety and I am fully aware of my vomiting phobia. It’s okay that I hate the feel of the cotton balls in pill bottles and make my husband pull them out.

I know who I am. I know how I feel. I don’t need a label and I’m not going to break to if you don’t get me.

I like quiet. People exhaust me. I think all refrigerated leftovers smell like farts.

Tell me I have sensory issues. Tell me I’m strange. Or, just call me quirky.

Is post-vacation depression a thing? If it’s not, it should be.

PVD is often associated with spoiled people. It is thought to be a first-world problem and doesn’t affect those that are #grateful. PVD can be debilitating as those afflicted are unable to concentrate on mundane household tasks, feel the need to eat out for every meal and have a cocktail with lunch. PVD makes it difficult to get up before 9am and in rare cases, causes individuals to yell at the sky for not being brighter, bluer, and/or warmer. If you think you have PVD, call anyone who hasn’t been able to travel because of illness or inflation. Maybe then, you too can feel #grateful to have had the experience.

I love the sun and the beach and the smell of sunscreen and the taste of fresh fish. It fuels my soul. I do not love crowds, club music, or men in banana hammocks but I can overlook these things for a week in southeast Florida. We didn’t have a day when the weather wasn’t perfect. Do Floridians ever get sick of warm breezes and sunlight? When anyone asked where we were from, they would shudder with the thought. When we told them it was still snowing in April, they practically passed out, praying to Jesus on their way down.

However, spring is starting to take shape here. I saw a few daffodils poking their heads from the earth. The robins have returned and are in a constant frenzy and most of the ice chunks in the lake have returned to their liquid form. Now, a wintry mix is predicted for Easter Sunday but let’s just pretend that’s someone’s idea of a really bad joke.

You know you’re old when……..you constantly talk about the weather.

Let’s talk about my book progress.

I have had days where 1500 words felt easy and I’ve had days where I couldn’t bear to open the document. I had one day where I composed my very first sex scene. Afterward, I felt embarrassed and almost ashamed. It was like I had done something wrong by creating imaginary characters doing imaginary things to each other. But then I reread it a couple days later and oh la la. I’ve never in my life considered being a romance author but that little scene was actually pretty fun to write and read. I hope no one I know thinks I’m a perv. That is, if my book is ever completed and published and if anyone actually buys it.

I really can’t complain too much about writing. It’s been hard to concentrate due to my PVD but I’m still managing to get some words out. Twitter on the other hand has been a total buzz kill. I’m not someone who loves social media. I’m actually super private but I started an account so that I could connect with writers and I’ve learned some very important acronyms like WIP and MC. I’ve learned about querying and partial and full requests as well as beta readers and mood boards. All super great things but I only have about 100 followers and this blog only averages one view a day. Better than zero but I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong. One person can tweet, “do you like green beans?” and get 387 comments while I tweet my lastest blog post and ask an actual question about the writing process and get 1 comment and 2 likes. What’s the trick? And don’t say sultry selfies with the phone angled toward my cleavage because I’ve seen way too much of that and prefer to stick with the profile pic of my dead cat.

I am working on a book. A novel? Maybe. Anyway, I went on a streak where the words were just pouring out of my fingers and onto the screen and it was pretty good. But then I hit a roadblock. After nearly 12,000 words, I realized nothing had happened. (I wish you could hear my voice and see my flared nostrils as I say, nothing had happened).

Now, I have read books where it takes a while for things to get going but my plot felt too undecided. I thought that if I just let myself go without a plan, that real magic would happen. I thought I might open up some secret corridor in my brain where my imagination would lead me to thrilling places with shiny twists and turns. I could almost see myself floating above the story ideas that swirled like meandering streams and jutted up into the sky like mountains. I may have even saw myself holding on to a balloon but with just one hand. Or, maybe I was just remembering a Lucky Charms commercial. Either way, I needed to stop and regroup. And have some cereal.

The first thing I did was dig into my character descriptions. I needed to create these people from scratch so that I could really see them when I was writing. I’m still working on details like mannerisms and body type and tone of voice but they are coming to life and beginning to grow into people that I genuinely care about.

When I was outlining one character, I started to include her backstory and found myself crying as I was typing it. This may be partly due to PMS or I’m just really talented. (Ah, that’s sarcasm in case you didn’t know). The point is that I connected to her and I feel her and I think that’s a real turning point in my writing.

Next, I started an outline. I have four lines typed and now I’m stumped. Getting up for a piece of cheese and a handful of tortilla chips did nothing to aid in my stumpy-ness. Folding laundry just made me sad because I hate chores.

I really think I’m on to something but some days I feel like I’m trapped in a tiny box and whichever way I turn, I bump into a wall. And it hurts and it makes me swear.

So, what’s an aspiring author to do?

Google “What authors have said about their first book”.

Scrolling, scrolling.

I landed on “How to write your debut novel, according to Penguin authors”

Here, I found some great advice…..

“Time applied equals work completed. So much of writing is actually just being in despair about writing, not actually writing. Just write your crap and accept it!”

Frances Cha, author of If I Had Your Face

Thank you Frances Cha. This is just what I needed.

I’m going to go write my crap.

Talk soon!

“Shifting gears from this horrific accident to a new doughnut shop opening today.” Newscasters love to use this phrase to jump stories. It makes me feel like I’m on a rotating stage and I’m forced to look away as I spin toward the next scene.

This blog is also shifting gears and focusing more on my journey (barf, this isn’t the Bachelor), on my attempt (definitely more accurate) to write a book. My brain is consumed with this idea that I could write something people might actually want to read. I may be overconfident since the biggest day on this blog has been 16 views but hey, I’m not giving up just yet.

I never thought that writing a book would be easy but I underestimated the amount of time I would spend just staring at my computer or out the window. I can’t focus unless everything aligns. I can’t be distracted by human noise in my house, a needy cat, or a dryer with a bad roller thingy that sounds like a heavy metal band made up entirely of toddlers. I can’t be hungry or unshowered or cold. Even when things do align and I’m clean and cozy in my chair with a blanket, a snack, and the sun is shining while my cat sleeps on the corner of the bed behind me, I can still stare at the screen and let all my negative self-talk spill out before me. Instead of me typing, I imagine my keyboard taking over and spelling out, i-m-p-o-s-t-e-r. I’m not a writer, right? Write.

Today I was sneaking in a little nap and I had a dream about a really tall house with several floors and the top floor was in Paris but there was a giant hole in the actual floor where you could look down and see someplace that I assume was in the U.S. And the main character in this weird multi level home was named Esther and her name kept being played over and over in several different sentences that described her and what she was doing, none of which I could remember when I woke up. The main character in my book is Phoebe but I think that’s going to change. Hello Esther.

Switching gears……

Is it pathetic that the only book I’ve read twice is Emily Henry’s, The People We Meet on Vacation? Writers are usually readers and I am definitely a reader but most well read people can recite passages from the classics and name the authors of those classics. I’ve never had time for any of that. (The closest I’ve come is Donna Tartt’s, The Goldfinch, which was wonderful but took me a REALLY long time to finish.) No, I prefer to get lost in the life of a millennial and love it so much that I download the audio book so I can relive every sweet, funny, sexy moment of it. I swear to God, if I could relive my 20’s, I would be Poppy Wright. Actually, part of me thinks I am Poppy Wright. I am a 26 year-old trapped in the body of a 45 year-old. I’m immature and a big baby sometimes. I’m also put together and independent other times. Mostly, I’m a dreamer. I’m always thinking about what comes next, never really content to stay put too long. I need something on the horizon to work towards. I get bored easily and I’m in love with my best friend. Lucky for me, he happens to be my husband. Anyway, I really love this book and I love Poppy. She speaks to me.

Happy Friday friends. Read a good book this weekend or do something fun and come back and tell me all about it. I’ll be here. Staring at my screen. Occasionally typing.

Sometimes I think I hear yodeling. It’s like that game from the Price is Right where you guess the cost of something and the little mountain climber guy in lederhosen climbs up for every dollar you’re off and the whole object of the game is to not have him climb so far that he falls to his death at the top. That’s me. I really don’t want to fall off this mountain. So, where am I going with this analogy?

I think I know.

Have you ever been really sure about your ability to do something even though you are struggling to do it? Like each day you grind one more layer off your molars with the effort that you are so painfully yielding? Yet you come back for more day after day because you expect it to be better? Isn’t that the definition of insanity? Or, does it mean you’re determined and goal oriented? Or maybe it just means that dentures are in your future.

I wish I knew.

I have been wanting to write a book for a while but I wasn’t sure what this book would look like. A memoir? A psychological thriller? Something funny? Something heartfelt? What I’ve decided is… (e) all of the above. Can it be done?

I wish I knew.

I watched a master class by David Sedaris and I knew I didn’t have such extraordinary experiences to draw upon nor could I be so brutally honest but God, I love his stuff. I am currently watching Judy Blume’s master class and I already know that I’m not as thoughtful or observant as she. I have a terrible memory so drawing from personal experiences is like fishing through a package of swiss cheese. Every single slice will have a hole in it. So, what kind of writer am I?

I wish I knew.

I have over 10,000 words for a story that hasn’t gone anywhere yet and I have 10,000 paths vying for my attention. Every day I change my mind about a character, a scene and even who’s telling the story. Should it be in 3rd person or 1st?

I wish I knew.

I’ve decided that it doesn’t matter how awful this first draft is because I’m going to edit it and make it extraordinary. I’ll dig deeper, I’ll immerse myself into each character and breathe their air and trim their nails. I’ll settle into their town and learn every shortcut to the market and every restaurant that serves fried cheese curds. I’ll find the best skim latte and the best spot to watch the sunset. It’s going to be good. Really good. I imagine myself becoming a famous author. One who wears fancy shoes and gets professional blow outs. I honestly believe that I can do it but I have absolutely no proof besides this skeleton of a story. No meat. No personality.

But it’s gonna happen. It has to. I promised myself and I promised my husband I would buy him a vacation home with my first big paycheck. When?

I wish I knew.

At the rate I’m going, I may be buying him elder care. But that’s okay too as long as I don’t fall to my death. Yodel-Lay-Hee-Hoo!

Trying to be a writer and a blogger is not easy. I keep ricocheting off each side. One minute I’m focusing on my blog and brainstorming for new ideas. Then I’m pulling up my work in progress and trying to figure out the direction of my plot. I feel guilty if I spend too much time on my blog and I feel anxious about trying to write a novel. After pinging back and forth several times, I usually just settle into the chaos of my brain where the message is, you suck at both.

And then I laugh.

And then I do more laundry and make dinner—all while thinking about my blog and my book. It’s madness.

If only I had some writer/blogger friends to offer some advice…..

Anyone?

• Jumped from a plane.
• Held our 3 year old guinea pig.
• Traveled to Europe or anywhere outside North America.
• Eaten an anchovy.
• Let anyone I know read my work.

What do all these things have in common? Fear.

I hate heights and the thought of purposely throwing myself out into the sky, makes me sweaty and woozy.

I think our guinea pig is adorable but I’m afraid he’ll poop and/or pee on me if I hold him.

I’m terrified to fly over the entire width of the Atlantic.

I’m pretty sure I would barf if I put that little fish in my mouth and vomiting is another one of my fears.

I’m so afraid that someone will tell me I’m barking up the wrong tree with this whole “writing as a career” thing.

There are a million other things I’m afraid of like tsunamis and space travel. Drowning and choking to death. Wool sweaters.

But the fear of someone stomping out this tiny little flame beneath me, is the scariest of all. It took me a long time to clear out a spot that was all mine. A place where I could really be me. I don’t have to pretend to like what everyone else likes. I don’t have to act or look a certain way.

I’m clumsy and awkward in person. I’m easily over stimulated and usually itchy with irritation. Sitting here in my sunny little spot, spewing my swirling thoughts across the keyboard, is the closest I’ve come to living my best life. And I really hate that phrase but I can’t think of any other way to say it.

So, never have I ever been so honest. Behind a screen. Slightly anonymous. Still nervous and scared but…..it’s something.

Best wishes to everyone out there taking a leap. If it’s out of a plane, Godspeed my friend.

Go live your freaking dream!

When people ask me this, I always say, I’m just a mom.

The response I get is almost always kind. I hear how being a mom is the hardest and most important job of all. I hear that I should never say just a mom because it so much more than that. Yeah, yeah, I know and I don’t disagree but I don’t need validation.

I am well aware of how hard it is to raise kids that aren’t assholes. The day to day stuff is equally hard. I am the one that coordinates their schedules and makes sure they see the dentist and the doctor at the appropriate intervals. I am that one that provides clothing and shoes that fit and monitors their work habits to be sure that they are giving their homework the proper amount of effort. I am the one that plans healthy and delicious meals that make everyone happy (45% of the time) and I create a warm, cozy, loving home all while being present and available to listen and offer advice and maintain everyone’s mental wellbeing. And this is just a Tuesday.

However, being just a mom to two teenagers doesn’t get you the same respect as it does when you have a baby on your hip and a melting toddler at your feet.

Instead of, “Oh, you have your hands full!” you get, “Oh, you’re lucky you don’t have to work and take care of kids.” Or, “Must be nice to stay home all day.” And, my personal favorites, “What do you do all day?” and “What does a productive day look like to you?”

These are all very valid statements and questions. I am lucky and it is nice to be home. And I have days that are full and busy and I have days that are not. I do what I do so that my husband can do what he does. It is my job to be here for our kids and for this, I am #grateful. Without sarcasm.

But I wasn’t always, just a mom. I’ve lived both sides of lucky.

When my kids were babies, I worked full time with an hour commute each way. I dropped them off to a daycare that I didn’t really love and cried many mornings all the way to work because I felt terrible for leaving them. After a long work day, I sometimes cried all the way to pick them up because I didn’t have the energy to deal with them. I fed them Hamburger Helper because it was fast and easy and I got them Happy Meals every. single. Friday. Oh, and before that, they were bottle fed formula. Gasp!

At that point in my life, being a working mom was freaking hard. I was always exhausted and stressed and drained emotionally and physically. My paying job was stressful but handling accounts and cranky people was nothing compared to researching a cure for colic and attempting to tame a wild toddler.

And then there was the guilt. I pulled my babies from their beds, dressed them, and took them to daycare at 7:30am. I picked them up at 6pm. They went to bed at 7:30pm. I was spending so little time with them and that time was littered with exhaustion and a lack of patience. I have great respect for working moms who manage this with grace. I was not graceful. I was actually the opposite of graceful.

My kids are 13 and 16 now and I can still feel the pain in my gut when I think about those times. I have to remind myself that it was short lived so the damage was minimal. (To me, not my kids).

My son started daycare at 8 weeks old because at that time, we couldn’t afford to go without my paycheck. He stopped at age 5, a few months into kindergarten. My daughter started at 10 weeks and stopped at age 3. Once my husband finished his residency, I was able to be just a mom. My kids occasionally tease me that they are scarred from daycare because they know it bothers me but they are fine. Totally fine. It definitely hurt me more than them.

Now that they are teens, they are at a point where they require little from me. I am done being the room mom and planning classroom Halloween parties. There are no more late nights waiting out a tummy ache. No more tears from scraped knees or scary dreams.

Now I’m the one with tummy aches and scary dreams because my son has his drivers license. My daughter pretends she doesn’t need me but I know she still does, just like I know there are still tears. What she needs most now is reassurance and guidance and trips to the mall with her friends. She would rather I not show up at school or make myself too visible which is fine. My son only requires clean clothes and a hot meal. Conversations include more grunts than words but that’s fine too.

And maybe my kids don’t always seem to appreciate me but I can handle it because I’m proud of myself for being just a mom. I have raised two kids that I think are pretty special. One reserved yet opinionated and one bold and equally opinionated. They are both smart and independent and incredibly insightful. Neither fit in a perfect mold but I never wanted that kind of kid.

I just hope that when they’re grown they’ll remember all the things I did for them when I was just a mom. I hope they’ll know that my life revolved around them and that I always put them first. I hope they’ll know that I never regretted any part of it, except daycare and the Hamburger Helper. And I hope they’ll be proud that I’m venturing back out into the world to find out what else I can be.