The Writer in Me #BookGiveaway

In 2005 I decided to start writing. No cataclysmic event occurred. My family was healthy. My job was good. No tragedy had left me tarnished. But an epiphany came one day as I was carefully crafting a work memo and trying to avoid the dull cast of business writing. After I finished the memo, I thought to myself, I like doing that. Writing. I like writing. I should do it more often. Thus, a blog and the idea of a book was born. I won’t lie. The thought of becoming a rich and famous author certainly appealed to me. It still does. But it’s not the reason I continue to write. Obviously.

The hobby isn’t particularly easy. I’ve written and rewritten four books now. I’ve self-published after receiving a million+ rejections from agents. I’ve kept up a blog despite an unending stream of "other" responsibilities. I assembled somewhat of a website without any real technical knowledge. I’ve taken several writing courses and read several writing books, even though I (AHEM) already knew how to write as an English major from U of Iowa. I’ve spent hours pondering a sentence or a word only to realize it's well past my bedtime. There are days when I wonder why am I even doing this. Wouldn’t it be better for me to be doing something else? Like cleaning the grime off my floors? The answer to that is clearly no. Not so much because I hate cleaning floors, but because something always happens to keep me motivated to write.

Someone laughs about a blog post. I receive a notice from Amazon about a book I sold. ($3 coming my way!) A short story gets published. An agent sends me an encouraging note. My self-published book gets a positive Kirkus review. After ten years of exploring this elusive world of writing and publishing, I do actually experience small victories which make my heart happy. It’s like God is whispering in my ear, “See? Keep it up Sport.” Oh gosh. Maybe it's F. Scott Fitzgerald whispering to me.

Some writers will say they don’t care if anyone reads their stuff. It’s just therapy for them. I get that…sort of. Okay. Not really. While I do find writing therapeutic, I totally want my stuff to be read! I want my thoughts to be heard…for the same reasons I like to read. Perhaps my writings will:

a) begin a compelling conversation or,

b) make someone happy by relating a foible or,

c) incite people to think about something I believe is important, or

d) expand someone’s vocabulary by using words such as verisimilitude. (You won’t find that word in any of my blogs or books, btw.)

I have not become a rich nor famous writer. But I’m grateful to have a hobby which challenges my mind and allows me to be creative. Everyone should have at least one such outlet. If it's your job, awesome. But if it's not, find something else. Maybe you aspire to be a great golfer, but you avoid the golf course because you have no idea how to keep your ball on the fairway. I say embrace the sandpits and focus on the nice chip shots.

Thanks to each of you for being loyal readers. In appreciation, I'd like to offer you a free copy of Goodbye Def Leppard (I'll Miss Those Jeans). Just respond to this post and I'll line you up. This deal is good until the 4th of July.

Peace and Love.

One Moment

This week my son graduated from 8th grade. In many parts of the world this might not be a big deal, but our community is adoringly focused on celebrating our kids’ milestones. Not only do we love our kids, but we can’t help but dote. As a matter of fact, I would argue our high school graduation parties tend to rival weddings. Not that I don't feed right into this. Certainly the love we shower among the village kids will create good juju when sending them off into the world. It’s all very good energy. 

Unless, maybe, it isn’t.

My son had already gone off with friends as hubby and I left the 8^th grade graduation reception. My feelings of pride and joy quickly dissipated when I noticed a lone 8^th grader sitting on the bench, waiting for the bus. He was politely sifting through his folder of accomplishments. He wasn’t dressed up as many were that day, wearing the typical uniform of a 14-year-old boy: sweatshirt and jeans. My first assumption was that his parents couldn’t make it—understandable since the event took place at 1:30 in the afternoon on a Monday. But the thought of a boy not having anyone there to support him or give him a hug made me instantly and utterly sad. The auditorium, you see, had been flooded with parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends.

So what did I do?

Nothing. I did not walk over to wish congratulations.  I didn't shout out good luck in high school. I didn't even tell him to have a nice summer. What prevented me from reaching out with a gesture of kindness? I’m not sure, except perhaps I didn’t want to seem creepy. But I have relived it, over and over in my head.

The point of this blog is perhaps a confession for my lack of action. And perhaps it’s a call to be on guard. If you have a chance to perform any small act of good will, don’t hesitate. The kid might have been perfectly content and ready to celebrate with his family and other friends that night. But he might’ve been lonely and feeling isolated. The next time I jump in my time traveler, I’ll offer him warm wishes. In the meantime, I’ll continue to pray for him–and for all people to show more love. 

Peace. 

Congrats to Cole–and every single kid to cross the stage. Any stage. 

The Search for #Happiness

Yay. My daughter's home, which not only means we get an array of new shoes under the dining room table, but I now have a movie mate that's not a boy.

The other night she and I watched Hector and the Search for Happiness starring Simon Pegg. Hector, a psychiatrist who becomes disillusioned with his privileged clientele, decides to embark upon a research project to understand the roots of happiness. He makes many universally-observed insights on his journey including:

• Many people think that happiness comes from having more power or more money.
• Happiness often comes when least expected.
• Happiness is being with the people you love.
• The sun and sea make everyone happy.
• Happiness is doing a job you love.

There were many more. But one observation that gave me pause was this:

Making comparisons can spoil your happiness.

I've always thought jealousy to be transparent. Kinda ugly. But if I'm being honest with myself, my inner chatter certainly isn't absent of comparison. Case in point:

• How can she tuck in her shirt without looking 3-months pregnant? The bitch!
• What's that smell in their house? Foreign, yet familiar. Oh yeah. It's the smell of clean. I bet they mop. Dust maybe.
• Your kid got recognized at school this quarter? Really? Well, so did mine. In a way. I actually received two calls from the principal this year.
• Their dog is so much cuter than ours. It even pukes cuter.

Oh my gosh. Now that I think about it, comparisons run through my head all of the time! Like when everyone else's food is devoured at a party, and I make my husband sick by forcing him to eat over half of my concoction. Or when someone is reliving their glory days as an athlete and the only thing I can think about is the swell time I had at piano camp. Maybe comparisons are inevitable! Methinks it's how serious you take them which can spoil your happiness. They can actually make you laugh–especially when you try to tuck in your shirt.

I'll end with one last, profound observation from Hector:

It's a mistake to think that happiness is a goal. 

Often we hear, "I'll just be happy when such and such happens." But why be dependent on something to achieve happiness? Isn't it possible to be happy right now? Even if your homely dog pukes on the carpet! At least you have a dog! And chances are he'll still love you after you express your disgust from the mess. And who can't be happy about a clueless dog?

All Gender Restrooms

So yesterday I had the joy of chauffeuring Cole and his friend, Michael, to a soccer practice in Omaha. Fourteen-year-old boys are funny. Funny as in ha-ha. And of course funny, as in awkward. Of course, it's  a time of rapid development with their bodies seeming to mature much more quickly then their, well, brains. All the more amusing.

I gave the boys privacy by turning up NPR as they giggled about who knows what in the backseat. (I've heard enough of their astute observations on girls in the past. After a long day at work, I wasn't in the mood to step on my feminist platform and tell them a thing or two about respect and objectification of women.) Needless to say I shut my ears to their chatter of nice butts and whatnot.

About twenty minutes into the trip, I got that niggling on the bladder. Curse the 34 ounce Smart Water! Thirty minutes later, the niggling proceeded to nagging. Then! Like a breath of fresh air, a sign appeared:

Rest Area Two Miles

"Boys? Do you need to go the restroom before practice?"

Nah. They had issues to discuss. Places to see.

I considered holding it. For no more than a second.

"I'm going. I promise we won't be late."

After we pulled in, the boys decided to use the restroom as well. Everyone on the Interstate must've been drinking their Smart Waters because it was a rest stop abuzz. I dashed into the bathroom, relieved to find one open stall. Of course, it hadn't been flushed, but I didn't care. Time to do or die.

It was one of those sessions in which the quantity of urine astounded me. As I peed and peed and peed, I was vaguely aware of activity occurring outside the stall. Finally, the tinkle ended. I exited the stall to be greeted by the next person in line. Imagine my shock when it registered. I was facing Michael.

"Michael! What are you doing in here!"

For a tiny second, it occurred to me I might've been in the men's bathroom. Then Michael shrugged before heading into the unoccupied stall. Shortly after, Cole casually strolled out of another stall.

Okay. Why in the world are you boys in here?

"The toilets are flooded in the men's bathroom. We had to use the Ladies."

Unapologetically. Without reservation.

What if I would've been pooping?

"We wouldn't have cared, Mom."

Probably not. Fourteen-year-old boys. Nothing is sacred, and there's always a reason to laugh.

We walked back to the car. In all of the excitement, I realized I had forgotten the keys in the restroom. As I ran back in, I met another young unfazed teenage boy walking out. Unapologetically. Without reservation.

The more I thought about it, the more I found the entire situation hilarious. Even today, I laughed every time I thought about Michael's nonplussed expression while I nearly jumped out of my skin. In reality, the boys in the restroom were no big deal. After all, the stalls are private. I had not pooped. But as we all know, public, integrated bathrooms would never work as a long-term policy. Wars would be waged from raised toilet seats. I'm just glad I got in before they did.

Cole and Michael. Boys unabashed.

#Rain

I once heard a comedian talking about swimming. When you're a kid, it's the greatest thing ever. You live to swim. Your parents take you on vacation...you endure historic sites because you're ecstatic by the thought of a swimming pool. It's simply the greatest thing ever. Then you turn into an adult. Someone suggests swimming and you respond, "What? Swimming! Are you crazy? I might get wet!"

This sentiment overtakes me when it's rainy season. As we experienced a deluge of showers lately, I found myself sitting in my car longer than normal, strategizing a way into buildings as if the rainfall would harm me like a barrage of gunfire. Since the rain didn't let up for almost a week, I decided to change my sour, soggy tune and make a list of why rain is great.

1. It allows me to catch up on some badly-needed television. (Netflix Flash: Cheers now trending.)
2. It's conducive to naps.
3. It keeps my house smelling all nice with Scentsy in my attempt to override the malodorous wet dog.
4. It gives my son a job by spurring lawn growth.
5. It makes it easier to pull weeds, theoretically. Theoretically, weeds would be easier to pull. I'll try this sometime.
6. It makes me think about baking. Did I mention Cheers is on Netflix?

Obviously, I know rain is good. We learned of its goodness in kindergarten with that ever famous proverb: April showers bring May flowers. Deep down, I believe the catchy phrase was created as a way to tolerate with the inconvenience we feel when it begins to sprinkle. Who isn't prone to become out of sorts if the weather isn't exactly to our liking? And has the potential to derail a perfectly coiffed hairdo?

Farmers, like my hubby, will often say, "Why does it matter to you if it's raining or cold or snowing? It's my livelihood. It actually impacts me." Yes, that's true. I get that a farmer would be more sensitive to weather. But that doesn't mean I'm going to shut up on the matter. Nor will anyone! It's one issue that's not terribly controversial. (I'm not talking climate here.) Can't find any common ground with someone? Bring up the weather. It's always a popular topic. No matter what the spin.

In Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris,  Gil (played by Owen Wilson) tries to coax his fiance (Rachel McAdams) to take a walk with him in Paris. She declines because of the rain. Eventually, the engagement is broken off. (Not because of her unwillingness to go walking...) But at the end of the movie Gil runs into a different girl whom he has met on his trip. He asks if she'd like to take a walk with him, just as it begins to rain. He braces himself for a rejection when she says,

"I don't mind getting wet...Paris is the most beautiful in the rain."

I love that scene. It makes me think about things differently. Instead of singing "April showers...blah blah blah," I think to myself: Embrace the rain. Or whatever else comes my way.

The Past, Present and Power of Music

There's a family story about my mom and my aunt taking Grandma to see West Side Story when it came out in theaters. Grandma wasn't familiar with musicals, but she was a bit of a musician herself. Undoubtedly, it would be a treat. Some of you might recall that scene in Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts sees an opera for the first time. Richard Gere says, "People's reaction to opera is very dramatic; they either love it or hate it. If they love it, they will always love it. If they don't, they may learn to appreciate it, but it will never become part of their soul." The scene ends with Julia Roberts crying, absorbed in the music of the opera. Near the end of West Side Story, as my mother and aunt were crying their eyes out, and the notes of There's a Place for Us began, my grandmother turned in her seat and said, "Oh shit. They're gonna sing again."

I love that story. It's so indicative of my grandma, whom I adored. But I also love it because I believe in many ways my mother was much like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. She hadn't been exposed to operas or musicals growing up, but when she did, it really became a part of her soul.

Believe it or not, growing up in Kirkman didn't allow many opportunities to experience fine culture. (We didn't even have MTV since cable hadn't come through yet.) But I was lucky. I had a mother who had sense of its importance, and as it turned out, a piano teacher who would decide to make Kirkman her residence. Mrs. Laporte would end up being an extraordinary influence in my life.

Not only did I learn scales and the importance of practice, but I learned the discipline of Bach and the vastness of Mozart. I learned Chopin was pronounced show-PAN', not choppin. I learned classical music was not just the background for cartoons, but a genre of complex and elevated emotion. I also came to understand how classical music was the origins for all the pop songs I had loved and still love.

The other day, on my way to work, XM's Symphony Hall featured the music of West Side Story. I laughed out loud, thinking about my grandma's experience with the musical. Then I listened. My heart became full, not only from the brilliance of the Leonard Bernstein, but from the gratitude I felt for my exposure to the fine arts.

I wanted to ensure my kids were given the opportunity to appreciate the arts, as I did. We've taken them to the Orpheum aplenty. Admittedly, the impact to Alex and Cole were decisively different. Before Alex left for college, she listened to The Nutcracker every night as she fell asleep. She once was appalled when she learned how many of my coworkers had never been to a musical. She now writes for the art desk for the Daily Iowan. Cole, on the other hand, still remembers having to sit through the second half of Fiddler on the Roof. Exposing Cole hasn't been all in vain though. I have caught him falling to sleep to some beautiful, unfamiliar classical music. It happened to be a soundtrack for Assassin's Creed. Nonetheless, beautiful. I think there's hope for him yet.

Music has the distinct quality of affecting people in their own unique way. Interestingly enough, a person's response to music, any kind of music (pop, classical, or country) also has the distinct quality of bringing them close to others who share the same taste. I feel very blessed to have a love of music that spans high-brow to grass-roots. It gives me a connection to others. Lots of others.

Tony and Maria. "Tonight. Tonight. It all begins..."

Resurrection

When I was seven-years-old, my parents sat me down the night before Easter to inform me there was no such thing as an Easter Bunny. I cried. I distinctly remember my sadness not stemming from the non-existence of the mythical hare. I was sad because I knew my dad was really just telling me I wasn't getting a gift basket the following Sunday. (They had forgotten to pick something up.) Through my blubbering, I managed to ask about the authenticity of Santa. Dad assured me that Santa would arrive next Christmas. Relief.

Easter should be esteemed as the most holy, reverent holidays for all Christians everywhere. It is, after all, what defines us as Christian. I can honestly confess (this is a confession), I haven't always embraced the spirit of the holiday for what it is–as you can guess from the story of my 7-year-old self.

As I grew older and presumably wiser, I looked forward to Easter for different reasons: to dress up my kids, decorate hard-boiled eggs, and pose as the Easter Bunny to warrant ridiculous portions of chocolate and jelly beans in the house. All of that was pretty fun. Yet, I skimmed over the true reason for the celebration.

Now I am forced to give up dressing up my kids for the holiday. I still buy them clothes, but my opinions are effectively moot. Alex would never talk to me again if I made her wear a flowery dress with a pink floppy hat. And if I attempted another sweater vest on Cole, he'd likely run away. Thus, they wear something cool and trendy that can and must be worn with dirty Converses or ratty Nikes.

Last week, I was nostalgic about the days of the egg hunts during our big family celebrations. Then it occurred to me! Those hunts were a pain in the ass. We mothers not only had to hide hundreds of eggs, but we had to find the well-hidden ones as well...and make sure all the kids got equal amounts. Neither of those two things ever happened.

So this Saturday, as we hosted family, I tried to determine how to resurrect the Easter of times past.  Then it occurred to me. Why? The youngest of the clan is now fourteen. The kids can dress themselves (most of the time) and they are quite adept at entertaining themselves.

Easter is resurrection, without the need of all the commercial antics and hoo-rah. No matter what traditions we do or not do, it's a time for all of us to be immensely happy. Because we are loved no matter what, through all of our sins and failings.

If you believe Jesus died for our sins, it really is the most wonderful time to meditate on what that really means to you. And perhaps some of you, like me, will conclude the best way to honor God for this gift is to follow His lead and show your love to others no matter what–and not necessarily with chocolate bunnies.

Look at those threads. More importantly, look at those smiles. #Loved.