R.B. O'Brien's Blog

​Theodore Roosevelt said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” What say you? Was he right? Do people who expend loads of energy comparing themselves to others suffer more? Will it lead, most always, to self doubt? Inferiority? Joylessness, as the quote suggest?

​I think it’s human nature to do such a thing. How do we not? How do we get to a place where we accept who we are and compare ourselves ONLY to where we were the day or week or year before? I use this principle when I teach, and I try to get students to reflect on their own, personal growth. Could they write a metaphor a month ago well? Could they integrate research into their thoughts the way they can now? Rather than: “OMG, Beth’s project was so good. Mine really sucks. I’m embarrassed.”
I see it time and time again, but it’s with my peers too. And some, especially lately on social media, seem to expend an awful lot of energy on comparing themselves to others, and then acting atrociously as a result. But I  don’t think they realize that it stems from comparison, because it takes form in reverse. It’s a passive aggressive sort of thing. I see it in some poetry. I see it in some commenting. What exactly am I talking about? I’m talking about people who don’t even realize they are comparing themselves to others, because they mask it as a sort of diatribe of superiority against contemporary writers and poets. They “bash” others in their quest to feel better about themselves, which begs the question: Why? Why expend so much energy on creating a negative environment that says: I’m better than you. I’m a better wordsmith. You don’t do this like I do therefore, you’re mediocre, and so on. Isn’t that a form of comparison?

I don’t think it has a damn thing to do with them truly thinking they are superior. No. I think it’s actually the opposite. It’s a comparison, maybe even subconscious, that is actually making them feel inadequate, it’s their only refuge. Whether it be to ask: Why is THAT book or THAT poetry doing better than mine? Why is that post or that poem getting so many likes? It is a COMPARISON. It is a comparison of what YOU are doing against what OTHERS are doing or what is happening for them and not you. And bashing others or their work is really just a loud coping mechanism. Guess what? I’m on to you.

Maybe you disagree with me, and I’d love to hear it! But my motto in my life right now is: DO YOU. I’ll do me. And if we meet in the middle to shake hands, wonderful. If we don’t? Go pound sand and keep digging your own grave. Working WITH people not AGAINST people is the only way to grow. Lifting people while staying grounded is what a community of writers or learners is. Without roots, nothing lasts. Without roots, everything gets easily plucked away in the wind and dies.
So I say: Stop insulting other people. because you aren’t where you think you should be. Compare yourself to where you were yesterday and drink in the sun and water to grow. And if there isn’t any sun or water where you are, find another place. Then water those around you too. And watch just what happens to a rose and the whole rose bush when you do. Look back, yes, but only to compare yourself to the you YOU were before it bloomed and now. And smile with joy.

Where do you meet authors? Where do you hear about their books? How do you discover your next read? And what actually makes you BUY a book versus just waiting around for that freebie? What is too high a cost for you? Do you even need to buy books anymore?
 
You’re reading this, because, somehow, we’ve connected. What drew you to me? And how did you find me? Was it my erotic romances? My new adult fiction? Or my poetry? Or did you find me some other way and still not yet bought or read a book of mine?
 
In a world that seems to create more and more technology that is supposed to make our lives easier, it becomes more and more difficult for an indie author to decide where to spend their time. Building a following is work. It’s another full-time job to not only our full-time day jobs but also our full-time writing jobs!
When I first started, I was only on Twitter. I liked the quick banter. The immediate following. The ease with which to discover people with similar interests. And the people I met on Twitter are now some of my oldest friends in the Indie community to this date. And by oldest, I mean longest. 😊 Facebook had turned me off long before, when students of mine started to “friend request” me, and I didn’t have the heart to not accept. I saw my family in disputes over this cousin not liking this cousin’s post, and I just decided: This is a silly hassle. I don’t need social media to see my friends and family. Instagram was a novelty to me. And well, TikTok wasn’t even a thing!
 
But as time went on, I joined Facebook as RB, and well, I found myself really enjoying the medium of it. I liked that I could write as much as I wanted and wasn’t restricted to “character” constraints. I liked the groups. I liked the layout and the format. But Facebook has changed A LOT in just the few years I’ve been on it. It’s over saturated. They want you to pay for your posts or they don’t pop them into feeds. And groups seem to be a lot of the same. Silly memes. Mindless games. And places for people to be, well, social and flirty, often in the most inane and mundane ways.
 
But is Facebook  a place where people talk about books anymore? Or share their love of an author’s work? I find, more and more, people are looking to be entertained in ways that really have nothing to do with reading. And TikTok? Well, the jury is out on even how long it will last, given all the implications of privacy and the ownership in China. It’s also the biggest rabbit hole of dumb I’ve seen in a very long time. The more outrageous, the more it’s watched. It’s a strange thing, this societal shift of entertainment over truth or quality or depth. TikTok mentality is basically humankind mentality these days. But is an author making silly faces and putting on silly costumes really what it takes to sell books these days? Or does even that just lead to a laugh and an empty promise? And now Facebook is scrambling to keep up, begging people to post more reels, to compete with what exactly? More silly entertainment? Have I used the word silly yet? 😉
 
I don’t know these answers. I just know who I am and what I stand for. I know that I want to share my work with people, but I also don’t want to just give it all away to everyone for free, all the time. Actually publishing a book takes such work and energy, and every time I offer something FREE, I become a “best seller” (note the irony of the word seller there). I have often made it as an Amazon Best Seller with paid books too (who hasn’t really), but it’s usually only in the first month or two of a release or if I run a paid ad that even being an Amazon Best Seller doesn’t do more than help me break a little more than even.
 
I guess the answer, if I were to offer one, is to simply do what brings us joy, share to social media places we enjoy being on. But then again, do we ever grow if we only stay in our comfort zones? If we don’t learn new things? Is selling books really just learning new tricks? If so, this young dog may already be too old for a new bag! 😊
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As a writer, I’m not perfect, of course, when it comes to grammar, but I certainly do try to put my best foot forward in anything I share with the public. Whether it’s a simple post on Facebook or a short comment to a friend on social media, nothing is too small to care about for me. Does that mean I don’t have typos I’ve missed? Or that my phone doesn’t like to go rogue on me and change words or make up words with my intended words?  (The cheeky thing!). I think you know the answer to that!

No one is perfect, and I certainly don’t expect people to be, but (yup I just negated everything that came before this, which I’ve written about before) I think some people don’t know basic grammar rules. And this worries me. Why? Because these are writers. When a writer asks me to share their books in my newsletter or a post on social media for them, and it’s riddled with typos, I find myself questioning what is going on with expectations of writing today. (My goodness, I just sounded like an old lady! Ha!) As a teacher by day, I expect these problems. It’s partially my job to help rectify those things. But when writers are putting out typo-infested work, in their blurbs for instance, does it make me question what I might find inside their books? Hell, yes it does! Should it? Am I being too picky? Ridiculously pompous even? I don’t know. But I don’t think so. Like any “job,” and make no mistake, when you share your writing with the public, it is, indeed, that, I think it’s our obligation to do it well. No one gets accolades for doing a shitty job.

My concern is not for the esoteric rules or rules that are archaic and no longer make sense (we don’t read or write or speak in Latin, folks!), but things just seem to have been forgotten or are being ignored completely. Are these things important? Is grammar just in a state of flux and ever-changing? Are some things just silly rules that should be ignored? Is grammar becoming a thing of elitism?

Take a very simple rule about titles. What is capitalized? And what isn’t? In the Heat of the Night. Notice what is capitalized and what is not. Why is this rule important? So what if I capitalized everything in that title? In The Heat Of The Night, for instance. But it’s WRONG, I scream inside my head! Fix that! How can a writer putting out work not KNOW that?

And then I give pause. Who really cares about such minutia? Who even came up with these rules?? Will the story be any less enticing if a word is or isn’t capitalized? Are grammar rules simply becoming a thing of the past? Or are these basic rules being tossed aside a reflection of bigger problems in society? Is grammar simply a microcosm of what is happening in the world? In the United States more specifically? And what is that? A loss of manners? A loss of attention to detail? A sense of entitlement or laziness? A society that doesn’t want to work at things but wants to cheat and cut corners? A society that encourages mediocrity? A society too concerned about appeasing people rather than being honest? Or is grammar simply snobbery, a measuring stick that tries to say: I’m better than you, because I understand when to use whom and when to use who?
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I’m not sure the answers as I write this. I always try to remember what my 5th grade teacher once said: Grammar is important, because the intended message will be lost. If the grammar is good enough as to not "ineffectuate" the meaning, you’re good. So then, if I capitalize an article or a conjunction in a title that shouldn’t be, does it at all hurt the meaning? Maybe my concern about such a thing says more about me than anything else. Chill out, Rose. And live and let live. You know, there was once a time that starting a sentence with a conjunction was frowned upon. Pfttt. We all know that is rubbish now! So who gets elected to be the grammar police? And, further, shouldn’t I have just capitalized that? 😊

October has arrived with insistence, and yet summer fights to hang on. Sound familiar? Letting go? Or trying to? Relationships, friendships, like nature itself—the trees, the flowers, the plants-- all have their seasons. Some come back. Others fall away into something else. And some become memories.

When traveling recently, I looked down from the plane onto cities and vast expanses of land, and I wondered just what makes us think so much. What makes us worry so much. Are we really anything more than anything else? Do we have a soul? Are we mere energy? You know, the standard crap that makes us human and keeps us up at night, thinking and worrying and contemplating. Sometimes, I wonder why we can’t just live, instead of hurting each other, insulting each other. Our insecurities are larger than anything below the sky, and we’re so infinitesimally small, aren’t we?
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I also realized that some people are small in other ways too. Their insecurity is so high, they must belittle others who are just trying to live their best life. If this is all we have, this one life, wouldn’t it behoove us to treat each other better? But it’s hard if we feel poorly about ourselves. When I see someone trying to stomp on others—their creativity, their voice—I realize: They are projecting. They are projecting their self-worth onto others. So when someone tries to trample your spirit, it’s because they haven’t found their own. They are the leaf that falls before it had time to discover the meaning of their own lives. They wrinkle too soon…for “whenever men are right they are not young.”
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Let me be young and wrong, then, and give me a world of Octobers of letting go of all that weighs me down to an early death. It’s not that we won’t die. It’s that we have to decide to live first. And blossom. Our own way. In bright, beautiful colors. Step outside of the square. Do your own dance. Twirl like a leaf in October wind. And smile, knowing, you’ve discovered, you can leave the trees that try to fixate you to a spot you don’t want to be. Be red. Or orange. Or yellow. But never be what someone else has said you must be when a world of Octobers exist. 

​It’s the biggest question readers are asked: Ebooks or print? Which do you prefer? I'm a writer, yes, but I'm also a reader. And my answer to this question may surprise you. 

You often get those traditionalists who talk about the smell of books, the tactile experience, the bindings and spine, the art, and sometimes the leather. We even romanticize the dust, those particles that look like glitter floating in one ray of sunlight, instead of the sneezes, a lazy day in bed, with a book in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other. If not tea, maybe a pen to mark up the margins with hearts and annotations, smiley faces and exclamation points. That one passage we underline several times and earmark, so we can come back to it like that kiss we’ll never forget.

But I’m here to confess. I recently cleaned out all my bookshelves and gave them away to libraries, schools, and the swap shack in town. Oh! What a Philistine! I mustn’t be a “real” reader. I kept my favorites. All my Shakespeare. Fahrenheit 451 and 1984 and Brave New World. The Catcher in the Rye and To Kill A Mockingbird. All the poetry books I have from Dickinson to Cummings to Plath to Poe (and yes Ted too—sorry) and so many more. I even kept the 50 Shades trilogy and Twilight. Stephen King classics. Lolita. Hemingway. But it’s one bookcase now, vs six.

I love going to bookstores and libraries, leafing through bookshelves and sale racks, remembering where I was when I read, Are You There, God, It’s Me, Margaret and Anais Nin and The Story of O, a cappuccino in one hand, a book in the other. But when I want to read—on a beach, by my pool, in the quiet moments at night when I’m alone with only the moon and stars as my witness--my kindle is my companion, and I’m not ashamed to say it. I love late-night reads, with the font as big as I want it and the lights off.  I love marking up the pages with my fingers and having a record of where I finished. I love bouncing from thrillers to romances to poetry to classics to smut, all at the swipe of my finger, depending on my mood. And I love that I can rest it on my lap and not lose my page. For me, ebooks let me read more. I don’t have to remember to carry eight books or worry if, while poolside, I’ll ruin the pages. Put simply, I love to read. And ebooks give me words. What else do I need? I want to taste and smell the words. Not the book. I want to transport myself to places in my mind. Meet new people without having to go anywhere. And I want to do them often and at the same time sometimes.

I’ve kept the paper books that mattered to me, that show me where I was or what I was thinking when I lived with them. I like to reread them and see where I was then and where I’ve come now. Virginia Woolf when I was 16 is not the same as she is in my thirties. Kate Chopin makes sense to me now.

I will never stop collecting books, I just do so differently. But I still collect them. I collect moments that are my moments, housed in a mind that will forever love to read. 

We all have flaws, perceived or otherwise, that have plagued us since youth. Or at least we just simply always remember worrying about them. I’m not smart enough. Or my legs aren’t long enough or I’m too introverted. Whatever it may be, it is something that probably weighs us down.

Where did it come from? Did you wake up one morning and simply think it or feel it? Or most likely, did it stem from something someone said once. Maybe we remember EXACTLY when it started, the exact moment someone said something that stuck with us. Or maybe we’ve blocked it out, and just somehow think it’s some universal, unconnected truth that just is, as if it’s a fact.
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I’ve written about my legs before. I can remember an exact moment in a car when I was about 13. I was squished in with a few friends coming back from the movies, my brother driving us. It was summer and hot and we all had shorts on and windows down. I looked to the left to one of my best friends, her leg pressed against mine, and I had two thoughts, thoughts that always seem to pop into my mind, like it was yesterday. One was that her leg was so much skinnier than mine. I couldn’t stop looking at it. The second was how tan hers was next to mine. I felt pasty and unattractive and what probably really makes this memory stick is that my brother commented on it. That my legs were too big for us to pile in the back and all fit. He never said fat. They weren’t. They were just—bigger. Muscular. And too short. Always too short. ​One friend, I distinctly remember, said she envied my legs, how strong they were. But the damage was done. And I sat there, comparing myself, and feeling inferior, feeling, somehow, less feminine. It took years to accept my body. Now I’m much more forgiving and appreciative, but it’s those little things that can get us to question everything about who we are. Who we want to be. If we fit in. We question our place among the crowd and wonder if we’ll ever not feel lonely, even surrounded by many friends.  And it makes me wonder: Does everyone feel that? Do even the most happy, the one most smiling, the one who seems to have it all, feel those things too? I never thought about it much until I was older, until I actually spoke to my brother about such things, him aghast that such a small comment that, to him, meant nothing but a silly joke, could leave such a lasting impression on my psyche. Because to him, it was such a non-issue; to him, in some strange way, he was complimenting me on my hard work.
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I think the things that stick with us the longest or the most come from people we love or trust who let us down. I often wonder, had a stranger said that if I would have given it two thoughts. Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s the people closest to us that can hurt us the most. In love. In friendship. Anyone we let in. And maybe that’s why it’s easier to keep people at a distance. The rocks of words can’t hit as hard far away. But up close, they can leave scars. 

Are you a believer in the reading of tarot cards? The power of mediums? What has led you to believe or not believe?
 
In truth, I find it fun, though I’ve never visited a medium, nor do I have the desire. But the couple times I did visit a tarot card reader, it was freakishly dead on. I know. I know. And I say it too. Of course we are going to make sense of what the reader says, as it’s so general, we can find ourselves in it. Who doesn’t have some problems they want to fix? Or goals they wish they had reached? Or dreams? Or love lost and lost won?
 
But this weekend, when, on a whim, I decided to play along again, I found her words hauntingly true. So many before me had talked about her readings and how she didn’t hold back, that what she said was too specific not to be real…so I went in with an open mind, while others were too fearful. Why the heck not? I don’t fear these things. Maybe I should. I guess, deep down, I don’t believe it for a second…and yet, maybe that’s just it. I WANT to believe. I want to believe that there is a way to see things that my limited mind won’t allow me to see. Maybe that’s all it is…that we desire to believe in things we really don’t. Or maybe, it’s that we DO believe and pretend we don’t, too scared to admit there are just so many things in life that have no explanations, that we can never fully grasp. I’m certain there are a whole host of parts of the brain we don’t use. In fact, we know this to be true. Science has told us this.
 
So, as she was about to pack up, she allowed for a one-card reading and when she flipped it, she said (and I paraphrase), only knowing my first name and nothing more, “Wow. You work tirelessly, don’t you? Every day. You work and work toward your goals. And you wonder why some days, you want to give up. Don’t give up on your dreams. Keep doing what you’re doing. It will pay off. It doesn't seem so right now, but it will.” And I jokingly said: “Is it the bags under my eyes that have given it away?” And then she flipped another card. “I see people in your life that don’t support you in these dreams. This is a patience card. You need to have it. And so do these other people in your life who demand too much of your attention.”
 
Of course I related to this. Like 100%. But who reading that doesn’t it? I think it’s true for me; and yet, I can see how it could apply to anyone.
 
She left me with her card and a stone. And I look at it now, pondering her words. And somehow, regardless of its truth or not, it is a little voice telling me that I need to stay the course regarding certain dreams and goals, even if there are days I am certain the course is too difficult. So thank you, tarot card reader. Whether you know it or not, you’ve given me the courage to believe, not so much in the power of the cards, but in myself.

LAST NIGHT... was the first time in months I didn’t sleep with the AC on. The rain was performing in the night air and demanded to be noticed. With the overhead fan on and the sound of the rain and wind, I opened my window and fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke, the rain had stopped its show, and I lay there, very early—another thing I hadn’t done in months—and just reflected. Reflected on the day ahead. The week ahead. The semester ahead. My plans of travel and the long weekend. And a certain breeze not only passed through my window but through my body. It felt like breath.

I’m not a morning person. I like the nights. I like staying up late when the cars stop roaring and the stars come out. I like to sit with a good TV series and then climb up to bed to meet my latest book characters and forget who I am for a little while, let the responsibilities of life fade into the background of “that can wait,” before I take my ride with Morpheus, where dreams are unencumbered by expectation, and where I have no control of what happens there. It feels like freedom, even if only for that one second before I slip and enter the world I won’t likely remember but know anything is possible.

I’d forgotten how wonderful the morning is. How quiet it is then too, before the bustle starts and the stress kicks in and the noise takes over. It’s a perfect time to write. To meditate. And spend time in the moment. And in this moment, I saw the trees, still wet from the night’s spectacle, but the leaves blowing gently against each other in harmony, a couple of big oaks seemingly in love. Within the leaves I stared, and like that old Magic Eye book or when I stare for long periods of time at the clouds, I saw a kiss in those leaves, a face I wanted to capture—a side profile of eyes, a nose, hair blowing back, and lips, lips kissing the leaves next to it. I thought to myself, I’m just seeing things, and yet, still, I wanted to get my phone and snap a picture to prove it to you, to see if you saw it too, to show you how real it was, the trees in an embrace, kissing one another.

But I stopped myself. This was my moment, what I felt and saw and knew was real. And I realized, it didn’t matter who believed me or who might have seen it too or who thought I was foolish. It was my waking dream, whether fabricated or not: Those leaves loved each other. And I realized: Isn’t that all any of us want? To be kissed? In the morning when no one else knows, when the only thing that matters is that we know we were kissed, that we know: We are loved.   And that’s what being alive feels like, the gift of morning. And I'm happy for it.

"Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field." ~Shakespeare In case you don't follow me on social media and missed my Facebook post, I'm sharing it here as well...
Out of the blue, I lost my best friend and PA. I'm not sure where I'll go from here...

It’s taken me a day to get over the shock of my beautiful friend and PA’s death and write something myself. I’m still in shock. Words just can’t express the overwhelming sadness I feel. 

Mandi Calder was not only my PA, she was my sister by choice. There wasn’t a day we didn’t speak, except for rare vacations or days where we’d shut down to recharge. She did so much for me as a PA—just because she wanted to, not because she had to. She shared my work daily into groups before I’d even be out of bed, she ran the NuR Twitter feed, and she found the most beautiful ballet images for me. She had my back. She was my springboard for ideas. She kept me organized. She let me vent. She made me laugh. She made me feel special. But mostly, she kept me from not giving up. Her motto was always: “Positive thinking, hunni,” especially when I needed to hear it most. That was her. Without thought or obligation. She was just…kind. And giving…and smart! God. She was so smart. And I can say that we told each other we loved each other often. For that, I have no regrets. She knew. And I knew.
I hear her now. As I write this. “Positive thinking…” And I’m really trying to listen. It’s just almost impossible to wrap my mind around the idea that she’s gone. That she was taken from us so young. And I don’t think I can make sense of it. Not now. Maybe not ever. So if I’m quiet for a while, it’s because I don’t know of any other way to be. Even my tears are quiet. I keep wondering if they’ll stop. And I’m not sure, exactly, how I see my future here or in the writing or publishing community without her. She’s been with me from the start. I've never known a writing life without her.

She was and IS a beautiful soul. So I’ll remember that. I’ll feel that. I’ll feel her soul. And let it guide me, bit by bit. Day by day. Because a soul like hers, doesn’t die.

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Never put passion before principle. Even if win, you lose. - Mr. Miyagi. Do you remember the old Karate Kid trilogy? Some of us may be more familiar with the remake than the originals, but watching them, as dated and as cheesy as they may seem, there is much we can learn. When Mr. Miyagi says that in Episode II it really sticks, because we could use a Mir. Miyagi right now.

When I think of the word "passion," I think of writing and dance and things in my world, like the environment that I care deeply about. Follow your passion. LIve life with passion. I'm passionate about...And so on. I've never really thought of the word in a negative way. But then, of course, when I really think about it, it's always been used in both ways, hasn't it? "Crimes of passion" for instance, or in the "heat of passion."  But it's true. Sometimes, our passions can compromise our principles. They can make us blind. Inconsiderate. Selfish. Self-absorbed. Narcissistic. And perhaps, like anything, drinking, for instance, or even loving someone or caring about a cause, we might get carried away, lose sight of truth, get lost. And with being lost, we might lose our principles. I'm sad to say, I see it in the writing community. Cheating the system. Paying for reviews. Paying readers. Some get caught, and for a second, we think the world is righting itself. But they only reinvent themselves and go at it again...But there are far bigger problems than that nonsense.

What happens when it seems principles are forgotten at large? Who decides on what principles matter and which do not? I care deeply about certain things that others do not. Does that mean my principles are correct and theirs aren't? It's murky, isn't it? And, I'm afraid, America's principles seem to revolve so heavily around money, that the ol' mighty dollar now seems to be synonymous with the word passion at the expense of principles. The environment. Human kindness. Treatment of people and animals. Hey, if we're making a buck, who gives a fuck, right? -- WRONG!

While watching a new series featuring Zac Effron, Down to Earth (I know. I want to start singing HIgh School Musical songs too), it becomes all too clear. The first two episodes, the first Iceland; the second France, shows me that America has gotten so far off track, environmentally, healthily, humanitarily, (word or not, I don't care), equally...it truly begins to frighten me sick.

If other countries can provide and live off 100% renewable energy, like Iceland (and I don't want to toot my own horn, but for my Edge of Torment series, I did quite a bit of research on Iceland for my protagonist, Michael, who studied there, and whose life mission focuses on green and renewable energy--if you'd only read it--:) ); and France--Paris giving water (good, clean nutrient water) to ALL, free and easily accessible in public places like parks, etc.--why aren't we doing better? Why are we going backwards? Why are we pulling back from all these things we've learned and know, KNOW, we should be doing? We can do our part. And I've blogged about that here, but the government should be doing its part, should be doing more, not going back in time!  But we don't care about what other countries are doing. We're the most powerful country on Earth. We're rich. Fuck the past. Fuck the future. I want to make money! My passion is excess at the expense of everything and everyone.

When money is the only passion we make decisions from, we're in trouble. And, folks, we're in trouble. Where's Mr. Miyagi when you need him? I'm afraid, he's nowhere to be found. And soon, neither will we.