Alexa Jacobs's Blog

It’s been a hot minute since you’ve heard from me.

One year.

I didn’t plan it, but as it so happens that is the first line in my current work in progress.

Many of you have kept up with me on social media and know I’ve had my hands full this past year. My small children with their small problems are somehow big children with big problems. I swear it was only a second ago I was shopping preschools, and now I’m shopping colleges. I’m pretty proud of the young men my boys are turning out to be, they’re just killing me a little bit with their conquer the world attitude because I have to drive them to do said conquering.

#momlife

The continued battle with degenerative disc disease rages on. I spent months enduring multiple painful procedures to be able to walk again only to tear my ACL in my first week of freedom. I will be the first eaten in the zombie apocalypse, but at least I’m moving?!

And even though the book on the Baltimore Book Festival is barely closed, the newest chapter begins. 2019 planning is already underway, and it’s going to be bigger and better than ever! So much fun for you, but a lot of damn work for me right now. My writerly tribe may take my computer away from me if I throw one more spreadsheet at them.  I am convinced that 90% of the world’s problems can be solved on a spreadsheet.

But what about the books? The actual writing of my writerly life? Don’t worry, I’ve saved the best for last.

I’m not working on one project, I’m working on several. We live in a binge-hungry nation, so rather than give you one book here and one book there… I’m going to be writing all the words for the next little while. One day, I’ll pop up like Keanu Reeves did when he disappeared for five years but then showed up with all that is The Matrix. I was actually hoping to show some pieces of these projects to you so that you can share in my excitement over them, but unfortunately, we live in a post #copypastecris world (I’ll wait…go ahead and look that up).  My words will have to remain under wraps, but I promise you I’ve picked out all the best ones!

I’m hoping my absence won’t last as long as Keanu’s, so stick around and keep an eye on this space.

Wonderful things are being created.

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When I was 14, I staged a rebellion at 2am.

Until that point in my life, my freedom was not my own. My mother had kept my hair long, and refused all requests of color or length change. I begged and begged, and she assured me that because when she was six years old and her mother let her cut her long locks as short as she wanted to, that she was saving me from a life of bad haircut PTSD. I told her that I would just do it myself. That’s right, I’d turn to the mean and gritty streets of my moderately middle-class town and get the job done.

Go. Right. Ahead.

That was the first and last time my mother has ever said those words to me. At an indecent hour, at the age of 14, I stood in the harsh and unforgiving fluorescent lights of my bathroom, and cut myself free. Literally. I didn’t measure, but I’d venture to say I cut well more than a foot off my hair and because I was 14, there was a moment I entertained that perhaps she wouldn’t notice. Of course, she did.

Frantic, she drove me to a salon as soon as they opened in hopes that all would not be lost. As the lady snipped and shaped, I felt like for the first time in my life I was starting to see me in the mirror. When she picked up a strand of hair and leaned into the light, she asked me, “Is your hair pink?”

Something that my mother had not actually noticed. In my rebellion, I broke into my school supplies and used the ink packs from two pink highlighters to make a simple temporary hair dye which resulted in my darker shade of brown having a slightly pink tint to it. Before my mother yanked me out of the chair and took my actual freedom away, the lady held her back and said “But look how cute this is. This looks good on her.”

I think as with myself, for the first time, my mom saw me and not the child she’d intended me to be.

“Damn you, it does look perfect.” She admitted.

Days before my birthday this year, I was with my favorite girl who has been going along with my every dye and cut whim for the better part of a decade now. She asked me what I was in the mood for and I told her that I kind of wished my hair was pink. She was all too happy to get moving in her color lab. In the end, as we sat together to examine her work in the mirror she smiled and said to me, “If ever there was a natural pink, you’re it. This is so you.”

Here I was, facing forty…and seeing that 14 year old in the mirror so clearly.

She is so naturally me.

It’s no secret that I’ve placed a monumental amount of pressure on the act of turning 40. Oprah promised me that God’s gift to us was that we actually get to be whoever it was that we were meant to be.

Imagine me, sitting in the middle of a pile of cubes, all of which represent an aspect my personality, examining them to see if I should keep or toss them. This is where I have been for the better part of the last 365 days.

What about me is worth keeping?

What about me do I wish to be free of?

A friend of mine and I were talking about the things that inherently make me ME, and I said that I regret everything and nothing all at the same time.

And I think that’s what being 40 is. It’s when you can look at yourself in the mirror and honestly say that you regret everything and nothing all at the same time.

I have written strongly worded letters for as long as I can remember. I’ve penned them to friends, to loves, to colleagues, to organizations, to businesses and even once I told an entire United States Embassy that they were doing nearly everything wrong. The fallout always has the potential of being massive and not anything anyone is prepared to deal with.

I regret everything.

But, when I see something, I say something. These letters are often not to benefit me in any way, they are often to represent the voice of those who cannot or are too scared to stand up for themselves. I’ve stood back in pride as I’ve watched my youngest child who is not yet a full-blown teenager walk up to an adult and say – Hey look, we all have to be accountable for our actions. Be accountable for your actions.

I regret nothing.

My husband and I went through our storage unit a while back and he handed me a box filled with notebooks. I only had to open one to realize what they were- My actual grand plans. All of them. Page after page of listing goals and a broken down plan of how to attain them. These books were so ridiculously me, they even had pages abandoned simply because I didn’t like the way the pen made my handwriting look. Hours of overcomplicating my simple little life and trying to figure out every move I’ve got to make between birth and death for it to be successful.

I regret everything.

But, I’ve got a plan. I’ve always got a plan. I break every big dream down into an obtainable goal and ask myself what moves I will make to get myself there. Hell, I’ve even planned out the scenario in which I toss it all to the wind and say C’est la vie, and I disappear.

I’ve helped friends believe that they can reach goals. And as my oldest child grows, I see him face things head on without fear. This is what I want…how do I get it?

I regret nothing.

I was the girl who was in love with being in love. I gave my love away without condition. I asked for nothing in return. I scribbled my name as a Mrs. in the margins of all those notebooks. I saw the very best version of the person that I chose to love, that made them nothing short of being the most amazing human being on this earth. And because I did not shelter my heart, and gave this love in blind faith, a shattering reality is what I sometimes was left with. I have learned that my love alone is not enough.

I regret everything.

I have loved without condition. I have seen, despite what’s around me, the very best in a person. I have always treated the love that I give away as the most special and valuable thing I have to offer, so it’s been offered only to those who are worthy of that responsibility. I put blind faith that something that shouldn’t be, could be, if only I don’t walk away or give up. It is amazing where love can flourish if only you give it the chance. I have a whole notebook of my name and my husbands in dreamy scribbles.

I regret nothing.

I have always been too wordy. The auidence I request knows they will need to sit down. I see the big breath they take when they open an email, or a letter, or a blog post.

I regret everything.

I’ve never given words. This is my canvas and I offer you art. It is not beautiful to all, but it is beautiful to some and that is enough for me. If you get lost in the moments, the way I have, that is everything.

I regret nothing.

I wanted to be a mom. I wanted to devote my entire adult life to a family that I only dreamed of. I wanted to fill voids that I was never brave enough to talk about. I wanted to spend some time with the lonely little girl that lived in my heart. I never have been able to shake myself of trying to fix her broken world and never pushed myself to strive for anything different. I was never able to dream beyond wanting stability for her.

I regret everything.

I never let go of her. Every single move I’ve made, I’ve healed her just a little bit. In my children, I see her thriving. In my husband, I see her growing. I’ve created the family that gives her rest from her weary life, and the love for her lonely soul. She is free, and because of that, I can dream of something beyond hope.

I regret nothing.

I sit here, looking at all these pieces of me, and seeing my quirky imperfections. I’m always going to wish I was stronger, smarter, and better equipt for life. I’m always going to ask myself, why do you have to be so weird?

I regret everything.

It is those quirky imperfections that make me stronger, smarter, and more adaptable than I ever would have been. The thing that makes me the most lovable according to those who love me is in fact because I am so weird.

I regret nothing.

I sit here, thinking about the girl I used to be, and all the things she had to go through to bring me here.

I regret everything.

I regret nothing.

“She’s imperfect, but she tries

She is good, but she lies

She is hard on herself

She is broken and won’t ask for help

She is messy, but she’s kind

She is lonely most of the time

She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie

She is gone, but she used to be mine.”

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I really thought I’d find a better song title to go with this blog, but all month long when I closed my eyes I imagined myself as this little pudgy girl in a bee costume, trying to do her busy bee thing in a world that is hell bent on being the least helpful or welcoming of places.

I don’t know when my life exploded, but it did and I have been frantically trying to keep up while my little bee costume continues to degrade.

I’m sweaty, I’m tired, I’m beaten, I’m broken.

I’m busy.

But I’m working on it.

While I don’t have much to show off, there has been so much good happening. And like, at the end of the “No Rain” video, my journey this month has most certainly ended in a sunny patch of land where all the other little bee people are happily dancing to my tune.

My last project was a book called Waiting for Autumn. I completed the first draft in February of 2017 and shopped it out to perspective agents and publishers. At first, the resounding response was that books of this nature are not on the current wish list. We were, and on some levels continue to be, on an upswing of politically driven, female empowered, diverse stories. There was no want or need for a small town sweet love story between two former high school friends who had to spend a decade apart to see what was right in front of their faces all along. Despite these rejections, they always came with encouragement of my writing style choices.

So, I shelved it. To everything there is a season, and like in the book, I would have to wait for the leaves to turn.

I began working on another story, and honestly struggled to get even one word on the page. It wasn’t for the lack of idea. I know the story. I know the story from beginning to end and everything in between. I know the characters, I know their names and what their deals are. I know what hurts them, and what they celebrate. They are as real to me as my own children are. Their backstory alone could be its own book.

But I’ve been sitting here staring at a blank page. For months. The reason for that is that this story is somebody else’s to tell. In Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert assures me that this happens to the best of us. Not all story ideas find the right writer, and we have to recognize it, and let it go.

I have to let these characters go. It sucks.

So I’ve been a little blue about the busy of my everythings in my day job, and the lack of progress in my dream job.

I am this little broken down busy bee who isn’t sure that she will be able to dance like she wants to or be seen like she wants to be.

But just as I was the most blue about my current state of things, I stumbled upon that sunny field and found all the other busy little bees.

I spent three days immersed in my writer world, and surrounded only by the people who have been exactly where I am right now. We spoke of characters as if they were real people and when I mentioned I have this full blown story stuck in my head but have no idea how to bring it to the page, I got a lot of nods of understanding.

Much to my surprise, my sweet little small town story that I nearly gave up on got some really high praise. Apparently, the season has changed and everyone would really like to have that sappy little love story that takes you away from the political and social noise of today’s world.

I got the chance to talk about it, and listen to professional opinions. Mixed in with the requests of tightening up story lines and pacing, I got some smiles. There were connections to characters, which made them real to more than just me. I continue to be told that my little moments of beauty are touching, and for that I am so thankful.

My meals were spent listening to other writers and what their journeys were. So many of them share the experience of having written multiple books before one had even been sold. We all wear these rejection letters as badges of honor, and remind ourselves that when these rejection letters come with advice it is because the agents and publishers see enough there to encourage us to keep working at this. Change could bring success.

Agents and editors stepped into our world and spent that time with us. I chatted with a few, finding the things outside the book world that bring us together. It was lovely to get to know them a bit, and amazing to have the chance to ask them their advice on what we can do to move to the next step. All of them, even the most intimidating, were so encouraging. And the one that I never thought I’d have a chance of leaving any sort of impression of happened to be the one who had the most to say about how well my first page read in a blind reading event.

And in the end, we all got dressed up in ridiculous costumes and had a drunken free for all evening of nothing but fun and games.

It was the best ever.

My husband asked me if I had taken any pictures. I had not. While there, I noticed that very few people were taking any pictures, if any at all. This was three days where I believe everyone was one hundred percent present. They were there to be there, and had shut out the world so they could soak it all up.

So that’s what I did. I soaked it up.

I come home more encouraged than I’ve been in months. The story that I loved when I wrote it, which had been shelved and was beginning to collect dust is now fresh out on my desktop. The town is a bustle with movement and my characters starting up their conversations once more. They clamor with ideas of what to change and what to keep and oh by the way, these couple things happened while you weren’t looking….

To all you busy little bees out there….keep on dancing.

Stay with me, and I’ll have it made.

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I really thought I’d find a better song title to go with this blog, but all month long when I closed my eyes I imagined myself as this little pudgy girl in a bee costume, trying to do her busy bee thing in a world that is hell bent on being the least helpful or welcoming of places.

I don’t know when my life exploded, but it did and I have been frantically trying to keep up while my little bee costume continues to degrade.

I’m sweaty, I’m tired, I’m beaten, I’m broken.

I’m busy.

But I’m working on it.

While I don’t have much to show off, there has been so much good happening. And like, at the end of the “No Rain” video, my journey this month has most certainly ended in a sunny patch of land where all the other little bee people are happily dancing to my tune.

My last project was a book called Waiting for Autumn. I completed the first draft in February of 2017 and shopped it out to perspective agents and publishers. At first, the resounding response was that books of this nature are not on the current wish list. We were, and on some levels continue to be, on an upswing of politically driven, female empowered, diverse stories. There was no want or need for a small town sweet love story between two former high school friends who had to spend a decade apart to see what was right in front of their faces all along. Despite these rejections, they always came with encouragement of my writing style choices.

So, I shelved it. To everything there is a season, and like in the book, I would have to wait for the leaves to turn.

I began working on another story, and honestly struggled to get even one word on the page. It wasn’t for the lack of idea. I know the story. I know the story from beginning to end and everything in between. I know the characters, I know their names and what their deals are. I know what hurts them, and what they celebrate. They are as real to me as my own children are. Their backstory alone could be its own book.

But I’ve been sitting here staring at a blank page. For months. The reason for that is that this story is somebody else’s to tell. In Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert assures me that this happens to the best of us. Not all story ideas find the right writer, and we have to recognize it, and let it go.

I have to let these characters go. It sucks.

So I’ve been a little blue about the busy of my everythings in my day job, and the lack of progress in my dream job.

I am this little broken down busy bee who isn’t sure that she will be able to dance like she wants to or be seen like she wants to be.

But just as I was the most blue about my current state of things, I stumbled upon that sunny field and found all the other busy little bees.

I spent three days immersed in my writer world, and surrounded only by the people who have been exactly where I am right now. We spoke of characters as if they were real people and when I mentioned I have this full blown story stuck in my head but have no idea how to bring it to the page, I got a lot of nods of understanding.

Much to my surprise, my sweet little small town story that I nearly gave up on got some really high praise. Apparently, the season has changed and everyone would really like to have that sappy little love story that takes you away from the political and social noise of today’s world.

I got the chance to talk about it, and listen to professional opinions. Mixed in with the requests of tightening up story lines and pacing, I got some smiles. There were connections to characters, which made them real to more than just me. I continue to be told that my little moments of beauty are touching, and for that I am so thankful.

My meals were spent listening to other writers and what their journeys were. So many of them share the experience of having written multiple books before one had even been sold. We all wear these rejection letters as badges of honor, and remind ourselves that when these rejection letters come with advice it is because the agents and publishers see enough there to encourage us to keep working at this. Change could bring success.

Agents and editors stepped into our world and spent that time with us. I chatted with a few, finding the things outside the book world that bring us together. It was lovely to get to know them a bit, and amazing to have the chance to ask them their advice on what we can do to move to the next step. All of them, even the most intimidating, were so encouraging. And the one that I never thought I’d have a chance of leaving any sort of impression of happened to be the one who had the most to say about how well my first page read in a blind reading event.

And in the end, we all got dressed up in ridiculous costumes and had a drunken free for all evening of nothing but fun and games.

It was the best ever.

My husband asked me if I had taken any pictures. I had not. While there, I noticed that very few people were taking any pictures, if any at all. This was three days where I believe everyone was one hundred percent present. They were there to be there, and had shut out the world so they could soak it all up.

So that’s what I did. I soaked it up.

I come home more encouraged than I’ve been in months. The story that I loved when I wrote it, which had been shelved and was beginning to collect dust is now fresh out on my desktop. The town is a bustle with movement and my characters starting up their conversations once more. They clamor with ideas of what to change and what to keep and oh by the way, these couple things happened while you weren’t looking….

To all you busy little bees out there….keep on dancing.

Stay with me, and I’ll have it made.

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Today kind of makes me sick, a little bit. It’s International Women’s Day. If you didn’t already know the history behind how this National day came to be, know that it has been part of the making since as far back as the late 1800s. It was nationally recognized in 1909, and has since evolved over the years with the ever changing needs in women’s rights.

While today, this day is mostly observed by inspirational quotes on social media, the importance of its history is never too far from the surface. A quick visit over to the Wikipedia page will tell you this fun fact:

On March 8, 1917, on the Gregorian calendar, in the capital of the Russian Empire, Petrograd, women textile workers began a demonstration, covering the whole city. This marked the beginning of the Russian Revolution. Women in Saint Petersburg went on strike that day for “Bread and Peace” – demanding the end of World War I, an end to Russian food shortages, and the end of czarism. Leon Trotsky wrote, “23 February (8th March) was International Woman’s Day and meetings and actions were foreseen. But we did not imagine that this ‘Women’s Day’ would inaugurate the revolution. Revolutionary actions were foreseen but without date. But in the morning, despite the orders to the contrary, textile workers left their work in several factories and sent delegates to ask for support of the strike… which led to mass strike… all went out into the streets.” Seven days later, the Emperor of Russia, Nicholas II abdicated and the provisional Government granted women the right to vote.

That’s right, we caused a revolution.

And every year since, International Women’s Day has had a theme, usually to continue forward movement in making this world a better place. This year’s theme is

“The Time is Now: Rural and urban activists transforming women’s lives.”

That sounds so good, doesn’t it? It sounds big.

And the time is now. More so than ever, as we seem to have gone a bit backward over these last couple of years in our forward thinking.

I am, by reason of necessity, not a political person. I have my opinions, I am a practicing registered voter. I try to look at all sides, and weigh the practicalities of wants and needs. I have seen both sides of a political argument, and understand that both have merit and worth. To be respectful of my peers, I do not comment one way or the other over a dinner time debate topic.

But I unapologetically support the cause, the call, and the need for attention to women’s rights.

I had another blog written up, all ready to go. But then, I had a conversation with a peer. I came to this person with respect, kindness, and dignity in mind. I am forever telling my husband and my children that you can say what you need to say, but find a way to say it kindly. Regardless of who I am talking to and what I have to say, I try my best to choose kind words.

In turn, his response was nothing short of degrading and dismissive.

What we were talking about doesn’t matter. Who I was talking to doesn’t matter.

What matters is, that there are still men out there that have no fucking clue how to speak to a woman with equal respect.

This is not ok.

And this is not an isolated incident.

My day job happens to keep me in the company of a majority of men. Now I will speak up for them and say that for the most part I am respected as a governing voice. But when I have something to say, there is this little voice inside me that asks me, am I going to be heard?

Is what I say valid enough to get their attention? Are they going to laugh at me or roll their eyes?

How sad is that? This is 2018, I should not be having these thoughts. But I do. And it’s because I am continually exposed to men who think it okay to dismiss my opinions, my thoughts, my concerns as nothing more than a loud mom alarm.

And the funny thing is, all of these men consider themselves to be feminists. If you ask any of them, they will tell you that women have just as many rights as they do. That women are no more or no less important or valid as they are. I am sure that the majority of them are rightfully scared of their mothers and their wives. They demand respect for their daughters.

And if I said to any one of them that something they said was disresepectful, I know hands down they would apologize.

But here we are, still needing to bring it up. Because they have no idea they are doing it. That’s the saddest thing in the world to me.

A few months ago there was a massive #metoo movement. As I scrolled through post after post on social media, I thought of my own moment in time. Every girl has got one. When I was 18, I was with a group of people, and a man that I did not know in this group not only rubbed himself unwelcomingly against me, but in a moment when he thought it would go well, he grabbed my hand and shoved it down his pants.  I did nothing to encourage this behavior, and in fact, did everything I could to respectfully (not that he deserved it) deny his advances for the better part of the evening. Eventually, another man came to my rescue, but in turn expected some gratitude. When he realized he wasn’t going to get it, he quickly set me back in the hands of my girlfriend and went on his way.

A knight in not so shining armor, I suppose.

Even as I recounted the evening in my own mind, I asked myself, “What did I do?”

Nothing. I did nothing. But I was too young and too sheltered to realize that then.

The people that know about this moment in my life I can count on less than one hand. And when I shared this story with one of them, who happens to be a man, the first thing out of his mouth was “Yeah, but you were kind of leading him on.”

Because I danced with him. Because I chose to inch away quietly as best I could as he closed the space between our bodies and didn’t rightfully punch him in the face as I should have. Because I didn’t say anything to him leading up to the “Knock it off!” I shouted at him when I yanked my hand from his grasp in his pants when I felt his genitalia against my fingers. Apparently my silence was consent.

For the record, my silence was shock. And nothing more.

I couldn’t believe my ears. This man, who I respect with everything that I am. Who I know would march right beside me for my right to be heard, to vote, to have equal rights…

This man said, “Yeah, but you were kind of leading him on…”

Oh my friends, we have so much more fight left in this battle.

It saddens me that on this day, of all days, I am reminded that there is still a problem. That of all the big battles we have waged and won, we come home to this from the men who stand WITH us. Today I have to remind my male friends that I am not a child. That I deserve as much respect as they would give to their boss. Today I had to start out my day reminded of how very, very far we are from our goals.

So as you see the cheery reminders of International Women’s Day and you gladly celebrate your sisters, your mothers, your wives, your daughters and your friends please remember that while the big wars may have all been won, it’s the little daily battles that drain us.

Choose kind words.

Choose respectful words.

Choose to consider my voice as valid as your own.

“I alone cannot change the world, but I can cast a stone across the waters to create many ripples.”
– Mother Teresa.

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“Everything else about the three-years-ago scene was different, though. That time I was not in Rome but in the upstairs bathroom of the big house in the suburbs of New York that I’d recently purchased with my husband. It was a cold November, around 3 o’clock in the morning. My husband was sleeping in our bed. I was hiding in the bathroom for something like the 47th consecutive night, and, just as during all those nights before, I was sobbing. Sobbing so hard, in fact, that a great lake of tears and snot was spreading before me on the bathroom tiles, a veritable Lake Inferior (if you will) of all my shame and fear and confusion and grief.”

This is an excerpt from Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love.

I didn’t want to read Eat, Pray, Love. It was the hot new book at the time, and the book club I was part of was all too ready to jump on the bandwagon. It was already in the air about how this book touched people, or inspired them to be better people, or inspired them to change everything about how they lived life.

Yada…yada…yada…

I had no need for this in my life, I was happy. I wasn’t searching. My marriage was in better standing than most, my kid was adorable, and every day I did the thing that I’ve always wanted to do. I rolled my eyes at the idea of going off on this soul-searching adventure. What the hell was Elizabeth Gilbert going to teach me?

And then I read the above quote. Here was this woman with this perfectly good life, and she was sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing over how stuck she felt. I remember a small smile escaped my lips because I too tend to take refuge on the bathroom floor at 3am and let the whole world crumble. It was interesting to me that something that I do, which I labeled as being weird and weak, was so human that I found it in a book. That this woman, who is heralded so relatable by the masses, just made me relatable too.

She also admitted a flaw that she had, which I happen to share. And through the way she believed this flaw was viewed by other people, I realized exactly how the world saw me. From that moment on, I made it a point to never do that again. In one sentence of a book I had no desire to read, how I interact with everyone around me changed forever.

Since then, I’ve made it a point to never dismiss the idea of learning something new. And since then, picking up those soul-searching, life-changing, better-habit-making books isn’t something I roll my eyes at anymore. You never know where the next gem is hidden.

Right now, I’m in the middle of a class hosted by Judy Blume. Of course, as you know, she’s a children’s book author. Possibly THE children’s book author. But the class came across my desk and I didn’t turn the idea away.

I figured, if within 29 classes, I couldn’t come up with one thing I learned from Judy Blume that I could apply to my own writing, then maybe I should rethink my career.

I’ve never met her, and know nothing beyond the fact that her fiction books are the stepping-stones to the basic soul-searching, life-changing, better-habit-making books of the Elisabeth Gilberts of the world. The children, tweens and teens she brings to life are as human and as real as you and me, and so are their problems.

About a quarter of the way into the class, Judy started talking about the craft of writing and how she goes about keeping her notes and getting her ideas.

Now this is Judy Blume. THE Judy Blume.

I thought she would share this brilliant masterpiece of work she called plotting. I thought she would talk about the importance of creating deep and layered characters.

But, what she shared was so adorably human: her scribbly notebook. I wasn’t expecting the great and amazing Judy Blume to say something so human as to she writes everything down, lets it sit and be a mess for a while, and then makes something out of it.  She brought me to that place where I thought that I was weird and weak (in this case, unorganized and unprofessional) and made me understand that a scattered mind is perfectly good place for a writer to be. That I don’t have to have an overly complicated system in place to be successful. That I don’t have to close off the world and only rely on my own imagination for inspiration.

I took my hot mess to this class, hoping that Judy Blume would show me a way to perfect and organize and utilize. In turn, Judy Blume taught me how to own my hot mess and make something out of it.

She made the craft of writing relatable.

And like with Eat, Pray, Love I know that how I handle the craft of writing from this point on will be forever changed.

Ten years ago, if you were to tell me that I’d always some kind of soul-searching, life-changing, better-habit making book in my hand I would have laughed at you.

What was there to learn?

Nothing.

Except for the extraordinary art of being human.

These are the moments I understand down to my toes why at 87, Michelangelo said,

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“Everything else about the three-years-ago scene was different, though. That time I was not in Rome but in the upstairs bathroom of the big house in the suburbs of New York that I’d recently purchased with my husband. It was a cold November, around 3 o’clock in the morning. My husband was sleeping in our bed. I was hiding in the bathroom for something like the 47th consecutive night, and, just as during all those nights before, I was sobbing. Sobbing so hard, in fact, that a great lake of tears and snot was spreading before me on the bathroom tiles, a veritable Lake Inferior (if you will) of all my shame and fear and confusion and grief.”

This is an excerpt from Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love.

I didn’t want to read Eat, Pray, Love. It was the hot new book at the time, and the book club I was part of was all too ready to jump on the bandwagon. It was already in the air about how this book touched people, or inspired them to be better people, or inspired them to change everything about how they lived life.

Yada…yada…yada…

I had no need for this in my life, I was happy. I wasn’t searching. My marriage was in better standing than most, my kid was adorable, and every day I did the thing that I’ve always wanted to do. I rolled my eyes at the idea of going off on this soul-searching adventure. What the hell was Elizabeth Gilbert going to teach me?

And then I read the above quote. Here was this woman with this perfectly good life, and she was sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing over how stuck she felt. I remember a small smile escaped my lips because I too tend to take refuge on the bathroom floor at 3am and let the whole world crumble. It was interesting to me that something that I do, which I labeled as being weird and weak, was so human that I found it in a book. That this woman, who is heralded so relatable by the masses, just made me relatable too.

She also admitted a flaw that she had, which I happen to share. And through the way she believed this flaw was viewed by other people, I realized exactly how the world saw me. From that moment on, I made it a point to never do that again. In one sentence of a book I had no desire to read, how I interact with everyone around me changed forever.

Since then, I’ve made it a point to never dismiss the idea of learning something new. And since then, picking up those soul-searching, life-changing, better-habit-making books isn’t something I roll my eyes at anymore. You never know where the next gem is hidden.

Right now, I’m in the middle of a class hosted by Judy Blume. Of course, as you know, she’s a children’s book author. Possibly THE children’s book author. But the class came across my desk and I didn’t turn the idea away.

I figured, if within 29 classes, I couldn’t come up with one thing I learned from Judy Blume that I could apply to my own writing, then maybe I should rethink my career.

I’ve never met her, and know nothing beyond the fact that her fiction books are the stepping-stones to the basic soul-searching, life-changing, better-habit-making books of the Elisabeth Gilberts of the world. The children, tweens and teens she brings to life are as human and as real as you and me, and so are their problems.

About a quarter of the way into the class, Judy started talking about the craft of writing and how she goes about keeping her notes and getting her ideas.

Now this is Judy Blume. THE Judy Blume.

I thought she would share this brilliant masterpiece of work she called plotting. I thought she would talk about the importance of creating deep and layered characters.

But, what she shared was so adorably human: her scribbly notebook. I wasn’t expecting the great and amazing Judy Blume to say something so human as to she writes everything down, lets it sit and be a mess for a while, and then makes something out of it.  She brought me to that place where I thought that I was weird and weak (in this case, unorganized and unprofessional) and made me understand that a scattered mind is perfectly good place for a writer to be. That I don’t have to have an overly complicated system in place to be successful. That I don’t have to close off the world and only rely on my own imagination for inspiration.

I took my hot mess to this class, hoping that Judy Blume would show me a way to perfect and organize and utilize. In turn, Judy Blume taught me how to own my hot mess and make something out of it.

She made the craft of writing relatable.

And like with Eat, Pray, Love I know that how I handle the craft of writing from this point on will be forever changed.

Ten years ago, if you were to tell me that I’d always some kind of soul-searching, life-changing, better-habit making book in my hand I would have laughed at you.

What was there to learn?

Nothing.

Except for the extraordinary art of being human.

These are the moments I understand down to my toes why at 87, Michelangelo said,

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“What’s your favorite Rock and Roll song?”

This was how my pastor decided to open up the last service of 2017. Once a month, he insists that we get up from our comfortable seats, find somebody we do not know, introduce ourselves and learn something about them.  I happened to be in the company of one our other pastors, and though I already know him, I thought it would be fun to find out what his answer would be. He’s a quiet man, very soft spoken and thoughtful. His messages are often reflective of ancient times, his official title is Spiritual Formation Pastor. He has Hebrew text tattooed on his wrist to remind himself of his place and his duty in this world. The man is deep.

He said he’d have a hard time coming up with one song, but he’d imagine it would be something by Boston. He loves a good Boston song.

Really? I’m dying. Boston? I love it. I just… I don’t know. It cracks me up to know this about him.

While I could tell you my favorite musician, my favorite American composer, and even a favored instrument, I’d fail to be able to tell you a favorite song. I was not near my husband at the time of this question, but I smiled because on a regular basis I’ll announce of the latest song on the radio – Oh! I love this song! It’s my favorite! – And I’ll do it of the next and the next and the next. He shakes his head at me and asks me if I understand the meaning of the word favorite. Loving a song is like loving a child. When it comes to you, you fall in love with it. No other will do. You fall deeply in love with all of its little quirks that make it unique and cannot imagine loving anything else more. Then the next one comes along, and you love it in the exact same way, for completely different reasons.

It’s awesome.

When we sat back in our seats, the pastor on stage goes on to tell us about a song once written that had the most ridiculous words. It came in a dream, and was written in a flurry so that it wouldn’t be forgotten by the end of the morning coffee. The man who wrote it had no idea what to do with it, but he wanted to make sure he wouldn’t forget the tune, so he filled in the notes with some pretty crazy lyrics. Place holders. Unimpressive lyrics about scrambled eggs.

He tucked it away, and moved on with his life. He knew the song was special. He knew he’d have to do something really wonderful with it, but he didn’t know what yet. He was just going to have to wait and see what shook out, because he really didn’t want to mess up the chance to make something amazing.

The reason our pastor was telling us about this song was because much like everyone else, he felt the heaviness that was 2017. Regardless of who you are, or where you fall in opinion, all of us can agree on one thing- 2017 kind of sucked.

We’ve had nothing short of a civil war on our hands for the last 347 days. Dining room tables, my own included, have become war zones. It was all of the sudden ok to call someone else’s political opinion into question. Religious rights were up for debate. Ethnicity all of the sudden became the card you had to check at the door. You can be a immigrant as long as you were the right kind. You know, the kind whose ancestors pillaged, raped, murdered, and stole from innocent people minding their own business on a very much already occupied land.

We cool.

And don’t even get my started on social media. Folks, when we are the given the opportunity to be our most ugly, we do not fail to succeed. We were not only attacking with political prose and religious rants, these just seemed to be a gateway drug of the “nobody asked you” design.

I kid you not, I sat here one afternoon completely speechless after coming across one of the most hateful and terrible and mean posts I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t over politics, or religion, or equality. No, this post was an unwarranted attack on the quality of a gift. A gift. What made it worse was that I thought for sure, this person’s “friends” would gently remind them to choose kindness. That’s not what happened. Seems like the schoolyard was cheering on the bully.

Shame on all of you.

As I sat in my seat, listening to my pastor, his words echoed my thoughts. My story is no different than any of yours. We all agree, 2017, wasn’t our best.

So why is he talking about this song?

Well, because the lyrics sucked. There weren’t right at all. But that didn’t matter. The song writer knew he had something special, and he was just going to stay open to all the possibilities.

This past years has sucked. It wasn’t right, at all. But it doesn’t matter. We are capable of having something special. We can and should stay open to all possibilities.

Do not give up, especially when you know in your bones, that you have something very special.

And now I sit here thinking about this guy. He walked around with a tune in his pocket. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t push it. He didn’t give up on it. He had no particular due date in mind, and this did not stop him from working on it. From playing around with its imperfectness.

My pastor brought this to our attention to remind us not to give up on the possible goodness of the upcoming year. While his message was far broader in the spectrum, I think maybe, there was something a little more that I walked away with.

Something smaller, but no less important.

This time last year I talked about the goals of January becoming the expectations that strangled you in July. And true enough, by July of last year I had stopped thinking of what creativity I could produce in the next five months, and started thinking about all I hadn’t done in the last seven.

I think rather than giving myself goals of January that will inevitably be what weighs me down in July, I’m going to pull a page from this guy’s book. I’m going to take all of my little baby goals (and I do have them) and I am going to tuck them away safely. As the year goes by, if I happen to come across something that will aid me in my quest, great! If I don’t, that’s okay too.

I’m not going to rush it for the sake of a due date. I’m not going to push it for the sake of numbers. I’m going to remind myself, every day, that I want beautiful things from my life. And beautiful things are worth the wait.

I’ll have no particular due date in mind. Anything I can add along the way in this upcoming year will be only seen as being that much closer to everything falling into perfect harmony.

Nobody ever talks about how long it took Paul McCartney to get from Scrambled eggs, oh, my baby how I love your legs to Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.

Nobody cares how long it takes anyone to do anything, as long as you do it. As long as you tuck all your goals away in your pocket, and promise yourself that you won’t forget about them.

Happy New Year my darlings.

I wish you the very best that all your tomorrows may bring.

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“What’s your favorite Rock and Roll song?”

This was how my pastor decided to open up the last service of 2017. Once a month, he insists that we get up from our comfortable seats, find somebody we do not know, introduce ourselves and learn something about them.  I happened to be in the company of one our other pastors, and though I already know him, I thought it would be fun to find out what his answer would be. He’s a quiet man, very soft spoken and thoughtful. His messages are often reflective of ancient times, his official title is Spiritual Formation Pastor. He has Hebrew text tattooed on his wrist to remind himself of his place and his duty in this world. The man is deep.

He said he’d have a hard time coming up with one song, but he’d imagine it would be something by Boston. He loves a good Boston song.

Really? I’m dying. Boston? I love it. I just… I don’t know. It cracks me up to know this about him.

While I could tell you my favorite musician, my favorite American composer, and even a favored instrument, I’d fail to be able to tell you a favorite song. I was not near my husband at the time of this question, but I smiled because on a regular basis I’ll announce of the latest song on the radio – Oh! I love this song! It’s my favorite! – And I’ll do it of the next and the next and the next. He shakes his head at me and asks me if I understand the meaning of the word favorite. Loving a song is like loving a child. When it comes to you, you fall in love with it. No other will do. You fall deeply in love with all of its little quirks that make it unique and cannot imagine loving anything else more. Then the next one comes along, and you love it in the exact same way, for completely different reasons.

It’s awesome.

When we sat back in our seats, the pastor on stage goes on to tell us about a song once written that had the most ridiculous words. It came in a dream, and was written in a flurry so that it wouldn’t be forgotten by the end of the morning coffee. The man who wrote it had no idea what to do with it, but he wanted to make sure he wouldn’t forget the tune, so he filled in the notes with some pretty crazy lyrics. Place holders. Unimpressive lyrics about scrambled eggs.

He tucked it away, and moved on with his life. He knew the song was special. He knew he’d have to do something really wonderful with it, but he didn’t know what yet. He was just going to have to wait and see what shook out, because he really didn’t want to mess up the chance to make something amazing.

The reason our pastor was telling us about this song was because much like everyone else, he felt the heaviness that was 2017. Regardless of who you are, or where you fall in opinion, all of us can agree on one thing- 2017 kind of sucked.

We’ve had nothing short of a civil war on our hands for the last 347 days. Dining room tables, my own included, have become war zones. It was all of the sudden ok to call someone else’s political opinion into question. Religious rights were up for debate. Ethnicity all of the sudden became the card you had to check at the door. You can be a immigrant as long as you were the right kind. You know, the kind whose ancestors pillaged, raped, murdered, and stole from innocent people minding their own business on a very much already occupied land.

We cool.

And don’t even get my started on social media. Folks, when we are the given the opportunity to be our most ugly, we do not fail to succeed. We were not only attacking with political prose and religious rants, these just seemed to be a gateway drug of the “nobody asked you” design.

I kid you not, I sat here one afternoon completely speechless after coming across one of the most hateful and terrible and mean posts I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t over politics, or religion, or equality. No, this post was an unwarranted attack on the quality of a gift. A gift. What made it worse was that I thought for sure, this person’s “friends” would gently remind them to choose kindness. That’s not what happened. Seems like the schoolyard was cheering on the bully.

Shame on all of you.

As I sat in my seat, listening to my pastor, his words echoed my thoughts. My story is no different than any of yours. We all agree, 2017, wasn’t our best.

So why is he talking about this song?

Well, because the lyrics sucked. There weren’t right at all. But that didn’t matter. The song writer knew he had something special, and he was just going to stay open to all the possibilities.

This past years has sucked. It wasn’t right, at all. But it doesn’t matter. We are capable of having something special. We can and should stay open to all possibilities.

Do not give up, especially when you know in your bones, that you have something very special.

And now I sit here thinking about this guy. He walked around with a tune in his pocket. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t push it. He didn’t give up on it. He had no particular due date in mind, and this did not stop him from working on it. From playing around with its imperfectness.

My pastor brought this to our attention to remind us not to give up on the possible goodness of the upcoming year. While his message was far broader in the spectrum, I think maybe, there was something a little more that I walked away with.

Something smaller, but no less important.

This time last year I talked about the goals of January becoming the expectations that strangled you in July. And true enough, by July of last year I had stopped thinking of what creativity I could produce in the next five months, and started thinking about all I hadn’t done in the last seven.

I think rather than giving myself goals of January that will inevitably be what weighs me down in July, I’m going to pull a page from this guy’s book. I’m going to take all of my little baby goals (and I do have them) and I am going to tuck them away safely. As the year goes by, if I happen to come across something that will aid me in my quest, great! If I don’t, that’s okay too.

I’m not going to rush it for the sake of a due date. I’m not going to push it for the sake of numbers. I’m going to remind myself, every day, that I want beautiful things from my life. And beautiful things are worth the wait.

I’ll have no particular due date in mind. Anything I can add along the way in this upcoming year will be only seen as being that much closer to everything falling into perfect harmony.

Nobody ever talks about how long it took Paul McCartney to get from Scrambled eggs, oh, my baby how I love your legs to Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.

Nobody cares how long it takes anyone to do anything, as long as you do it. As long as you tuck all your goals away in your pocket, and promise yourself that you won’t forget about them.

Happy New Year my darlings.

I wish you the very best that all your tomorrows may bring.

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A lot of people have seen me in my underwear.

At least, it certainly feels that way.

The first book I wrote, I didn’t tell a soul about. I sat at my computer day after day, knowing that this is what I want to do with my life, but I had no idea how to do it.

Every day, and every page had no destination in mind. It really truly was about the journey of being one with my keyboard.

And then I was done, and I had to take that next step. I had to give it to somebody to read.

While I love my story, and I know that THAT book was always meant to be my first, the idea of letting somebody else read it made me a little queasy.

I did what we tend to do in times of crisis. I put my need in the hands of someone I trust with my life and I asked them to tell me that I am okay. That it would all be okay.

And then I hid under the desk, in a ball, with my hands wrapped around my head until I was reminded (twenty five thousand times) to believe in myself.

All I kept thinking was that I feel like I’ve walked out on stage for all the world to see, in my underwear.

I’d like to tell you that this feeling of waiting for judgement goes away. I’d like to tell you that I can put my drafts into the hands of anyone anywhere and believe in myself the way I am constantly (and lovingly) reminded to.

Every story is a piece of me, and I am essentially giving it to you and waiting to see if it is loved. If it is liked. If it is good enough.

I am always going to worry.

What has gone away is the fear that I am standing on this stage, in my skivvies, alone.

In the summer of 2016 I joined a critique group. This group is made up of six other writers, all who range in experience, genres, and even age. We span decades, and represent all stages of life. We have a private network where we chatter online. Sometimes checking in every once in a while, and sometimes filling days on end with non-sensical chatter.

We trade work weekly, and that too is at all stages. Some of us have polished works of art and some of us are slinging out NANOWRIMO clay.

I’m a tough girl, and I’m smart enough to know that there is always room for improvement. There have been weeks where I thought that I handed in something that was going to get a standing ovation. Never in the history of ever has there been such a beautiful combination of words. And then I open my pages and I see a red-penned massacre. Even worse, the paragraph that I thought was the pinnacle of perfection had been highlighted, by all six, with various notes that collectively told me- What is the point of this?

There have also been weeks where I accidentally fell into brilliance. – That right there, best sentence. Way to bring it round back to X,Y, Z.

Yeah, because I meant to do that…totally.

To their credit, I think I am one of the harshest partners. It’s nothing for any one of them to open up their returned document and be flooded with hundreds of red lines, and notes in the margins. I’ve slashed, highlighted, and cut. I’ve rewritten and flat out said – this is what you meant to say.

I have to admit, I love beta reading/ light editing as much as I love writing.

My red pen shows no mercy. I know this, and I make no apologies for it.

Our jobs as writers is to stand at the edge of our limits. Our jobs as critique partners is to push each other just that one step farther. Because that is where we know our partners will shine.

And they do shine.

I didn’t think I could love these ladies more.

But then just a few weeks ago, two of my partners had the unique opportunity to have their works reviewed by industry professionals not yet in any of our grasps. They could have taken their notes, edited accordingly, and moved along with the next books. I really wouldn’t have been the wiser.

What they did instead was share their feedback. They were brave enough to not only share the intimate experience that is drafting a story from scratch, but they were kind enough to point out the weaknesses that had been exposed.

Not to benefit their own writing, but to benefit mine.

They are allowing me the honor of learning from their mistakes, and that is an enormously brave thing to do.

I’ve noticed this about not only my critique partners, but about writers in general. And it doesn’t matter how famous they are. A couple of months ago I went to a meeting where the speaker was an agent at a very prestigious publishing house. The point of the evening was to workshop our blurbs (the bit on the back of your book that tells you what it is about so you can make a ten second decision to buy or put it down). We went around the room, and anyone who wanted to could share their blurb in progress, and have advice from this agent as to how to improve it.

It took a bit of courage, but I shared mine. To my surprise, the agent had little issue with it. She smiled and said “That sounds like a really sweet story.” She said if I were to do anything at all to it, maybe tighten it up a bit. Cut out a few sentences.

The writer sitting next to me who was, is, and probably always will  be out of my league whispered to me- Email that to me, I’ll help you clean it up.

Just last month, our monthly meeting was simply a plotting workshop. I sat with three other writers, and we told each other about our stories and where we were stuck for ideas. And together we brain stormed to get each one of us up and over our “wall.” It was, essentially the grown up version of the story game where you go round and round, building a story one narrator and sentence at a time. It was great fun to imagine what I would do in somebody else’s book, and it will be even more fun to discover if any of my ideas will make the final cut. I came home with pages full of ideas for my next project. And several offers of – please e mail me if you need more help.

I have never met a group of people more willing to share their obstacles so that another writer can find the path of least resistance.

I have never met a group of people more willing to run down the road of success and turn back to make sure that those that follow don’t get lost.

I have never met a group of people more willing to stop, and pick each other up and dust each other off.

I am a better writer than I was a week ago. I am a better writer than I was a month ago.

A year ago.

I am better because I have a network of people who know that I can in the moments that I believe that I cannot.

Thanksgiving was just a few days ago, and for you I give thanks.

To my six, and the extended network that I have grown over these past few years, I am eternally grateful for the trust, and faith that we share in each other.

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