How to Get to the Other Side, No Matter Where You’re Headed

Posted on September 11, 2013 by thewritertracy

NicholasSchwab

photo by Chesse Hobbs

I think it was the exclamation points.  There were two.  And they came at just the right time.  Because the more I dig into this project, the more I find myself face to face with the enormity of it.

And so when my friend Cara took the time to write and congratulate me on following my dream, when she pointed out that most people are afraid to do so, when she put two exclamation points at the end of her sentence, I got teary.

Because while I’ve lived through some frightening moments in my life, none compare to the scariness of writing my first book. 

The fear, the doubt, the procrastination: some days it is stifling.  Other days my enthusiasm, my love for what I’m doing, my sheer determination squash all uncertainty.  And so, I continue to trudge forward. Albeit slowly. Day by day, word by word, or as Anne Lamott puts it, bird by bird.

And someday, even if it kills me, I know I’ll finish this book.  Hopefully, someday will be next spring (first draft anyway).

How do I do it?  Not by myself, that’s for sure.  I do it with the help of others. I do it through their encouragement.  I do it while holding tightly onto those double exclamation points.

Because in the last few years, as I’ve finally begun to realize what it is I truly want to do, I have discovered this:

When I put myself out there, when I risk telling the world what I want, no one laughs. Instead, the world cheers me on.  And when the world cheers me on, I begin to believe that perhaps maybe, I really can do this. 

I think it’s because the world loves an underdog. Or maybe, I am convincing, sell myself well.  Or perhaps (most likely) people are just being nice.  But it doesn’t really matter why people say what they say.  What matters is this: it works.

This weekend my family and I went to the Colts game.  It was indeed a nail biter.  I’m no sports writer but all you need to know is this: Colts were down 14 to 17 with just minutes left in the game.  And it was in these last few minutes that Andrew Luck pulled out a touchdown, and the Raiders’ Terrell Pryor followed by throwing an interception.  In the end the Colts won.  But here’s the thing: you should have heard the crowd.

We were clapping.  We were yelling.  We were rooting the Colts to victory and taunting the Raiders to make nervous mistakes.  And I believe this noise can make a difference.

I’m progressing toward my goals.  I am sitting in the chair and doing the work.  But moving forward is so much easier when people are behind you. Rooting for you.  Cheering you on.  It makes a difference.

Writing a book on faith stories feels right in every way, like it is what I am meant to do, what I am called to do.  At the same time it feels tremendously…out there.

But I started this project with baby steps.  I stuck my foot out, extended my tiny pinky toe into the pool and felt the coolness of the water.

I reluctantly told people I wanted to write a book.  And people said, why don’t you?  I reluctantly said I want to write a book on miracles, and people said, why don’t you?  I told others, strangers even, that I would like to hear their faith stories.  They said they’d love to share them.

I’d say at this point I’m up to my ankles in wonderful, wet water.  I have several faith story interviews complete,  more in the wings and many ideas collected on or how to gather even more stories.  In addition, I have the front end of the book written and I am getting a sense for where the book is going.  And guess what?  It’s not going anywhere I thought it would.

And isn’t that how it goes?  Stick your toe in the water and you get the courage to get your foot wet.  Get your foot weight and you find the strength to take a dive in the deep end. And once you crash through the water, you discover it’s so much stinking colder than you expected.

The creative process, and I would argue most of life, does not go as we expect it to.  While in college we learn more about the world than we actually learn from our studies.  Marriage is wonderful but can be hard at the same time.  There is no understanding having children until you’ve raised one (or three).  And going out on a limb for your dreams rarely turns out like you think it will.  The water is always colder than we anticipate.

Yet it’s refreshing.  And invigorating.  And worth diving into.  And if there is someone standing there on the pool deck, someone who believes you will get to the other side, well then, you believe it too.  Thanks to those who right now believe in me.  It makes a difference.

Posted in Faith, Goals, inspiration, Risk, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

How to Know if He’s the One, Even after Two Decades of Life Together

Posted on September 4, 2013 by thewritertracy

  MP900439253

I’d said it with pride, but when he pointed out the truth, my stomach suddenly lurched.

“22 years, huh?  Why you’re only three years away from your silver wedding anniversary.”

 Silver Wedding Anniversary?  What?!  That’s an anniversary for old people.  People like my parents.  My pride withered.  In its place was humility, feelings of being obsolete, like some old geezer reminiscing about things no one really cares about.

To save face, I gave a quick smile to my acquaintance, and said, “Yeah, we’ll have to do something big for that one.”

This year, big was hosting a cookout.  What better way to celebrate, we thought, then to have a party with old friends, friends who’d attended the very wedding we were celebrating.

It was a good time.  Over burgers and chips and watermelon we caught up with one another, talked about life, kids, and our glory days.  Ah, the stories!  In the end, it felt not much different than one of our parties from so long ago.  (Although it ended much earlier, and there were several offspring in attendance.)

 The next day as we cleaned up the remnants from the party, my husband so aptly said, “Everyone is the same.”  He’s right.

Of course everyone is older.  There are gray hairs and wrinkles and a bit more softness around the middle.  But at heart, our friends are the same people they’ve always been.

As I wash the last of the dishes, I think about my husband, our marriage.  I consider: after twenty-two years of marriage, are we the same?  Am I the same?

The answer of course, is no.  But for this I am glad. Because the girl who married her love at age 25 had so much to learn.   And still does.

But after twenty-two years of marriage, I can safely admit to knowing the following is true: 

*I must be careful with my words, because while they may be forgiven, they are rarely forgotten.

*My husband does not intuitively know what I want; sometimes I have to tell him.

 *Being right isn’t so important in the long run.

*A small kindness goes a long way.

*Not every grievance needs to be discussed.  Little things are indeed little.

*My children are learning about marriage from their father and me.  This is a huge responsibility.

*The man I married so long ago is the same man I live with today; he will not magically transform into SuperHubby, and I can’t expect him to.

*You cannot change someone else, but you can change how you react to someone.  Understanding this makes all the difference.

Are You Settling or Settling Down?

I just finished reading Comeback Season, How I Learned to Play the Game of Love by (Hoosier native) Cathy Day.  In this autobiography, Day is searching for love and asks her friend, “What’s the difference between ‘settling’ and ‘settling down’?”

Her friend does not have an answer.  To me, this is an age-old question. And as I have just celebrated my own anniversary to a man I still “love and like” as I so profoundly told him the other night, I consider the question.

I’m not sure any one person would answer it same way.  I’m not even sure there is any one answer.  But for me, the difference between settling and settling down is slight but also profound. It has to do with who you are and what you value.

Settling means you are unhappy with that you have.  You would like someone better but aren’t sure you can get him.  The root of why you stay is based in fear.   Deep down you know this; it’s why you question.

Settling down means for the most part, you’re content with what you have.  This doesn’t mean you don’t have frustrations about the imperfections in your relationship. If this man would just: send flowers, take the kids camping, pick up his shoes.  Deep down you know this is never going to happen.

Yet: while these things get under your skin,  you respect your partner.  You are proud of the person he is.  If your friend dated him, you’d think he was a great guy.

No one leaves her husband because he won’t take the kids camping.  Instead you accept that he doesn’t like camping, and you value his better traits. This acceptance is key. 

Acceptance is taking your spouse for who they are.  A person who is grumpy in the morning, impatient when you’re late, quiet when he is stressed out.  He, in turn, accepts that you are entirely too talkative in the morning, moody when your writing isn’t going well, and anxious when life gets too busy (not that I am speaking about my own marriage: hahaha).

But when you’ve settled down, you let go of perfection.  You accept that everyone has faults.  You choose to focus on the good things in your life together; your children’s accomplishments, your own accomplishments, your good times with old friends.  Most of all, you embrace the fact that after however many years, you not only still love your partner but you like him too.  What a gift.  Makes getting older worth it.

I’ve added my post to the web party at http://www.makealivingwriting.com, check out the other great posts here: 

<a href=”http://www.makealivingwriting.com/2013/09/06/friday-link-party-writers-back-to-school-edition/”><img src=”http://www.makealivingwriting.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/MALW_linkparty1.jpg”/></a&gt;

Posted in Faith, Family Life, humor, inspiration, life lessons, marriage, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 19 Comments

Lessons Learned from a Ten-Year-Old Entrepreneur

Posted on August 28, 2013 by thewritertracy

IMG_1894

I’ve been a mother for 19 years.  Three times I have given birth. Three times I have taught people how to go potty, tie shoes, and trim toenails.  Three times I’ve pushed a little girl behind her bike until she could do it on her own.  But this year, I am the one learning.

My youngest daughter Abby has become…an entrepreneur.  For the past year, she’s been selling cards.  And bookmarks.  And posters.  And bracelets.  She sets up a stand on the corner of our yard and every weekend she drags out her table, lays out her creations and sells her wares.  She does quite well.

I’d like to take credit for her success, but I can’t.  In fact, if I’m being truthful, I’d say Abby has been successful not because of me, but in spite of me.

I thought I knew it all.

Because for (almost) as long as I’ve been a mother, I’ve had a kiddo following me around the house, suggesting we have a sale.  We could sell rocks.  We could sell lemonade.  We could sell art.  We could sell toys. Twice I’ve been asked to have a circus.

But I know how much work is involved.  I know who is expected to finance the sale and how little profit will be made. I also know it takes an adult (me) to make it happen.  So my answer is always the same: No.  I am, a Dream Squasher.

But last summer, Abby caught me off guard.  She asked to sell cards. She’d already made them.  I quickly surmised that this venture did not require my help, and would keep her occupied.  It would also be an great economic lesson (if you make 15 cards, and sell 1 in 6 hours for 50 cents, is it worth your time?).   I told her to go for it.

An hour or so later, I went to check on her.  I was surprised to learn she’d sold a few cards.  Huh.  Her customers included a teenager riding his bike, a friend from down the street, and an older couple out walking their dogs.  It warmed my heart to know we had neighbors nice enough to indulge my daughter in her pursuits.  And it kept her busy.

Hard work + Vision= Success.

Well, you can’t stop progress.  Buoyed by her initial sales, Abby went into full card making mode.  She made holiday cards, cards with animal photos, and funny cards like the e-cards you see online.  She was a virtual card-making machine. I enjoyed seeing her pour her heart into something.  Yet I also feared her customer-base would soon dry up.

But Abby continued in her pursuit of the American Dream. Up went the card stand each evening and weekend. Much to my surprise, she made money all summer long.   Eventually she was saying things like, “I need to sell my cards today because the weather is good.”

When summer ended, I presumed her stand would close.  I was wrong.  I knew my daughter was dedicated when on a cold December day she sat at her stand outside alone for two hours.  As you can imagine, she made no sales.  My heart ached for her.  We put the table up for the winter.

This year, when the warm weather returned, Abby dragged her stand back out.  She added bookmarks, posters and bracelets to her inventory.  Next we had her artwork printed on card stock and she’s selling these cards at a local store on our town square. The girl’s got game. Frankly I’m astounded by her drive.   And, a bit ashamed.

Lessons Learned from My Ten-Year-Old.

Because not only was I wrong to think my daughter’s venture would fail, but I was wrong about it disappointing her.  My hardworking girl enjoys selling her wares. She is focused, determined and best of all…having fun, despite the days when nothing sells.

And so it is that my ten-year-old has taught me a few important lessons.

1-This mother doesn’t always know best.  I’ve spent years “suggesting” to Abby that she play soccer, play the piano or join the Girl Scouts. I’ve been exasperated by her lack of interest in such things.  When I finally let go and let her decide how to spend her time, she found her way.  I probably should have let her lead all along.

2-People are good, even when there’s nothing in it for them.  So many people have blessed my girl through this experience. There’s the teenager who bought three cards and let her keep the change ($5) when she didn’t have money to make change. There’s the older couple who buy cards every time they see her.  There’s the local store owner who lets Abby her sell the cards in her shop without charging her a percentage. Good people, extending kindness to my daughter, with no personal gain. This makes my heart sing.

3-It takes a dreamer to achieve a dream.  Great things can happen when you throw caution to the wind.  Take a risk.  Believe in yourself.  Why would I not want to encourage my children to do this?  Yes, there will be a few lonely days out in the cold.  And there will always be some who do not think we will succeed (even, gasp, our mothers).  But if we don’t believe in ourselves, who will believe in us?  It takes a dreamer to achieve a dream. And I no longer want to be a Dream Squasher.

Posted in Family Life, Goals, humor, inspiration, life lessons, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The 3 Things that Led Me to Writing

Posted on August 21, 2013 by thewritertracy

photo(10)

I am participating in the ‘Writing Contest: You Are A Writer’ held by Positive Writer.

My journey with writing began with a newborn baby, a bum refrigerator and an accounting error.

I was thirty-one years old and I was tired.  Tired from working.  Tired from being pregnant with my second child.  Tired of trying to do it all.  In truth, I felt as if I might drown amid my responsibilities. And so I decided:  This is not the life for me.  And I quit my job.

Going from two paychecks to one was difficult, my adjustment to becoming an at-home mom even more so. I’d traded in boardrooms and business suits for stained t-shirts and afternoons at Chucky Cheese. The days were long, the nights were short, and if I got a shower…Well, that meant it was a good day.

Money was tight.  And as karma would have it, as soon as I quit, our refrigerator went out.  And so it was that my husband and I found ourselves at Best Buy, purchasing a fridge we could not afford. Thank God for the “six months same as cash” plan.

I spent the next few months adjusting to my new life.  I learned to feed a family of four on tuna, Jello and macaroni and cheese.  I found cheap or free ways to entertain my children.  I learned to get by on very little sleep.  And soon enough I discovered I’d saved enough money to pay for our fridge. Ah, sweet victory!

Our days took on a pleasant rhythm.   We spent afternoons at the park, at the zoo, and at the mall.  We also had long nights with ear infections, flu and mystery fevers.  Being at home wasn’t easy. Living on one paycheck wasn’t easy.  And there was a bit of losing myself in taking care of the house and the children. But I was happy. We were happy.

Several months later, while paying bills, I discovered a windfall in our bank account. Hmmm. Where did this money come from, I wondered. Perhaps I’d been extra vigilant in saving for the refrigerator. Truth be told, having extra money was the least of my worries. 

And so it was that my husband and I, two children in tow, found ourselves back at Best Buy, this time for a more exciting purchase: a home computer. We may have been living on tuna with Mac and cheese, but we had a computer.  A computer, with Microsoft Word.

It didn’t take long for me to wander over to the computer during nap time.  And it didn’t take long to discover my passion for writing.  I wrote about motherhood.  I wrote about loneliness. I wrote about how being at home with children was nothing like I thought being at home with children would be.  Pouring out words onto paper was a cathartic release. When I wrote I felt so…Alive.

On a whim, I sent an essay I’d written into F.O.R.U.M, a national mother’s group I belonged to.  The group published a national newsletter about family life for its members. I never expected to hear anything back from the editor.  But I did.

Weeks later, I got the letter. F.O.R.U.M. was going to publish my essay, The Five O’clock Dances. I was ecstatic.  I was elated.  I was over the moon. That anyone would be interested in reading my words, this was humbling. 

When I saw my byline, saw my article in print, that was it: I was hooked. 

A month later, I picked up my new issue of the F.O.R.U.M. newsletter. Another mother had written a response to my essay. She thanked me for writing it.  She said it gave her hope on a day that had been really rotten.  People don’t often say it, but mothers of young children often have really rotten days.  That I had softened the blow for someone else, this felt like an honor.  I found myself in tears.  This is when I knew: I am a writer. 

But then came the phone call.  It was Best Buy. They’d been trying to reach us for months.  Why, I asked.  Because, says the young gentleman, you haven’t paid your bill.  What bill, I asked.  We’d paid for the computer in full.  No, no, says the man on the phone, for the refrigerator.  Refrigerator?  We haven’t purchased a…Oh no, I argued, we paid for that.  We scrimped.  We scraped.  We ate tuna. 

But alas, in the stream of the next ten minutes the story revealed itself.  Best Buy had made a mistake in listing our address, so we had never received the bill.  And thus, I had never paid it.

For the second time in a day, I cried. Because guess what?  We didn’t have money to pay for a refrigerator; instead we had a home computer. 

It took months to pay off that bill.  At the time I felt so ashamed for my mistake. But now, looking back, I wonder if God had his hands in the entire process. 

Because if I hadn’t made the accounting error, we wouldn’t have bought the computer.

               And if we hadn’t bought the computer, I wouldn’t have started writing.

               And if I hadn’t started writing, I might have drowned in my new responsibilities.

              And now I don’t know how I ever got through my first thirty-one years without writing. 

             

                                                                                      #

 

 

Posted in Goals, inspiration, life lessons, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 9 Comments

Tiny Seeds And Trust: How A Shift in Thinking Changes Everything

Posted on August 19, 2013 by thewritertracy

IMG_0133

It happens over and over again.  I make a decision or goal or what have you and doubt creeps in.  I begin to obsess, look ahead, fill my brain with thoughts of negativity.  It drowns my hope.

So this time was not so different.  I’d been struggling with my writing.  I have a piece that is not yet completely formulated in my mind and I cannot get the right words to paper to express myself.  It is something that happens sometimes.  I know this.

And yesterday I decided: I must stop.  Put this article to rest.  Come back to it later, when I am in a better frame of mind.  And so I did.

But not really.  While mentally I shelved my work, physically I carried my emotions about it in my body all day long.  There was anger at not being able to finish it, fear that I’m not good enough to write it, doubt over my ability to ever get it completed and published.  It is an important piece; I want to get the words out.

It affected my entire day.  I was moody, frustrated, wanted to eat.  WOW!  It was early evening before I finally realized what was happening.  I was amazed that one part of me, the writing part, could actually make the rest of me so cranky. We are truly but the sum of our parts.

The next day I chose to do something about it.  During my morning meditations, I prayed about it.  Not in my normal way.  Not through structured prayer where I thank God for my blessings, ask for forgiveness and pray for others.  No instead, I put my prayer journal down and simply spoke to God.

Alone in my office, I conversed with the Lord.  I humbled myself before him.  I acknowledged and thanked him for working in me, changing me, drawing me closer to understanding myself.  And I apologized.  Told him how sorry I was that I’ve been unable to trust him more. How sorry I was that once again I gave into to the fear and doubt.  I’m ashamed that even as I try, I seem unable to give myself over to him completely.  And that’s when it happened.

This image washed over my brain. I saw a tiny seedling buried deep in the ground.  The vision was so vivid and somehow seeing it gave me…Peace. I found it ironic and told God so.  You see Lord, I am like this tiny seed I’m picturing.  Lying deep within the dirt, I want to bloom.  I’m trying to bloom.  I want to break through to the surface, but it’s a long way up there God.  I’m just not there yet.  You’ll have to be patient with me Lord.  Because sometimes I have trouble believing I will ever bloom.

The image caused my thoughts to wander.  How does that ever happen?   The tiny seed has so far to go.  He must sit in the cold hard dirt and wait.  Just wait!  He is completely dependent on factors outside of himself; he cannot grow without them.  He must wait for sun, wait for rain, wait for nourishment from the soil. He must wait until he has grown big enough, strong enough.  Then, he must wait for the just right moment before he can burst through the ground’s surface.

Once he’s accomplished that, well even then it’s still not over!  The tiny bloom must slowly work on growing.  He must rise up toward the sun and wait until his flower is finished, ready to slowly unwind it’s petals.  Show itself to the world. And again, he can’t do it on his own.  He must wait and trust.  Wait and trust.  Wait and trust before he can ever bloom.

And then it hit me.  Hit me hard.  This image wasn’t something I came up with, it wasn’t a picture my subconscious conjured up in order that I could tell God how I felt.  No, it was quite the opposite.

This vision was a gift.  An answer.  It was God. God was reminding me that I am like a tiny seed.  I must wait.  I must rely on factors outside of my control.  I must trust.  Only then can I grow and bloom.  I need not apologize to God, I need not be ashamed, he understands how it works.  I’m the one who needs to be patient with myself, and with the process.

Every spring seedlings burst forth from the ground.  They grow to be tall. Strong.  Beautiful.  If I can just trust, then I will too.

This is what I love about God.  He is creative.  He is funny.  He answers my prayers.  But never in a way I would expect.  No, God has better ways.  Always.  If only I can trust him.  If only I will trust him.

And so I will. One day at a time.  And I will falter.  Often.  But when I do, I’ll look out my window and remember that everything I see; the grass, the trees, the flowers, they all began as a tiny seed in the soil.

Posted in Faith, Goals, God, In the Beginning, inspiration, life lessons, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Green Beans, Butter & Fear, or What I’ve Learned from My Dog

Posted on August 13, 2013 by thewritertracy

IMG_1854

It happened again.  This time, right in front of my very own eyes, which is a first.  Have you no shame, you four-legged thief?

Our dog has an obsession and I mean obsession, with butter.   I’m just dying to know where this came from.  But we don’t know much about Mason’s early days in life.

A Rough Start. 

Mason ‘found us’ on a warm summer day about three years ago.  I’d taken my daughter and her friend to a pet fashion show (yes, you read that right) at our local mall.  Abby is a big fan of animals and I thought it would be a nice end-of-summer activity.  What I didn’t think about was the reason for the show.

The fashion show was just a ruse to get innocent people like me into the mall and walking through aisle after aisle of poor little pooches all in need of a good home.  At first I was strong.  I ignored the sweet puppy faces and that undeniably sweet puppy breath. Because I know what comes with a puppy:  sleepless nights, messes on the carpet and shredded leather shoes.  No thanks.

But just as we were getting ready to leave, I saw my daughter making over Mason.  Well look at him, I thought.  Look at his unique coloring, I thought.  Look how calm he his, I thought. Oh Lord, I was caving.  So we did what we always do when I waver.  We called my husband.  Well, actually we texted a photo with the caption, “Aren’t I cute?”

Steve, the stopper, my rational half, asked what kind of dog he was (lab mix).  Steve, the stopper, my rational half, asked how old he was (two years old and housebroken!).  Steve texted back and said maybe he’d meet us at the mall. Steve, after having met Mason, did not stop us.

So we brought Mason home “for the weekend, just to see how he fit in.”  Right.  He fit right in into our kids’ hearts, and there was no way we could give him up.  And his story…we were told he was a stray, that he’d been abused early on.  He later was picked up off the streets and put in the city dog pound. While here he became severely ill, underweight, near death.  The day he was to be euthanized, a vet stepped up.  She waved her fees, performed surgery on him and nursed him back to health.  Then someone from the Lucky Dog Rescue center brought him to the mall where we were to meet.   And that is how a skinny lab mix named Mason came into our lives.

Living the Good Life.

I have to say, when we brought him home, he was so good. For about a week.  Then we discovered Mason’s penchant for butter.   Ah well, I thought, this little guy’s had a tough life.  He probably had to learn to be a scavenger.  A hunter of food.  A survivalist.   A little butter, I decided, will fatten him up.  He’ll get past it, he will learn.

And he did learn.  Learned how to get the lid to the trash can open and lick butter wrappers clean.  Learned how to unfold the wrap on a cold stick of butter. Learned to keep his eyes peeled in case anyone accidentally left the butter out.

In a year, Mason gained 40 pounds.  Now that’s a lot of butter.  The vet was concerned so  we put him on a diet.  But my hungry, thieving dog got worse.  He became a pest.  I couldn’t take his behavior so I complained to the vet.

The Green Bean Diet.  

 “Green beans,” she said.

“Green beans?” I replied.

“Yes, cut his food back and give him green beans, they are a great filler,” she said, “frozen is fine.”

And so Mason is on the (frozen) Green Bean diet.  And he likes the beans, eats them right up, course this is a dog who eats butter.  After a year, he’s lost 10 pounds.  This is progress!  Still, I think it he’d lose more if he’d quit his butter habit. But as long as I have kids leaving butter out, I’m going to have a butter-thieving mutt.   And why, I wonder? Why steal butter when you aren’t hungry?

Could it be because of the experiences he had as a young pup?  Could it be that as a stray, he learned to take food whenever he could get it?   Or does butter just taste better than green beans?  Either way, I can relate.

Because Old Habits Are Hard to Break.

Because I know my fears from long ago are still with me, buried deep inside.  And while I don’t worry about food, I do worry about many things, lies I once believed to be true long ago.  There are times, despite my best efforts, when I still fear I am not good enough, smart enough, strong enough.  And I’ll admit, some days it’s easier to give in to old ways of thinking than it is to remind myself such thoughts are untrue.

And Lord knows being on a diet isn’t exactly fun.  I love green beans but for many years now I have also loved chocolate, wine, and butter.  Who doesn’t love a little butter? And just like Mason, even though I’ve grown to love vegetables, I‘d take butter over green beans any day.  Though I’d have to steal a little bread to go with it.

#

Posted in Family Life, humor, life lessons, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

How to Get What You Want…or Not

Posted on August 6, 2013 by thewritertracy

photo(9)

As I walk around the house picking up shoes, I have to ask myself; where did I go wrong?  Because for 16 years I have asked, pleaded, begged even, for the minors in my home to pick up their shoes and put them away.  Yet here I am, three sets of flip-flops in hand, doing it for them.  Why on earth won’t my kids pick up their shoes?

The answer: because I do. I’d really like to blame them.  Rake them over the coals for leaving their shoes/socks/keys/ice cream bowls scattered across the family room. I’d like to pretend my kids are horrible slobs.  But they are not.  The truth is, I am the one to blame (really hoping they don’t read this, because it would surely be used against me).

I am the one who is asking, but not requiring.  And I know better.  I learned long ago the only way to get my offspring to do anything is to insist upon it.  Require it.  Be on their back day in and day out, over and over again until they: Get. It. Done.  I don’t know how other people parent but this is what’s worked for me (no judgement please!).  It’s how I taught my kids to share/mind/do homework/wear deodorant.  If I am consistent, they eventually get the message: I have to do this or mom will be all over me.  Or: It’s so much easier to just do this than to deal with my crazy mother.

But when it comes to my kids putting their things away, I am weak.  Unorganized. I lack follow through.  But at least its just shoes we’re talking about.

I think we teach people how to treat us.  Our actions and reactions are cues to others as to how much we will….Put up with.  If my significant other is unkind and I don’t call him out on it, I have an unkind significant other.  If my friend gossips about me and yet I say or do nothing, I continue to have a friend who gossips about me.  If I say yes to volunteer opportunities I don’t have time for, people will learn to count on me in a pinch (ouch-this one hits home!). If I want the respect of others, I have to require it.

I also believe this rule works in reverse; our actions and reactions to others are also cues as to how much we will…Care for them.  If I treat my children and husband with respect, they will return that respect (okay, most of the time).  If I hold my friend’s hand or heart through her time of struggle, she will help me through my own darkness.  And most importantly, when I give of myself with a genuine heart, the world gives back to me.

 I read a story today that really made me think: how much do I give of myself?  Anytime I begin to think I’m pretty good at this,  reality comes along and blows a hole in my self-righteous armor.  Today this very thing happened.  I read a heartwarming story and realized two things: a) small kindnesses are not small at all, and b) I miss many opportunities to give of myself.

The story, which you can read in full here, is about a twenty-something man who showed extreme kindness to a young boy sitting behind him at a Milwaukee Brewers game.  He talked to him, walked with him, gave him a baseball.  I’m pretty sure I would have just smiled at the boy and that would have been it.  What strikes me about the story is that his actions were so…Unusual.  Unheard of almost.  And I’m left wondering: did this wonderful young man pick up his shoes as a kid?  (I sure hope not, I want there to be hope for my own kids!).

So today I have come to realize these universal truths:  I need to make an effort.  To give more to others.  Not financially, not time wise, but in my thoughts, in my care for those I love, and in my interactions with strangers.  And as I do, the world will return my kindness.

And, unless I improve my efforts on the home front, I have about 8 more years of picking up shoes.

Posted in Family Life, humor, inspiration, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 10 Comments

To Those Who Push my Buttons, Here’s What I Have to Say

Posted on July 31, 2013 by thewritertracy

2337869818_b1ffb83b6d

Photo by Leah Jones

The Ugly Truth

I’m sitting in my room at the Holiday Inn Express in Muncie, IN and all I can think about is this: the big, fat, ugly truth.  Which is; I’m mostly all talk and no action.  It’s a depressing thought.

I’m here for the Midwest Writers Workshop (held at Ball State University), which by the way is fabulous.  I’ve been looking forward to this conference for nearly 4 months.  I knew when I came I’d learn a great deal about the craft and business of writing, and I have.  But the biggest lessons I’m learning aren’t about craft,  they’re about commitment.

Meeting Cool People

On day one I met another attendee, Susan.  Susan is a somewhere-near-my-age mother of three from San Antonio.  In our light conversation she mentions she’s written for thirty-five years.  She has nine novels sitting in her drawer at home and has decided it’s time to move forward.  Nine novels?  She’s pitching one of them to an agent tomorrow.

On day two, as I sat listening to a round-table discussion on publishing, I met attendee Hillary Jo.  Hillary Jo is a vibrant young woman who is headed to Taylor University this fall.  Her eyes dance when she talks about writing; she says she was born to write.  I know it’s true because those bright eyes reveal her passion.   She too is pitching her novel to an agent this weekend.

Hours later I’m standing in the taco bar line and I meet Dalanie. Dalanie, who can’t weigh a hundred pounds, is a shy high school student.  She hangs her head down, making it hard for me to strike up a conversation.  But I make the effort, because she is young and the mother in me longs to reach out to her.  When I speak, she looks up.  She is friendly, well spoken, and full of life.  She tells me she pitched her novel and the agent wants to see more.

This is exciting news!  I’m happy just to be standing next to someone who is getting a shot at her dream.  I am in awe, amazed at Dalanie, Susan, Hillary Jo.  In my mind, they are already a success.  Day in and day out, they are putting words onto paper, taking risks in sharing their work with others and edging toward their future.   It is at this point I realize my truth:  I am not.

I am writing, but my progress is slow.  I tend to dabble, dream, discuss, instead of do. I need to ramp up my commitment.  Put more words to the page.

It makes me think of Darren Brown.

I met Darren Brown in kindergarten. Darren and I have never exactly been close friends, but we’ve always been friendly.  We had a million classes together way back when and we’ve always gotten along.  Now we talk occasionally on Facebook. Our history is built from knowing each other since the age of five. And it was at age five that he did something I’ll never forget.

Darren read a book to our kindergarten class.  All by himself.  The nerve!  That very day I went home and told my mother.  I could learn to read, I said. Teach me to read, I said.  I want to read a book to the class, I said.  We spent the night reading together.  And the very next day, I read my book to Mrs. Arend’s kindergarten class.  So there.

So I guess forty years later, Susan, Dalanie and Hillary Jo are my new Darren Browns.  They have done something, something I want to do, and have showed me just how much I want it.  They have moved me to work a little harder, to get in the game, to do instead of dabble.

To You I Say…

So to these people who have pushed my buttons I say this:  Thank-you.  Thank you for believing enough in yourself to go after what you want.  Thank you for reminding me that I have something I want too.   And thank you for reminding me that if I want it, I have to work for it.

#

One reason I started this blog was to keep myself accountable and thus I want to report my progress.  For an update on my progress, click HERE.

<a href=”http://www.makealivingwriting.com/?p=2795″><img src=”http://www.makealivingwriting.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/MALW_linkparty1.jpg”/></a&gt;

Posted in Goals, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments

What is Your Reward?

Posted on July 24, 2013 by thewritertracy

IMG_1815

I’m in the middle of the men’s clothing section, holding a pair of pants with a 50” waist, looking to see if there is a larger size.  That’s when it hits me; I cannot not believe I am doing this.

Because when I set out upon my life, making the choices I’ve made, I never, ever thought I’d be spending a Friday afternoon at Goodwill looking for clothes to outfit a llama.  This is where life has taken me.

The pants, the plaid shirt, the rainbow suspenders we’re buying are all for my ten-year-old daughter and the llama she’s showing at the 4-H fair.  Tonight they will compete with a good 25 other kids in the costume contest. They will be nerds.  God help me.

I like animals as much as the next person but dressing one up has never been on my agenda.  As I drive my daughter and her friend back to the llama barn, I ponder how so much of what I do or have done in my life is not of my plans.

I Did Not Sign Up for This.

Never did I sign up to diaper a twelve-year-old dog with bladder cancer or calm another through epileptic seizures.  Not once did I think I’d build a Trojan War horse out of Popsicle sticks, make a poster of our family tree or assist in an experiment on how hamsters react to music (this, believe it or not, went to the regional science fair).  My future vision of myself never included waxing wood floors, picking Cheerios and change out of couch cushions, or sleeping on a cement floor at a Girl Scout camp out.  Yet I have indeed spent hours of my life doing such things.

Why?  Because it’s what needs to be done.  Animals need care.  Children need help learning how to complete projects.  Dinner must be made, bills must be paid and the laundry is always, always in wait.  Such things are what life is made of.  We spend most of our time doing what needs to be done, and whatever time is left we devote to our pursuits of choice.

I admit there are times when I am resentful.  I long for more time to do what I want. I dream of quiet days alone to write, the freedom to cook gourmet meals instead of hamburgers, time to read more.  But such thoughts take me nowhere.  I am not a martyr.  I do take time for myself.  I get out with friends, go to movies, read late into the night.  And deep down I understand this: the minutia and difficult tasks of life often lead us to the good stuff.

Life Rewards Us.

The good stuff is the reward.  Knowing your dog felt a comforting presence as her body shook out of control.  Seeing the smile on your child’s face as she discovers hard work paid off.   Finding peace because the clothes are washed, the house is  (somewhat) clean, and the bills are (mostly) paid.  There is a certain joy to be found here.  The heart honors our hard work when it is done with good intention.

It’s why I’m empathetic when my sick child vomits all over me. How I experience pride when seeing my byline on an article I’ve written, even though I gave up sleep to get it done.  Why I cherish the memory of holding my sick grandmother’s hand as she asked me if she was dying.  I didn’t have the answers  for her, but at least I could be there.

This is where life takes you.

My daughter placed third in the costume contest.  My house is wreck, I’m behind in my work and writing, yet I am proud, excited for my child.  And just maybe this matters more than reading a good book.

As we waited for her after, my husband leaned over and said, “ You know, back when we were in college, I never pictured us here.” I understood completely.  I could not suppress my smile, “I know, right?”

Posted in Family Life | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Why I Listen to that Small Voice Inside

Posted on July 18, 2013 by thewritertracy

I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there.  Because Monday had been a little rough. But as I talked it over with God on the way home that day, I’d heard a small voice inside me say, “Go back.”  And over the years I’ve learned to listen to the small whispers of my heart.  Because often my heart knows better than I.

So here I was, back in the aged and less-than-shiny inner city elementary school.  The room was cold, and a bit dark as the window shades blocked the outdoor light. I sat in the tiny plastic chair waiting.  Waiting for the other volunteers to file in.  Waiting for the instructor to tell us what we’d do on this day of writing camp for at-risk kids.  Waiting in truth, to prove that whisper wrong.

In a matter of minutes approximately 40 8th graders, most of whom are bigger than me, pile into their own plastic chairs.  I get up from my empty table and find a spot at one with four gangling boys.  One is in constant motion, chattering with kids at another table.  One has his head down as if he’s asleep.  The other two remain quiet, simply staring into space. I’m here for a reason; I want to connect, I want to inspire, I want to make a difference.  But I too remain silent; awkwardness takes over, words won’t come.

The instructor, who’d been absent on Monday, quickly commands the attention of the kids.  It’s apparent they will listen to her.  In fact, if I’m reading the room accurately, I believe they respect her, like her even. The positive energy intrigues me.

She begins the first exercise; we are to close our eyes, think about a favorite toy from our childhood, then describe it, remember how we felt about it.  Five minutes later the kids are writing as fast as they can, about that toy.  Only the boys at my table aren’t writing. They hold their pencils hesitantly, no words are transferred to paper.

I prod them, what about a game you used to play?  Did you play sports, own a basketball?  Did you ever play with action figures?  They stare at me impassively; apparently nothing is coming to mind.  I join them in their blankness.  Together we sink into a comfortable silence, they not writing, me panicking over my inability to engage these boys.

But then something happens.  One of the boys starts writing furiously.  He’s remembering his favorite video game, Black Ops 2. The chatty one gets an idea from a friend: he suddenly remembers how much he once loved his Spider-Man Web Shooter.  The quiet boys put pen to paper, writing about what I do not know.  The boy I thought was asleep is actually reading a novel; I’ll take it.  Today is already better than Monday.  Monday the kids were restless, wild, didn’t trust me, the new volunteer. Monday, I was unsure, as if I too was a middle school student.

We begin to interact.  I ask the boys what age they are, where they attend school, what they like to do.  They are nice, polite, willing to talk to me, an older suburban white woman who can’t possibly know anything about their day-to-day struggles. I enjoy getting to know them.

The instructor interrupts us with the next assignment:  create a 6-word bumper sticker describing your life. Six words?  I sit blankly.  But the boys are ahead of me, writing their words down with ease.  I ask to read what they’ve written. They willingly show me their work. They are proud and I am…impressed.

Minutes later the instructor asks the students to share with the group.  39 students remain quiet while 1 reads her bumper sticker, her toy story.   The instructor points out the uniqueness of her writing and we clap.  One by one each student shares his writing.

I am inspired by their creativity.  I am awed with the fierceness, the depth of their writing.  I am in love with this understanding that through words, even a forty-something suburban white woman can connect with a group of inner city at-risk fourteen-year-old boys.  If she’ll come back after a rough first day.

That small voice, the whisper inside, it’s always right.  I can’t wait until Monday.

PS:  Here is my bumper sticker:  Fueled by faith, family, words, experiences.  If I had more room, I would add:  inspired by the youth of Saint Florian.

The Writer’s Progress

*This week was crazy, I did not meet my writing goal of 2 hrs/day.  Time to get to it.

*BUT-I have 3-count them 3-interviews lined up.  I will collect these faith stories by the end of next week AND I have another story headed my way via email.  Each step forward fuels my excitement about this project.

*I took a leap of faith and emailed an author to see if I could  interview her about a healing she has personally experienced and blogged about.  I haven’t heard back from her (read: this is a lesson in building a thick skin).

*I’m working on entries for 2 writing contests.  Plan to get the rough drafts done by 8/9 and then edit them so I can turn in by 9/1.  Wish me luck!

*Headed to the Across the Arts 1-day conference with my daughter this weekend. Hoping to learn and connect with other authors.

**If you enjoy my blog, please sign up to follow me via email.  I respect your privacy and only blog 1-2 times/week so won’t clog up your email (button to sign up is on the right!).

Posted in Uncategorized | 8 Comments