Back at it

After posting here in my blog everyday for nearly 6 weeks, home matters kept me from writing for nearly a week.

Boy, have I missed it!

I'm not a fast writer, so the majority of my entries take much longer than the ten or fifteen minutes that we were supposed to take to write about writing. (When I was a bootcamp member, that is. :-( sniff sniff) Between writing my entries and reading/commenting on everybody else's entries, bootcamp was taking up waaaayyy too much of my time. Not that I wasn't enjoying it, because I was!

But life set in, and bootcamp became a luxury I could no longer afford.

I miss all my bootcamp friends, virtual as they may be! :-) I still can't keep totally away from their blogs. I need to see how they're doing and what they're up to, though I feel a little funny commenting now...I don't belong there anymore. That makes me sad.

But, as I stressed with life this week, I didn't allow myself the relief of writing. I guess one good thing I got from bootcamp was learning that writing is a HUGE form of release for me. For some people it's exercise, others it's eating, still others drink or do drugs. For me, it's writing...and without it, my tension just builds and builds until something makes me explode. Usually, something totally unrelated to the initial stressors.

This week has confirmed this finding for me. I haven't written anything since last Monday. Tonight I completed a post that I had started last Tuesday but never completed. (You can tell the point where I stopped that night and picked up again tonight...it's rather disjointed, but at least I finished it and posted it.) But the simple act of writing something in my blog tonight has made me feel so much better than I've felt all week.

So, if any of my ex-bootcamp friends are reading this...first, HELLO!! (Waving!!) Second, THANK YOU!! You've all helped me so much more than you know. And finally, I hope you don't mind if I check in on you through your blogs every now and then. I really do miss you all! :-)

I'm really glad to be back at it. But for now, goodnight.

Imperfect conditions

Tonight I escaped for a walk with the baby, slipping out while hubby took a nap upstairs and the other girls watched That's So Raven or some other ungodly show that they've watched only 438 times before.

The late-afternoon thunderstorm left the air still warm but much less humid. I could actually go outside and breathe without sweating from the effort. Not too many of my neighbors joined me outdoors, however. Huddled in their air conditioned homes, I guess they failed to notice that the sweltering day had turned into quite the pleasant summer evening. Having just left an always noisy house, though, I rather enjoyed the quiet of the neighborhood. It freed my mind to absorb sights and random thoughts at will.

I fell more in love with my baby as I watched her initial delight in overhead oak leaves bobbing with the breeze quickly give way to heavy eyes and a bobbing head as she succumbed to the stroller's soporific sway. She likes being outside.

So do I.

But, as I age, I find I'm much more particular about what constitutes a "good" time to be outside. Not too cold, but not too hot, either. Not too wet, too muddy or too dusty. Not too humid or too windy. I can deal with a slight drizzle as long as the air is warm, but if the bugs are in my face, buzzing at my ear and snacking on my flesh, I'm outta there.

Perfect outdoor conditions don't happen everyday, but they happen enough to get me outside without too much protest...which I'm sure my kids are more than thankful for!

I pondered on this as I walked, and I realized that, just as I like to have perfect conditions in which to work, walk and play outside, so do I seek perfect conditions inside in which to write.

Quiet kids. Clean house. Chores completed.

Quite rare, actually.

And if I want to be a commercially successful writer (heck, even a personally successful writer!), I need to write-- on a regular basis-- in less than perfect conditions.

My kids have the time of their lives outside on sweltering summer days, ignoring the sweat poring into their eyes and the mosquitoes feasting on their flesh, because they know that the fun they can have despite imperfect conditions far outweighs staying comfortable but bored to tears inside.

I should learn from them.

Learn how to write and how to enjoy the process and the product, even when I write with dust on the tables and dishes not yet in the dishwasher. Learn how to answer the Mommy calls without losing all patience and all semblance of thought structure. Learn how to be both Mom and writer without sacrificing the joy of one for the rewards of the other.

Perfection is rare. Waiting for it means missing out on all those perfect moments that arise from the imperfect ones surrounding it. Were I to stay inside each time it rained, I'd never share rainbows with my children. And if I wait for the perfect house, I'll never share the gift of my words-- the gift of me-- with them either, however imperfect they may be.

Progress, or the lack thereof (Goals - Week 4)

This week was not a repeat of last week, that's for sure. I did submit my blog entry to a couple of online sites...may not hear back for awhle, though. I did a minimal amount of work on my website, and nothing on either my Long Ridge or BC assignments. I did blog everyday, though even that wasn't exactly what it was supposed to be. We did do a lot of family visiting this week, and I've woken up with a headache each of the last four mornings. I hate waking up with a headache.

Oh, and I won a contest at HazelSt.com with an 11th hour essay about my mom. Writing that entry was not in my goals for the week, but I'd say it was a productive use of my time. :-)

I'm giving up on the point system.

I confess...Father, forgive me for I have sinned...the numbers I've posted up to now were totally pulled out of the air. My apologies to Kai and to all the rest of you for whom it seems to work, but the whole points thing isn't clicking with me. It's too ambiguous and I don't feel like spinning my wheels trying to make enough sense out of it to calculate them. Hope it's not a deal breaker, but I'm not doing them. :-(

I feel I should mention that I signed up for the MW Summer Writing program. I'm in one of the non-fiction/short articles groups. So, for the next four weeks, I will be working on participating in group discussions and on those assignments simultaneously with boot camp stuff.

I'm really trying to kick my sorry ass into gear. LOL!

Okay, on to goals for week four.

1. Write copy and upload my website.
2. Write a personal essay for BC assignment 4.
3. Research topic, locate sources and put out anecdote requests for Long Ridge assignment.
4. Do assignments for MW Summer Writing Program.

5. Submit my last Long Ridge assignment to a few RPPs.

6. Blog each day.

Onward!

Stay home, bring checks

"So, when do you think you might start bringing in some money from this writing thing?" hubby asked as we drove home from Oneonta yesterday.

I first answer with silence as I try to determine the motives behind his question. Rarely do the obvious ones apply.

"The easy answer is 'when I have more free time during the day'," I finally reply, "but since that won't be until the baby goes to preschool, I'm guessing that isn't the answer you're looking for."

"Soooo, when do you think you might start bringing in some checks?" he asks again.

"Well, I guess I should be able to now. Or soon, anyway," I hedge, "though I'm afraid of taking on a project, then finding I don't have the time to do it. At least, not without giving up sleep entirely!"

"Hrmph! You stay up too late anyway! You're the one who says you don't need much sleep."

"Yeah, but I need some sleep!"

"Other women do it, don't they?" he asks next. "How do they do it"

"Most of the women who bring home the kind of money you're thinking about have some form of childcare," I say,"school, a relative, an in-home babysitter or part-time daycare. They are able to get off by themselves for at least a portion of the day--not just at night after everybody, husband included, is asleep--so they can complete a thought without enduring 14 million interruptions and actually get to work on their writing. By the time I get to work on my writing stuff, I'm bleary-eyed and wiped out...physically and mentally."

"Well," hubby says, "when you start bringing in some checks, maybe we can think about doing something for a couple of hours a week."

Should I have mentioned a cleaning service, too?

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

"I really want to buy that camp," hubby says.

Motive found.

Uncle Howie and yet another non-writing entry

Today we loaded the whole gang in the car, picked up my Mom and headed to Oneonta (near Cooperstown...you know, the home of Abner Doubleday and the Baseball Hall of Fame) to visit with Mom's older brother, Howie.

I haven't seen Uncle Howie since my 12-year-old daughter was an infant, but he hasn't changed a bit. Still short, still fat, still long-winded. But he was so happy to see all of us. I feel guilty for not going to see him before now, for being "too busy" to take the trip out to visit.

The poor guy is all alone. He never married. He lived with my grandmother until she passed away in 1989. He took care of her for many years. My grandfather--an alcoholic--died before I was born, so Uncle Howie took up his slack.

Uncle Howie enlisted in the Air Force during WWII and afterwards worked on fighter planes at Grumman, first as a machinist, then as a materials manager. He now refuses to fly.

Uncle Howie loved to fish and bought a house on a canal in Massapequa (Long Island, NY) so he could keep his deep-sea fishing boat in his backyard. Serious fishermen sought out the fishing poles he meticulously crafted by hand in his garage. Strangers regularly made outrageous offers on his 1965 blue Mustang convertible. He spent a few weeks each fall hunting in the Catskills until his softer side took over and he no longer had the heart to shoot.

Model cars--hundreds of them--line the walls of Uncle Howie's office in shadow-boxes he custom-built himself. The mint coins he's collected for years are individually mounted, labeled and recorded by age and by value. He puts every photo in albums that he categorizes by family member. He has ancient family photos, Christmas card shots, and recently e-mailed pictures all laid out and marked with who, what, where and when.

Seeing Uncle Howie today made me realize how much more there is to him than just the fat man of my memories, the one lying on the sofa, talking back to the TV and laughing at little nieces landing flying jumps on his belly. With no wife or children of his own, he fills the void with hobbies and photos, looking only for someone to lend an ear, a voice or an occasional hand.

I'm not alone in letting busy-ness get in the way of keeping Uncle Howie alone. hile I can't do much about making others give him the time of day, I can give just a little bit of mine...an e-mail to say hi, a photo of the kids, a surprise care package...to remind him that he does have family, that he's not alone, that he is loved.

I hope I'm not too late.

Nothing to do with writing

It's already late. My two middle girls sleep peacefully upstairs while hubby teaches my eldest the fine art of poker and the baby fights sleep here in my lap. I'm tired, as usual, though I see little sleep in my nighttime forecast. Again.

This evening we visited my in-laws. We picked raspberries the size of strawberries from the overgrown bushes in their backyard, staining our fingers and clothes with their abundant juices as the mosquitoes filled their bellies with our abundant juices. My mother-in-law's eyes practically lit the yard as she beamed at two of her youngest grandchildren running from bush to bush, putting more berries in their mouths than in their containers.

My mother-in-law was having a good night tonight. The good nights happen less often these days.

My mother-in-law has Alzheimer's Disease.

It's hard to watch this gentle, caring woman, this wife of one, mother of six and grandmother of fifteen worry that she's doing something wrong when she holds the baby. It's awkward when she struggles to remember that "those things that hang from my ears" are called earrings. It's sad to witness her anxiety when she's anywhere but home.

But the worst part is that she doesn't know she has this horrible disease. My husband's family doesn't want her to know.

And so she wonders what is wrong with her.

She has no idea why she can't remember simple words or the name of her street. She's appalled about forgetting to turn off the stove, but not remembering why she turned it on in the first place scares her more.

Everyone tells her that forgetting is just a normal part of the aging process. But even as her brain is dying, she remains smart. I can see that she knows it must be more than that.

What if Alzheimer's is genetic? What if my husband develops it? Or even more tragic, my beautiful, smart, fun-loving, full-of-life children?

I can't even think about that possibility. Honestly, I shut down at the thought.

I know this has nothing to do with writing, but it weighs heavily on me tonight. I guess I'm done.

Safe

Last night, on one of the HBO channels, I watched Along Came Polly, a romantic comedy with Ben Stiller and Jennifer Aniston. I wouldn't call it a great movie, but I found it entertaining, and that's all I was really looking for.

As I watched, however, I found myself identifying a little bit with Reuben, Ben Stiller's character. Reuben was an insurance risk analyst. He assessed people's insurability using software that ranked risks ("swims with great white sharks") versus rewards ("low blood pressure"), a very black and white system that left no room for subjectivity. Reuben knew every risk statistic by heart, and he "managed" his life to avoid becoming one of them. Of course, his life was dull, predictable and safe...until he found his wife having sex with their scuba instructor on the first day of their honeymoon. Wife stays with scuba man and Reuben comes back home, wondering what went wrong. With all of his planning, how did he fail to manage his way around this particular risk? Then, of course, along comes Polly, and, well...I'm sure you can figure out the rest.

So how, you ask, did I identify with Reuben?

Well, I don't intentionally manage my life to avoid becoming a risk statistic. But for the greater part of my 41 years, whenever I faced a fork in the road, I took the safe route, the road more traveled, even as I stretched my neck as far as possible to see what I was missing down that less traveled path.

When faced with a choice between what I wanted and what was safe, I've always chosen the latter. Once in a while I'd get brave and set off in the riskier direction, but I always ended up second guessing myself, backtracking and taking the prudent path. Instead of no risk, no reward, I've lived by no risk, no failure.

And it's worked. I really haven't failed.

Except at living my dream. Big time failure there.

All those years of playing it safe kept me from achieving things that probably were possible. Even now that I'm finally starting to write in earnest, I'm taking the careful, practical route to writing "success." I'm concentrating on writing service-oriented nonfiction articles and business copy. Of course, I can't just write for the sheer joy of it. I really do need to earn some cash, so part of this choice is necessity, not just risk aversion.

But at some point I need to step even further out of my comfort zone and try something different. Take a chance. Maybe fail.

Or not.

Whatever the outcome, I will grow.

I know I'm growing as a writer now, doing just what I'm doing. And I'm proud of that. Really, I am. It's probably why I want to stretch even farther now. I'm having a little success. I'm learning. I'm taking a few chances and I'm having fun. I'm coming alive again.

They say it's never too late. I'm starting to believe that. I'm done wasting even more time, mourning the years I lost by playing it safe. I'm now looking forward to putting myself out there and taking some chances.

No more no risk, no failure.

Time for no risk, no reward.

I want the rewards. I want to earn them. Be proud of them. Take ownership of getting them. I want to stop standing back in awe and wonder at those writers who do step up to the plate and swing that bat as if their lives depended on it. I now know that their lives do depend on it.

And mine does, too.

No one can swing my bat except me. Before I worried about striking out and the ensuing embarrassment. But ya know what? I may have to wait a bit, but I will get another turn at bat. Another chance to swing with all my strength. And ones of these times I just may connect and send that ball right out of the park.

If I don't keep trying, all I'll have is the strikeout. I want the homerun. I want the success.

But I don't need any Polly to get it. I've got all of you! :-) And I've got me, too. That's all I really need.

So, what am I waiting for?

And this makes 34

As I signed into Blogger tonight, I noticed that I had 33 posts in here. And this makes 34.

Wow.

Do you have any idea how good that is for me? I have not written anything this consistently in, oh, maybe twenty, twenty-five years or so? And now I have 34 posts in just a month.

And that's just writing about writing.

Makes me wonder what, if I put my long under-utilized mind to it, I might have to say about everything else in this whole crazy universe? If I can make 34 consecutive entries about writing, what else could I be writing about? I mean, there's so much out there to take note of, to get excited about, to learn about, to share with others.

Posting 34 entries means I actually set my tush in the chair (or on "my side" of the couch, as it were, but that's really neither here nor there LOL!) and, even when I thought I had nothing to say, sat down and wrote something. Thirty. Four. Times.

About writing, no less!

About the one thing I've been wanting to do for so long but thought I just didn't know enough about to do, or to do well enough that anyone would ever care to read it.

I always thought I had to know everything there was to know about being a writer and all the nuances of the craft before I could actually sit down to write something worthwhile. In the midst of acquiring all that knowledge, I forgot the most important part of learning the craft's nuances.

The part where I actually write something. :-)

For everything I learned reading about writing, I have learned so much more by sitting here at Trixie (my laptop) and just writing...in my blog, in website copy, in a contest submission, in whatever.

Alright. I know what you're all thinking right about now..."Well, yeah. Of course you can't learn about writing just by reading about writing, Jerky. Of course you have to WRITE in order to learn. Uhhhh, DUHHHH!"

So, I'm a little bit slow. ;-)

But I haven't just been learning about writing. I've been learning about me.

And I'm having a blast posting in this blog every day, trying to come up with something unique to write about writing, and surprising myself when I find myself writing something that turns out NOT HALF BAD...something that actually has a point and decent structure and shows that I might actually have some potential.

(Well, not this post, maybe, but some of them! ROFL! )

I apologize for just rambling on here tonight. I don't know if I'm making any sense whatsoever. Seeing that "33 posts" (and now 34) just really struck me as something amazing. Something fantastic. Something that supports my fantasy of being a writer. If I can write 34 posts and find myself looking forward to writing many, many more, then I must be on the right path.

I feel like I hit some kind of milestone. Not that 34 posts is a lot in the whole scheme of things. But it's a starting point. And it's an accomplishment.

For me, anyway.

And I'm thrilled with it.

At the risk of offending SAHMs...

Well, another night with little sleep leaves me still tired and irritable. As I was picking up the morning breakfast mess I pondered what to write here today. I considered not writing anything at all.

I am tired, you know.

But, true as that may be, it's not a reason to not write today.

It's an excuse.

If I had to get up this morning, get the kids to camp and daycare and set off for work in an office somewhere, I would have done that. I might not perform up to my normal, rested standards, but I would be at my desk, reaching into my reserves and pulling out everything I needed to accomplish the day's top priorities. Granted, I'd be looking at the clock every three minutes, yawning non-stop and drinking coffee by the pot, but I'd be on the job, doing what I had to do-- doing what the company paid me to do-- WORK.

And therein lies the difference between a stay-at-home mom and a work-at-home mom.

The stay-at-home mom lets her tiredness get in the way of the other things she hopes to accomplish when she's not quite so tired. The work-at-home mom gets those things done regardless.

The stay-at-home mom lets tasks slide because, well, because she can. She's not going to get fired. She doesn't have to worry about getting beat out of a promotion, or losing a client. And if she misses a deadline, so what? There's always tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

The stay-at-home mom allows the flexibility in her routine to stretch simple five-minute tasks out for days. Weeks. Months, even. "What's the rush?" she asks. "I can call tomorrow to request an interview. I'm too tired to sound professional today."

But the work-at-home mom, just as tired, makes the call anyway. She sets up the interview. Gets it done. Marks it in her calendar and off her "to do" list. And she moves onto the next task, which could very well be take the kids to the park. Or lie down and take a nap.

The work-at-home mom recognizes that she very well could get fired, even if not in the traditional sense. If finances get too tight, them she could lose her "at-home" status and join the millions of moms who work outside the home.

And she doesn't want that to happen.

So the work-at-home mom sits her sweet ass in the chair and she writes. Or she bribes the kids with a movie and she picks up the phone to work on those interviews. Or she brings her brood to the library during story time so she can do some research.

She figures out the best way to get things done. And then she does it.

The stay-at-home mom looks at what she needs to do each day and hopes she'll be able to fit it in. The work-at-home mom looks at what she needs to do each day, then she schedules her day around those tasks.

Can you guess who ends up feeling more stressed?

The stay-at-home mom, of course. She's got a million-and-one things on her "to do" list and she's not accomplishing any of them. They hang over her head like a hornet's nest on a splintering branch, ready to fall and release its army of angry, stinging hornets when it eventually comes crashing down.

And that menacing nest will come crashing down at some point if we don't take steps to remove it...and the splintering branch, too.

But not today. I'm too tired.

Tired, so tired

I'm really, really tired tonight. My youngest two babies have fallen into some awful sleep patterns lately, partly due to the "summer hours" of their two older sisters and partly due to teething pain. Whatever the reason, I'm not getting enough sleep.

Today it caught up with me. And boy, am I a cranky, miserable creature that rhymes with witch. Even I can't stand to be around me. And I can't go to bed yet, even though it's after 10pm. Hubby is at soccer and needs me to put an invoice together for the morning. BUT, he hasn't given me the info I need to put it together.

So, I sit and wait. And complain to my faithful boot camp companions who have no choice but to read my whining blog entry. (Sorry, ladies!)

The baby, of course, probably wouldn't let me sleep even if I didn't have to do the invoice. God forbid she sleep in her crib for more than 30 minutes without waking up SCREAMING bloody murder. She's already done it twice tonight. I keep trying to put her back in, though she's here in my lap as I type this entry. With one nursing breast exposed, of course.

There must be something in the alignment of the stars or something, because everyone's entries that I read and commented on today were rather blue. Except Gail and Sara, that is. Spoil sports! :-)

Seriously, I hope we get out of our funks SOON! Maybe a small miracle will take the form of a solid six hours of sleep.

One nice thing to report. Hubby sensed I was having a rough day and brought home a cool, wooden trinket box and a red, heart-shaped paper weight for my soon-to-be office. He even wrote a nice note inside the card. To say he surprised me would be a grave understatement. Our relationship tends to be...complex. His unexpected sweetness nearly made me cry.

Anyway.

I promise to actually write about writing tomorrow. Tonight I can barely focus on the screen.

Rambling along on a Sunday afternoon

This afternoon, hubby and I loaded the two littlest kids into their car seats for a long ride up and around the Great Sacandaga Lake, a beautiful, 29-mile reservoir in the foothills of the Adirondacks.

The day was gorgeous. The sun glinted off the water as sailboats took full advantage of the day's breezes and speedboats made waves for young swimmers by the shore.

The camps surrounding the lakes vary in size and splendor, from rundown, unheated shacks to gorgeous just-shy-of-mansion-status year-round homes. Property around Sacandaga isn't cheap...$300,000 is common for a typical camp with lake access...but it's still affordable according to other lake standards. You can't touch a property near Lake George (the crown jewel of the Adirondacks) for much under a cool million, so Sacandaga is the next best thing.

Hubby has his heart set on buying a camp on Sacandaga... a fixer-upper that, while still expensive, would be both a wonderful retreat and a tremendous investment. We can't afford it now, but if his business takes off as it's promising to do, then buying a camp--a handyman's special, that is--becomes more of a possibility.

It would be nice.

I can easily imagine myself sitting in an Adirondack chair on the deck of our camp, watching hubby fish from the dock as the kids play jailbreak in the yard. I'd have either a notepad or Trixie (my Dell) on my lap, a beverage at my right, and gobs of deet all over my body to repel the mosquitos and black flies. :-) The mountain lake breezes would ruffle my papers and soothe my soul, freeing up my mind to focus on the words I need to put on the page.

Or this...

It's early morning. Hubby and kids are still asleep. I walk onto the deck with my steaming ritual of strong, black coffee. The morning mist lends a surreal touch to the lake and leaves dewy kisses on my hair, face and hands. I huddle in my wooly sweater, savoring the hot, bitter potion as it works its magic from my lips to my limbs to my brain. The daybreak chatter of boreal chickadees and yellow-bellied flycatchers, underscored by the haunting call of the loons, creates a background noise that calms, not irritates, my spirit. I am at one with nature, with life. My mind's door opens to the multitude of ideas that blow at me in the breeze, and I write them down in my notebook as fast as I can before they burn like the mist in the strengthening sun.

Yes, a camp on a lake would be a nice thing indeed. Perhaps I can contribute to its funding with proceeds from my writing.

Now wouldn't that be quite the reward?

Goals - Week 3

Hooray! I accomplished my second week goals. All of them. How wondrous is that? :-)

On to week three.

Third Week Goals

1. Personal assignment ~ Website copy
.....a. Review draft with dh.
.....b. Revise and submit to dh for final approval.
.....c. Write first draft for my web pages

2. Bootcamp assignment #2
.....a. Choose a blog entry for submission as a reprint
.....b. Edit/polish entry
.....c. Select markets to submit to
.....d. Send it on in by July 20th
.....e. Let Kai know where I sent it

3. Bootcamp assignment #4
.....a. Pick a genre and post by Sunday, July 1oth
.....b. Write as directed (NOT in blog) by July 24th
.....c. Choose a market
.....d. Submit to that market by August 7th
.....e. Report in to Kai

Validation

During a recent e-mail exchange, a respected friend wrote:

You are a very good writer - stop looking to others for validation and believe in yourself and the rest will come.

My friend was right. I do seek validation that I am a good writer.

I don't think I'm alone in wanting--in needing--that validation. Don't we all seek validation in most things we do? It's one thing to think we're good. It's quite another to be told we're good, especially when we respect the ones doing the telling.

Take the people who tried to become the next American Idol, for instance. Granted, a few god-awful singers knew they were bad and just wanted their 15 minutes of fame. However, there were many more who truly thought they could sing, but couldn't. As these hopefuls sought their validation, not only from Simon, Paula and Randy, but from all America as well, we sought the entertainment value in their failure. We laughed at their horrendously out-of-tune crooning even as our guilt at finding humor in deflated egos and punctured dreams left us feeling slightly discomforted.

After all, that could easily be us, albeit in a different setting.

When we write for ourselves, for the pure enjoyment of writing, then we may not require external validation. But when we write with the intent to sell, to be read, to make a living with our words, then external validation is not just a personal requirement. It's a professional necessity.

When no one wants to publish our words, we cannot accomplish that which we set out to do. When publishers and editors fail to validate us as writers, then that belief in ourselves gets a little more slippery and harder to hold onto. Our confidence that "the rest will come" starts to waver.

However, validation of our writing must come from within before we can expect it from others. We need to trust in our innate abilities and our desire to succeed. We need to accept the frustration that comes with inexperience and deal with it. We must learn from the initial rejections so we can work on our weaknesses and get better as writers.

As unproven writers, we seek external validation to justify the time and effort we put into our chosen craft. Encouragement from those we care about, from those we respect, and from those who know little about us except for the words we write takes on a greater importance in our writerly lives.

When we don't get this early encouragement, we often give up the dream. Our lone opinion that our writing is worthwhile rarely holds up under the weight of disapproving comments and negative feedback. Or worse, no feedback at all. (Negative comments, at least, give us something to fight back against. They make us want to prove the naysayers wrong, to show that yes, we can successfully quit our day jobs, thank you very much. When we get no feedback, however, we have nothing to build on or to fight against. We're left in a void, unsure of any direction.)

But, if our desire to write is true, it will resurface again and again until we either finally take action or we die. When the time is right, we will understand our need to write. We will believe in that need, in our right to pursue our dream and in the validity of our pursuit. We will have the internal validation that we need before we can honestly seek such confirmation externally.

Only when we believe in ourselves as writers can we expect our readers, including the almighty publishers and editors of the world, to believe in us, too.

Then the rest will come.

This and that

Getting today's blog in just under the wire. However, I did spend a good amount of time writing the copy for dh's website...my main goal for this week. In fact, I sent all four pages to him this afternoon! Now, all I need is for him to review and revise as he sees fit. He normally makes very few changes, so I should almost be done with that job. Hooray!!

The other part of my goal was to work on the copy for my own website. I will start on that tomorrow. I'm in the swing of it now, and, as I predicted, I'm actually having some fun with it. :-)

I've also come up with an idea for my next Long Ridge assignment...part 3 of my weekly goals completed!

On Tuesday I cashed in my Mother's Day gift certificate for a manicure and pedicure. My nail lady and I were talking as she was working on me, and the topic of my writing came up. I told her how I wanted to get into doing some copywriting, but a couple of things were holding me back...my worries about not having the time to complete a project should I actually get one, and my nervousness about marketing myself to get any business at all. Well, we talked some more, and she talked about how she wants to start distributing a newsletter once every month or two. Then she said, "Maybe I'll be your first customer! Give me a couple of weeks to think about what I want to do with it, then I'll give you a call."

Just like that.

Of course, it's nowhere near a done deal. She may decide against it, or learn of a more experienced copywriter to go with, or, or, or...well, any number of things could happen. But then again, maybe it will work out.

Anyway, I'm just kind of rambling along here. My eldest daughter (12yo) and I are hanging out all by ourselves (well, all by ourselves with my almost-8mo baby who never seems to sleep anymore) since my 10yo is at a birthday party sleepover, my 3yo is actually in bed asleep, and dh is working at his office. This daughter set up a Xanga blog a couple of weeks ago, and in order for me to leave her comments, I had to set up a Xanga blog myself. So she and I were having some fun customizing my Xanga blog tonight...no posts yet, though I may use it. I called it "My Chair by the Window," and my tag line is "With an eye on my kids as I go about my world." My kids are so internet oriented. Everything is instant messaging, e-mail and now blogging. I don't mind, though, as long as they keep their personal information off of it. And if it gets them writing and being creative, then I am all for it.

Sorry about the lack of structure to this entry. But, it is an entry. It is about writing. And I'm done.

My writerly dream

What is my writerly dream? My dream is to write a YA novel, or a series of novels, that would stay in the minds of my young readers even as they got old.

As a kid, I loved the Trixie Belden mystery series. I remember many of the stories, and all of the characters. To write something like that, something that lives on as a cherished memory, something that my readers want their own kids to read and love, too...THAT is my dream.

I'd also love to write a novel along the lines of Sue Monk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees. I loved that book, and I dream of writing something so engaging as that book. Now, Bees is not a YA novel, but interestingly, the lead character, Lily, is a 14-year-old girl.

One thing that's funny about this dream is that I don't write fiction. At least, I don't allow myself to write fiction. But I've been thinking about it more and more. And when asked to share my dream with the group, THESE were the two things that immediately popped into my head. Shocked the hell out of me, that's for sure! :-)

I'm drawn to stories that relate to the early teen years. I may be overanalyzing this (who, me??), but I think the reason why I'm so drawn to this age group is that I'm not particularly happy or satisfied with the way I lived those years. I followed the road more traveled even as I stretched my neck as far as I could to see what I was missing down that less-traveled path, the one chosen by others with backbones stronger than mine.

I would like to return to those coming-of-age years through my writing. Maybe tell the story of my life as it could have been.

Or not.

I don't know, exactly. I didn't even know it was my dream until asked to put that dream into words.

Funny what you learn about yourself when you write.

Writing letters

I can't remember the last time I wrote a letter. Not an e-mail message, or even a thank you note, but an actual, honest-to-goodness letter. One hand written on pretty notepaper and mailed in an envelope, telling someone I haven't seen in a while about recent events and catching them up on family news.

(I can't remember the last time I got one, either.)

My ten-year-old daughter has hooked up with a few pen pals this summer, daughters of other MomWriters who expressed an interest in exchanging letters, and she's having a ball with it! At first she was disappointed that these pen pals were not of the electronic variety, but when she received her first snail mail letter, she did a 180.

She now runs out to get the mail every day. She's so excited when she sees her name on envelopes postmarked in Virginia, California or even just a bit downstate here in New York. As soon as she finishes reading a letter, she sits down, writes her response, addresses and stamps the envelope and brings it out to the mailbox, popping up the red flag so the mail lady knows to stop to pick it up.

I'm just as thrilled as my daughter about this whole turn of events. I get to relive part of my childhood vicariously through her. :-)

I had several pen pals as a kid. Through some school program (I think), I had pen pals in Georgia, England and Germany. I loved writing to them, asking them questions about their lives, learning about their families, friends and schools. And they were just as curious about me.

My cousin and I also used to write volumes to each other. Each letter was never less than ten pages...front and back. We'd decorate the envelopes so the mailing address was barely discernible. The post office must have loved handling our letters. :-)

After my aunt died a few years ago, my cousin was clearing her old home to make way for its new owners. Behind the refrigerator she found one of the letters I had mailed to her so many years before. "I laughed so hard, I cried," she wrote in a note she sent to me along with the old letter. "Can you believe how much we found to write about? Funny thing is, I remember ALL of this as if we wrote these yesterday."

I remember it all, too. And it still makes me smile.

I hope my daughter gets to experience "ALL of this," too, creating a few special memories that will last through her lifetime, as well.

And maybe, one day, she'll get to relive them, too, however vicariously, through her own child.

An addendum to yesterday's confession

Yesterday I confessed that my first meaningful writing experience was a lie. Those of you who commented (thank you very much!) basically said that I was just a kid at the time and that I really should just get over it.

Rational me knows you're right, but neurotic me sees it differently.

That copied poem was the cornerstone of my writing. Therefore, my writing life has been built on something that is tenuous at best. It's like pouring a concrete foundation without rebar to support it. The slightest tremor can cause the seemingly solid mass to crack and crumble into worthless pieces of rubble and dust.

And so it is with my writing. I keep waiting for that tremor that will break my seemingly solid base apart and reveal the imposture on which I built it.

But continuing to look at this transgression in such a way serves no positive purpose. So, I'm going to come at this unfortunate, life-altering event from a new angle. I'm going to turn that negative into a positive.

Right here. Right now.

Copying that poem and claiming the words as my own was wrong.

That's a given.

But I copied that poem because I yearned to write such expressive words myself. And look at what it did...it made me start writing poetry myself. That lie was the catalyst that made me start putting my own words on paper, expressing myself my own way without having to sift through the words of strangers, hoping to find the phrases that said exactly what I wanted them to say. What I needed them to say.

Now I know what Katie-Anne meant in her comment to yesterday's post. I didn't get what she was saying at first, but now I do.

That childhood lie was NOT the cornerstone of my writing foundation. That lie was what made me start writing in the first place. Those ten-year-old-girl poems that I attempted to write after that fateful Christmas...THEY are the cornerstone of my writing foundation.

And a sturdy cornerstone they are.

Maybe I am a writer after all.

Scratch that.

I am a writer.

Watch me grow.

Confession time

I start this entry with a confession that I've never made to anyone. Why share it here? Because I think it's essential to my boot camp success. And to one day calling myself a writer. A real writer.

Whenever I say I'm a writer, I find myself mumbling the words. My face gets hot, my tongue gets thick and my eyes seek out my feet. When I call myself a writer, I feel like a fraud. And the reason why goes waaaaay back--31 years back--to the Christmas when I was ten.

My sister and I always made cards for our parents, and this year I really wanted mine to be special. In years past, I had drawn Christmas trees, ornaments, Santas...you get the idea. But I wanted my card to look like those we received from family and friends. You know, the store-bought kind, with beautiful Currier & Ives landscapes, peaceful manger scenes or peek-thru-the-window views of fireplaces and stockings, rocking chairs and trees. But everything I tried to draw came out wrong.

So, I found a book of poetry on my shelf. The cover showed a picture of deer frolicking in the snow and decorating a tree in the woods. I couldn't draw the picture myself, so I traced it.

With the picture drawn and looking so nice, my ten-year-old poetry sounded so lame, even to ten-year-old me. Tracing the picture worked so well, why not copy a poem?

So I did. I copied a poem and signed my name to the card.

Beautiful.

On Christmas morning, I gave my card to the parents. Amazed at the picture, they asked if I had drawn it myself. I admitted, albeit reluctantly, that I had traced it. But I did do my own coloring!

Then they read the poem. "Dawn, this is wonderful! Did you write this? It is SO good!"

"Thanks," I said. But this time I did not admit that the work wasn't mine. Instead, I took credit where it wasn't due. Their praise meant so much to me, and I really wanted them to think I had a special gift for them...the gift of my words.

Only they weren't my words, and I never let them know.

From that point on, my parents--especially my Mom--talked about how well I wrote. She called me her little poet. I would beam at her words, but cringe when I thought back to their fraudulent source.

I did begin to write poems of my own, though. Ten-year-old girl poems that were about as good as a ten-year-old can write. I would show them to my Mom, and she would praise them as any good mom would do.

As I entered my teen years, I started to journal, writing pages upon pages whenever I had the chance. I also continued writing poetry. Now, not only were my parents praising me, but my teachers and friends were, too. Yet I still felt like a fraud.

I downplayed every success. When I had six poems published in Fragments, a literary magazine for high school kids published by Time-Life, I assumed they published everything they received. Why else would they publish all six of the poems (three at a time in two different issues) that I had submitted? When I had a couple of poems and an ink drawing published in a regional literary magazine, again I assumed it was because they just didn't have that many submissions.

While it may have occurred to me that maybe my poems and artwork were actually pretty good, I refused to believe it. Those first words of meaningful praise that came for words that were not mine took away my belief that I could write.

I still battle with that belief today as I try to prove, especially to myself, that I can write. That I am a writer.

The other day I received my Long Ridge assignment back from my instructor. If number grades were assigned, it would have been a 100. She made no corrections, no suggestions for improvement. She said, "Send this out. Its ready to go!" The only comment on the accompanying query letter (also part of the assignment) was "Perfect, of course! :-)"

I couldn't believe what I was reading. What was wrong with this lady? Why wasn't she ripping the article to shreds? Of course this article can't be perfect. I'm not that good. Hell, I'm not good at all!

I'm not even a writer. I'm just someone who once copied a poem and called it my own.