It’s Writing Monday…

Welcome back to the series on those gloomy voices that plague writers and anyone involved in any creative process.

As I explained last week, I will address one of those gloomy-gus voices each Monday.  After that, we’ll continue to devote Mondays to writing and creativity.  (The rest of the week?  Whatever we feel like discussing!)

Gloomy Voice #2:  ”You Will Never Be a Real Writer.”

The truth: You don’t need a degree, a rite of passage or a dramatic moment to occur before you can call yourself a “real writer.”

First, let’s tackle that word “real.”  Such a distinction suggests an opposite term, and that would have to be “fake” or “fradulant.”

There is no such thing as a fake writer.  You can be a fake doctor or a fake attorney, but not a fake writer.

If you write, your writing IS real.

Now, let’s look at the word “real” combined with the word “writer.”

I used to think that my writing wasn’t” real” until it got published.

Silly me.

What that means is that I gave someone else the power to decide when I was a bonafide writer, when in actuality: (1) It wasn’t their decision to make! and (2) I have always been a writer.  (Yep, it all started in fifth grade when Mrs. Flamm dubbed my horse poem as “brilliant.”)

Fast-forward many years and I was published!

Yet, I felt no more like a “real writer” than I had before.  Sure, I felt validated and successful, but I didn’t see myself as more of a writer than before I was published.  Further proof that I’d always been a writer.

More truth about “real” writing:  If you feel like you’re being judged or pushed from within to write, then you better honor the “real” assignment.

The assignment?  Yes, that’s right: an assignment from a larger source.

I’m a Christian so I firmly believe…nay, I know…that the “larger source” is God acting inside us, and He is nudging us to write.

Your desire to write is a talent.  It’s a gift given to you for the benefit of the world.

Therefore, you must write because it’s one of your life’s assignments.  To deny it is to deny part of what you are and what your purpose is.

And, the negative results of denying yourself will surface whether or not you believe in a source greater than yourself.

So write!  And what do we call someone who writes?

Yep, we call them a writer.  A “real” writer.

Next Monday: Gloomy Voice #3 – You Must Have the Entire Book (Article, Project) Thought Through Before You Write.

Just as I began to brainstorm about what to do for my mother for Mother’s Day, my son arrived home from college for the summer.  He started talking about a statewide conference he’s coordinating for his fraternal group.

My thoughts quickly changed to: When did that happen?!

When did I stop being the coordinator, the social butterfly, the pull-things-together mastermind of special events?  And when did he assume such a role?

When did he become a man, such that groups of people, across the entire state of Pennsylvania, would entrust such a massive undertaking to him?

I don’t remember teaching him those skills.

When, where, how did this happen?

Just yesterday he was reaching up to grasp my hand lest he fall.  Now he looks down to make eye contact with me.

I began to think of other moments in our history together when he has achieved milestones.

All of those moments brought tears of joy, so happy was I to see him achieving those goals and finding pride in himself.

But, yes, I confess that later, when he wasn’t around, those tears of joy became…well….just tears.

But they’re not tears of sadness.  They’re more like tears of poignancy, like the tears we all shed when watching The Lion King, for example, when the music to “The Circle of Life” swells and the little cub lion is held high, up atop that mountain for all the other creatures to see.  It’s just a movie, just a cartoon in fact, but no parent escapes that scene without a lump in the throat.  (If you want to relive it: http://bit.ly/9suMsX)

I think it’s also because we know, deep in our hearts, that so many of life’s milestones are doors opening for our children…but closing for us.

When I spin through the lifecycle moments my mother and I have shared, I realize that nearly all of them were new beginnings for me, and something much more perplexing and bittersweet for her.

When I left for college years ago, I exited the door into a new life, even as my mother watched a door of her own close.

My marriage opened a new chapter for me, and closed one for my mother as she watched her daughter take on the role of wife also.

Years later, the birth of my son inched her still further from her own parenting years.

So, now I know what to do for my mother.  And you can too: This Mother’s Day, and next month when Father’s Day rolls around, I encourage you to go beyond the usual (card, flowers, dinner) and give them the greatest gift imaginable — the gift of turning to them and seeking their advice.

On anything.

Just one more time.

It will make them feel as though you still need them.

It will remind them that they still have value and something to offer.

It will take them back a chapter or two; back to a time when they enjoyed the role of parent most.

I can’t imagine a better Mother’s Day gift.

And how do I know this?  Because my wonderful son does it for me all the time. (Thanks, Matt!)

(And, Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! I love you!)

It’s Writing Monday……

“What makes you think you can write?”

Sound familiar? Sometimes the most defeating voices—those that stifle our creative juices—come from inside our own heads.

Unfortunately these negative voices generally are as much a part of the creative process as the positive and productive voices are.  After all, you can’t build a gorgeous building without uncovering some mud and dirt when you break ground, and you can’t give birth to a gorgeous baby without intense labor pains.

Likewise, you can’t expect writing to be without its challenges.

When those little voices start filling you with doubt, you need to have the proper ammunition to fight back.  That ammunition comes in the form of the truth behind the writing life.

When I conduct writing workshops, I arm students with a list of gloomy little voices that plague writers.

I have decided to provide them to you, here, as a series.   You’ll find a new and all-too-familiar negative voice each Monday.  With each, I hope to equip you with the ammunition you need to combat them.

After the series is done, I’ll continue each Monday to provide tips on writing and creativity.  Most of the tips will be applicable to any form of creativity (painting, designing, photography… heck, even landscaping and project development).  Other postings throughout the week will address whatever topic is my heart’s desire!

Let’s get started:

Gloomy Voice#1:  “You are not creative enough to be a writer.”

The truth: Desire and creativity generally come as a package deal.  If you truly desire to write (or paint or design or…you get the point), then the creativity rests within you.

The real question is whether you are “brave” enough to be a writer.

To be creative is to risk putting a part of yourself out there, for the world to see and criticize. It only follows that the protective part of you is going to go with it and keep saying, “Don’t do it, don’t do it!”

Trust me that the criticism will come.  And the harshness will make you feel like a writing lamp post to a critical dog.

In the first few weeks after my first non-fiction book came out, I got 17 positive reviews, followed by one negative.  Which review do you think I dwelled on?

Yep, the negative one.  Then, in time, I realized that most critics are actually frustrated artists who can’t do it themselves, so they make a living criticizing other people’s work.  I began to realize that the criticism was as much, if not more, about them as it was me and my work.

I once read that God selected only certain people to be writers, all the rest, by default, play the role of critic.

So let other people carry out their silly little reactionary roles, and you do your positive and productive God-gifted creative masterpieces.

Just bear in mind that the criticism and rejection will come.

That means you’ve fulfilled your role.

Next Monday: Gloomy Voice#2 – You Will Never Be a “Real” Writer.

Happy May Day, dear friends!

Traditionally, May Day marks the end of the unfarmable winter half of the year in the Northern hemisphere, and it is a cause for celebration in certain cultures.

A May Day celebration generally involves a Maypole:  a tall wooden pole with a ring attached to which various strings or long scarves are tied.

To participate, all you have to do is grab hold of a scarf and dance away — up, down, and around the pole, as feverishly and as loudly as you wish.  You can sing, dance, and go wild and crazy, but as long as you hold onto the scarf, you are anchored and secured.

It got me to thinking that we all need a Maypole in life.

And that made me realize that I already have several.

Faith is an anchor, a sturdy support or guidepost to clasp, for sure.

So are our parents (for most of us, anyway).

But I’ve been blessed with another Maypole:  Just My Joe.

You’ve seen me write about this man before.  He’s my boyfriend, my significant other, my confidante, my protector, my shrink.

He talks little and thinks lots.  He’s well-educated, intellectual, grounded, reflective and full of integrity.

He’s a man’s man, loving all things “guy” – guns, sports, hunting, power engines, animals, big equipment.

He doesn’t waste words, meaning he doesn’t say much.  So when he does talk, it’s generally worth hearing because it’s either rock-solid common sense or humorous:

• When I took in the scene on his Georgia ranch/farm of a front-end loader, a tractor, three trucks, two cars, and three 4-wheelers, I sighed.  He smiled back and said, “Ahh, come on, Babe, don’t you love a man with a large carbon footprint?”
• When I irrationally bemoaned that I would be homeless if I had to sell my house in the North to pay my bills, the man hugged me and said: “Don’t worry honey, I’ll buy you a shopping cart.”

See what I mean? He makes me laugh.

And, he lets me dance up, down, and around him, as feverishly and as loudly as I wish, just like around the Maypole.  I can sing, dance, go wild and crazy, and as long as I hold onto his strength, I am anchored and secured.

I am creative and carefree and sporadic and crazy, and I take risks.  When I crash into walls and stumble and fall, he yanks on the proverbial scarf and helps me back up.

Thanks Just My Joe, for being my Maypole.

Friends: In celebration of all the Maypoles in your life, Happy May Day!

Many people say that they wish they were the person their dogs think they are.

I wish I was the person my friends’ answering messages imply I am.

Over the past year, I’ve listened to the following messages:

“Hi Deb.  Long time no talk.  You’re probably off on some exotic vacation again.  Where is it this time?  Hawaii?  Europe?  Or are you finally doing Ireland?”

“Hi Debbie.   I guess you’re working really hard on that novel.  I just wanted….”

“Debra!  Where are you?  You’re always working.  Take a break and pick up the phone…”

“Deb, are you there? Okay, I guess you decided to go to the festival after all.”

Let’s see, the truth, in order, is that I was: working in the yard, watching television, in bed early, and charging my phone.

Pretty glamorous life, eh?

I just thought I’d tell you this before the National Inquirer does.

And Then the Drab Got Even Worse

Fast forward a few months and, as you all know, in March, I got mono.

Suddenly, the “glamorous” life my friends thought I was living turned into the drabbest life one could imagine.

Instead of doing exciting things like going to bed early and working in the yard (ahem), I found myself carrying out the exciting feat of contemplation:

Day one of mono: I pondered, in bed, for two hours, about moving from my left side to my right side.

Day two of mono: I realized you can actually be so still and bored that you can feel yourself wrinkle.

Day three of mono: I thought, for half a day, about moving to a chair.  But, it was on the far side of the room, so I let the thought pass.

Day four of mono: Excitement!–I made it to the doctor’s office where I contemplated new things, like:

•  Why do people go into examining rooms, but they never come out?
•  Doctor’s waiting rooms have to be the single most germ-filled spots on the planet, so why don’t we all meet our doctors somewhere else?

When finally back home and on the mend, I contemplated on what I am supposed to learn from illness.

The friends who know me best immediately decided I was exhausted from my always-frantic schedule.  I should say “no” more often, they agreed.

My mother thinks I was “run down.” Get more rest, she said.

Just My Joe said my immune system was weak.  More Vitamin C and garlic, he advised.

Others suggested that always-villainous “stress” was the culprit.  No one could figure out how to solve that one.

I wondered if God was trying to tell me something? Perhaps I’m supposed to spend more time in prayer and in reading His word. I know that the greatest of God’s “benefits” is that He forgives all our sins, but Psalms charges us not to forget another of God’s benefits to us — that is, He “heals all our diseases.”

Psalms 103:2-3 — Praise the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits — who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases.

I can’t say I’ve returned to my glamorous life of yard work (again, ahem), but I know I’m on the mend.

I look forward to the day when my friends think I’m living my “glamorous” life again, because right now, the only thing I hear on my answering machine is:

“Hi Deb.  You must be resting.”

Maybe I should get a dog.

I journeyed the Blue Ridge from Georgia back to Marpennsylginia this past weekend.

Unbeknownst to me, an email went out earlier declaring this past weekend as the date everyone over age 90 from the following states/provinces was to migrate back to the North for the summer: New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Quebec.

(Apparently folks from New Hampshire, Vermont and Maine travel on a different weekend.  Very clever that they stagger these trips.)

And so it was that I found myself wedged between and beside monstrous motor homes, campers, busses, trucks and SUVs on routes 95 and 81.

It was like a Where’s Waldo vacation puzzle and I was Waldo.

With that much traffic, you can guess that it was moving s—l—o—w—l—y.

When you’re driving slower than grass grows, you have time to look around.

So, I vehicle-watched.

You know what I mean, rather than people-watch, I vehicle-watch(ed).

Perhaps I should digress to explain: I used to live this seemingly glamorous life traveling as a business consultant.  Invariably, I spent a lot of time in airports.  My favorite thing to do was people-watch.  In fact, I bet I could have spent an entire day observing people and wondering about their choices in hair, clothing, luggage, destination, companions, attitude, etc.

So, this past weekend, I got to vehicle-watch, and yes, I contemplated the many choices.

Like, who would drive on a major interstate in a death-trap “smart” car beside a massive, barreling 18-wheeler?  Picture a tiny mouse beside a galumping elephant.  I decided the car may be smart, but the driver is not.

I pondered for a good fifteen miles why a small pick-up truck would have a solar panel mounted on its roof.  Just what does this solar panel do that the engine does not?  I decided it’s probably best if I do NOT know.

For most of northern South Carolina, I tried to calculate the gas mileage of the motor home, with the six bikes and the huge Thule carrier straddled to the top, and which was pulling an SUV.  Four mpg, maybe?  Six, if the wind is with it?

I thought about accompanying the vehicles with the following plates into rest stops and telling them that they drive too close to other vehicles!:  LEX EDU, OLE MISS, and KMISTRY.

And, hey, if I may: To Missouri plate #WC2-W90 – Your vehicle looks more like a giant baby shoe than a car!  Phew, got that off my chest.

I also wondered: What’s the statistical chance that one person slaps this bumper stick on his car: “P.E.T.A. – People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals” while the very car behind him proudly displays this one: “P.E.T.A. – People Eating Tasty Animals.”  Do the two then cancel out the thought entirely?

Finally, to Alaska plate # EYZ-458, I say:  Really?!  Are you kidding me?  Yours is the largest motor home I’ve ever seen.  With the money you spent in gas, you could have bought a home in “The Villages” in Florida and flown there and back, and still had money left over for a caribou dinner or whatever your pleasure is in Alaska. (Just don’t let certain P.E.T.A. bumper sticker people know.)

Finally, to my new friends at Outback Steakhouse in Rocky Mount, N.C.:  See?!  I told you I’d work you into one of my postings!

When the workload is heavy, my mind drifts to “perfect” moments.

Those moments usually involve being free of work, sitting in a reclining lawn chair reading a good book, sipping iced tea, and listening to the birds and the wind in the trees. No schedules, no deadlines, no commitments.

This week, I had a relapse in recovery from the mono that struck me last month.  One very strong, magic pain pill and tons of sleep later, I am 80% free of pain, afraid to push myself lest another relapse occur, and am, therefore, doing nothing.

Meaning, I am free of work, sitting in a reclining lawn chair reading a good book, sipping iced tea, and listening to the birds and the wind in the trees. No schedules, no deadlines, no commitments.

So, why am I not enjoying it?

It’s the “perfect” moment, isn’t it?

Do our ideal scenarios have to be wrapped in 100% health, exotic locations, and schedules of our choosing, in order to be enjoyable?

It makes me wonder how often we have the ideal already, but wrapped up and delivered in a different manner than what we had intended.

Does the packaging and the delivery matter?  Must perfect moments arrive on our schedule?

They say it’s only human to never be satisfied.  To that, I say “poppycock.”  I want to be satisfied, while still wanting to better my life.

I think that satisfaction—just like happiness—is more of a decision than a situation.

Here’s to being satisfied with what we’ve got…however and wherever we find it.

Are you with me?

Now, going forward, I must remember to add “beside the ocean,” and “bug-free” to that perfect outdoor scenario I described…