**
. . . but you can’t make him drink.
(This message brought to you by Parenting Lessons I’m Still Trying to Learn.)
** (photo from OpenImageBank.com – Wildebeest at a river in Ngorongoro Conservation Area, Tanzania)
I’ve been at this writing thing for a while, working toward publication. There have been highs and lows throughout the journey, validation followed by rejection. It’s been tough, but I’ve always been tougher. Something inside wouldn’t let me quit. Something inside knew I did not want to give up.
Several weeks ago, I began to seriously consider quitting.
Seriously, as in, I actually said out loud, “I’m thinking about quitting.” And I spoke those words to a new non-writer acquaintance who’d asked about my writing. That was a huge moment, because during all the years of writing in the bleachers during Zebu’s basketball games and being asked by other parents if I was a teacher grading papers, I always said, “No, I’m a writer.” If they asked more questions, I’d let them know I was writing novels for kids and when the inevitable question came, I’d say, “No, I haven’t been published yet.” And it was okay. There was a core of steel in me that allowed me to have those conversations. I knew I’d keep writing until my stories were published. I knew I’d prevail.
Nothing specific happened in the past month or so to shake my convictions, but somehow I felt I’d reached my limit. As in, maybe it was time to quit putting my work out there to be judged because maybe, just maybe, it was unhealthy to continue making myself vulnerable to others’ opinions. Sending out a manuscript is like offering my heart on a plate so that it can be stabbed, sometimes repeatedly.
So I gave myself a little break. A break from writing and a break from decision-making about writing for publication. I kept reading, though. One of the books I read was a YA from an author who’d written one of the best books I’d read in 2013, an author who sells gazillions of books and seems to be an awesome person. The YA I read was a huge disappointment. Weak, weak, weak. I was flabbergasted. And slightly annoyed. I knew better than to write a protagonist who doesn’t change and secondary characters who serve as placeholders and plot lines that go nowhere, fizzling out into big nothings. Why do I know that? Because I know how to write.
And just like that I knew I wasn’t ready to quit writing for publication. Not because I have any delusions about knocking that author off the best-seller list. And not because I’m angry with the publishing world that has, thus far, excluded me from the club. I’ve gone back to work on my YA because I want to continue doing what I know how to do, and to continue learning how to do that even better.
I am a writer. And no, I haven’t yet been published. Whatever.
Image from MorgueFile.com by Alvimann
I’d forgotten that these photos from a couple weeks ago were on the camera and when I looked at them just now, I realized they held an important reminder for me.
When life feels crazy and overwhelming, I often only see what’s right there in front of me
but when I can take a breath and take a step back, I get a better sense of what’s going on.
Which means that when I take another few steps back, I see even more of the big picture.
Breathing is good. Stepping back is good. And, by golly, every single day has its moments of good.
Life’s been hectic and worrisome
and sometimes I forget to smile
so I’m posting this photo to help me remember
those less hectic and worrisome moments.
And then I smile again.
Discovered a finch on the deck rail this morning. Eyes closed. Visible, rhythmic breathing and tufted feathers on her head. I guessed she’d hit a window and was recovering from the trauma. As I watched, she opened her eyes and tilted her head before hopping to the edge of the rail. But she didn’t take off. A few moments later, a male finch landed on the rail and hopped closer in order to give her a safflower seed from the feeder.
Baby bird!
I grabbed the camera and documented what came next. Mostly, hopping about and looking around as finches and doves busied themselves at the feeder about ten feet away.
A few minutes later she fluttered down to the deck.
Then she took off for the basketball rim.
After several moments perched there she tried flying toward the feeder. Unfortunately, she didn’t take into account the backboard and hit it (lightly) before dropping to the branch below.
She stayed on that branch for quite a while before taking off and landing on another branch hanging about a foot away from the feeder. This photographic documentation ended there because I didn’t want to startle her by moving closer, but I’m confident she’s doing fine. That little finch did some growing up in a hurry.
I’ve been offline for the past month, mostly because I’ve been spending time with my cat Lebowski. Five weeks ago we found out he is terminally ill, and my heart shattered when I thought it was only a matter of days before I had to say goodbye. Instead, we’ve been gifted all this extra time so I’m soaking up the love while I still have the chance. Trying hard to ignore the heartbreak in my future.
Lebowski is one of the most loving felines I’ve ever known and he wants to be close to me all the time. He’s either on my lap or curled against my leg (he even sits next to my head while I do my planks, enduring the extra-loud Green Day I blast for motivation). He likes being outside so we sit on the deck beneath an old shower curtain I’ve rigged to give us shade, his tail gently flicking as he watches birds in the yard and squirrels running along the fence. I caress my kitty and listen to his purr, trying hard not to think too far into the future. Trying hard to stay in the moment, memorizing the arch of his neck when he’s angling for the best scratch. Memorizing the silky feel of his tail sliding through my fingers and the sight of the long-long whiskers that grew on a once-wide cat.
Because Lebowski likes me stationary, I’ve been doing LOTS of reading. The writing hasn’t been happening, in part because when I work at my standing desk, the kitty comes in and meows up at me until I get down on the floor and rub his tummy. Instead, I’ve read stacks of books (lots of them good and others not-so-good) these past weeks. It feels right to read other writers’ words while I fill my heart with Lebowski.
Mostly I’m trying hard to remember that while this isn’t the long happily-ever-after I’d hoped for when Lebowski came into my life, every day with him is a gift.
The Dude in June of 2009
We’ve hit a rough patch around here, but things could be worse.
As the inimitable Steven Wright once pointed out:
When everything is coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane!
image from MorgueFile.com
Today I had to send an email to a man who’d put time, energy, and creativity
into his proposal to landscape our back yard.
I had to tell him “Thanks, but no thanks.”
I spent quite a while composing those several email sentences,
wanting to be kind and to somehow minimize the “blow.”
In doing so I felt a certain empathy with agents and editors;
it must be really difficult to send out so many NOs.
© Tracy Abell 2012
I was positive 2010 would be my year.
It was the Year of the Tiger,
and because I was born in the Year of the Tiger,
I was convinced ferociously good stuff was headed my way.
It is to laugh.
Today marks the beginning of the Year of the Rabbit.
I have no expectations for 2011.
image from morguefile.com
Rabbits are nice enough.
Huge floppy ears.
Big-ass feet.
Fluffy little tails.
Whatever.
There I was in my bra, surrounded by strangers, while a man hit me repeatedly in the head with his hat…
So.
I drove my brother’s pickup to the Rooney Valley Recycling Center to unload the juniper branches and sod I’d removed from my yard. I paid $10 at the gate and the woman told me I needed to separate the materials so she directed me to the very back of the area where there was a huge mound of sod. Right across from it was the enormous pile of branches. She thought it’d be most convenient for me to unload both back there.
I drove past one other truck on my way to the sod mound, weaving around materials piled so high you can’t see anyone or anything else. I parked the truck next to the mound and started grabbing sod and flinging it into the pile. It was a nice morning, not too warm, not too windy. Not bad at all, I thought as I flung a huge piece of sod.
Suddenly an annoying fly was buzzing around my head. Quite aggressively. I told the damned fly to shoo, but then there was another. And another.
Except they weren’t damned flies.
They were damned bees.
A swarm of them.
All around me but especially around my head.
In my hair.
I took off my ball cap and waved it around my head.
Frantically.
As I screamed.
The bees kept buzzing.
My whole head vibrated.
I tried to be calm,
to stand still so they’d leave me alone.
They were too pissed.
I felt a sting.
So I screamed some more
And ran a bit toward the entrance.
The woman from the other truck saw me and yelled, “Run, honey! Run!”
I ran past her and the man with her said for me to run to the shack at the gate. (Not clear on why I’d want to bring bees to the woman in the shack, but at least it was a plan!)
But before I got there, the woman screamed for me to take off my shirt
because bees were flying out of it.
The woman from the shack came out while the other woman helped me unbutton my shirt. She shook it out while the man yelled for me to stand still.
Then he hit me in the head with his hat, over and over.
Really hard.
I was so grateful.
He knocked all but two bees off my head.
I got the second-to-the-last one and the woman brushed off the last.
I was bee-free but full of adrenaline.
And there was my brother’s truck, keys in the ignition, way back there surrounded by an angry swarm of bees.
The man and woman drove me back there in their truck. We watched while bees swarmed near the truck and around the stump that probably held their nest.
The one I’d inadvertently hit with a huge piece of sod.
We strategized.
I walked slowly to the truck, got in the passenger side and slammed the door. The man slowly walked to the back of my truck, grabbed the broom and rake leaning there, and threw them in my truck before getting back in his own.
I unloaded the rest of my materials in stump-free areas and was remarkably calm the entire time, if I do say so myself.
On the drive home, though, a fly buzzed in the truck cab and I panicked.
And screamed.
I’ve got a ways to go before letting go of the bee panic.
But I’d be much worse off without Good Samaritans, Phyllis and Jeff, there to help me.
Next time I go to the drop-off, I think I’ll wear one of these:
Let me say right upfront that I am fine.
Yesterday afternoon I was in my Prius at a red light,
and I watched a woman use the cross walk in front of me.
She was dressed in business clothes, dark blue form-fitting blouse
and blue slacks that showed off her full hips.
Her blonde hair was shoulder length and slightly kinky.
She carried a purse over one shoulder and held a Subway sandwich bag in her hand.
A six-inch sandwich.
I thought, "Wow, it’s pretty late for lunch."
I glanced at my clock and it said 2:55.
Just as I wondered if the woman always ate lunch that late or whether it was
such a busy day she couldn’t get out of the office any sooner, I was hit from behind.
Lots of adrenaline and shaking ensued.
I pulled off the street into a parking lot,
followed by the guy in the minivan who’d hit me.
More shaking.
I wrote down my name and insurance carrier and policy number
and gave it to the man. He gave me his card so I could do the same
but I was shaking so much I asked him to do it.
I couldn’t read his name as written so he spelled it out for me.
He didn’t include his insurance carrier until I asked.
After he left, I realized his policy number was a bit scribbly,
and I wasn’t entirely positive I was reading it correctly.
As I sat in my car waiting for the adrenaline to wear off,
I felt some tightness in my back below my shoulder blades.
I decided to be smart and call my insurance company just to let them know
what had happened in case it turned out I was injured.
Here are some of the pieces of information they wanted that I could not provide:
Man’s license plate number.
Man’s phone number.
Man’s address.
Man’s vehicle identification number. (VIN, really?! How about a DNA sample while I’m at it?!)
Description of man’s vehicle including number of doors and presence of child restraints/car seats.
(I told her I didn’t know about car seats but that there was a black dog riding shotgun).
So I guess the moral of this story is . . . what?
That Tracy should make a little checklist to keep in her glove compartment so she’ll remember to ask for the obvious next time?
That writers are incredibly detail-oriented up until the point of suffering a trauma?
That Tracy is never going to get a job as a detective?
That Tracy should cut herself some slack and give herself points for having the guy spell out his last name AND
include the name of his insurance carrier? I mean, imagine the embarrassment if I hadn’t been able to supply that basic info.
Writers be warned: your brains might not function at their usual levels after getting rear-ended.
Cheat sheets are highly recommended.
Many brave writers are stepping up to share their stories of being bullied.
I’ve tried but cannot read those accounts because they are too raw and painful.
They reveal in excruciating detail the many ways that humans can hurt one another.
There’s one other reason I cannot bear to read those stories: I was once a bully.
That mean girl you remember? Me.
I’m deeply ashamed to admit that when I was in sixth-grade, I bullied another girl.
I was horrible and cruel, and made that girl feel so bad she stayed home from school.
I have no explanation or excuse for my behavior, and I’ll forever regret my actions.
I apologized and tried to make amends, but there’s no way to completely erase the hurt.
I did damage that can never be repaired.
For all of you who were bullied, I wish I could stand alongside your younger selves,
and fight off the likes of me.
And to R., again, I am so very, very sorry.
I haven’t been running as much as usual.
I’ve developed some weirdness about running.
I feel intimidated,
psyched out,
less-than-enthusiastic
when contemplating a run.
But today I decided to run my little neighborhood loop
in reverse.
And instead of feeling the pressure to get my Best Time Ever,
I just ran.
And enjoyed myself.
So here’s what I can take from this:
Remove the expectations
and experience the activity for what it is.
In this case, a difficult, mostly uphill slog that I’m proud to have completed.
That is all.
I’d like to keep this in mind with my writing, too.
When I’m feeling pressured and intimidated,
I hope to remember to write in whatever manner gets me writing again.
Even if it means writing in reverse.
Earlier this week I shared our bird seed experiment.
Well, today it’s official:
our neighborhood birds did NOT like the hot meats bird seed.
With the possible exception of this Black-capped Chickadee:
(photo by Zippy)
This morning Zippy cleaned out the feeders
(the hot meats are in a pie tin on the patio table
in case that chickadee comes back for more),
and filled the feeders with "boring" old safflower seeds.
The House Finches are very, very happy.
And we’re thrilled to have them back.
When is being nice too nice?
Stupid?
Or even dangerous?
Last night I walked out of a store to the parking lot.
An old, loud truck passed me.
As I reached to open my car door
I heard "Excuse me, ma’am."
It was the guy in the truck.
He had a story about being stranded
and needing gas money.
I told him I didn’t have my wallet and only had a credit card
but would look in my car for change.
He then asked me to go to a gas station where he’d clean my windows
in exchange for some gas.
I hesitated and told him I needed to check in my car.
I found four quarters, accidentally dropped one between the seats,
and took three out to the man.
It wasn’t until I handed him the money that I looked at him.
He looked a little volatile.
A bit scary.
But I see volatile and scary every week at the soup kitchen.
He thanked me and I walked back to my car.
A woman in an SUV was idling there, watching.
She said, "I was just making sure you were okay."
I thanked her and got in my car.
And then it all hit me:
I hadn’t thought twice about approaching that man’s truck.
Hadn’t thought twice about standing next to his door and open window.
Hadn’t thought about the big dog on the seat next to him.
I’m 5’10".
I regularly "bounce" people from the spaghetti dinner.
I’m used to people on the edge.
But none of that matters.
Last night I wasn’t paying attention to the situation.
And worse, I actually contemplated going to a gas station.
Whoa.
I need to maintain a sense of "me" in those interactions.
Giving is good until it’s stupid.
I’ve been scarce in these parts and am just popping in to to say a quick hello. My elderly friend, R, is in the hospital. He’s not doing well and is facing some tough decisions. I’m right there with him, facing tough lessons of my own, namely those same old questions about inserting myself in his life – how much and how far? I’m starting to think this must’ve been a difficult lesson for me in previous lives since I’m getting so many opportunities to master it this time around! Yeehaw.
Anyway, didn’t stop by to be a downer but to share the little epiphany I experienced today while visiting R in the hospital:
As I sat at the foot of R’s bed, I realized if I closed my eyes I could easily imagine it was Wildebeest going on and on and on…..
There’s a reason people say that the more things change, the more they stay the same; they say it because it’s true.
Tracy Abell 