Following the rules

I've always been the sort of person who took the tried and true path.
Study hard in school so you can get into college, I was told.
Check.
Study hard in college so you get a good job, they said.
Check.
Work hard at your job so, well, you keep it and further your career, I told myself.
In process.

I take life seriously. I try to follow my role models' advice. I listened to my mom when she told me to wear my hat in the winter. Ate my carrots.

I do X, Y, and Z, with the expectation that it will result in the alphabet.

Probably 90% of the time it works. I have a steady and reliable income. I have a roof over my head. I have friends.

I go to the doctor. I watch what I eat (most of the time). I go to yoga. You get what you put into it. Want to feel relaxed? I know the steps it takes to get there. Now I'm not trying to imply that I'm perfect, because of course, I'm not. I don't always take the right actions, but I pretty much know the HOW if I want to get there. The basic things in life anyways.

Do this, get that. Don't speed, you don't get a speeding ticket.

But a few observations:

1. It can make life a bit boring

2. I create the illusion that A will always result in B and life just isn't always like that, which leads to disappointment.

3. I'm not very spontaneous. The rare occasions I have been spontaneous, I've loved it. Which should tell me something.

So my point?
The tried and true path REALLY doesn't work with certain things.
Case in point: my writing.
I have been following a specific route, but I keep bonking my head against a concrete wall. I get an idea for a story, I start at the beginning, I write a handful of pages, and

I'm Bored.
I quit.
I'm stuck.

Then I get depressed...

Now sometimes you just have to plunge forward I've heard. And it may be partly because of my life long dear friend, Perfection. Can you hear my syrupy sarcasm?? Drip drip.

But- I really think I need to think "outside the box." Mix it up. Try something new. And realize, there's not a tried and true single way.

I've always thought linearly (is that a word? sounds strange in my head and as I'm muttering it in under my breath). You start with the beginning, go to the middle and finish at the end. But what if that's not going to result in the masterpiece that I dream about?

So I'm going to toy with it. Write a random scene. Start at the end. Free associate. Whatever it takes. I found a book called The Weekend Novelist that I'm hoping will help me with this. It has an exercise called "Writing down the page" that I found intriguing.

Luckily, I also have a creative side, and although, rusty, I haven't lost it. It's just a matter of giving little Miss Analytical-Logical a vacation.

Liebster Awards

I recently received the Liebster Blog Award from Patricia Kiyono, author and blogger, who can be found at Creative Hodgepodge. She’s a fellow member of the Grand Rapids Regional Writer’s Group (GRRWG) and just released her novel, Aegean Intrigue. I actually won a copy and hope to write my review soon, so keep your eyes peeled! It takes place in Greece, which alone makes it a worthwhile read.

This award is for “up and coming bloggers with fewer than 200 followers”, so I felt honored to be recognized in this way. Thank you Patty!

Now the drum roll for the awards I get to pass out:

1. Joselyn Vaughn is a fellow GRRWG member and can be found at Joselyn Vaughn. She writes fun romantic novels, including CEO’s Don’t Cry, which I’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed!

2. Bronwyn Green can be found at Bronwyn Green's Random Thoughts and Musings. Her regular blog feature, Riding in Cars With Boys, never ceases to bring a smile. She’s also an author, member of GRRWG, and very supportive of newbie authors.

3. Michelle has a blog that features her re-imagining business. For those who aren’t familiar with re-imagining, she takes old furniture, refinishes it and gives it that trendy vintage look. Reimagined Just For You has really blossomed in the last several months. Michelle also has a personal blog at She Looketh Well.

4. W.S. Gager is the author of the Mitch Malone mystery series and shares her writing experiences at W.S. Gager On Writing . She’s discussed her challenges of trying to type while wearing a cast, and I have to tip my hat to her! Bind a writer’s hands and she’ll find a way.

5. Jessie is the first person I knew to have a blog (she’s a cousin by marriage). The blog’s versatility keeps it fresh and she incorporates her whole family in the blog. Her husband and sister are contributor’s and three little boys always keeps it exciting. I couldn’t bear to cross out, Nothing Gets Crossed Out, and therefore, it definitely made the list ! (Sorry, couldn’t resist playing with the phrase!)

Instructions on how the Liebster Award works:

1. Thank the person who gave it to them and link back to that person’s blog.

2. Copy and paste the award to your blog. (It’s up at the top!)

3. Choose 5 blogs to award in kind and break the news by commenting on those blogs.

4. Hope those people pay it forward in turn by accepting and awarding the “Leibster Blog Award” to blogs they’d like to honor.

Thanks again Patty!

The war in my mind

There’s a phenomenon that I don’t quite understand.
I was really pumped last weekend. No obligations, plans, or urgent to-do list. I decided early last week that I would “write like mad” on Saturday and Sunday. Treat it like a work day, except I’d be home writing.

Except I didn’t wake up excited. I felt a little nervous (and really overwhelmed), and talked myself into getting a few things done for a new business that I’m starting (which will hopefully allow me some freedom in the long term for more writing), and then I’d pursue my writing in the afternoon. It related to writing, I rationalized, but still, I wasn’t writing. Afternoon rollled around and I was stressed out by a website and Vistaprint and random other snags. I decided lunch would be a really good idea. How can I write if I’m not rejuvenated? Then I got a bit drowsy after lunch so I needed a cat nap. That’s just a sampling of how Saturday and Sunday went on. It got to be rather ridiculous. I talked myself into shoveling snow since it really should be done in case we get another storm, and there’s not a lot of time on weeknights for that. Shoveling snow!

By Sunday night I was disgusted with myself. Disappointed. Ashamed. Self doubt. I thought, maybe I’m not a writer. What sort of writer finds everything to do except write? I had been so excited about finally having a whole weekend to write. Everything was “perfect”. I finally had the time.

I’ve been a writer my whole life, but this is my first serious attempt at writing a novel. I’m a beginner novelist and I feel overwhelmed. So much to consider. Dynamics, background, setting, facts, plot lines, character development, and to put together a string of that many words and paragraphs that work well together and are inspiring, exciting, captivating? What if I can’t do it? I think I figured out my problem. Well there’s more than one when it comes to the fear that a writer battles. The war it wages within the mind. But my biggest underlying fear last weekend? What if I write a novel and then find out that I’m not good at it? What if I’ve deceived myself all these years into thinking I could write a good novel, but I can’t. THAT is my biggest fear. …So if I avoid writing it, I can keep living that dream of “hey I bet can write a novel!” and then never get the opportunity to prove myself wrong. But then I realized, if I never attempt it, I also lose. If I never confront the fear, never just go ahead and do it, I also lose.

Finally, late Sunday night, I sat and wrote for forty five minutes. I don’t know what the magic trick was. Only change was that my husband came home from being out of town and I liked his company. So maybe a quiet house with tons of time isn’t the “perfect” setting. I don’t know.

I also had one of those flashes of insight. A simple thought, but it was what I needed. I spend so much time and effort with every word and sentence being “good enough”, that the whole process loses its charm. The simple thought? “Just tell the story” Tell it horribly, tell it however you want, but at least tell it. So that’s my mantra right now. “Just tell the story.”

The Christmas Killer

I wrote this for an informal writer's challenge through GRRWG. Enjoy and Happy New Year!!

The Christmas Killer

Cori eyed the clock, twirling a pink strand of hair. She slouched as far as she could on the firm plastic covered “davenport”, as Great Aunt Fran called it.

Great Aunt Fran’s tree held a string of assortedly half lit white lights that flickered weakly. An angel leaned precariously atop, peering with a rather demonic smile.

Uncle Bob slammed his fist on the coffee table. “Dammit!” He wiped the dabble of spit that always came with the football obscenities, and peered closer at the television. “Conner is worthless!”

“Bob, seriously,”sighed Cori’s step-mother. “Can’t you turn it off? We’re going to be starting the party any minute now.” Cori’s step-mother crossed her sheer hosed legs and pat at her French twist. She wore a white business ensemble, with pumps to match.

Uncle Bob turned up the volume and Cori’s step-mother turned to her with her intermittent British accent, “Sweetie, please sit like a young lady.”

“You know Great Aunt Bev won’t start the party until everyone is here, including Sloppy Ray,” replied Cori.

“Uncle Ray,” Cori’s mother corrected, averting her gaze to Great Aunt Bev who had a powdery white mustache. Greatie Bev, as she preferred to be called, bobbled puppy chow mix, which fell in her lap. “I wonder where Ray-Ray could be. He knew it started at six. Six sharp I told him,” with a strong nod of her head. She peeked out the window. “My, it’s snowing. I do hope he’s okay.”

“It’s six-fifteen. I don’t see why we can’t just start. I’m sure he’ll be here soon. And I honestly don’t think he’ll care,” said Cori.

“You’ve heard of the Christmas Killer, haven’t you?” whispered Greatie Bev. Her sweater jangled as she sat next to Cori on the “davenport.” Cori held her breath- and not because she was afraid of a serial killer that Greatie Bev had probably read about in her latest thriller. She was known to confuse literary fiction and reality.

“Christmas Killer?” asked Cori’s stepmother, suddenly losing the accent.

“Ohh yes,” said Greatie Bev, eyes wide and gray curls bouncing with each syllable. “In Columbus he- or she- “she quickly corrected herself, “kills one person right before Christmas. Always puts a Santa Hat on the woman and bright red lipstick- and always sloppy-like and exaggerated.”

Uncle Bob snorted. “A hoax, I’m sure,” and sipped his beer. He wiped his hands on his wife beater stretched by a fairly rotund belly.

“So it’s something you’ve heard about elsewhere,” said Cori carefully.

“Hell yeah- even made the national news last year. And everybody’s got their panties in a bunch because he hasn’t killed yet this year- and well, with it being Christmas Eve, he hasn’t much time.”

“How many years has this been going on?” asked Cori’s stepmother, re-applying her lipstick.

“Oh I dunno- a few years. If you ask me it’s propaganda to get last minute shoppers.”

“Oh heavens,” said Greatie Bev. “Six years at least!”

“I don’t get it. How does it get last minute shoppers?” asked Cori.

Uncle Bob swatted at them for silence as commercials ended. Suddenly, Breaking News flashed across the screen with a blond woman standing outside the local police station. A Santa hat was located on the top right of the screen.

“Good evening. Local authorities have asked us to spread a word of caution. The Christmas Killer has struck the past seven years and as of this moment, there’s been no word of any deaths. We encourage you to use caution. Shop online. Lock doors. Keep children inside. The suspect typically targets women with blond hair, green eyes between the ages of 20 and 35, but everyone is asked to stay alert and report any suspicious activity.”

“See. She said Shop Online. It’s bullshit propaganda!” Uncle Bob held his arms wide, daring anyone to disagree.

“Ohhh,” squealed Greatie Bev, hopping to the front door window. “I wish Ray Ray would get here. It’s getting dark.”

“I don’t think you need to worry, Bev. The killer only targets blond young females,” said Cori’s stepmother.

“At least yours is pink at the moment, Cori,” she said with syrupy sarcasm. She wrung her hands. She fit the victim description quite perfectly. Cori wondered if he had a thing for British accents.

Cori tried slouching the other direction, and thumbed through Good Housekeeping. “Did you guys invite Aunt Colleen again?”

She’d been invited ever since she’d left Uncle Ray several years ago and never showed. Greatie Bev spent months taking computer and Internet classes so she could track down Colleen’s address. Rumor had it that she even hired a P.I., but maybe that was her confusing John Grisham with reality. Uncle Ray always brought a gift, just in case and Greatie Bev always insisted, “This would be the year” and Colleen would “turn from her sinful ways.”

“Cornelia, show some respect,” said her step-mother.

“Yes, she was invited,” said Greatie Bev. “And I’m sure one of these years she’ll show some sense and come-“she choked a sob and bustled to the kitchen.

Cori’s step-mother motioned her head toward the kitchen, so Cori sauntered in that direction.

“Greatie Bev, should I see if Great Aunt Fran is ready to come down?” Great Aunt Fran didn’t let the holidays infringe upon her online Bingo time. She’d also been caught doing some mildly inappropriate things on web cam, with her “Beau”, Beaufort, who supposedly was from some tropical island, although Cori suspected he might be from the inner city. Great Uncle Frank didn’t seem to mind, saying that after 70 years, when she called out another man’s name, it kept him awake.

“Sure dear, that would be mighty sweet of you. Nevermind about asking about Colleen. I know you mean no harm. It just-it hurts.” She sighed, covering her heart, and began sobbing. Cori tried putting an arm around her, but refused to breathe. She wished her step-mother had agreed on buying that new denture toothpaste for Greatie Bev, as part of the gift basket.

“He’s here!” sang Cori’s stepmother from the other room. “Ray! We were worried!”

The front door slammed shut and Uncle Ray stomped the snow off his boots. Greatie Bev’s tears evaporated and she sped to the other room, standing tippy toed to stain his cheek with hot pink lipstick. He grinned and thrust forth a silver package bedecked with layers of sparkling bows. He wore a Santa hat that appeared more orange than red.

“Oh my,” Greatie Bev inhaled, “Lovely. Oh Ray Ray- she doesn’t deserve you!”

Cori’s stepmother turned off the TV, much to Uncle Bob’s chagrin and the angel toppled, landing squarely on the gift Greatie Bev had placed under the tree.

“Hey kiddo, “Uncle Ray grinned at Cori. She noticed his untucked bowling alley shirt and a month’s worth of facial hair. He handed her his grease-stained coat, “Mind taking care of this for me? You’re getting big, Cor,” he said and ruffled her hair.

Cori held it by the loop with a pinky and Uncle Ray joined the others as they found their designated spots on the plastic covered furniture.

Cori went upstairs with the coat and poked her head into Frank and Fran’s room.
“Party is starting!”
They emerged from beneath a blanket, and Cori quickly closed the door, covering her eyes. “Whyy?” she groaned.

She flicked the light on in the guest bedroom and threw the coat on the bed. Three tubes of lipstick rolled out of a pocket, down the quilt, and dropped to the hard wood floor.

Illusion of Balance

I was reading out of my daily meditation book, when I came across something fitting. Ever had that where something you read, see, or even over hear in a conversation was exactly what you needed? It seems the Universe, God, Life has a way of making that happen.

I've always been a strong believer of balance. It's been my life goal. Thinking, if I achieve balance, I achieve happiness. This goal has been ever so frustrating though because as soon as I find balance in one area (say, nutrition or food in general), it's suddenly lacking in another (suddenly I'm not exercising). I exert so much energy in doing one thing So Perfectly, that something else is completely thrown off, and I find myself quite irritable because I simply haven't found balance in (enough) time with friends or family. Then I eat a whole chocolate cake and my eating is subsequently thrown out of wack. (I am craving chocolate today for some reason!)

So I'm on this treadmill of perfection. I tread daily. I believe It exists. If I try hard enough. Sweat through it. Run enough miles, so to speak, I'll find the mecca of Balance.

I try, I fail. Rinse and Repeat. (Rinse as in start all over!)

So discouraging! Have you been there? Felt that irritation with yourself? Why can't I get it right? The online article about how I should be eating all organic food is stuck in my mind. Then there's the commercial about Depression. Depression Hurts. Better balance my mental health too. And some TV talk show expert says to avoid the harmful chemicals in counter top cleaners. Note to self: stop at the health store. And my therapist's recommendations about how to keep up healthy relationships- how to fight fair. Blown that a few times. As a self help junkie I find myself bombarded with it constantly.

Then I fail again. Or so it feels.

So when I read my daily devotional, it reached out and smacked me, in a friendly way, on the forehead.

I couldn't find the exact quote from my meditation book, so I'll sum it up. Constant balance is not the natural way of things. The world is in constant flux however. The pendulum swings one way, but then later finds middle ground again. There will be periods of imbalance because that's the way this life and our world works. So instead of fighting it, I'm working on accepting those times when I just feel "ick" and out of sorts. When I have days where nothing "goes right" or when I don't get enough sleep. Times when a relationship is rocky. It's going to happen. It's just a matter of acceptance.