Finding Time For What You Love: Guest Post by Author Renee des Lauriers

Check out her book on Amazon!

A good writing buddy is precious. It's the rare combination of a sympathetic ear, a cheerleader, and a friendly but firm kick in the pants. Renee has been that for me and more. The other day I called her up and we chatted about our lives and writing and how we both wish we lived closer together. She was about to get on an airplane when I asked if she would like to do a guest post for my blog. Like a boss, she wrote this on the plane and sent it to me a few hours later. Behold, the life of a published author:

It started on a purple couch with a dream, caffeine and a blank computer screen. It continued with fierce word wars, the pattering taps on keyboard keys with loud coffee slurps and furrowed eyebrows. It was the birth of my first novel. A novel that was more than just a novel. It was the dream that survived from childhood-the dream of a dyslexic girl struggling to prove that she was as smart as everyone else. A girl who had entire landscapes and characters and worlds to share if only she could get them out of her mind and on to the blank page.

How do writers write? How do they do it? I know that I can't speak for everybody but I can certainly say that I wouldn't be able to do it without my writing buddies, Naomi des Lauriers and Laurel Nakai. There is something about hearing their fingers moving across keyboards, a sound as many and plentiful as rain that really lets me know that I need to get moving already.

Now that I am on the other side of America, figuring out what I want from life on the desert sands of Las Vegas, I find myself stuck. So begins my writers block and a settling in to non-writing.

"it's so easy to forget what we are made of and what we can do when we are drowning in life's minutiae."

It's not that dreams die. They just get buried in responsibilities- those everyday things like shopping for food and paying the electric bill so that the power won't get shut off and keeping lint off the carpet. It isn't that those things are more important than passion, it's just that it's so easy to forget what we are made of and what we can do when we are drowning in life's minutiae.


There's something so necessary about having supportive people in your life. I was blessed to have the best sort of friends-the sort who believed in my dreams and supported me in the day to day fight not to give in to trivialities and time wasters, but to instead give to those things that I believe in and want most.

Stuck in the day to day grind, it's easy to forget what writing has added to my life. I shot my first gun so that I could know what it felt like and capture the experience accurately in ink. I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and made Dunkin Donuts employees vaguely uncomfortable all in the name of art. It was all in order to accurately capture the spirit of the zombie apocalypse.

I remember when Hurricane Sandy hit in fall and the power went out, Naomi and I lit up hundreds of candles and started writing through it. I remember writing on line at the bank, on buses, in hot tubs, in food courts at casinos. I wrote on Laurel's couch so often that I sincerely hope that she never sells it as so much of my sweat and passion and coffee spills have seeped into the fabric.I am writing these very words above the clouds on a Spirit airplane.

"whatever it is that you love to do, do it."

Writing is an act of creation. It is taking something intangible from the hidden recesses of the mind then ripping it forth into the real world and down upon paper. I know that writing is not for everybody. For others it could be cooking, jogging, photography or gardening. I just hope that for every person out there, whatever it is that you love to do, do it. Do it every day, even if it's just for five minutes. Even if it's just for one. Because having that something adds a spice and a wonder to life that wouldn't be there without that individual take on the world. It makes me not merely exist, but live. So, from far away I'm holding on to my writing buddies and holding on to my dreams one word at a time.

Renee des Lauriers is the author of The Oxygen Factory (Sunbury Press, Inc.) She resides in Las Vegas, where she teaches high school English and raises chinchillas. 

The Power of Grief

This year, I lost my grandmother, an aunt, a family friend who was like an uncle, a high school classmate, and remembered the one year anniversary of a good friend’s passing. This happened all within a span of about four months. It was as if the Universe was holding back tragedy, only to have it spill over all at once. I can see now, that these and other events significantly contributed to my stress and a slow but steady spiral into depression, but at the time I couldnt fathom what was happening. I felt like the world around me was speeding past, while I was sloshing through mud, desperately trying to gain a foothold. By mid July, I was at the bottom of a pit, not knowing how I had gotten there or how to pull myself out.

It’s been a gradual process, a rope made of self-care, support from family and friends, therapy, and self expression. I am by no means an expert and I know that everyone has their own unique way of grieving. I consider myself an optimist, not in the sense that I’m happy all the time, but that even in the midst of tragedy I try to find something positive that I can take from it. For better or worse, I try to tease out the silver lining. So I was thinking about it the other day, what does grief have to teach me?

Here is what I have learned so far:

I’ll never be the same

I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but it’s true. I thought that grief was something you heal from, a period of time that you struggle through before you get back to normal. Grief changed me. Which isn't to say that I am some unrecognizable version of myself, but that when something so significant happens, the remnants of it stay with you. There is no going back to before, because before will always be a time when your loved one was there.

As a child, my own extended family all lived in different states, and we saw each other once a year if we were lucky. In college however, when my grandmother began to need full time assistance, I spent a little over a month of my summer break living with her, cooking, cleaning, driving her to doctors appointments, and staying up late watching TV. I did this for a couple of years until I graduated and my younger sister took over. She was my last living grandparent, the one I had gotten to know the best, and spent the most time with.

We are blessed to be living with my in-laws at the moment. It’s been wonderful to have my own children be able to have such a close relationship with their grandparents. One day, as I was watching my children talk and play with my husband’s mother (Noni, as she’s called in our house), I was struck by the relationship between grandparent and grandchild, and I realized that since my grandmother’s death, no one would ever love me quite like that again. It was an immediate feeling of both sadness and gratitude.

This conflicting emotional state seems to be one of the defining characteristics of grief. At least for me, when I am in the midst of it, I can never define my emotions as either negative or positive. Instead, it feels like being engulfed by a tornado of ambivalence, where swirling winds toss me in different directions, all grasping for my attention at once.

I have learned to let that tornado wash over me, and to not worry about defining it. That I have no control over when it will surface is another matter.

It Tenderizes

I cannot tell you how often I have started to cry while reading a book, watching a movie, or doing random, everyday tasks. While I am normally an emotional person, the morning news (which I have largely stopped watching) can send me into a fit of tears. Grief seems to magnify and personalize everything. I feel the pangs with a stronger force. Even fictional characters throw punches at my tender heart. I have been trying to read the book The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt, for months and it’s not for lack of time or interest. When I read a beautifully heartbreaking passage, I am overcome by the tornado, and I have to put it down. It often takes days to feel that I have to built myself back up enough to continue. I’m still only a quarter of the way through.

This constant pounding on my heart, in the long run may serve to make it stronger, the way a guitarist builds up calluses on their fingers. At present though, there is raw skin and blisters.

In the wake of recent tragedies, of continued war and conflict, of so much strife and injustice, it would be easy to sink back into that dark pit. Today, and one day at a time, I am choosing to listen to the lessons grief has to teach me. Today I will choose to be more compassionate, generous, and grateful. Grateful even for the excruciating parts, because they help me empathize on a deeper level with my fellow human beings. It seems to me, that while grief is extremely personal, it may also be the emotion we can all unite around. No matter what your politics, race, nationality, religion, we all will experience loss at some point. We will all be shaken to our core. We will all be changed, hopefully for the better.

To my grandmother, who would have turned 99 this month, and to all of those loved and lost, your life and your death continue to shape mine.

I love you.

Lessons Rereading Books from my Childhood: Peter Pan

My eldest son was upset about going to bed one night, feeling like he was missing out on more time to play.

"The days go so much faster now" he said.

"Yes, that's what happens when you grow up" I responded.

"I never want to grow up!"

I found myself responding with this infamous opening line, "all children, except one, grow up." 

That's how we started reading Peter Pan.

I grew up on Peter Pan, the Disney version, the Mary Martin musical, and of course Hook (tear!). It's one of those stories that has been reprised over and over again with prequels, sequels, and remakes. Is anyone else really excited for the live broadcast version in December? Christopher Walken as Captain Hook?! Hello, must watch TV. 

But back to the book. As much as I was obsessed with Peter in almost any form, what I read as a child was most likely an adapted version, and if it wasn't, I was too young to appreciate what was really going on in the text apart from what I recognized from the movies. Let me also just point out here, that the original version of Peter Pan (or Peter and Wendy), was a play, and the book is a later novelization of that by the same author, J.M. Barrie. Actually, there are several early versions of the story, but specifically we read the 1911 novel based on the play.

Before we get too indepth, here are just a few bullet points that stood out to me upon first reading:  

1. The journey to Neverland is long, perilous, and scary
2. Captain Hook is also way scarier than his goofy animated portrayal
3. Tinkerbell is a curvy, sassy broad with a potty mouth, and even though she tries to kill Wendy, we still love her. It's not her fault really. Apparently, because fairies are so small, they only have room for one thought or emotion at a time. This accounts for her extreme swings from vindictiveness to kindness.
4. Tigerlily was a warrior. When I watched the Disney movie again with my son, I was so angry with the depiction of Tigerlily. She was not just the "Chief's daughter", she basically called the shots. We won't even get into the overt racism here with regards to the Picatinny tribe (the Natives of Neverland), but Tigerlily was definitely way more badass in the book, though admittedly still a little gaga over Peter-- but everything revolves around Peter, it's his world afterall. 

Now to the deep stuff: 

From the very beginning of the text, there is an ominous feeling, Peter sweeps in like a mysterious wind, a larger than life presence. The narrator basically tells us how "cunning" Peter is, by convincing them to come to Neverland, as if we are not to trust him. The flight to Neverland is harrowing. Michael falls and almost drowns several times. Also, bumping into clouds actually hurts. Peter steals food out of the mouths of birds, and the birds chase them, and this is how they eat-- it's all a big game. Peter is fearless, and his actions, though "games" to him, present real danger for the Darlings:

"'Save him, save him!' cried Wendy, looking with horror at the cruel sea far below. Eventually Peter would dive through the air, and catch Michael just before he could strike the sea, and it was lovely the way he did it; but he always waited till the last moment, and you felt it was his cleverness that interested him and not the saving of human life. Also he was fond of variety, and the sport that engrossed him one moment would suddenly cease to engage him, so there was always the possibility that the next time you fell he would let you go." 

We get the sense more than once that Wendy must be having second thoughts, but alas, they have already gone too far to turn back. So Peter is at once their protector and leader, but also alarmingly unreliable. Clearly, Wendy has an "I can fix him!" complex....but I digress...

Much has been said about the darker elements of Peter Pan. I'm a fan of the tv show "Once Upon a Time" who cast him as a pretty sinister villain in one of the seasons. It's not hard to see where these interpretations come from, especially if you know a bit about the author's strange and tragic life. This piece in The Guardian, is a good read for those that are interested in an overview of Barrie's life and a brief look at some of the historical and textual interpretations.

I hesitate though, to be too serious. Peter, I think, would rail against the jaded grown-ups ruining all his games through over analysis. Darkness doesn't have to mean evil, it is simply a natural counterpart to light. 

Childhood is not all fairy dust and mermaids. There are also monsters and ghosts and being afraid of the dark. There is sadness and fear and danger along with all of the joy and wonder, even (often) tragedy. Perhaps that's why Peter Pan is still one of the most recognizable and relatable heros in children's literature. He runs into danger and confronts the darkness, seeks it out even. There is real gore and blood-- no panning away from the camera-- but the graphic scenes are juxtaposed with wild innocence. At the end of the day, everything is a game, even death. 

Peter shows us the great contradiction of childhood-- charming and lovable, but also selfish, shortsighted, and reckless. The story shows us adventure and imagination alongside heartbreak and loneliness, the blow of the later softened by the element of fantasy.

Here is one of the passages that got me, in which we get a glimpse of the humanity of Peter, and not just the myth. Wendy tells the boys a story every night about their own mother so that they do not forget her. Peter hates the story. He groans one night at the telling, and thinking he is hurt Wendy asks if he is okay:

'It isn't that kind of pain,' Peter replied darkly.

'Then what kind is it?' 

'Wendy, you are wrong about mothers.' 

They all gathered round him in affright, so alarming was his agitation; and with a fine candour he told them what he had hitherto concealed. 

'Long ago,' he said, 'I thought like you that my mother would always keep the window open for me; so I stayed away for moons and moons and moons, and then flew back; but the window was barred, for mother had forgotten all about me, and there was another little boy sleeping in my bed.'

Indeed, there is a certain tragedy in this whole growing up business. It is a tragedy to grow up, and it is a tragedy not to. It is almost merciful that we do not have a choice in the matter, and so accept it simply as the way things are. Not like Peter, who we can't help but grieve for when we consider all the "what if's", especially as a mother. 

The scariest word: Alone

I wrote an article this week for one of my freelance gigs about loneliness. It's a tricky emotion. We all experience it at one time or another, and yet when we are in it, it makes us feel isolated, like no one else could possibly understand. 

Alone, might just be the thing we are most afraid of. 

One of my childrens' familiar complaints is, "Mama! I'm alone in here!" No matter where I go, they pick up their legos or building blocks and move to wherever I am, like little moons unable to escape my gravitational pull. They orbit around me. 

When we grow, we are pulled by other forces- friends, relationships, careers. Anything but the limitless expanse of dark space.

To be tethered to something is a comfort. Even Tom Hanks had Wilson. In the midst of aloneness, we have to invent a partner to interact with lest we be sucked up by that black hole of loneliness. 

Even the fear of death, at its heart, is really about being alone; being separated from those we love, being sent into an unknown void. Maybe there is an afterlife, but we still have to venture there alone, leaving those we love behind.

So loneliness- the crushing weight of it, the cold despair- might be the most primal, the most human, of all emotions. 

We are, as science confirms, social creatures. We depend on each other not just for amusement, friendship, or a functioning society, but as a rope pulling us from the quicksand. 

If it's loneliness we fear, then it's connectedness we desire. So that even when we are by ourselves, in an empty house with not even a television to distract us, we might grasp an invisible thread that leads to another being—  that he will soon be home from work; that she will hear your silent prayer; that love is the rope that can save us from the void. 

Happy Halloween!

By SlimVirgin (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0
(http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons

Ghost Writer

You will feel me but not see me

no name or credit there

but the words that I whisper

will hover in your ear

like tingling on your spine

or a brush against your feet

“there must be someone here” — you’ll say

but never guess it’s me.

A Dash of Introspection

I've been concentrating a lot on creative work recently, and have been discovering some wonderful literary communities in the process of submitting to journals and magazines.

It was a pleasure to contribute to the latest issue of the Rain, Party, & Disaster Society, a comfy little niche on the internet where I feel quite at home.

 This poem was the first piece of creative writing I had done in months. The writing of it was cathartic and necessary, a reaction to a crazy and difficult time and a catalyst to the healing that came afterwards. It felt particularly delicate and precious to send off into the unknown, which is why I'm so grateful to the wonderful editors at RPD for giving it such a warm welcome. To my surprise and horror (just kidding...I mean joy!) I was even asked to write a feature for their Artist Spotlight on the blog.

Ego boost aside, sitting down and writing about why you write, what it means to you, putting those things into words, it's an arduous but worthwhile task. Actually, it feels a little bit like those acceptance speeches you give in the mirror for your fake grammy-- you know you do... one part ego, a dash of humility, a quarter cup of healthy introspection. But seriously, I learned a lot about myself and about how I approach art, and I'm basking in the creative momentum for as long as it lasts.

It made me think, why wait to be asked? Why not sit down and write it out now? We certainly don't wait to be nominated for a grammy (oscar, pulitzer, whatever your flavor) ...so what would your "Spotlight" say? What makes you create, what makes your heart pound, what fills you up?

Don't forget to thank the editor!

You Have to Laugh or You'll Cry: Episode 4

My son's new phase is drawing on his body with (thankfully) washable  marker

some sort of tribal markings?

"I'm a tiger!"

He's taken the dress up game to another level. He's an artist! I'm so proud

Split Personality

I grew up learning how to hide. I grew up hearing stories about how members of the Unification Church, the faith I was born into and raised in, were kidnapped by their families and forced to undergo abusive deprogramming tactics. I heard about how members were put in jail for prosthelytizing their faith. On a personal level, my family was asked to leave our neighborhood Christian church because we "weren't really Christians". The word "cult", would cut me open if I heard it on tv or in passing conversation, leaving me feeling exposed and ashamed.

These stories were worn like a badge of honor by most of the people who told them. As if these kinds of experiences were proof that you were doing something good. God's messengers are always misunderstood.

But as a child, I didn't want to be a prophet. I wanted to have friends. I wanted to belong. Since I grew up in a town with no other "church families" around, there was no place for that "church self" to belong in school or in my community. So I tucked that part of myself away, and only let it come out every other Sunday when we would drive an hour and a half to church, or once a year at summer camp. But that left me with the burden of then tucking away my "school" personality. They were both me. Neither was me. So in trying to "belong" I denied myself and others, the chance to really and truly know me. I don't blame myself. I simply think I learned to cope with a complex situation the best way I knew how at the time.

Now, as an adult, as a mom, I still struggle with this idea of identity and the theme of duality that seems to manifest in different ways, but with the same old feelings. There was a point in my early adult hood when things came to a tipping point, where I could no longer stand to live like a secret agent, and worked hard to stitch myself back together. I feel that same pressure now, mostly revolving around my creative life. Like things are filling up, getting ready to spill over. I think it will be a relief. But as it was before, I know it also comes with growing pains.

On we go. Wherever I go, there I am, and other such platitudes.

"Be yourself" seems like good advice, but if "yourself" is constantly changing, growing, hopefully learning, we may have to take a pause every once in awhile to figure out who exactly, that is.

How to Say Goodbye

It started to seem like death was swirling all around me. In just the past few months my Aunt, Grandmother, and a classmate from high school all passed away. The one year anniversary of a friends death hit right in the middle of all that in April, and the rawness of the grief took me a bit by surprise.

Mom, Grandpa, Grandma, Sister, and Me c.1990's not long before my Grandpa passed

I suppose I'm an introspective person, most writers are, when something happens in the world, I want to know why. I want to understand my emotions, the reactions of those around me, I want to make connections to the larger story. I try to observe, and to take away some truth, and if that truth pierces me with a sharp enough arrow, I let myself bleed in words.

This is all starting to sound a bit cryptic, but really, what I want to say is, that lately I have been unable to bleed. Is death too big to wrap my head around? Is it shock or fear that makes me numb? Explaining grief may be a futile thing, and from what I hear, it can be different for everyone. It may be a deep, dark pit, that we don't know how to climb out of. It may be a wind that blows from time to time whenever we see a picture or remember a loved one's voice. Or it may be, as it has been for me, a frozen layer of ice that I've had to let thaw gradually, scooping up tiny puddles bit by bit.

It's strange how we forget about death until we are faced with it. Just two weeks ago my Grandmother passed away. She had been on hospice care, and as I loaded my family into the car for a ten hour drive to Indiana we knew it was only a matter of days. She was 98, it was her time. We had been anticipating it for years, and yet, when the words came that she had finally passed there was still a moment of shock.

My grandmother's passing caused us to take an unexpected journey that turned into a 10 day stay. Though it was for a bit of a sad reason, we were able to spend some quality time with family, reminisce, and bring back some things that belonged to her and my grandfather, treasures to remind us and carry on their legacy.

picture of my Grandmother, Mom, and Sister: The Morris genes are strong with this one

Death is the only journey we all CAN expect, and yet when it comes we are never quite ready to say goodbye.

This past week I had a mom friend and her three kids staying at our house while they got ready to move out of state. My son and hers have become best friends over that past few years, and they had so much fun on this extended sleep over. They left last night, and when my son woke up this morning, their absence was definitely felt. 

He cried when I told him we probably wouldn't be seeing them for a long time, and I held him in my arms, all curled up in a ball on my lap. Somehow, his tears seemed to unlock the part of me that had become numb, and all of a sudden there was a flood of emotion pouring out from that once frozen iceberg, so that I am able to write this post.

If we believe in an afterlife, then goodbye is only goodbye for now, and we can follow the same advice that I gave to my five year old this morning:

"we'll write letters, we'll talk, we'll look at pictures, and remember things, until we're able to see them again."

Grandpa and Grandma on a trip to East Asia c.1970's

Consider this a place holder

I hate that I'm averaging one post a month right now :(

I've been doing a lot of writing, just not for the blog. Something's always got to give.

In one sense, I hate to write a post where I feel like I don't have much to say. On the other hand, I know the longer I put off writing, the harder it is to start again, and before you know it three months have past.

So I don't have any particularly insightful stories, or cute anecdotes today. Sometimes you just have to keep moving forward and know that things will turn up again.

Miles is sick today, and it's overcast and cool outside. I know a lot of people really love Spring, but to me it's just a transition to Summer. I've already started daydreaming about spontaneous trips to the beach.

In the meantime, I'll share this picture of my youngest, which perfectly describes how I'm feeling today, or what I wish I could be doing right now--falling asleep with a book.

One Moment

Note: This piece is a somewhat dramatized, but real memory, of a childhood classmate that recently passed away. All the names have been changed to protect identity.

We were seated alphabetically, so it wasn’t like, fate or anything, that we ended up next to each other in ninth grade Tech. Lit. He still had that smile that made his cheeks dimple, the one that had made me fall for him as a naive middle-schooler. I was a couple years older and wiser thank-you-very-much, but he was still unbearably tall and dark, and in a few years he would definitely graduate from school boy cute to handsome.

Dan sat on the other side of him, a notorious trouble-maker who occupied most of his attention.  This was fine by me, since I was trying to remain aloof, lest he somehow suspect the once urgent, but embarrassingly childish crush. Also, I was an honor student, so I had to keep out of whatever nonsense and class disrupting behavior Dan might rope him into.

I minded my own business, learned my “qwerty,” and went onto websites whenever the teacher’s back was turned, like everyone else in the class.  To be honest, much of the time, when he and Dan were joking or making fun of Mrs. Burnett, I didn’t like him. He was seriously immature. Some days I wasn’t sure what I had seen in him in the first place? oh...right, the dimples.

One day, Dan was out sick and the whole class seemed a bit more peaceful, less on edge--really, it was a madhouse in there, poor Mrs. Burnett retired that year, and we may or may not have had something to do with it.

He must have been bored, or perhaps just freed from the pressure of showing off for Dan, because he started talking to me. Somehow we ended up on music.

“Wait, you know Reel Big Fish?” He said, as if this was impossibly hard to believe. In fact, I had spent countless hours listening to the album “Turn the Radio Off” on full blast in the car, to and from my first summer job.

“Yeah” I said, with a bit of a snarky edge, slightly insulted.

He leaned back in his chair so that it balanced on the back two legs, and pursed his lips together as he shook his head.

“No way”

I rolled my eyes. Really? Was it so hard to believe? Did he look at me and think I was the type of girl who was pining after a Backstreet Boy? Okay, I’ll admit, the Spice Girls dance number I did with a few of my friends for the eighth grade talent show may have sent some mixed signals.

“Prove it” he says.

Oh, no he didn’t.

So I start to sing, “She called me late last night, say she loved me so...it didn’t matter anymore…”

I watched his eyes get wide and his smile slowly widen, but I just played it cool.

“I say she never cared and that she never will…” a quick pause as Mrs. Burnett rounds the corner, “I’d do it all again, guess I’ll have to wait until then…”

Now he’s leaned forward, using his fingers as drums on the table. He does a riff and takes us into the chorus, “and if I get drunk well I’ll pass out on the floor now baby, you won’t bother me no more!”

We both chuckle, because it’s a completely inappropriate song to be singing in school, which makes it all the more delicious. He thrashes his head around to the beat like he’s Axl Rose, and I can’t help but let my guard down a little to give a genuine laugh, and then we’re singing in unison, “and if you’re drinking well you know that you’re my friend, and I’ll say...I think I’ll have myself a beer...”

We both inexplicably jump to the bridge, cause now we’re like, telepathically linked in the music, “whaoooh, oooh, ohh, ohh….”  In a half-singing, half-whispering voice while Mrs. Burnett circles around again.

The rest of the song fades into hushed giggles, and he’s convinced. I let myself look in his eyes while he flashes a huge open mouthed smile.

Well that settles it. I’m in trouble.

The day I heard he died, I kept flashing back to this memory, the song played on repeat in my head all day, and I tried to remember how his voice sounded, how he moved, how he was more than a head taller than me even while sitting. I have to dig those glimpses out like precious fossils, gently, patiently, brushing off sand. Mostly, I remember the distinct unease and exhilaration of occupying that seat.

There had never been anything between us but that one moment. We grew up in a town so small, you were bound to have at least one moment with everyone. I don’t know what happened to him after high school, I had forgotten about him completely until I saw his name attached to the article about the skiing accident.

I don’t know how to grieve, since it wasn’t like we were close. I can only empathize with those who knew and cared for him on a much deeper, much more intimate level.

Is a moment enough to grieve? Does the grief come in equal measure to how much time you had together, or is it some wild wind, that blows with a stronger force and speed than you could have ever expected?

A moment, at least, is enough to remember. To know he was there, and that he loved good music, whether or not he remembered the dorky girl who sang with him once.

He was there, and I remember.

30 going on 13

Last week I did something I've been talking about for years. A regular childhood milestone smack dab in the middle of adulthood.

I got my ears pierced!

I even got to hug the Clair Bear...not cause I was nervous or anything...I just wanted the full experience! ::cough cough:::

My parents never did the ear piercing thing for me, they wanted me to wait until I was old enough to decide for myself, which I completely appreciate. I remember using those little stickers and magnetic ones when I was really young, but it was just for play, and it was really more trouble than it was worth. I never felt a strong desire to have real earrings, even when my friends started to get pierced, at least not enough to actually go through with it. I never felt deprived or left out.

For one thing, I was always squeamish with needles (having two kids cured me of that!), another is that in the church community I grew up in it was somewhat of a taboo, and there were lots of other girls who didn't have their ears pierced, or dye their hair, or otherwise dramatically alter their physical appearance. The last, but biggest reason I never got my ears pierced, though, was that by the time I was old enough to decide for myself, I was in those awkward pre-teen years, and terribly self-conscious about my ears! I thought they were way too big and I hated how they stuck out. I always tried to wear my hair down to hide them. When I had to wear a baseball cap on my softball team, I would tuck them into the cap rather then let them stick out. Anything that would draw more attention to my ears was a big NO. I wore the occasional clip-on, mostly when I was performing on stage or dressed up for an event, but I didn't even wear earrings at my wedding.

I remember admitting my ear phobia to my husband before we were married, and he was shocked, he said, "I love your ears, they're my favorite feature!"

Being able to see myself through his eyes, was a huge turning point, and in the years since I have mostly shed those insecurities. It's strange how we see ourselves, and how different it can be from what others actually see.

I went to Clair's for my piercing with one of my good friends that I've known since before high school, and confided to her this little detail. She too thought I was crazy, "I would have never thought that about you!" Looking in the mirror now, or these pictures, I have to agree. I love my new bling! and I love being comfortable in my skin, loving the parts of myself that I didn't always appreciate.

I made up my mind to get my ears pierced for my 30th birthday (it happened about 8 months later because I'm a procrastinator). It seemed like a fitting way to usher in a new decade of my life, and to not just have a cultural experience that I missed out on in childhood, but to mark my journey of self acceptance and love.

Hello beautiful....oh wait, that's me!

We all have things about ourselves we wish we could change, but sometimes it's because our own viewpoint is just too dark and blurry. Try to see yourself through a loved one's eyes, and the picture will suddenly be much brighter.

Lessons Rereading Books from my Childhood

On a whim, I started re-reading some of the books I remembered from my childhood. I just finished Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli.

I honestly didn't remember much about the book. I remembered that Maniac was an orphan and homeless, and that he ran...a lot, and I remember the character Mars Bar, but only for his name. That's about it. I remembered almost nothing about the plot. After all these years, what I remember most, is not what happened in the book, but how the book made me feel. I remember sadness and triumph, and that feeling of magic and fulfillment at the last page, when you think, "Yes, this is how the story ends," and yet it doesn't really end, because those feelings stay with you.

It was a joy rereading it as an adult. I could see what fascinated me as a child and also better appreciate and grasp its many redeeming qualities, like the magical realism, the themes of separation and belonging, of race and family, and the subtle but perfect narration.

I was a slow reader as a kid. It wasn't till second grade that my parents and teachers realized I needed glasses because in elementary school they only tested for near-sightedness, and I'm far-sighted. I had trouble looking at a page right in front of me. I would have to close one eye, and use my finger to read the words, because I also had tracking problems (my eyes would skip to the next line before I was finished reading the first.) I remember being frustrated in school, and anxious whenever we had to read something to ourselves in class. I almost never could finish the paragraph or passage within the time the teacher gave us to read it. The pressure of having to read something within a time constraint made me anxious and also embarrassed. I learned how to fake it. I would read the comprehension questions first and then go back and skim through the paragraph just to find the answer. I had to do this, otherwise there was no way I would finish. When we had to read a paragraph in class and then answer questions out loud, I just prayed the teacher wouldn't call on me, as I continued to try and read without her noticing.

But I liked reading for myself. I liked curling up in my room and delving into a story at my own pace. Eventually, armed with my new glasses, I was able to like reading in school too, or at least be able to do it without the anxiety, because the more I read, the faster I got.

All of this is to say, that at seven years old as I squinted to see the chalkboard, I would have never imagined that I would get a degree in English and be working on writing my own books. It's good to look back and see how far we've come. We can't change the past, but we can appreciate it in a new way, just like rereading a childhood book as an adult. It gives me inspiration too,  knowing that even now when I feel stuck or frustrated, I just might not be able to see where I will be ten or twenty years down the road. One day at a time.

Winter's Wrath, a poem inspired by my SAD

Winter’s Wrath

by Laurel Nakai

The darkness came first.

Descended like a curtain, slowly, day by day,

until suddenly

we had to turn our lights on to eat dinner.

We went to bed with slippers,

thinking we could trap the warmth,

ration it for the days ahead.

The winds snapped frigid branches and thoughts

bitter and broken

on the shivering earth.

The winter’s wrath is the impenetrable depression,

and soon we were buried.

A layer of ice lies between

the ground and fresh powder.

There was life here once...

Water soaking into soil

sprouting stems and grass

leaves and petals

hope and apathy.

The ice covers all our happy memories.

Desperate longing for something just out of reach.

I can see them if I brush away the snow--fingers

stinging with cold and spite

I can see them, through

distorted glass

the same place where Spring began

All my shovels are broken

the salt pail empty.

There is no chipping away.

only melting

only waiting

only believing, in the languid thaw.

Little Reminders

There is something immediately inspiring and terrifying about getting good advice.

I recently participated in a webinar hosted by the fabulous Book Doctors, a course offered to NaNoWriMo participants. So much of what they said made me want to stop everything and pound the keys--get back to work on editing my novel. I felt inspired.

Alas, when I actually did sit down with it, the imperfections were now magnified into elephants and the enormity of the task in front of me unfurled in a moment of terror and disillusionment.

We are strange creatures, artists. There is always this battle of striving for perfection against the feelings of self-doubt.

At one point during the webinar, David Henry Sterry said, he sometimes does something like 70 edits for a book. What?! On the one hand, it's easy to feel dwarfed by that number...here I am on my first...

On the other, it reminds me that no matter how much of a professional, no matter how many books you've written, we all start with the same rough, gnarly, barely readable draft, that must be polished into something beautiful. It may not be easy, or fast, but there is a clear process, there are footpaths to follow through the darkness.

At a recent trip to Barnes and Noble, I browsed the journal section for a new companion:

Oh Hello, Universe, thanks for the reminder...

After I got home and opened it up, I found an extra little surprise on the inside cover.

"You are the Sunshine_____ Be Proud! You have helped us donate 240,000 workbooks and 44,000 pens to children around the world. Ecojot is paper with a cause, sustainable, B-certified and made in Canada. B the change."

Lovely! A Ralph Waldo Emerson quote has never steered me wrong.

Did a third edit of my entire first chapter this morning, and my new journal will accompany me to my SCBWI writer's conference this weekend!

Working from Home

I started picking up some freelance work recently and I thought this was an appropriate visual of the experience so far:

This is what happens to my copy and research after I'm done with it...

Of course, this is the ideal--a harmonious union of intellectually satisfying work, with all the benefits of being able to take a break and play with the kids.

What this picture doesn't show, is the piles of laundry, or dishes, or the ring around my bath tub...something has to give. But let's be honest, those things were never my strong suite anyway.

My dream has always been to be able to stay at home with the kids, and write--from my desk near a window that overlooks the ocean in Mexico--obviously...but hey, it's a start.

My blog is SO last year!

My blog has been stuck in 2013! Sorry about that. The first month of the new year has felt a little like trying to pull myself out of bed at 8am after that New Years Eve Party.... or for a more appropriate metaphor: after my five year old has a nightmare and wets the bed at 1, and my two year old wakes up at 3 afraid of the dark and climbs into my bed. The rest of the night spent being kicked and trying not to fall off the bed without waking anyone else. Pick your poison.

Well it's almost the end of January and I'm just now gaining some momentum. It's the tortoise not the hare right?

The past few years I have not made a New Year's Resolution, or at least not in the typical sense. Last year, I decided to do a One Word Resolution, to encompass the general spirit I felt I wanted to carry into the year. Last year my word was CREATE. I had a lot of beginnings last year, beginnings of projects and ideas to work on, but also figuring out the blueprint for practical things like, where to live (buy a house)?

This year, my word is: COURAGE

I'm not a visual artist. Cut me some slack.
I do enjoy crayons and glitter, and symbolism, lots of symbolism.

I feel good about the things I created last year, but this year will be about taking the next step and seeing them through. I have said before that I am really good at starting projects but not so great at finishing them! So, for me, it will take courage to face the obstacles that get thrown in my path, especially my own fears of failure and stretching my comfort zone.

I already have one big ticket item I can check off, before 2013 ended I signed myself up for a writer's conference, and it's coming up at the end of February (ahh!! so scared, and excited, but scared...more on that later), and I'm taking everything else one step at a time.

I am not a planner in general, I don't like to make long detailed lists, but I do like to have a direction, and a motto or mantra to embody that helps me move where I want to go.

Do you have a word, motto, mantra, or resolution for the year? Are you still rubbing the sleep from your eyes?