The Birthday Blog

Today is my birthday. Meaning, a couple decades ago, give or take... my parents were in a hospital waiting for me to make my great debut. Birthdays make me sad. It's always a combination of things, some cliche and some not.

I'm not really that upset that I'm getting older as much as I am that everyone around me is also getting older. My parents are also getting older. I'm at the age my parents were when they were bringing me home from the hospital. My mom was my age once. My parents were in love then.

In six more days, my best friend... who died in '07 would have also been celebrating a birthday.

I saw my dad (and consequently my stepmom, little brother, and little sister) yesterday. They were passing through town. I saw them for a few hours in total. And I miss my dad. We were in World Market, looking at stuff... He made little comments about candy or food that he hadn't had since he was stationed in Germany. And I wanted to know more. I never have really had the chance. Too bad my parents divorced when I was young. Too bad he's always lived so far away. Summers are not enough time to spend with a person.

I guess the visit just happened to fall right before my birthday. I always get sad when I leave my dad.

I also had a great big bomb dropped on me. My dad and stepmom apparently think I'm still a wild child. (Well, at this point, it would be just be considered irresponsible, seeing as I am nowhere close to being a child.) This saddens me. I haven't "partied" for nearly 7 years now. No exaggeration.

I am like every other person out there... in pursuit of my dreams. I've been in the same loving, committed relationship for over 6 years, I cook dinner every night, and pay my bills on time. But, they see me as that kid who never grew up.

I think birthdays are a time when life replays for me. It's probably one of the only days in the year when I take a breath.

I take that one breath, and it seems like the whole year is washing over me. All the terrors and good moments cascade through me. I don't feel responsible to do anything or to get anything accomplished. I reflect. And I wish those that are near me wouldn't expect me to smile and act like everyone else does on their birthday (I'm not referencing you, C-). I wish it was just another day. Just one day where I can be.

I'm not venting. I'm not angry. I'm not even depressed.

I'm just that way you are when you get some inevitable news. You knew it was coming... but you had to wait to hear it.

Also, on your birthday, people treat you better and are nicer. But why aren't people kind year round?

Oh well.

This is all a result of being a writer and having a Beatles mindset: "All You Need is Love".

Stay tuned. There's tons of good wisdom to be extracted from this single blog. Did you catch any of it?

Participation Required

A thought occurred to me today... and it all came from grass and leaves and disaster. Let me sum it up by saying that today I saw a person who was both hard working and polite. He didn't give excuses. And he smiled. It reminded me of when I was that age.

When I was younger, it was easier to set goals and make plans. When I was a kid, I once sold "grow your own" Christmas trees door-to-door just so I could have money to buy my family Christmas presents. I set a goal, and I achieved it. I started and finished more crafts and DIY projects while balancing 4.0 GPA's and my mother's list of chores.

I wouldn't dream of going door-to-door to sell anything now. Maybe because then I was a young and naive entrepreneur. Maybe because the people I was selling door-to-door to weren't my peers.

Those doors used to hold excitement, some rite of passage, some sense of accomplishment that I'd even had the courage to knock. And it's not like I've stopped being happy, but I've stopped pushing. I have goals, but how much do I really work to pursue them? Am I out everyday trying to accomplish it the fervor I did when I was a kid?

And then question hit me: How much am I  actually participating in my own life?
I have goals, but it seems I am on autopilot. I don't have the gumption and courage to knock on those metaphorical doors anymore. I feel more like a turtle that has Eeyore's attitude coming across the finish line. "Well, I'm here, I suppose. Glad someone noticed."

I didn't used to be that way. I got kicked down a lot. I got kicked when I was down a lot. And I honestly cannot remember how I got through it. I try to think what I would have been told.... what advice my elders would have given me. I can't remember.

But, there is one thing I remember... the celebration.

So, I'm going to start participating in my life. So I can celebrate again. When I see any of the people in my life achieve something, be it friends or family or the kids (especially the kids) I make a point to celebrate... to jump up and down and scream and be happy for them in that moment.

Perhaps, if we start to pay attention to our own lives, if we participate in them... maybe then we will feel the excitement and freedom of the celebration again.

I Digress... I mean, I progress!

I know as writers we all have doubts in our abilities. I've heard it more times than I can count. My friends say it, and those who haven't said it are probably thinking it.

The truth is, I have a love for the English language. I have this insatiable desire to use the right word. My guess is that most writer's do, too. However, my love goes a lot further than that. Maybe it's all the literary classes or "literature" that I read, but I think it's somewhat of a gift.

So, on that note, I'm going to start using it. I've helped numerous local friends on college papers and friends' kids on high school papers... mostly resulting in A's. I'm a good teacher. I love helping someone feel confident when it comes to writing papers, short stories, or anything really.

While my grammar is fairly decent**, my content and thematic critiques are truly my strength. I currently hold an Associate of Arts and an Associate of Science. But, I am looking into getting my Bachelor's in English. Chances are I already have most of the classes I need. My two Associates degrees were filled with English classes galore. I guess that's one thing I enjoyed about school, one class can count for several different degrees.

That being said, I hope to turn this blog into something that will truly help other writers. I will perhaps even be displaying some papers, critiques, and short stories that I've worked on or edited.

As it stands, I'm redoing my office. It has been a long and tedious process, but I can't wait to share the results with everyone! I think it may be another 2-3 weeks before that happens, but who knows! Miracles can occur any moment!



(**Disclaimer: There is certainly a difference in the grammar used in colloquial blogger formats and fiction as opposed to critical analysis papers. If you notice any glaring errors feel free to point them out to me.)

Burn Your Book

I'm not surprised that my more personal blogs get less views. (A lot less.) Other people might take it personally; I don't. When I blog about personal things, I do it for myself, because I want to get it out.

I'm a writer, and I write because it's my personal escape. I write because I love it. But let's face it, I'm not the best writer in the world. My stories won't end wars or start rebellions. I share what I write because I want people to escape with me. Maybe somewhere along the road, I can show them courage or integrity through my characters.

If I want to do that, I have to have readers to read them. And that gets me back to my first point. When I blog about personal stuff, I get less readers. I get less shares.

This is where you choose to continue reading or not. If you feel that you should write exactly what you feel and forget the business aspect of it, thanks for stopping by, but stop reading... because this will only infuriate you.

But, if you believe there is a business, i.e. a selling point to writing please continue...

We pick out our book covers and our style very carefully. We think about what title will catch the readers eye. We think about marketing, venues, themes, etc... But I don't think we stop to think about what makes our story itself sellable. Yes, I said it. Sellable.

There is a genre for almost every type of book, and if there's not, nowadays, we can just make one up. But for those of us who actually want to make a good living writing, we need to write books that can either cross genres or will captivate a large audience in a specific genre.

For those of you who blog, look at your numbers, are the more personal blogs the most popular? Or are the ones that talk about writing or "drama" more popular? Take my article Self Pub Suicide for example. What a stir that caused! Why? Because, for one, I had spelling and grammar errors that people wanted to roast me for (yes, it's true, I'm human). The second reason it was popular was because it's a hot topic, and I was on a rant. People came from all over to either stand behind me or stand against me. Truth is, I didn't even realize that I'd drawn a line in the sand.

That's my point. I drew a line in the sand. I stood up and yelled. People want to see the heart, the fire. When I write my "self realization" blogs, they seem sad. Sad is not fire. There are a number of things that are not fire.... lust, depression, violence. Those are more like matches. They burn for a moment, and then are gone into oblivion the next.

I say all this to point out that most of you have the evidence of what it takes to get people's attention. It's in your blog post numbers. Is what you're writing making people remember what it feels like to be on fire? Is what you're writing going to stir something in them? (Ex: Harry Potter's courage.) Or is it going to burn so violently that what you wrote will scar them? (Ex: American Psycho.)

Write fire into your book. Fire burns, blazes, and catches anything that's around it. Write the stuff that matters to you... and the rest of the world. Find a way to really put that in there. Then write it so that people see it... and I mean really see it. Then, you will have numbers that also burn and grow like fire.

Heaven is Hell and Hell is Heaven: Running Blind Edition

I'm a writer.

I am a writer.

I. Am. A. Writer.

No matter how I say it, sometimes it doesn't feel real. But, it is constantly reverberating and humming away inside of me. I am a writer. There it is. I can hear it now, like the gentle, yet powerful, whir of an engine. It's telling me I am right to write.

My intuition is the same way. You could call it clairvoyance but that sounds stupid to me (too many stigmas). I know everyone has felt eyes on their back or just knew things before. It's like that. It always tells me when something bad is about to happen. I'd be willing to bet most mothers have felt the feeling. It stops your breath in your chest.

They seem so very different, but I believe my intuition and my desire to write come from the same place. This same churning engine hums hymns of sanctity into my ear, that tells me when something is wrong, is also telling me when something is right.

It's extremely difficult to discern between the two, as uneasiness seem to accompany both. I think a lot of people give up trying. I have without even noticing it. I tend to listen to everyone around me instead of to that quiet song that is my inner engine. I give up trying to answer my own questions, and instead I go searching for the answers elsewhere. Then, I wonder where I went wrong, why I'm unhappy. It's like ignoring my best friend... of course I'm not going to be happy! I don't like being ignored, especially when the person that's ignoring me is myself.

Truth is, I'm not sure anyone really knows what their song sounds like any more... it's been too convoluted and twisted into sounding like a conglomeration of everyone else's utopia (read distopia). We're running blind. We can't even see that heaven is hell and hell is really heaven. Maybe if we stopped running and just stood still for a moment, we could hear it again. The song of the engine. Maybe if I just stood still for a while, I could hear it again... that quiet song that guides my steps.

The Enigma of Time

They say time heal all wounds.

"They" say.

I'm not saying that I disbelieve this... at least not entirely.

The past few weeks have been a waking nightmare. When you are sick for any extended length of time, you tend to be brought down to some state of desperation. For me, it's a mixture of wanting to feel better, to feel capable of getting out of bed, and to feel progress again. No, it's not life threatening. It makes my days a struggle. It's hard to fight.

It's made me think about my time and my wounds. I wonder if they will ever go away. I wonder if they will constantly be sitting on my shoulders like a dead weight sent to whisper horrible, evil things into my ear.

My monitor blew out.
My laptop isn't recognizing my wifi.
My father had a pulmonary embolism.
A good friend of mine is really sick.
A person hell bent on causing me pain started harrassing me again.
My therapist decided to take the whole month of December off.
Then, there's the typical family holiday issues. I would be worried about mentioning it here, but they'll never read this. My siblings and parents aren't bothered to read my blog.

My family is dishonest. You know those families that get together and talk about the weather? That's my family. Do we have deep dark secrets that we never talk about? Sure. Most of it rotates around not wanting to talk about what happened to me. I've cried my tears about my family. I'm not sorry any more. I just don't like being forced to sit in a room and be mute. I can't stand the tension. I can't stand pretending that things aren't the way that they are. I hate the judgment.

I know fighting for life is important. It's an idea that's been burned into my head. But, sometimes I wonder. On any typical day, I'd fight through this pain. Migraines, back pain, cysts rupturing, nausea, and black out spells would never stand a chance against my drive to live. If I had to be stuck in bed because of my back, I'd be working on my laptop... but not these past two weeks.

I've had too much on my shoulders, and I've given up. In a way, I've let myself just lay down and let my soul die. Sometimes perky, happy, optimistic people break.

Happiness is a choice. It's an uphill battle for me. Once the ball is rolling, it's generally easier. With all the stuff that's happened to me, it's all come to a screeching stop.

I'm on a break.

It'll pass. In the meantime, I'm going to let myself feel this pain, to wallow in it, ... to experience it. I think that sometimes you need to feel the pain in order to grow. If anyone else is feeling miserable this winter, please, don't feel that you are alone. There's light at the end of the tunnel. I can see it. I'm just tired of running to get to it. I'll get there when I get there.

Robbing The World

I entered a contest yesterday, at the last minute. I'd been thinking about it for weeks, but I didn't sit down and write my entry until a few hours before it was due.

It was the first time I've put myself up to be judged in a while. A long... long... long while.

I was probably using something like this the last time I entered a contest.

Of course, you could say that by blogging I open myself to be judged, but this is different. I'm talking about being judged on my creativity. This raw feeling had me revisiting an old lifetime query...

Why do I procrastinate? Why don't I ever give it my all?
But, the answer is simple.

I procrastinate because I fear that if I ever really tried, I could really fail.

Well, doesn't that just make me a clever one?

Of course, it doesn't.

But, what puts me on another level is that I think about it. If I never really push myself to work harder and stop procrastinating (which would inevitably result in better work) what would happen?

My response: Who cares what would happen?

It's not happening.

And a thought came to me...

I am robbing myself of my potential. Each little failure doesn't hurt when I know I just rushed "my best effort" in a last minute rally. But, years and years built up of little failures due to half-tries make me think I am setting myself up for ultimate failure.

"My great concern is not whether you have failed, but whether you are content with your failure." Abraham Lincoln

This contest, while I have no idea how I will fare, was something I wanted to win. I wasn't content with my submission. If I lose, I will not be "content" with my loss. So, I sit here, tapping my foot nervously because I have no confidence in my work... because deep down, I know I should have been working on it so much more. When I find out the results, I'll think, "Okay, that's that. Now, let's move forward to something else."

On a whole, little failures don't bother me. I will move forward in some way or another. But, the idea of all the failures characterizing my life blows my mind. I don't want my life to be characterized by little failures.

So, I guess I better board the train and get on with trying. Give myself a real shot with all the potential I have inside of me. My guess is there are plenty of you out there who are in the same boat. Skip the boat and board the train with me.