tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46175982530949295522024-03-14T06:16:37.508-04:00BackstoryWhat does 75 years of marriage, greek myth and writing have in common? In a word: balance. Is a work/life balance a myth or an attainable goal?Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-10792784452232367052021-09-08T13:04:00.007-04:002021-09-08T19:25:29.952-04:00<p> </p><w:sdt docparttype="Cover Pages" docpartunique="t" id="1886050705" sdtdocpart="t"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0vMkY9VgFQkpe2l3TTSPVcY_lzcFZjzOOYCWqElXIegbW13vqtQUWtstjnLt5EMaHX6c9K0gIdXiS9e4txmgvkolzEtR_nv5c3HmCDcVQTtG9M9Nx91z61vRQck4tgpXBdnaN94jJbk/s640/IMG_7352.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="589" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0vMkY9VgFQkpe2l3TTSPVcY_lzcFZjzOOYCWqElXIegbW13vqtQUWtstjnLt5EMaHX6c9K0gIdXiS9e4txmgvkolzEtR_nv5c3HmCDcVQTtG9M9Nx91z61vRQck4tgpXBdnaN94jJbk/s320/IMG_7352.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Next Steps </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">December 2020</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> Graduation is looming, years of preperation and hard work done. Now the real work begins. But what does that look like after you graduate from a Nurse Practitioner program?</o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> <span></span></o:p></p><a name='more'></a><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> <b><span style="font-size: large;">Reflections on the Cusp of Graduation</span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p>By Rebecca Holdsworth, RN</o:p></p>
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</w:sdt>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5fMxPjFO-cFWLof-b3mvc40ps80RzjyNGOwNspeQLfnZDvwemO_8BmHcB8Yjg6xpeElkX0QQTIRvHRUpLFoWfcC5ybL9DH1478NPGrIEUITfsp1o5VNaQqJTvB7nAuLVIgPJng5W67Y/s507/Picture1.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="507" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5fMxPjFO-cFWLof-b3mvc40ps80RzjyNGOwNspeQLfnZDvwemO_8BmHcB8Yjg6xpeElkX0QQTIRvHRUpLFoWfcC5ybL9DH1478NPGrIEUITfsp1o5VNaQqJTvB7nAuLVIgPJng5W67Y/s320/Picture1.png" width="320" /></a></div>“<b>We are out of our
depth,” said the boy.<o:p></o:p></b><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>“Just breath,”
said the horse, “and hold on.”<br /><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><w:sdt citation="t" id="-804394747"><!--[if supportFields]><span style='mso-element:field-begin'></span><span
style='mso-spacerun:yes'> </span>CITATION Mac19 \l 1033 <span
style='mso-element:field-separator'></span><![endif]--><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">(Mackesy, 2019)</span><!--[if supportFields]><span style='mso-element:
field-end'></span><![endif]--></w:sdt><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I
began this reflection with the intention of discussing the science, the
learning and other general aspects of school. I have spent the last semester growing
my own clinical thinking, diagnostic schemas and assessments. I hoped I could
use this knowledge as a shield against the fear of uncertainty around
graduation. I feel the burden and privilege of taking on a person’s health care.
My stethoscope feels heavy around my neck, a constant reminder that the choices
I will make can have real consequences, risk and benefit. I am not ready. I am
not sure I will ever feel ready. Learning has had the opposite effect for me. Rather
than a comfort, each time I learn and grow I become increasingly aware of what
I still do not know. How will I learn it all? How will I recall at will? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel out of my depth. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYyV7MSEq2QElRBuuRP9A1TYCxQB33GabDkPx7BM9DtWjQ4w_F2bOO7RC_mClrDuTaUG64qbCmVsb_vKkmwyZAm4qJi4vAXQlper3e6oMzdg7XTMGape4unxVC5r4XWGsr4Ww2TVQxZsE/s241/Picture2.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="239" data-original-width="241" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYyV7MSEq2QElRBuuRP9A1TYCxQB33GabDkPx7BM9DtWjQ4w_F2bOO7RC_mClrDuTaUG64qbCmVsb_vKkmwyZAm4qJi4vAXQlper3e6oMzdg7XTMGape4unxVC5r4XWGsr4Ww2TVQxZsE/s0/Picture2.png" width="241" /></a></div><br />“<b>I can’t see a way
through,” said the boy. <o:p></o:p></b><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>“Can you see your
next step?” <o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>“Yes.” <o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>“Then take that,”
said the Horse. <o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><w:sdt citation="t" id="-312713542"><!--[if supportFields]><span style='mso-element:field-begin'></span><span
style='mso-spacerun:yes'> </span>CITATION Mac19 \l 1033 <span
style='mso-element:field-separator'></span><![endif]--><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">(Mackesy, 2019)</span><!--[if supportFields]><span style='mso-element:
field-end'></span><![endif]--></w:sdt><o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I
have lived my life around “next steps.” When I was younger, worrying about
tomorrow robbed me of much of Today’s joy. When I began nursing school, I was
forced to live in the moment to survive. Everything was new, intense. It all
felt like life and death. I had to slow down and approach the next three years
one day, one assignment, one shift, one topic at a time. I could not sustain
the amount of energy it took to keep up my usual type A personality. I wanted
to know it all but today I focused on arterial blood gases. I wanted to do it
all but today I would wake up and work one shift. Tomorrow would take care of
itself. That began almost three years ago. Three years. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Today I am thinking
about my next steps once again. What programs do I apply to? Do I concentrate
on peds, emergency certification or family practice? Rural or urban? Choices
are a blessing, but I feel as if every step I take is on a thin bar suspended
over an abyss of unknown consequences. My decisions are not just mine. I have a
family, a home with children growing and entering adulthood. I must consider
how my choices will affect them. Then there are always the logistical
ramifications of choices. Money, housing, travel, and mentorship all equal in
their roles in “the choice.” I cannot see a clear path, but age and experience
has gifted me faith and trust. I slip up. I forget, but at some moment I will
remember. All I must do is take the next step. The step after that will figure
itself out. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKh8Y0xjM6QEaBygc1rCULXZeIC5UZ6yZuSGS1GXIO_5D-oPTYYfPEdFyK1mb4pf3hmRyDmwciLptqm_6HXjlD1YLX80ov0uL9x2-M3hfisIm8xZO9ema74VhwARGOV8GuGqYFQBLB2AA/s516/Picture3.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="498" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKh8Y0xjM6QEaBygc1rCULXZeIC5UZ6yZuSGS1GXIO_5D-oPTYYfPEdFyK1mb4pf3hmRyDmwciLptqm_6HXjlD1YLX80ov0uL9x2-M3hfisIm8xZO9ema74VhwARGOV8GuGqYFQBLB2AA/s320/Picture3.png" width="309" /></a></b></div><b><br />“Sometimes I think
you believe in me more than I do,” said the boy.<o:p></o:p></b><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>“You’ll catch up,”
said the horse.<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><w:sdt citation="t" id="54673239"><!--[if supportFields]><span style='mso-element:field-begin'></span><span
style='mso-spacerun:yes'> </span>CITATION Mac19 \l 1033 <span
style='mso-element:field-separator'></span><![endif]--><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">(Mackesy, 2019)</span></w:sdt></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Humans
learn by watching. We spend lifetimes looking at others. We watch and listen,
sifting through people, behaviors, and qualities. We unconsciously or consciously
choose who we are and who we are not. Children learn to eat, talk and
communicate by watching and doing. The basics of how we learn to be human as
children translates into adulthood. I believe the ability to visualize a future
for yourself depends on two things: seeing someone like you in that future and
faith in yourself to work towards that goal. I know it is much more complicated
than that but having a mentor, someone who can shepherd you along is so
important. I must be my own cheerleader. However, when you, my mentor, says
those words: “I know you will be a good provider. You are doing better than you
believe,” you motivate me more than I have words to express. Mentors can help
you move mountains, even if those mountains are only in your mind.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p>
<br />
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMr3y7eML8gggbS7lTp1SkrNv6Wtga66XH8ftv5SYNwFLEhQCrtlae_XrYcNaHCnKT1_RU8G7Oeqcclfyf7qIRMvjPvkAIqridS-Yb9aGA9ZEUcMpOqAI94tbTL4jH5hK0dqJgKRPs844/s201/Picture4.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="193" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMr3y7eML8gggbS7lTp1SkrNv6Wtga66XH8ftv5SYNwFLEhQCrtlae_XrYcNaHCnKT1_RU8G7Oeqcclfyf7qIRMvjPvkAIqridS-Yb9aGA9ZEUcMpOqAI94tbTL4jH5hK0dqJgKRPs844/w229-h238/Picture4.png" width="229" /></a></div><br />“<b>One of our
greatest freedoms<o:p></o:p></b><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is how we react to things.”<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p>(Mackesy, 2019) </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I
promised myself I would be someone who held others up. I
would work to see even the smallest spark of light in every human I met. This
past year has challenged me in ways I could never imagine possible. How is it
possible to find love amid so much willful ignorance, hate, bigotry and selfishness?
As an EMT we gave the drunk driver the same level of care as the innocent
bystander to bad decisions. I see this each clinical day. There are those
patients who do not care about the current pandemic, will not wear a mask, and
openly mock the efforts of healthcare workers. They call us a collective
“chicken little.” Yet we care for them. We ask the same questions and offer
solutions just the same. It is hard to not take those people and their blatant disregard
for the current climate personally. It feels personal. I must remember what I
tell my own children. I can only control the square I stand in. I may not control
other people, only my reaction to other people. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Recently the
American Medical Association made a call to action against what they termed
“scope creep.” Social media outlets were clogged with physicians denouncing the
safety of AANPs and PA’s without physician oversite. A year ago, these same
physicians were comparing dog groomers to NP’s. These individuals were
distraught that the person who cut their schnauzer’s hair had better training
than the providers they were supposed to call colleagues. The vitriol was and
is amazing to me. I must admit I am apprehensive to wade out into the waters of
healthcare with these sharks lurking, hoping I fail. On the other hand, I
cannot change the minds or anti-maskers or anti- AANPS. I can only stand in my square,
show up every day ready to work. It is how we react to events that shapes the
path.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8hF64V5LKoAL-w_gZAQmrfiMzksGe4oW0rUPhc6xwDlvsQUTiKhU5KFEDunXJH6n_1jwwBfxAavKuVhNlz2w-UN26K34RbjkHG7-BQR94sIMJfeg96rZckMYbeEuEn7oDLkGJZxePhAE/s241/Picture5.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="241" data-original-width="200" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8hF64V5LKoAL-w_gZAQmrfiMzksGe4oW0rUPhc6xwDlvsQUTiKhU5KFEDunXJH6n_1jwwBfxAavKuVhNlz2w-UN26K34RbjkHG7-BQR94sIMJfeg96rZckMYbeEuEn7oDLkGJZxePhAE/s0/Picture5.png" width="200" /></a></b></div><b><br />“So much beauty we
need to look after.” <o:p></o:p></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-align: center;">(Mackesy, 2019)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">It
snowed last night. It is cold today, windy. The birds surround my feeder in a
busy cloud of color and movement. I have applications sitting to my right for
multiple residency programs. I do not know if we will have our hours in time. I
do not know when we will be able to take our boards. I have no idea where I
will be this time next year. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">What I do know is
I am here now. I am listening to Christmas music and my children laughing
downstairs. I am warm. I am the careful caretaker of this amazing privilege- I
will care for others.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was 10 when I first thought of healthcare. I
had thought my only option was to be a physician. thinking back, I am amazed at
how often my elders told me I was not enough- smart enough, strong enough,
tough enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In many ways them may have
been right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a lot of growing to
do, toughening up through lived experience. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As life moved by me, children grew, and houses
changed, and time passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought that
dream was gone. But one day a voice in my ear whispered “now,” and I jumped
almost blindly. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was accepted into school. I have remained
competitive and successful. I am toeing up to the edge of the next “next step.”
I do not know what that step is or if other healthcare professionals respect
APNPs. I know I will not stop. I know my drive, curiosity and heart will carry
me. I am enough without knowing it all at once. My dreams are so big I can
barely hold them and there is so much I need to do. I do not know how or when,
but I know I can, with some help and faith, take each step as it comes. That
will be enough. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8RuQlhRNuswkCRl0pcTdVrdFh5mzCtOPanybhcixKTGQmOD1ants43sUr_Gg8dJdY5xf9d5ft6wStcOp_jqZWZqC4K6drDvKkyzatg8sXwkLsqHgC3DTHEJwfsDQLnx55XaTtD5Z9-U/s281/Picture6.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="246" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8RuQlhRNuswkCRl0pcTdVrdFh5mzCtOPanybhcixKTGQmOD1ants43sUr_Gg8dJdY5xf9d5ft6wStcOp_jqZWZqC4K6drDvKkyzatg8sXwkLsqHgC3DTHEJwfsDQLnx55XaTtD5Z9-U/w299-h342/Picture6.png" width="299" /></a></div><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0px;"> (Mackesy, 2019)</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<w:sdt docparttype="Bibliographies" docpartunique="t" id="1032452761" sdtdocpart="t">
<h1><span style="font-size: xx-small;">References<o:p></o:p><span color="windowtext" style="line-height: 107%;"><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr></span></span></h1>
<w:sdt bibliography="t" id="-573587230"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">
</span><p class="MsoBibliography" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;"><!--[if supportFields]><span
style='mso-element:field-begin'></span><span
style='mso-spacerun:yes'> </span>BIBLIOGRAPHY <span style='mso-element:field-separator'></span><![endif]--><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">Mackesy, C. (2019). <i>The Boy, the Mole, the Fox
and the Horse.</i> New York: HarperOne.</span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr></span></p>
<p class="MsoBibliography" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Macksey, C. (2020). <i>charliemacksey</i>. Retrieved
from Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/charliemackesy/?hl=en<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if supportFields]><b><span style='mso-no-proof:yes'><span
style='mso-element:field-end'></span></span></b><![endif]--><o:p><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></o:p></p>
</w:sdt></w:sdt>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-6689636860632180802021-09-08T12:43:00.003-04:002021-09-08T12:43:46.857-04:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Photographic
Memories</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">, 2019<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I look at photos often. Sinking into
a memory can be an emotional roulette of sorts. I see more than the single
moment captured. Like a song, each photo brings with it the before and after. I
cannot separate the photo from those book ends. The girl in this photo is so
young. She is smiling-of course. She was taught young to not make a fuss, to smile
like a good girl. Her eyes are closed, perhaps to block out a little of the
embarrassment she feels at being the center of attention in a busy restaurant
on Christmas Eve. It could be she is embarrassed about the fuss around her
birthday or was it the attention of the classmate who happened to be sitting
one table away, changed with time but familiar around the edges. High school was
four years past and that was where she wanted it to stay- over. His face,
watching as they sang “Happy Birthday” in front of 200 strangers made her
stomach hurt but good girls smiled. Always. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
look at this girl, who in four short years had seen devastating heartbreak and
violence and am filled with both sadness and a fierce pride. She is on the cusp
of a new and beautiful life of healing and joy, but she didn’t know this yet. I
wish I could whisper to her now, let her in on the secret that not all love
hurts and not all damage is damaging forever. I wish I could tell her that I
know she is alone among those who should know her the best. They will never
share those secrets she keeps but that will be ok. Others will share them
gracefully. I could tell her not one bit of that matters now, but I know her. I
know it mattered then. Appearances mattered. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I
wish I could lean in quietly, whisper above the small pearled earing, pitch my
voice just above the holiday din; and tell her that scar tissue makes a
beautiful teacher. I would tell her that
her broken heart will not only heal but it will bloom and grow into a heart
capable of holding space for others who are broken and hurting. She will leave
this snap of time shortly, leave the mixing of perfume and candles, bourbon and
steak; and step into the winter night. The air will feel cleansing, the anonymity
of the street comforting. She will move through the next few months of life as
she always does, doing what should be done until one night, when the dark cold
takes on personality. Everything will
change the night death comes to wake her and set her on the road of life
building. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
couldn’t have known that Christmas Eve that destiny has a maudlin sense of
humor. Life changing moments hardly seem that at the time. I had been so sure I
was broken beyond saving, that I had nothing to give anyone. I was destined to
be mediocre at best. But time had more to teach. In that photo I was toeing up
to the start line for the rest of my life. A little more than a month later I
would find myself in another moment in time, no photo to capture the shift
except the one imprinted in my brain. That night had been filled with routine
with only ordinary motions and then time stopped. When time began again everything was
different in a million little and unmentionable ways. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He
had been walking home in the early February darkness. The black hoodie and
jeans hid his tall, lanky body in the early northeast morning. He was struck at 55 miles an hour, in the
freezing dark. His head hit the top of
the sedan’s windshield, his face the glass and his legs the bumper. He
shouldn’t have lived but he did. For better or worse, he lived through that
night. The actions taken by my EMS team that
night was part of the 0.1%, a tiny slice of time when prehospital care made a life-or-death
difference. This man lived because of us, because of me and my training. That
night was a conjunction of time and space, when training met instinct, uncertainty
of trauma met steely determination. It was the night a “nice girl” became a
determined woman. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
look back to that moment. In our family we call it “Route 2.” My now husband
had been senior medic on that call and witnessed the change that came over me
that night. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“That was the night you
were ready to move on,” he often tells me and anyone else who will listen, “You
called the shots that night, stood up and took charge, you stopped being a good
girl became a leader.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Twenty-four
years, four children, 23 years of marriage and a year from my FNP I look back
to that photo as when my paradigm shifted irrevocably. It wasn’t an earthquake in
the status quo of my thinking, more of a small and insidious crack that slowly loosened
old programming. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Why
does a woman being a “good girl” still have a place in our society? What does
this mean for the profession of nursing and medicine? Can we be effective
practitioners if we are first concerned with being liked? The girl in the photo
wanted nothing more than to be referred to as good, dependable and nice. This
woman is concerned with different adjectives. Compassionate has replaced nice. Competent
and effective has replaced dependable. Morally sound and consistent has
replaced good. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
was recently struck by a comment on social media about a female politician. “She
just isn’t likeable,” said a political commentator. I was struck by this
comment. We don’t hear about “likability” being an issue for men. Politicians
don’t say someone is unelectable due to a lack of likeability. In healthcare,
we don’t say men aren’t likable. We say they have a poor bedside manner quickly
followed by “but I don’t care because he is a good provider.” We don’t tend to label male providers difficult
or opinionated when they disagree with one another. We call them strong,
educated, confident. At worst a male provider may be called arrogant. Women
providers are seen through a less positive lens when they exhibit the same
qualities of confidence and assertive discussion. Why? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As
women, providers must work against old, long entrenched, expectations still
shared by colleagues and patients. Be a lady. Smile. Don’t make a fuss. Look
nice. Speak softly. We cannot serve our patients if we are constantly
preoccupied with being likable. How do we function within a theatre that still
expects, perhaps subconsciously, that we women providers give competent care
while not rocking to boat? We can’t. We must be unafraid of who we were and
proud of who we are now. I am lucky. My
training allowed me to work with providers of all genders who empowered me,
mentored leadership, humility and encouraged my journey. Times are changing and
I can be a part of that change for those who come next. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
can’t undo the programming for that girl in the photo. She is in the past,
frozen forever at 22, smiling and stuck in so many ways I can’t change. But I
am not her now. I have learned to balance assertive with respectful. I have
learned to care less about likability and more about competence, effectiveness,
compassion, and endurance. To make big decisions with patients about health
care one needs confidence and humility of equal proportions. I can’t claim to
be an authority on what it takes to be a recovered “nice girl.” I will be
forever learning how to navigate roads laid by outdated paradigms of our world. Yet I know I am eons away from that girl in
the photo. I am not her and she is not me. She is the core of who I am, a
germinal center locked in time. I wouldn’t be me without her. I often wish I could let her in on the conspiracy-
you don’t have to be a "good girl" to strive towards doing great things. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZL-l4BJ5LgC8vKcUXa3R1J6d2CO4eTmj0dHv302gaz9hM_8IVLmJlOB3K253PFCbe14eJaBPUUd7jI0zYBDusjQPtz40WhWUm9NPo19Vu6xg3-IydUDprF9otr-ATKiqNfGA-Zpw-fs/s729/Picture1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="729" data-original-width="546" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZL-l4BJ5LgC8vKcUXa3R1J6d2CO4eTmj0dHv302gaz9hM_8IVLmJlOB3K253PFCbe14eJaBPUUd7jI0zYBDusjQPtz40WhWUm9NPo19Vu6xg3-IydUDprF9otr-ATKiqNfGA-Zpw-fs/s320/Picture1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-40203741510771510712021-09-08T12:38:00.001-04:002021-09-08T12:39:06.326-04:00<p> </p><p align="center" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7btjj5qrv-IGdOHjxRd5C62OLcM30NxIXb1QkeS8DXZlRyXlpvFUYL6cXovbRXNiFSHvyfb2V5u7WGV1mKjmQj6JmRIIfOAdZZcVEv545JH6AJ7G8I9SQzjphzFlv-2F8vg0noWLf_Yg/s499/51HWL7YVosL._SX366_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="368" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7btjj5qrv-IGdOHjxRd5C62OLcM30NxIXb1QkeS8DXZlRyXlpvFUYL6cXovbRXNiFSHvyfb2V5u7WGV1mKjmQj6JmRIIfOAdZZcVEv545JH6AJ7G8I9SQzjphzFlv-2F8vg0noWLf_Yg/w148-h200/51HWL7YVosL._SX366_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" width="148" /></a></div><strong><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 18.0pt;">Payback<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">By Rebecca M Holdsworth</div></span></strong><p></p>
<p align="center" style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">As published in </span></strong><strong><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;">The Kid Turned Out Fine:
Moms Fess Up About Cartoons, Candy, And What It Really Takes to Be a Good
Parent (Paperback) </span></strong><b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">by <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/search-handle-url/002-4250721-7700002?%5Fencoding=UTF8&search-type=ss&index=books&field-author=Paula%20Ford-Martin">Paula
Ford-Martin</a> (Editor)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 7.5pt;">Adams Media Corporation (April 30, 2006) <b>Language:</b> English <b>ISBN-10:</b>
1593375174 <b>ISBN-13:</b> 978-1593375171</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have just come to a rather startling and self-effacing
conclusion: I was a much better parent before I had children. Over the past
five years I have traveled the twisting and turning road of parenthood and the
reality of raising four young children is far different than my preconceived
notions of what real parenting should be.<br />
<br />
When I began thinking about having children I did what I imagine many potential
parents do: I stopped; I took a good look around me; And I blasted every
perceived slip-up of every parent I saw. Leaving my house was no longer the
innocent journey it once had been. I was watching and my mental checklist was
working overtime.<br />
<br />
Restaurants and shopping malls became my hunting ground. See that mom with the
screaming two-year-old in the men’s section of the department store? That will
not be me. If my child ever behaves that way I will pick him up immediately and
march his little screaming self to the car. All of my shopping would have to
wait. I will show my child who’s the boss! Me.<br />
<br />
Then there was that “monster” in my favorite restaurant. The one over at a
table in the corner. There she was, screeching that she “wasn’t going to eat
that!” Then she crawled underneath the table not to be hauled out again until
the check was signed and the tip left. NO, no. My husband and I would tsk tsk,
shake our heads and say, “Oh No”. Our children will eat what they are given.
They will behave as proper ladies and gentlemen. They will use their utensils,
speak in a properly modulated voice and always say “please” and “thank you.”
Our children will behave properly.<br />
<br />
The problem with today’s children as I saw it was a lack of manners and
respect. I saw this as a direct result of the “I’m ok, you’re OK” parenting
style so popular with some of my parent’s generation.<br />
<br />
I remember it something like this:<br />
<br />
“Oh no. Our little one is not behaving badly by hitting little Bobby. He is
simply trying to express his natural athletic ability and don’t you think we
should find a suitable outlet-like boxing?”<br />
<br />
Bah! That was all a bunch of malarkey, pure lazy parenting on their part. Or so
I thought. Did you ever hear the old adage about walking in another’s shoes?
Or, how about the one about throwing stones in glass houses? Well honey, stand
back because the stones are flying and the walls are comin’ down!<br />
<br />
What I didn’t realize during those years of sticking my nose in the air and
damming the bedraggled parenting masses was someone was listening. Someone was
up there with a notebook and pencil chuckling to himself as he recorded each
time I swore my child wouldn’t behave that way. And boy did I get my just due
for all that pre-parenting smugness.<br />
<br />
Do you remember that poor mother in the men’s department store stoically
pushing her screaming toddler up and down the aisles of modern fashion? What I
didn’t realize between the wails for candy and shushes from mom was if she came
home without socks for her husband, she would have to tell him why he was
missing all twelve pair of work socks and why his sock drawer still held a
residual smell of diaper cream. I know this because that was me. And right
after the socks mommy had to buy more diaper cream- and put it up higher this
time-away from curious hands.<br />
<br />
Remember that lovely couple with the child in the restaurant screeching about
her meal? What I couldn’t possibly have known while I was calmly munching on my
appetizers and sipping on a cool glass of Chardonnay was this family hadn’t
been out of the house in what seemed like forever. Only their acute and
unrelenting desire to eat somewhere where the meals didn’t come in a folding
paper box with a prize at the bottom drove them to take such desperate
measures. This was how they found themselves sitting in an elegant seafood
restaurant with a little tyrant masquerading as their lovely and gracious
three-year-old.<br />
<br />
What I didn’t hear while I was enjoying light conversation about the state of
the economy and our upcoming jaunt to the shore was that said three-year-old
swearing she would be good if she could just have a lobster like Mommy and
Daddy. Only too eager for a quiet dinner, the parents took the bait. As the
waitress set the glorious steaming delicacy under her little upturned nose the
precious little angel began to shriek “I’m not eating that bug!” in a voice
loud enough to rattle the windows. I know this because that was me and I was
the one wanting to duck under the table and come out only after the meal was
over.<br />
<br />
It was also me who, while sitting in another restaurant talking to a friend
while our children ate, heard a ripple of laughter pass through the dining
room. I looked around to see what joke I was missing only to see my sweet and
delicate daughter sitting demurely by with two french-fries jammed up her nose.
The joke was on me.<br />
<br />
It was me who stood watching in the mall as my child threw herself onto the
floor kicking and screaming after being denied another ice cream cone. It was
me waiting in line at the upscale boutique while my little girl stood in the
display window gaily waving and dancing for all the shoppers as they passed by.
It was also me who turned to my friend and announced loudly so the cashier
could hear “Will you go and get your daughter!”<br />
<br />
I think it is much too easy for those who don’t have children to turn their
noses up at those who do and add to their mental list of what kind of parent
they will or will not be in the future.<br />
<br />
As for all of those things my husband and I swore we would or would not do? We
have dragged the occasional child out of a mall for bad behavior but that was
usually after the major purchase had been made and all bribery with lollipops
had failed. Let’s face it. How often can you find the time to even get to the
store much less find an opportunity to go again? Where food is concerned, we do
insist our children try everything but you do have to admit a lobster
“in-the-rough” does look an awful lot like huge insect. A girlfriend of mine
recently confided she is frequently seen roaming the aisles of her local
grocery store trying to sing to herself loudly enough to drown out the sound of
her screaming toddler.<br />
<br />
Parenting is a challenge. It is a joy, but it is a challenge. My husband likes
to repeat the adage, “The first casualty of combat is the plan.” In other
words, nothing ever goes completely to plan-not even parenting. Especially not
parenting. You can dream and wish and plan how you as a parent will handle your
future brood but until you are there in the trenches you will never be sure.
After all a family is the meshing of many different personalities in many
different situations. Take two parents, one child, seven days in a week,
fifty-two weeks in a year- (you can see where I am going with this)- and the
possibilities are endless.<br />
<br />
I am not saying parenting should be likened to a battle although some days it
sure feels like one. It is actually the opposite. In my case, being an
effective parent is more about not fighting. It is about choosing when and
where and why I want to “fight” and when to retreat.<br />
<br />
I was a much better parent before I had children. Then it was very simple. It
was black and white. Yes and no. Then again, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe now that I
am a parent I have changed my definitions of what a good parent is. I know now
it isn’t about appearances. They are going to scream. They are going to
embarrass you. They are going to stick french-fries up their nose. They are
going to be…well, kids. The trick for us as adults is to remember if it isn’t
fatal it isn’t, well, fatal. We need to remember to cut ourselves a break once
in a while. These kinds of things are what being a child and a parent all are
about. It doesn’t make us bad parents and it doesn’t mean we have failed to be
the parent we thought we would be. Here the greatest tool we have in our
parenting bag is a sense of humor.<br />
<br />
As for all of you out there who are not yet convinced of the potent karmic
nature of parenting I have one last note of caution. As all of you sit watching
all of us floundering in the murky waters of parenthood; cut us (and your
future selves) a break. Remember. When ever you feel a bout of judgment coming
on as you witness some poor soul and his half-pint charges navigating through
the mall or your favorite restaurant, be careful. Any judgment you make may
prove to come back to you in time- threefold. Remember: Someone is listening.
He is taking notes and He has a sense of humor too.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">This article can be found here: <span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://books.google.com/books?id=Gv7sDQAAQBAJ&pg=PT43&lpg=PT43&dq=payback+paula-ford+martin&source=bl&ots=ubGXE6pXH1&sig=ACfU3U1sfDRPqt-j8nlNB0fRoFbFxGIuMA&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiUppTB3e_yAhXyUjUKHbubDWsQ6AF6BAgeEAM#v=onepage&q=payback%20paula-ford%20martin&f=false</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">But this book : <b>The Kid Turned Out Fine</b>, edited by Paula Ford-Martin here:<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> https://www.amazon.com/Kid-Turned-Out-Fine-Cartoons-ebook/dp/B005GIRNOC/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=the+kid+turned+out+fine&qid=1631116398&sr=8-2</span></p>Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-2414747492185076352021-09-08T11:47:00.000-04:002021-09-08T11:47:15.451-04:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Originally published in the
Life At Home section of</span> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The
Boston Globe</b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">July 18, 2002 –modified from
its original form<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">CONFESSIONS OF AN IMPERFECT MOM <o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By, Rebecca Holdsworth <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have been dealt a mortal blow. I have been insulted so
completely that it has shaken my entire idea of who I am and who I strive to
be. What, may you ask, could be so earth shattering? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was, in a word, perfection. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A friend of 10 years, one who I thought I knew so well and,
more importantly, knew me, one who went through my darkest hours of college
angst with me and yet our friendship still resurfaced on the other side, called
me the worst name any mother can call another: perfect. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Perfect:
an adjective. "Without defect or omission," according to Webster's.
"In a condition of complete excellence." <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As in: "You are the perfect mother. I can never hope to
attain your level of perfection in the parenting of my child." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Pardon? Me? Are we talking about me? I let out an indignant
"I am not!" and proceeded on a 20-minute tirade on just how horrible
a mother I really am. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After hanging up with her, I called a good friend. She was a
true friend, a dear friend, a realistic, down-to-earth, tell-it-like-it-is
friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told her my greatest insult: I
was thought to be the perfect mother, cringing as the word came out of my
mouth. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was a bit of silence but that didn't worry me. It
takes time for a good, true, honest friend to find a tactful way of saying,
"You stink as a mom." I waited eagerly for those words. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Well," she began, "you are kind of the
Martha Stewart of parenting." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was dumbstruck. I was aghast. I was horrified. So what if
my curtains match my couch? So what if I have knickknacks artfully arranged
over my kitchen cabinets? Who cares if my children's rooms are themed and there
just so happen to be a few fresh herbs tucked in between the plants in my
window boxes? That isn't what makes me a good parent! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">"Hey! Don't get me wrong," she continued.
"I've seen you lose your cool. I know what you look like after a full day
of the Ringling Brothers and Three under Three Circus. But you seem to pull it
off so effortlessly." She apologized for making me feel worse and said she
had to go. "I have to wash off my kids and hose down the office wall now.
Too much alone time and a little blue paint has gotten way out of
control." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perfect. Why does the idea of being seen as a perfect parent
seem like such an abhorrent thing? Is it because the simple nature of
perfection raises the bar and makes it that much harder on the next one in
line? I don't want the responsibility of being a parental yardstick. I don't
want to be the reason someone else feels lousy. I don't want to be different. I
want to be down in the trenches with the rest of the parents, complaining about
diapers and hunger strikes and potty training gone wrong. I want to be one of
the gang. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here is the thing: I am one of the gang. I am not perfect, a
long way from it. I lose my temper and a stray four-letter word is repeated
gleefully at the next family dinner. I have realized my kids have gone a week without
a bath; and their brown color isn't from a lack of sunscreen at the beach
yesterday. I have left a diaper on so long as to necessitate a life preserver
for the wearer and a shampoo for the carpet. I'm not perfect and I don't want
to be. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ask any parent about perfection and you'll hear something
like, "Honey, I gave that up years ago. I'll settle for convincing my kid
to eat something other than corn flakes." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I tell people I am not saving for college but for the therapy
they will surely need after 18 years with me as their perfect mom. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">THE ESSAY<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Rebecca Holdsworth writes in Shirley. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Copyright (c) 2002 Globe Newspaper Company<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Record Number: 0207180034<o:p></o:p></p>Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-48894240485009046982013-09-23T12:16:00.002-04:002013-09-23T13:30:26.698-04:00Secret Surviving<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN9iCHWfK4F0QMn72mBCSLo692au-zLtg6qidBupX9Mg-sY-H3_72cjLVU4DNQzrD4vwSyws9mQfaY-7iWf53cswhKgfhscWbyE4worQ6qJseSoJ76J8TmXz5S38JjVhP9OzOE6rTQHCI/s1600/clio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN9iCHWfK4F0QMn72mBCSLo692au-zLtg6qidBupX9Mg-sY-H3_72cjLVU4DNQzrD4vwSyws9mQfaY-7iWf53cswhKgfhscWbyE4worQ6qJseSoJ76J8TmXz5S38JjVhP9OzOE6rTQHCI/s320/clio.jpg" width="258" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clio, Muse of Writing and History<br />
<a href="http://www.imow.org/community/viewImage?id=3402" target="_blank">Greek Muses</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s hard when Passion grabs you by the throat and makes you
pay attention, forcing everything else to fall away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life fades into the background as you become
a thrall to whatever has taken control of your waking mind and dreaming
soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> As a creative person I find it difficult to
balance life when Passion takes the wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It's even harder when it doesn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">This blog has sat dormant for almost a year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn’t that I don’t have things to say or
thoughts to share.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know why I
haven’t been able to put all the thoughts running through my head down in
words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know part of it is the feeling
no one is really interested in my musings and worries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How vain is it to think someone would want to
hear what rolls around in your head on a daily basis?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part of it stems from an inability to find
the right words to grapple with all that I have been trying to sort out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a book, a series of books actually,
that I have been working on for almost five years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have short stories and essays I have
written.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have words, stories,
thoughts, feelings and fears but I don’t seem to have the ability to get them
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What the hell is that all about?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh36WL54LkqugjriqdzsU0_qodsE2GYFtqJoaJP4rxO-XfiO5o_7OnUpVfhKTtI6bAAqKOMvfezQVL1OgWSlAse4jQ1fyQwbUrN128yQo0HpSlO37KM36iIlvRdyB916Lk8ir7ks1k88iE/s1600/waterhouse_pandora_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh36WL54LkqugjriqdzsU0_qodsE2GYFtqJoaJP4rxO-XfiO5o_7OnUpVfhKTtI6bAAqKOMvfezQVL1OgWSlAse4jQ1fyQwbUrN128yQo0HpSlO37KM36iIlvRdyB916Lk8ir7ks1k88iE/s320/waterhouse_pandora_large.jpg" width="181" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pandora's Box by <a href="http://www.johnwilliamwaterhouse.com/pictures/pandora-1896/" target="_blank">Waterhouse</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I also have a secret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well, not so much a secret, some people know but it isn’t something I
talk about unless life forces my hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder
though if keeping my struggles to myself, holding the silence, is
somehow gaging my voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could it be
that secrets bleed silence into more than the object of the secret itself?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I suppose the only thing to do is let go
of the secret, make it less, give it light, let the monster out of the closet
because when we keep our fears and weaknesses in the dark we are only allowing
them room to grow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In 2008 I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease called
Ankylosing spondylitis- a disease where your immune system attacks cartilage,
fusing bones over time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I moved to New
England in 2009 I was on a medication that depressed my immune system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I caught H1N1 and became very, very ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recovered but, in changing doctors, I also
had a diagnosis change from AS to Fibromyalgia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I will be honest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It really
pissed me off!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fibromyalgia is a
diagnosis many doctors and people alike consider fake and affecting only the
weak minded. AS was scary but it was real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt hopeless and hurting
not to mention crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Depression creeped
into the edges of my life until it took over almost completely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Between the pain of daily life and emotional pain the
depression has caused, every day since then has been an excruciating
challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am grateful for
the fighting “screw you “spirit I inherited from my parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This “never say die” attitude has been my
greatest weapon but also my biggest challenge as I resist the very things that
help-medication, rest and relaxation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been
blessed with a husband who not only accepts my limitations but encourages me to
rest when I don’t want to let go; but I see the toll it takes on him when he
feels like the whole world is on his shoulders and it hurts my soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t want my kids to have their childhood
memories tainted with a pervasive image of Mom sick in bed or not at This Game or
That Function because she didn’t feel well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I am lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn’t
cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For now it doesn’t seem to be
AS- a disease that progressively destroys the axial body- even though there is
the chance that my diagnosis will change as a possibly slow progression of AS
shows itself over time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am grateful
for what I have but I want more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want
to write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to be able to think
without struggling to find simple words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I want to wake up with the energy to take on the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to let go of the shame of not being
enough and embrace my life and my future with the passion I once had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
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I used to say “I will do it later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is time.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s later and I am tired of waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want the world and I want it now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not afraid to work for it, to risk and
fail and rebound. I am only afraid this never ending struggle to push through
the crap of everyday will overwhelm me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I can’t bully my way through this as I have always done with life’s inevitable
challenges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brute force doesn’t work
anymore and I am so very tired of trying.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</span><br />
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Maybe that is the lesson here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the past, I have reached every goal I set for
myself through sheer determination and moxy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I pushed. I pulled. I clawed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
never gave up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe this time it is
about giving up and letting go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
mean letting go of my dreams. I don’t think that option is in my DNA. Rather, it’s
about letting go of control and learning to steer the boat on the river rather
than pushing so hard against the current.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s about trusting in the future, letting go of the past and really
living in the now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s about letting go
of the shame of not being perfect<o:p></o:p></div>
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</span><br />
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The secret is out- I am not Wonder Woman. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not such a big one, is it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So then why do I feel like I am standing here
in my underwear?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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The first step to writing is having something to say. The
second step is being honest about what you say- brutally honest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writing is about Truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So here is my Truth:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have limits, boundaries and that has to be
ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have good days and really sucky
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are days when I hurt so much
that I can barely move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There have been days
when my depression was so severe I didn’t even care that I hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there are days like today when I remember
that I am on this earth for a reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
am a writer and I tell the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I
teach my children to, above all else, do everything with truth and compassion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps it is time I give some of that gift
to myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truth: I am human. As for Compassion? That
is a work in progress but it is a worthy work accomplished by love and patience
and there can never be enough of that in this world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-62200855646737625552012-11-20T22:15:00.001-05:002012-11-29T08:59:21.968-05:00Happy Thanksgiving from our garden of characters to yours.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirIw9vMJxGe7PYR8mEyZ-WPu_MJYWCOr1o3lTNRUCSF3Nudn2OfLb3yTBJPsT_m_m-AfxegqP6z5QkSzeynMMxwma8eSnAVS8CuTizxb-GlorFzhY89Uc807mflH5ZNAEZs2qgtJqh9RY/s1600/1917-12-01-The-Country-Gentleman-Norman-Rockwell-cover-Cousin-Reginald-Catches-the-Thanksgiving-Turkey-no-logo-400-Digimarc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirIw9vMJxGe7PYR8mEyZ-WPu_MJYWCOr1o3lTNRUCSF3Nudn2OfLb3yTBJPsT_m_m-AfxegqP6z5QkSzeynMMxwma8eSnAVS8CuTizxb-GlorFzhY89Uc807mflH5ZNAEZs2qgtJqh9RY/s200/1917-12-01-The-Country-Gentleman-Norman-Rockwell-cover-Cousin-Reginald-Catches-the-Thanksgiving-Turkey-no-logo-400-Digimarc.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?hl=en&sa=X&tbo=d&biw=1093&bih=477&tbm=isch&tbnid=9ev5ec8GlvdUYM:&imgrefurl=http://www.best-norman-rockwell-art.com/norman-rockwell-thanksgiving.html&docid=sWsK1CK4WXHBdM&imgurl=http://www.best-norman-rockwell-art.com/images/1917-12-01-The-Country-Gentleman-Norman-Rockwell-cover-Cousin-Reginald-Catches-the-Thanksgiving-Turkey-no-logo-400-Digimarc.jpg&w=400&h=403&ei=OwesUOaZH5TW0gGo_4GQAw&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=620&vpy=138&dur=121&hovh=225&hovw=224&tx=115&ty=200&sig=110655468905662423888&page=1&tbnh=142&tbnw=141&start=0&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:5,s:0,i:143" target="_blank">Norman Rockwell</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Vijaya;"><strong>Brrr!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is chilly here today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanksgiving is on the horizon and Christmas is in queue behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brimfield is bustling to get ready for Turkey and stuffing, cranberries and pie and each table set across the small harbor town will be as unique as the people setting them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary spent most of October finding the perfect turkey and cranberry stuffing recipes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She bullied Burt, proprietor of Burt’s Fine Meats and Charcuterie, into calling all over <st1:place w:st="on">New England and most of the mid-Atlantic states</st1:place> for an organic, free range Narragansette bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike stopped by the butcher early this morning, the bundle now sits deep in the recesses of Mary's fridge, wrapped tight in paper and string.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary won’t discover her prized poultry is actually a veniparkey until Thanksgiving morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is a veniparkey, you ask?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a curious mix of turkey around a partridge around a venison roast of course- a Burt Brooks specialty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The butcher seemed quite happy to change the order when he spotted Mike perusing the glassed displays, too happy in my opinion, b</span>ut don’t tell Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike wants it to be a surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Tonight </span>Burt will sneak Mary’s abandoned turkey home and into the smoker behind the barn, far away from his vegetarian wife Sylvia. He will then guard the location of his contraband jerky with all the finesse of a cold war spy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But enough about Brimfield and Thanksgiving. It’s time to wrap up our tale of Mary's garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you have your tea?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe a quilt or blanket?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Now, l</span>et me tell you a story. -Rebecca<o:p></o:p></strong></span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Vijaya;"></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Vijaya;"><a href="http://rmholdsworth.blogspot.com/2012/11/welcome-to-autumn-and-brimfield-maine.html" target="_blank">Mothering Nature, Part I</a></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Vijaya;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mothering Nature, Part II<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?hl=en&tbo=d&biw=1093&bih=477&tbm=isch&tbnid=qAQMDMzdwI2pWM:&imgrefurl=http://www.coveredbridgegreen.com/activities.html&docid=RwXyKlhZVM-4uM&imgurl=http://www.coveredbridgegreen.com/images/rockwell1.jpg&w=355&h=483&ei=6gysUNWqHqLg0gGZ04HwDw&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=533&vpy=59&dur=538&hovh=262&hovw=192&tx=108&ty=127&sig=110655468905662423888&page=1&tbnh=131&tbnw=95&start=0&ndsp=13&ved=1t:429,r:3,s:0,i:94" target="_blank">Norman Rockwell</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary took to gardening with an intensity most people reserve for national sporting events and primary elections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For Mary, the idea of gardening brought pleasant images of rubber shoes and pitchforks; fat, orange pumpkins; homespun scarecrows; and grateful children chomping on long, crisp, carrots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So she was surprised to find gardening to be less zen and more Sun Zu’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Art of War</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During one of rainiest springs <st1:place w:st="on">New England</st1:place> had seen in decades, Mary stood outside, braving a vindictive nor'easter making desperate deals with belligerent tomatoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"I know the weather stinks,” said Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I get it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But can't you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please</i> perk up?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> little</i>?" <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She tucked a blanket of seaweed around their shivering roots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"I am not asking for much, just some good ol' <st1:place w:st="on">New England</st1:place> spunk!" Mary wrapped the plants in plastic and considered a space heater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This wasn’t working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Now there are times in one’s life when all you want to be is a grown up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You want to handle life on your own, call your own shots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then there are those times when all you want is to crawl under the blankets and call your Mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the storm battered Brimfield, Mary decided it was time to call Mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Armed with a box of tissues and a cup of tea, Mary called her from beneath four quilts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Mom,” said Mary, “Mother Nature hates me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“What did you do this time?” asked Margie, Mary’s mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary sneezed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I didn’t buy vegetables and I don’t like the Mayor’s wife and gardening is the pits.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Hmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, that is a lot for her to take I suppose although I don’t understand where the Mayor’s wife fits into it all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“It’s just that,” Mary hesitated, sneezed again, and continued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Everything I thought gardening would be is wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Corn doesn’t rustle in the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It falls over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those stupid rubber boots leak and the bugs eat me and garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mother Nature is a petulant brat.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary sighed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Then there is the scarecrow.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“The scarecrow?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>asked Margie<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“His name is Bob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids made him for me. We have the only scarecrow in 5 counties with a Disney princess tiara, Tinkerbell wings, a light saber and an egyptian cotton head.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Bob sounds great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what’s the problem?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I came down one morning and Bob was tearing across the front lawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought maybe I was getting a migraine, you know what those do to me,” said Mary, “Then I saw Tex had Bob’s stick in his mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was trying to play fetch with Alex.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Tex</st1:place></st1:state> is the Sullivan’s 140 pound German Shepherd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary laughed into the phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You should have seen it, Mom - <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Tex</st1:place></st1:state> tearing across the lawn with Bob the scarecrow dancing above him like some demented Disney character and Alex screaming bloody murder.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary wiped at her eyes with her sleeve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We had to lock the Wizard of Oz DVD in Mike’s filing cabinet before Alex would go to bed that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I keep picturing Bob and <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Tex</st1:place></st1:state> chasing that poor kid.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary took a sip of her tea between giggles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Did I mention Alex was wearing his monkey pajamas?” asked Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I swear, I will never look at that movie the same way again.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary hung up the phone sputtering and laughing so hard tea came dangerously close to coming out her nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Worst parent ever</i>, thought Mary, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s me!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The Great Gardening debacle of 2012, as it would come to be referred to in later years, came one month later over dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Can anybody tell me what this is?" <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary held up a long leaf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Five sets of eyes shifted nervously around the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Um…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A leaf?" asked Molly, sneaking a napkin to her lap to feed the dog her peas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary said nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog hated peas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary smiled "Yes, very good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A leaf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have a brownie."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Well duh!" complained Margaret, the oldest at 13.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"She can't get a brownie for that! It was too easy."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“She’s a baby!” countered Alex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That’s like E=MC paired in baby language.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“MC-squared.” said Mike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I’m not a baby,” argued Molly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Shhh!" <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary said, "Quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a leaf, yes; but, here is the catch." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She waved two double fudge brownies in the air for inspiration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hush moved through the dining room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could hear a pea drop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What color is the leaf?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Seriously Mom?" mumbled Margaret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"It's green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the baby knows that."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I am not a baby!” yelled Molly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog spit something onto the rug.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"OK, OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know it is green, but…" Mary paused for effect and held up one finger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"But,” she said again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is it yellowish-green with dark green lines or bright green with yellow lines?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">She searched the faces of her family for understanding and received nothing but vacant stares.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sick feeling rolled in the pit of Mary’s stomach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">There it is, </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial;">she thought<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, my life in a sad, little nutshell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I give my blood, sweat and tears to these people every day; but ask for a little support in my time of need and all I get are blank faces, rolling eyes and peas on the floor.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Great, just great!" said Mary and flung the leaf down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Thanks for nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you don't have anything to eat for lunch but Twinkies and red dye #8 don't come crying to me." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">A cheer went up around the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“You think she means it?” whispered Margaret to her father.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Red’s awesome!” Alex cheered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“What’s a Twinkie?” asked Molly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Oh dear,” said Mike.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary took a brownie, trying not to look her salad in the eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had failed, failed her garden, failed her children, failed the environment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worst of all she had failed to live up to her image of what a practical, sensible, self-reliant woman should be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary figured she might as well hand in her journalism degree and cancel her Martha Stewart subscription.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could she face the Maven of Home Making now? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Uh, Honey?” said Mike, looking from the leaf to the brownies and back to Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Does it really matter? It’s just,” Mike shrugged his shoulders, “green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaves are green." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Yes it matters!" Mary shrieked, slamming a manual the size of a pickup truck onto the table and opening it to a marked page.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"One means too much calcium and another not enough iron,” Mary read from the manual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A bright, greenish-yellow with purple spots suggests a magnesium deficiency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could you not know this, Mike? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re a doctor." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary picked up the leaf brandishing it like a sword.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Do you see purple spots?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike seemed to think for moment before he rose and moved to the cupboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reached inside, pulled out a large plastic bottle, walked back to the table and set it down in front of his wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Colorful bears danced across the white label.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Berrygood Bearivites, A day of energy in each smiling bear”</i> it said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary glanced at the bottle and then back at Mike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“They are organic, too,” said Mike and held out his hand for a brownie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Much later, after the last of double fudge brownie had been scraped from the ceiling fan, Mike and Mary sat together on the porch swing sipping a glass of wine looking out over their gardens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The house was quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flowers nodded in the warm night breeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I don’t know,” said Mary after a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t know what got into me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I figured bad farmer equaled bad mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, like if I can’t raise corn how the heck am I going to raise kids?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike smiled and kissed his wife on the head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You do just fine, more than fine.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“But I don’t know what the heck I am doing!” wailed Mary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, if you don’t know what you are doing we are doomed because I sure don’t,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I’m serious Mike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t grow a cucumber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How am I going to raise a teenager?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Lots of counting to ten,” laughed Mike, “and antacid.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“But it’s more than that,” she confessed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I am supposed to know what I am doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People read my columns and assume I am some kind of expert when all I ever write about is how I don’t know what I am doing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Babe, I’m pretty sure that is why they read your stuff, to feel better about their stuff,” said Mike.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary leaned her head back to stare at the night sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do you know Alex went to school yesterday with two different shoes on? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They weren’t even the same kind of shoe - a sneaker and a dress shoe- and they were both the left foot; and he didn’t have any socks on! His pants had a hole in one knee and he was wearing his pajama shirt- not even a clean one! I didn’t notice until he got out of the car in front of the school.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She lifted her hands up in a helpless gesture and let them fall to her lap again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If I can’t get our kid to wear the same shoes to school how will I get Margaret through dating, and peer pressure and college?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ugh.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary groaned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“All the other moms seem so put together, so capable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m just - not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And their kids-“ She trailed off helplessly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Look,” said Mike, turning to face his wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t know what the answer is. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I do know it isn’t broccoli and brussel sprouts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will figure it out together and who cares if Sylvia Brooks serves organic tofu with heirloom tomatoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I happen to know her kids stash beef jerky in their violin cases.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary sighed and leaned back into her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I just want to do it right,” she said. “You know, not damage them too much.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“If we did everything right,” teased Mike, “years from now, a perfectly nice therapist would be denied his Mercedes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“You know what they say,” said Mike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What ever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“At least we will go together,” said Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Always,” promised Mike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Always together.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He squeezed her hand and held onto it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They both fell silent, listening to the small noises of one world going to sleep and another coming alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On Monday morning, Mary pulled up to the carpool lane just behind Sylvia Brooks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the kids piled out, Mary nearly sprayed a mouthful of coffee across the instrument panel of her Suburban.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone had added their own flair to the yellow bumper sticker on Sylvia’s silver Prius.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go vegan and no one gets hurt, </i>the sticker now read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go vegan and no one gets Burt</i> with a sad face emoticon instead of a period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary smiled all the way to the grocery store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was low of frozen beans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-89233553595440580822012-11-20T10:20:00.000-05:002012-11-21T14:26:36.714-05:00Welcome to Autumn and Brimfield, Maine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Vijaya;"><strong>Fall
is swiftly fleeing, autumn leaves streaming from her colorful heels with
winter's wind in fast pursuit. Here in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Maine</st1:place></st1:state>, snow has come and gone with a promise
to return soon. This morning I walked my son to the bus and found Jack Frost
had graffitied
our truck, affectionately known as The Beast, in lovely silver-white swirls and
crystalline swoops. Old Man Winter's calling card has arrived here in <st1:place w:st="on">New England</st1:place>. <o:p></o:p></strong></span><br />
<strong>
</strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Vijaya;"><strong>When
I began working on a freelance writing career, I found most of the stories
bubbling to the surface of my creative cauldron revolved around my experiences
in life and family. Bored with writing a constant operatic warm up (you know: Meee, me, me Meeeee,)I created a cast of characters and set them to play out their lives within a
world very similar to my own. Mike and Mary were born as was the Small and
sleepy harbor town of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Brimfield</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Maine</st1:state></st1:place>.
These stories are meant to be read aloud in the spirit of Garrison Keillor or Stuart McLean. However, I have read as well as listened to both Keillor and Mclean and have enjoyed the tales equally.</strong></span><br />
<strong>
</strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Vijaya;"><strong>While
the following story may not be seasonally pertinent, I think the worries,
cares, successes and perceived failures will resonate with all times of the
year and many readers locked in the daily struggle of living, loving and
laughing. So please, come, sit at my table. Can I get you a coffee? Tea?
Something a little, well, more? The fire is in the hearth, cookies cooling over
there on the counter. Come, sit, and let me tell you a story. <o:p></o:p></strong></span><br />
<strong>
</strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Vijaya;">Wishing
you joy and luck on this day and every other, but most of all I wish you
laughter. After all, a sense of humor is the only thing that makes sense at
all. -Rebecca</span><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Vijaya;">
<o:p></o:p></span></strong><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Spring
arrived in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Brimfield</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Maine</st1:state></st1:place> on a Saturday morning riding a
capricious, sea-scented breeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
winter had been full of long nights and cold days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But on this day, memories of ice fishing and
snowshoes, blizzards and sea smoke melted away with the last of the gray snow
banks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">From
the stately painted houses on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Main
Street</st1:address></st1:street> to the country cottages and farmhouses of
the western boundaries, mothers everywhere banished the last remains of the
mythic <st1:place w:st="on">New England</st1:place> winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All over town windows were thrown open,
porches swept, flowerbeds raked and countless boots, hats and scarves were packed
away in bins and boxes by the winter weary Brimfieldians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New England was ready for Spring, and it
seemed Spring was ready for <st1:place w:st="on">New England</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Perhaps
the penultimate harbinger of spring had arrived just this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Birdfeed <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Battle</st1:place></st1:city>,
Bears ON!”</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial;"> declared the local
newspaper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Morris-1, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Greeley</st1:place></st1:city>’s
birdfeeders-0.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Greeley</st1:place></st1:city> was Mrs. Glenna Greeley, local
librarian and town matron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Morris was a
black bear with a taste for birdseed and a penchant for breaking and
entering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Go
get ‘em Morris,” said Mike to his paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike
Sullivan was Brimfield’s pediatrician and no one was happier to see the tail
end of winter than he was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike was
weary of the gray skies and solemn moods, of colds and the cold. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He understood poor old Morris, just woken up
from a long nap, hungry and eager to be out and about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike was tired of the unique claustrophobia
that came with the annual hibernation all Northerners must endure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Rather
than an epilogue to old man winter’s deep freeze, Mike welcomed the fine
weather as a prologue of what was to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was the kind of April morning that spun dreams of sun drenched
beaches, backyard barbeques and ball games governed only by weather and streetlights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the kind of April morning that made
people restless and itchy for something, well, something more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike
leaned back from the yellow enameled table ignoring the creaking protest of the
old chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stretched his hands behind
his head and sighed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life was good. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had his favorite chair, his favorite
newspaper, his coffee, his family and most importantly he had absolutely
nothing to do today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He closed his eyes
for a moment, drinking in the warmth and light streaming through the kitchen
window and allowed his mind to wander back to a similar day many years past
now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary
and Mike Sullivan lived here in the town of <st1:city w:st="on">Brimfield</st1:city>
with their three children in one of those proud, painted ladies on <st1:place w:st="on">Main</st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Sullivans were “from away” as they say - “They” being the generations of tough
Mainers born with the sea in their blood and ingenuity in their bones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been almost 16 years since Mary found
the house one sleeting, winter afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A freshman reporter for the Boston Globe, Mary had followed a story
concerning the declining fishing industry to the small harbor town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had spent most of that morning
unsuccessfully gathering information from the notoriously tight-lipped Mainers
when she wandered past <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Sixty-Four
Main Street</st1:address></st1:street>, the “For Sale” sign poking above a
two foot snow drift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary
was instantly entranced. The porch had drawn her in, its wide wooden bulk
wrapping its arms around the blue Victorian in a white gingerbread
embrace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was the grand staircase
and stained glass windows that had captured Mary’s heart and soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Buy
it!” she had told Mike, “It’s perfect.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike
hadn’t been so convinced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While Mary was
charmed by the turrets and slated roof, Mike worried over ice dams and leaking
rafters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where Mary smelled lemon polished
history in the old oak paneling and lavender in the sun soaked kitchen, Mike
caught the distinct scent of cat and something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Formaldehyde</i>
wondered Mike?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But
Mary had wanted the house and Mike wanted Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So, on a blustery spring day, the couple moved into Sixty-Four Main and
spent the next decade polishing and plastering the old Victorian while working
their way into the hearts of the close knit community.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike
took a job as the town doctor, with an office just down the block - house calls
as needed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary kept on at The Globe but
transferred to the local paper when Margaret was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After Alex was born two years later, Mary
freelanced for a number of local papers chronicling the trials and tribulations
of small towns and family life, eventually becoming a syndicated
columnist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The town had been good to the
Sullivans and the Sullivans worked hard to repay that kindness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But
on this shining Saturday morning, Mike wasn’t worrying about cats or
renovations or doctoring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had nothing
ahead more strenuous than wondering what kind of fancy new bear-proof feeder
Mrs. Greeley would try this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today
was a day of possibilities, a day where anything – or nothing- could happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Nothing
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is exactly what this doctor ordered</i>,
thought Mike as he glanced through the headlines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Morris
is winning already,” said Mike to Mary when she wandered into the kitchen with
her section of paper and a cup of tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Hmmm?”
she asked and joined him at the little yellow table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Morris,
the bear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Got Old Lady Greeley’s
Ultra-feed 4000 in under 12 hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think
that’s a new record.” Mike laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Saw
a big box from Amazon at the Post Office yesterday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whaddya’ bet that’s an Ultra 5000?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Mmm,”
said Mary and sighed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike
watched her over the top of the paper with a wary eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You all right?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something told him his day of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nothing</i> was sliding into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many years of marriage had given him a kind
of sixth sense when things were about to go sideways and Mary seemed to be in a
sideways kind of mood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“It’s
nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m being silly.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary sighed again and the slapped her section
of the paper down onto the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s
just, ugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s that Lauren McAlister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She really fries my cookies,” said Mary,
fiddling with her mug of tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike
smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I think you mean burns your
cookies.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She drives me crazy,” mumbled Mary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“What
did Our Lady of the Haughty Attitude do now?” asked Mike.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Ugh,
just because her husband is the Mayor she thinks it is her job to be the social
conscience of the world.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“The
whole world?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Well,
maybe just the town but don’t underestimate her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Total world domination is on her To-Do list.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike
put down the Local Happenings section of the Coastal News.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So what is the new crusade? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whooping cranes? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yellow-bellied sap suckers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can’t be spotted owls, we did that last year-
still have the calendar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Vegetables,”
said Mary, head in her hands, pout on her face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Vegetables?”
asked Mike and laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is she for or
against?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I
guess that depends on where you buy them.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mary got up from the table and moved across the kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She joined this co-op.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They bring you different vegetables each
week.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary pulled a bag of green beans
from the freezer and banged it on the counter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Lauren was going on and on about how great the produce is and how
co-ops reduce your carbon footprint.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
banged the bag again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sounded like a
sledge hammer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So, I got to thinking.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Oh boy, </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial;">thought
Mike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sideways</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gestured for
Mary to give him the bag and she brought it over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What are you thinking?” asked Mike, working
the block of frozen vegetables loose with his hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“What
do we do for the environment?” asked Mary, hands on hips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike
blinked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What do we do? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well,” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Danger</i>
warned Mike’s brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Defensive positions</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We recycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We have a compost pile,” he said, “and the Molly never get new
shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hand-me-downs are an institution
in this house.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary
took the bag from her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No,
Mike, I mean really do something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent
years writing about other people doing things, but what have I done?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Haven’t you seen those bumper stickers
plastered on every carpool car? “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go
Organic! Buy Local!</i>” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sylvia Brooks
has one that says “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eat vegan and nobody
gets hurt</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike
snorted and shook his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sylvia
Brook’s husband, Burt, was the town butcher.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary
poured the beans into a glass bowl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How
can I hold my head up in the carpool lane when our kids think vegetables are
naturally frost-bitten?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“So,
you want to join a co-op?” asked Mike<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to do her one better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want a garden,” answered Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If she can buy them, I can grow them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That will put Our Lady of the High and Mighty
in her place.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary shoved the bowl into
the microwave and pressed start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
turned to her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What do you
think?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Now,
it would be a full year later, over a pint of Guinness at Smith’s Pub, when
Mike would recall that one question - “what do you think?” - and mark it in his
memory as the point where everything had gone terribly wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would tell the story of Mary’s garden with
the kind of sentiment men reserve for survival stories, hunting escapades and
college drinking tales.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But on this
morning, Mike could only register one thought - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Run!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mike
felt it coming like a bad head cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
recognized that look, that unholy light shining behind her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a light that said many weekends would
be lost in the name of family bonding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was a light that said cancel your golf game, Mike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a light that said run, Mike, run!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Husbands and children for themselves! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">That
same light had shone a year before when Mary had embarked on her Zen
period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had filled shallow bowls
with sand, tiny stones and rakes and moved all the furniture according to the
principles of Feng Shui.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One night,
after a long evening of house calls, Mike thought he was crawling into bed only
to fall into the laundry hamper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
next night Mike tried to put his socks into Aunt May’s potted palm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary
went on to tie little silver bells to all of the doors and windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every time a breeze blew or a door opened there
was supposed to be a light, energy cleansing chiming throughout the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With three kids, a dog and an ocean breeze, the
house sounded like the test room at a miniature gong factory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cat had not come out for months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Breathe, </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial;">thought
Mike, returning from his gong-filled memory<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s only gardening</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How bad
could it be?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike smiled,
relaxing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gardening might be just the
trick to keep Mary busy this summer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Sounds
fantastic,” said Mike and kissed her on the head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary
let out a long breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I am so glad you
get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lauren said her husband Cliff
didn’t understand any of this but I told her with you being a pediatrician, for
God’s sake, of course you would understand it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Of
course I understand,” said Mike returning to the table and his paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You know me, Mr. Environment.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mike ignored Mary’s raised eyebrows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was warming to the idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On
Sunday, Mike purchased a Farmer's Almanac at the Tractor Supply for his wife - his
contribution to the cause.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gave it to
her that night along with two seed catalogs bound together by a red ribbon and
a card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The
card said: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I love you Mary, Happy
gardening</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love, Mike</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Monday
morning, Mike followed the smell of French Roast into the kitchen to find Mary
at the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was wrapped in a fuzzy
pink bathrobe, her seed catalogs spread out before her, coffee in hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“What
do you think about escarole?” asked Mary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Escarole?”
asked Mike, fumbling with the coffee pot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“You want to grow snails?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Escarole,
not escargot,” said Mary, shaking her head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Oh,”
said Mike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He poured the coffee into a
mug with a blue painted handprint on the side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s escarole then?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary
smiled and made a check in the catalogue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I was thinking I need a theme- maybe Asian,” said Mary, flipping the
pages. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I can’t wait,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I
am sure what ever you do will be wonderful,” said Mike and he kissed his wife
on the head and spent the remainder of the chilly morning congratulating
himself on a job well done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His
beautiful wife was happy and his golf game was safe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><strong>Thank you for joining me in the inaugural post of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Brimfield</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Maine</st1:state></st1:place>
and the town's character and characters. Look for part two of Mary and Mikes
adventures in gardening tomorrow, same Bat time, same Bat channel. Of course
now I have dated myself as ancient and totally uncool. But wait! Batman is
cool! Batman, bow ties and fezzes- they're cool. Good thing Retro is always back
in style. Now where did I put those legwarmers and cassette tapes? The kids
will love them!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span><strong><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">-R </span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">P.S. If you would like to listen to a master storyteller at work please visit Stuart Mclean at <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/vinylcafe/" target="_blank">http://www.cbc.ca/vinylcafe/</a> You won't regret it! </span></strong></div>
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Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-77009384816680490502011-11-11T18:25:00.007-05:002011-11-12T13:53:22.453-05:00Mirror, Mirror<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwXy3NPwDRqZ-w8_NzJ3vAKLEmziJ14zv1RQewDouFzsNQ5u8moQrV-aVoSFHK1d1ueDEmPuY5G1etlJS76rzJKy7Sv6lpP13AteEXNzh75XcN8kNRYGLmqp_mw08l7c8mmolHLQGtnFc/s200/imagesCAY2O6GI.jpg" width="158" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2145277564"> Venus in Front of the Mirror</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.liechtensteinmuseum.at/en/pages/artbase_main.asp?module=browse&action=m_work&lang=en&sid=7427175&oid=W-1472004121953420224" target="_blank">Peter Paul Rubens, 1613/1641</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
I am haunted by mirrors. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">It took thirty-seven years, seventy-five pounds gained and lost and countless hours of angst (and therapy) to realize a simple truth: I do not look into the mirror <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">at</i> myself; I am looking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for</i> myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What does this mean for me as a writer?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">In a chapter titled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Finessing Fear</i> of his book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Courage to Write</i>, Ralph Keyes includes a quote from Jill Robinson’s memoir <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bed/Time/Story</i>:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 1in 0pt; text-align: justify;">…The advantage of not knowing who you are is you can attempt to be all things to all men… or women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother saw me always glancing in every mirror, every window; in the gleaming blades of knives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said, “Jill is vain.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She did not know I was looking to see who would be there this time.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Jill Robinson was in my head. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had found a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>kindred soul<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and, all at once, understood myself in a few inked pages. But there was no “Ah-Ha!” or joyous whoop, only a hot and stinging gathering of tears .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mirror, mirror, </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On the wall,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t know you. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not at all.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://arthistory.about.com/od/from_exhibitions/ig/american_chronicles/aonr_dia_09_15.htm" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="200" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUnK84hArwz968rNbGvUEhNZ1yfPo-ux3IIb2TvjIJAjRXau-PasuaeM5WczfDry7XW7Q_D5Oo30Rh1QJ_yEAbnCIqZuEiOyREaEG4iA88tnLs3s5qlsjSjVMZ9D41ETgFSf0jQQO0qMg/s200/imagesCASQD9XF.jpg" width="187" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2145277568"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Girl at Mirror, 1954</span></a><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://arthistory.about.com/od/from_exhibitions/ig/american_chronicles/aonr_dia_09_15.htm" target="_blank">Norman Rockwell</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>This morning I looked hard into the mirror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked past the tired mom, past the hurt friend, past the overwhelmed adult and blocked writer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I searched for the faint outlines of what made me unique. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I caught a glimpse as the light shifted, but it was gone as quick as it came.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fleeting, the girl with sad eyes. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">What does all of this have to do with writing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> While w</span>atching my reflection I realized my troublesome main character asks the same questions: Who am I beneath all these expectations, these labels?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I good?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I worth while?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I lovable?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do I even care?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">She too is haunted by mirrors,both the mundane reflective surfaces and the metaphorical ones - the reflection of who she is in the faces of people around her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Both of us</span> are haunted by the terrifying "What If.".<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if, beneath it all, there is nothing worth finding?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if, in finding HER, I will find ME?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is Pandora’s box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No wonder I can’t write her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am afraid of her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I am a writer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As such I require two things: something to say; and someone to hear it. What if, beneath it all, the struggle to write a novel, to find my voice, to see myself, there is nothing worth writing, nothing worth seeing, nothing worth reading?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I write not only to tell a story but to also discover more about myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put it all out there - my fears, my hopes, faults and strengths - for people to read and judge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Who am I? What do I think?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>asks Writer, me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Who cares?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why is it important?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>asks Reader, you.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">It all comes down to judgment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writers write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Readers judge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">A reader’s time and money are precious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a writer’s job to earn a share of those commodities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Judgment Fest begins with the first read of the editor and culminates in sales.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, writers write first for themselves, because they must, but we all need to pay the bills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ideas are free, heat and electricity are not. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Enter the independent publisher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Long maligned as a superhighway to clog the market with bad writing, independant publishing, otherwise known as vanity press, or self-publishing is gaining a foothold among new and established authors alongside smaller, specialized independent presses as well as the traditional large publishing houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">In a recent <a href="http://phx.corporate-ir.net/phoenix.zhtml?c=176060&p=irol-newsArticle&ID=1628395&highlight=" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">press release</span></a> Amazon.com, Inc., announced Amanda Hocking, published through Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing, has joined eleven other authors in the Kindle Million Club, having sold over a million paid copies of her novel in the Amazon.com Kindle store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She joins such authors as David Baldacci, George R.R. Martin and Stephenie Meyer as well as fellow independent author John Locke. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Self-publishing platforms such as Amazon.com’s Kindle Direct Publishing allow authors to bypass typical obstacles of traditional publishing. The danger?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A glutted market full of careless and inferior writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The benefit?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Higher profit margins for authors and an </span>evolving, diverse literary marketplace more representative of a rapidly changing global society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQoRBMn9i633wTJ5Pk4QSoprgcvHAAPrEijoKU452Pi2jQ0ddXtmEVbFr2hIuRfZbBA5DP1h_0G_BE3YuIVbs4YgAbZO3Kv4q5vXB2Z_5V6S5Qr9KTOnD3p2TVndMzBXiPEIQE455ldY/s1600/imagesCAJ20YYY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQoRBMn9i633wTJ5Pk4QSoprgcvHAAPrEijoKU452Pi2jQ0ddXtmEVbFr2hIuRfZbBA5DP1h_0G_BE3YuIVbs4YgAbZO3Kv4q5vXB2Z_5V6S5Qr9KTOnD3p2TVndMzBXiPEIQE455ldY/s1600/imagesCAJ20YYY.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2145277587"><em>Echo and Narcissus</em> (1903), </a><br />
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.johnwilliamwaterhouse.com/pictures/echo-narcissus-1903/" target="_blank">John William Waterhouse</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">This idea of independent publishing is gaining momentum within the writing community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>International Thriller Writers now include seminars in self-publishing and marketing in their annual conference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writer’s Digest Magazine, a prominent resource for writers, is currently promoting the 20<sup>th</sup> annual Writer’s Digest Self Published Book awards, a competition held exclusively for self-published authors and their books. </div> <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The face of publishing is changing and like any evolving entity there are bound to be growing pains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the time comes for the literary world to take a long, hard look in the mirror, what will it see?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, for my character and for the publishing industry, the story is still being written.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Put on your seat belts folks. It could be a bumpy ride. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUa0UFtuzfzuBQm3AOP593XevufS1FbAUlkdsLaUOmhO75IiCRMd1VhV-n8xxjgJfIazPfUtRyUhxHtFNdOLp8SESu6m3nTm40WEuXsB3guaUsx7_sSm7w8LpXh858xgPWwAN3-nt0Eo/s1600/trilobe.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUa0UFtuzfzuBQm3AOP593XevufS1FbAUlkdsLaUOmhO75IiCRMd1VhV-n8xxjgJfIazPfUtRyUhxHtFNdOLp8SESu6m3nTm40WEuXsB3guaUsx7_sSm7w8LpXh858xgPWwAN3-nt0Eo/s1600/trilobe.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Ted Krever, author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mindbenders</i> has first hand experience with the highs and lows of the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>self-publishing world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope you enjoy the third and final installment of my interview with Ted Krever as we discuss the changing climate of the writer’s world. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM-Yso5bPfB6zhyNXSr5YLo1Vhfk35tnuTs8r0nIg6p26lZabS3b56pXuzhiB-a2hJqZJ_pw-i3-pdW_eryGQ37GeyH7QJp6s3x8vDH5Q2Y3qoZCCjitjzD6A0x3nnOFcantb1NvYqGw/s1600/mindbenders-8-3-150-copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM-Yso5bPfB6zhyNXSr5YLo1Vhfk35tnuTs8r0nIg6p26lZabS3b56pXuzhiB-a2hJqZJ_pw-i3-pdW_eryGQ37GeyH7QJp6s3x8vDH5Q2Y3qoZCCjitjzD6A0x3nnOFcantb1NvYqGw/s200/mindbenders-8-3-150-copy.jpg" width="125" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://rmholdsworth.blogspot.com/2011/09/summers-over-back-at-it.html" target="_blank">Part One: Mindbenders</a></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://rmholdsworth.blogspot.com/2011/10/live-to-write-or-write-to-live.html" target="_blank">Part Two: On Writing</a></span></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Part Three<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Publishing today with AuthorTed Krever</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We met at ITW - International Thriller Writers conference - <a href="http://thrillerfest./"><span style="color: red;">ThrillerFest.</span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were so many amazing authors there, new and established.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a bit overwhelming for a newbie like me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an interesting conference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The most interesting thing for me was the response when I told people I was a self-published indie writer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like I was the correspondent for Al-Jazeerah. Everybody there was either 'published' or seeking publication from a traditional publisher. I seemed to become the emissary from the scary future.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone is realizing the publishing industry is changing but no one knows what that means- exactly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were a number of Indie publishers there, <a href="http://www.stonegateink.com/about-us.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">StoneGate Ink</span></a> being one I remember.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm not talking about independent publishers. I'm talking about authors publishing themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were a few of us there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have to do it all yourself- no mommy or daddy to hold hands with.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Self-publishing or independent publishing is gaining a corner of the market though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have seen it gaining speed over the past few years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Writer’s Digest</span></a> is recognizing the trend with articles, how-to’s and contests.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, but I was really surprised and taken aback by the response I got. I'm used to writers being very supportive. These guys were uncomfortable with me. I scared them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh for sure, it's a new world and a big one. But it's scary to contemplate. It is scary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These people wanted nothing to do with it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a "don't talk to the guy with the pencil protector and the liverwurst sandwich" kind of way or in the "Gee, I am on the bus he just launched himself off of...should I stay or should I go now?" kind of way?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I seem to remember one of the Big Guys saying he self-published his first novella this year at a session at ThrillerFest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That same guy also cautioned to never, ever give up rites to epub without an expiration date.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.davidmorrell.net/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">[David] Morrell</span></a> said he would never sign a publishing contract these days until publishers made major changes to rights and ebook pricing.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ahhh. That is it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think the biggest issue with self-pub is the editing process. Writers want to keep the writing intact but sometimes an editor can make a big difference in a million small ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think skipping the editing process with a professional editor is not only foolish but suicidal.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No question. There's an infrastructure to traditional publishing that indies are going to have to find a way to emulate. And right now there just aren't sensible alternatives. But they'll emerge as the market matures. In the meantime, I think the lack of gatekeepers is an issue too. I think reviewers will emerge who people trust. They won't be national names but you'll find two or three whose taste you agree with and they will be your guardians, the ones who let you now who is worth your time and money.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t help thinking that novels we consider classics today might be labeled as “not relevant” in today’s market and would subsequently remain unknown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you feel like the self-publishing trend along with independent presses could be the remedy for a seemingly finicky and capricious market?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a really good agent tell me about eight months ago that she loved ‘Mindbenders’ but couldn’t take me on because she didn’t ‘do’ paranormal. I said, “Great—tell them you don’t like paranormal but you like this” and she answered “That’s not how it works.” And it isn’t. First of all, I don’t like the labeling—the marketing department runs the publishing company now. What ‘genre’ is ‘Huckleberry Finn’? I’m certainly not comparing myself to Twain but I’m saying the tail is now thoroughly wagging the dog. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I think the solution involves another step in technology. Right now, you have publishers—traditional or independent—who can’t afford to sell an ebook at a competitive price. And you have indie writers like me who can’t get paper books in bookstores nationwide, at least not in an effective way. Someone is going to have to put print-on-demand machinery in 5,000 independent bookstores around the country—the local independent bookstore will thrive as the chains go under—so that a customer can walk into the store, browse titles in a kiosk or on their own laptop or iPad , make a selection and walk out with a printed copy of the book all in one trip. The technology certainly exists, it’s just a matter of someone making the investment. It’s just a matter of time and industry politics.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, Mr Krever, what is next for you?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The (first) sequel to ‘Mindbenders’. If aggravation is a sign of quality, this is guaranteed to be a great book.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong>~</strong></span></div><div style="background-color: white; border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: center; text-decoration: none;"><span class="body"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: xx-small;"><em>Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself. ~</em></span></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="bodybold"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><strong><span style="color: black;">George Bernard Shaw</span></strong></span>, <strong>Poet</strong></span></span> </div><div style="background-color: white; border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: center; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><em><span class="huge">To write what is worth publishing, to find honest people to publish it, and get sensible people to read it, are the three great difficulties in being an author. ~</span></em><span style="color: black;"><span class="bodybold"><strong>Charles Caleb Colton, Writer</strong></span></span></span></span><strong><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">~</span></strong></div><div style="background-color: white; border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCoQYn43VQv3OfiZYux87PSFS3SW6Z75VRdsnUf9i2gggPKP38_HXNBD_zzPPN3MR02pNJ5UPjFTCsk7frsX2TdXvsv0Gfw_BGdBZVvOpcCquzO_-6Y6SUCdC6H4h6sC0KaO6qCgV800/s1600/writings3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCoQYn43VQv3OfiZYux87PSFS3SW6Z75VRdsnUf9i2gggPKP38_HXNBD_zzPPN3MR02pNJ5UPjFTCsk7frsX2TdXvsv0Gfw_BGdBZVvOpcCquzO_-6Y6SUCdC6H4h6sC0KaO6qCgV800/s1600/writings3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Ted Krever’s books can be found at<span style="color: purple;"> </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Ftinyurl.com%2F3nxap2o&h=TAQDfDsgx"><span style="color: purple;">Amazon.com</span></a>, at <a href="http://goodreads.com/"><span style="color: purple;">Goodreads.com</span></a> and <span style="color: purple;"> </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.barnesandnoble.com%2Fs%2Fted-krever%3Fkeyword%3Dted%2Bkrever%26store%3Dallproducts&h=nAQDL6-NT"><span style="color: purple;">BarnesandNoble.com</span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">For more information about Ted Krever please visit<span style="color: purple;"> </span><a href="http://www.tedkrever.com/"><span style="color: purple;">www.tedkrever.com</span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Ralph Keyes and his book <em>The Courage to Write</em> can be found <a href="http://www.ralphkeyes.com/" target="_blank">here</a>. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">More about Jill Robinson and her work can be found <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jill-robinson"><span style="color: purple;">here.</span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Find the Writer's Digest's self-publishing contest <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/competitions/selfpublished" target="_blank"><span style="color: purple;">here</span></a>. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div>Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-77484283099294373592011-10-11T22:50:00.001-04:002011-11-11T19:30:21.940-05:00Live to Write or Write to Live?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="justify"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguoMN445qKp4yMkUQFbZEcM6OeqZU41hGJHjdJGdC1_8W83lwLiSCJF7shcffW8EKCRav6qVKlwxdWK4Htx3-Q3XjXsBUlIsHBCUXReZxtSRZKWHAjXesu96rCVNssH2qcKf93jxWL8XQ/s1600/022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguoMN445qKp4yMkUQFbZEcM6OeqZU41hGJHjdJGdC1_8W83lwLiSCJF7shcffW8EKCRav6qVKlwxdWK4Htx3-Q3XjXsBUlIsHBCUXReZxtSRZKWHAjXesu96rCVNssH2qcKf93jxWL8XQ/s200/022.JPG" width="145" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Balance 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The writing life is a strange and mercurial one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the muse is talking there is no greater high.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When that capricious lady clams up, well, life can be a bit sticky for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But like any compulsion, I can’t stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believe me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have tried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So how do I live with the ups and downs that come with creating?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The business of living any Life, a creative life included, comes down to balance. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Osmosis, The law of Conservation of Energy, Feng Shui, the idea of finding balance is elemental and omnipresent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But is balance attainable? Is a work/life balance <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a reachable goal or catching lightning in a bottle- the luck of the draw? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">During his years as a paramedic, my husband, George, chanced to meet an elderly couple, married 75 years.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> "I just got married," George told the couple. They smiled at him and then at each other. </div><br />
"Ah, new love," said the woman, her gnarled hand patting her husband's across the stretcher.<br />
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George smiled back. "What is your secret?" he asked. "Seventy-five years and you obviously still care very deeply for one another." <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Herb (that was the man's name, Herb) looked at his wife. A moment passed between them before he answered my husband. "The secret, son, is to never fall out of love at the same time. Someone has to fight to keep it together and someone has to be allowed to doubt, if for only a little while."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7lWlva_28poNiFMlBovFkkUIBM0ZMJb8zZhDvFEB7wE93QqREqb2BBD1lqq5lJcTxepU5h3O-LECV_MEHTOArptWX1xSlhvPcHw2V91R-OiTsTVNTolNAVvuITPLFwJFkrCF_mS2BIms/s1600/230PX-%257E1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7lWlva_28poNiFMlBovFkkUIBM0ZMJb8zZhDvFEB7wE93QqREqb2BBD1lqq5lJcTxepU5h3O-LECV_MEHTOArptWX1xSlhvPcHw2V91R-OiTsTVNTolNAVvuITPLFwJFkrCF_mS2BIms/s200/230PX-%257E1.JPG" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="magnify"><a class="internal" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Tiziano_-_S%C3%ADsifo.jpg" title="Enlarge"><img alt="" height="11" src="http://bits.wikimedia.org/skins-1.18/common/images/magnify-clip.png" width="15" /></a></div><i>Sisyphus</i> by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Titian" title="Titian">Titian</a>, 1549</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In other words, they took turns pushing the boulder uphill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a teeter-totter, husband and wife took the highs and lows, ups and downs, balancing one another through the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They kept faith in a belief that what goes up must come down, and then go up again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They found their balance.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Balancing writing and life with four children and a marriage is a challenge. With the demands of both career and family pressing in from all sides, I am learning what it takes to balance my time with family with a compulsion to create.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Living with me isn’t easy in the best of circumstances and terrible (I suspect) in the worst; but I am a lucky girl. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My family doesn’t seem to mind the moody irritated writer who sometimes goes by Mommy or Rebecca or Honey, or at least they take it in stride.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Ted Krever, author of <em>Mindbenders</em> understands what it is to live a writer’s life. In<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b><strong><span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Part Two</span></strong><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>of our interview, Krever and I ruminate on the ideas of craft, routine and chasing that ellusive balance between an artist’s internal world and an external life of family, second jobs and social interaction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope you enjoy a glimpse into the inner workings of a writer's effort to live to write and write to live. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM-Yso5bPfB6zhyNXSr5YLo1Vhfk35tnuTs8r0nIg6p26lZabS3b56pXuzhiB-a2hJqZJ_pw-i3-pdW_eryGQ37GeyH7QJp6s3x8vDH5Q2Y3qoZCCjitjzD6A0x3nnOFcantb1NvYqGw/s1600/mindbenders-8-3-150-copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM-Yso5bPfB6zhyNXSr5YLo1Vhfk35tnuTs8r0nIg6p26lZabS3b56pXuzhiB-a2hJqZJ_pw-i3-pdW_eryGQ37GeyH7QJp6s3x8vDH5Q2Y3qoZCCjitjzD6A0x3nnOFcantb1NvYqGw/s200/mindbenders-8-3-150-copy.jpg" width="125" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><a href="http://rmholdsworth.blogspot.com/2011/09/summers-over-back-at-it.html"><span style="color: red;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Part One:</b> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mindbenders</i></b></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: red;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Part Two</span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">On Writing: Life and Craft with Author Ted Krever</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>As a writer, we pull from our past experiences. What are some of yours you feel most influence your writing?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="color: red; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.davidmorrell.net/"><span style="color: red;">David Morrell</span></a> said at <a href="http://www.thrillerfest.com/"><span style="color: red;">ThrillerFest</span></a> that if you read his books, they were all chapters in his emotional autobiography. I'm paraphrasing but I think accurately.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>Yes, I remember that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So it's not so much pulling from the past for me. It's discovering, through writing the books, what I'm struggling with now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know myself through my own writing; it's my best guide to my subconscious. And I work pretty hard to keep the subconscious instead of the conscious mind in control as much as possible. Of course, this is something Renn and Tauber deal with a lot in the book.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><strong>RM: </strong>When I was at ThrillerFest, I heard many different approaches to the work and craft of writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone seems to have their own process, their own ritual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is your writing process?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you have a set schedule?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I write constantly, whenever I’m able.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I can pull out a book or pad or laptop, I’m writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some days, of course, staring at the blank screen in frustration is also considered writing. When I finish a book, I take a day off to pat myself on the back and start another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t always get finished, but I am always working.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>Wow. A whole day?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn’t that a little extravagant?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a hedonist, what can I say? When I have vacation days, like I will this weekend, that means more time to write!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is something I need to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a psychotic mess if I don’t deal with all these voices in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is lesson #27 I leaned from Neil Young: the more you throw away, the more you have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you write constantly and just keep putting it out, you keep finding more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’re cautious and only write a couple of sentences a day, it gets harder and harder. You can't let any piece of the process get too important.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>I think I know the feeling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Innerworld, the places and people and situations inside your head need a way to get out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It creeps up on you and comes out in weird ways if I don’t get it out—like Alien dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we are talking about you.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the overall that matters.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>So, don’t over-think the process of writing then, or the writing itself?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t think, if possible, at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Put fingers on keys and go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fix it later.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>I am frustrated when my typing doesn’t move as fast as my brain and allows that internal critic to voice an opinion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do you do when your conscious mind gets in the way of your writing mind?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m talking, really, about first draft, where I want the story to come from as unconscious, subconscious a place as I can. Let it come together in rough form and then I’ll refine later. Which is why first draft usually takes me five restarts to come together— very inefficient but useful in other ways. In every book I've ever written, I slogged to within thirty pages of the end of the first draft and I'd write a sentence without thinking and look at it and go "Oh, that's stupid" and then look a second time and it would explode on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've just told myself what the book is about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I have to go back and the second draft is writing the story so it leads to that line</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>You surprise yourself. I do enjoy that part of the writing. When you read something from yesterday and think "Really? Where did that come from. I didn't know that!"</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because you never know what the book is truly about until the end of the first draft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm just telling a story. But I think conscious is for later drafts. Unconscious for the first, for the story </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>To paraphrase Stephen King:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Write with the door closed and edit with it open.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because that's the level [the unconscious] the reader should react from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is where character and story are the same thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>While in NYC, you accompanied me on a research field trip for my novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do you approach research for your novels and at what point do you begin the fact finding?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Research for me is strictly answering the needs of the story. I don’t start researching until I need to know something or understand something and that’s all I do, though I’m open to whatever I find that’s interesting. I’m always open to being sidetracked because, again, it’s that element of being surprised. It only richens the mixture. And with a book like this, I researched a lot looking for limitations. What would be the limits of Renn’s mind power? What would get in the way? If you don’t have limits, you end up with Superman—all-powerful and essentially pretty boring.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>You mentioned thriller writer David Morrell a moment ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were many fantastic writers at Thrillerfest and all of them gave out advice of one sort or another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is the best writing advice you have ever gotten?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe Papaleo, my writing teacher, told me a novel is a gross form. Just throw everything on the page and cut back later. Unfortunately, he was dead by the time I learned how to cut back properly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's the other hard part. Learning to edit yourself.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was the worst piece of advice?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's a tough question. I guess it was the implied concept that you can learn to write by studying literature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Literature is great but it has no relevance to the story that's inside you. You just have to let that out. Where it stands in terms of literature is for other people to figure out later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">You want the best piece of advice that I offer? Don't know whether I made it up or heard it from someone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>C'mon...you've gotta give me permission so I'm not a pretentious little shit.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>Ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Write what hurts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you write what hurts, you'll be into your subconscious. You'll be into what really matters to you, automatically. So you don't have to worry about what's at stake for the characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There's something major at stake for you so there will be for them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">On Living a Writer’s Life</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM: </strong>How much does your writing life effect and or influence your living life, your relationships and day to day living?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>KREVER:</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I write and my relationships have to fit in with that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I had no idea what a monk's life writing was until I committed myself to it. It takes everything you have.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM:</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it takes a very special person to partner a writer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a general attitude that living with a writer is a tough business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would you agree?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>KREVER:</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone who gets involved with me has to understand some part of me is always humming away in another dimension.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I think that is hard to accept.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>RM:</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that I become very frustrated trying to live in two worlds- the one in my head and the one where I have kids and bills and laundry. I never feel like I do either very well. Do you have any advice for writers trying to balance life and writing.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>KREVER:</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm no role model. I gave up on life for ten years. I lived for writing and my son every other weekend. Now I'm trying to develop a balance; if I develop any success at it, I'll let you know.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do you think the ultimate spouse or significant other would be for a writer?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong>KREVER: </strong> Just understanding that our madness is our strength. That we can't function without this other world in our heads. If you can deal with that, then it's a normal relationship. But it's understanding that I'm in love with other women that I’ve made up and I am many different men and women all day long. And that my triumphs and failures almost all take place inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's a lot to ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span class="body1"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">“To be a poet is a condition, not a profession</span></i></span><span class="body1"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">.”</span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> -<span class="bodybold1"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/r/robertfros107274.html"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Robert Frost</span></a></span></span><strong><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">, </span></strong><span class="bodybold1"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">poet<b>.</b></span></span><strong><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"></span></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span class="huge1"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">“We work to become, not to acquire.”-<u> </u></span></span><span class="bodybold1"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/e/elbert_hubbard.html"><span style="color: windowtext; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Elbert Hubbard</span></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">, author.</span></span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCoQYn43VQv3OfiZYux87PSFS3SW6Z75VRdsnUf9i2gggPKP38_HXNBD_zzPPN3MR02pNJ5UPjFTCsk7frsX2TdXvsv0Gfw_BGdBZVvOpcCquzO_-6Y6SUCdC6H4h6sC0KaO6qCgV800/s1600/writings3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCoQYn43VQv3OfiZYux87PSFS3SW6Z75VRdsnUf9i2gggPKP38_HXNBD_zzPPN3MR02pNJ5UPjFTCsk7frsX2TdXvsv0Gfw_BGdBZVvOpcCquzO_-6Y6SUCdC6H4h6sC0KaO6qCgV800/s1600/writings3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Author Ted Krever and I discuss the business of publishing in <a href="http://rmholdsworth.blogspot.com/2011/11/mirror-mirror.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">part three</span></a> of our interview</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Ted Krever’s books can be found at<span style="color: purple;"> </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Ftinyurl.com%2F3nxap2o&h=TAQDfDsgx"><span style="color: purple;">Amazon.com</span></a>, at <a href="http://goodreads.com/"><span style="color: purple;">Goodreads.com</span></a> and <span style="color: purple;"> </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.barnesandnoble.com%2Fs%2Fted-krever%3Fkeyword%3Dted%2Bkrever%26store%3Dallproducts&h=nAQDL6-NT"><span style="color: purple;">BarnesandNoble.com</span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">For more information about Ted Krever please visit<span style="color: purple;"> </span><a href="http://www.tedkrever.com/"><span style="color: purple;">www.tedkrever.com</span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"></div></div>Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-2400664438009788252011-09-07T12:05:00.001-04:002012-05-15T10:11:05.015-04:00Summer's over! Back at it!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;">~ The kids are back in school and the red edged leaves of the sugar maples outside my office window are hinting at Fall. Alas! My summer vacation has come to an end. What better way to get back to the work of writing than with a book review, a little tease and an author interview? No better way I say! So here we go. Hope you enjoy it. ~ Rebecca</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-size: x-large;">Mindbenders</span></em></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">by Ted Krever</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM-Yso5bPfB6zhyNXSr5YLo1Vhfk35tnuTs8r0nIg6p26lZabS3b56pXuzhiB-a2hJqZJ_pw-i3-pdW_eryGQ37GeyH7QJp6s3x8vDH5Q2Y3qoZCCjitjzD6A0x3nnOFcantb1NvYqGw/s1600/mindbenders-8-3-150-copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM-Yso5bPfB6zhyNXSr5YLo1Vhfk35tnuTs8r0nIg6p26lZabS3b56pXuzhiB-a2hJqZJ_pw-i3-pdW_eryGQ37GeyH7QJp6s3x8vDH5Q2Y3qoZCCjitjzD6A0x3nnOFcantb1NvYqGw/s1600/mindbenders-8-3-150-copy.jpg" /></span></a><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">They are called Mindbenders - men and women who know your every thought. They<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>have the power to control your emotions, manipulate your memories, your body and the world around you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the possibilities are endless, who will draw the line between what is right and what is unspeakable evil?</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Greg is a man who can’t remember, cut off from his memories. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While Greg’s body survived the war in <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Iraq</place></country-region>, his mind remains a fractured tangle of the sights and sounds of past battles and lost comrades. </span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Max Renn can never forget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A human weapon and Cold War<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>leftover, Renn can read minds, move mountains – even plant ideas and emotions into another’s head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What he cannot do is escape the past- no matter how far or how long he may run. To live in Hell is </em>hearing<em> every thought, </em>feeling<em> every emotion, </em>experiencing<em> every lived moment and memory of every person around you. Max Renn is a permanent resident.</em></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When Dave Monaghan, caretaker to lost souls and a former director for the <country-region w:st="on">US</country-region> cold war mind control project is murdered, the uneasy peace Gregg and Renn had found in Dave’s <state w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Florida</place></state> everglades safe haven is shattered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thrust into a world of international conspiracy and paranormal warfare, Greg and Renn race to gather Dave’s old team of Mindbenders in a fight to stop an insidious evil bent on world domination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">For Gregg it is about vengeance- vengeance for Dave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone murdered his friend and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> t</span>hat Someone was going to pay. </span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">For Renn it is about answers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who had killed Dave Monaghan and why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who were these Others, new Mindbenders with inferior abilities and murderous intentions?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what did an assassination of the Indian Prime minister, a sabotaged nuclear power plant in <state w:st="on"><place w:st="on">New York</place></state> and a disgraced international leader have in common?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mind control program is back in play and they are coming for Max Renn. </span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mindbenders-1-Ted-Krever/dp/061548719X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1315408181&sr=8-1"><span style="color: purple;">Mindbenders</span></a></em><strong> </strong>is a fast paced thriller with broad audience appeal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a literary hint to Krever’s writing without the prose being over burdened by heavy word choice and turn of phrase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I enjoyed the dark and brooding look back to a time passed. This glimpse into the era of spies and intrigue and old-fashioned espionage lends a noir overlay to an otherwise hedonistic, modern thrill ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Krever’s fully developed characters seep quietly into your head and set up house, begging you to read on well into the small and quiet hours of the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The rule to telling a good story, like a good lie, is adding a healthy dose of truth and Mindbenders is no exception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Krever skillfully balances the ingredients to good story telling- a sprinkle of fact, a body of fiction and viola!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A nightmare of believable proportions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this age of hidden terror behind everyday faces, <em>Mindbenders</em> promises a fantastic paranormal underbelly to a humdrum existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pick up Krever’s <em>Mindbenders</em> and expand the horizons of the Possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all- the mind is a terrible thing to waste.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you don’t use it someone else might.</span></div>
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This past July I attended the<a href="http://thrillerwriters.org/"> <span style="color: red;">International Thriller Writer’s</span></a><span style="color: red;"> </span><a href="http://www.thrillerfest.com/"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: red;">ThrillerFest</span></i> </a>at the Grand Hyatt in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">New York City</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The week was packed with brilliant authors, inspiring talks and new friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I met author Ted Krever by happenstance, in a small alcove set back from the busy miasma of words, inspiration and networking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was kind enough to befriend a girl who had no idea how to mingle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has continued that friendship despite my neuroticism and writing temper tantrums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Ted has graciously agreed to an interview about his book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mindbenders</i>, a paranormal thriller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope you enjoy the next few posts where Ted and I discuss his novel, the process of writing, living a writer’s life and the fate of the publishing industry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<em>(Note- for the purposes of this series of interviews I am <strong>RM</strong> and the fabulous Ted Krever is <strong>KREVER</strong> - obviously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(It really is a necessary step in the rock star writing world after all:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to be known by only one name.)</em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM: </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have the fantastic opportunity to interview you today - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the</i> Ted Krever, author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mindbenders </i>and my friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wish it was over a bottle of wine or coffee and face to face but I guess we can make this IM thing work.</span></div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/messages/1404692238##"></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER: </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go ahead, you start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re Walter Cronkite and I'm Rocky the flying squirrel</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always loved Rocky.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved Boris and Natasha—I wonder if that’s where Renn came from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s a weird thought.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was just wondering that myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you mindbending me?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told you it was real. Seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.thrillerfest.com/">Thriller Fest</a></i>, I was standing in the market in Grand Central wishing someone I knew would come and have lunch with me and suddenly there you were- with chocolate!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was very good chocolate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really good chocolate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Must be a writer thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have been writing for quite a long time, in one fashion or another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you give us a quick background?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew up in <place w:st="on"><state w:st="on">New Jersey</state></place>, moved around some as an adult. I’ve worked in television and Internet production, including at ABC News, as a prep cook in an Italian restaurant, associate manager of a revival house movie theater, a local newspaper reporter and a mattress salesman. But in writing fiction, all that matters really is a skeptical eye on the world and a way with words. People can get a sense of those things from my website or—better—from the excerpts of the books available on Amazon, BN.com or Smashwords.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mindbenders</i> is selling well on <em>Amazon</em>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have received positive reviews from the likes of Thomas F. Monteleone and F. Paul Wilson, both <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NY Times</i> bestsellers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Readers say they enjoy the fast paced action and developed characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I found myself deeply invested in the story from the very beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story of Greg, a Iraq war vet living, or trying to live, with PTSD and Renn, a “leftover” from the Cold War era coming together to fight the age old war between what is right and what is easy was both thrilling and frightening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did you approach the idea for his novel?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Characters always come first for me. I got a letter from a woman who got the book on a <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11326412-mindbenders"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodreads</i> </a>giveaway, saying her son had been home from <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">Iraq</country-region></place> for ten years and was still struggling with PTSD, that she found the book disturbing but very accurate about that. That meant a lot to me, because I worried more about that aspect of the story than any other. Greg and Max have in some ways very complementary problems. Greg can’t remember his history because of the PTSD and Max has no history, having been raised as a genetic experiment by the KGB. A lot of the book is tied up in the question: how differently would you view people if you really knew what they were thinking? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>The themes of war and a global reach to politics, the idea that so few could effect so many with what seemed like a whim and the fear that accompanies feeling vulnerable and helpless resonate with me both as a child during the Cold War and a parent today. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you think that, somewhere in your subconscious, growing up during the Cold War had anything to do with the themes you choose to write about?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER</b>: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, I think this is very much a post-9/11 book. I think one of the interesting things about it is the way the old Cold War lines get jumbled-up. Both Max’s team and the bad guys include members from both sides, people who would have been bitter enemies twenty years ago. If anyone wants to read into that some message about the absurdity of all our conflicts, I won’t object.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>9/11 is something very much on the American mind, especially this week with the tenth anniversary coming up this weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mindbenders</i>, Max Renn and his team posses the ability to read minds and manipulate the world around him using the power of his thoughts—his mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did this novel come from any past experience or fascination with psychic phenomenon?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not from any particular psychic experience of my own, no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My son wanted a superhero and I made up a mindreader because I didn’t want a guy in tights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he went home to his mom that night, I started thinking, 'this could be interesting if I could find the right angle for it.'<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did a little research and stumbled upon remote viewing, the fact that the US Government funded a mind control program for 18 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then the revelation that the Soviet program began much earlier was more serious and considered much more successful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once I stumbled onto that, I had Renn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so Renn was born.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now this is about ten years ago. Renn first appears as a secondary character in a literary novel I wrote, which is probably one reason my literary novels never sold.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But when I finished that book, instead of patting myself on the back, I found myself thinking, "I've got to give this guy his own story. He's my Sherlock Holmes." And then it took me years to get loose enough to do him justice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s talk about your character Greg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mindbenders</i> is told in the first person-Greg’s point of view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While Renn appears as a secondary character early into the book, Renn quickly moves to stand shoulder to shoulder with Greg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did that come about?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Renn is certainly the main character. But Greg is a necessity. My first attempts at writing Renn were first person –from inside his head—and that just didn't work. The guy hears every thought for three blocks around all the time. So it was impossible to do him justice. The background noise at any given moment would overwhelm the story. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>You had to tell Max Renn’s story from the outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So Greg was a practical decision. I realized I needed Watson. Watson is the most important guy in the Sherlock Holmes stories because he's the one who asks, "Holmes, how did you deduce the details of his life with such uncanny accuracy?" which gives Sherlock the opportunity to tell us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Greg is also to some extent my son, who has a serious case of Asperger’s - and the Vietnam vets who lived across the street and had a hard time focusing on anything for any length of time because part of them was always back in the jungle, hearing whispering in the trees and the guns pounding inside their heads all the time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM: </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In many ways I saw Greg as a vehicle for other stories. I find it interesting the story is told fromGreg’s point of view when he seems to function as a container, a whiteboard for other people’s emotions and experiences. What did Renn call him?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER: </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Greg is a receptor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He can pick up brainwaves if the frequency is a match.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Renn makes the point that most people can be receptors under the right circumstances</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A receptor, yes. But Greg’s own emotions, his own head is on lock down, at least from himself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's locked away from himself, yes. That's the PTSD.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His life is a mystery that he feels, not unnaturally, that he has to try to unlock. But he's forgotten the connecting threads. He remembers details but not how they fit together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RM: </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't get the feeling he wants to unlock it, only that he feels he should <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i> to unlock it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KREVER: </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think, through most of this book, he’s just glad to be functioning. He's been existing on the most basic level for so long that all this tumult is still an improvement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it takes him most of the book to take seriously the thought that you might be able to find yourself. But that thought is the first step to doing it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://rmholdsworth.blogspot.com/2011/10/live-to-write-or-write-to-live.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part Two</span></a> - Author Ted Krever and I discuss the writer’s life</span>.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://rmholdsworth.blogspot.com/2011/11/mirror-mirror.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part Three</span></a> - Author Ted Krever and I discuss the changing climate of publishing and independant publishing.</span></div>
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Ted Krever’s books can be found <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mindbenders-1-Ted-Krever/dp/061548719X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1315409314&sr=8-3"><span style="color: #cc0000;">here</span></a><span style="color: #cc0000;"> </span>at <span style="color: purple;">Amazon.com</span>,<span style="color: red;"> </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11326412-mindbenders"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a> at <span style="color: purple;">Goodreads.com</span> and <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mindbenders-ted-krever/1102341317?ean=9780615487199&itm=2&usri=mindbenders"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a> at <span style="color: purple;">BarnesandNobel.com</span></div>
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For more information about Ted Krever please visit <a href="http://www.tedkrever.com/"><span style="color: purple;">www.tedkrever.com</span></a></div>
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<em></em></div>Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-16760794042607613292011-05-31T12:18:00.000-04:002011-06-01T13:02:03.714-04:00Hero<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDMRDa1M6qyqmL5yrD46Z8BlkdsGPPxjCrwVZXf25PCGZu9QkHP7Vafy6s-mYXIkWxFvSDBU6JgBxmoL52YUGf0s94Y5_WSwhzmdEak67DPZpKTBEUxzoZajalLTWAC_Ml5a7x7bl_my8/s1600/imagesCA5H7M9Z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDMRDa1M6qyqmL5yrD46Z8BlkdsGPPxjCrwVZXf25PCGZu9QkHP7Vafy6s-mYXIkWxFvSDBU6JgBxmoL52YUGf0s94Y5_WSwhzmdEak67DPZpKTBEUxzoZajalLTWAC_Ml5a7x7bl_my8/s1600/imagesCA5H7M9Z.jpg" t8="true" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span>I have a codependent relationship with writing manuals. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, they look innocent with their bright, glossy covers promising the world:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Write a Novel in a Weekend!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Keys to Writing the Next Great American Novel!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Write a Damn Good, No Great, </i>New York Times<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, Award Winning Best Seller!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>I have ‘em all. I also have my therapist on speed dial. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My many books sit there- smug and sure- on my shelf whispering “open me, if you dare.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I dare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, every day I dare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And like a bad romance, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Push Me, Pull Me</i> is the name of the game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last Thursday I had a breakthrough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friday I had a breakdown.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">On Monday, mostly recovered, I opened to page 22: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Give yourself permission to write shitty first drafts.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Oh! Sweet Baby Sunshine!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could do that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I banged away for hours at the keyboard only to dump 3000 words into my electronic waste bin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had succeeded at sucking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hooray for me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem was I was still without a viable chapter five and my deadline was a scant month away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">On Tuesday I opened to page 60: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Join a writer’s group, critique and be critiqued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hold yourself accountable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">What the hell?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You just told me to be shitty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now you want me to produce something I want to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">show</i> someone?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Make up my mind, damn it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Besides, group = people. I don't <em>do</em> People. </span>Tuesday was a disaster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My character remained where I had left her Friday last, obsessing over a strange piece of jewelry and a new fear of the dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a new fear too- failure and humiliation.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Wednesday, dear Wednesday, she was two small days from Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hoped she would be my friend and help me with page 102: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do you have a personal hero?</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Of course I have a hero!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who doesn’t?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s…um…well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had one here somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read on.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What is a hero?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Asked page 102.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I knew that one!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hero is a guy, or a girl (this is the 21<sup>st</sup> century) who goes out, overcomes great adversity and returns better for it, usually.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So who was my hero?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aw, common.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t be that pathetic and jaded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to have a hero. Right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Page 102 mocked me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t have one, do ‘ya?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can you write about something you don’t know anything about?</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">“Shut up,” I said, giving the book a punishing shove onto the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a solid ten minutes of pouting and cursing the universe for killing my soul I retrieved the book and opened it to page 103.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe there was a hint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took a deep bracing breath and read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What are the aspects of these heroes you find admirable?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Aspects, huh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little pieces of personality I could admire?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bite size chunks of heroic valor? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could do bite size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Well, I liked my aunt’s patience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admired my grandparents for their ingenuity and perseverance through the depression and WWII.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A writer friend pushed through five years of writing drought to explode into a new market, taking it by storm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband’s sister left behind a life of broken dreams and promises in <city w:st="on">Manhattan</city> and rebuilt a beautiful life for herself in <place w:st="on"><state w:st="on">Maine</state></place>. At age 12, my husband survived a deadly car wreck. The doctors told him he would be lucky to walk again. Within a year he was playing baseball. My kids emulate grace under pressure while learning how to be a friend, do multiplication, execute a cartwheel or catch a ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">All of these individuals have parts inside them that I want to have inside of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is what a hero is to me then- someone, or some aspect of someone that makes a person want to be better in some way, to try harder, to keep going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Hercules had his labors, Jason his Argonauts and Luke Skywalker had his Force and a complicated family life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have my novel to write and way too many voices inside my head telling me how to go about it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Monday made me careless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tuesday made me cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wednesday (and that snarky book) made me think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="color: black;">Maybe that’s what a hero is:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone or something that makes you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i>, makes you question yourself and the world around you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe a hero is a mirror, a way to try on faces like masks, personalities like cloths and see how they look.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">Can I learn to walk again?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can I be patient and persistent and brave? Can I be that writer who rises like a phoenix from the ashes of self-doubt?</span></i><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">On Thursday I will find a lovely box, just the right size for all my writing books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I will put them someplace safe and dark and far, far away. On Friday I will tell my therapist I am cured, at least until Monday comes around again.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="huge1"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt;">One must think like a hero to behave like a merely decent human being</span></i></span><span class="huge1"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-</span></span></span><span class="bodybold1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/m/may_sarton.html"><b><span style="color: black;">May Sarton</span></b></a>, Poet</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div>Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-4077126456647800382011-04-09T00:26:00.000-04:002011-05-31T15:01:58.593-04:00Game of Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWxJMf_7VlzHxx22VC_5JE54RgTmSjiTgMnonf55B1tMy8l1F1sisHfBTs2iKPihh4yJ1ketqSEfwiganjtMD9ukCE7kVPrdKPfSa4DwxlVly7AkYA44ebmM-2BZ0jIYMaQ-NNwE5FHc/s1600/garner+on+fenceresized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWxJMf_7VlzHxx22VC_5JE54RgTmSjiTgMnonf55B1tMy8l1F1sisHfBTs2iKPihh4yJ1ketqSEfwiganjtMD9ukCE7kVPrdKPfSa4DwxlVly7AkYA44ebmM-2BZ0jIYMaQ-NNwE5FHc/s200/garner+on+fenceresized.jpg" t8="true" width="200" /></a><em>It was a Sunday afternoon in spring when the phone rang.<span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> <span style="color: black;">A friend, we’ll call her Sam, called exasperated and exhausted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">“Tell me,” she ground out, “does the urge to tell my son to swallow his spit after the 250<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> request for a glass of water after I tucked him in make me a bad mom?”</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">I tried not to laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I failed. The whole thing sounded way too familiar. “I don’t think so,” I said “But, I have to admit I’m not the best person to ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Growing up, Swallow your spit was the mantra of all family car rides, right before you can pee when we get there.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought a moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“In hindsight, the former was probably to avoid the latter.”</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Sam laughed, although it was more a weak and defeated chuckle than true guffaw. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"> “What happened?” I asked.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">“I have no idea!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What on earth would make a previously happy and independent two-year-old suddenly develop Velcro and permanently attach himself to my body?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a genuine fight or flight response.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could almost hear her hands flying around her head as she spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">“I tried to put him down in church, he is heavy. He wouldn’t let me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I literally ripped him off my body and set him down for two seconds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to; he was pulling my shirt off in the middle of service!”</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">“I bet that didn’t go over well,” I said.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">“He and my shirt ended up on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know what was louder, his screaming bloody murder or the ripping of my last good blouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only did the two ladies behind me get a show but the priest’s wife looked at me like I must have beaten him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never leave church!”</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">“Well,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Again, you are probably not asking the most neutral party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a Velcro child too.”</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">“Ugh,” said Sam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t know how to do this!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am actually beginning to resent this mother-child bond thing.”</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">“That’s because kids use emotional superglue,” I said and was rewarded with a true laugh from Sam.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Sam and I came to no great revelation that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nor have we come to many in the years that have followed, pregnant with parenting missteps and angst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have soldiered on, comforted by the simple companionship of murky parenting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stink. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>She struggles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I struggle. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Neither of us knows what we are doing and we both suspect the kids are fully aware of that fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Today, many, many years later, I find myself mulling over that particular conversation in the scant quiet time between career and kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our Velcro kids are ten years older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it turned out we didn’t have to go to kindergarten with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why did we feel so bad, so judged by ourselves and everyone around us?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do we still feel that way?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">I know there are others like me out there, wondering if they are bad parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear them muttering over cereal choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do I pick what the kids will eat or what they should eat?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see their stories on social websites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My son slapped that mannequin’s naked behind!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where did he learn that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And why was she naked?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been on the receiving and giving end of the Mortified Parent dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It usually goes something like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am so sorry! I have no idea why he did that. He certainly didn’t learn it from us! It will never, ever happen again.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">As a mother, it is too easy for me to take on my children’s failings and triumphs as a direct extension of my action or inaction and thereby an extension of myself. As another friend of mine pointed out today, we are adults raising future adults.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a business that nurtures, develops and puts out a product, we nurture and develop another human being and release them into the world.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<span style="color: black;">Being a parent has been a rollercoaster ride of terror and elation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have held them, loved them, and watched them fall and fly since the minute they were born. I have given tears, given sweat, given blood and allowed them to break my nose. Well, not so much allowed them to break it as failed to avoid having it broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have scars and innumerable ruined panty hose from the Velcro child. She continues to cling but in a less affronting manner and with more eye rolling. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">My grandma, a wise woman, said “You have to look in the cracks.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Parenting isn’t like making the bed, or completing a project at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is little total and immediate gratification.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my kids are asleep and it is quiet enough to hear myself think the parental Guilt Monster comes out of the closet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then all I can remember of the day is how many times I yelled or when I punished them or spoke with impatience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I feel like a rotten, terrible failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">But I am not a rotten, terrible failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just forget to look in the cracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I forgot about the little things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">What’s in those cracks?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well for me it is this: They tell me they love me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They want to play games, read stories and go to the zoo, with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They draw me pictures of Mommy and Daddy, and cover them with hearts and X’s and O’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They come to me when they have had a bad day, skinned knee or bruised feelings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am the ultimate lost crayon finder, lunch maker and belch contest winner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Like all of the rest of us, kids have their own junk. They come in with it, like some cosmic, karmic booby prize. I can just hear Mr. Announcer Guy saying:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">.... <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and Mrs. Holdsworth, for playing the Game of Life you will go home with a lovely 8 pound, 4 ounce, pink bundle of joy. She poops, she eats, she coos, she cries and burps, she's got ten fingers, ten toes, a cute little belly button and smells like heaven (most of the time).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But wait! As a bonus gift-just for playing- you get a free upgrade to the super deluxe model complete with Kung Fu grip and tentacle arms with super glue suction. This model won't eat anything but cheerios for three years and is afraid of spiders, dogs, men, vacuum cleaners and anything blue. And just to say Thank You for playing we will throw in the Insecurity upgrade for free! This fabulous piece of software will make it impossible to put your bundle of joy down until one day when she wriggles out of your arm, turns, waves bye and runs off without a backward glance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She will ruin your clothes, date night and any hope for a decent night’s sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She will consume your heart and your mind and you won’t care a bit, well, maybe a little bit, but you will be too busy to notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">*</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Disclaimer*</span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Sanity upon arrival of your child’s 21<sup>st</sup> birthday not guaranteed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Results advertised in parenting books not typical of average user, in fact, throw them out, all of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Game of Life</i> will not be held responsible for any lost sleep, watches down the toilet, important phone messages or remote controls (tie it to a brick, it works) socks under the couch, candy stashed behind the book shelf, parental hearing loss due to long hours of the Wiggles, <span class="SpellE">Yo</span> <span class="SpellE">Gabba</span> <span class="SpellE">Gabba</span>, Hannah Montana or Justin <span class="SpellE">Bieber</span>, or transient pediatric deafness due to requests to clean her room, feed the dog, take out the garbage or give back that diary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fees for services will not exceed 150% of your funds, energy and patience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Results of good parenting or even mediocre parenting are not guaranteed under any acronym known to man or universe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These kids are wildcards, accept it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Refunds will not be awarded under any circumstances including public embarrassment, hunger strike or Goth/<span class="SpellE">emo</span> period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the author’s grandmother says, you can’t return her, you already used her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The views and opinions of the author expressed in this article do not necessarily state or reflect those of said author every day of the week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, she has her good days and her not so good ones but now she has to go because the dog is choking on something, the boys are beating each other with Lego swords and the girls are way too quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have a nice day. </span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-62454518508792533282011-04-09T00:17:00.001-04:002011-05-31T14:15:16.508-04:00Dam: A Lesson in Fluid Dynamics<div align="center" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppXLF-Sk7RZ8Lz-MU5N4_svS4v8twHKrWFyJ-QawlpuUCkd7SemzP_M5Bnb8PnpOj5tKhFrmQ96Bzv7Plm8b8zR6yyMFekGlv6z4pJille-8PXxDYsvMJTjNOS6Les7TRjKuVC4RMHK8/s1600/20060701_%2528120%2529cropshrunk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppXLF-Sk7RZ8Lz-MU5N4_svS4v8twHKrWFyJ-QawlpuUCkd7SemzP_M5Bnb8PnpOj5tKhFrmQ96Bzv7Plm8b8zR6yyMFekGlv6z4pJille-8PXxDYsvMJTjNOS6Les7TRjKuVC4RMHK8/s200/20060701_%2528120%2529cropshrunk.jpg" t8="true" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 10px;"><i></i></span></div><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">My inspiration is frozen like the ice building ever higher along the gutters under my house eaves. My words, my story, are stuck, entombed within the winter of my creativity. Ha.</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><i>Now is the winter of my discontent…</i> </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">Shakespeare really knew how to whine! Damn straight I am discontent. I have just spent the better part of three days embroiled in a battle of wills with Mother Nature for the possession of my roof and a petulant muse for possession of my creativity. I have no idea what I did to piss those girls off but they are exacting their revenge in the form of dams. My roof has ice dams. Big ice dams. Hoover ice dams. My inspiration just seems dammed. Or maybe damned?</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">For those of you not acquainted with ice dams I will explain these little winter jewels. An ice dam is much like it sounds: a large mass of ice that collects in the gutters of roofs. As the snow melts water backs up behind the dam and comes into the house destroying the roof, the ceiling, the wall. You name it – it’s trashed. In short, Mama N. is threatening my comfortable life.</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"> </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">As for my dammed creativity, I believe the culprit to be a kissing cousin to Cabin Fever and Midwinter Blues: Restless Writer Syndrome (RWS). I have seen it before and recognize the symptoms. I am grouchy, cranky, distant and petulant. My dreams are strange, full of fantastical creatures and complex plots. Reading, my go-to self soother, is a hopeless act. I can’t concentrate on a book long enough to reach chapter three. I have trouble sitting at the computer unless it involves long hours of Facebook and Bejeweled.</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">On the home front, I feel the urge to reorganize my pantry, my kids’ lives, kids’ rooms, or silverware drawer. Yesterday I found myself scrubbing the sink fixtures with a toothbrush. Some may confuse this with spring cleaning or nesting but RWS is pure, unadulterated procrastination. In short, I will do anything but write. When I do manage to sit down with my manuscript the writing, well, it just plain hurts. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“I should have been an accountant,” I tell my husband. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“You would hate it,” he says. “It’s boring.” This is his nice way of reminding me I can’t add two and two in my head.</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">I make a face. “I would have a paycheck,” I say. “I could work part-time and still be here for the kids. We could afford summer camp.” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“Yes,” he says. “You could.” We have had this conversation before, usually over a beer and the want-ads. “But--” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">I roll my eyes in interruption and take another pull from my bottle. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“<i>But</i>.” He emphasizes the word <i>but</i> with a toast of his own bottle, “You’re a <i>writer</i>. You have always been a writer, even when you tried to be other things. You will always be one. Like it or not. You cannot resist the Force young Jedi,” he smirks. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">That smirk irritates me even more than his paraphrasing Star Wars. At least it wasn’t Spock. <i>It’s only logical.</i> I might have hurt him.</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“I don’t <i>want</i> to be a writer,” I whine. “It’s too hard.” I flop down on the couch. My husband waits patiently. This isn’t his first rodeo. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">I am wrong. The most irritating aspect of this conversation is he is right, as usual. “A new character introduced himself today,” I finally say, sullen and pouting.</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“Oh?” He says<em> oh</em> but it sounds like <i>I knew it was something like that</i>. “Tell me.” He sits on the edge of the couch, ready to retreat to higher ground if things get too hairy. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“It’s complicated,” I groan. I have been avoiding this conversation all day but I have to face it sometime. “He’s a Collector.”</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“Really? What does he collect?” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">My husband is good at this part- the listening part. He knows not to give opinions, try to help. Writers hate that, at least this writer does.</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“People,” I say. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“Really? Why? How?”</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“I don’t know! He’s some kind of bloodhound, a human-ish GPS system. Once he collects you he can find you anywhere. He has to touch you, emotionally.” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“That could come in handy with our teenagers.” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“This is serious,” I say. “I don’t know what to DO with him.” I sink deeper into the couch, deeper still into my pout. “There were two of them,” I whisper, like admitting to a dirty little secret. “An older one and a younger one. The younger one hadn’t <i>collected</i> anyone yet and the older one was giving him some speech about the futility of denying who or what he was.” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">My husband raises an eyebrow. I feel a Spock moment coming on. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“Please!” I say, holding my hand in front of my face. “Spare me the movie quotes.” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">My husband eyes the beer and the want-ads and gives me a wry look. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“Very funny,” I sort of snarl at him and huff but I continue. “I saw the older man’s face. It was covered in tattoos- like spirals and circles. He could make them appear or hide them.” I pause, pulling the image of the man into my mind. It still disturbs me, fascinates me. “He wanted me to see <i>what</i> he was,” I continue, studying the man in my head. “The tattoos were names. Some were moving, like spinning wheels, some still. They were <i>names</i> of all the people he had collected.” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">I pull away from the dream and focus on my husband. He just looks at me. I hold my breath. I can’t help it. It’s times like this when I wonder if he is sizing me up for a pretty white jacket, weighing the pros and cons of having me committed. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">He furrows his brow a little, takes a sip of his beer and speaks. “But why does he collect people? How does he fit into the story?” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">Phew. No nuthouse for me today. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“I don’t know yet. I am kind of annoyed they even showed up. I have enough to deal with as the story is now. And then there is the black dog thing.”</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“Black dog thing?” he asks. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“Ugh,” I moan and run my hand through my hair, pulling just a little to ease the ache that is building in my brain. “Don’t ask. First he was a college Joe, then a huge black dog with red eyes and then he exploded into a rainbow mist when the sun touched him. It was disturbing.” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“I’ll bet. Kind of mixing your monsters there.” He shakes his head. “You and Stephen King should start a support group.” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“Tell me about it,” I say. “These dreams are doing me in.” </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">Sensing the crisis is over my husband smiles and holds out his hand. I reluctantly relinquish the paper. “I will save it for later,” he promises.</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“This sucks,” I say. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">He laughs a little and shakes his head. “You’ll survive.” He says and heads out to check on our roof.</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">“Doubtful.” I mutter to his back and trudge upstairs to write down everything I can remember about Tattoo Man and Dog Boy. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">I <i>have</i> survived, so far. The roof has held, knock on wood. I will keep working at both issues until there is a clear winner. Make no mistake. I fully intend to be the victor.</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">I suppose dealing with the process of writing as well as many of life’s problems can be compared to my struggle with ice dams. The way I see it, there are two choices: </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">1. You can stare at said issue and pray it doesn’t get any bigger, turn messy. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;">2. You can climb up to the edge and start hacking away at said issue, inch by inch. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">Sometimes progress is painful. You get ice in your eye, cut your hand, get buried in snow or fall off the ladder all for one lousy measure of progress. Sometimes you take a half-hearted whack at it and whoosh! Things break loose in one big rush and the problem is solved. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><i>Perseverance</i>, <i>Patience</i> and <i>Will</i>- the three Muses no one talks about. They aren’t sexy. They aren’t full of flowery language, beautiful music and vibrant color. However, you let these three gals into your life, with their sensible footwear and comfortable pantsuits, and they will pave the way for their flashier sisters. Eventually momentum will kick in and the water (or ideas, or solutions) will begin to flow in the right direction. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">Conversely, ignore the elephant in the room or a monster in the closet and an inevitable torrent will find its own way through in the most inconvenient way possible. It could, for example, let loose all over your brand new cashmere sweater in the upstairs closet and then ooze its way down the wall into the girls’ room and ruin a new iPod dock. But I'm just guessing here. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">On that particular want-ad, one beer evening I didn’t want to talk about plot or characters or writing. I had been dreading it as much as I had dreaded spending my day up on that ladder, hacking away at the ice in my gutters. But after a few rusty swings the dam broke and the story began to flow again. </div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">As for my roof, tomorrow’s sun will help along today’s effort. I won’t be up there. I will be writing. The Collector found me and I will give him some time but Dog Boy is on his own.</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span class="body1"><i>You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.</i></span><i> - </i><span class="bodybold1"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Jack London, Author.</span></span></span></div><i></i>Backstoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05559244275812428010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4617598253094929552.post-28420794981706153672011-04-09T00:15:00.000-04:002011-05-31T14:11:47.160-04:00Plan Five<div class="sf_blog_entry" sizcache="0" sizset="13"><div align="center" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXA7_GWrS3MGoX5baKub_9SN2gZhJBdUA3rFapuA4yU8xmiUKwFbff2AzZ7OlsbKUwxahlFLOnqA96RkFrCOB2YAsWeS5lyJBWnEvCbVq5_tT7IqzDDPvHlQ3x3rPuT8gf8CKDTybsUI/s1600/cover+two.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXA7_GWrS3MGoX5baKub_9SN2gZhJBdUA3rFapuA4yU8xmiUKwFbff2AzZ7OlsbKUwxahlFLOnqA96RkFrCOB2YAsWeS5lyJBWnEvCbVq5_tT7IqzDDPvHlQ3x3rPuT8gf8CKDTybsUI/s200/cover+two.jpg" t8="true" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial;">When I was young, my Sunday school teacher asked our class if we thought God let us all do our own thing or did He “dip his spoon into the world and gave it a stir once in a while?” My answer was immediate: God was definitely a Betty Crocker. Not only did He mix things up now and again, but I was pretty sure He was switching out ingredients behind my back. Even as a child I could grasp the futility of planning life. <br />
<br />
<i>To plan<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;">:</span></strong><span class="ssens2"> to devise or project the realization or achievement of</span><span class="vi">. – Merriam-Webster</span></i></span></div><div align="center" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Once upon a time, I had a grand plan. We will call this Plan One. I was going to write, and I did. I wrote a piece here, a piece there - published almost anything I submitted. My kids were very little at the time so it was “okay” if I was spotty with my commitment. As time went on I adjusted to Plan Two and became involved in the medical field again in an effort to “do something responsible with my time” and earn a paycheck. The writing took a back seat but it was “okay.” There would be time later. I had a plan.<br />
<br />
Now, if you aren't a writer you may not grasp the desperation that comes with this affliction. Writing, for me is an addiction. I can merrily roll along for only so long until I fall off the wagon. Again. To be honest I violently launched myself out the window of the moving wagon of Plan Two, terror across my face at the prospect of a lifetime of responsible and sensible gainful employment. There was also the matter of <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">Later</span></em>, a word I believe should be written with four letters and followed with a thorough mouth washing. You see, I woke up one day, took two asprin for the headache that always comes from too much cabernet, looked into the mirror and realized today <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">was</span></em> later. I wasn’t twenty-four anymore or even thirty-four. Later was <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">now</span></em>. I needed a new plan.<br />
<br />
I attended a writer’s retreat to jumpstart Plan Three. I was going to write a novel. It was a momentous time for me. I had a story and I was going to write it. Plan Three was it baby. I came home with visions of book covers dancing in my head. That evening my husband informed us we were moving 3000 miles away. I left Plan Three in the dumpster as we pulled out of our New Hampshire home headed for Texas. It was ok. We were headed on an adventure. Every writer needed adventure.<br />
</span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Plan Four took shape a few years into our Texan experience. I fleshed out my ideas for not one but three consecutive books. I researched, read and wrote. After three months I had a very rough first draft. I told people I was writing a book to hold myself accountable. If people knew my plan I would have to produce or explain why Writer was up on the shelf with Actor, Doctor, Teacher, Midwife, Nurse and Artist. I had tried on a number of lives and discarded them to the back of my life’s closet one by one, tags still on, barely worn and very much unfinished. There are innumerable unfinished novels out there in the cold, hard world. Mine would not be among them. </span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I designed a dummy book and photographed it on a bookstore shelf between <i>Hogan </i>and <i>Howell</i>. Momentum built and it looked to all, including me, that Plan Four was the charm. Four months later we moved. Then my kids had lives of their own. Then the house needed attention. Flu season came. Summer vacation arrived and left. By the following Fall my brilliant Plan Four lay pitifully on the floor, next to discarded flip flops and dust bunnies, disintegrating in the pressure cooker of my life. Suddenly all the excuses I had been placating my ego with were no longer “ok.” My lack of progress was decidedly not ok.</span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
So what now? I wondered. Maybe I am not cut out for this. Maybe I am not a real writer. An author once told me to be a writer you must write every day. Anything else means only that you write. I wanted to<em> be</em> a writer. I needed to be a writer. I needed a plan.</span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Abraham Maslow, psychologist, is quoted as saying “If you plan on being anything less than you are capable of being, you will probably be unhappy all of the days of your life.” I believe him. So, here’s my plan:</span></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Plan Five: plan to be amazing. Plan Five: to <i>be</i> a writer, word by word, sentence by sentence. Plan five: to write, to bob and weave with the punches of everyday life and come back each day for more. Plan Five: to have no plan at all. In the immortal words of Steve Winwood: “Just roll with it baby.”</span></div><div align="right" sizcache="0" sizset="14" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: right;"><span class="huge1"><i>“We can't plan life. All we can do is be available for it.”</i></span><i sizcache="0" sizset="14"><span style="font-family: Arial;">-</span><span class="bodybold1" sizcache="0" sizset="14"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/l/lauryn_hill.html"><span style="color: windowtext;">Lauryn Hill</span></a></span></i><strong><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">, </span></i></strong><span class="bodybold1"><b><i>musician</i></b></span><i> </i></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
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