For Courtney

Butterfly

A sign of life the metaphor for very souls
Flitting and giving birth to the thought of flight
Graceful dancer of the garden ballet the
Weakness in your wings it kills me
To watch and not weep for what is lost
What will be lost again and again
What to gain?

The cycle starts anew the lowly inchworm to the leaf
Ever marches
The wind and rain and sun pass ever on
Leaving us behind who cannot fly
Cannot know the lift of your
Delicate gossamer wings
Nor can you carry us with you on your
Journey alone.

Cry to heaven the unfairness and no answer sounds
Laugh to Creation the blessing of the transient nature of it all
That we love it so
And let it go
And carry it home
In faithful hearts.
Ah memory, the one trapped butterfly that will never flee.

Treasures

On a recent trip to visit family, my sister-in-law, mother-in-law, daughter, and I went shopping. And how. We have a tradition when we get together of visiting certain antique shops in a town near Mom's house and we never fail to have a ball when we get together. And the treasures we find! Sis and I both are a little crazy about 40's and 50's vintage clothes--she has a glove fetish and I will get in serious trouble over pretty hats. And no, I am not the proud owner of the flamingo glasses in the picture--but aren't they spiffy? My new sunglasses have much more understated pink rhinestone flamingos on the corners...yay!

As I was browsing online and looking at some more wonderful vintage clothes (it's perhaps an addiction) I found myself feeling briefly and for the millionth time that I was born in the wrong era. Then I found some beautiful aprons, almost bought a couple, and realized they were A) too pretty for me to actually wear while cooking and B) not going to get worn otherwise and that I have nowhere to display them. I then realized that I was actually born in exactly the right era. Here I sat, looking at my leisure on my computer through tons of old things that I can truly appreciate, in my less than spotless house. I was recovering from a nifty migraine the day before and I have no-housework days the day after to get the wind back in my sails. Fortunately for me, I don't live in the 40's or 50's when it would have been unacceptable for my husband to come home to a cluttered house and takeout for dinner. I also doubt my tendency to speak my mind (sometimes much less than sweetly) would have been as lovingly tolerated then as now.

Don't get me wrong--I think there is a whole lot about the past that is now bygone that I think is a damn shame to have lost. But I also think that there has been progress in important areas and that through personal choice we can honor and uphold certain ideals that may not necessarily be fashionable any longer while still enjoying more modern freedoms and luxuries as well.

I'm Back. Sort Of.

I haven't been updating regularly--I know it sounds like a poor excuse, but I've been so busy just keeping up with kids, husband, and house that I haven't been wearing my writer hat as much as I would like to lately. I wouldn't trade any of it--well, except for my son getting pneumonia (which was just scary, but he's fine now) because it is just the rhythm of my life and I know that it will change, and someday, I will miss this.

I've printed out a strip of paper that says just that-- You're Gonna Miss This. This piece of paper is posted right above my desk where I can see it (and yes, I did get it from the Trace Adkins song, which I love) and be reminded that the kids won't always be so little and so busy. When I'm dragging my behind, drinking my fourth cup of coffee just to keep my eyes open because one or both of them somehow kept me from sleeping all night, and they are buzzing around the house like free radicals hell-bent on doing some kind of damage, I need reminders--believe me. They are wonderful, healthy, and energetic children who love me beyond what I can comprehend or deserve--how cool is that?

So if I don't post here regularly and the same picture has been languishing at the bottom of this blog for weeks, please don't assume I am just another lazy writer bad at regularly contributing to something (which I may be any and all of the above, just don't make assumptions--you know what they say about that, dahling.) Just know that I am being happily held captive by crayon murals and teddybear tea parties.

Happy Birthday, Baby!

Today also happens to be my little girl's fifth birthday. We have lots of celebrating to do--but I had to officially post it here so she could read it for herself! Love you, sweetheart! Happy, happy, happy, birthday!

The little boy in my eyes

My son, who is two, discovered something yesterday. When the light in the dining room was just right as he was sitting on my lap, he saw his reflection in my eyes. At first, he looked very puzzled. I had to keep myself from laughing as he stared almost comically deep into my eyes, raising and lowering his eyebrows as he watched the little boy in his mommy's eyes mimic him. After about a minute of facial contortions he smiled, grabbed both of my cheeks, and gave me a squishy two-year-old kiss. Then he returned to gazing into my eyes and occasionally resting his forehead on mine.

I found myself praying for two things.

One, that this moment could last as long as possible. He is one of the busiest little boys I've ever met and any peaceful moment is truly a treasure with him.

And second, that someday, when he is having a crisis of faith, especially in himself, I can pull out this memory and tell him about the day he saw himself in my eyes. So that I can then tell him what I saw--a little boy who was so sweet and easygoing as a baby that I felt guilty because it felt "too easy". A little boy who is now so loving that he squeezes mine and his daddy's hearts so regularly that he and his sister alone could keep them beating without any assistance from our bodies. A little boy who thinks he is (or would very much like to be) Inigo Montoya from the Princess Bride...I still can't have floor lamps in my living room because they resemble chandeliers and therefore must be swung from at every opportunity. A little boy who is so fearless that I will be gray by the time he is old enough to read this. A little boy so curious about the world around him that he explores constantly, endlessly, and with a passion and energy I didn't realize existed, even in toddlers.

I can only hope that when the time comes I can help him see through my eyes, not just into them.

Happy Fourth of July!

Just a quick note to wish everyone a happy and SAFE holiday--don't be the person who sets themselves on fire this year, m'kay? Let your idiot neighbor do it so you can point, laugh, and feel all smug and superior.

Seriously though, let's all pause for at least a second or two to remember that there are still some very fantastic things going for this country--things that all started with some strong-minded people who refused to back down from tyranny because they believed in freedom. Enjoy it.

Determination

Determined. Stubborn. Plucky. Spunky. Pig-headed. No, I am not trying out for a human thesaurus contest, I am trying to think of some of the labels given to people who refuse to give up on something, be it an idea, a dream, or a goal. The picture of the kitty clinging to his hoped-for box-lunch really struck a chord with me recently--writing is not an easy career to just pop into. But it is worth it, and that is the message you'll see over and over if you hang around enough writers--there isn't anything else they can imagine doing.

I write with two children in the home under the age of five and a brain that I don't mind admitting gives me fits on a regular basis. I am fortunate to have a very supportive spouse and family, but I know others who write in spite of people who tell them constantly that they're wasting their time. I know of many others who hold down full-time jobs, parent children, volunteer in their communities, (and I swear secretly save the world on their lunch breaks) who still find the time to write and do it well.

Why? It has to be due at least in part to determination--that stuff that makes the difference between, "I think I'll write a book someday" and "Here's my book! I think I'll try to get it published!" It's that stuff that keeps one submitting query after query when you believe in a story in spite of those form-letter rejections that we all know are a necessary evil and hate anyway.

I regularly get some fantastic glimpses of other writers' determination, (chutzpah, moxie, guts, whatever you wish to call it) at the Absolute Write Water Cooler ( http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/). It's a neat place to pop in, whether you're a writer or trying to understand the writer in your life, to see what exactly goes on in the trenches of writing. Need encouragement? Stop by the Coffee House of Pain and see if they don't offer you a cyber goodie or froo-froo drink to make it all better. I dare ya.

I'm such a bad blogger...

I don't post every day. I don't post wildly entertaining personal bits about what my dear husband said in bed the other day (he'd strangle me) , or what my kids are up to (they're two and four, wildly imaginative, and very energetic...I don't have time to blog about everything they do), and I believe my personal philosophy is best shared with people who know and understand me--I get fewer odd looks that way.

So why am I doing this?

I confessed at the beginning that I have the not-so-ulterior motive of using the blog when, or if, the writing gig takes off. Beyond that, I have enjoyed this little venture, looking for bits here and there to put up, finding little ways to express who I am at a level that I'm comfortable sharing. Oddly enough, I am a fairly private person. This feels daring to me, sharing thoughts with people I don't know and who don't know me (yeah, I know--woo freaking hoo, you wild thing you).

I've peeked at a variety of blogs lately and I'll admit, some of them scared me, more than any Stephen King I've ever picked up, with their level of personal information. Of course, these were just random blogs I found by hitting the "next blog" button, so they're not necessarily professionals looking for publishing fame, but yikes, man. Other blogs, some posted here and others posted on those blogs (I'm too lazy to throw up a link to every single blog I like, so I only put up the ones I actually read regularly) are professional, funny, and entertaining, but of course most of them are by or for writers. There is most definitely no shortage of blogs at present--but there are some very good ones out there if you're willing to wade through and find them.

I hope, at some point in the future, this one will be at least one of the entertaining ones, and not the 'yikes man' ones--if I could just manage to find a little more time in my day.

Just for fun...a writing exercise

I recently purchased a copy of Bonnie Neubauer's workbook of writing exercises (The Write Brain Workbook--366 exercises to liberate your writing) to aid in limbering up my occasionally cobwebby mind. I had a lot of fun with this one and I thought I would share.

"Animal Tendencies"

(I called it "A Sea Otter to be Reckoned With" my answers will appear in parentheses...you fill in your own)

The animal inside me wears _____________ (hip waders for afternoon tea.)

She lives in ________ (the ocean.)

And plays with _______________ ( a soccer ball she found floating one day.)

The animal inside me sings ____________ (off-color opera and old sailing dirges.)

She has a collection of ____________ (pearls, seashells, and flat beach balls.)

And revels in ___________ (the play of sunlight on water.)

The animal inside me loves _____________ (to feel like she is flying under water.)

She is waiting for _________ (nothing--she takes life as it comes.)

And wishes that _____________ (the world knew more about playing.)

And sometimes when no one is looking, the animal inside me _________ (puts on Groucho glasses and reads Shakespeare on the beach.)

I would love to hear some other answers to this one--don't be shy! Silly can be good for you, take it from the mother of two extremely silly, wonderful kids who remind me when I'm about to tear my hair out about something ridiculously "adult" that sometimes a little silly goes a long way.

Fear

Fear. It's an interesting emotion. It can be anything from fun when intentionally experienced for entertainment (in books, movies, and haunted houses, for example) to paralyzing at its height. One of my favorite writers said that fear is an acronym for "F$%@ Everything And Run" and sometimes it is just that, other times it is impetus to overcome the emotion itself in order to perform beyond your normal abilities.

I enjoy a good scare--I confess (confession alert!) that I am an adrenaline junkie--though certain factors have served to tame my wild ways I still love a great scary movie, the suspense of a masterfully written thriller, and the odd roller coaster ride now and again. I think certain people are just hardwired to try to scare themselves silly and challenge themselves to overcome their fears, real or imagined. Which also brings up courage--I think instead of being the absence of fear, real courage is getting up and moving on in spite of fear. This, I guess, is my real point: regardless of how you define it, whether or not you seek it out or deny its existence, fear can be friend or foe. It's your choice.

I choose to make it a friend, a tool. A tool I use to craft stories, a tool I use to motivate myself to push my limits, and a tool I use to broaden rather than narrow my horizons. What do you do?

A Croucher excerpt

The brown-haired woman blew out the candle on the desk in front of her. She had been using it to help her concentrate and had given up in disgust. Swiping violently at the frizzy curls over her forehead she leveled the man across from her with her most somber look.

“I can’t focus, Simon. She’s a wreck. There is so much misery and loss surrounding her that I doubt she’ll even recognize him. She doesn’t even know who she is—how in God’s name is she supposed to know what to do?”

She swiped again at her hair as the gray-eyed man considered her question. They kept their voices low out of years of habit, though they were in her private study. Only two other senior members of the order even knew what they were discussing—secrecy was critical now more than ever.

“I know how you feel, old girl. I tell you, she’s leaving it very late this time, I must say. She’s never failed us before though, obviously, or we wouldn’t be having this chat, would we?” He absently reached to pet the fat orange tabby that wound itself around his legs.

“I know. I just hate this waiting—it’s driving me nuts. I’ve been preparing for this for so long, watching her since she was born, that now that the moment’s arrived I feel as though I’m going out of my skin.”

“What about the girl? Any luck?”

“None. My guides just keep telling me it isn’t ‘time’. I don’t mind telling you that my patience with the spirit world is wearing thin.” She looked out into the book-filled room and addressed the upper corners as she shook a bony fist at it, her silver rings jangling,

“Do you hear that? Do you? You’re pushing it!”

The gray eyes in the old man’s face crinkled at the corners. His mustache twitched. He looked out the window at the dry Texas landscape that so differed from his beloved London to gather his composure before facing her again.

“I do believe you could use of cup of tea, Izzy, my dear. You’ve been cooped up in this study all day—you’ll be as bad off as she if you don’t take a break.”

Her eyes filled with tears as she looked back at him. She understood what he meant and knew he was right, but she couldn’t help feeling as though there were more she should be doing.

“No, Simon. There’s no one as bad off as she is. Her heart hasn’t just been broken—it’s destroyed.”

He nodded as he stood and reached for her hand.

“I know. We just have to pray that she’s as resilient now as she always has been.”

“It isn’t as if there’s an alternative, is there?”

All hint of amusement faded from his face as he stared once more out the window, though whether his thoughts were in the past, present, or future it was impossible to guess. It was some time before he faced her again and spoke.

“There never has been.”

The Writing Process

In various writers' circles, the question of the writing process inevitably comes up and it is always fascinatingly individual. Some outline, some live or die by a set schedule of words per day, others wing it, and others consult a magic eight ball.

For a new writer looking for advice on how to approach the "process" I would suggest trying several different approaches and then going with the one that really hums. You'll know it when you find it--you'll sit down, start writing by your chosen method, and all of a sudden you have ten pages of a "did I write that?" story in front of you and you're amazed at how much time has actually passed. When you find something that works, stick with it, no matter what someone else tells you--it doesn't hurt to entertain new ideas, sure, but if you know you stagnate when going by an outline, don't ever be persuaded to use one because it works for someone else. You be you. You write the way you write. If you stop trying to be the next so-and-so, who knows? You might write something that gets them trying to be the next you.

My writing process?
(shakes the shiny black ball--waits...)

Ask again tomorrow. Hmm, that's funny, the last time it said maybe. I took it to mean maybe I have a writing process and maybe I don't. What a puzzler.

My first confession

Pssst. Yeah, you. I figure since I called this blog the Confessions of an Unapologetic Thirty-something, I should actually make a confession.

Let me begin by saying that I write scary stories. Some of them have a supernatural bent, others have just really bad people making other people's lives hell, but I'm generally out for thrills--not warm fuzzies. The bigger the boo, the better, in my opinion. I was terrified when some people who were very close to me read my novel for the first time because it's fairly dark. I am generally seen as an Earth Mother type, and I could tell that (while they loved it) most people who read the book were pretty shocked that sweet lil' ol' DJ had such spooky things rolling around in her head.

But I can explain! Before anyone has me fitted for one of those lovely canvas jackets with the sleeves in the back, I can explain it very simply. For one thing, I love to read scary books. I enjoy other stories as well, obviously, I read everything I can get my hands on. My first love though, is the type of ghost story that keeps you up late at night and makes you all jumpy. And for another, I've had some dark experiences myself (not supernatural...think really bad people) and I write to make sense of my world. Of course some of my own experiences are going to then find their way to the page.

And now for the confession: I am...(gasp. shudder.) afraid of the dark. How's that for irony?

That's it. End of confession. You were expecting something...juicier?

(okay, but just this once. I am about to do naughty, naughty things to...a slice of cheesecake.)

And another blogger is born...gadzooks.

I never thought that I would blog. I love reading them, but I never thought I would join the party--I'm more the people watching type than the jumping-in-and-joining-the-fun type. Honesty alert: I now blog because I have written a book, am in the process of getting an agent and hopefully getting said book published, and most of my fellow writers advise that a blog is a great tool for "getting yourself out there."

That said, I do think I have things of value to say beyond the mundane musings of the everyday at-home mom, but then again, I think there is value in even mundane musings. Where would we be if such folks as Mark Twain, Henry David Thoreau, and Walt Whitman didn't share their musings, or, heaven forbid, they were never written down?

I am not comparing myself to these greats...not at all. But at the time, I doubt they compared themselves to their favorites either.

"Loyalty to petrified opinions never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul."--Mark Twain