A Shout-Out to My Tribe

Last month I had the opportunity to read my first published piece of writing in front of a live audience.  It was beyond super fun.  Bright lights, good laughs & sharing the stage with other stupendously creative folks.  I even received a bouquet of flowers.

On the way home, when I thought about how ridiculously awesome the evening was, one thing stood out as bringing it all together for me: my tribe showed up.

I had friends, family, co-writers & co-workers all show up either in person or by text or voice mail to wish me well & celebrate the accomplishment.  The night simply wouldn’t have been as special if my tribe hadn’t been there to share it with me.

Being a member of a tribe is not as simple as being someone’s friend.  I’m lucky to have 5 or 6 individuals in my life whom I call friend.  My tribe is probably 3 dozen folks deep & sometimes requires more effort, more attention.  My tribe is often more intimately involved in my day-to-day activity than my family.

Some days, we don’t like members of our tribe.  But at the end of the day, we’re connected to our tribe through a common goal or ethical compass or shared experience, & that tie is what binds us through conflict.

I stand in covenant with several tribes: my family, blood & chosen; the tribe of my childhood & home place; my spiritual community; my veterinary medicine peeps; & of course, my writing colleagues.

Tribes overlap, evolve, endure, raise one another up from the ashes of failure & grief, celebrate & challenge.  Members come & go, & at times, when the common goal has been accomplished, the task is complete or the binding element ceases to exist, the tribe dissolves.

Ultimately, tribes remind us that like it or not–& some days I really don’t like it—human beings on this planet are inter-connected.  We depend on one another to accomplish, build, dream, strategize, create & strive.  Hell, some days, I depend on my tribe just to survive.

I’m blessed.  My tribe shows up, & they do a particularly good job at reminding me not to take myself too seriously.  My tribe rocks.  Even when they’re a pain in my ass.

 

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I Triple Dog Dare You

 Decorate the Outskirts 2014

November is here, which means NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, is upon us. Objective: write a novel in 30 days. I participated 3 years ago & had a great experience, but this year, too many things are in the way of committing to 50,000 words.

On first pass, I thought about tossing it. Screw November. If I can’t do NaNoWriMo the “right” way, I don’t want to do it at all. I thought about taking my ball & going home, but a very wise friend, Leslie Nack, wouldn’t let me.

That same wise friend reminded me that the ultra cool people writing a novel in a month need folks like us, hanging on the outskirts, prettying the place up with our supplemental words & colors & music.

So, Leslie & I decided to join the fun in our own way, on terms that allow us to renew our commitment to writing AND juggle the 9 chainsaws we have in the air for November.

Hence, the launch of…

Decorate the Outskirts, 2014

A virtual kick in the ass for anyone whose creative Yee-Haw! needs a little oomph.

Here’s the deal. No matter what your art is–writing, painting, photography, baking or crime scene dioramas--we challenge you to renew your commitment & up the ante in your creative life.

What’s that? No time to do what makes your heart sing? I quote Kirk Hensler, creator of Write Yourself Alive & author of the blog Kale & Cigarettes:

I don’t fucking care what else you have to do. You’ll soon be dead and your worries and long to-do lists won’t matter then.

 

An hour a day, 3 hours a week, one day a week. Whatever is a step forward. Accept the challenge, put it in writing, run with it.  I dare you.

 Are you with us?

All right, I’ll go first: I accept this challenge.

I will write at least one hour every day in November.  30 days.  30 hours.

What’s your art? What’s your commitment?

How will you Decorate the Outskirts?

#DectheOutskirts #WriteEveryDamnDay

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So Many Beginnings & Endings

Back-to-school frenzy is in the air. My niece moved into her college dorm at Ashland University last weekend, a freshman, on her own for the first time.

Many San Diego City school buses hit the roads again this week, carrying their loads of small people to the doors of yet another year, a new teacher.

And the most telling evidence: current Target commercials all feature excited kids & parents dancing down the store’s aisles, filling their carts with new pens, pencils, notebooks & spiffy back-to-school clothes. I miss having to buy an art box every August. How much fun is an art box?

This time of the year always ignites a burst of nostalgia for me. A yearning to go back to a time in my life when things were simpler, opportunities ran more abundant & dreaming about the future didn’t feel so…ridiculous.

I encourage the young people around me to enjoy these times. Really pay attention. How many of us look in our rear view mirrors these day & think, When did I blink? The ravings of an old fart, but I still tell them.

So many beginnings & endings. Small, large, noticed & not.

I believe the power of ritual has been forgotten in much of western society. Sure, we do baptisms, birthday cake, wedding gowns & commencement robes, but those rituals seem to culminate & fizzle out when we either have our own kids & start the cycle over on their behalf, or if we don’t have kids, when we settle into a “career” & wait for the retirement party.

What do we do to honor & mark the smaller shifts, accomplishments & defeats, especially after we blow out the candles on our 30th birthdays?

Our first solo plane ride
The first time a bartender doesn’t bother to ask us for i.d.
Losing a pet we chose from the shelter all on our own
Connecting with a new friend
Saying goodbye to a parent
The first time a doctor calls & tells you the test did not come back clear
The moment we find ourselves alone on a Saturday night & think, “This is nice” & not “Oh my god I’m a loser”
Donating blood
The day we realize that if we die at the same age our parent died, we’ve passed the halfway point
The first time a waitress calls us ma’am or sir & we knock a buck off her tip
Holding the hand of a friend sitting for her first chemo treatment.
Becoming an organ donor
Asking someone to be our Power of Attorney for Medical Care
The first time we proclaim “I’m too old for that shit” & mean it

I need to ritualize these little moments, acknowledge their significance, offer the respect, gratitude & grief they deserve.

In that spirit, I’m buying myself a new lunch box. Yep, this one…

Because I survived the last 3 months. 3 months that sucked shit, challenged my faith & tested my fortitude. I’m honoring the fact that I’m here, on the other side, a little beaten up, but hopefully a little more compassionate as well.

And besides, school is starting, & I need a new lunch box. Maybe even an art box. With crayons & glue.

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Blog Tour: Next Stop, Somewhere

 

Many thanks to Elizabeth Marro, fellow Wednesday night Read & Critique sojourner who tagged me in this Writer’s Blog Tour. #mywritingprocess

Elizabeth & I meet weekly with the rest of our group & challenge one another’s writing skills, self-confidence & lifelong dream of being rich & famous off one published book that is eagerly optioned by the WB for a television series that premieres after Supernatural & features Susan Sarandon’s move to the small screen.

Elizabeth is a kick-ass writer who pushes me to cut the bullshit & get real with my work. Her current project is Casualties, a novel that brings new perspective to the growing body of fiction dealing with the lasting impact of our most recent wars on those who fight and those who wait at home.

Check out her brilliance: http://elizabethmarroblog.com @EGMarro

So this Blog Tour thing…

“It’ll be fun,” Elizabeth said. “Just answer 4 simple questions about your writing process.”

   1) What am I working on?

   2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

   3) Why do I write what I do?

   4) How does your writing process work?

 

Easy, I thought.

 

 

1) I’m writing my first novel, the story of 3 sisters on the midwestern homefront during WWII, circa 1943, loosely based on some family history & the crucial role Goodyear Aircraft played in the war effort.

Yay! My cocktail pitch sounds pretty cool.

And that my friends, is where I slam face first into the dead end of certainty.

I have no idea how my works differs or if it even IS different. I also have no clue why I continue to work on this particular story, except that I must. My writing process? I tacked up a Wanted poster several years back & no one called.

How about I tell you what I do know about this whole writing thing?

Duck Valley, Ohio & the people who fill its borders exist. My 3 “fictional” sisters, Bessie, Jeannie & Rogue all live. Their fears, hopes, loves & adventures matter. Maybe not in this reality, but they are, somewhere, outside of me, far beyond the constrictive restraints of my imagination.

This project started as a screenplay right out of film school in 2002. I spent weeks back in Ohio doing research with my dad. Road trips, family dinners & a dozen rolls of film. It felt like someone was counting down from 10, & we stood moments from take-off, destination: Planet Friggin’ Phenomenal.

My dad got sick & died in 2005. I set the project aside for 6 years, knowing it wouldn’t be as much fun without him rooting me on. But Duck Valley wouldn’t go away. The Alton sisters kept campaigning for a comeback, hijacking my plans for other writing projects.

In 2011, I agreed to give it a tenuous try, but on 2 conditions: 1) move to a novel, leave the film script behind & 2) I would write for the characters & nothing more. Not to get published, make a billion dollars or finally win my father’s approval. This story would be written for them, the characters who had been bonking on my door for a decade & the sacred stories peeking in my windows.

3 years later, I’m still plugging along, page by page, one voice at a time. No end in sight, all of us just riding on the same train, trying to enjoy the view & each other’s company.

Sometimes setting the map & navigation tools down is difficult. Some days the landscape out the windows is just stick-ass boring. Many days, I search for the engineer so I can politely ask we speed things up or at least toot the damn horn every once in awhile.

Then something happens, unexpected & often quietly wondrous, that reminds me this trip is not my own, & I’m not the one in charge. I punched my ticket, stowed my luggage & now my job is to stay still & listen.

 

 

Now it’s my turn to tag other fabulous writers so they can continue the conversation.

First up:    Leslie Johansen Nack     Leslie is working on her memoir, the amazing story of her family traveling the world for 3 years on a 45-foot sailboat.  She is currently waist-deep in discovering the tenuous line between personal truth & shared memory, & is brilliant in bringing her authentic 12-year-old self to the page.  Her blog can be found at SheWrites.com, & she’s a member of San Diego Writers, Ink.

And next:  Indy Quillen  A lifelong writer, Indy has created everything from short stories to children’s books to greeting cards & novels.  A fellow Midwest girl, she rocked my universe by designing & creating my website, & helping me remember that taking a risk is always necessary to achieve something awesome.  Check out her talents as a Social Media Strategist at mediafastlanes.com.

 

 

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Poop on Valentine’s Day

5th grade

February 13, 1979: Dear Diary, Mike M. is the love of my life. I wonder if he’ll bring me flowers tomorrow? I think I’m going to marry him.

February 14, 1979: Dear Diary, Worst day of my life! Mike M. gave me a stupid pencil for Valentine’s Day. And it was already sharpened! He gave Julie B. chocolates. I hope she gets fat. I think the pencil came from his desk. The end was chewed.

6th grade

February 13, 1980: Dear Diary, Mark L. is my one true love. I think Mark’s going to ask me to couple skate at the roller skating party tomorrow night, which means we would have to HOLD HANDS!

February 14, 1980: Dear Diary, Mark L. is a jerk! You know what song he asked me to couple skate to? AFTER THE LOVE IS GONE! Then he asked Teresa B. to a slow skate & guess what song THEY skated to? Babe I Love You. And of course Teresa B. had to show off & skate backwards during the song.   My heart is broken. I will never love again.

Present Day, 2014

I thoroughly & vigilantly dislike Valentine’s Day.

Completely beside the fact that my early experiences of the “holiday” obviously set the precedent for deep & lasting heart break, the 35 years since have taught me a lot about our societal obsession with coupling.

As an adult I’ve spent many years alone. Some years by choice, some years not. In the time as a single person, I experienced immense pressure to “find someone” because living life alone is so pathetic & sad.

Translation: being with a jackass, someone who treats me like shit or bores me to the point I stick toothpicks between my 2 front teeth, is better than being alone.

I so disagree with that thinking.

There are advantages & blessings of both being partnered & being single, just as there sacrifices to both.

I despise our culture’s insistence that we should pity people who are single. That pity–both external & internal–runs rampant the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day.

I enjoyed the majority of my time as a single woman. Yes, there were times of feeling lonely, longing for someone to share my days with. But I also had no one pulling on my time or energy. I was free to do anything, go anywhere, without answering to anyone but myself.

I came to appreciate hanging with just myself. I discovered that I’m pretty good company. And because of that time alone, I grew into a place of self-acceptance that allowed me to fully embrace a relationship when it knocked on my door.

Until I was ok being alone, I stunk at being someone’s girlfriend.

So this Valentine’s Day, celebrate the singles in your life. Don’t bring them a pity casserole or suggest they join Match.com. They may be perfectly satisfied with the independent, un-tethered life they are living.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Living a Small Life

Shelagh Gordon.

I first heard the name on an episode of “Here and Now” on NPR.

Not a lead story. Just a 9-minute glance at her life & sudden death in Toronto. A blurb of sorts that I caught while driving. But these words stopped me, compelled me to look up her story as soon as I arrived home:

She lived a small life, as most of us do. Her struggles were intimate… She wasn’t someone who had affected massive change. But, in her own way, she really did intimately affect so many people.

By the age of 12, I wanted a big life. A life that people would know & read about in the history books. A big-ass life.

Some days, I believe I’ve learned the hard lesson & accepted that big doesn’t necessarily translate to significant or worthwhile. Yet many days, I still want big. I want to leave something behind that makes a difference or changes hearts, something that is larger than me & the little life I’m living.

A friend once told me that because I’m a writer, I see myself as the main character in my own screenplay, & that screenplay is horribly boring & ordinary, like the narratives of the other 7 billion people living on planet earth. So NOT the hero’s journey. My friend may be on to something.

I want to be content with a small life.

I’ve watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” well over 50 times. I’m waiting to wake up like George Bailey, a new-found appreciation for the ordinary existence bursting from within, but clearly my damn angel hasn’t earned her wings yet. No bells dinging in my head.

In high school, a friend & I used to sit out in a field drinking cheap beer & wine coolers we picked up with fake id’s that said we were 36. We shelled peanuts, asked each other super important questions & offered up profound answers.

The question I remember most: What is your greatest fear? In 1984, most young people would’ve answered “nuclear annihilation.” Not me.

My worst fear: Waking up in 25 years & realizing I’ve wasted my life.

30 years later, it’s still my worst fear, wasting my God-given talents & gifts.

I think about Shelagh Gordon quite often these days. Reading her story leaves me with both guilt & hope. Guilt that my arrogance leaves me wanting so much more & what that says about me. Hope that some day, I’ll settle into my small life, content with the small connections, intimate struggles, ordinary existence.

 

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