The Time Has Come

"The time has come," she said, "to write."

At what moment do you start being a writer? The moment that you start writing.

At what moment do you stop being a writer? The moment that you stop writing. 

The definition of writer has never been that simple for me. I always thought you needed to get paid or published or maybe even do it full-time for it to really be true. But hey, I was paid. I was published. And although, I never had the pleasure of being able to write full-time, I can now say with confidence that it has nothing to do with all of that. It's really as simple as you either write, or you don't. 

I didn't write for so long. Sure, I had excuses. I was in graduate school. There was a lot going on with my family. Blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Those are just excuses. The fact was that I quit being what I loved. I quit. And then it became harder and harder to become that person I loved again. It seemed that the obstacle I'd created for myself was insurmountable. Sure...another excuse.

I believe in signs. The Universe speaks to us. Whether that be in the form of a higher power, a forest spirit, an electromagnetic field, I don't know, but it speaks to us, and if we choose to listen, if we're BRAVE enough to listen, we can find magic. I ignored all the signs for so long. I excused the signs.

I need to read for school.

I need to vacuum.

I need to buy groceries.


No. No, the Universe screamed. You need to write!

I need to write. I've abandoned it for too long, something simple, something profound that brought me such joy, and I want it back. I want blogging back. I want Chicken Noodle Gravy back.

School is finished. I'm two years older and wiser. I have two whole years of experiences to write about. The material is there. The words are on the tip of my tongue. So. The time has come.

To write.

The Empathetic One

When I was agonizing over the decision of killing the spider in my bathtub this morning, despite a deep-seated, nearly paralyzing fear of spiders, I realized that I may be taking this empathy thing a bit too far. I’ve always been empathetic. From my days as child, sleeping with twenty stuffed animals because I was afraid I might hurt the feelings of said stuffed animals (or the giver of said stuffed animals) if I didn’t include them all, to my days as an adult, crying long and hard over a dead goose in the middle of a busy highway.

I can’t help it. I feel, and I feel deeply. Relating to people, to animals, heck, even to things, is a gift, even if it’s also a curse. Let’s start by examining the gift side of things. I care. I care about how the world turns out. I care about people and their fate. I care about how you’re feeling and why you’re feeling that way. It helps me to connect to you and everyone else in this world, and I sincerely love that about myself. It makes me open-minded and inclusive. It helps me “see through another’s eyes” and “walk in another’s shoes” and all of those other tired clichés about connecting and relationships.

On the other hand, empathy hurts. It turns me into mush. It worries me. It’s “tearin’ me apart,” as James Dean might say. As a supervisor, my empathy has proven to be a bit too much to handle. Since January, I’ve been struggling along in my first supervisory role…ever. The fact that I’m now leading a team of 6 to 7 people on a daily basis, that they count on me for things like paychecks and guidance, well, sometimes it’s a little overwhelming.

Their problems become my problems. I spend time agonizing over how best to solve those problems, and most of the time, I just can’t turn off my mind. The same goes with friends and family. If I sense for even a moment (and I’m good at sensing feelings, too) that someone close to me is unhappy, my entire day is thrown off.  I focus on what must be wrong, how I can help, and all of the other things that empathizers focus on when their powers are at work.

Empathizing and worrying seem to kind of go hand-in-hand, although they aren’t mutually exclusive. In recent years, I’ve fine-honed my empathizing to turn off if I start worrying too much. That comes in handy when my mind starts getting carried away with things.

So, yeah, I would say being empathetic is both a blessing and a curse. It’s like I’m a superhero with powers that are both good and bad. Maybe a little like Superman. Run with me here. Superman sometimes hates the fact that he’s got all of these powers, because even though they help him save people, they also alienate him from people and keep him from living a normal life. I sometimes want to live a normal life, with a normal level of emotion and empathy. That’s all I’m saying. When you over-empathize, you end up driving yourself a little crazy.

But if Superman had the chance to give up his powers, would he? It’s the age-old question. If I could give up being so empathetic, would I? The answer always seems to be no. Because in giving up anything that is a part of you, whether it be a super power or a personality trait that happens to be in hyper-drive, you change that fundamental equation that makes you…you. And when the world is full of so many cool people, who are each different and super in their own way, who the heck would want to do that? 

Endings and Beginnings

What better time than the holidays and the new year to start reevaluating where we are in life and where we are going? I’ve had plenty of time and cause to consider these very important questions lately, as I find myself embarking on a new career and a possible new educational pursuit.

I’ve also been asking myself the age-old question that’s been hotly debated and intensely considered by kindergarteners everywhere: what do I want to be when I grow up? Good question, and I’m still not sure that I’ve ever really answered it. If all my dreams were to come true, I’d want to be a writer, but really to be a writer, all you have to do is write, so I’ve already accomplished that in a sense. I guess what I should really say is that I want to make a living writing.

I’ve been so busy in pursuit of my new career that I’ve barely had time lately to focus on writing, and it wasn’t until I received a kind note today from an old, dear friend that I realized how much my lack of focus on that thing that I loved so much was putting it in danger.

When our lives become busy, we tend to start cutting things out. Going to the gym? Nope, no time. Reading a book by my favorite author? Well, there’s always tomorrow for that. Writing fiction and poetry and updating my beloved blog? First, I have to do laundry, then cook dinner, then dishes, and ironing and….

Before you know it, your life has become nothing more than work, work, work, and though you may feel fulfilled by that work and though you may love it, you aren’t giving time to the things that you really love, the things that fulfill you creatively and keep you passionate and excited. Things like family and reading and writing and kitty cats, and all of the things that make me…well, me.

As I try to nail down the program that I want to pursue for my Masters degree, I know that life is about to take another strange and complicated turn. My evenings and weekends now that are already so busy are only about to become busier, as I balance school, even more responsibilities at work that come with a new promotion, family, and myself. Where does writing fall in this future? I’m not sure, and that scares me.

Earlier today I told a friend that I may have to give up writing my column in order to make time for everything. The thought of giving up this column that has now been a part of my life for over three wonderful years is a sad one for sure, but I don’t know how else to make everything fit, and I don’t even have any kids to put in the mix!

To me, life is all about challenge and change. With every new year, every new season for that matter, we are faced with exciting and sometimes scary new adventures, and with those adventures, we have to make choices. I have some big decisions ahead of me in the next couple of weeks. My thanks to that old, dear friend Emily for helping to make sure that writing isn’t lost along the way. 

There's No Excuse

Via

Our laundry room is in the basement. Fortunately, it’s not one of those creepy basements like you see in the movies, but I still avoid it like the plague. Primarily because the laundry room is down there, and to me, that is scarier than even the scariest basement ghosts and goblins.

Unlike my big sister, who infamously did a load of laundry while in labor with my nephew, I am not a fan of this the most mundane of mundane chores. I do it only when completely necessary, and usually when only granny panties are left in the underwear lineup. The excuses I can fabricate to evade laundry are both numerous and varied and, at points during my history as a laundry-doer, have included: 

1. Well, I need to give some of my other clothes a chance to be worn anyway.
2. I don’t want to go downstairs and risk aggravating my creaky, possibly injured knee on our reasonably steep staircase.
3. I heard something in the basement and will wait until Jeremy gets home to investigate (at which point, I totally forget about doing the laundry and successfully put it off to another day completely).
4. The laundry basket is too heavy and may cause me to fall down the stairs.
5. Meh, it can wait until tomorrow. “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

Making excuses is easy. It’s one of the easiest things I do. If it’s something I don’t want to do, I can give you a list of at least a dozen reasons to delay it or to not do it all. You could call it a skill of mine. For the longest time, Jeremy and I made excuses for not exercising. The most common excuse? “We don’t have time.”

Strangely enough, we did have the time to sit around and watch TV, to play around on the internet, to immerse ourselves in video games or books. We could do any of those activities for hours in the evening after work and not even blink an eye, but somehow we didn’t have time to go work out.

In the last few weeks, we’ve attempted to stop making those excuses. We faithfully go to the gym three or four times a week and make a conscious effort to not talk ourselves out of it. But even as I write this, I can feel my need to start making excuses again bubble up. Especially in light of some of the recent and upcoming changes in my life.

I’ve had a writing breakthrough. After a long and complicated dry spell (fueled by more excuse making), a turnaround is upon us. I’ve committed to spending more time focusing on writing and making a bigger effort to finish my novel.

In January, if all goes well, I will begin Graduate School to complete my Library and Information Science degree.

Both of these goals mean that I will have to be more disciplined and determined than ever. I’ll have to quit making excuses and start making things happen. But with each new challenge, time becomes more and more precious and fleeting. The time that I devote to going to the gym will be time away from writing and away from studying. Because of this, I could continue to make excuses. I could give up something in the name of time. I could go back to being less than all I can be. That would be the easy thing. And Lord knows, we all need a little more easy in life…

But instead, I’m going to continue to fight against easy and excuses. I’m going to ask more of myself and expect more of myself. Time is precious and fleeting, that’s true enough, but that’s the exact reason we should not waste a second of it.

But hey, when you hear me still making excuses to not do the laundry, don’t judge. It’s a long way down that staircase…  

Windows and Doors and Hope Rekindled

Source: keepcalmandlovedisney.tumblr.com via Megan on Pinterest

Everything happens for a reason. Or so they say.

From the time we're old enough to know true disappointment, it's repeated to us like a mantra, a lulling pacifier designed to sugarcoat failure and despair.

It's a sentiment that wears many hats.

There's the standard: Well, everything happens for a reason.

The educational: Must be a lesson in there somewhere. 

The hopeful: When one door closes, another opens. Or the variation: When a door closes, a window opens.

The romantic: There's plenty of fish in the sea.

The religious: God works in mysterious ways.

Whether it's uttered to soothe the wounds of unrequited love, the smarting ache of a hard-learned lesson, or the tormenting letdown of a wish unfulfilled, we've all heard the phrase and its many cousins. We've all experienced disappointment, unanswered prayers, and the like. That's life, as they say. Whoever they are.

In the midst of sorrow and defeat, it's a hard thing to hear. I suppose it's difficult to see how something positive could come from something negative. At least in that moment it is.

I've lived through one of those moments recently. The worst of the disappointment has passed, though I still have times where I want to scream "why!?!?" at the top of my lungs. I think, for the most part, I'm now at a point where I'm looking towards the future, wondering what windows and doors are hanging open, waiting for me to step through.

I've never been a terribly patient person. I want things to happen NOW. Waiting until Christmas to buy that new bauble that caught my eye? Not gonna happen. Waiting to adopt a new cat until "cat fever" has left, and I'm thinking straight again? Nope, not me. Waiting to get to know a little better the man I met online only months ago before I marry him? Nah, it'll all work out.

I'm just not a wait-and-see kind of girl. So waiting to see what kinds of new opportunities might be just beyond the horizon is not really my cup of tea. But you know what? There's a lesson to be learned here. Don't they also say that good things come to those who wait? 

Patience, Katie. Patience.

So, I sit and wait and hope, hope, hope. Because everything happens for a reason, and for everything there is a season. And y'all, my season has always been fall.

Here's to windows and doors and hope rekindled.

Source: capecodcollegiate.tumblr.com via nk on Pinterest

Funk

Source: vkontakte.ru via Letie on Pinterest

And I don't mean music.

I'm in one. Bad.

A writing funk of epic proportions. And a life funk. It's been about two months now. It sucks.

It happens. We all know it. Life throws you a curve ball, and inspiration flies out the window. I'm not going to go on and on about it. It's all been said before. By me. By others. We're human. Life isn't perfect. Writing isn't perfect.

The second anniversary of Chicken Noodle Gravy is fast approaching. A little over a month away. So crazy to think that it's been nearly two years since I started blogging about my love of a strange family dish most people have never even heard of.

Looking back on the last two years, I'm happy. Happy to see the new friends I've made. Happy to see the changes in myself.

I'm more confident. I write more. I'm now being paid to write. My relationship with my husband is stronger and happier than ever. I'm more positive. My outlook is always improving. I still worry, but I don't wallow in my worry quite as bad. I stand up for myself. I don't let everyone walk all over me anymore. Mostly.

Despite some minor irksome details over the last couple of months, things are pretty amazing, and I'm one happy girl.

Take that, Funk.

War on the Front Lawn

The seven stinging aggressors 

should beware the burning 
of gasoline retaliation.

For Lightning and the Lightning Bug's Eleven prompt. Our challenge was to tell a tale in eleven words. I decided to use my yellow jacket encounter as inspiration.

Writing on Cue

The Lightning and the Lightning Bug wants us to write uninterrupted for ten solid minutes. Didn't think I was up to the challenge, but I managed. Will you join us? Click the link below! 

9:03pm

Ten minutes of uninterrupted writing? You’d think that’d be easy, and for some, it probably is, but for me…the classic overthinker…this exercise has been torturous. I’ve thought about it while showering. While lying in bed at night. While eating my fruit roll-up for breakfast. While grooming my four cats. I’ve thought, and I’ve thought, and I’ve officially given up thinking at this point in favor of getting something…anything down on paper.

I’ve realized something over the last few days. I suck at “just writing.” I need a purpose. I need an idea. I need direction. Sitting down and writing just to write? Nope, that’s just not me and that kind of makes me ashamed. I should be able to write on command, right? Yeah, not so much. I’ve never been that kind of writer. I need just the right amount of inspiration mixed with just the right amount of motivation mixed with just the right amount of wine, then I’m set. But until I hit that “just right” point? I can’t just write.

When I thought of this prompt on Sunday, I thought, “yay! Something I can actually participate in.” Because honestly, I’ve been running short on the inspiration department lately when it comes to prompts and writing. I just don’t get inspired like I used to; then again, I figure I’m just going through a dry spell. Happens to the best of us, right?

Well, I’m sick of dipping my quill into a dry inkwell. It’s time to get that inspiration back…even if it means just writing for ten minutes about absolutely nothing other than writing, which is probably boring for anyone but me.

I picked up my novel again over the weekend. And by “picked up,” I mean I opened the Word document it was hiding in and actually started looking it over. I even wrote a few paragraphs tonight. 250 words to be exact. Which is 250 more words than I’ve written for it in nearly six months. Sad but true. Like my new determination to walk off my jiggly beer gut and live a healthier lifestyle, I’m also determined to write this damn novel.

That means spending less time surfing facebook and twitter and looking at cute pictures of cats on the internet, but it must be done. I have a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it.

It feels like it’s already written in my head anyway; I just have to find a way to get it down on paper, and I will. I’m determined. If it takes 5,000 nights of 250 word spurts, then that’s what it takes. Becky Garrett wants to be heard; she’s sick of living only in my head.

Well, my last minute is winding down. I guess I can write on cue after all.

9:13pm

Hide and Seek

Her playhouse was made of leaves and vines, of sticks and trees. Sunlight filtered into it, setting her stage of childhood and sorrow with spackles of brightness and shadow.

Inside, drawn up against the forest floor, she counted to ten, again and again, a whispered repetition that became more frantic, labored breath catching on each hurried number.

Somewhere, a twig would snap. A bird would call. And the girl would freeze, thinking her adventure over, knowing her freedom was fleeting. He would find her. He always did. No matter how still she grew or quiet her counting.

He always did.

Author's Note: Fiction inspired by #100WordSong, the brilliant weekly writing challenge from my buddy Lance of My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. This week's song was "Runaway" by Jefferson Starship chosen by the delightful Kir of The Kir Corner. 

High Notes

Something strange happens sometimes. You experience a moment, a flash in time that is so inspiring, so beautiful, that as a writer you can’t wait to record it.

The words spill out, each one crowding the next as they fly over the page, settling onto the white spaces of it like a flock of birds on a fresh-cut field. You write what could very well be your best work ever in twenty minutes flat, the inspiration so amazing, so beautiful that you can hardly contain it all in mere words.

                                                    Source: weheartit.com via Linda on Pinterest

And then it's over.

The world settles back into place around you, and you're left feeling drained, spent, mind reeling, wondering if you'll ever be able to write again. 

For those few precious moments, it was easy, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of words and images and phrases coming together to create something really special, something beautiful and unique. 

But most of the time, it's hard. 

When I first started writing, it was difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that not everything I wrote was going to be my best work. I just couldn't understand how one day I could write beautifully, and the next it was like I'd forgotten how to string together a coherent sentence. 

Well, it's the next day, y'all. It has been for about a week. 

Now, before this becomes one of those whiny writer's block posts that we all know I'm capable of writing, I figure I better shift gears a bit and talk about Seinfeld. 

Growing up in my dry and witty household, Seinfeld was a commodity, a staple upon which we feasted every Thursday night. I learned many life lessons (particularly what NOT to do) from the likes of Elaine, Jerry, Kramer, and George. I laughed about things like contraceptive sponges and being the "master of my domain," even when the meaning of both were largely lost upon me as a clueless preteen.

Despite the fact that it's been off the air for more than ten years, Seinfeld quotes still pepper the conversation of many a family gathering, where you might hear any member of my family shout out "Cartwright!" or "No soup for you!" over Sunday dinner. We like to say that for every situation life throws at you there is a Seinfeld episode that corresponds and relates in some cosmic way. 

The same can be said for the bout of "writer's block" that I'm currently facing.

This time I’m reminded of the Seinfeld episode when George tries to leave every situation "on a high note." He wants to leave a good impression, for everyone to remember him when he was on his game, and so he adopts an "I'm out!" philosophy. When he happens to pitch a good idea or tell a particularly funny joke, he immediately bows out of the room. He thinks that leaving on a high note will make him seem more clever to his friends and colleagues. And maybe that's true...for awhile. 

But, as in most Seinfeld episodes, George's plan eventually backfires, and he's left juggling more than he bargained for. The English major in me wants to over-analyze the message that the Seinfeld writers are sending. And so I will.

Life has plenty of high notes; if we're lucky, we all get to experience those precious moments when everything is perfectly in sync and grooving. With writing. With work. With life at home. But life has plenty of duds as well, and there's absolutely no way to avoid them. Eventually, they just catch up with us. 

The trick is to keep going. Write past creative blocks. Fight past bad days at work. Look past negative people. And just keep swimming. 

Wait, that's Finding Nemo, and I'm mixing my references, but you get what I mean. Bowing out is never an option, not even when the words escape you, not even when it looks like you may never write anything lovely again...

Because just when you've lost all hope, when you think that your voice is gone for good, that flock of words lights on the white spaces of your page and inspiration takes flight. 

For some beautiful inspiration and writing, I highly encourage you to visit yeah write by clicking the button below, and don't forget to visit again on Thursday when you can vote for your five favorite posts:

Falling In and Out of Love

Writing is not my best friend today. It was yesterday, my source of comfort and joy, passion and fulfillment. Today, it represents only pain and frustration, and as I scramble to get it back to good, I am forced to reevaluate our relationship and look at exactly where we stand.

An inevitable part of writing is hitting roadblocks. Lack of inspiration. Particularly harsh criticism. Self-doubt.

The key is to push through those roadblocks and continue on this bumpy journey, never giving in and never giving up.

This week, I hit a roadblock. This week, I wanted to give up.

Part of freelancing, I'm learning, is writing on topics I'm not particularly interested in. I'm given an assignment, and I write on that assignment, regardless of my feelings on the subject. I always want to connect with my subjects, but it's unrealistic to expect that I will be passionate about everything I write.

Until recently, I had that expectation.

When I'm passionate about something, my writing improves exponentially. This is probably no big surprise to anyone and may be true for most everyone, but it's true for me just the same.

I am a machine fueled by passion and love and feelings so strong that sometimes my heart just can't contain them all. So those feelings spill freely and uncensored from my fingertips, splashing onto the page like impossibly bright drops of paint, filling that blank canvas with ideas and characters and just the right words.

When my passion is on empty, the machine slows, choking and sputtering and tripping on every word.

This leaves me at a crossroads. To live the dream and get paid to write, I'll inevitably have to write on subjects of little interest to me.

Source: weheartit.com via Jenna on Pinterest

My husband says to write on those subjects I'll need to apply everything I know about writing, everything I've learned over the years and write from my head instead of my heart. For these assignments, I'll need to look at writing as more of a science instead of an art. I'm not a particularly methodical kind of writer. I feel the words, and I write them.

I don't outline.

I don't brainstorm.

I just write. Just writing has been the only thing I know and understand.

But now, at this crossroads, at this point of looking at writing as more of a profession and less of a hobby, I have to change gears. In order to produce the best work possible, I need to learn a whole slew of new skills.

How to interview. How to ask the right questions, get the right answers. How to inspire my contacts to give me the best quotes possible.

How to work with someone else's words. How to insert those words seamlessly into my own words and make the entire piece flow like water.

How to brainstorm. How to outline. How to draft. How to read an editor's mind and know exactly what they need from an assignment. How to give them what they need.

Relationships change. That's just part of life, I guess. But do I want my relationship with writing to change?

When I first met Jeremy, I tried to talk him into going to culinary school. He loved to cook, so my natural assumption was that he would also love to cook for a living. But he balked at that idea, citing the fact that he didn't want to make cooking into work. It was a passion for him, something he loved to do, and he didn't want the stigma that comes with "working" to change that passion.

At the time, I didn't understand. If you could do something you loved for a living, why wouldn't you? It seemed simple to me.

Today, I understand him and his reasons a little better. Today, my passion has changed.

Can I separate the two sides of myself that have a relationship with writing? Can I keep my passion and keep my work?

As a child, I loved the beach. I wanted to move to the coast and live there forever. When I voiced this dream, my parents always said, "Katie, if you lived there all the time, just like anything else, you'd get tired of it. It wouldn't be as special."

And I guess that's just it. I don't want writing to become living at the beach.



Author's Note: I want to be clear that I'm happy about having the opportunity to write for pay. After a bad week with freelancing, I'm just taking a moment to look at what that means for me and how that may change my relationship with writing. 
How do you feel about mixing work and play? Would freelance writing change the way you feel about creative writing?

My Dearest Ms. Austen

Click to enlarge

My Dearest Ms. Austen –

I hope this letter finds you well. Of course, you are dead, so I’m not really sure how “well” you could be. But for a dead writer, I do hope you are well. I hope your eternity is full of ink and quills and social situations to poke fun of.

To start, I would like to comment on a hero from my favorite of your beloved novels, one Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Good God, woman, could you have created a more perfect man? You might already know this, but countless readers have lusted after your Mr. Darcy…particularly when he’s portrayed by Colin Firth on film. Yummy.

But I digress. Thanks for the high expectations. No woman deserves less than a passionate, stubborn, very-nearly-insulting, and intelligent man like Darcy, and no woman should settle for a man who brings forth less passion within her. I have my own irritating and adorable Mr. Darcy, and I wouldn’t trade him for the world.

More important than the dead sexy and very real Colin Firth or the dead sexy and very fictional Mr. Darcy, I would like to mention the nature of your words and your storytelling ability and how both of these things heavily influenced the direction my life has taken.

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As a little girl, I loved to read and be read to, not unlike many children; however, as I grew, I found that my passion for words stretched far beyond just reading them. I had a writer’s heart: first kindled in a grade school poetry competition, catching fire in an eighth grade reading of The Diary of Anne Frank, and consuming my soul in high school with the works of Hemingway, Lee, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, and, a favorite, Ms. Jane Austen.

Ms. Austen, you are just one of my many literary heroes. Your words are just a few of the words that have touched me and molded me as a writer over the years. I collect characters and phrases from you and others, tucking them away like pieces of sea glass…to be used later, shining and sparkling again in my own words and worlds.

And so I dream of you, of having an ounce of your talent, of wielding a quill and a pot of ink as cleverly as you do. I dream of writing words that move millions, that leave a legacy, that still have life centuries after my death.

And of course, I dream of Mr. Darcy…

Sincerely and with great respect,

Ms. Kathryn Ross

Click to enlarge

This letter was hand-written for the Lightning and Lightning Bug prompt: Letter Writing Campaign. We were charged to write a letter in 700 words or less to someone we'd never met. I was inspired to write to one of my literary heroes. 


Which of your literary heroes would you write to if given the opportunity? What would you say?


If you'd like to join the Letter Writing Campaign, you have until Wednesday to linkup. Hope to see you there!

Exclamation Points Anonymous

My name is Katie, and I have a problem. Not the most original way to start a blog post, I know, but I feel the need to absolve myself, to confess my sins, and to allow you to pass what judgement you will on the person I really am.

And the person I really am is a person who abuses the delightful form of punctuation known as the exclamation point (among other things, as you'll see). As a writer, it smarts to admit that. I'm going to leave it out there for a minute so that you can mull it over and let the truth sink in.

...

Ready? Okay. When I'm in my "writing" zone, this problem rarely rears its ugly and enthusiastic head. I don't really get the urge to litter my work with that cute little line and dot combo that can be either incredibly annoying or incredibly endearing, depending on whom you ask. I guess recording my thoughts for a blog post or composing a work of fiction just doesn't call for the little guy too much, so he mostly stays away.

Thank goodness.

But in everyday life, oh, he's there. Boy, is he ever there.

In comments on my favorite blogs, he's there.

In text messages to friends and family, he's there.

In tweets and Facebook updates, Lord help me, he's there.

In emails composed to my coworkers and superiors, emails that are supposed to be professional, the little stinkin' bugger is there.

I hate him sometimes. I hate that he makes me sound like a lunatic who's yelling everything.

"Sure, Jenny! I'll be at the meeting today! I can't wait!"

I'm either a lunatic who's yelling everything or an overenthusiastic idiot who probably seems pretty insincere. Neither are very appealing images, which is why: This. Must. Stop.

I have to let go of security blankets like exclamation points, ellipses, and random capitalization. I have to let my words speak for themselves without the aid of certain devices. Sure, there's a place for those devices. But I need to learn to use them with a lighter hand, to not be that writer who uses them as a crutch, as a way to clutter their writing and distract from their message.

We all know that writer.

The one!! Who loves everything!!! And wants you to get excited about it!!!! And love it, too!!!!!

The one who...puts ellipses...in every sentence...they...write...

The one who RANDOMLY capitalizes WORDS to place, often unnecessary, EMPHASIS.

I have been that writer. I am that writer. But today's a new day, and the first step to solving a problem is to admit that you have it. Well, I have it. And from here on out, I'm breaking up with the exclamation point, the ellipses, and that ever-annoying random capitalization.

We'll still be friends though!!!!

...

Oops.

Edited to add: I typed this from a printed version of the post last night. I very obviously did not proofread. To those who may have read this before I fixed my glaring errors, I apologize.

Edited (again) to add: If you are a serial exclamation point user like me, never fear. I will still love you, as I navigate my own road to recovery. You just keep doing what you do best. I'm the one with the problem. Not you :)

Via

Do you have any weird writing quirks that drive you crazy? Do you over-punctuate? Do you abuse the exclamation point?! Well, DO YOU!?!?!

Ode to Katney: the Odd Couple

For me, friendship has always been an elusive creature. I’m not skilled at making friends, and I’m even less skilled at keeping them. I probably have several social disorders that compound my problem, but to put it most simply, I’m shy, awkward, and self-conscious. Not the best combination when it comes to social situations. 

High school was hell. The phrase “fish out of water” comes to mind, and boy, was I. Flipping and flopping and gulping for breath as I navigated a dry land that was foreign to me and impossible to grasp. Needless to say, I wasn’t popular. 

I had friends, though they could probably be described as acquaintances at best, because I could never quite let them in all the way. Anxieties constantly dictated my every move, and before I knew it, I was pushing someone away for some stupid reason or worry. It was the one thing I could count on. 

I can still count on it. 

But not too long ago, something changed. I made a friend...and have kept her for almost two years. 

As far as longevity goes, I’ve had friendships that have lasted longer, but what sets my relationship with this friend apart is its depth. She knows me, knows the flaws, the quirks. And yet, she still likes me. 

She knows my anxieties, too, can probably list them by name, and instead of judging me for them or cutting ties with me because of them, she accepts them all. Accepts me. 

I can say with certainty that only a few people have accepted me, me and everything about me. I guess it’s hard to love a neurotic, phonophobic, anxiety-filled, obsessive weirdo who loves and feels with her entire heart. But this friend, she loves me. 

We couldn’t be more different. She’s never afraid to share her opinion, never concerned by what someone may think. Our viewpoints and beliefs are as opposite as cats and dogs, and we fight over them like cats and dogs, too. But we’re still friends. 

And she’s taught me what true friendship is. She’s taught me that a missed phone call or a passionate fight are not the ends of a friendship but just the parts that make it real. And when I try to push her away, she pushes right back, unwilling to give up on me or on what makes this friendship the friendship of a lifetime, especially for a social pariah like me.

Author's Note: Whitney's the best buddy a girl could ever ask for. She's honest, insightful, and loyal. We clash on as many things as we agree on, and yet, it works. Much to Whitney's dismay, not too long ago, I even decided that we needed a "friend name" to seal our friendship forever...mwahahahaha! Our "friend name," cleverly, is Katney, and I'm pretty sure Katney will last until the end of time. Love you, friend!


This was written for the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt: Exploring Friendship. 


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Motherly Meltdown

I won’t lie. This week’s A Flicker of Inspiration prompt had me stumped. I don’t like it when prompts stump me. In fact, I get down-right annoyed when that happens. In typical badger fashion, I growled and groaned around the house this weekend, as I wracked my brain for a story to tell. 

The prompt challenged us to write an "It's Not What It Looks Like" scene. A scene where a colossal misunderstanding leads to something funny or drives the plot in some way.

I thought about it. And nothing came to mind.

Not a thing.  

And then, as it so often happens with these sorts of things, an idea fell into my lap. Thanks in part to some home improvements and my parents being over for the weekend. I’ll explain that at the end.

Behold, an actual response to the most challenging prompt I’ve faced:

Motherly Meltdown

It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true. Not her baby. Not her sweet baby girl. Never.

But it was true. The evidence was in her hands.

Sarah’s body shook as she stared down at the tiny plastic bag. Tears filled her soft brown eyes, and she surrendered to the tragedy of it all as they began to fall in great drops, dampening the tiny bag and her shaking hands.

Emily had always been such a good child. Quiet, sweet, never a moment’s trouble to her or her father. She supposed she’d just been hiding this secret life from them all along. The sneaky little minx.

Sarah stood up abruptly, let the small bag of pot and clean pairs of panties she’d been putting in Emily’s underwear drawer fall to the floor. A glance around her daughter’s perfect purple room made her anger dissipate and the nausea creep in. Emily still had teddy bears for God’s sake. Show jumper trophies and ribbons lined the shelves along her ceiling. A poster of that ridiculous-looking Justin Beiber hung over her bed.

She was just a little girl. Fifteen-years-old. A baby.

And yet, not a little girl or baby anymore. If she could smoke pot, she was neither.  Sarah’s head spun as images of Emily danced before her eyes.

Emily as a black cat at Halloween, at every Halloween since she could crawl. “What do you want to be this year, baby?” “A black cat!” “Again? Hadn’t you rather be a princess or maybe even a witch?” “No, I wanna be a black cat!”

Emily as a graceless ballet dancer, wearing a plush airplane costume and sticking out hopelessly amongst her fellow dancers on stage.

Emily as a bookworm and excellent student, bringing home a report card with straight A’s and begging for ice cream as a reward.

Emily as a pot-smoking hipster with a lip ring and pink streaks in her hair….but wait, Sarah was getting ahead of herself. Still, the lip ring and pink streaks were sure to follow. After all, her daughter was a delinquent drug user now. There was no telling what would follow.

Suspension from school. Pregnancy. Jail time.

Emily’s life was over. And, thus, so was Sarah’s.

The other moms from Bunco would pass down their judgment harshly. She would be shunned from the Bunco table, cast off into a cruel, Bunco-less world.

Her church friends would pray for her, then shake their heads behind her back, tsk-tsking to themselves and wondering where she had gone so wrong. Hell was a certainty.

Nosey and vicious co-workers would lament about Sarah’s situation in front of their boss. Bossman would then call her into his office on a Wednesday and tell her that she’s fired for being such a horrible mother and for having such a pot-smoker of a daughter.

The media was sure to get ahold of the story, and once they did, unwanted fame would follow. She would cry as Oprah admonished her actions on an ugly orange couch. She would wince as her name and face were flashed on Inside Edition and Entertainment Tonight.  The Bad Mother.

Sarah’s spiral into madness was reaching its crescendo, when Emily bee-bopped into the room. “Mom, hi!” Her voice was spunky, sweet, not at all what Sarah imagined the voice of a gruff, pot-smoking hippy would sound like. A second wave of nausea hit her, as another imagined nightly news headline scrolled through her broken mind:

Pothead Daughter of Ruined Mother Adopts Fourteen Pot-Bellied Pigs, Marries a Gang-Banger, and Moves to a Commune.

Oh, the horror!

Gathering all of her remaining composure, Sarah bent down, picked up the small bag of pot from among the pink panties strewn on the floor, and met her daughter’s beautiful blue eyes. But before she could open her mouth and begin the never-ending trail of curses that she would lay upon her daughter, Emily interrupted.

“You found Yuki’s catnip!” She chirped, snatching the bag from Sarah’s limp hand and running from the room in search of her obese tabby cat.

With jaw slack and mind still racing, relief trickled in, and Sarah sighed, comforted by the thought that she wouldn’t have to live in a Bunco-less world after all. 

As I said, this story was inspired by my parent’s visit to our house over the weekend. They helped us put up tile in our kitchen, and at one point, my Mama fumbled through my junk drawer (can't write those words without a shout out for Dawnie, you'll know what I mean :) oh, and VISIT HER BLOG, you won't regret it) looking for a marker to mark the tile with. In that junk drawer is a tiny bag of catnip that closely resembles another substance.

Thankfully, my Mama didn’t quite react like Sarah, but I did wonder what must have gone through her head at the first glance of that bag…

This was written for A Flicker of Inspiration prompt: "It's Not What It Looks Like." If you haven't already, check out this fun and engaging writing community by clicking the button below:

A January 26th Resolution: No More Excuses

In last week’s paper, a fellow local columnist wrote about her New Year’s resolutions. Her title even said so, “My New Year’s Resolutions.” I won’t lie to you; it was the last column in the paper that I read. I don’t typically participate in setting any New Year’s resolutions for myself, so they aren’t something that are terribly interesting to me as a rule. I think it’s great that you want to lose weight or take anger management classes, but I’d rather read about your journey doing those things...not just a declaration that you will be doing them. That’s just me. 


However, I’m glad I put my prejudice against New Year’s resolutions away long enough to read this column. To begin with, it was a typical New Year’s resolution column. Eat less sugar. Exercise more. This is going to be the year I get healthy and lose weight! Inspiring stuff, indeed, but what I found most inspirational about this typical resolution column was a “Finish What I Started” resolution that hit close to home for me. 

This particular columnist is a marketing writer, a freelancer. Her columns are written, much like mine, in her spare time. Her day job is writing copy for other ventures, but like most writers, she dreams of writing a book and being published. This dream relates closely with her “Finish What I Started” resolution. Because of her “day job,” she doesn’t have the time to finish a novel that she’s been working on for many years, but even more than the time problem, there’s the entire issue of going from writing copy for work and writing for pleasure. 


You’d think it would be easy. Writing is writing, right? Well, the more I thought about it the more I realized that that’s not entirely the case, at least not with this writer. 


I’ve told you how I sometimes transform into a badger when I write. This happens no matter what I’m writing, be it blog, column, or fiction. I get in the zone and just don’t like to be disturbed. It’s my little writing quirk, I guess. Interestingly enough though, I transform in other ways, too, depending on what I’m writing. Since realizing this, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have Multiple Writing Personality Disorder, a conclusion that’s given me reason to pause and reevaluate my writing habits. 


Allow me to introduce you to my different Writing Personalities, in no particular order. 


First, there’s Katie the Columnist. She writes for a small-town, Conservative, Southern paper. She shares personal stories of cooking disasters and hanging out with her husband, opinion pieces about how politics annoy her and the joys of pet adoption and rescue. She has to remember her audience and keep some things to herself. Not everyone in her hometown wants to know EVERYTHING. She’s a pretty happy gal, and her voice reflects that happiness to her readers. Amazingly, she always manages to get her point across in about 600 words, which is her limit for the paper. 


Second, there’s Katie the Fiction Writer. She’s weird. Imaginative. Kooky. Dark. She likes to write about ghosts and murders. She pretty much is all over the place and likes things that way. There’s no reigning in anything with this Katie; whatever crosses her mind goes onto paper and becomes a story. She sometimes even dabbles in bad poetry, because with her, there are no boundaries. Writing is a passion, an art form, and she covers the canvas with her words, be they good or bad. 


ALMOST all Katies converge with Katie the Blogger. She’s the same Katie as Katie the Columnist but a little more...Katie-like. She doesn’t worry about over-sharing in this space. She shares neuroses and worries, self-doubt and self-reflection. She tells everyone about her cats and her dinners, the way she’s bitchy and weird and sarcastic. She even shares her fiction and poetry sometimes. Mostly, she writes about life, the good days and bad days, the boring and exciting...anything and everything. 


But then, there’s Katie the Freelancer. This Katie is living the dream: getting paid to write!! To think, someone would actually give her money to do what she loves! She works hard at her craft and manages to squeak out decent work under her deadlines...despite a lifelong struggle with procrastination. She gratefully accepts her editor’s assignments and pours everything she has into every article. To put it simply, she writes within the lines. 


Unfortunately, Katie the Freelancer is starting to take over all the other Katies. I no longer have the time I used to have to dedicate to writing for my blog and writing my fiction...particularly the novel I’m working on. Time constraints aside, it’s difficult to go from following-directions Katie the Freelancer to write-outside-the-lines Katie the Fiction Writer. My fellow columnist was right. The transition is strangely hard. I get in a certain mindset, and it's like I forget how to write anything else...


But that may just be my excuse. It seems like there's always a reason to not do something. 


Through writing, I have been able to be myself and to love myself...all four or five versions of me. :) I love how honest and open writing let's me be, and I love that I'm able to do even a little bit of it professionally. But as I move forward into a new year, I'm going to set more time aside for finishing what I've started. Novels. Short stories. Dozens of blog drafts. I'm going to work on making that transition from Katie the Freelancer to Katie the Everything Else a little easier. No more excuses. As far as resolutions go, I think it's a pretty good one. 


Author's Note: Do you have a hard time juggling your different writing roles? Do you ever find yourself making excuses for yourself when you can't finish a certain project? Do you have any January 26th Resolutions?


Linking up this week with one of my favorites, "Thoughtful Thursday"! Be sure to click for great blogs!

The Eighth Year

This post originally appeared as a guest post at one of my favorite blogs Narragansett No. 7, but I thought it was appropriate to share it here as part of "The Living Nightmare" Halloween prompt at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug. 

The Eighth Year

The sleeping patterns and habits of an eight-year old rarely make any kind of sense, and my sleeping habits were even more of an enigma than that of most eight-year olds. I know I gave my mom fits as a child. Constantly fighting sleep. Constantly crying out her name in the middle of the night. I can remember our mutual frustration in trying to figure out what was keeping me awake. Even so, sleeping didn’t become a major issue for me until my eighth year.

That eighth year was eventful. I remember a lot from my childhood then. I’ve been blessed (sometimes it’s a curse) with an active mind and can hold onto most memories well, and it seems that most of the memories from my childhood come from that turbulent and tumultuous year.

Daddy had just gotten laid off from his job. He is and will always be the hardest working man I’ve ever known, and during the time between his old job and what would become his new and better job, he did everything in his power to provide for our family.  As an eight-year old, I probably couldn’t fully appreciate the sacrifices that he and Mama were making during that time of struggle for our family, but looking back on it as an adult, I do. I realize just how much that period of my life shaped the person I am today, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the lessons learned then. To this day, I try to never take anything for granted.

When Daddy did land his new job, it was two hours away. Until we could all move to our new town, the family was separated, and the rock and protector of the house was missing. Thus began my sleeping woes. Or at least that’s where I think they began. I can still clearly see myself as if looking down from above. There I am, lying in my tiny twin bed, the ruffled and flowered bedspread covering my slight eight-year old form, an army of stuffed animals arranged around me in a protective ring. When it comes to the dark, I’m a chicken through and through. For as long as I can remember, I’ve feared not the dark itself but what may be waiting in the dark, what the dark hides from me. The dozens of stuffed animals that I slept with as a child were a form of comfort to me, a symbolic means of protection from what was hidden in the dark.

Via

In addition to the stuffed animals standing sentry over me, I took the measure of pulling the sheets over my face when I slept. I still practiced this habit until I got married a few years ago. If I couldn't see the dark, then it couldn’t see me. To avoid looking into the darkness is the key. 

To this day, I avoid dark windows. When I look out into that cold expanse of darkness, I can’t help but feel that Something, somewhere is looking back at me. I have stood at windows for long stretches, staring hard into the night, looking for a glimpse of whatever is out there watching me through depthless eyes. Daring whatever it is to jump out and reveal itself. 

Lying in bed at night, the fear is of waking up and seeing Something or someone standing beside my bed, looking down at me. This particular fear is more acute, probably because it actually happened to me during my eventful eighth year. 

After what had already been a long night of going back and forth between her bedroom and mine, trying desperately to get me to go to sleep, Mama finally let me crawl into bed with her. The comfort and relief I felt when I snuggled up to her warm body was indescribable. You see, I had convinced myself as long as someone was in the room with me whatever was lurking in the dark would stay away. 

I was wrong.

I woke in the middle of the night, as I had before and have millions of times since, with the feeling that Something was watching me. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to let a drop of the darkness in. I listened.  Mama's soft snores interrupted the silence of the night, but there was another noise, something I've never heard before or since. I don't think I can even describe it, other than it sounded heavy, as heavy and thick as the air in the room felt.

When I finally gathered the courage to open my eyes, a dark figure stood at the side of the bed, bent down over where Mama slept. It was watching her, and it knew that I was watching it. I felt its eyes transfer to me, and pure dread settled into my child's heart. I gasped. I snapped my eyes shut and scrambled to pull the thin sheet back over my face. I lay there for hours, too terrified to move, too paralyzed with fear to even wake my mother who lay sleeping peacefully beside me. I didn't open my eyes until I felt the warmth of morning sunlight on my face. It chased the black void from the room and closed that gateway to Hell.

I still feel eyes watching me sometimes, resting upon me as I move through the darkness of our house, as I settle down to sleep at night. Over the years, I've grown more comfortable with these feelings. I have never seen a ghost, but I have experienced things, especially in my eighth year, that leave me knowing, without a doubt, that something else is out there, watching from the darkness.


  

Telephonophobia

Back in the days before my neuroses.

Brrr-ringg! Brr-ringg!

At the shrilling of my cell phone, my hands begin to shake, palms itching madly. But this is not the typical reaction of a woman in love. My sweating and shaking is more from fear than flirtation.

I’ve been expecting this call, dreading it. I want to answer, but physically, I just can’t. I can do nothing but stare at the phone until it finally beeps, signaling my missed call.

When I log onto my computer hours later, I receive an instant message from him. Safely hidden behind my screen, I’m gutsier than I was earlier. I always am. The computer turns this shy girl into a compelling and confident woman. I wish I could hide behind it in every aspect of my life.

I tried calling earlier. His message carries a hint of his frustration, or maybe I’m just imagining it. I don’t immediately respond.

I should tell him that I’m a neurotic mess. I should tell him that my nerves have gotten the best of me. I should confide that I hate phones, that my social anxieties turn me into a sweaty, blubbering mess. I should reveal that I’ve avoided past relationships because of this anxiety.

And while I’m busy thinking of what I should tell him, my phone rings again.

My pulse quickens. He’s caught me this time, cornered me and removed avoidance from the equation.

Answer.

His instant message pops up on my computer screen as the phone continues to ring, and despite all of my fears, I gather my courage and answer.  

“Hello.”

Our first conversation is awkward. As expected, I sweat a little, but I keep talking anyway...for hours. And when he calls again the next day, I answer without hesitation, knowing that to this guy I’m compelling and confident even offline. 

Author's Note: This memoir post is in response to the Write on Edge Remembered prompt this week:

In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”

Write a memoir post – first-person and true – inspired by that statement.

Word limit is 300.

I still have a phobia of talking on the phone, but thankfully, my now husband was able to alleviate those fears then long enough to make me fall completely in love with him. Our online relationship evolved to a telephone/long-distance relationship after that fateful phone call. We're celebrating our four-year anniversary on Thursday of this week.

Happy Anniversary to my Once and Future Geek!! I'm glad I answered the phone. :)