My First Critique was not Without Drama.

Ryan Edward has been out of town for the last three days and I had big plans. One of my goals for January was to deep clean and repaint our master bedroom. The three days Ryan would be out of town seemed like the perfect time, cereal for dinner, dishes stacking up in the kitchen, me with no time for hygiene of any kind. I was up until the a.m. hours painting for two nights straight. Mix in the needs of four kids, visiting teaching appointments and a middle school newsletter deadline. It was an experiment in psychology!
I wasn’t even daring to think about the upcoming writer’s group meeting when I took a break to check my emails and facebook. I was hoping for a little contact with the outside world. A funny video clip, an inspirational song, a hint that there was still life outside of the paint fumes and the stark colors I had been staring at as they left the roller and clung to the wall (and were desperately scrubbed from drips on my carpet).
I wasn’t prepared for a reply to the first chapter I had sent out to this new critique group. It was from a man that I immediately respected at the first meeting. He’s a man, mind you, and he writes (probably among many impressive things) articles for fishing magazines. He writes beautiful, funny, manly, crass-in-a-good-way articles about the outdoors and life. He’s far from my target audience, but he’s brilliant at writing and critiquing. I knew right away that I wanted to impress him and I knew that he’d be one of the most helpful people I would ever get to read my work… if I was tough enough to handle it.
I wasn’t. *insert weak, weak shrug* He had a million genius suggestions for me. He told me about rules I was breaking that I didn’t know existed. He had a blunt but funny way of critiquing and I found myself laughing and snorting through tears. I suddenly needed Ryan and he was out of town. I suddenly needed to climb into my bed and not have to weave through wet paint and drop cloths to get to it. I suddenly wished I was well rested and at my most sane.
I wasn’t upset that my work wasn’t as good as it could be. I knew that. I was upset because I had deemed myself good enough to go and become a part of this group, and the truth was they knew a lot more than I did. I was a newbie, wet behind the ears, making mistakes that they shake their heads at. I didn’t want to go to the next day’s meeting. I knew they’d all tell me the same things that the email had. I could suddenly identify with those unfortunate American Idol try-outers who are so hopeless it’s embarrassing and nobody ever told them until they “out”ed themselves, publicly, to strangers.
I would find a way to justify missing the meeting and never going back. I would tell myself that I needed a few more years of practice before I was ready for a writer’s group. I would hide, make excuses and somehow find a way to live with my cowardice. I would give up my dream of writing. I would donate plasma for an income when my children would all be in school full time.
My husband would tell me that he understood my decision, but I would know deep down that he was disappointed in me. When my Dad passed away, Ryan told me that I was brave. He said that he saw something in me that he didn’t know was there.
I got to thinking, all writers get critiqued and the only difference between a critiqued writer who fails and one who succeeds is that the one who succeeds doesn’t quit. I’m a beginner. I’m starting out. There’s only one way to learn most of these techniques, and that’s to make the mistakes and have someone point them out. To swallow your pride and own your inexperience and humbly say, the one thing I can definitely keep doing is trying.
I cleaned myself up. It was tough after three days of no hygiene. No sleep +crying= puffy eyes. I scrubbed the paint splatters from my arms. I changed my clothes three times. I said hello and goodbye to Ryan and turned the kids over to him. I walked into the meeting ten minutes late.
It took forever for it to be my turn. The guy who had sent me the email critique was sitting next to me. I made a little joke about how he had baptized me into the group by fire. Everyone chuckled. Then everyone, especially he, encouraged me! They told me what was promising about my writing and about my book. They gave me ideas. They discussed and debated what direction I should go in. Two of the girls whom I adored at the first meeting and who write in the same genre as I do approached my friend and me about having a secondary, smaller, critique group. It was what I’d been hoping for!
On the way home I realized it. I’ve never been closer to being a writer than I was in that moment. That moment when I laid it all on the line, accepted the fact that it wasn’t good enough yet, decided that one day it would be and stared down the challenge of making it so. The reality is I’ll be re-writing a lot. The reality is being a writer is hard work. The reality is that it will all make me better and that’s what I want. The reality is I was really proud of myself… and to think… I almost quit.

And The Verdict is... We'll Be Back After The Break

You guys! I did it! I went to my first ever writer's group! It was crazy awesome! There were men and women of all different beliefs and persuasions and hair colors and varying degrees of cynicism and talent and cleanliness! But we all had one thing in common. We love to write. I felt in my element. There used to be a time in my life when I didn't want to be around anyone that was different from me. The unknown was too scary. Now I want to hug the unknown because I have something in common with it. What's more I have so very much to learn from it! Which, could have gone without saying since you have to learn from something that was heretofore unknown.
So here's how it went down. The meetings take place in one of the best places on earth. The library. Seriously, I love the library. LOVE it. I get excited to go there every single time. It also makes me calm, which is my favorite way to feel (besides in love). I could almost pretend I was just walking in to check out yet another amazing YA book filled with smoochin' until I had to walk to the very back of the library, turn a corner to the left, find a little tucked away room with nothing but two long tables and people of various degrees of unknown origins. Gasp!
They were so accepting. That's how you get, I venture, when you repeatedly pick up a piece of paper on which you've typed out your heart and soul and you proceed to read it aloud to people with the express intention of having them cover it with red ink. *muffled sob*
I listened as the first woman read an excerpt from a novel she's working on. Then I listened as a handful of people critiqued someone's work from two weeks previous. I started to figure out the cruel nature of their set-up. :) You read, and you get the critiques at the next meeting. This is mostly great because it means that your wonderful helpers take two weeks to think over your work and suggest improvements.
This pattern continued. I listened to every comment with smiles and nods. I understood their language. Their suggestions to each other weren't foreign or surprising, even though their personalities were. It was clear right away that they were all of very different beliefs, but it was also clear even sooner that they had a great respect for each others' beliefs. I listened as people were hard on each other, yet kind at the same time. I listened to good-natured teasing and laughter. I was fairly mesmerized.
Then the man in charge looked at me and told me to read what I had. *GULP* Some stronger version of Amie took over my body because I picked up my paper and I started reading. I was in the alley with my Main Character. I was reading in a way that would make him proud.... trying to let them hear who he is. They were quiet. I thought I could sense them liking it, but only heaven knows! Now I have two stinking weeks to wait until I find out. Cue Ryan Seacrest saying, "...and we'll find out... right after the break." Cue my imagination punching him in his perfect nose.
Today I sent a copy of what I had read to the group by email with this message:

I want to tell you guys that I thoroughly enjoyed the meeting on Wednesday! It felt amazing to be around other writers! It's flat killing me, though, to think I have to wait two weeks for anyone to tell me whether my writing has potential or not. ;) There should be extended rules for new people. Put them out of their immediate misery with either applause, or fruit throwing.

Anxiously awaiting your thoughts (and I think I might throw up),
Amie

Last night I dreamed that I had joined a gourmet cooking group. I had to take a turn cooking a three course meal and then critique the dishes others cooked. I remember desperately trying to come up with something smart to say like, "Maybe it could use a little oregano." I have never critiqued anyone.... okay, besides my immediate family. I really don't know how to be critical of someone's creative work. One man last night quoted Stephen King, who wrote an amazing book about writing (that being the only book of his that I've actually read). The man said that King tries to do at least one of three things every day. 1)Read 2)Write 3)Critique. Each of these improves our writing. I knew about the first two, but I had never considered that critiquing someone else could help me. I thought it was just a necessary evil so that I could get help with my own work. See how I'm learning already???

Dear readers of this blog, hang in with me. Tune in after the commercials. I'll let you know if they think my writing just needs a pinch of oregano... or a whole new recipe.

Inspiration At Christmastime

Every once in awhile I catch a glimpse of a higher plane that I'm just sure I could get to. I even think I catch a glimpse of how to get there. It happened last night at a Christmas program. I was listening to music. I was watching families play instruments and sing duets. I wanted to reach inside myself and let out the best parts of me.

It's easy to lose sight of, because it's only a glimpse. I go back to life as I know it. I go back to being proud of myself for getting the daily work-out in, for getting the daily shower in... I settle for not doing the pretty version of my make-up. Scratch that. I'm not trying to make this about the outside of me, though that is what becomes the focus too often. I'm trying to tell you that inside all of us, lies what we CAN be. What we're meant to be. I know you know the feeling that I'm talking about, and I'm telling you we need to believe in that feeling. It's real. It's true. Daily work-outs and showers are part of the way to get there perhaps, another first step must surely be finding ways to catch more of those glimpses. After that, who knows? Maybe a "visualization" poster or repeating things to yourself in the mirror every morning. :)

If it was easy you could bet I wouldn't be sitting here with my hair looking like a rat's nest, having already used the "Santa is watching" threat four times, hold on.... make that five times... with plans to spend the day doing a thousand Christmas projects that, ideally, would have been finished weeks ago.

But this I cannot deny: somewhere inside me, there is greatness. Somewhere in this life that I've complicated far more than it needs to be, there is the potential for greatness.

What is the vision? It's different for all of us. For me it's being a mom and wife that can feel good about the job she's doing, it's about success as a writer, it's about making a difference, it's about charity, it's about intelligence, and in honor of the daily shower... I dare say it's a little bit about hygiene. It's about giving the best I have. It is giving, you know. When you become your best, those around you automatically benefit from it. The more you give, the greater you become and everyone wins. Everyone receives, everyone grows, everyone wins, and more is possible than we ever dreamed of putting on a "visualization" poster.

One day I'll look back and say, "There was a time in my life when I was proud of myself for getting in a daily shower, and that was in the late afternoon!" The people around me will chuckle, and maybe some of them will cry, because maybe... they'll be catching a glimpse of a higher plane.

Why oh Why is it in a Drawer???

I’m taking a break from My True Love Story until after December. I want to be able to pour my whole heart into it, not rush through it and mark it off of a long, sometimes miserable list! I AM, however, going to try something different on my blog. I really miss the spontaneity of a blog being more like a journal. Instead of working tirelessly to recreate a story, I want to just sit and write whatever comes to mind. So, I hope you’ll visit! I plan to do this every day this week, as it will take a lot less time than the stories I write. I hope it entertains!
I want to first respond to questions I get about my book, which I am embarrassed to answer. The answer is this: my manuscript has been sitting in a drawer of my nightstand for almost… no, it couldn’t be! But I think it is… almost a YEAR. How terrible! When my Dad passed away, one of my first thoughts was I’m going to chase my dream and make Dad proud! I’m going to start right now, right after the unthinkable (losing my Dad) has happened, because I won’t be afraid. Something truly scary has happened to me and chasing my dream seems comforting by comparison! So I started my blog, with every intention of editing my book, finding a writer’s group to help me, and pursuing publication. I’m still going to do it, but the time frame is---wow--- really affected by my emotional circumstances.
I’m funny about my time. I save the thing I like doing most for last. I make myself do all of the stuff I hate first. I clean the blasted bathrooms, I do the dishes, and then I sit down with baskets full of laundry and fold it while sipping Crystal Light and watching one of my favorite TV series. It’s heavenly. It’s the same thing with my book. I keep saving the joy of it until I’m past adjusting. Adjusting to Mom moving here in a time of grief, adjusting to Mom dating, adjusting to the holidays without Dad and with a family that’s changing so much and so fast you wonder at times if you’ll recognize it! :)
I’m learning so much though! Every new experience, or “adjustment” as I’ve been calling them, makes me a better writer.
I’ll tell you a story. The summer before last, our most wonderful in the world next door neighbors hired our oldest daughter to water their yard for them while they went out of town. There were soaker hoses that she had to turn on for about twenty minutes at a time. Life is insane with four kids all talking a mile a minute, all on different schedules, all making messes at the speed of sound. We didn’t check up on the job she was doing for the neighbors. We wanted to teach her responsibility, and I figured the worst that could happen, which would be just awful considering that our neighbors are the most wonderful in the world, would be that their plants might die under her watchful care. Wrong.
Sunday morning, our daughter went over there to tweak something or other, and noticed that the window well was full of water. She had forgotten to turn off one of the soaker hoses. Under the circumstances she trusted her Dad not to freak out more than she trusted me, so she ran to him. By the time I noticed tension emanating into our house from the yard next door, I came upon Ryan standing in their window well in shorts and his white church shirt, scooping buckets full of water out as fast and furious as he could. It was to no avail. We got the key to the house and went inside. Our legs moved us, though I don’t know how, to the basement of our dear friends’ and as we stepped off of the bottom stair, their carpet just squished and splatted under our feet. We had flooded our neighbor’s basement. The whole entire basement.
We’d have to move of course. We’d be shunned by all. We’d lose our friends, we’d lose our dignity. The world, for us, would pretty much have to end. Ryan is a glass half full kind of guy, but that day he just sat there on our couch, staring at the wall for like an hour. We just couldn’t believe we had let such a thing happen. We couldn’t believe there was nothing we could do to take it back, to make it go away! It took days to even function properly. Angels took over our neighbors’ bodies and they responded with perfection. If you are ever going to flood anyone’s basement, I highly recommend them. I never blogged about it, or posted about it on facebook. It was too painful. I did sit down weeks later, though, to work on my book and wrote one of the saddest scenes I’ve ever written. The bad guy was brutally mean, and the good guy was heart-wrenchingly tortured (Amie style that is, which is the really bearable kind of bad-guy torture). I could write that way because I knew emotion that I hadn’t known until dumdumdum- THE FLOOD.
Moral of the post is this: The writer in me is getting better. The time-manager in me is scouring the figurative bathrooms so that she can get to the fun stuff, aka editing her manuscript for crying out loud and magically transforming into a published author. And no- I don’t believe that’s really the way that happens. I know that there is still plenty of figurative toilet scrubbing to be done along the way to book signing status. Talk me through it people, ‘cuz I’m scared.

Joyriding

Bronch-stinkin-itis. That's what I've been diagnosed with. I like to imagine that the antibiotics are miniature knights in armor, battling it out with the sickness to make me healthy. My little heroes! I've been looking at these incredible pictures of roads. For some reason, I just can't stop looking at them and thinking about how they apply to life. Where my thoughts meet words, though, the road conditions are these. I'm not a world traveller, I'm not even someone you feel comfortable having behind the wheel, but I've been on these roads. We all have. So until my little knights in armor announce their victory over bronch-stinkin-itis... come on a drive with me. "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." -Confucius " It is a rough road that leads to the heights of greatness." -Seneca “May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.” “We all want progress, but if you're on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; in that case, the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive.” -C.S. Lewis

" The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

but I have promises to keep

and miles to go before I sleep,

and miles to go before I sleep." -Robert Frost

“To know the road ahead, ask those coming back." -Chinese Proverb “The thing about a hero, is even when it doesn't look like there's a light at the end of the tunnel, he's going to keep digging, he's going to keep trying to do right and make up for what's gone before, just because that's who he is.” -Joss Whedon " Earth is crammed with Heaven." -Elizabeth Barrett Browning “There are two mistakes one can make along the road to truth...not going all the way, and not starting.” -Buddha quotes "If you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there." -Lewis Carroll

"You often meet your fate on the road you take to avoid it." -French Proverb

"Experience is not what happens to a man. It is what a man does with what happens to him." -Aldous Huxley

"I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship." Louisa May Alcott I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. -Robert Frost

Ideas; Thank Goodness They're Acrobatic

There was a time, before four children overwhelmed me and brought home every cold and flu bug known to man so that I could catch it and spend my days fighting it off, when I created something every day. I love beauty. I love making something beautiful with my own two hands. I love it even more when it saves me money. I used to make hair bows for my girls that matched every outfit. I used to make decorations for my home that were uniquely mine. Confession: My last addition to the walls of our home was a hole I kicked in one of them. I didn't think I was ever going to admit that, but there it is. There is a time and a season for everything. There is a time to create. A time to create half of something and leave it sitting in a box until you finally get rid of it years later. A time to think of an idea and know you want to accomplish it, but you don’t even have time to start. A time for SOME of us to feel desperation creep in from all sides because the only thing we accomplish is to re-clean the same stuff we cleaned yesterday. A time to kick walls. A time to assist your husband in patching and painting over holes in walls. There may also be a time to remember the you that used to create things and to make a little time to find her again. That may cause you to want to kick things less... or if your life doesn't co-operate, it may cause you to take up punching holes in walls as well. For me, it remains to be seen. Nevertheless, I have been seeing all of the CEEEUUUTE jeans that people are wearing and paying a lot of money for, mind you, and something surprising happened. An idea made its way through the coughing, it dodged the dirty dishes, it jumped over a towering pile of laundry, it army crawled through the freshly applied dry wall putty and it shimmied into what is left of my mind.

It wants to be shared. Here’s what you should do:

Go to the craft store. Leave the kids at the home. (It also works if you bring them, but it isn’t as fun.) Go to the isle with the embroidery floss. You’ll love it. It has every color imaginable. Even sparkly ones. They’re cheap. You could go on a mini shopping spree. Bring a pair of your simple, inexpensive, well-fitting but un-ceeeeute jeans. Find some colors that go well with them. Also purchase some needles with a large enough eye for you to thread the entire strand of floss through. Go home. Force yourself to read to the kids so that you don’t feel guilty later. Put the kids to bed. Sit down next to your husband and watch American Idol while adding embroidery floss embellishments to your jeans. Follow the stitching that’s already there, or make your own design on the pockets. Be creative. Let the ideas find you through the maze of chaos that is your life. Wear your jeans. Smile when everyone tells you how ceeeeute they are. Teach your daughters, nieces and friends how to do it because it’s very simple and they will LOVE you for it. Take pictures and send them to me and I will love you for it. Your bum is going to be so cute.

In Doing Small Things, We Do The Impossible.

I don’t have memories of my Dad avoiding the eyes of a needy person and walking on down the street. I have several very specific memories of him stopping, talking, giving cash, or going into the nearest fast-food place and getting someone a good meal. I don’t have memories of my Dad driving past a broken down car, muttering that if we only had time or if he were more capable he would stop. I have one particular memory of him turning around and going back in heavy falling snow on our drive to Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma’s house. How I wanted to get there to the warm meal and the company of my cousins! But there was a car broken down on the side of the road, and that family needed help getting to their Thanksgiving. I bet they still remember my Dad. I have memories of people asking for what I thought was too much. I have memories of Dad taking pause, not verbalizing what I could see… that it was not an easy thing for him to lend an expensive four-wheeler or high quality piece of hunting equipment, or give of his free time. But what finally did get verbalized was that things were just things and that people were more important. I don’t have specific memories of Dad helping someone daily. I know he did, but he was not the sort that needed people to know it. I don’t know how often I’ve been that kind of self-less. When have I done a good turn without telling a living soul? It’s the most disciplined kind of service, something my Dad worked at. There’s a thing that’s harder than all of that. Accepting the service of others. My Dad had occasion to learn this lesson in his life as well. Because of he and Mom’s good nature, like people were drawn to them. People whose lives they had touched were eager to give back to them and then some. So much has been given to my family that I could spend every blog post writing about it, but I don’t have the words or the tears to sustain it! It takes an unspeakable humility to both give and receive. People are taking care of my Mom. How can I tell you what that means to me? It would take more than words, even words of my own invention! When the funeral ended, the expected happened. There were no more responsibilities to keep busy with and the sadness started to settle heavy on our chests. My brother, Justin, got out the sympathy cards. They were the cure. There were cards from the Power Plant where Dad worked. They had signatures and cash. Some were ones and some were fifties and the men and women who put that money in didn’t need to specify how much they had each given individually. There were words about Dad, about the kind of man he was, and about how people wanted to be the way he was, that they would do good in memory of him. It’s hard to know what would help someone when they lose someone they love, and I’ve come to find that honoring their loved one’s memory in that way is possibly the very best thing anyone can do. I want to tell you that we felt Dad there in that kitchen with us that night. On a lighter note, another unexpected, charitably beneficial thing people can do is kiss pigs. That’s what they decided to do at the school where my Mom works. They only knew that they wanted to do something for Mom. I believe they felt that they simply HAD to do something for her, and I believe they came up with the best plan that has seen any junior high school, maybe ever. Faculty and students stuffed a piggy bank full of money and when they had not only reached, but doubled their fundraising goal- they held an assembly and the students got to watch teachers and other staff, kiss a live pig for Mom. They got to watch her muster up her courage and thank them through tears. She told them that Dad’s favorite song is “One” by U2 and that it says, “We get to carry each other.” She thanked them for helping to carry her, and she told the kissers of the pig that she would be willing to kiss a pig for them as well, should the occasion ever arise. The world is most often a difficult place. The televised news is painful. This homemaker’s daily life is drudgery. At times I lose my temper. At times I lose myself. Every day I call to check on my Mom, praying that things are getting a little easier for her. We know hardships. But I know that somewhere in the world right now, someone is giving a meal to a homeless man. Someone is stopping in the snow to help a family get back on their path. Someone is writing a kind word, is slipping money into an envelope. Someone is kissing a pig. And we are not alone.

Thinking BIG

We are meant to excel. We have potential that we are meant to discover and reach. We are supposed to find out who we are and be the best “us” that we can be. It was easier when I was a kid. It seemed anything I could dream up, almost fell into my lap. “Sometimes all you need to do to win, is try,” my Mom would tell me and I won writing contests, scholarship pageants, I made it through auditions, I was handed opportunities. I was never very confident, I was just a dreamer… and that was enough. (There is something to all that “visualizing” that you hear about.) Sometime around college, I realized how big the world is and how small I am. No matter how well I could write there would always be someone who wrote better. No matter how I wife, someone will wife better. No matter how I mother, someone will mother better. No matter how I serve in my church, someone could do the job better. And it’s been established that I can’t drive, so I already started at a disadvantage! I was getting smaller and smaller… and I’m only 5’1” without shoes on! As a young mother of 2, I was standing at the kitchen sink of my apartment. There was no window over the sink, so I had put up a page from a Thomas Kinkade calendar to lose myself in as I did dishes. I was trying to figure out who I am and what I should be doing with it. I’m a hopeless romantic, but I found my Prince Charming. I’m a grown up now. It’s almost silly how much I still thrill over a good love story…. But I still do. Is that something? I’ve always loved English. I’ve always loved writing. Is that something? That’s when I first realized that maybe I’m meant to pursue writing. Dolly Pardon said, “Figure out who you are and then do it on purpose.” I’m not saying that every time we figure out what we’re “meant to” pursue that we’ll have the ultimate success. After all, I watch America Idol every year and see hundreds who truly feel that they are “meant to” sing. There is only one person who wins. What I KNOW is that you can’t go wrong in getting yourself on a path to self-discovery and then self-improvement. I know good things will come. I believe that I’ll be very happy with where I end up if I find out who I am and then try to be my best self. My best self doesn’t leave room for thoughts of the people who write BETTER than I do. It doesn’t leave thoughts for the romantic who's even MORE hopeless than I am. No thoughts for those who won more contests, who started younger, who are more accomplished, who are braver, who are better connected. NO! I had an idea for a novel. Nobody else has had the same idea. I could tell one hundred other writers about my idea and tell them to write the book. I’d have 100 VERY different books. Nobody else can write my book like I can. It’s the same in any field. Nobody can do what you can do the way that YOU do it. It isn’t possible. That’s my simple description of how this world can be so big and we can each be BIG within it. Let’s try and be BIG. (And I don’t mean by eating peanut butter M&Ms.)