That's What Writers Do, Honey, They Write Books

A couple days ago, I was chatting with dear hubby about another month-long writing challenge I’m participating in as part of my journey to develop my skills as a writer. I mentioned to him that I’m using some of what I’ve learned to make progress on a book I started a few months ago. Suddenly alert, he sat straight up and stopped me in mid-sentence, eyes huge and surprised, and asked, “You’re writing a BOOK?!”  I stammered, “Um. Yeah. I’m a writer now; remember when I timidly announced that to the world a few months ago? That’s what writers do, honey, they write books.”

Several days later, I’m still not sure if his surprise was at the idea I was actually writing a book, and that I have the ability to write more than just random thoughts in a “frivolous blog.” Was he shocked I am writing A REAL BOOK, meaning something of “substance." Was the thought that I could string the overabundance of words in my head into coherent sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and eventually an actual book, more than he could fathom? I didn’t ask--because I don't think I want to know the answer.

At any rate, he proceeded to tell me he was proud of me for finding the courage to pursue my long-held, semi-secret dream to write a book. And even though he’s going to be embarrassed that I’m “outing” him as a sensitive guy, he was so supportive, proud, and impressed that he even got a little teary-eyed as we talked about my intention to write a book. It was a precious moment of validation and encouragement for me, and I’ll always cherish it. Soon afterwards, he headed inside to get a shower and I sat on the deck to watch the beautiful Belizean sunset. And then I thought about it a little more.

And then I got a little pissed.

Because I know damn well I had told him (more than once) I had started writing a book! And I KNOW I’ve mentioned it in my blog at least once or twice, which he insists he reads loyally. So, if he had actually been listening to me when we’d had this chat previously, OR if he’d been actually reading my blog as he swears he does, he should have already known that little tidbit of information!

That begs the question then, is he NOT listening to me when we talk? He usually holds up his end of the conversation, so I thought he was paying attention. Or, is he not actually reading my blog? Which means he’s fibbing about reading it for some reason? Maybe both? Or is there something darker and more sinister at play here?  I’m not sure, but whatever the answers to those questions are, it seems the idea that I’m writing a book, a REAL book and not “just a blog,” hadn’t registered in his brain until that moment.

I was angry and my feelings were hurt because I was positive I had told him before. I had been scared to say it out loud, even to the person I love most, but I said it anyway. I had already bared my deepest fear of ridicule and rejection by revealing to him my secret plan to write a book. And he hadn’t even taken notice. He hadn’t paid one bit of attention. He may have been listening--but he hadn’t HEARD what I said.

I never told dear hubby about my hurt feelings. I just tucked them deep inside my heart with the rest of the emotions I hide there on a regular basis. What I also didn’t tell him is that I’m actually working on writing TWO books right now. One is fun and entertaining, and one is a dark and emotional journey of survival in a cold, hard world. They are as different as night and day from each other, and each is cathartic to write in its own way. But I didn’t tell him any of that because I was afraid he wouldn’t listen, or rather - he wouldn’t hear.

And my writer's confidence is still too fragile to make myself vulnerable to not being heard a second time.

Sometimes all a person wants is for someone to care enough to HEAR what they have to say. Please, take a moment to think about that the next time you are having a conversation with someone who matters to you. Put down your multi-tasking devices, your phone, computers, tablets, and turn off the tv, whatever it takes. Take the time to listen to that someone with an open mind and an attentive heart. And make an effort to really HEAR what they’re saying. Because it might be incredibly important to them. They may be telling you their deepest, darkest secrets, their dreams and desires.

 And they might not have the courage to tell you a second time.

Bold, Black, and Beautiful (and Forever)--And I Love It !

Yummy!

Last week, on the way home from getting my eyelids tattooed, I stopped to grab a frappuccino at a little coffee shop in the village called Brewed Awakenings. They have all kinds of great hot and cold coffees, blended fruit smoothies, shaved ices, shakes, and other delicious drinks, as well as pastries, snacks, and free wi-fi. I hope to spend more time there soon because it’s the perfect atmosphere to do my writing. You can check them out here on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/brewed.awakenings.7?fref=ts

WAIT – BACK UP! Did I really just say that I got my EYELIDS TATOOED? Yep. I did. I tattooed my eyelids. But not in the skull and crossbones, barbed wire, tribal ring, or roses and fairies-kind-of-tattoo way that you’re thinking.

Before  - No makeup

I had a perfectly simple, bold, black line tattooed at the edge of my eyelids, on both the upper and lower lash lines. Yes, I now have PERMANENT eyeliner. It’s bold, it’s black, and I think it’s beautiful. And yes, it's forever. In the words of my stepmom, who immediately messaged me on Facebook when I mentioned I’d had it done, “ISN’T THAT A LITTLE DRASTIC!?”

Well, no, at least I don’t think so. Because wearing eye makeup simply makes me feel “put together." It makes me feel like I used feel when I was still myself--you know, the self I was before my brain surgery, and the self I was before we decided to move to Belize where I sweat all the time and haven’t been able to wear a stitch of makeup because it just melts off and runs down my face.

During the Process

It may surprise you (or maybe not) that I haven’t felt like myself, or even very “put together” for quite some time. My once razor-sharp memory and near-perfect eyesight now fail me routinely. My body has betrayed me, becoming unfamiliar and bloated with fat while I recovered from surgery, and leaving me with a closet full of skinny-girl clothes that mock me from their hangers. Previously tanned and blond, I am now scarred and pale, and gifted with an unruly mop of shorter, darker, curlier hair that stands straight up in places thanks to the scars on my skull. And I can barely even get my hair to go straight or “bleach blond” anymore. All this, plus being unable to wear any makeup, left me feeling like a fat, bland, washed out, bizarre version of my former self. Nothing about me seemed the same, at least on the outside.

Finished! 

Except my eyes. Thankfully, I still have the big, dark, soulful eyes I was born with. Eyes that sparkle and shine, and are highlighted by long, full lashes. Eyes that, with just a little bit of eyeliner and maybe some mascara, still “pop." Eyes that sometimes help me to project the animated, lively person I feel like inside, and help people notice the hidden, playful personality behind the bulky trifocals I am now damned to wear.

So while it may be vain, having permanent eye makeup simply makes me feel good. It helps me feel more like myself and it helps me to project the REAL ME beneath the surface, something I haven’t done for a long time.

One Day After - You can't even tell they're a tiny bit swollen!

So no, it doesn’t seem drastic at all to me. It’s a simple thing that I could do to help me return to feeling a bit like my “old” self, one small thing to feel “put together” again. And it's one small step towards feeling just a tiny bit more normal.

Funniest "Selfie" ever taken! (Immediately afterwards)

Did it hurt? Of course it hurts a little, after all, it’s hundreds of tiny needles piercing your eyelids thousands of times over. But honestly, I didn’t think it hurt that much, and I had imagined much worse! Of course, it is very close to your eyeballs, which is a little scary and yes, my eyes watered and burned a little, but only during the process. And the topical ointment really works to numb most of it. Afterwards, I had little bit of swelling for one day, and it just felt like I had scratched my eyelids, which is exactly what was done. But that was it.  No REAL pain. REALLY.

2nd Day After - No makeup!

In my eyes (pun intended), it was a very small price--in dollars and in discomfort--to help me get back to feeling a bit more like my old self -- back to my confident, vibrant, ALIVE, and pre-aneurysm self.

So, welcome back, old self! We’ve still got some more work to do to get back in the groove, but damn, I’m happy to see you. I hope you stick around for a while, I've missed you.

**Many, many thanks to my friend and tattoo artist, Sandy Baum Azancot, of Pirate Gyal Tattoos, https://www.facebook.com/PirateGyalTattoos who did such great work, and who was kind enough to indulge my blogging habit and take the "during" pictures for me. If you’re thinking about getting it permanent eyeliner for yourself and have questions, just let me know, I’d be happy to tell you more about my experience. Or just get in touch with Sandy, I HIGHLY recommend her work!

Why I Am Child-Free -- The "No-Bull" Version

I’ve been working on a new post for several days, and I had crafted a nice, well-rounded article about the reasons I chose not to have children. It was an amusing commentary that could have been published in any women’s magazine, or any number of websites geared towards women’s interests. A masterpiece in the making, or so it began, but I was struggling to finish and actually post it. Finally I realized that the reason I was wrestling so furiously with getting it “just right” was because it was all just nicely-worded bullshit. I wasn’t being completely truthful about my reasons for not having kids, or sharing my honest feelings about why I chose to remain child-free. The piece was just a pleasant, polite, and politically correct pile of garbage. So, as I’ve done numerous times before, I sent that collection of wasted words straight to the trash bin.

Because here’s the real deal, my friends, the no bullshit version--I didn’t have kids because I don’t LIKE kids, and because I JUST DIDN’T WANT TO. I know I’m viewed as “odd” compared to the majority of women, but I just don’t like kids that much, and particularly not babies. There are a few children I have come to enjoy for brief periods of time and kids can be great-- for other people --but they’re just not great for me. And I understand that for most people, babies are a miracle of life, a blessing of their love, and the physical evidence of the passion they've shared with their partner. And I’m genuinely happy for their delight with their offspring and their perceived "beauty." But it’s a rare occasion that I can say I’ve ever seen a truly beautiful baby.

For some reason, my eyes only see babies as miniature old people, wrinkly, bald-headed, angry geezers swaddled in once-soft blankets that are now stiffened by green or yellow spit-up. My brain registers infants only as tiny, frightening aliens who frantically wave their pudgy little arms while making furious, ear-splitting demands, screaming for attention while squiggling and squirming and wallowing in their own waste. Don't even get me started on toddlers or teenagers. And since this is my story, I'm gonna I call it like I see it: most children, no matter the age, just aren't that appealing. At least not to me. Sorry, but I'm not really sorry. What I am is honest.

I have known since I was quite young that I wasn’t born with the “baby equals happiness” gene. I’ve never been the kind of girl who played with dolls or who exclaims "isn't it adorable!" when I see a baby or small child. And I don't coo, except when it comes to puppies. I can count on my two hands the number of times in my life that I’ve held a baby, and every single one has screamed the entire time, begging for their mommy to save us both from our shared terror. And even though I do love and care for the people in my life to the best of my ability, I think my nurturing skills would probably be classified as clumsy and erratic (at best). I just don't have a "motherly" bone in my body, except for my puppies. And that’s my simple truth.

But in the spirit of "No-BS-Day," I will admit there was a brief, psychotic moment in my (very) young life when I was so wildly, deeply, madly in love that I recklessly turned to my man and declared “we should have a baby!” Yes, I actually uttered those five words-ONCE. And I am eternally grateful to that man for knowing me better than I knew myself, at least in that moment, and for having the infinite wisdom to gently decline. Thanks to his common sense and sound judgment, I was spared decades of misery and regret, a lifetime sentence of motherhood--the byproduct of which would have been a living, breathing, daily reminder of a man who later painfully betrayed my trust, broke my heart into a million pieces, and crushed my soul into the dust without a single glance backwards.

And a heart-breaking, life-long prison sentence of regret, epic and miserable in proportion, is all I can imagine when I try to picture what my life would have been if I had given birth to a child. Not just his child, but any man's child. That's a pretty good justification for NOT having a baby, don't you think?

So there it is folks, that’s the REAL deal, the god’s honest truth, the politically UNcorrect, no BS version. I’ve never once regretted not having children. I'm glad I didn't, and happy that my near-lapse was only a temporary blip on the radar of my youth. Luckily, I had the confidence, the support, and the resources to stay faithful to my choice over the remaining years, not every woman is so fortunate. Not being a mother is also one of the reasons dear hubby and I were eventually introduced--mutual friends knew neither of us had, or wanted, children. If I had been serving my sentence as a mother, we likely never would have met at all. And my life would have been VERY different--in a not-so-good way. So I know I can say I'm VERY glad--in a VERY good way--that I made the choice to NOT have children. And I am very happy without them, in a no-bullshit-kind-of way.
 

Sharing my Snowflakes, Sunshine, Puppy Dogs, and Rainbows

Glad to see some of you stayed in the car and are still willing to ride along with me on my journey! But we have a small problem. I’m not sure how to tell you this without scaring you, so I guess I’ll just spit it out.  There’s no roadmap for this trip. And I’m still not exactly certain where we’re going. But I know I’m a pretty good driver, even though the road ahead appears to be a lot like me, and by that I mean it's a little curvy, pretty hilly in spots, and rough and awfully dark in some places. (And I’ve told you before about my irrational fear of the dark!)

To make matters more complicated, I think it’s starting to snow. So, if you’re scared, you’d better buckle up now or hop out while we’re still going slow. Because sometimes I tend to drive 90 miles an hour, pedal to the metal, with headlights off and windows down. And I frequently choose to ride without a seatbelt or a helmet. That’s just how I roll.

I know it seems right now as if we’re still on cruise-control because if you’ve been with me in this vehicle for a while, you know I’ve been struggling in my quest to become a blogger and a writer. I’ve spent a lot of time researching everything I can find on how to find my “true voice” and find a topic that makes me really excited to write, one that others will care to read about. Months after declaring myself to be !A WRITER!, I’m still searching to find some “thing” I care about, something that moves me so much, I want to share it with the world. And it’s incredibly frustrating to feel I have continued to fail in finding my “thing.” I know I want to live a life on FIRE, but it seems I can’t even find a spark to start the flame.

And then a thought occurred to me yesterday. What if the journey of trying to find my “thing”……. IS MY THING!? Because what I’ve found is that anytime I write about myself, and my own travels on this insane excursion we call “life,” my writing seems to flow like a flooded river, and the response I get is overwhelming and amazing.  And WHAT IF THAT’S WHY YOU'RE IN THE CAR WITH ME?!

Nawwwwwww.  That can’t be it. There are plenty of other people out there who write about their journey to self-discovery. I want to be different. Hell, I AM different, we all know that. It seems to me that writing about “finding myself” has been done by many others before me. If I wrote about myself, I’d be just a tiny snowflake in a massive blizzard of other stories. There is a virtual avalanche of narratives about finding a life that’s fulfilling and true to yourself. Nobody would be able to tell my story apart, and I’d be an insignificant snowflake in the blinding blizzard of self-awareness journeys. No one would care about MY snowflake, since snowflakes are rarely examined individually. And we all know, snowflakes are simply, collectively, just an insignificant part of “the snow” that makes a blizzard. 

But the more I thought about it, the more it started to make sense.  They say no two snowflakes are exactly the same, just as no two people or their stories are. In fact, they are all exceptionally different. And if you examine a snowflake closely, you will find each is extremely unique, intricately patterned, delicate yet robust, and wildly beautiful in it’s own way. If you catch a snowflake in your hand, you will find a fragile yet strong, tiny yet perfect, miracle of nature staring you in the face. One that’s survived a journey you can't imagine, and remained intact, beautiful in it’s own way, despite the raging storm. 

In their design, snowflakes appear insubstantial and weak. It’s unimaginable that they can survive the bitter cold, the driving wind, the violent collisions with other objects, the fierceness of a winter night, without simply disintegrating. Yet they DO survive, maybe not forever, but long enough to accomplish their mission. They make it through the cold and sometimes the darkness, battered by the whims of the wind in their blizzard, yet they remain intact and float to the ground, undamaged and dazzling in their deceptively insubstantial way, where they remain until the sun comes out again. 

And it seems maybe that’s what I want to write about. I want to write about MY snowflake—and my beautiful storm of life--and how I’ve managed to remain just a little bit like a snowflake, despite my challenges. How I’ve found a way to retain what’s beautiful on the inside of myself and remain intact, even when the blizzard of life has betrayed me. I want to write about how, at the end of every shit-storm I’ve survived in this life (and there have been plenty), how even against all odds, at the end of every the day and after every storm, I’ve managed to find warm sunshine, cute puppy dogs, and beautiful rainbows. 

And so it would seem after all this floundering about, I really just want to share my snowflakes with you. And my sunshine, puppy dogs, and rainbows. Luckily for all of us, I’m a good sharer.  

Who is the God of Blogging, Anyway?

So I mentioned yesterday that I have been spending a lot of time these last couple weeks in introspection and analyzing my own writing work.  In addition to what I shared yesterday, there is a whole lot more I discovered about myself, and how I want to do my “work.”  And I am going to share quite a bit more of it with you in the next few days because I have a whole lot to say about it. Imagine that, ME having a lot to say? Weird, huh? (Facebook fans, insert LOL here.)

One of the biggest things I found is that I need to throw some of the rules about blogging out the window.  I’d like to know, anyway, who is this “God of Blogging”, the “GOB,” that created the rules?  And what the hell does the “GOB” know about me, and what I have to say to the world? This “God of Blogging” preaches that I should condense everything I have to say to 500 or 600 words--or less? Are you kidding me? That’s simply not gonna happen, at least not for me, not every time. I am a WRITER! I WRITE!--A LOT!-- and I can’t always explain what I want to share in 500 words or less. That's too long for you,   Mr. God of Blogging? Well, you are aware that you don’t have to read my blog, right? (Although I do hope you will.)

But this is MY blog, and I created it for the express purpose of helping ME in my search to find the writer inside myself. And you are more than welcome to come along for the journey Mr. GOB, and I truly hope you do because travelling is always more fun in a group. But I am the driver and we’re going to go where I choose to steer us. You have to ride shotgun. And please try to remember, nobody likes a backseat driver. Don’t like the scenery from where you are? Want to go a different direction? Well, you can open the door and hop out of the car anytime you like. Hell, I’ll even pull over for you. But I’m certain of one thing; this journey is going to be the most fun I’ve ever had, and maybe it will be for you too. So stick with me kid, we’re going places you never imagined!

And this “GOB” of blogging (I'm starting to confuse that with S.O.B.) also says I “devalue” my work and am perceived as less articulate when I use "naughty" words? What!? “GOB” doesn’t like it when I use an expletive? Well then, the “GOB” can fuck off! Once again, he doesn’t have to read my blog. Sometimes I say hell, or damn, or shit, and even (*GASP*) fuck!!!  And a few other words that are considered inappropriate. Obviously, I know how to make substitutions, and I also know how to make good use of the “theasaurus” tool. And I don’t use them constantly, but sometimes they do help to make a point. So from now on, when it’s a time I would normally use such a word in conversation, it’s going to be used in my blog too. No more censoring myself, or worrying about offending people, or editing and rewriting my work to be as politically correct and generally acceptable as possible.

Because even though I know how to be a “proper lady,” when needed, I admit that I am a little bit socially offensive. Yes, that's right, I'm taboo. I’m a multi-tattooed Harley rider and a "party-boater" who's been seen in a thong bikini (or slightly topless) more than once, a crazy dog-lady, and a traveler living abroad, an "ex-pat" in a foreign country. I’m a bold entrepreneur who fought the State of Iowa (and won!), and then helped re-write the laws for an entire industry in my state. I’m a former prison staffer on a violent sex offender unit (working with rapists and murderers), and until recently, a secret survivor of sexual abuse as a child and physical abuse as an adult. I am also a product of a twice-broken home, the undeniable black sheep of the family, the only girl in a family of five brothers. I'm a "near-death" survivor of a ruptured brain aneurysm that should have killed me, and yet I still smoke cigarettes (insert another *GASP*) and I drink alcohol too, occasionally more than I should. I'm on my third marriage--yes, I said third (if you count my first marriage of four months), and I’m childless by choice. I’m a social renegade who carries a knife everywhere I go, and am not afraid to use it. I can be a scrappy little bitch, and sometimes I swear like a truck driver. I am a rule-breaker, a booty-shaker, and a path-maker. Very rarely am I the peace-maker. And, yes, (sometimes) I eat cheesecake for breakfast. There are a lot of socially questionable things are simply part of who I am and what makes me tick, and I am not going to hide them any longer.

So from here forward, I intend to share ALL of those things. I'm going to tell my story, the whole story, to bare my soul to you, dear readers, even the ugly parts. From now on, if you choose to stick with me, and although this blog is still primarily for me, it will also be for you. I’m going write as if I’m speaking to my best friends, my “people,” my traveling buddies, the ones who “get me”--and I'm going to speak as if we are the only people in the world who matter. And I’ll just have to hope that there are other people out there who might also be interested in what I have to say and join us on this awesome journey. If you're one of them, hop on in, there’s still plenty more room left in the vehicle!

Don't Let It End Like This, Tell Them I Said Something.

A few of you have noticed that I haven’t been blogging for the last couple of weeks. I’m making up for it by having a WHOLE LOT to say today, and probably tomorrow too. I have some valid explanations for my absence, but I’m not going to list them all out for you, because in the scheme of things the excuses don’t matter. I know I have let YOU down, my friends and readers, my supporters, and my blogging community, by completely bailing out and dropping out of sight without a word for almost three weeks.

In the end, though, it’s really not quite as simple as that. I haven’t stopped writing altogether and I have produced many pieces in the last few weeks, even during the holiday craziness, and in spite of gaining a 19-year-old “son” during the last month. (Damn, kids and holidays together are a LOT of work!) But I spent days upon days revisiting and rewriting almost every piece I wrote and still couldn’t bring myself to post a single one. And yesterday I sent every single thing I’ve written in the last few weeks to the trash bin. Why? Because it was all crap.

What was wrong with it?! What made it crap? The answer is nothing. And yet, everything. The posts were all readable enough, in the technical aspects at least, and maybe even slightly entertaining or interesting. I met a reader in person for the first time yesterday and we were discussing this. I told her a little about something I had written and deleted. She said to me, “but maybe somebody would have enjoyed it!?” And a few might have. But every time I proofed what I had written, it just didn’t feel right. I desperately WANTED to write something--anything--and tried many times. But the harder I tried, the more I failed. The words just wouldn’t come to me easily or naturally the way they usually do. All I could produce was “fluff”—lame, uninspiring, and boring.

After spending some time analyzing my work, I realized that none of what I produced felt true to myself or moved me in any real way. I wasn’t FEELING it, and it wasn’t feeling ME. I wasn’t writing about anything that I truly cared about or was excited about, and the evidence was in the lackluster results. My efforts clearly showed that I still haven’t found anything I’m very passionate about writing about. It was also obvious I wasn’t writing the way I would normally express myself, and that I had become too conscious of the possible critics. Consequently, I wasn’t writing in my “true” voice. I was censoring myself, and in trying so hard to please everyone else and be proper, I was hurting my own creativity.

I had thought it would be enough to just keep writing about something (anything), and that continuing to blog about my trivial day-to-day life experiences and my attempts at becoming a writer would help my passion just magically find me. But that hasn’t been the case. It’s obvious that I still need to do some work to find that “thing” that evokes such fiery emotion for me that I can’t NOT write about. I don’t know if any of you can identify with how frustrating and heartbreaking it is to feel you are wandering through life with no real passion for anything. It sucks.

Being unable to find even just ONE thing that really stirs my soul--something that makes me feel ALIVE!--leaves me feeling like a failure, like a sinking ship full of boring, meaningless words.  And I’m a woman overboard, arms waving over my head, screaming “Hey I’m over here!” to the empty vastness of the ocean. I’m drowning in all the possibilities spilling out of the ship, but unable to grasp one “thing” to cling to. I can't quite reach the thing that will keep my head above water and help me to survive. But I'm still swimming. For now.

My friends and family give me shit for saying this, but—here’s the thing: I truly believe I survived my brain aneurysm four years ago because I still have some purpose left on this earth, something amazing left to accomplish during this existence. I just don’t know what that thing is yet but I do know it has to do with my writing. What I also know is, I want to write about something that matters, something earth-shattering, something that changes peoples lives--SOMETHING EPIC! So why can’t I find that something to begin with—ANYTHING—that I’m passionate about? I’m spending a lot of time right now researching that too, and I’ll let you know what I find out.

In the meantime, I have been returning over and over again to a quote I saw recently that really struck a nerve with me. I have seen it attributed to both Pancho Villa, the Mexican revolutionary, and a character in the book “Don Quixote” (which I should mention I’ve never read but would like to) and it goes like this:
“DON’T LET IT END LIKE THIS. TELL THEM I SAID SOMETHING”

I’m not exactly sure why, but I can’t get that quote out of my head. What I can say is, I promise I won’t let it end like THIS. I may not be able to blog every single day, but I am going to keep swimming in this ocean of words. I will continue the process and write about it regularly until I find my “thing.” And then, I will write about my “thing!” I promise you that someday, you won’t have to tell “them” I said something--I will have said it myself. And I will keep on trying to say something--anything, everything--until the day I draw my last breath.