A while ago, I wrote about why I write. Lately, the opposite question has popped into my head, “Why am I not writing?”
A couple of years ago, my mom decided to clean out their basement. Old lamps, aquariums, glass vases, dusty baby toys, and my box of high school memorabilia were listed on the eviction notice. Back at my house I hauled the box into our attic. Peering into it, I scanned the contents: dried up corsages, all four yearbooks, shoe boxes filled with notes passed during classes or between them, and framed pictures of my much younger face coupled with that my boyfriend or a group of giggling girlfriends.
Picking through the box, I came upon the special senior edition of our high school newspaper. The news staff asked many of the seniors what they hoped to be doing in 10 years. Groaning inwardly, I skimmed through the responses, looking for mine. I’d said, “I want to be making a difference.” A cheesier line could possibly be found by watching a Miss America pageant, but I doubt it. I cringed, imagining my fellow classmates gagging on their index fingers after reading my reply. And yet, here’s the tricky thing, perched over that box of memories, the attic light bulb shining above my head like a spotlight, I knew I meant it. Puffing up like a proud mama, I felt pleased with my younger self, cheesy or not.
Somehow after graduating from college, getting married, teaching for five years, giving birth to my first child, struggling through infertility, adopting our second child and starting two different masters programs, I still meant it, I just didn’t want to do it anymore. The difference I wanted was a now a little validation, a bigger salary, more respect and some positive attention. In the sentence, “I want to make a difference.” The main idea shifted from ideal of change in the world to a need for break and some time to think.
So, why haven’t I been writing? Frustration and confusion are not always my favorite topics. I know of people who can convey these issues with a clever sense of humor and wit. I wasn’t feeling it though.
I felt like someone who was walking around with a dislocated shoulder. There were things I could do that wouldn’t make it hurt, but try to throw a ball and YIKES! Step back people. So I just kind of held it and rubbed it for awhile. Except instead of my shoulder, it’s been my purpose that felt dislocated. I’ve been working on the courage to pop it back into place. A couple of weeks ago, that happened. It snapped back in and a surge of relief followed. I still feel a bit sore and am trying to be gentle with it, but my purpose seems to be back.
This fall, I am heading back to my masters program in social work. I don’t plan to stop writing. In fact, I believe I will write more once I am back in school. My goal of 5 rejections for this year remains. But the fact is, I’ve realized that I need more. I’ve come to terms with the money issue. I probably won’t ever make what I feel I should as far as money goes, and yes, school will be expensive. Gold stars will not be handed out for what I will do. Yet, at the core of who I am, I know I need to do it. All of the other things I’ve played with this year, owning a bike shop, being a bike mechanic, writing for a career, they won’t work for me on their own. They are great as a supplementation, a way to balance out the rest, but not as a means to themselves.
This all brings me back to the initial question, “Why have I not been writing?” Well, I had to snap my shoulder back in place. I had to learn exactly how to do it. I didn’t want to do it wrong and make it worse. The pain could no longer be ignored.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Seven words
I saw this question posted on another blog, and I forget which one. But I thought it was fun...
Describe your current life in seven words:
Searching for some adventure between time outs.
That seems to sum it up. At least for today. Anyone else want to give it a shot?
Describe your current life in seven words:
Searching for some adventure between time outs.
That seems to sum it up. At least for today. Anyone else want to give it a shot?
Monday, July 6, 2009
Next week this week
Imagine you will be sitting down a week from today to describe how your week went. What do you hope you'll be writing?-Writing prompt taken from The One Minute Writer
I went for a run today and my knee didn’t hurt at all. Instead of taking the medium route on my bike ride, I took the long one. I rode 50 miles without having to stop to go to the bathroom. I passed two other riders while climbing a hill and was able to keep a 16mph average even with the wind. I rode my aerobars without the slightest wobble on the bumpy parts of the road. I borrowed my mom’s small digital camera and took some amazing shots on the ride, the white barn, the magenta holly hocks in front of the green picket fence, my own shadow sliding along the road in front of me. I will frame the one of the barn and in our family room. Josh and I exhibited massive amounts of patience with both of our kids and managed to have a few conversations of our own. I did not drink a Diet Coke on that sweltering hot day and SURPRISE, my face didn’t break out. Clear skin is as easy as refraining from Diet Coke for me, which means it is hard. Thankfully, I never formed an addiction to anything stronger. I don’t think I have the stamina for quitting.
I cracked funny, quick witted jokes with my friends, making them chuckle with intelligent humor. I serviced all of my accounts for work AND came to a firm conclusion about my future career path. All of this, while staying on my Clean Eating plan for more than one meal, rising at 5am and getting to bed early as well. Not a bad week.
I went for a run today and my knee didn’t hurt at all. Instead of taking the medium route on my bike ride, I took the long one. I rode 50 miles without having to stop to go to the bathroom. I passed two other riders while climbing a hill and was able to keep a 16mph average even with the wind. I rode my aerobars without the slightest wobble on the bumpy parts of the road. I borrowed my mom’s small digital camera and took some amazing shots on the ride, the white barn, the magenta holly hocks in front of the green picket fence, my own shadow sliding along the road in front of me. I will frame the one of the barn and in our family room. Josh and I exhibited massive amounts of patience with both of our kids and managed to have a few conversations of our own. I did not drink a Diet Coke on that sweltering hot day and SURPRISE, my face didn’t break out. Clear skin is as easy as refraining from Diet Coke for me, which means it is hard. Thankfully, I never formed an addiction to anything stronger. I don’t think I have the stamina for quitting.
I cracked funny, quick witted jokes with my friends, making them chuckle with intelligent humor. I serviced all of my accounts for work AND came to a firm conclusion about my future career path. All of this, while staying on my Clean Eating plan for more than one meal, rising at 5am and getting to bed early as well. Not a bad week.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Smoker
The heavily ashed cigarette hung out of his mouth at a relaxed angle. He held onto it loosely, tucking it into the corner of his mouth as only a true smoker would. Anyone with less experience would purse their lips just a little too tightly, fearing the small burned hole in their perfectly worn jeans if the cigarette were to fall. I’ve never met this neighbor, but as I drove past his half-mowed lawn dressed in my black pants and wrinkled white blouse, I resisted the urge to pull my car right up to the end of his driveway. For a moment I saw myself carefully placing my car in park, opening up my car door to introduce myself as the neighbor down the street. Upon which, he would turn off his lawn mower, offer me a seat on one of his black rockers on the porch and we’d sit and smoke a cigarette together, commenting on the rain this week. “Great for the lawn, if it could just stay green and mow itself, everyone would be happy.” I would take a long inhale off of the cigarette and nod my head in perfect agreement.
A few weeks ago, as my family and I sat around my sister’s dining room table I made a decision. “I smoked in college.” There, it was out. Now, I waited and scanned my mom and dad’s faces. My sister, already privy to this information, stopped scraping food off the dishes in the kitchen and gave me the raised eyebrow expression. My Dad had just finished telling us the story about his “business associates”, that is what he always calls them, not people from work, or the fellows he works with, they are business associates, period. This particular group of business associates happened to want to end a night at a cigar bar. Dad, who quit smoking years ago, had to decline. “I really wanted to go in there and have a cigar. I really wanted to. I knew I had to go home. There was no way I could go in and say no to all those cigars.”
I’ve actually had more than a few nightmares that I catch my Dad sneaking a smoke somewhere. I find out he never really did quit and I am horrified. My Dad just looked at me from across the table and smiled, “Are you kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Wait,” my mom jumped in. “Did you inhale?” Who knew Bill Clinton and I would encounter the same questions someday.
Offended, I answered, “Of course I did!” What kind of baby smoker did they take me for anyway?
My Dad looked at me in total disbelief. Perhaps he was thinking of the famous letter I wrote to him when I was about eight. Growing up, my Dad smoked two or three packs a day. Each morning he would shuffle downstairs wearing his once navy robe over his pajamas, grab a lighter and his pack of cigarettes and head to the garage for the first cigarette of the day.
In the letter, I begged him with my elementary handwriting, to quit smoking. I even included my own little cartoonish fuzz ball creature. The bubble over his round little body said, “I know you can do it. Just think of how proud of yourself you will be once you quit!” With my mom’s encouragement, we folded the letter up and sent it to his office at work. My mom knowingly felt that such a plea would resonate with more vigor if it were to be received unexpectedly.
So he quit. He transformed into a bear for a few weeks, snapping and growling at anything that moved. He quit cold turkey. My hacking cough the pediatrician blamed on the second hand smoke stopped, and my sister and I no longer covered our noses on the way home from church when my Dad would gratefully light up, but not allow more than one window to be cracked open.
I hated it when my Dad smoked. I loved it when I smoked. I still miss it. I miss sitting somewhere with someone and just counting the inhales, how many you have left before you snub it out. I smoked because I couldn’t really drink. Drinking just made me silly for about 30 minutes. Each time I attempted to drink with any purpose, I ended up vomiting. The entire day afterwards was always ruined. Plus, it was pleasurably rebellious for me to smoke. People’s faces lit up with genuine shock when they saw me light up, “You smoke?” they would shriek.
“Yep,” I would answer taking an extra long drag to prove it.
Smoking was my way of saying, “You know what, you don’t know everything about me. I am not as predictable as you think. Don’t label me Miss Goodie Two Shoes. There are lots of surprising things about me. Hang around and you’ll see.” The fear of course was, maybe I am not so surprising. In reality, I am pretty predictable; it’s been my nature for as long as I can remember. I go to bed early, floss my teeth every morning, try to eat a healthy as I can, take my vitamins every day, pray and try to stay on a budget.
So, as I drove past my neighbor, who I don’ t know, on my street and watched him smoke that cigarette while he trudged up and down his lawn, painting those neat stripes across it, I pushed aside the desire to jump out of my reliable Honda Civic to chat and bum a smoke. Instead, I pulled into our driveway, grabbed a pen. Writing down my miles for the week’s expense account, I gathered up my work bag, the file folders stuffed inside, proof of my work for the day, and headed inside.
A few weeks ago, as my family and I sat around my sister’s dining room table I made a decision. “I smoked in college.” There, it was out. Now, I waited and scanned my mom and dad’s faces. My sister, already privy to this information, stopped scraping food off the dishes in the kitchen and gave me the raised eyebrow expression. My Dad had just finished telling us the story about his “business associates”, that is what he always calls them, not people from work, or the fellows he works with, they are business associates, period. This particular group of business associates happened to want to end a night at a cigar bar. Dad, who quit smoking years ago, had to decline. “I really wanted to go in there and have a cigar. I really wanted to. I knew I had to go home. There was no way I could go in and say no to all those cigars.”
I’ve actually had more than a few nightmares that I catch my Dad sneaking a smoke somewhere. I find out he never really did quit and I am horrified. My Dad just looked at me from across the table and smiled, “Are you kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Wait,” my mom jumped in. “Did you inhale?” Who knew Bill Clinton and I would encounter the same questions someday.
Offended, I answered, “Of course I did!” What kind of baby smoker did they take me for anyway?
My Dad looked at me in total disbelief. Perhaps he was thinking of the famous letter I wrote to him when I was about eight. Growing up, my Dad smoked two or three packs a day. Each morning he would shuffle downstairs wearing his once navy robe over his pajamas, grab a lighter and his pack of cigarettes and head to the garage for the first cigarette of the day.
In the letter, I begged him with my elementary handwriting, to quit smoking. I even included my own little cartoonish fuzz ball creature. The bubble over his round little body said, “I know you can do it. Just think of how proud of yourself you will be once you quit!” With my mom’s encouragement, we folded the letter up and sent it to his office at work. My mom knowingly felt that such a plea would resonate with more vigor if it were to be received unexpectedly.
So he quit. He transformed into a bear for a few weeks, snapping and growling at anything that moved. He quit cold turkey. My hacking cough the pediatrician blamed on the second hand smoke stopped, and my sister and I no longer covered our noses on the way home from church when my Dad would gratefully light up, but not allow more than one window to be cracked open.
I hated it when my Dad smoked. I loved it when I smoked. I still miss it. I miss sitting somewhere with someone and just counting the inhales, how many you have left before you snub it out. I smoked because I couldn’t really drink. Drinking just made me silly for about 30 minutes. Each time I attempted to drink with any purpose, I ended up vomiting. The entire day afterwards was always ruined. Plus, it was pleasurably rebellious for me to smoke. People’s faces lit up with genuine shock when they saw me light up, “You smoke?” they would shriek.
“Yep,” I would answer taking an extra long drag to prove it.
Smoking was my way of saying, “You know what, you don’t know everything about me. I am not as predictable as you think. Don’t label me Miss Goodie Two Shoes. There are lots of surprising things about me. Hang around and you’ll see.” The fear of course was, maybe I am not so surprising. In reality, I am pretty predictable; it’s been my nature for as long as I can remember. I go to bed early, floss my teeth every morning, try to eat a healthy as I can, take my vitamins every day, pray and try to stay on a budget.
So, as I drove past my neighbor, who I don’ t know, on my street and watched him smoke that cigarette while he trudged up and down his lawn, painting those neat stripes across it, I pushed aside the desire to jump out of my reliable Honda Civic to chat and bum a smoke. Instead, I pulled into our driveway, grabbed a pen. Writing down my miles for the week’s expense account, I gathered up my work bag, the file folders stuffed inside, proof of my work for the day, and headed inside.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Back in the saddle
Yesterday I took my bike out. This is the second ride I’ve headed out on all by myself, the first time occurring last weekend. That first ride almost didn’t happen. As I rushed around the house trying to find my orthotics to shove into my bike shoes, and my biking gloves, which I never did find, and take my bike off the trainer to get it outside, I thought, “This is why people don’t get into riding, there is too much crap to put on and get out!” For as much as I appreciate nice gear, it can sure spread out quickly.
The clouds gathered heavily outside our front door. Frowning, I thought, “Why am I doing this? I’m just going to get stuck out in the rain and slide off the road somewhere. I will probably hurt myself too.” Right on queue, Elizabeth yelled down a request for something from her room upstairs. “Ask Daddy,” I told her and stepped outside.
It was now or never. I knew why I needed to get my butt on that seat. It didn’t matter if I only rolled a mile away from the house and then had to turn around, I needed to get on the bike and get out on the road because it intimidated the crap out of me. Waiting until tomorrow wouldn’t make it any easier.
I remember when getting out on the roads by myself wasn’t a big deal. Visions of cars side swiping me or of being kidnapped by a strange man in a pick-up truck didn’t cross my mind. That scary movie didn’t play because the real scenes of freshly painted barns, shiny green corn stalks and the blissful swatches of cool shady wooded areas took up all of the space instead. In those days, I pushed my pedals and felt my strength and independence rise within me without any surprise.
And so despite the pit in my stomach and the incessant fear that I would get stuck in my pedals and eat the pavement with my much appreciated teeth, I clipped in and headed out. We live in an area with a lot of round abouts. Knowing that riding through one would scare me, I headed for the closest one right away. My heart rate monitor beeped at me as I approached the tricky intersection. Following all of the road rules, I entered the round about and promptly got honked at by an angry driver. Apparently, he or she wasn’t pleased seeing a biker on the road. “Okay, so I got the round about and the pissed off driver out of the way in the first five minutes, not bad,” I thought. Sure enough, my heart rate monitor confirmed that my heart was still beating, I was still alive. A sense of adventure and freedom once again started to seep into my pumping legs. “Honk if you must, but I, Kate Kneifel, am out here on the road, like it or not!”
I knew there were ride markers on the road, starting at Elizabeth’s elementary school, so I followed those. As I pedaled farther and farther away from the subdivisions of our town and headed more and more out into the country, my spirits lifted. On that first ride, it never did rain. I saw two blue birds, with their brilliant indigo coloring, and each time I shouted with glee. “Oh my gosh, it’s a blue bird!” I love blue birds but have only seen them a couple of times in my life. I remember wanting to try to build one of their special houses when I was in girl scouts. I never did make one, but on this ride I saw them twice! Then, at one point in the ride, the clouds parted and a brilliant ray of sunshine streamed down upon a white barn sitting peacefully in a golden field of wheat. “Wow, “ I exclaimed to no one. “Will you look at that! Isn’t that just beautiful!” Smiling, pleased with myself as if I had created all of these little surprises myself, I rode on.
I’ve lived in Carmel for almost 15 years. Here was all of this beauty just a few miles by bike, and I’d never seen it or experienced it. It felt like a mini vacation, a little mini adventure in my backyard. And that experience alone, it was like being a little kid again. Almost as if these child-like experiences were a just smooth white shelled eggs nestled in my gut, just waiting to be picked up and cracked open.
Yesterday I chose a new route. I had no idea how far it would take me, or where it would take me. I could’ve looked it up on the internet or driven it first with my car, but that seemed beyond the point. Once again, I came home feeling rejuvenated and alive with the feel of the road, the smell of the burning wood, the rotting moss, the heat of the growing crops now enveloped in my body. It amazes me that how if I can manage to push the fear aside, other sensations will fill that space until there is just not much room for fear and anxiety.
I keep trying to find people who want to go out on rides with me. But it seems people have either had painful sore butt experiences with bikes and aren’t thrilled about the idea of reliving them, or they are zippidy fast and I don’t want to hold them back, sucking air the whole time trying to keep up with them. Perhaps I am just meant to ride alone for awhile and it turns out, I don’t mind at all.
The clouds gathered heavily outside our front door. Frowning, I thought, “Why am I doing this? I’m just going to get stuck out in the rain and slide off the road somewhere. I will probably hurt myself too.” Right on queue, Elizabeth yelled down a request for something from her room upstairs. “Ask Daddy,” I told her and stepped outside.
It was now or never. I knew why I needed to get my butt on that seat. It didn’t matter if I only rolled a mile away from the house and then had to turn around, I needed to get on the bike and get out on the road because it intimidated the crap out of me. Waiting until tomorrow wouldn’t make it any easier.
I remember when getting out on the roads by myself wasn’t a big deal. Visions of cars side swiping me or of being kidnapped by a strange man in a pick-up truck didn’t cross my mind. That scary movie didn’t play because the real scenes of freshly painted barns, shiny green corn stalks and the blissful swatches of cool shady wooded areas took up all of the space instead. In those days, I pushed my pedals and felt my strength and independence rise within me without any surprise.
And so despite the pit in my stomach and the incessant fear that I would get stuck in my pedals and eat the pavement with my much appreciated teeth, I clipped in and headed out. We live in an area with a lot of round abouts. Knowing that riding through one would scare me, I headed for the closest one right away. My heart rate monitor beeped at me as I approached the tricky intersection. Following all of the road rules, I entered the round about and promptly got honked at by an angry driver. Apparently, he or she wasn’t pleased seeing a biker on the road. “Okay, so I got the round about and the pissed off driver out of the way in the first five minutes, not bad,” I thought. Sure enough, my heart rate monitor confirmed that my heart was still beating, I was still alive. A sense of adventure and freedom once again started to seep into my pumping legs. “Honk if you must, but I, Kate Kneifel, am out here on the road, like it or not!”
I knew there were ride markers on the road, starting at Elizabeth’s elementary school, so I followed those. As I pedaled farther and farther away from the subdivisions of our town and headed more and more out into the country, my spirits lifted. On that first ride, it never did rain. I saw two blue birds, with their brilliant indigo coloring, and each time I shouted with glee. “Oh my gosh, it’s a blue bird!” I love blue birds but have only seen them a couple of times in my life. I remember wanting to try to build one of their special houses when I was in girl scouts. I never did make one, but on this ride I saw them twice! Then, at one point in the ride, the clouds parted and a brilliant ray of sunshine streamed down upon a white barn sitting peacefully in a golden field of wheat. “Wow, “ I exclaimed to no one. “Will you look at that! Isn’t that just beautiful!” Smiling, pleased with myself as if I had created all of these little surprises myself, I rode on.
I’ve lived in Carmel for almost 15 years. Here was all of this beauty just a few miles by bike, and I’d never seen it or experienced it. It felt like a mini vacation, a little mini adventure in my backyard. And that experience alone, it was like being a little kid again. Almost as if these child-like experiences were a just smooth white shelled eggs nestled in my gut, just waiting to be picked up and cracked open.
Yesterday I chose a new route. I had no idea how far it would take me, or where it would take me. I could’ve looked it up on the internet or driven it first with my car, but that seemed beyond the point. Once again, I came home feeling rejuvenated and alive with the feel of the road, the smell of the burning wood, the rotting moss, the heat of the growing crops now enveloped in my body. It amazes me that how if I can manage to push the fear aside, other sensations will fill that space until there is just not much room for fear and anxiety.
I keep trying to find people who want to go out on rides with me. But it seems people have either had painful sore butt experiences with bikes and aren’t thrilled about the idea of reliving them, or they are zippidy fast and I don’t want to hold them back, sucking air the whole time trying to keep up with them. Perhaps I am just meant to ride alone for awhile and it turns out, I don’t mind at all.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Happiness
Today I dropped my kids off at Vacation Bible School, I raced my guilt about not volunteering this year to the front doors. I won. Leaving the guilt behind to catch it's breath and latch onto another mother, I drove my smeared windowed Civic to Menards.
I've been wanting to plant more perennials in the back beds, but just haven't had the time lately. As I walked through the nursery with my list, my heart pounded as if I were embarking upon a new romance. I thought to myself, "This is me. I get butterflies imagining what I can plant in the dirt behind my house." I'm not sure if this is an admirable passion for life and the simple parts of it, or low expectations.
Pure joy hits you from behind while your not looking. It stuns me like a kick in the butt, but instead of being angry and shocked, when it is joy, you jump at the sudden impact and laugh. An Annabelle hydrangea plant sat shot gun. Kai's car seat held with lavender plants. The floor filled up with yellow rose bushes. The back end of my car sunk under the weight of several bags of black top soil and mulch.
No one was hungry. I didn't have to worry about putting a blanket down for dirt and water. It's my car. I am allowed to get it as dirty as I want. As I hopped into my car, I could almost hear the plants smile, sighing happily to themselves as well. There is a quietness knowing you will be loved. If I had a bigger car, I would've bought too much, felt sick to my stomach. Neatly folding the receipt and slipping it into that hidden pocket of my wallet I would have returned them the next day.
I will take a picture of this when I get home, I thought as I arched the front wheels out of the parking spot. This is pure happiness for me today. So I did, and there it is.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Giving up the Gold Star
I keep thinking about posting something, writing more, and then I don't. I do the laundry, start dinner, get caught up on paperwork for work, and think of other projects, something easier.
I keep thinking two things, first of all, that nothing worth having is ever too easy. And two, but maybe I am wasting my time. I had a big in depth conversation with my friend Heather about careers, life, etc. She asked me why I am writing, what I like to write, etc.
A year ago I started take more time to write because I enjoy it. I've kept a journal since I was about 11 and find that writing lifts me up. It leaves me feeling full and light at the same time. But as we continued talking, I realized that lately, I'd fallen into the "Gold Star" trap. I was writing to get the Gold Star. I wanted someone who wasn't a friend or family to read my blog and find it interesting. I daydreamed of an agent or publisher finding something I wrote worth a second look. And as the rejections came in, I lost that spark and worse, the fun evaporated as I replayed my own sense of embarrassment over and over in my mind.
Heather left me a card the next day. It is a yellow note card with a little pink star on it. "I couldn't find any gold stars, so you got a pink one on a gold card!"
I haven't been writing much this month. But maybe it was time for a break, time to take a breath, to let go of worry and stop trying so hard.
There is a woman at my club and she is teaching herself how to swim, just as I did last year at this time. Each day, she straps on the flotation belt and churns up and down the swim lane. Stopping half way down the lane, her chest lifts and falls, I catch her eye and smile. I want to say, "WAY TO GO! You are doing so much better than just two weeks ago!" But I don't, as I need to watch myself that I am not too friendly. She smiles back proud of herself. I didn't have to say a word.
Me, I plan to backstroke for a bit. I did a bit of revising on my Princess Hazel story, but that's it. I am just struggling going back to it. I'm not trying to make writing my career. It's funny, I can do marathons, cycling events or swim and not care at all if I am slow. Instead, I find I feel completely delighted each time I finish and don't puke. I wonder how I can transfer that attitude to other areas? Maybe drink Gatorade while I write to get me in the mood? Do push ups between sentences?
For now, I'm going to try to let go of the Gold Star Status, breathe and let it be fun again.
I keep thinking two things, first of all, that nothing worth having is ever too easy. And two, but maybe I am wasting my time. I had a big in depth conversation with my friend Heather about careers, life, etc. She asked me why I am writing, what I like to write, etc.
A year ago I started take more time to write because I enjoy it. I've kept a journal since I was about 11 and find that writing lifts me up. It leaves me feeling full and light at the same time. But as we continued talking, I realized that lately, I'd fallen into the "Gold Star" trap. I was writing to get the Gold Star. I wanted someone who wasn't a friend or family to read my blog and find it interesting. I daydreamed of an agent or publisher finding something I wrote worth a second look. And as the rejections came in, I lost that spark and worse, the fun evaporated as I replayed my own sense of embarrassment over and over in my mind.
Heather left me a card the next day. It is a yellow note card with a little pink star on it. "I couldn't find any gold stars, so you got a pink one on a gold card!"
I haven't been writing much this month. But maybe it was time for a break, time to take a breath, to let go of worry and stop trying so hard.
There is a woman at my club and she is teaching herself how to swim, just as I did last year at this time. Each day, she straps on the flotation belt and churns up and down the swim lane. Stopping half way down the lane, her chest lifts and falls, I catch her eye and smile. I want to say, "WAY TO GO! You are doing so much better than just two weeks ago!" But I don't, as I need to watch myself that I am not too friendly. She smiles back proud of herself. I didn't have to say a word.
Me, I plan to backstroke for a bit. I did a bit of revising on my Princess Hazel story, but that's it. I am just struggling going back to it. I'm not trying to make writing my career. It's funny, I can do marathons, cycling events or swim and not care at all if I am slow. Instead, I find I feel completely delighted each time I finish and don't puke. I wonder how I can transfer that attitude to other areas? Maybe drink Gatorade while I write to get me in the mood? Do push ups between sentences?
For now, I'm going to try to let go of the Gold Star Status, breathe and let it be fun again.
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