au revoir?

sometimes, you have a realization and it's terrifying.

i just had one of those.

i write.

i always have.

in recent years, i have written with the goal of writing books - books that i intended to query and pursue publication. there are 3 completed manuscripts housed within my scrivener software with one work in progress, and several starts and stops for other ideas. i write poems, short stream of consciousness kind of things, and the like.

several years ago, i joined twitter because i was in the middle of a supportive and glorious writing community filled with other writers i could trust for feedback, and who trusted me to provide feedback on their work. twitter was like an artery for me in this writing community - it kept us all connected, and it kept everyone in the loop of what everyone was doing.

the results of that writing community?

something like a dozen agented authors, maybe more, including the infamous el james (i'm admittedly not a fan), but also the ever lovely christina lauren. emma trevayne. alice clayton.

a largely talented bunch.

i'm about a third of the way through a manuscript now, 25K words of a project that's been plaguing me (in the best ways) since 2011.  it's thrilling to be finally in a place where i can make this story work when for four years, i couldn't make it work for the life of me (and believe me, i tried).

it feels remarkable. it is. save for one thing.

that writing community?

it no longer exists for me.

not really.

i won't get into that, but rest assured that it's true.

i write because i enjoy it, but also to improve. improvement is required.

nowhere good.

i can write. i can put words on paper and finish a project. that's never been an issue. without constructive criticism, where is a writer? nowhere good. without the ability read others' work for feedback and experience, where is a writer? nowhere good. without support and accountability from a network of this type, where is a writer?

and i am without any of the above.

i cried the other night when i realized that there was no reason for me to remain on twitter - not because i'm so attached to twitter, but because my writing community no longer exists. i've tried to regain it. no dice. life is life, people are busy, and it's just hard.

i never thought hopping off a social media train would be such a hard decision, but it is.

so there's that.

dichotomy

sometimes, things happen. tragic things. things that rip your heart open, drown you in sorrow for another human being, for your self. when those things happen, you don't know what to say; you couldn't. if you're smart, you keep quiet and simply offer a shoulder, an ear, a hand to hold. that support is what's really needed, and words will never suffice anyway.

sometimes, there's a modicum of guilt in your sorrow - because you haven't had to experience that tragic thing. because your life is evidence of the antithesis of the hell they're in the middle of. because you haven't lived that loss, that pain. it's not logical, this guilt, but it's there anyway. 

sometimes, all you can do is wish for peace and healing and hope. sometimes you wonder if people do the same for you. 

it's the natural ebb and flow of life - good and bad, growth and stagnation, birth and death, destruction and creation. and the rub of it all is that, though you know it's coming, though you know to expect it, there's not a damn thing anyone can do to prepare you when it comes. when it all rolls down hill at you and change is all around and maybe it's good but maybe it's bad, and maybe you can't get away from it, all you can do is roll with it. 

or maybe you dig your stake in the ground and try to stand tall in the midst of it all. 

which is worse? which is better? is there really an answer? 

it's hard to remember sometimes that those around you are fighting battles you've no knowledge about, that they are struggling with things you may never see. it's hard to care, because you have your own life, your own concerns, your own struggles. 

but we must. 

mustn't we? 

Ouch.

Last week, something happened. I won't say what. It was blasted all over social media, and it hurt my feelings in a real way. I'm not some delicate flower, mind you, with feelings that are sensitive and become tarnished or chipped away over any little thing. This felt major. And it was another example in many items in the same vein - things that bothered me in the same way, for the same reason. It all culminated in me realizing that yes, this hurt my feelings. Yes, this made me cry, almost. 

I took a week away from all forms of social media to try to reorient my head and heart. I hopped back onto the social media train with a silly update regarding One Direction, feeling better and more grounded. And then, as it turns out, something happened today that could also be lumped into that bucket of stuff that hurts.

I hate it. Feeling this way. Feeling less than. Feeling excluded, not enough. Feeling that, when I've been honest, it is not appreciated, it's disregarded, it's a delineation that allows me to be pushed aside.

Maybe I should ignore it - push it away and rely on the people that I know I can rely on. But that's hard for a million reasons. A million and one reasons. It's hard because often it's not just my feelings that are impacted. Maybe I'm holding this inside to keep it away from someone I love. Maybe I  hold it away to keep someone safe. 

But, try as I may, I don't know how to not let it impact me. 

I don't know how to shelve it without perhaps turning my heart off. And the fact is that, historically, I'm bad at that. I can't do it well, this idea of turning my heart off, of turning the volume down. 

I am strong. I know that. Everyone in my life knows that. And I can push through, keep my true feelings locked away when it behooves me. But that doesn't mean I'm not noticing things. Or that I don't care. 

Mostly it means I feel as though it wouldn't matter if I let you know that something was in fact bothering me. So, there's no use in making myself vulnerable before you.

.

.

.

I just needed to get that out "on paper." 

Bella B, in the place to be...

Oopsy, it's March. Anyway. Work has been completely cuckoo, and life has not been all that much calmer, but I'm keeping a smile on my face and my chin up.

I want to spend a little time discussing my kidlet, because this is, after all, my blog and it's the one I intend to keep up.

Bella is 6 and a half. Just ask her.  ;)

Many people know that Little Miss is sassy and smart and kind-hearted. She's also a lover of music and technology, and her favorite pastimes are reading and drawing. Currently, her favorite movie is Big Hero 6, and it's given her a renewed interest in Math, because it dawned on her that if she gets really good at math, she can work in robotics and engineering.

Color me impressed, as usual.

Her favorite character from Big Hero 6 is GoGo Tomago, resident independent bike-rider, kick ass driver, and strong female.

via

Previously, and in order from age 2 through 6, her favorites were:

Age 2-3 - Tiana from The Princess and the Frog, resident smart cookie, kick butt chef, minority business woman in 1920s New Orleans, and strong female.

Age 3-4 - Rapunzel from Tangled, resident artist, nerd, reader kid who believes in dreams, and strong female.

Age 4-6 - Merida from Brave, resident strong-willed princess, bad ass archer who doesn't feel marriage is required to be a valid individual, and strong female.

Are we sensing a theme?

Strong female characters with strong personalities, whose stories do not center on a male character. Strong ladies who have spunk and backbone and opinions and thoughts of their own making.

I love this about her; I love that she's drawn to this kind of character. I love that the characters themselves are very different from one another. Rapunzel's something of a girlie girl, Tiana is working too hard to worry about being girly, and Merida is the definition of a tomboy, but they are all smart and in command of their own lives.

It's always been a goal for me, as the mother of a young girl, to foster strength and courage in her, and I'd like to consider this a sign that we're doing something right.

Until next time,
A

On Writing, Amanda Palmer's book, Coraline, and stuff.

It's been a crazy few weeks, but here we are.

I've started revisions on my Nano14 project. It's not too terrible of an undertaking, or so it seems. I suppose all of that will come out in the wash this weekend, when I try to make some serious time for it. I've made a list of 11 Things I Need to Do to Make This Better So Maybe I Can Snag An Agent.

I have a desire to go the traditional publishing route; to be honest, there is a lot about ePublishing that I find ... distasteful. My dream agent - yes, there is one - is currently accepting queries, so we'll see if I can summon up the courage to send her a request. After all, the worst she can say is no.

Aside from that, I've managed to find a pre-reader who is willing to give me constructive criticism, and hasn't read a lot of my stuff otherwise. It's a bit frightening to be honest, this idea of sending someone who's never read anything I've written before with no real idea of what she'll think, but let's be honest: this is what publishing a book is.

Plan is to send the draft to my Fabulous Four, to take their feedback and push through another round of revisions, with hopeful querying to begin this summer. While they're reading it, I'm going to actually pull out the project I completed before this one, hopefully with fresh eyes for some heavy revisions/refills/reworking. I loved it, and it was the first of a series that my best friends are antsy to read more of so I suppose I should get back to that one, too. ;)

I've made a few non-writer goals for the year, too. I won't get into some of them just now, but one of them is to push myself out of this homebody habit I've taken on. I think 2014 was just so damn exhausting that I didn't know how else to react but to become something of a recluse. There are definitely some nasty catalysts that pushed me into that route, but I have stayed here, for the last few months at least, willingly. And frankly, it's time to stop.

I'm not an extrovert, despite many peoples' thoughts on the matter, but I do love being around my friends. More often than not, my only requisite company is a damn fine book, though. I've been reading Amanda Palmer's book, The Art of Asking; or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help.

She's got some one-liners that have really gotten down into my core, and they're just beautiful. An example:

“There's really no honor in proving that you can carry the entire load on your own shoulders. And...it's lonely” (Amanda Palmer, 2014)

It's lovely, and real, and heartfelt, and I have to be honest, it's refreshing because (to be truthful), I know very little about her beyond the fact that she's half of The Dresden Dolls, has an interesting set of non-eyebrows, there was some (somewhat incomprehensible) drama over a successful Kickstarter campaign she had, and she just happens to be married to one of my heroes, Neil Gaiman. The Art of Asking is heady and impacting; it's making me realize how strange my relationship with accepting help is. As a person who was forced to pay rent at 18 and has been on her own since about a month after that, and as a person who has no deep relationship with any of her genetic family, I feel that I've developed into such a fiercely independent woman that it's taken my husband nearly 10 years to break down the walls I unintentionally kept up.

And as I read, I can feel the stitches closing up some wounds I never realized I really had.

So, hey, thanks, Madam Dresden-Gaiman of the Drawn On Eyebrows. You're pretty kick ass. If I ever see you around town (Austin, TX), I'll send a coffee your way.

Btw, I swear, Amanda and Neil MUST be the coolest people on the planet. Amanda's whole story is so cool, and she seems so genuine. And then, last October, by reading and then retweeting me, Neil directly assisted me in putting together my kiddo's Halloween costume this year. I was having a hell of a time finding a legitimate but affordable yellow rain coat for my best gal, and she was bound and determined to be Coraline. In the end, Neil retweeted me, and a lady in Boston ended up sending me her daughter's old jacket for free... and she included a note that said she hoped we loved it and got a lot of use out of it.

(she wore a striped shirt beneath the jacket for our actual trick or treating)

Anyway, basically, what I'm saying is Neil and Amanda live what they preach. And I'm grateful for it.

Anyway.

I think I'll go read.

Good night.

- ang

Triggers, triggers, everywhere.

Sometimes, several things in the media meld into one thing for you; they're unrelated, but somehow, they melt together into one cohesive entity, and that's what I've experienced over the last couple of weeks. Fair warning to my more conservative friends: this may include many triggers for you. God knows it includes many triggers for me.

I won't link to the stories about any of this, but this blog is inspired by my recent considerations of my religious history, the story of Leelah Alcorn and her parents' requirement that she attend Conversion Therapy, and Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie and their acceptance of their child Shiloh's self-recognition as a boy (and his preference to be called John), and a gospel story that ended up as part of 60 Minutes' programming.

First, my thoughts regarding religion, which I'll keep vague and brief, because in reality, my relationship with religion is tenuous at best, and because my history is punctuated with painful pieces of my history I've grown and healed from, and therefore would prefer not to relive. Organized religion can be beautiful when it's paired with a true, open heart. When it is not, it's among the ugliest things a person can be faced with, particularly as an "outsider." When I disregard the painful pieces of my personal religious history, I find religion beautiful. I find it heart-healing and lovely and real. But I can't necessarily disregard my painful portions, despite the fact that I absolutely respect people who live their religion with open hearts and minds.

This connects to the story of Leelah Alcorn because her suicide note stated that the majority of her feelings of abject rejection were centered on the fact that her conservative Christian parents would not accept her as a female, and actually made her attend conversion therapy. Side note: Conversion Therapy has been disbanned as a reasonable and real treatment, and since 1997, has not been recognized by the American Psychological Association (APA) (I won't cite here in APA citation style, but here's a good summary: http://psychology.ucdavis.edu/faculty_sites/rainbow/html/resolution97.html).

The best summary I can give you of my personal feelings on this matter was made as a comment regarding Leelah's parents on some article. I don't know where I saw it, but I didn't write it. That comment is:

"They loved their son so much that they killed their daughter."

No, they didn't put the gun to Leelah's head (I don't actually know what her selected method of suicide was, but you understand the metaphor). But the acceptance of a child by their parents is a requisite for their mental health. That remains uncontested in psychological terms. Her mother has been cited as saying she "loved her son unconditionally" but couldn't accept him or his choice to self-recognize as a girl based on religious guidelines.

That is not unconditional love, my friends. End of story.

A few days later, articles begin surfacing about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, and how their child, Shiloh, has elected to self-recognize as a male, and they're supporting his decision.

I'll be honest here: I can't fully fathom this, because my daughter is a girl through and through. But I also can't fathom feeling wrong in your skin; feeling like a boy although you've got female secondary sex traits, feeling like a girl even though you've got male secondary sex traits. But I can tell you this: I wouldn't shove my child into a corner and make them live according to my idea of what's acceptable and then blame my lack of acceptance on my religion.

Frankly: I find it beautiful that Brad and Angelina are allowing Shiloh to be called John. If he changes his mind later, so be it, but for now, his wishes should be respected. Who are we to say otherwise?

Finally, I was watching a 60 Minutes episode last night, and it was centered on a Gospel group that allows men and women who have dedicated themselves to the Christian faith later in life to tell their real stories on stage as a way to witness the power of their God in their lives. An interviewer asked one of the men, who had been given up by his mother shortly after birth and therefore never knew her, "Who loved you unconditionally as a child?"

His answer was, "No one."

And this made me start thinking.

It made me start thinking because when I considered the people in my childhood that made me feel loved unconditionally, I only had one response for that question: my grandmother. Definitely not my mother. Not my father. Not my aunts or uncles or cousins.

My grandmother who, may she rest in peace, loved me fiercely. Yes, on my best days. But, even on my worst days. She loved me no matter what, and from that came discipline and affection and kindness.

I had my Grandmother. I wish the list were longer, but it isn't and that just is what it is. John has Brangelina. Leelah didn't have her parents, but perhaps she had friends, though they weren't enough.

As an adult, I have several people in my life that love me unconditionally. They are friends. My husband. My daughter. I watched love as a walking talking person in the grandmother of some of my closest friends. But all of these news stories have melted together for me and now, all I can say is this:

Live with an open heart. Life is too short not to. Love them, and tell them you love them, and don't love them with a list of requirements. Love fiercely. Love always, even if that love has to be pulled away from those who cause you harm. Love yourself more than that person, in those cases.

Love your people. And love yourself.

The end.

Hello, 2015.

I have to laugh when I think about how long it's been since I updated this thing. But I figure, hey, new year, new goals, new outlook.

So here am I. 

I'm surrounded by people who are making all these intense new year's resolutions, these things they're aiming to do for a whole year, and I realized that I just don't want to do that. I never have, really, but I think this year, my approach is different than it ever has been before. 

My first status on Facebook for 2015 is this: 

Happy. 

It seems so simple, but let's be real: so many of us get it wrong. 

I believe I've found the recipe to happiness. It's so easy, you guys, but the circuitous route I had to take to get to it is stupid and long, involves the most difficult year my husband and I have ever (and possibly will ever have), fitness, and meditation. 

All that struggle and work on myself to find this: 

Own your life. 

Own the moment you're in. Be honest about where you are. Own the fact that your life is yours, and you can change it. Or not. Be intentional in all things.

You don't like your living situation? Handle it. 

You don't like your money situation? Handle it. 

You don't like your relationship situation? Handle. That. Shit. 

Because only you can. 

When I did a real inventory - of my life, of my husband's life, of my friends' lives, of so many people I know - it was painfully obvious that people don't live here and now. We live in the hypothetical when we should be living in the real. Why put up with a half-assed relationship when you can have a real one? Why put up with a shitty living situation when you don't have to? Why keep that job you hate? Why be in denial about being angry, when you could deal with that anger and really live? 

Because that's the thing. 

Life is too short to not be lived. And there are so many differences between existing and living. 

Living implies change, adaptability, growth. It implies experience. Existence is simply a fact. A physical presence. It means your cells are firing and your brain is alive. Nothing more.

And you know the best way to live? 

To be present in your every waking moment. 

And you know the best way to do that? 

To own those moments, so that they're wholly yours.

So, my goal for 2015 - to be happy - means I'm going to really live this year. I'm going to love and live and laugh and grow and change and enjoy the hell out of this life I've been gifted because WHY NOT? 

Find your joy you guys. Find what puts a smile on your face. 

You know what puts a smile on my face? My daughter. My husband's stupid jokes. Doctor Who. A good book. Pretty earrings. Killer heels. Amy's Mina posts. Good sushi. Killing my workouts like a BOSS. Spending time, however brief, with my favorite people. Writing.

Find your joy, guys. Life is too short for anything else. 

Here's to 2015, y'all. See you soon. 

Til next time, 

Ang