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