Bird by bird

("Nicole, can you come around front? Now can you scoot down? What's a group picture without someone looking like they're twerking? Perfect!")

I left Friday to attend Writing in the Woods, a retreat offered by one of my favorite people on Earth, Kimberly Wilson. I intentionally refused to think too hard about the weekend in advance, because I didn't want any sort of preconceived notions of how the weekend "should" go to get in the way of how it went, organically. When I arrived at the retreat house Friday afternoon, I was a complete blank slate. All I knew was that I was in for a weekend of vegetarianism, yoga, writing, and meeting other writers. With that said, I think the best way I can write about this experience is to do so under each of those topics individually.

Food
Kimberly is an outspoken animal rights activist, so it was understandable to have the weekend full of vegetarian food. Her partner, Tim, was our chef all weekend and toiled in the kitchen while we twisted our bodies and minds into unnatural positions. He joked at one point about having "world famous guacamole" and I can now attest, it should be world famous if it isn't already. There were no tomatoes or onions, and it was somehow still the most flavorful guac I have ever had. The bowl emptied within minutes of hitting the table every time. Two other retreaters brought a bottle of wine with them, and I somehow managed to go the entire weekend without a single glass! Saturday night we had s'mores around a bonfire, and I managed not to eat one of those, too. Bypassing alcohol AND chocolate? I know, who am I? What this reinforced for me is that it is possible to eat a vegetarian diet and not come away feeling deprived of the fun of eating. I've spent a substantial amount of time as both a vegetarian and a vegan, but it's never been as enjoyable as this weekend was for me. I'm thinking perhaps Tim needs to open a restaurant. In Cleveland.

Yoga
I avoid writing about it here to not repeat myself to the point of being annoying, but I am a certified personal trainer. To be clear, I do not work as a CPT, but I am certified by the American Council on Exercise (one of the "Big Three" in certifications) to train people. I have the knowledge and skill, but choose to offer that knowledge freely rather than sell it. Through my time exploring exercise and what our bodies can do, I've done a lot of movement. I personally find enjoyment in weight training and running, but I've taken enough yoga classes to understand the allure of pretzeling yourself in a such a way as to be able to lick the back of your knee. It's just not for me. Given this, I have to admit that yoga was easily the aspect of this retreat I was looking forward to the least. I kept an open mind, though, and was pleased with the experience. In the interest of full disclosure, I currently feel like I was hit by a bus, but in the moment and immediately afterwards, I felt very blissed out. I was also pleased to know that I'm a lot bendier than I thought, as long as we're not considering hamstrings into the equation. I suffer from perpetually tight hammies and calves from being a runner, and there were some poses that were just not happening. Like, forward folds, heh. I don't mean to brag or anything, but I rocked the shit out of some corpse pose.

Writing
Picture a very tall ladder. Taller. Now picture me several feet up the ladder. Now picture seven other women below me at various points, including some standing on the ground looking at the ladder, deciding whether or not to climb up. That was my experience with writing this weekend. Aside from Kimberly, I was the only somewhat established writer of the group, which put me in a position I didn't anticipated being in on this retreat. I spent the weekend encouraging the others to climb the ladder, too, reaching back to grab their hands and help pull them up with me. I was honest that being a writer is at times overwhelming and terrifying, but also completely worth the effort needed to overcome the negative to get here. I worked hard to listen to their experiences, fears, and hopes and figure out what could be said to help them up the next rung without sugar-coating or bullshitting the experience. I only completed a small amount of my own writing this weekend, but I spent a good amount of time considering how I got here, where I need to go from here, and establishing that it's very important to me to keep helping these great women I met up the ladder with me, as well as to never stop reaching for the hands on the rungs above me to help me get further up. We each have to climb for ourselves, but we always need to help others when we can.

Camaraderie
This was an interesting situation for me. In many ways, I felt like an outsider looking in. I was the only person there not from the Washington, D. C. area, which meant I was completely left out of any local discussions, and there were many. Every other woman was very high-profile career-oriented, whereas I'm...not. I'm a creative-type and more than a little bit of a hippie, so the idea of "The Man" keeping me from my art and my trees makes me break out in hives. I just could not relate to 80% of what the other women spoke about. Given this, it would have been very easy for me, as an introvert, to blend in with the background, opting instead to read a book or study contents of shelves while everyone else socialized. I forced myself to not do that, and I think that it paid off. While I still feel very different from everyone else at the retreat, I made it a point to focus on the 20% I could relate to. By the end of the weekend, I feel like I was able to form a unique, yet tenuous, bond with the women, and I hope that we can all continue to strengthen that. It takes a lot longer than a weekend to get to know people. I just hope that I put myself out there enough to encourage them to try to see what I, from way out here in Ohio, have to offer.

Bird By Bird
On the first night, an offhanded mention of Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott became an unspoken theme that ran through the entire retreat. In the book, Anne tells the story of her father's advice to her brother when he became overwhelmed with a project in school, in which he was assigned many different birds to classify and describe. When he pleaded to his father for help, begging "How am I supposed to describe them all?" her father responded "Bird by bird." Many times throughout this weekend, we were all faced with needing to proceed bird by bird. Step by step. One lesson at a time. One experience, one hurdle, one leap, one empty guacamole bowl. We don't need to write an entire novel in one sitting. We don't need to tell our entire life story in one blog post. We don't need to reach enlightenment in one meditation. We are allowed to take everything slowly, building a lifetime one moment at a time by allowing those experiences to accumulate into one life, well lived. There were times when I was supposed to be doing something with the group that I found myself watching the birds fly around the woods. I wasn't trying to be belligerent, I just love birds and felt pulled to observe them. I watched titmice, nuthatches, and one particularly audible red-bellied woodpecker fly around while each retreater completed another step in their own journey (sometimes literally, during a walking meditation.) My take-away from this experience is the importance of focusing on everything in our lives step by step, bird by bird, appreciating each one for what it has to offer before we move on to the next. This is a weekend I will carry with me for the rest of my life as an experience that shaped who I am to become.

Rousing A game of laurel sportsball

I wrote a few days ago that it was time to start aiming a little higher with my writing, and only realized last night how that could be interpreted as me thinking I'm better than the magazines I'm being published at. Great Jumping Jack Flash, no. Every day I read the offerings at each magazine in absolute awe of what talent there is in the world, and it inspires me to keep writing, to get better, and to keep growing. That's what I meant by aiming higher. I need to appreciate what I've written, trust that it's good, but also be self-aware enough to know that, even if it's good, it can always get better. I can't rest on my laurels (I don't even have laurels, and truthfully, I don't know what they are. They don't sound terribly relaxing to begin with, like something I would want to rest on, so perhaps it would be better to say "I can't rest on my beanbag chair" because those are fairly comfortable, and at least make it difficult to get back up again once you've sat down. But then again, I don't have a beanbag chair, either.) I need to keep setting the bar for myself a little higher each time I write, each time I edit, and that means being brave enough to go outside of my comfort zone.

That's where the romantic short story is coming in. My husband will tell you that I am probably the least romantic person on earth, which is why writing romance is definitely raising the bar. Can I do it in a believable way? Will I be able to nail the dialogue? I trust that I'll be able to handle the setting, the plot, the characters, but there has to be a level of vulnerability and emotions that I'm not used to writing. Knowing that the site I'm submitting it to is a paying site means that other writers will be bringing their A game (I don't know what that means. Is the A game where one gets the laurels? I shouldn't use sports analogies.) because this is their job, this is how they pay their bills. I have to really stretch my skills if I'm going to make this one.

And if I don't, that's okay, too. As long as I can honestly tell myself that I did the best I could for where I am now, I will cherish that rejection letter with all of my heart. Rejection letters aren't evidence of failure. They're proof of our grit, as writers. It shows that we're trying.

I'm definitely trying. Yesterday's Monday Morning Musing was terrible, but I posted it anyway as a reminder that not every day of writing will be literary genius. Some days getting a complete sentence out is like herding cats. What's important is that we never get comfortable with squishy A game laurels and always reach a little bit farther than where we are now.

I'm going to publish this post without proofreading (as usual) but then I'm pouring myself another cup of coffee, knocking out a bunch of school work so that my brain is clear, and then I'm going out on the deck to sit in the sun and write this flippin' romance thing. Summer is the time for loving with reckless abandon, right? (Fall is the time for spooky-spookness!) so I'm going to use these last few warm days of summer to write an inspired love story full of sass, and carpeted walls, and chocolate! Okay, here I go! Right now! I'm going! To write! I got this! A game!

Back at it!

...and exhale.

The falling apart and subsequent rearranging into a new configuration that comes on the heels of a death has finished. While there will likely be more work to do over the next few months, it's finally okay to start back into regular life.


I was able to finish a final draft on Forgotten God so it could be submitted to the online review. The cut off date was the 15th and I had it ready to go on the 13th. On the morning of the 14th, the review emailed me back, saying no, they didn't want to publish Vinyl, but they definitely wanted Forgotten God. Can this be considered my first rejection? I submitted Vinyl before they had begun to publish anything at all, but now that I have read a few of the published short stories, I have to agree, it wouldn't fit with their vibe. But I'm very excited that they're taking Forgotten God. I'm proud of it.

Vinyl has also received a publication date. On October 3rd, it will go live at Sick Lit Magazine, which has been described as "the literary equivalent of the Island of Misfit Toys." This clearly means that I have found my people. Give me the Broken, the Warped, and the Strange over the Beautiful People any day.

With two stories, two publications, two Yeses, under my belt, it's time to start reaching a bit higher. I'm challenging myself by writing a romance-y short story to be submitted at another new online publication. The difference between this and the previous two publications is that these people pay for the stories they print, which means my story is going to need to be pristine because the competition will be fierce. I have a fantastic romance-y story bouncing around in my brain, though, because I lived it, and currently fall asleep at night beside the antagonist. The challenge will be to write the story in a way that simultaneously preserves our rights to our story (if they pay me, it becomes theirs) and lets the charm of our true story still shine through into fiction. Like with Forgotten God, this story will be based on a true story, but will be written to remove me (and my beloved antagonist) from the story entirely. The working title is Bet You a Kiss (BYAK), and the submissions open on November 1st. I would like to have it written, fine-tuned, and polished to send as soon as the gate opens, so it's a good thing I'll be spending the weekend before on a writing retreat. This has to really pack a punch, and it'll be nice to be surrounded by other writers for support.

You may be wondering why I haven't mentioned Headstone. I'll admit that there has been no progress. My notebook and my index cards have been sitting on my desk all week untouched. I'd start the next sentence by saying "In my defense," but I don't need to defend myself with this, and anyone who would use this as an opportunity to point and cackle about what a flake I am is an asshole. In the words of Elbert Hubbard, "Never explain--your friends don't need it and your enemies won't believe you anyway." Progress on Headstone will happen when it happens. I'm still writing.

Waxing poetic on brevity

My last couple of days have been spectacularly trying on many levels, one of which being the very emotionally complex death of a family member. After picking up the girls from school this afternoon, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up something "not pizza" for dinner and laughed when I saw this sight in the parking lot. I ran over a piece of very melted gum. That image is the best way I could describe what state I'm in, emotionally. It couldn't be more apropos.

I haven't written anything at all new in my novel. Nothing. Of course, with death, I think it's understandable to put your best laid plans aside to deal with the fallout. The space, however, is giving me time to think about how in the world I can be less than a thousand words into a project I'm so excited for, and I believe so strongly in, and also feel so completely lost. I think many established writers would say "That's just how it goes some days." And that's true, but it's early enough in my process to still adjust my sails.

I'm sure I've stumbled upon the problem. I don't like the answer, and it's one that has been whispering in the back of my mind for months now that I have dismissed as being an Inner Critic, but if I have any hope of writing this novel, I have to tackle this problem head-on and fix it. I, um, don't like writing novels. I'm a short story writer. I do not have the patience or the stamina to write 100k words of one story, dealing with weeks of building an arch, character development, and all that other such-and-such that takes forever to drag out. I'm not an endurance writer; I'm a sprinter. I want to do all of those things, the arch and development stuff, but once I start telling a story, I want the whole thing out of me and ready to be polished in a week or two.

I think it's 40% impatience, 60% excitement. Once I'm inspired, I want to stop everything I'm doing and get that beauty out of my head and ready to share with the world. Short stories are clearly my best suited length of writing, and if I'm being honest here, they're my favorite to read, as well. There's something so brilliant about telling an entire narrative in as few words as possible. Maybe a percentage of that can also be attributed to being an INTJ. I greatly value efficiency, and as a writer, I prefer to treat words like currency--only to be spent if absolutely necessary. ("Purple prose? Humbug!")

Let's be clear, though. I'm in no way trying to suggest that it's easier to write short stories than it is novels. To be able to be frugal with words and still telepathically deliver the images in the writer's head to the reader's head is practically an art in itself. It's probably easier to ramble on for page after page describing everything down to the hue of the veins on the underside of the leaves, just to make sure there's no question in the reader's mind that the leaves were crimson. Not magenta. Not carmine. Not sanguine. Crimson. I, as a writer, just have no need to exert that sort of control over my reader. There's a tree. You've seen a tree, haven't you? If I write "the protagonist sat under the shade of the tree, fall leaves cascading around her," I trust my readers are intelligent enough to envision a tree. And maybe their tree is more grand and elaborate than the one I had envisioned, or maybe it's a tree from their childhood that used to have a tire swing they loved to play on. And now this tree that the protagonist is under carries an added meaning to the reader I couldn't have possibly written. To write short stories, to use the light hand with description, is to put so much power in the hands of your reader, and that, as a creator, is not easy to do. This doesn't even scratch the surface of the skill it takes to set up characters that are both easy to relate to and also put them in situations where they've gone from one person to someone else entirely in the course of a thousand words.

(Can we take a minute to appreciate the hypocrisy that I'm droning on about how important to me it is to be succinct?)

There's the rub, though. Length. That's what's tripping me up and is showing itself to be my big mental roadblock that I have to get past to finish this novel. I need to break it up into a series of short stories. In order to do that, I am going to have to give myself permission to segment the life and experiences of my protagonist, Elizabeth, into bite sized chunks that may or may not connect seamlessly once the whole story is assembled. Once all of the short stories are written, the revision process will begin and I can work to "superglue" the short stories into a coherent novel. Or I might not. Who knows? I may decide to shop the book around as a collection of short stories that individually outline the life of Elizabeth. Heh, it would certainly be unique! I just know that if I have to look at writing this novel as a marathon, I'm going to burn out quickly. I need sprints. I need shorts burst that could all be standalone stories if necessary, because that's how I write. That's my skill, my craft, and my passion. This approach may be unorthodox, but I again think established writers would agree "Do whatever it takes to get the story out." So I am. And in between the individual shorts stories that will eventually comprise my novel, I'm also going to work on my other shorts stories (currently three: Forgotten God, which has now had its first revision, Port Starboard, and Bet You a Kiss) to continue submitting work to other literary journals or magazines.

It's a relief to figure out what wasn't quite working for me, and be confident enough in my ability as a writer to shift gears into a method that will produce writing that is more Nicole and less Everyone Else With A Typewriter. My motivation is refreshed and I'm looking forward to making progress again.

To blurt, or not to blurt

The honeymoon phase of writing is in full swing. I came in just under my word count, but what I did manage to get out was knock-my-socks-off great writing! That is, of course, in my humble opinion, which is surely colored by the novelty of novel writing. So, there's the good news.

The slightly less-good news is that I'm constantly fighting the urge to edit. I wrote in one sentence that a character was giggling. Then a few sentences later, she was completely quiet. So which is it? Is she giggling or is she being quiet, because she can't be both. She was quiet, I finally decided, and went to re-write that sentence. While I was trying to figure out how to reword it, it occurred to me that this was time spent editing when I should have been writing. Little bits that don't make sense in the moment can't slow me down from getting the words onto the paper, so instead I made good use of the strikethrough option, crossed out the words "She giggled" to remind me when I start revising that this section needs to go, and I carried on. After waking up to that issue, I caught myself doing it nearly every other sentence. The result was that I wrote something really great, but the downside was that it took so much time to get those words out that it put me in a time crunch elsewhere.

I'm going to have to find some kind of balance between editing as I write (which is evidently my natural setting) and the carefree word-vomit of NaNoWriMo. There has to be some middle ground between sculpting every sentence right out of the gate, and blurting out every rambling thought that springs to mind.

Gods and pumpkins

Happy First of Halloween September! Today is the day when all reservations about celebrating "too early" go out the window and I throw open the doors and windows to everything gloriously fall!

As mentioned in my previous post, today is also the day I began writing my novel. The working title is Headstone--catchy, right?--because editors and publishers change those sorts of things anyway, so as long as I give it a crappy name, I won't be butthurt when someone comes behind me and changes it. So from here out, when I say Headstone, you know I mean the novel about Elizabeth. Maybe something better will come to me down the road, but for now, I'm focusing on the important stuff, like, actually writing the book.

The first day of writing went well, but after so much build-up, I expected things to run somewhat smoothly. My experience with NaNoWriMo is that the first week is always the easiest, but the second week is when the real trouble starts. For now, I'm just taking things one day at a time. My goal is 500 words a day, which looks like a tiny amount compared to NaNo's 1667, but my motivation makes all the difference. NaNo was something silly to do to pass the time, to be a part of a world-wide community of people doing the same thing at the same time, suffering all of the same trials and tribulations. This novel, though, is meant to be something bigger. I actually hope to do something with this once all of the words are written and for that reason, I want to make sure I'm taking my time and paying close attention to what I am writing.

My designated writing time is as early in the morning as I can make it, before anything else happens with my day. If that fails, my new writing time will be later at night when everyone has gone to sleep. I am naturally a night owl who has been parading as a morning lark for a year or so, but I know that if I'm struggling in the morning to get my words written, the night will welcome me with open arms.

Stephen King, possibly one of the world's most famous Pantsers, wrote in his memoir/writing book, On Writing, that all of his books start with a question. Keeping that question in mind, he writes a novel that answers it. What happens if? What will a woman do if? What if? I'm doing something similar out of the gate, answering the question "Why is Elizabeth Markham buried in Southgate Park?" I will likely be moving towards a more structured outline as ideas start to solidify, but for now, I'm relying on my notes about her life and my imagination to get this rolling. I'm looking at 500 words a day, approximately 100,000 words in the novel, which means just under 7 months of work. I can take a few months off before having a whole year to revise and edit before shopping the book around. I will be fully astonished if everything actually goes according to that plan, but at least I have one, and that's a solid step in the right direction.

Speaking of my highly-active imagination, after months of nothing, just as I'm gearing up to start writing Headstone, my brain decided to throw several new ideas at me. Granted, they're ideas that started out as actual real life scenarios (like the time I stalked the Egyptian god Osiris into the parking lot of an IHOP) but in order to make them more than just interesting campfire stories, I need to put a writer's spin on them. To make matters worse, these ideas are coming to me with destinations. "I bet this literary magazine would LOVE your story about Osiris!" and "That new romance-y literary journal would probably enjoy the story about how you met Kyle." These destinations both have due dates, which means in order to get the short stories written in time, I will need to work on those alongside working on Headstone. There's just not that much time in the day, but I do want to continue putting short stories out while I'm writing the longer novel. I'm just going to have to find a way to make time, or at least manage the time I have available better.

With all of this technical talk out of the way, my day went well. The fresh carrot juice this morning was a nice way to start the day, but back home, I kept the coffee flowing. My secret Starbucks connection had given me the heads up that Pumpkin Spice Lattes would be back today, although they wouldn't be advertised for another week, so at lunchtime, Kyle and I took a break and picked up our annual PSL. It was like getting a high-five from fall.

I invite you to join me as I blog through the process of writing a novel, as well as continuing to live a creative life, be a mother, wife, and student, as well as keep my sanity. What little I had to begin with, anyway. There are some great things coming up over the next few months, including a writer's retreat in the woods, OcPOEber, and a heck of a lot of hiking, baking, and pumpkins. I'm off to write more about Osiris, but I leave you in the able hands of my favorite god, Vincent Price.

A hope and a headstone

Here it is, September 1st. I prepped this morning by going out for fresh-squeezed juice at sunrise, coming home to tidy the house, and I am currently sitting in the arm chair sipping cinnamon coffee and waiting for 9:01 to begin writing. This is not procrastination; this is creating a tradition. My entire day is cleared of any further activity so there is nothing happening today but me and Elizabeth having a little chat.

Before I start, I wanted to take a minute and introduce my blog to Elizabeth, wife of A. H. Markham. She was 27 when she died in the mid-1800s, and was buried in what is today known as Southgate Park beside one Mr. Jonathan Grable. I've passed her grave hundreds of times on walks through the park, and always wondered about the life of the woman buried in this tiny cemetery. Who was she? If she was wife of A. H. Markham, who is Jonathan Grable? What did she die from? Above all else, the biggest question that has been bouncing around my head all of these years is the one I hope to answer with my novel:

Why is Elizabeth Markham buried in Southgate Park?

This spring, I resolved to finding out more about Elizabeth's life, and hit many dead-ends. Despite having a headstone, she may as well not have existed. I tried contacting the local historical society, as well as the parks and recreation department of my town, and no one seemed to know anything about the tiny cemetery or its inhabitants. I was just about to pack the whole thing away and resolve myself to not knowing Elizabeth past what her headstone could tell me, when the whole thing broke wide open.

My cousin Rachel offered to look around to see if she could find anything on Elizabeth. Not only does Rachel have an inhuman amount of Google-Fu, her mother is also our family historian, giving Rachel access to some other avenues to explore than I had. I passed on the meager information about Elizabeth that I had and hoped really, really hard she would uncover something. Unfortunately, she hit all of the same roadblocks I did. But then she asked the right question: Who is Jonathan Grable? Through trying to learn more about him, Rachel cracked the case on Elizabeth Markham. Prior to marrying ol' A. H., Elizabeth was wife of Moses Grable. Jonathan Grable was her father-in-law.

With this new lead, Rachel turned up an amazing amount of information on Elizabeth, and with that information came a slew of new questions. It was through the sorting of her life that I realized there was a story to be told here, and I agreed with The Universe to be the one to tell it.

That leads us up to right now. It's 9 am. I'm going to publish this blog and then make good on my word.

Welcome Fall!

This Monday Morning Musing is coming to you from inside of this fantastic reading nook in my living room. All of this fall finery is a sure sign that we have waved goodbye to summer and are ready to bring on the pumpkins. Last night was our annual "Fall Changeover." All of the decor that stays up in our house from March to August has been lovingly packed away (eh, we threw it in totes and tossed them into the darkest corner of the basement, honestly) and all of those gorgeous shades of orange and creams have exploded across our house. I love it. Some people believe the "holiday season" starts with Thanksgiving, but in our house, it starts with the first day of school and goes straight on to New Year's Day.

Ah, speaking of school, my daughters started back up last week. I am proud to say that everything went smoothly, which makes it almost a non-topic to muse over, but this is a kind of exciting situation for me. I'm back to having large chunks of time alone in the house, which is going to do wonders for my writing. Even if Kyle or the girls are perfectly quiet, I struggle to get creative work done while they're in the house. I'm not entirely sure what that blockage is, but I know it's mine, and it's absurd, so I'm hoping that having this time alone will be what I need to get some momentum going with my writing to help me carry it forward into the times when they are here (and are perfectly quiet.) As an introvert, alone time is essential to my well-being, and I'm excited to see what creative things happen when I'm fully charged.

I've been working on a short story over the last week that is about a mermaid working as a bartender in a seaside town called Port Starboard. It was intended to be funny, an opportunity for me to inject some humor into my writing, but as writing is prone to do, it has taken on a life of its own. My lighthearted story has turned into a serious commentary on what we give up to live our dreams. I loved the silliness of the name Port Starboard, but it has sort of morphed into the metaphorical fork in the road. Left or right? Which way do you go? Which life do you choose? As writers, we're wise to let our characters speak for themselves rather than try to bend them to our idea of who they should be.  But dang, I was hoping to write something humorous for a change. Nothing is wasted with writers, so I'm jotting down notes on what I would be writing if the story was going my way, and maybe one of these days I'll go back and rewrite it in a way that makes people laugh rather than stare off into the distance, pondering the complexities of life. In the meantime, I'm just going to do my job and keep writing down what the voices in my head whisper to me and see where this one goes.

My coffee cup is empty once again, which means it's time for me to get moving with my day. This time next week I'll be back in class myself, so I'm taking this opportunity to just drink in the quiet until it's time to hit the ground running again. Yoga, meditation, good books, and good food are all in my near future and it feels heavenly. Welcome back, Fall. I missed you.

The courage to ask for help

My greatest lesson so far in being a writer is that it is essential to be brave. More directly, it's a non-negotiable aspect of living a creative life that you have to be brave enough to ask for help, whatever that looks like in your time of need. There are quite a few people who have way too much pride to admit they might have to rely on someone else for something. I am not one of those people. I'm not above teamwork to make that difficulty pass as quickly as possible so we can get to the good stuff. In the wise words of Ringo Starr, "I get by with a little help from my friends." Still, I didn't realize how much of being a writer involve taking massive leaps and trusting something will eventually catch you.

So far, I have asked for help from a historical society (no response), a woman who has been dead for 160 years (possible response, I'm not equipped to qualify this one), my cousin with a knack for finding things online (best response ever), and an online magazine (highly exciting response.) I have asked for help when I saw the need for it and it has paid off in one way or another every single time. Even being told "no" is still helpful. It's like The Universe is asking "How much do you want this?" The grit and resilience learned in those situations is only available to those who look at the oncoming shit-storm and say "Let me show you how much." That, my friends, takes courage.

There's a fine line, however, between courage and stupidity, and I'm realizing that being a writer means being willing to continually tap-dance all over that tiny boundary. Last night, I spent a great deal of time looking up books on Amazon and Goodreads on the topic of spiritualism. Of all of the books I came across that fit my need, only one was available to me at a reasonable price, and it was on the town of Lily Dale, New York. I just kept thinking "There is a better way." So, realizing I needed help, I did the obvious thing: I asked for it. An hour later, I had emailed a medium living in Lily Dale, explaining about my novel and asking her for help making the spiritualist aspects realistic. It was a (very) long shot, but I put out there that I needed help and I hoped for the best.

This afternoon, she replied that she is willing to help me with whatever I need. Let me say that again because I hardly believe it myself. I now have a Lily Dale medium who has answered my call for help to write this novel. I can't yet find the words to express my gratitude. I'm speechless. I'm verklempt.

Hey, listen. I'm not the most spiritual person out there, but I believe in energy and I believe that we're surrounded by cosmic magic that makes up The Universe. We are a part of something much bigger than we are, but we're a part of it nonetheless. Whatever that magical cosmic goo is, it is abundant; all we have to do is go get it. If you're brave enough to ask, Something Awesome is going to supply what you need. It may not be what you want, necessarily, but it will always be what you need.

Elizabeth Gilbert recently said in one of her Magic Lessons podcast episodes that the interviewee "summoned" her, and that was proof of how powerful she could be when she put her mind to something. Now, I don't know what I have to burn at which crossroads to summon Liz Gilbert, but I do know the price you have to pay to live a creative life is vulnerability. You have to be willing to ask, knowing that you're putting yourself out there to the whole world to potentially be chewed up and spit back out. That requires bravery, and it requires humility. "I have to do this, but I can't do it alone. Will you help me?" Ask for help, and trust that your needs will be met.

Whoa.

Sometimes, when I have a bit of time on my hands, I'll look through the pictures that the people I follow on Instagram liked. Not only do I get a better idea of who they are (unless they're one of those people who like absolutely every picture they see, but even that tells me a lot) but I also find some really interesting Instagram accounts that I might not have otherwise found on my own. Like yesterday, for example, I was on a coffee break from my cleaning spree and decided to check in with Instagram. One of the writing accounts I follow had liked a picture from another account that was an online literary magazine.

"I've got time for some reading," I said to the cat who had just finished curling up on my lap, so I read through a few of the stories. I realized that each month had a submission theme, and curiosity led me to the submissions page to see what the themes would be for the rest of the year.

October's theme is "Epiphany," which brought about a sort of epiphany of my own. I had a short story ready to go that fit nicely into this theme. Vinyl was written back in January and February for a writing class, and it covered the topic of depression, love, death, and a sudden shift in thinking all in the space of 500ish words. Without any deliberation what so ever, I opened my email, attached the story, and jotted down a quick query email. The process, start to finish, took ten minutes. I hit "send," sat back, and only then did the full reality of what I had just done hit me.

For the first time ever, I submitted something I wrote for publication.

The whole thing happened so fast that I didn't really have time to talk myself out of it, or even weigh the pros and cons, or ask myself if my story would be right for their magazine, or take the time to edit and spit-shine the story before I sent it. My hands did all the work before my brain had a chance to catch on to what was happening. Had I been completely in my right-mind before I went through with this, I may have rethought the line "You have the prestigious honor of being either my first publication or my first rejection. Either way, I will never forget you."

The result, however, was that my personality shone through, and that worked to my advantage. I received a reply from the editor that essentially communicated "Even if you write terrible stories, you write great emails," and she ended with telling me she would read the actual submission and get back to me. I was scared after sending the email, but I was really scared after hearing back so quickly.

The second reply rolled in shortly afterwards and I didn't even have to open the email to read the first three words: I love it. At that point, I'm fairly certain I stopped breathing. On a complete whim, without allowing my brain to get in the way and just following my heart, I became a soon-to-be-published writer. In October, Vinyl will be published. My very first submission was also my very first "Yes" and if that's not incredible, I don't know what is.

I'm on my way. It's said that the first time you do something is always the hardest, and I think I just cemented that this will not be true in my case. It's never again going to be this easy, but I'm starting the scoreboard off with a point in the "win" column and that is some mighty big inspiration to get my butt in the chair and keep writing.

Monday Morning Musings

I had every intention of jumping into my day feet first. There's laundry to be done, and Monday is the day I thoroughly clean the living room and entrance way, so there is a lot of work I should be doing. However, Kyle made coffee this morning before he left for work in Cleveland and was very sweet to put some in a Thermos for me when I woke up. Honestly, I had every intention of starting the day productively, but then I opened the Thermos to pour my first cup of the day and realized he put cinnamon in the coffee when he brewed it. Instant burst of Fall Zen, right in my face. Every bit of work that needed done got pushed back because nothing was more important in that moment than lighting candles, curling up in my chair with a blanket, and savoring that coffee. While I sip, I figure it's a good time to get started on my new weekly blog feature, Monday Morning Musing, where I write about what's going through my head and my heart every, you guessed it, Monday morning.

Yesterday was an interesting day for me because it was the first time in months that I've been free to be nothing more than a Stay-At-Home-Mom. So, I put on a podcast (Magic Lessons) and cleaned the house. We've had a really busy week and, while it seems like we weren't here enough to make a mess, we managed to find the time to make a fairly epic mess. With Sunday being a day of no obligations, I just slipped back into my old role in the house and gave it the "Mom Clean." Once I had all of that taken care of, I baked a cake for Sundae Sunday (a bit of a misnomer, but Dessert Sunday isn't as fun to say) that I had been craving for weeks.

That beast is a strawberry cake with lemon frosting, coated in Fruity Pebbles cereal. I was inspired to make it after seeing a strawberry shortcake cake (You know, like the ice cream bars?) and thinking "I can do that." So I did, with my own crunchy twist.

After the apron came off later in the evening, I took stock of what I was feeling. It was definitely peace. There may be a line of women forming to slap me when I say this, but I feel that my place is in our home, taking care of my family. This is not to say that I believe this is where all women should be--I am a feminist; women belong where they want to belong--but in my case, this is true. I feel my best when I can look around my home, and at the lovely people and animals I share it with, and see that everything is taken care of. I missed this so much over these few months of going back to school.

Between this moment of bliss and being two weeks from starting my first serious novel, I'm very happy to have made the decision to cut back on my classes this semester. Rather than take a full course load, I chose to take American History (to 1865), American Literature (to 1877), and Ocean Studies. The first two classes will be a fantastic help in writing my novel, and the last is one of the first classes that caught my attention when planning my schedule. I promised myself I'd take it at the first available opportunity and that is now. My mermaid alter-ego would be highly upset with me if I didn't.

Speaking on the novel, I swore I'd start writing it on September 1st, and that's what I'll do, but I won't pretend I'm not completely terrified. I am very scared about embarking on this adventure, but I trust it's going to be good. The very fact that I'm afraid is exactly why I need to do this. I've always said that fear is like a built-in compass pointing you where you need to be going.* "If your dreams don't scare you, they're not big enough," said some smart person at some point. I've written novels before, but never seriously. NaNoWriMo has always been something I've done for fun, with no intention of ever editing or publishing what I write during that time. It's about the spirit, the community, and just seeing what crazy things can come out of my brain when let off its leash. To know that I'm writing this novel for keeps is more than a little intimidating. I've contemplated trying to keep the mentality that I'm just doing this for me and no one else, but that's cheating. I'm trying to put something out into the world, and I don't want to skip out on that part of the experience just because it's uncomfortable. But September 1st, 2016, I'm on the hook for this one. By September 1st, 2018, I want this novel written, revised, edited, and ready to hand over to the people who will take it on the next step of its journey. That's two years I am committing myself to this novel and to Mrs. Elizabeth Markham, whose story has been lost to history until I write her a new one. That, my dears, is not a small feat.

My coffee mug is empty, which means I should probably get started with my day. All things considered, my fall is beginning to take shape. I'm feeling that deep tranquility that comes from being where you're meant to be, even if it's difficult or less-than-glamorous. I have so much to look forward to during the remainder of 2016 and I'm happy to be back on my own path.






*Unless your fear is pointing you towards bears. Then your fear becomes something we like to call "a healthy will to live." You should probably listen closely to that and back away slowly.

Narrow it down

What’s nice about difficult times is that they often come with a lesson. This semester has been a doozy, to put it mildly, and the lesson it taught me was to be clear on what I want. I started out my second college career with huge ambitions, and I worried that I may have been biting off more than I could chew. With two completed semesters behind me now, I can say with certainty that I could chew the workload just fine, it just tasted terrible. I’m a hard-working, diligent student and I believe my grades reflect that.

The school agrees with me considering a few weeks ago, I was accepted into the Honors Program that they introduced last spring. It came with a hefty scholarship, and in return, I was expected to take 13 credit hours of honors courses. The problem came when I sat down with the advisor to schedule those honors courses. “The program is so new,” he explained, “that we don’t have many classes available yet. The only English Composition honors class we have, you’ve already taken, and there’s only one 3-credit Psychology class available for you to take, but we should be adding more for future semesters.” I signed up for that solitary class and left feeling like a rock was stuck in my shoe. 

The other aspect of the honors program that was clarified by the advisor was that I would be assigned a mentor according to my major, but as there are no Composition honors classes, there are no composition honors mentors. I would instead be paired with the Psychology mentor. It just happens that the psychology class I’ve taken this summer is taught by the head of the department and, you guessed it, my mentor. 

We’re going to call this professor Dr. Doctor because he is working on his second doctorate. I have been assured by everyone I meet that he is a brilliant man, with a great heart and a stellar mind, but sadly, I never got to see that aspect of him. Dr. Doctor and I got off on the wrong foot, at least from my perspective. It’s not that he did anything wrong, necessarily, but we have a clash of personalities. I am a direct “Yes or no” kind of person, concerned with efficiency and clear communication, while Dr. Doctor is more of the “Sage on the mountain” type of person, giving cryptic advice and encouraging students to use their best judgement. I struggled all semester to get any clear answers or real help from him. My final paper had to be written twice because the instructions were two pages long and meandered pendulously from point to point. I did it “wrong” the first time. Let me be clear, I knew it was “wrong” and the assignment made no sense to me, but I believed I was handing in what he asked for, with all its wrongness. He read my first draft and all I could gather out of his critique was that I had done it wrong, and it should have been like a standard paper. Well, shit! I can write standard papers! So, the second time around, I wrote it like I knew papers should be written in the first place. I got an A. In fact, I finished the class with over 100%, despite feeling like it was a complete waste of my time.

The idea of having Dr. Doctor as my mentor slowly became a rock in my other shoe, and I was developing an uncomfortable limp. As I shifted my thoughts from the summer semester to the fall, I sat down to really think about where I was going to go from here and whether or not it was worth making the trip with this limp. The lesson from the difficult semester came to me then: “Nicole, what do you want?” 

I started working this out with some retrospection. I went back to school because I wanted to continue educating myself. In that regard, I have been successful. I wanted to get involved with college life to experience what I missed the first time around. By joining the LGBT group and subsequently falling into an officer role, I have been successful. I wanted to take classes to better my writing. As the only writing classes I have taken so far were Composition 1 (because my ACT scores expired a long time ago and my test-out was no longer valid from 1998) and Business Writing (which isn’t real writing, if you ask me), I have not been successful. Memos and dossiers and proposals? My brain was numb, not engaged. 

Finally, I wanted to major in Psychology because the subject is fascinating to me. I passed the basic Psychology course many years ago, so I didn’t need to take it again. Instead, what I was left with were specialized courses. As I thought about this further, the ache in my heel indicated that I was finally getting to the root of the issue. I sat down with my schedule, my notes, my graduation requirements, and the list of classes to hash this out once and for all. What I realized was that, save for one Abnormal Psychology class, I wasn’t interested in the specialized classes I needed to take for my major. From there the answer was clear: I need to drop the Psychology major. I went into it with high hopes, but I can see now that I am wasting my time, money, and energy. I reconfigured what my future would look like without Psychology and discovered that, by focusing on English Composition alone, I will be graduating in the spring. 

Ah, but remember the Honors Program? There are no classes for my Composition major, but if there were, with graduation happening in two semesters, there really isn’t enough time to meet the 13 credit hour requirement. Running everything through the “What do I want?” filter again, I understood that being in the Honors Program wasn’t really going to benefit me at all. Sure, it comes with a scholarship, but what good is a scholarship if it means you’ll be going to school longer just to get your degree? I would actually save more money by graduating quickly than by allowing the scholarship to be a buffer against tuition. Furthermore, while I will fully admit that I was excited about joining a slew of honors clubs, I realize joining them all would just be a waste of my time. Without the Psychology major, I cannot join their honor society, Psi Beta. But I can still join Phi Theta Kappa, which is the National Honor Society. A week ago, I had three honors groups available to me, but I’m sure one will be plenty. 

I came to college to open doors, but here I am preparing to close some really big ones. Dropping a major and saying no to the Honors Program seems like a really bad idea, academically. What about me, personally? What do I want? I want to creatively write, and I realize that by closing these doors, I will be able to redirect my resources back to what will nurture that. I can focus on classes I will enjoy, or will at least help me reach my higher goals. I can more quickly graduate to either move on to another school to seek the next degree, or I can just put my degree in a nice frame and hang it on the wall beside my other awards and accomplishments, to think about warmly when I dust it from time to time. 

This has been my take-away from this semester. I can be, and should be, selective. If I’m miserable, walk away. If I’m not being fulfilled, stop putting energy into it. If the “benefits” are really a ball and chain around my ankle, get out. I do not have to do anything that brings me unnecessary stress or work when I have my goals clearly defined. This means being clear about what I want for myself and the path I want to take to get there. I’m a hard-working and intelligent woman—I have more than proven this—and it takes wisdom to locate what truly serves me. The past few months, I have put too many things in the way of my progress and it’s time to start letting go.

Manifesto

I make references now and again to The Universe. I’m not a religious person, and I’m only mildly spiritual, but The Universe—that’s a force of nature I can get behind. Sometimes when I’m in a hurry and hit a string of red lights, or consistently get stuck last in a line of people driving below the speed limit, I remind myself that there’s a lesson to be learned. The Universe is telling me I need to slow down. The Universe, I rationalize, is looking out for me.

I’ve read a lot of personal development books over the last few years and nearly all of them had some sort of spiritual, new-age-y bend to them. I’ve made it a point to understand the concepts, but I can’t say I put much stock in things like prayer or manifesting. Magic is cool in theory, but I’m well past the point of putting faith in fairy tales. The Universe and I, we’re kin, but it’s more like being pen-pals than partners in creation.

I set out in January to be brave, to do the things that I was afraid to do, and I would say that I have met that goal and far exceeded it. I didn’t think I could have gone this far, this fast, simply by getting out of my own way. Yet, here I am, one step closer to living my dreams. This is where I pick up the cosmic telephone, call up my friend The Universe and start the beginning of an ongoing conversation lasting the rest of my life. 

I, Nicole Nevermore, am declaring myself a writer. I am fearlessly dedicating my life to the pursuit of words and promise that I will capture as many as possible so that others can share in the beauty of the stories around and within me. I am stating my intentions clearly, outlining my plan to get there, and asking you, dear Universe, to keep looking out for me and sending lessons my way.

The thing I’ve gathered from all the books about putting intentions out to The Universe is that, while talk is okay, action is better. I can state my intentions and hope really, really hard something good comes my way, but the best way to do that crazy manifestation thing is to get the ball rolling. That includes thinking ahead to what steps can be done now to help pave the path for what’s to come. This is why I’m writing here today.

In all of the years I’ve written online, one thing I can say for certain is that each blog I’ve written under has taken on a life of its own. Just like every vehicle drives differently, each blog has its own personality, its own response to pressure, and its own turning radius. Writers today are urged to have blogs to accompany their published work,  as yet another way of marketing their books. But there’s another layer to blogging alongside writing, and that’s because it will help connect the writer, the creator behind the stories, to the readers. I considered the idea that the blog I write at should probably be the one I take on for the long haul, and when I thought about Nicole and Her Big Life, well…It wasn’t the vehicle I wanted to take this trip in. I’m much more comfortable writing as Nicole Nevermore, which is why I am back here today. This is the permanent home of Nicole Nevermore, Writer and Child of The Universe. 

I explained all of this to Kyle, of course, and remarked that I have even changed my Instagram moniker back to Nicole Nevermore. “I thought about Nicole Nevermore Writer,” I explained, “but I figured that was too pretentious.” 

Kyle shot me that look that communicates that what I’ve just said is ridiculous, and said “No, it’s not.” That was all the permission I needed. I changed it immediately. 

Elizabeth Gilbert writes in her book, Big Magic (which is practically a holy scripture in my eyes), that to be a writer you must have what she calls “the arrogance of belonging.” That is, you have to hold your head up and know that, without a doubt, you belong among the writers. You have to have the confidence and the bravery to declare yourself. This is my stand. This is my declaration: I am a writer. I have been a writer my whole life and I will continue to write stories well past the point of being able to hold a pen or see a screen. I belong here. I know it, The Universe knows it, and now the world knows it, too.