Sunday, December 30, 2012

"It's not gossip, it's research."


During exam week, I did something very bad. I can rationalize all I want, but when it came down to it, I teased an old teacher of mine because of the way his looks had changed—and, Lord, I feel like the worst person alive in saying this, but I judged his weight— since I saw him last. And after saying it, I wanted to kick myself.

He was an asshole. But, still. What does weight have to do with anything?

Kathryn and I have a saying, “It’s not gossip—it’s research!” We commonly use this when we are attempting to understand another persons behavior, rather than only badmouth them.

So, when I kept my mouth shut long enough to hate myself for saying those negative things about my old professor, I began to try and look at his changes as a character in a story. I started by examining my own thoughts. I’d always felt comfortable in my own skin, until I started a family. I am/was a young mother and seeing my body change drastically in comparison with most of the women my age often left me feeling worthless. I have gained weight recently, since I stopped breastfeeding my youngest in the spring, I have gained over fifteen pounds. Ugh, it makes me sick just thinking about it, but why? I should embrace this new body, right? But no, I haven’t. Not yet. I’ve grown complacent towards exercise since school started back up, I’ve enjoyed one of my oldest pleasures, baking, a little too much, and I’ve ate terribly while on campus. I’m twenty-four and have definitely gotten wrinkles under my eyes since nursing school began, and it takes double the amount of cover up to hide the deep purple bags beneath my barely open eyes than it once did. Most days, I just go without it.

Save for no longer breastfeeding, my old professor has probably dealt with a lot of the same issues. Who I am to judge? I have no right to attempt to appraise another person, and I don’t want to, especially since when I am of sane mind I feel like weight and appearance is mostly irrelevant!  I say mostly because I can’t help but think of jaundice. That’s an appearance that is not irrelevant in an adult!)

Obviously, when I acted like a catty sixteen year old, I was projecting my own insecurities onto another person. Not only is this the kind of thing an asshole does, these apparent insecurities can show up in my writing, often in a negative way. My own lack of physical confidence manifests itself into my work, but this insecurity can also be used to my advantage. In thinking over my grievances, I was able to create for myself a writing assignment in which I wrote out a character description of a man once feared as he handed out tests, but was now a joke because of the terribly petty nature of his students. I shoved it away and may never use it again, but the concept of “practice makes perfect” rings just as true for writing as it does for anything else.
Still, I think my own insecurities do me more harm than good. A person, whether it is an author, a nurse, or a waitress, needs to be able to make choices with confidence and stand by them, and part of making these choices, is believing in and loving yourself.

Sunday, December 23, 2012

It is the Holidays...


Before the most recent semester started (said semester is now over, thank FSM), I called my husband on his way home from workwhen we’ve been apart all day, sometimes waiting until he gets home is just too long of a wait—and gave him a quick list of the day’s events.

“Cleaned out the fridge, did laundry, started two loaves of bread, ran errands. Oh, I bought eight-hundred dollars’ worth of books at the bookstore.”

In hindsight, it would’ve been wiser for me to haven extended that sentence: “I bought eight-hundred dollars’ worth of textbooks at the Northern Michigan University bookstore.” But I did not.

“You bought eight-hundred dollars’ worth of books?” Kyle asked, his tone fearful but without an indication of shock.

“Books for school! Jeez, Kyle, do you think I would empty our savings account at Snowbound?”
A moment of silence.

“I wouldn’t!”

When I think about it, I might have a problem. It’s nearly impossible for me to walk through the doors of our town’s greatest locally owned bookstore, Snowbound Books without purchasing something, and I’m fairly certain that I’ve never left there empty handed. The store clerks are well-versed, kind, and, after hearing a sampling of your favorite books, very talented at matching books to your interest; is it my fault that they are always able to help me pick out the perfect next read?

The shop itself is small; there are books in every visible space. Something about the close quarters magnifies all of the love and hard-work that surrounds every piece of paper in their shop. When I walk through Snowbound, which is always cozily warm,—I theorize this is due to the great insulation all the books along the walls provide—I always leave feeling inspired.

I have finished my first semester of nursing school, and although I still read books during the semester, albeit at a seriously slow pace, I don’t read nearly enough as I’d like. My stack of books to read on break has grown tall and wide, and, in truth, there’s no way I will get to them all in four short weeks. The bookshelves at home are overflowing with well-loved books I have read and refuse to part with as well as new books I plan to get to. Someday. If not during this break, perhaps I’ll come down with some sort of disease in which I am bedridden and have nothing to do but read. I’m not saying that I wish it would happen, I’m just saying a person’s got to be prepared. What if we get invaded by aliens and the mail stops coming? I’m going to need enough new books to keep me preoccupied while the world rebuilds itself!

But, though my shelves are crammed two books deep, and falling off with even the slightest clumsy touch, I still cannot seem to keep myself away from Snowbound. I guess I feel like the local bookstore is the cornerstone of a town and since I live by the adage that we all vote with our money, I vote to keep their business around, as long as possible. My thoughts on this “cornerstone” idea were confirmed when I read Neil Gaiman’s American Gods and one of his characters said that a town simply isn’t a town without a bookstore. If Neil says it, it must be true. Right?

Now, Marquette Michigan has more than one bookshop, but the others just don’t cut it. They’re chain stores, brightly lit and cold. I fear it may be rude of me to make that judgment, but I simply don’t get the same connection anywhere else than I do from walking into Snowbound.

If you are looking for something to do on these chilly winter days, or if you are anything like my husband and I and have yet to purchase a gift for someone dear to you, stay warm and stop by the shop. There are books to peak all interests and gift cards too. There is truly no better gift than sharing with someone a window into another world.

Happy Holidays, my dear readers!

Sunday, December 16, 2012

When I Daydream


When I daydream you are wearing your flannel button down of fleece. I catch glimpses of you from our bed as you walk swiftly from room to room, lighting the wood stove, turning on the coffee pot, searching for your gloves. I watch you from our half-open door, waiting to catch your eye, waiting so that I can invite you to lie with me. My body is still warm, first heated by the fire in your veins. I lie wrapped in stiff, white sheets, my toes curling away from the heavy quilt’s edge.

Eventually, I will rise, pour myself a cup of coffee and put on your coat, your heavy leather boots, and stand on our square porch, just to look outside. I will stand outside only to see that, when I look up into the sky, the snow still falls noiselessly on my brow.

I’ll come inside and you’ll request your clothing back, so that you may leave for the day. In my dreams you will follow your heart deep into the forest, alone, where you’ve always felt you’ve belonged. We will kiss before your departure, with pursed lips, yours heavy on mine. And I, alone, will write about my heart—my heart masked by the vestiges of fiction.

The way I like it.

But, at home my daydream is interrupted by the rumbling of semi-trucks. They shake the house, and our feet quiver each time they pass. My daydream is interjected by the bonds we hold onto dearly: the security of modern medicine, the monotonous day to day grind of bringing home the bacon, your intermittent desire for easy comfort.

It’s too much, darling. Forget comfort. Let’s leave here today. We can break those bonds we’ve tied around our own wrists. Let’s take our beautiful blonde fairies and head north. I’m certain there is a cabin somewhere deep in those pine forests calling for us. Let’s not waste another moment waiting for those trucks to growl through and ruin our dreams. We’d be free.

Just say when.


Sunday, December 9, 2012

"Swirling Cesspool of Our Twenties" Part Two


(Click here for Part One)

I am not fit to give advice. Sure, I’m often accused—and yes, I mean that in the more deprecating sense— of having it all together, but it’s a farce. I’m not a girl with a plan, each life’s stage plotted out on a single line. No, I am seriously confused. Like the rest of us. Each night I lie awake because I’m terrified, and I’m floundering.

My life is lovely, and I am very fortunate. My husband works hard every day and brings in enough money for our family to live comfortably. We haven’t always been this fortunate, but we no longer have to worry so much about getting the bills paid or having food on our table. If we wanted, I would never need to work. But, many things have brought me to where I am now, and much of it started in high school when I came to realize my fallibility.

I once wrote for hours on end every day, and if I wasn’t writing, I was reading. I hid paperbacks in the pages of textbooks during lecture and endured ridicule when I hid to read books in public gym locker rooms, attempting to get a few more chapters in before I went home, rather than swimming with my friends. I relished every opportunity to compose a school paper, joined Forensics club to give speeches, and wrote for a children’s journalism group. When I didn’t think I’d be a famous journalist,—though I didn’t know what that would entail—I thought for certain I would be the next hot-selling novelist. I had no doubt I would succeed in whichever field I chose; I was impervious to failure, a consequence of my confident upbringing.

My mother would tell you that the moment I stopped wanting to write was when I fell in love with my now husband Kyle, she’s wrong, but not entirely. It didn’t happen overnight, but as I matured, I learned there was so much more to life than a career. I felt the engrossing jolts of love, the intense and fascinating joys of intimacy, and the excitement that surrounds the adventure of celebrating my youth. What would it mean to follow a journalism career? Move away, fight tooth and nail for every opportunity? I could, and most likely, would fail. The more I looked, the more I saw the possibility of a lifetime of disappointment. No, this competitive lifestyle, I decided, was not for me.

There was one thing I loved for certain and I didn’t have to compete for it. I didn’t have to leave my hometown, and I could be myself. I was, and still am, in love with Kyle. Every step I took away from a respectable career (I even hate the word), the more I seemed to disappoint people. But never him.

I took mostly liberal study courses my first year of college. I studied business and hated it. I took some anatomy classes and remained constantly distracted. Then, I was hired at Public Radio 90, and found myself once again writing. I loved my job, the people I worked with, and the opportunity to do something I felt proud of. 

Then, a few months later, at the end of my freshman year in college, I peed on a little plastic stick and saw two pink lines. I was pregnant.

Mothering is nothing short of fantastic, and the process of becoming a mom changed my life. Being a mother was something I could, finally, throw my whole heart into and feel right about. I quit school and changed my entire life. 
At home Kyle and I practiced attachment parenting (we still do), and this life style taught me the beauty of science—how our evolution has shaped our growth, and how, as humans, we all deserve the love and support of others. I was happy.

Still, I had an identity apart from my children, and my husband urged me to go back to school. His job is great but physically intense and, he said, our family deserves two parents who can both support their children if anything should happen to the other.

With my new found love for all things science and my love of human connection, I pursued nursing. I thought, “This is a job where I can be consistently challenged, help others, and work part time so that I can still spend time at home with my family.”

So here I am, in one of the most competitive and difficult majors my University offers. Pre-nursing students with great GPAs get wait listed for the program for semesters at a time. Nursing students who are accepted into the program, like me, work their asses off every day just to pass. I spend more time than ever studying, terrified of failure and, as I am no longer ignorant of my own fallibility, contemplating it with every move I make. As this very difficult semester winds down, I’m seriously asking myself, “What the hell am I doing?”

Still, writing has, yet again, found its way back into my life. During the day, I dream about how I’ll spend my time after graduation. Work maybe three to four days a week (though I often dream of working even less), write on my off days, and cook nice meals for my family. But mostly, I think about writing and how, at this very moment, I yearn to do it all day long. And I can’t.

This is why I flounder. Why am I spending all my time—and I still have two years till graduation—wishing for time to pass?

Some days, I consider giving up. I consider leaving nursing school and never looking back. Paying back thousands of dollars in loans bit by bit with money I’d make waiting tables and spending all my free time jotting down ideas for stories or poems on grocery receipts and taking daily adventurous hikes with my daughters.

Other days, I consider setting down my pen and never writing another word.

I’m wandering, lost, between two adages, (which, strangely enough, I read in “The Homemade Pantry” while I was writing this very blog post.) “Do what you love for free, then get a job,” and “Do what you love, and the money comes.”

People think I’ve got it all together, or so I’ve been told, but I don’t. I’m lost just like all the other twenty-something’s, and I throw veracious, confused tantrums over my future.

But if I’ve ever given good advice to others, it’s this: “Sometimes, you’ve just got to push through.” And I’m good at it, all thanks to my parents who gave me the confidence to do so.

So, here’s to swallowing my fears and pushing ahead—all the while doing both what I love for free and working towards a career that I know I will be good at and one which will always keep us fed should my husband’s knees finally fall apart.

Though my life is currently very emotionally, mentally, and physically trying for me, I honestly believe that every challenge is an opportunity for growth. Seeing these times as a reason to evolve is all I can do for now, and, because I’m a hedonist at heart, I’m damn sure going to find a way to be happy at the same time.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

"Swirling Cesspool of Our Twenties" Part One



A few weeks back, I wrote an email to a friend and really focused on the fears and the uncertainty of our twenties. I’ve wanted to write on this blog about this very topic---and how it applies to writing--- for quite some time, but I’ve never known where to start, and so, I’ve put it off.

But, things are happening in my life and those close to me that makes it appropriate for me to go ahead and write about it now.

Next to finding that I need to write about this, I’ve also found that I can’t say all I’ve wanted to say about the subject in just five hundred to seven hundred words, which, if you haven’t noticed, is my normal post word count. So, because this post is so dear to me, and because I feel that it is a subject that needs more space, I’ve broken the piece into two parts.

Today, I give you Part One in the form of the very email I sent weeks ago.

Oh, Jack.

After reading your message, there were a few things I had to say. I can see that you’re worried about your future, and, if I may speak frankly as a friend despite our short time of acquaintance, I am telling you to stop worrying.

Of course, it isn’t that easy, but this is our twenties. Our generation was raised differently than any other to date: we were told we could be whatever we wanted to be. Of course, this has little bearing in reality. We can’t all be the next famous pop star, or a ballerina, or the next great America novelist. Well, we can, but it really takes a hell of a lot more work than we were ever told. Now, I’m not claiming that our being told we could amount to anything we strive for was a bad thing, because we have all been given the right to explore what truly makes us happy.

We were raised to shoot for this happiness, and that is really a beautiful thing. Call me a hedonist if you must, but in my modest opinion, living a joyful and pleasurable life to the best of my ability is what matters most. Life is hard and confusing, but overall, I want to be happy in the end. What no one really told us as children, or at least they didn’t tell me, was that our careers and all these pressures for success do not decide our true worth or happiness. We decide for ourselves, not by how we make our money or how much of it we earn, but by who we bring into our lives and how we spend this short time on the planet.

And you know, this is our twenties. We are all lost. It’s OKAY to be unsure. There is a line from a short novel Molly once loaned me and it referred to this time in our lives most poetically, calling this period, “the swirling cesspool of our twenties.” It is funny how true that statement often rings.

Absolutely certainty in the future is a mirage of success. I dare to venture a speculation that no one is really certain of their future. Life doesn’t care whether we make plans or not. Life is random and chaotic, and of course we should push for what we want, but I don’t believe that we should worry when we feel insecure.
Please, don’t let the pulling forces of others dictate your life. I understand how it can be. I had parents who were certain that I was going to be the next president of the United States or a award winning journalist, and when I chose a simpler pathlove, babies, books, and pleasureI do think they were disappointed. I’m sure it was in their best intentions, but we are our own people and we cannot ultimately live for anyone other than ourselves.

            Now, please forgive me if I have missed the mark and am being presumptuous about what you’re going through, but I just wanted to make sure that you know that you are not alone. I simply wanted to give you a little unsolicited advice that has helped me greatly.

Have a wonderful day, Jack.

Sally


Please come back next week for Part Two in which I explain why I shouldn't give advice.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Do I Love It?


A few weekends ago, several friends and I were socializing at Northern Michigan University’s Student Nurses Association Charity Ball held in The Landmark Inn. We’d spent a very classy evening drinking gin and tonics, martinis and one delicious dark and stormytotally classy, except for when my tight red dress split ass-side open while I was crunking on the dance floor, but that’s a story for another day.
Kathryn VanderWoude, fellow author and editor in blue, and I, in red, just before the ball.




As the evening wound down, our group of ten or so retreated to the cozy mezzanine above the Northland Pub. One of the group members was a nursing student friend of mine whom I secretly want to corner and force her to discuss writing with me—on top of being a student nurse she is also a graduate of St. Mary’s with a degree in Literature an Women's Studies. I normally refrain from totally cornering her because I am not quite that crazy—as of yet.

But, having drunk a few beverages, I was all over chatting with her and her fiancĂ©, who also attends Northern in pursuit of his Master’s degree in English.

“I love criticism,” I blathered on, sometime during drink number four five of the evening. This was my response to the fiancĂ©, after he’d discussed giving criticism to his introductory English students.

Oh, fuck, did I really say that? I have a nagging habit of wanting to articulate my feelings in a way that they always ring one-hundred percent true. It sounds simple enough, but I dare you try a day without exaggerating a single emotion or event in the slightest. Try to spend the day picking out the perfect word or phrase to describe how you felt when that asshole driving the black Silverado cut you off in traffic. Did you really want to kill him or did you just want to follow him to his next stop and slash his tires?

There’s a big difference.

Numb from inebriation, I didn’t worry much that night about this pattern of mine, but when I awoke in the morning, it was the very first thing that popped into my head. Do I really love criticism?

Probably?

I’m not saying I haven’t wanted to smoke till I passed out or eat myself into a coma so that I didn’t have to deal with the stress of re-writes or so that I could escape from the tenacious shaking doubt that plagues every creative person alive. I have. Often, after working on the same piece for so long, the task of going on seems too mountainous to accomplish alone. After an extended time in front of the same project, all the words start blurring together, they—I swear—dance off the page and jump into the trash, committing hara-kiri because the author who penned them is simply a failure.

These are the moments when I just need another person’s eye. Sometimes, I think that without a little direction, by way of another writer, is the only push I’ll ever need. And, of course, I don’t always agree with the criticism I receive, but I need it.

But, do I love it? Perhaps, but if I do it’s only in the way I love antibiotics. In the end I feel better, but meanwhile my insides are being torn apart and I’m spending a socially unacceptable amount of time in the bathroom. Usually crying.