In Which I Digress

This is not my normal kind of post. Still, I hope you read and enjoy. This is a bit close to my heart.

I took the kiddos to a movie today. We had an amazing time, but while there I saw a preview for an upcoming movie called “The Shallows.” According the Wikipedia that shallows is about, “a young pro surfer named Nancy [who] is surfing at a secluded beach when she becomes stranded on a giant rock 200 yards from shore after an enormous great white shark attacks her. Now, she must find a way back to safety, proving the ultimate contest of wills. For those of you interested in the trailer, you can see it here.

I will not be seeing this movie. I heartily implore you not to see this movie. Sharks are easy targets for horror films. They are large, and toothy, and appear seemingly out of nowhere. So, it makes sense that they fit neatly into the summer scare niche in order to make people think it’s “not safe to go back into the water.” However, time and time again it has been shown that such films have negative effects.

Peter Benchley was the first to cash in on this trend. His Freshman novel, Jaws, sold over 20 million copies and was made into the movie with the iconic two note soundtrack. However, Benchley later greatly regretted the novel, despite it becoming one of the top 10 grossing movies of all time. He was upset that people often forgot that the book was simply fiction, and was heartbroken over the rise in shark killings that took place as an indirect result of the fear the book and movie inspired. The Great White Shark population was decimated by those seeking an awe-inspiring trophy in the years following the movie; a hit to their numbers from which they are still recovering. To counteract this, Benchley  dedicated much of the rest of his life to the conservation of sharks.  

Years later, Deep Water would spur another round of shark killings as fear prompted people to act irrationally. Sharknado has yet to have an impact on anything other than Ian Zearing's career. 

Now here we are, after a year of record shark attacks. Greater numbers of people entering the water combined with warmer water led to 98 unprovoked shark attacks in 2015. People are already tense. In fact, just recently a 24 inch nurse shark was killed after being provoked and harassed into biting. However, despite their size and reputation, sharks in general are not quick to attack. Great Whites especially are not incredibly aggressive to humans, with only 220 documented attacks since 1907. Humans are, in fact, far more of a threat to sharks; for every human killed by sharks, 25 million sharks are killed by humans. History has shown us that “The Shallows” has potential to make those numbers rise even higher.

Please don’t contribute to the senseless fear-mongering and murder of a non-harmful and beautiful special. Please don’t support “The Shallows.” 

A Case For Grace

I was always a vengeance sort of girl. There was something deeply and uniquely satisfying about dealing with a problem by leaving a piece of scorched earth. Issue? Solved. Quickly and efficiently and with a good dose of catharsis thrown in as the icing on the cake. You see, it wasn't enough that a person be wrong. They must know without a doubt they were wrong. Other people had to know they were wrong. It had to be done quickly, and it had to completely eliminate the chances that anything like that would ever happen again. To paraphrase Ender Wiggin, the first punch was to stop that fight, the rest were to stop any others that might happen. And there was just so much I wanted to say.

And it worked. But not really.

The collateral damage was high. There was no chance of reconciliation with the person who had wronged me. While it felt good at the time, eventually guilt and remorse would kick in. So, things changed.

I started a business. There are people involved in this business that I don't like. There are people who engage in shady business practises, who are just damned abrasive, who are unprofessional, who have unreasonable expectations, who break promises. There was even one who headed up one heck of  a Salem style witch hunt against me. And man, sometimes I just want to put them in their place. But I can't. I have a business. Which means I have to be professional. There's way too few bridges in this microcosm of the publishing world to start burning some to the ground. So I learned to moderate myself. I made mistakes along the way.

I had a family. I didn't want to reflect badly on them. I didn't want my children caught in any crossfire. I wanted them to enjoy the stress-free holidays that I didn't. I wanted their lives to be filled with joy and ease. I had done a couple of things that were irreparable and didn't want to do more. I wanted people to be proud of me. So I learned to moderate. I made a few mistakes along the way.

I grew closer to God. For me, that means extending the grace I am so freely given. That's the biggest tenant of the Faith, for me. No matter what I do, He will forgive me. He will bless me. No matter who I am, he will love me. So, I tried to emulate that. I made A LOT of mistakes along the way.

I am now in a situation where there cannot be mistakes. There cannot be missteps. The stakes are way higher than anything I've ever encountered. A huge amount of damage has already been done, outside of my control. And oh, man, I want the vengeance. There are so many lies being spread and so so much I WANT TO SAY. I want to hurt those who hurt the ones I love. But I can't. I cannot. So, while actions have consequences, I am doing my best to move with grace and dignity. I have to trust the judgement of the people I love. I can trust them to see the truth. I have to trust in God that He knows the truth and will act in truth and justice and love, especially when it is difficult for me to do the latter two. To hold my tongue. To walk slowly. It's not cathartic. It's not fast. It's not efficient. But you know what? I feel better at the end of it. I can look around at the end of the day and say "I did good." I can turn to my loved ones after engaging in more grace and dignity than I thought I could and say "did you see that?" And they say "yes, that was awesome." I can help my loved ones heal the wound, protect them from further wounds, but not accidentally create more.

And it's working. Slowly. Painfully. Diligently. But it's working.

Vengeance? That was effective in it's way. But I'll take grace.

Here's the Thing About Extroverts

I've been hearing a lot about introverts lately. I get it, introverts have been feeling the strain for years. They feel as though they are expected to be something they're not, that it's an extrovert's world, and now with the rise in popularity of the geek and so much of our lives being done in the relative safety of Facebook, they feel as if they are finally given a voice.

And that's awesome. Anytime anyone can be their authentic self (without actively harming others) is great. Anytime someone can be heard (and they are speaking our of love or desire for understanding) is great. Most of my friends are introverts, and I love being able to understand how to better care for them.  But, as the token extrovert, here's what extroverts want you to know:

It's not all sunshine and roses for us, either. Here's why:

1. People don't understand this is a need for us. When we ask you to come over, to go do something with us, to talk to us on the phone, it isn't always just casual. Just as you need time without people to recharge. We need quality time with people to recharge. So, when we are rejected, it can be difficult. It hurts. When it happens consistently, it hurts more than just a casual "I don't want to" or "I don't have time." Because what it means is "I don't understand or care about your needs enough to step outside of my comfort zone to help you refuel." Too much time without people makes us feel claustrophobic, a little twitchy. This is what we need to  feel the most healthy.

2. It's hard to balance our extroversion with our duties. It really is a golden balance. I have to clean my house. I have to educate my kids. I have to run the publishing house. All of these things require quiet time at home. However, too much of that, and I lose the focus to do those things. Working quietly with others is optimal, but even then quietly means with music happening, chatting while we work, and a lot of introverts aren't able to function that way. And two extroverts together means very little work gets done. So it's a constant balancing act of keeping myself charged enough to function optiimally, but leaving time to function.

3. You feel like you are constantly told to change who you are. Yep, introverts don't have exclusive rights to that. "Why don't you just sit quietly and relax?" "You're too outgoing and it puts us off." "Wow, you spend more time out of your house than you do in it." "Can't you just dial things back a bit?" People don't realize that relaxation is different for us, and so to please them we do things that are antithetical to our extrovert nature, and then people don't understand why we are fidgety. We have to tone down our fire for the comfort of others. We have to be alone for a socially acceptable amount of hours. It gets exhausting. But because your need to refuel depends on other people, we have to be dependent on their understanding of our situation. As most people aren't, it can get a bit claustrophobic.

4. People suggest solitude and you want to die a little. "You've had a tough time, why don't you just take a little while to relax." Let me tell you, we need people, and energy, especially when we've had a rough time. Leave us in a quiet room when we are already emotionally strained and you'll have us clawing at the inside of our skulls. We will get mopey, lethargic. But all too often, well-meaning people give us our space in times of trial. I don't need space. I need people. I need energy. I need activity. I will come back better able to deal with things, if given those.

I love my introvert friends. They go out of their way to help me balance my needs. So, if any of you are reading this, please don't be offended. But I do get frustrated at the concept that societal pressures are exclusive to the introvert set. They aren't. They're just different, that's all. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a whole wide world out there and I need to touch it all.

Oh Gwyneth

I will admit, I've become fascinated with Gwyneth Paltrow's website, Goop. Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking for tips, and I'm certainly not shopping. It is kind of like watching a video of pratfalls, or maybe a trainwreck. I'm pretty sure, in her glorious, pristine world, that she's not sure what goop means.  It's painful, it makes no sense, and yet I cannot look away. Lately, I've noticed some of her invigorating morning meals and routines. She wakes up, most likely wearing some of the $100 pajama pants that she offers on her website. She floats, ethereally down the stairs, and makes herself a smoothie. The recipe for the smoothie literally reads like this:

1 cup almond milk

1 tablespoon almond butter

1 teaspoon coconut oil

2 tablespoons vanilla mushroom protein powder

1 teaspoon maca

1 teaspoon ashwagandha

1 teaspoon ho shou wu

1 teaspoon cordyceps

1 teaspoon moon dust of choice:Action Dust to soothe overworked muscles, Beauty Dust for a glowy complexion and healthy hair, Brain Dust to combat mental fogginess,Goodnight Dust when sleep has been evasive, Sex Dust, for, you know, and Spirit Dust to get that extrasensory perception going.

pinch Himalayan sea salt

pinch vanilla powder (optional)

I don't know about you, but I don't even know what half of those ingredients are. That's okay, 

I'll move on to the omelette. Wait, that involves free range duck eggs, organic spinach, and organic crimini mushrooms, none of which I frequently keep stocked in my kitchen. And you only use the whites of the duck eggs. At roughly $3 an egg, that's a lot that I'm just throwing away. Unless I want to make some duck yolk lemon curd. With organic lemons. 'Cause Gwenyth. Also, this invigorating morning routine costs about $85. And seems to involve at least 45 minutes of effort. I have neither.  So, I've decided to pass on 6 of my most invigorating morning wake-up tips. 

#1 See if you can plan your puppy's vomiting to take place within an hour of when you'd like to wake up. That sprint down the stairs, dragging a reluctant and heaving puppy, that will wake your right up. 

#2 If you live, like I do, in a poorly-insulated 200-year-old house - go straight to the kitchen to make coffee. Do not put on slippers or a robe. Standing there while the wind whips around your head, your feet getting chilblains, while you wait for that blessed brown cup of sanity will ensure that you don't get to sleep again anytime soon. And those capillaries will expand again someday. 

#3 Check your email - Most likely there will be something in there from either your psychotic ex or something involving your job. They will not be good news. You will have to write a furious response, refrain from sending it, type a more reasonable response through your rage and frustration, and then send that. This actually does double duty as it will not only stimulate your brain but will also get your heart pumping. 

#4 Finally get around to pouring that cup of coffee. Then, on the way to the couch, make sure you step on a stray lego left of the floor. The excruciating pain will cause you to dump some coffee down your shirt, which will not only further invigorate you, but will leave you with a warm, pleasant all-natural parfum, if you are carbon-footprint and temporally aware enough to eschew changing your shirt. 

#5 Take a shower. This will ensure that your sleeping children will wake up, no matter what time it is. They will file into the bathroom with their demands, which you will try to accommodate while lathering yourself with soothing aromatherapy-based shampoo. You will not be able to do this, but will instead come charging out, soaking wet, wrapping yourself in a towel, in order to put out whatever hopefully metaphorical fire is now raging. This will again, stimulate your brain, your skin, and your cardiovascular system. 

#6 Stare longingly at the coffee which has, by now, been spilled on the floor. This doesn't help, but is necessary for the next three steps which are a) clean up coffee b) pour more and c) get around to drinking it. 

These tips are tried and true; I have been using them for nearly a decade now. I guarantee that they will work for you. Best of all, this whole morning costs less than $5! Tune in next week for more happy, healthy, joy-inspiring tips from someone who truly understands goop. 

5 Things Not to Say to an Author

Occasionally I go out. When I go out, often it comes up that I am an author. People are usually pretty great about it, but many times someone says something that really just gets under my skin. After three years now of informally gathering data, I present to you the five worst comments that we hear.

1.      I Could Write, but I Don’t Have the Time

Here’s the thing, none of us have the time, some of us make the time. Most authors I know have a day job and a family in addition to their writing career. They have houses, hobbies, significant others, field trips, and pets. Being an author doesn’t somehow magically release you from all of your other obligations, though wouldn’t it be amazing if it did? We write because it is such an intrinsic part of us that we don’t feel whole unless we do. We become cranky, irritable, creatively constipated. So we make time. We give up sleep, we jot things down in the checkout line at the supermarket, or dictate into our phone while we are driving. We sacrifice time out in favor of a night at our laptops. We wake up hours early or stay up hours late. To assume that we just “have the time” cheapens the deliberateness and sacrifice we make for the sake of our passion.

2.      You Should Write My Story- You Wouldn’t Believe It.

This is generally followed by the line, “you’ve never heard anything like it.” Actually, I have. In fact, I have this exact conversation at least once a week. I don’t want to write your story. You write your story. I want to write my stories. Also, real-life drama generally doesn’t for good stories. Either they are not as interesting for the larger audience than they are for the writer, or they come across as trite, bitter, or contrived. So listen, if you want to write your memoir, do it. You have my full support. If you want to fictionalize some aspect of your life, even better. But please, please do not make me feel like I need to sit down with a stranger and take notes on their life story so that I can somehow help them. I love helping people, just not that way.

 I Always Thought I Could Be a Writer?

Really? I always thought I could be a Neurosurgeon. You know, if I’d applied to med school Then graduated. Then picked a specialty. Then excelled at it. If I’d done all of that, I could totally be a neurosurge

on. In fact, I bet I could do it now. I’ve watched a lot of medical shows after all. I took an anatomy class online. Sound ridiculous? It does to us as well. Being a writer involves dedication, practice, honing your craft, talent, all sorts of things. Can anyone do it? Maybe. Should everyone do it? No, no they shouldn’t. Can the average person toss out a well-crafted novel on the fly? Not usually. Give us some credit, please.

4.      If I Tell You My Idea, You’ll Steal It

No, I won’t. There are so many reasons I won’t. First and foremost, I have way too much respect for other people to do something like that. Our ideas, that little seed that germinates into this (hopefully) beautiful, blooming plant, those are precious. I won’t come creeping into your garden and steal yours. I’m a better person than that. Second, I have enough ideas of my own, thank you very much. I currently have 12 novels outlined, and that’s less than a lot of people I know. These are ideas that I had, about which I am passionate. I don’t need your idea, and I’m kind of insulted at your implication.  Finally, I know that it wouldn’t be as good even if I did. Our ideas are our passions, our perspective, and trying to write as you, or write something you saw, just wouldn’t work. So please, don’t worry.

5.      But What’s Your REAL Job?

Other job? Sure. Day job? Likely. But please don’t use the word “real.” “Real” implies that writing is fake, invalid, when the simple fact is that for most of us it’s the other job that is unreal. Writing is when we come alive. It’s when everything feels like it is falling into place. It is us pursing our passions, talents, and drives. Please, don’t try to tell me that’s not real.

So that’s it. Next time you see an author, pull up a chair and chat if you like. But be kind, be respectful, and don’t be one of those people.

So, fellow authors, what WOULD you like people to say? 

Don't Look at Me; I'm Hideous

So there’s this guy. He’s amazing and incredible and smart and witty and talented. We are dating. No, not dating. We are a couple. There. I said it. We’ve been friends for a while and I’ve watched him date other women and choose not to date still others and among all of that there was one rule that he had. He didn’t’ get serious about women with children. He tried a time or two. It didn’t’ work. Not that he didn’t like kids; he does. But he felt like he wasn’t up to the task of step-dad, and so he didn’t want to waste his time or theirs on something he just couldn’t do.

Now he’s dating me. Think of that for a minute and chuckle. A lot.

I will never apologize for the existence of my kids. Never. They are the best part of me. They are amazing and if a person gets to be a part of their life they are incredibly lucky.

That being said, I understand that we are a lot. Like, a really lot. So, whether it’s my friends without kids or my family who haven’t had kids in the house for a while or this guy I try to act as a buffer. I try to make sure that they get to enjoy the kids. I’ll take care of the unpleasantness.

It’s a good system. And it has worked. Until last week.

So we are hanging out at the house. I made dinner. He brought popcorn and the new Star Wars movie. What could go wrong?

Well, it’s possible that, seemingly apropos of nothing my daughter could cough and then start grabbing her legs and screaming and crying. Loudly. It was time to go to the hospital. So, I start frantically grabbing all of the accoutrements to take five people to the hospital for an indefinite period of time. That indefinite period turned out to be eight days, by the way, but that’s a different story. At some point in my frenzy, I saw him looking at me with that look. There’s this look he gets sometimes when he’s determined to do something nice for me. Open eyes, locked jaw. Like he’s trying to be super nice but dig in for a battle all at the same time. Which is probably exactly what is happening. Everything in my body reacted. Hugely. Viscerally.

“No!” My inner self was screaming. “This isn’t fun. This isn't light. This isn’t easy!” Then, a small voice spoke up. “But it’s real.”

And that’s it. When you have kids, vomit happens and if you’re really lucky that’s the worst bodily fluid you will have to deal with. Injuries happen. Power struggles happen. And if he is serious about me, he needs to experience these things. I can’t lead him into this promising sunshine and rainbows. And I really did need the help. So I let him. I let him keep the boys that night and when that night turned into the next day he took the day off of work until the reinforcements arrived.

The entire time I was convinced that this would be the moment. The moment he waved off. The moment he, gracefully and gently left. After all, this is exactly what he wasn’t up to.

Except he was. He dealt with the boys like a champ and then, when he could have called that good enough, he did  more. He brought by food and played cards and read to us. He held me when I cried. He encouraged me to sleep. He was one of many, many people who made this past week less hellish. And I let him. Because while we are taking this slow, and I try to respect his boundaries and need to ease into this, I’d rather he see the real and leave than see the masquerade and stay.

He could have left. I wouldn’t have held it against him. But he stayed. He saw us at our most ugly, and he stayed. And for someone who has learned their whole lives, from various step-parents to societal stereotypes to the well-meaning advice that the best I could expect as a single mom is someone who would tolerate my kids, this was pretty amazing.

I’m not saying this is forever. But I’m saying as a single mom, this gives me hope. Not just for me, but for all of us. 

I Gave It.

“You’ve taken away everything that makes me, me,” I said once. At the time it seemed true. And it couldn’t be denied that so much of what I was had been lost, cast aside, or damped down. But I realized something the other day. It wasn’t taken. I gave it.

It all started with a stag at a petting zoo. He was old, and sick, but he was beautiful. Giant, with a head as long as my youngests’ arm. Magestic with his shaggy fur. Enormous, liquid eyes. The kids were delighted. They pet it. They talked about how pretty he was even though, quarantined, he was also abviously old and ill. “Daddy would like this a lot,” one of them said. “He sure would; you’ll have to tell him all about it,” I replied. And that was it. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. One of my friends was with me, and gave me the raised eyebrow of “what’s up?” “I’m just so glad to miss the 15 minutes of the importance of the stag to our family,” I replied. And I was. God, I was. But I thought about it, later.

I never minded the stag being part of our lives. Or the tartan. Or the ivy. Or the family saying. I was once incredibly proud to wear the brooch. I embroidered the family crest on our ring bearer’s pillow. I took my ex-husband’s name gladly and am keeping it, if only for the sake of the kids. I gave up my name and my heritage and took on his not just willingly but proudly, gladly. So when did that pride turn to an inward groan? When did that stag talk start to make me feel small? I guess when I realized that when I was taking that on I had given up my importance. When I was upset because I wasn’t allowed a voice in naming our youngest. When I was told that he “had a plan to honor their blood.” “My blood is there, too,” I said. “I let you name one after your family already, we aren’t doing more,” he replied. And I was hurt.  But I gave that power away. I guess it changed when I would try to interject our family stories and histories and traditions and they were brushed aside. The kids were Huntleys, not Rotaches after all. But, I went along with it. I gave it, even though I didn’t’ know what I was giving.

My kids are being baptized in a couple of weeks. I want to do it. I want to be the one who is there in the pool with them. But the thought gives me an anxiety attack. Because, you see, I’ve been told that women shouldn’t do such things. It was inappropriate. But I remember when I started looking to him as a spiritual mentor. You see, when we met I was not Christian. But he was, and he answered all of my questions more thoroughly than anyone ever had, and eventually I came around. So, in that process, when he mentioned that I couldn’t practice my faith it was done in such a way that it made sense. He was so smart and made so much sense that I took everything he said as canon. So when only men in the family were asked to join us on stage for a dedication, I was mad, but I didn’t question the heart behind it. When I was told I couldn’t be the one to baptize the kids, I took that as truth. So I believed I was less than due to my gender. I gave that power and control.

I’m discovering again that it’s okay to have emotions. Big ones. I snuggle and give giant hugs and laugh way too loud. I have days when I am angry at everyone and moments when I am angry at just one person. I am scared. A lot. All of the time. Sometimes it motivates me and sometimes it paralyzes me. I love hard and a lot. I laugh. These things are okay. Which seems simple, but you see for a long time they weren’t. Okay, that is. And it started with the best of intentions. You see, he told me that my big emotions were bad for me, and it was true. At that time, I didn’t know how to moderate. I coudlnt’ tell a 3 on the scale of relevance from a 10. So everything was huge. And so when I told me I needed to take things down a notch or 12, I believed him. But things kinda escalated from there. When I was excited it was bad because it would lead to bad ideas. I hugged too hard. When I was angry I was unreasonable. When I was happy, another shoe would fall and my down would be harder. So it’s best to stay neutral. So I did. And was miserable. But that control wasn’t taken, I gave it, even if I didn’t know what I was giving at the time.

So, I’m finding myself again. I’m discovering my flaws, which are Legion, and my strengths, which are pretty great too. I’m finding out what is important to me. I’m discovering that I have bad habits that I will have regardless of my surroundings or influences until I choose to break them.

And I’m in a relationship again and it’s a pretty big deal.

I mean, he’s a really great guy, and wouldn’t ever intentionally hurt me, but still I’m terrified.

Because I can’t ever again not know what can happen. I can’t ever not know that a love that is giant and huge and amazing can turn to apathy or fear or pain. Or all three. I can’t ever again be certain of a happily ever after. And I can’t ever forget that, while a lot was taken from me, my power wasn’t. Because I gave it. I gave it once and I could do it again.

Compromise is important. Learning is important. Choosing a leader is important. Growing is important. Making concessions is important.

But complete abdication of power? If the person is human, and therefore fallible, that’s dangerous. Being made to feel small is dangerous. Following someone who is not  following a higher purpose, calling, or power is dangerous.I did it once, and I must guard against doing it again. Because it wasn’t taken, I gave it.