Flowers and Weeds

Right now, my yard and my life are full of a lot of weeds.

The lawn is dead and it's my fault. The grass won't grow anywhere but in the flower beds.

The flowers that I so carefully planted in the fall are being choked out by the weeds that I negligently allowed to grow. A passive choice not to confront a problem has cancelled out my active attempts from the past.

I am overwhelmed at the impossibility of getting my flower beds--and my life--back to a state of beauty and calm. The task seems beyond me.

So I make a choice.

I search for hope. I choose to find the beauty among the weeds. I pick some herbs and some flowers and put them in a vase together. I fill the vase with pure water and fill my soul with renewed commitment to see the good in my life, to celebrate the strength among the weakness. I choose triumph while surrounded by certain defeat.

Nothing will be easy. The weeds will still grow. I will still feel embarrassed by the dead and ugly things in my yard and soul. But I am strong and I know the weeds will not choke out everything good.

My strength remains.

"The Writer's Voice"

This blog post is my official entry in a writing competition, "The Writer's Voice." Check out the link for more information and links to see the other entries.

Title: Fight for the Galaxy
Genre: MG fiction
Word count: 47,600 words

Plot Synopsis:

Orion Carrera doesn’t want to be an intergalactic celebrity. His life is boring and predictable—just how he likes it--until a galactic convoy arrives at his dad’s repair shop. Orion and his outgoing older brother, James, learn that their dad has been keeping secrets: he’s a celebrity race car driver. And more importantly, he’s not a celebrity on Earth—he’s an intergalactic superstar. 

Their lives are turned upside down when the president of the Milky Way himself begs their dad to come out of retirement for a race around the rings of Saturn. The race will determine whether or not the evil Antennites are allowed to annex Earth’s solar system for their own questionable purposes.

Orion has to face more than just his insecurities and fears along the way—he learns the truth about how his mother died, makes unlikely friends, and is thrust unwillingly into the limelight while the Antennites are trying to make sure Team Milky Way loses before the race has even begun. Things take a turn for the worst when Orion himself is tricked by the bad guys, and it looks like the fate of the solar system is dependent on Orion learning that sometimes it’s okay to break the rules.

First 250 words:

      I should have known my dad had a secret. I should have seen the signs but I didn't. Not until the truth flew out of the sky and hit me on the head. You're probably thinking that's just an exaggeration, but it's not. Seriously, it flew out of the sky and hit me on the head. It hurt, too.
      It happened on the last day of 6th grade. Everything started out pretty normal: cold breakfast, classes, and a long wait for my brother to pick me up after school. He was late, as usual, so I was reading a book on the grass. Everyone else was gone already except for a couple guys kicking a soccer ball around and some girls giggling together. I tried to ignore them, which was pretty easy since they were acting like I didn't even exist. I glanced up and saw a cloud of dust rising in the distance. Somebody was driving through the dirt roads in my small town way too quickly, and I had a feeling I knew who it was.
      Sure enough, the crazy dust storm headed straight toward the school. A minute later, a silver convertible materialized and skidded to a stop in the parking lot. The car was beautiful: a vintage 60's Jaguar in mint condition. The soccer players stopped and stared at it. "Nice car," one of them muttered to the other. He was right--the Jaguar was extremely valuable and my dad had spent months restoring it.

A Few Real Confessions

It's true, I confess...

* I am going through two major things in my life that would be considered traumatic by anybody's definition. These are both huge things, interrelated and complex. There are some elements of these things that require life-changing decisions on my part, and elements of these things that are absolutely out of my control. Not a good combination.

It's true, I confess...
* I've made some very unpopular decisions that go against the grain of everything I've been taught, and yet I feel those decisions are the right things for me right now. I can't tell you how grateful I am for the friends and family that support me, even while disagreeing or wondering if I'm totally losing it.

It's true, I confess...
* I realized months ago that, while I have no problem being an advocate for mental health awareness on this blog, I have one major failing: I can't talk about it while I'm in the middle of it. Depression and anxiety were absolutely consuming me at the end of last year, to the point where my physical health was suffering severely. I felt like I was having a heart attack at least once a day and thinking (quite literally) that I was going to die. I went to my doctor finally to get some anti-anxiety medication and he told me I had scored quite high on the depression questionnaire as well. I laughed it off, but then started thinking about it.

I was tired all the time, unmotivated, and had no interest in anything but sitting around and feeling tired. I was getting plenty of sleep and yet still needing a nap every afternoon. These are classic symptoms of depression, and I know this, so how could I have missed it? I guess I assumed that just because I felt happy, I couldn't be depressed. I was wrong. Depression is a medical illness that can have emotional side-effects--it is not a measure of emotionally resiliency.

After a few weeks on my medication, I started to look around at the world and think it was a beautiful place. I wanted to get out and do things! To feel alive! I wanted to set goals, plan my life, be a better person! I realized that I had been in a very, very dark place for a long time before that. I write about this because I want other people to recognize depression in themselves in their friends, so people don't have to suffer. A psychologist said to me, "As a therapist, the one thing I'm actually terrified of is depression. I've seen how devastating it can be." Amen, amen, and amen. If there is anybody out there that needs a friendly person to talk about it with, contact me.

It's true, I confess...
* After all my study of how to be proactive and mentally healthy in life, I still find myself feeling overwhelmed by how much of life is out of my control. (This is the anxiety talking.) Earlier this week, I was ready to send my kids off to foster care and ship myself to a year-long meditation retreat in India or something. I felt like an absolutely incompetent human being. I recognized this feeling of "my-life-is-totally-out-of-control-and-I'm-a-victim-of-it-all" and had to nip it in the bud. I'm not a victim--I'm a survivor, and more importantly: I'm a fighter. I think anybody who knows me well understands this: I am strong and feisty and pretty awesome, actually.

So I made a personal manifesto to remind myself of what I really need in my life. (This is really only a partial list, but these are the bare basics that I felt needed attention.) Here it is:

I must care for myself if I want to care for others, especially my children. I must care for myself if I want to be happy and satisfied with my life. I must follow my conscience and find peace in my life. There are specific, mundane things I must do every day to feel good:

(1) Get enough sleep
(2) Exercise
(3) Eat the right kinds of foods, in the right amounts
(4) Keep my environment clean and orderly

In addition to these things, I really need to enrich my life:

(1) Sing
(2) Write
(3) Connect with my friends 

If I do these things, I will be stronger. I will be better able to take care of my children. I will be healthier and happier with my own life and in my own skin.

Oh yeah...

It's been almost a week and I forgot to post the other thing that I promised. Too late for that now, so I'll just say:

Go buy the digital anthology that has my first published story. It's awesome, and all the proceeds go to charity, which is also awesome. (Even more essence of awesome: this project was my brainchild and I'm listed as assistant editor.)

I've been going through a major midlife crisis lately, so I just wrote a personal manifesto that I plan to post later. Maybe in about a week or so. In the meantime, I'd love some positive thoughts in the comments to boost my morale during a really difficult time.

More later.

Book Talk :: Return to Exile

Oh, lookie here, I have this blog thing. Huh. It's been pretty neglected lately, but I decided to reawaken True Confessions for a good cause (or two) today.

First up, I've never joined a book blog tour before. Perhaps it's just not my thing. Perhaps I'm too lazy. Perhaps I'm just holding out for the New York Times to offer me big money to review books for them.

Illustrations by John Rocco

Or perhaps I've just never had the right incentive, but today I do, because I get to blog about one of my favorite new authors, E.J. Patten.

I first met Eric Patten at a local writing convention in February. He was consistently one of my favorite speakers--he's smart, interesting, and wildly funny. I cornered him after one of his sessions and discovered he's also a really nice guy. I invited him to join my critique group, Critiki, for an author lunch sometime since he lives nearby. Foolishly, he agreed.

At our Critiki lunch, my respect for Eric just grew and grew. We learned so much from him and couldn't stop laughing the entire time. He also came to a charity event I planned and was one of our presenters. He's just an all-around awesome guy so I wanted to spread the word about his book, Return to Exile.

There are some books that you learn to like as the story progresses. This book is not like that--I didn't need any time to warm up to it. I was literally laughing out loud in the first paragraphs:

Phineas T. Pimiscule was not what you'd call an "attractive" man. He wasn't "desirable" or "appealing." He didn't like "things" or do "stuff" or "wash" himself. He was not the kind of guy to "put" "quotation" "marks" around "words" or to say things in an unassuming or assuming way. 

He was the kind of guy who wore a monocle. 

He had also been known to fraternize with unsavory characters--a necessity of the job, and possibly a result of monocle-wearing. He traveled the world, seeing the worst of it--places with grotesque names like The-Twelve-Levels-of-Hidden-Terror, Devil's Hill, and Wyoming.

With a beginning like that, I knew this book wouldn't disappoint. Eric's writing is complex and imaginative, brimming with a great world to explore. I definitely recommend you pick up a copy for yourself or your kids. But only if you like laughing. Or if you like to read about monster hunters who make weapons out of garbage.

For more information about Eric or his book, here are some links:

Facebook page
Eric's website
Return to Exile on Amazon

Get ready for a double dose of awesome, because I have another important thing to blog about later today! Stay tuned!

Shadows

There are times when the sun filters through the western sky just so, and the world is thrown into a warm glow that surpasses everyday beauty. The world seems to be revealing its true self as the light glints off the branches of trees and blades of grass.

There are times when life feels dark and black, when I suddenly realize I'm not as brave as I thought. Everything seems to be shadow.

And when those times intersect, that one small moment of perfection is enough to keep me breathing joy one day more.

Dear Eden

Dear Eden,

It finally snowed today. You and your brothers were delighted. The boys put on coats and gloves and hats, ran outside and started throwing snowballs at the door where you watched them. You stood with your nose pressed to the glass, silently begging to join them.

Joseph helped you put on your snowsuit and boots, and then held you by the hand down the icy steps. He and Elijah ran out into the snow, heaping it into their arms and playing, but you hesitated. You stood on the edge of the concrete, your small feet slipping around on the ice, unsure about all that white stuff. You turned around, reached out to me and I said Go ahead, Try the snow. Don't be afraid.

You turned around, stood at the edge again and held your arms out to Elijah. He gripped your hand in his and helped you onto the snow.

This is not the first time you have been carried into new experiences by your brothers and I pray it won't be the last. You were the missing puzzle piece in our family. Your brothers need you as much as you need them.

You are loved.

Mom

..but I got a flu shot.

Well, that's one way to do a colon cleanse. Ugh.

The Writer's Dilemma

Okay, folks, I'm going to tell you exactly why you never want to be an unpublished writer. It's long and boring, so I decided to use my amazing technological and artistic skills to spice it up a bit.

At the most basic level, written communication is a message sent from one person to another person.

Or maybe from one person to a group...

Or from a group to an individual...

But this is what productive communication does NOT look like:

Without getting into a philosophical debate about trees and forests, we'll just say that if there is no recipient, deliberate communication is, by definition, a failure. (And you may disagree on some theoretical level, but just stick with me here, okay?)

So here I am, someone who likes to write. I'm also very sociable and I love it when my writing is received well. That's validation that my communication is productive and valuable. On the blog, the social interaction is easy. I always post a link to my blog entries on Facebook and people leave comments on that link. Sometimes people even go to the extraordinary effort to leave a comment on my actual blog. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside when people do that. Either way, I can gauge immediately if my communication was successful or not.

However, I'm also trying to become a fiction writer, which is fabulous if you're published:

But it's really crappy if you're unpublished:

That's me, right there. The lonely, unpublished author, creating messages that will probably never be read. And the worst thing about this is that I can only get feedback about my writing from other unpublished authors. So we're really the blind leading the blind, trying to figure out where the dang light switch is. I can go to writing conferences, which are something like this:

I actually love writing conferences, workshops, classes, etc. They're very motivational. I'm even organizing one for next March. But do they help me become a better writer? No. I already know, theoretically, how to write a story. I need somebody to read my stories and tell me exactly what things I'm implementing properly and which things need more work. It's called feedback.

My frustration with this simple concept--feedback--is killing me right now. I have a writer's group, but we are all in different genres and we're all unpublished. Blind, meet the blind. We can certainly help each other improve, but none of us can guess with any confidence what it would take to actually get published. There are critique groups out there with published authors, but I have yet to meet a group of bestselling authors that want to invite a newbie to their exclusive club. Still holding my breath.

I'm so frustrated with the blindness of the whole process that I want to just kill my ambitions and take the easy route: stick with goals that I know I can smash every time. Like baking a good batch of brownies. I make pretty decent brownies. I could just throw 100% of my effort into the world of Mom-ness. I'm not an awesome stay-at-home Mom, but at least I get plenty of feedback.

And being a dedicated stay-at-home Mom is a very worthy purpose. I'm proud of my efforts with the little monsters. But sometimes I want to use my brain a bit. And I've been told I have some talent for writing. And I enjoy it ... for the most part. But I've hit a brick wall and I have to step back sometimes and ask, is this worth it? I want to say "yes" because that's the mature and responsible thing to do. It shows a character of resiliency and determination. But is that a good enough reason to keep bloodying myself against a brick wall as I stumble around blindly in the dark? I don't know.

Some people have said, "If you're a true writer, you HAVE TO WRITE." I say: BS. Because that's ambiguous. I am composing sentences, ideas, and stories in my mind CONSTANTLY. There is this constant play-by-play in my brain that is analyzing the world around it. I am constantly "writing" in my mind, but do I have to put it on paper? Even if nobody is going to read it? How is that different from just forming the ideas in my mind? It's not.

So will I keep composing ideas and stories? Yes. I absolutely couldn't stop if I tried. But do I have to put them on paper? If a tree falls in the forest and nobody was around, who cares if it made a sound?

This isn't meant to be an announcement that I'm forfeiting all my writing dreams--just an expression of the frustrations that every writer faces. Because I think it's important to understand that raw writing talent is never enough to be a successful published author. It takes a lot of something--I'm not sure what--that I'm still trying to find.

Aspy-ism

Endearing thing #29 about my boy with Asperger's: inherent honesty.

"Aaauuggghh! But I didn't know you'd catch me doing that!"

A Gift from a 6-yr-old

Tommy: "I need to throw something away."
Me: "That candy wrapper?"
Tommy: "Yeah."
Me: "Hand it to me and I'll throw it away for you."
Tommy, after handing me the garbage: "Thanks ...... I also used it as a kleenex."

Ewww... thanks, kid.

Cupcake War

Battle Cupcake is heating up in my home right now. The competition is fierce: my lack of skill vs. my overabundance of ambition.

A Place of My Own

I was a landlord for about eleven years--until last Saturday evening, about 9:00 P.M. mountain time. We rented out a 1200-sq-ft, two bedroom basement apartment.

That's in the past. Way, way, way in the past. Days ago.

The benefits of having my entire home to myself are still sinking in.

Like being able to look at the plants along the back of my house without making my tenants feel like they're being watched.

Or like being able to scream at my kids, "If I am on the toilet, then LEAVE ME ALONE!" without anybody downstairs hearing me.

Life is good.

Leap!

I just entered a prestigious writing contest.

It took three days of emotional blood, sweat and tears to write this story. I gave it 100% and, even though I know it has some flaws, I'm proud of it. I wrote about family and friendship ... and an ominous intergalactic agency whose mission may or may not be evil.

I may have said this before, but bear with me since my memory is about as long as my fingernails (and I keep them cut short for piano, guitar and handling small children):

I've invested years of my life training my singing voice. Not because I wanted to improve upon a talent but because I had no musical talent to begin with. And I love music. And singing makes me happy. So I wanted to be able to do it better. So I invested a lot of money and time and effort into learning how to sing. I consider myself somewhat capable now, but I lack things that can't be taught.

On the other hand, I have always had a natural aptitude for writing. I wrote poetry through elementary school, took AP English classes, acted as editor-in-chief for my high school yearbook, attended young writer's conferences, devoured literature voraciously, and majored in Communications in college. (I've also been blogging since 2003, folks! I had no idea it had been that long!) It's the one natural talent I think God gave to me. And I have completely neglected it.

I put it up on a shelf, scared to death of what would happen if I ever took it down and dusted it off. Why? Because if I put my heart and soul into the one thing I do the best, and it's still not very good, where does that leave me? Feeling pathetic, that's where.

So when I wrote stories in the last few years, I said proudly, "This is just therapeutic. It's for me, because I love to write." Kind of like, "See? I don't care if you don't like it, because it's not for you anyway."

At some point in the last year, though, that wasn't good enough anymore. I am ready to put myself out there, open to criticism and rejection, because I believe in myself. And I am sick of burying a talent in the sand. Yeah, it might not be much of a talent, but it's all I got so I should make the most of it.

So today marks the first day when I open myself up to real, legitimate rejection. And I fully expect to get that rejection letter in the email box a couple months from now. It'll sting a bit, but it's better than never trying. The real triumph here is me choosing to take the leap.

Am I Magic?

I put Eden in her crib with a cup of milk, closed the blinds, turned on the lamp, twisted up the music box to play its broken melody and then prostrated myself to find a pacifier under the crib. After pushing aside two (probably moldy) bottles and a torn canvas toy cover, I found the prayed-for pacifiers against the far wall. Wriggling under the crib and reaching as far as my T-Rex/5'4"-personage arms could, I barely reached them.

Success was, literally, within my grasp and I was backing out from under the crib when something happened. I had no idea what it was; the unexpected rarely announces itself in comprehensible bullet points. My nervous system informed me that there was sudden and severe pain on the side of my head. Just like that: pain. It's interesting to me that the pain registered first and then I became aware that I was being pummeled by some unseen object. Wouldn't you expect yourself to mentally register the impact and then subsequent pain?

I screeched out in high-pitched girlie mode, grasping the side of my head where I had been attacked. After bravely yelling, "Owie! Owie! Owie! Owie!" so loudly that my son upstairs came running down in a panic, I looked around for the aggressor. There it was, lying on the floor: a tattered unicorn. Yes, the same one that I blogged about last week. The unicorn of youthful sentiment. It attacked me harshly from its precarious perch up above.

"What happened?" asked my husband, running in from the other room.

With eyes pinched shut in pain and hands pressed to my bleeding ear, I said, "The unicorn fell on me. It hit me on the head." I pointed at the fallen unicorn.

Apparently the whole pity-me-because-I-just-got-attacked-by-a-unicorn bit was unimpressive to my husband because he immediately replied, "Oh, are you magical now?"

"No," I replied. "This is my blood, not the unicorn's. The unicorn is fine."

I'm not really sure of my logic with that last bit, so I'm secretly hoping that I actually am magical now. If so, I hope I have some really cool ability like being able to finally grow taller than 5'4" so I can reach behind the crib without hurting myself.

The Music Box

Years ago, or so I am told, my father gave my mother a small bronze music box. A unicorn atop the box twirled to the strains of Fur Elise. As a child, I was completely entranced by the music box. I sat with knees hugged to my chest, staring at the unicorn's dance. More often, though, I would take the unicorn from its throne and stare at the mechanical inner workings. Simple technology creating art. Wind, wind, wind, play, play, play.


Though my parents divorced and the music box lost its shine, it never lost any of the enchantment. Over the years, the inner workings have broken. A broken melody, at best. A piece of the base is chipped away forever. It is half an object, but I still keep it for sentiment.

As I put my daughter to sleep just now, I wound up the tired music box and let the unicorn dance to half a melody. My daughter stared at it, lost in the beauty of such a thing, as she drifted off to sleep.

My life is abundantly blessed.

Girls vs. Boys

Disclaimer: I don't really hate women. Women aren't horrible ... but we can certainly act that way at times ...

~ ~ ~

I found it funny when my shrink accused me of being a man-hater. Okay, he didn't use those exact words. He said he thought I had a "deficit view" of men in general.

I was like, wait, excuse me?

"I have always been more of a man EATER," I corrected him. "Of course, that was years ago." (Two of my boyfriends dedicated a couple choice songs to me--I'm sure I've blogged about how I've always loved Duran Duran's Femme Fatale since then.)

I am not a man hater. I have always gotten along better with men than women, ever since I was a child. Why? Because women are horrible.

Horrible. Mean. Malicious. Gossip-mongering terrible creatures*.

I mean, we're awesome, too. Don't get me wrong. But days like TODAY, I am ashamed to have that feminine side deep inside of me.

So here's what happened. My little Thomas, the one who was recently diagnosed with Asperger's (Autism Spectrum Disorder), has been asking to have a play date with a little girl at school for a few weeks. I thought they got along great and was relieved that Tommy found a friend. She even wrote down her phone number for him to call her, but we never got a chance.

Then today. He came home and said, "Me and ---- are going to have a play date today!" Then he said something about her not knowing her house number, but something-or-other. I told him I'd have to call her Mom, and then a couple minutes later I found a piece of paper on the table that said in little kindergarten handwriting, "I hat you Thomas."

I stared at it, trying to take it in. I held the paper up and said, "Thomas, what is this?"

"That's ----'s house number," he replied.

"But it doesn't have an address on it. No numbers."

"That's her address."

So apparently Tommy wanted to get together to play and asked for her address. She wrote down, "I hat you Thomas" on a paper and gave it to him. It's one thing to write down a fake phone number to get rid of a creepy guy in a nightclub, but this is different.

Who could hate my little boy? He is the brightest ray of sunshine in the whole world. What kind of person would pull a prank like that on a sweet little six-year-old, telling him that they'll get together to play and instead telling him she hates him? I am just glad he never looked carefully at the paper. I am trying to restrain my Mama Bear instinct--that little Mean Girl inside of me that wants to say vicious things in return.

Shame on you, mean little girl. Shame on all mean girls everywhere.

Man hater? No. No man would pull a trick like that on a sweet little boy like Thomas.

* Okay, women are awesome. But we are also passionate creatures, and I am passionately sad right now about the way this little girl treated my son.

Bigger Problems

Why, yes, those are my children wearing flip flops on a snowy day. With socks. Flip flops and squished-up, pinch-toed socks. Cold toes are clearly not an issue here. We have bigger problems to solve. Problems like...

(1) Soaring levels of geekiness, accompanied by plummeting levels of social awareness
(2) A Mom who is wondering how much she should encourage her children to abide by societal norms, and how much she should encourage them to embrace their own personalities
(3) A Person who is wondering how everything turns into an internal philosophical debate, even her children's daily shoe selection (or her deliberate choice to refer to herself as a "Mom" in #2 and a "Person" in #3, thereby exerting her right to define herself as something more than just a caretaker of young children; or her deliberate choice to continue referring to herself in the third person)

Yep. Just another typical day at home.

Fears Resolved

I learned as a teenage not to overdose on my favorite music. I'd listen to the same song overandoverandoverandover until I couldn't stand it anymore--my relentless affection was ruining all the good stuff. I've learned since then to always listen to a variety of music so that I don't get sick of it too quickly.

The same principle, I was afraid, might apply to books. When I finished reading The Book Thief, I was head-over-heels in love with it. So much so that I have never been able to open it up again. I was afraid that it would somehow be different, less than I remembered it, or that it would become soiled by being over-read. I bought several copies and eventually gave them all away as gifts because I wanted to share this beautiful thing with other people.

The author, Markus Zusak, is coming into town this week, so I ordered a new copy of the book to get signed. I cracked it open, hesitantly, just to read the first page, and let me tell you something: it was pure love again. It was even more gripping, like coming home to the most magical and transporting words I've ever read.

Twenty-three minutes later, when the train stopped, I climbed out with them.


A small soul was in my arms.


I stood a little to the right.

The tone of this novel is brilliant. Serious, poignant, and humorous all at the same time. It's narrated by Death.

Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

I've been thinking about my own writing, how incredibly shallow it is in comparison. And that's fine, for now, because I have a specific project I'm working on for a young audience. But reading these words stirs something in me--a fear, a courage, a longing to be more true to myself as an author. I love this discomfort, because I know it will push me to further introspection and, hopefully, more self-understanding.

So again, Mr. Zusak, thank you for this 550-page gift. And thank you for reminding me how beautiful words can be.

Sensing Darkness

An invisible darkness suffocates
Blinds
Nauseates
Burns
Deafens

Too much to be ignored

Rookie mistake, Wormwood

I see you for what you are.

The darkness lifts as a lightness fills me up.