Mar 4, 2012
It’s late. I’ve been busy. I finished the second draft of a freelance project tonight, and the final edits on the cookbook. The glory of self-publication is that once these edits are done, the time from final draft to published book is minimal. Yeah!
So I don’t have a great, long, thought-out post for you today. Instead, I have this:
The cookbook is thisclose to being available.
My new website is thisclose to being online.
And it’s Day 3 of the Meal Memo in a Jar. I’m keeping track of it every day, and making note of any changes I need to make. Dot ate out twice so far: once with her grandparents, once with friends. Which means we only had one Memo Meal so far. Still, it was delicious. You’ll read all about it at the end of the month.
Two more of my posts have recently been featured on BlogHer.com. The one I’m most proud about right now is my Tribute to Davy Jones.
And I’m working on the next Mojo Book Review which will include a Giveaway! I’m super excited about that!
So stay tuned… there’s a lot coming up and you won’t want to miss it!
Happy Sunday, y’all!
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Mar 3, 2012
You know that still, small voice we all have in our heads?
Yeah. Notsomuch.
Mine decided to shout at me over the last 36 hours.
And I’m so glad it did.
Once or twice a week, I get together for an early morning Starbuck’s with my VIP Julie. We talk about our kids, her husband, my writing, life, God, coffee, cooking, the weather… we talk and talk and talk and when we’re done… well, we’re never done. So we get together often. At least we try.
Last week we each cancelled so Monday was going to be our first Girl Talk Time in two weeks. You know we were chompin’ at the bit to meet up with over 300 hours of what I like to call “shtuff” to talk about. We usually have less than an hour and that wasn’t enough so we set another meet up for yesterday.
But when yesterday came, my heart wasn’t in it. I really just wanted to cancel. But then I’d miss hearing how this story ended or that one began and all the in-betweens. So I sent her a text. We have it down to a science. One sends “Starbucks?” and the other replies either “Yup” or “Can’t”. We save the rest for the face-to-face chat. Yesterday, I initiated. And to my surprise and relief, her response was the negative. She forgot she had another appointment, so we rescheduled.
I was relieved. Because I really was tired. And had errands to do. So this worked out fine for me. And I didn’t feel let down. The fact that I made the effort even when I didn’t really want to, made me feel better. I heard that still, small voice get louder. I heard it cheerfully say, “At least you tried!”
Today I had grand plans to leave resumes all over town. Due to a minor comedy of errors my schedule went kablooey (technical term, that is!) and I was only able to drop one.
There it was again. “At least you tried!” I felt good about my efforts. Even if it doesn’t show. Even if I’m still unemployed. Even if potential employers aren’t looking at my resume this evening. At least I tried. And in that, I find satisfaction and completion. I can’t make anyone hire me. But at least I can get noticed.
It’s the same thing with my writing. I may not be a Nobel prize winning poet. I’m okay with that. Maybe my books won’t sell in the millions and buy me a mansion. While that would be okay with me, it’s not the end of the world if it doesn’t happen. It’s not the end.
And that’s when it hit me. It’s not so much crossing the finish line that defines a person. It’s how we get there that counts. I have a brand new understanding of being told that adage as a kid, “It’s not whether you win or lose. It’s how you play the game.” I never truly got that before. But now I do.
And I’m determined to play hard and authentic and genuinely. I’m determined to play the game.
Because the end result just means there’s a new goal. It never really means the end. So why not make the most out of getting there? I can’t even start the race if I don’t get out of bed. So I have to at least try.
I’ll never be published if I don’t write the book.
I’ll never find a day job if I don’t go out and look.
… well, I didn’t mean for that to rhyme, but as long as I’m at it, here’s a new one.
I’ll call it Journey:
If I fail, I learn from mistakes.
If I win, the glories I’ll take.
Step One is to plan.
Step Two is to try.
Okay, seriously. I can’t seem to focus enough to finish this great little inspirational poem right now. But you know what’s going through my head?
No joke.
You got it.
At least I tried.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Mar 2, 2012
It’s not the first time such a tragedy has shattered its way into our living rooms, our lives. Unfortunately, we also know it won’t be the last.
The news broke sparsely at first: another school shooting. Another random victim. Another suspect at large.
The information trickled in slowly and even now, days later, the aftermath is still confusing, still missing pieces.
But what I think I know, based on what the media has told me, is this:
TJ Lane was bullied.
He grew up with rough parents.
He didn’t get the help he obviously so desperately needed.
He took a gun to school.
And he killed Daniel Parmertor, Demetrius Hewlin, and Russell King, Jr, as well as wounded several other students.
He fled the scene, was pursued, surrendered and is going to be tried for murder.
Please don’t misunderstand what I’m going to say. Because I believe there should be legal and civil consequences for criminal action, especially when such actions result in the ultimate price. I believe there needs to be justice for the murders he committed.
But something about TJ’s story, as I’ve heard it so far, has brought me to tears.
I often see sadness in the news these days; but this story is different. I let myself feel more deeply. I let myself cry without caution. I don’t want to be strong against this fear and sadness. I don’t want to be desensitized to this type of situation or immune to these emotions.
I don’t want to stop thinking, if only…
I think he never really had a chance. I think he was doomed from birth to live in tragedy. I think he was discarded and not paid attention to when it should have been critical to listen to him. I think he was taught at a very young age to not ask for help. I think he learned a twisted lesson about what’s right and wrong, and he learned it far too late.
I think too many people put in half an effort and not enough people put in a full one. I think, ultimately, he was just alone, a lonely guy with no one to help or direct him.
I can’t imagine the horrors, the agony, the numbness that would drive a young man to feel he had no voice to be heard except the bang of his bullets. What evils could well up inside him to the point of taking such drastic actions? Was there any point when he had the tiniest glimmer of hope that he’d be caught and stopped? How lonely was he, how lost, to have planned out such cold-blooded slaughter of other kids?
And for the loneliness that I think he must have felt for most of his life, I cry. I cry a lot. I cry for the boy he never was, and the man he will never be. I cry not for the loss of his childhood, but for the obvious absence of it.
A healthy, well-adjusted, mentally stable person doesn’t wake up one morning and shoot people. This was a chaos in the making for many, many years. And I cry. Because someone, somewhere, must have seen something. And didn’t care.
And all he wanted was someone to care.
And I cry for the three students who died as a result of his downfall. That they suffered for hours, being worked on and hooked up and unplugged. How hard they labored for their breaths. How softly their families sobbed for them.
I can’t imagine the emotions any of them felt that day and continue to feel.
Because I’m so far removed from the situation. I’m on the other side of the nation. I’ve never experienced anything like this. I’m not personally connected.
But I’m personally affected.
There’s a world of hurt in TJ Lane and what he’s done.
And for him, and his victims, and even the survivors who have to live in the aftermath ~ I cry. And I keep crying.
And I hope I always will.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
