Nov 13, 2018 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
There I was, minding my own business. Or, rather, minding the business-business. Yup. I was in a team meeting when all of a sudden, instead of taking notes, I turned to the last page in my yellow pad. You know, the ones we all have at the office. They call them legal pads, although everyone uses them for everything. So, really. Shouldn’t they be called everything-you-need-to-write-down pads? (How’d I do with those hyphens, Mermaid?)
Frankly, My Dear . . . That One Time I Didn’t Have a Midlife Crisis
Anyway. Yeah. So I start a quick calculation of how much I owe. Like student loans. And credit cards. And car payments. And things like that. Then I figure what my house is worth. My small, older, fixer-upper house that I haven’t really been able to fixer-up like I would like. Is that a word? It is now!
Now, I’ve not usually been too good at math. I mean, I’m no rocket surgeon or anything like that. I’m more of a Words Girl. But, hey. I do know pluses and minuses. And I was liking what I was seeing. I wrote a few more numbers into the mix. Things like moving expenses, living costs, set up fees.
Then I wrote the date. And one word.
Pray.
I folded the paper and tucked it into my purse.
Flash-forward to a few discussions with trusted people, unofficial-followed-by-official notice at the office, two realtors, 52 hours, five showings, two offers, and one sale. And voila! Thirty-seven days later I’m driving into South Carolina. Well, actually, my awesome brother is driving as I’m trying not to fall asleep in the passenger seat because it was 1:30 in the morning.
I know to some people it seemed like a rash decision. A spontaneous, what-is-she-doing moment. But the truth is, we all know this has been brewing for nearly five years. I mean, poor Beckie and Spartacus. When we flew home from Blue Ridge in 2015 and I just cried all the way. It was the first time I’d not wanted to come back to California. Do a keyword search on the blog for Blue Ridge, and you’ll see just how much it’s affected my life. Seriously. It’s like, a lot.
The drive itself was worth it. Not that I’d want to do it every year, but hey. Now there’s a thought. I mean, who doesn’t love listening to Pet Sematary on Audible while driving a lonely two-lane highway at night? Or crossing the Mississippi River and stopping for a coffee at Graceland? Meteor Crater, Mojo Coffee, Cadillac Ranch, Tupelo, Atlanta. And old country music. Seriously. We have been the only two rocking out to Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere” but in the scheme of things, it was totally memory-making.
Not to mention I am now within driving distance of ohsomany people. We’re talking besties. Work and writing peeps. Church mentors. And did I mention my new apartment is located just down the block from Target, Hobby Lobby, and Cracker Barrel?
This is where I belong. With my writing community. With four seasons and leaves that change color and drop in the wind. With a balcony with a view. With coffee and friends and cable TV and the Hallmark Channel. There’s a crazy wonderful energy in the atmosphere out here. It’s my Bohemian Hurricane Territory, and I was made for such a moment as this.
Sure, there’s still a ridiculous amount of boxes to unpack and organize. I’m nowhere near finishing the second draft of NOLA. But I’m surrounded by like-minded people. And not just for five days out of the year. I mean,
This is my life.
And, well, It’s a Wonderful Life.
And Frankly, My Dear . . . That’s all she wrote!
Here’s a few photos from the past two weeks:
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Welcome Home.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : My New Morning View
Frankly, My Dear . . . : I collected a mug (or more) in every state we drove through.
Frankly, My Dear . . . Crossing the Mississippi
Frankly, My Dear . . . My New Mantra. And New Jewelry.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Greenville Falls Park
Frankly, My Dear . . . This Thing Called Mist
Frankly, My Dear . . . : A Window With a View
Frankly, My Dear . . . Look, Meowma. There’s a bird in the tree!
Frankly, My Dear . . . South Carolina Squirrel
Frankly, My Dear . . . Paris Mountain
Frankly, My Dear . . . Goose at Paris Mountain
Oct 8, 2018 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Hey, y’all! Long time, no blog, yah? I know. What can I say? It’s been a fantastical year. And, as you know I’m fond of quoting Al Jolson, “Honey. You ain’t heard nothin’ yet.”
So, forgive the teasing title of this post. Really I can’t share all the news right now. But because I haven’t blogged in a few months, your email inbox may start to think of me as spam, and while I am a bit of a salty treat, I’m not talking lunch meat.
You’ll also note there are no graphics or links in this post. That’s a better way to get to your main inbox for starters.
So, please, y’all. Add Frankly, My Dear . . . to your address book so you won’t miss what’s coming. Over the next week or so, I’ll send out a few pre-posts. Just enough to get your email to like me again. And then I’ll tell all y’all the deets. (That’s slang for details, Mom. But, you know. We talk. So I’m pretty sure you already know.)
And Frankly, My Dear . . . That’s all she wrote!
(at least for now.)
With a sly grin and a full notebook,
Happy Anticipation.
~Molly Jo
Jul 19, 2018 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
“What have you been up to?”
Well, I’d tell ya, but then I’d hafta kill ya. Ack! No. Sorry. Just channeling my sarcastic brother and our mutual love for covert spy movies. And comedies. Ohmagosh, remember the Princess Bride incident? Poor Mom had no idea what we were doing as each of her adult children started quoting the movie when we all came home for Christmas. #goodtimes Christmas. Yikes. It’s just over five months away and I’m so not prepared.
Ah, but I digress. So, yes. Back to the question. What have I been doing? Because I regrettably admit that which y’all already know: I haven’t been blogging. C’mon. Three posts since Blue Ridge? That’s just utterly, well, sadly lacking in the blogosphere, amiright?
Let’s recap, shall we? Blue Ridge is the writers conference I’ve been going to each May for the last four years. It’s where I met my best friends, discovered that I’m not crazy, just a writer, and also learned there’s nothing “just” about being a writer.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time I Remembered Water Seeks its Own Level
And then of course you’ve heard me talk about readjusting to “normal” life; except how can life really be normal when your Google history has things like “how to kill two people with one bullet” or other gross things I’ll spare my mom from reading here. [Let’s just say parts of NOLA will be pretty, uhm, authentic in their descriptions.]
I’ve had a hard time with NOLA all year. The first draft was written, then went nowhere but to the cobwebs. When I started to edit and rework it, something was missing. Sure, it was going along okay, but it was just too . . . complacent. “Hulloh?!” my brain said. “Anyone there? It’s supposed to be a murder mystery, right?! Do you even know what you’re doing?” And while my alpha readers are all telling me “Oooh, great story” “It really sucked me in” and whatnot, I’m telling me, “There’s something missing.”
So I stopped the distractions. I stopped doing so much that I could only write late at night. I started keeping notes, talking out the story, doing What If’s to get through writers block. I’ve read two books in four weeks. Okay, seriously, when have I ever allowed myself the time to do that?! But *gasp* it’s true what They say.
If you want to be a writer, you have to be a reader.
One of my favorite quotes from TV is Pride on NCIS:New Orleans (go figure!) when he tells his team, “Go. Learn things.” One of my favorite things about writing is learning how to present the story in a unique fashion. I’m basically just transcribing the movie I see playing in my head. That is the end goal, isn’t it? That NOLA will be so amazingly received it will be made into a movie? Uhm, #heckyeah.
Guess what. No, really. I want you to guess. Mom, stop rolling your eyes. C’mon peeps. What? Nope you’re wrong. Okay, I’ll tell you: Water Seeks its Own Level.
What does that even mean? Well, nutshell #yesplease: You can’t keep something where it’s not supposed to be. A light under a basket still shines, the stars through the clouds still glisten. Water cannot be contained when it’s meant to run rapids or lap softly at the shore.
But wait. There’s more: So here’s the water reference, right? And water is, what? Life-giving. Cleansing. Tumultuous. Peaceful. All of the above. It is also . . . ya’ ready? Part of a hurricane. There I said it. Yup. Does that not make it personal to me or what?!
I know, I know. This blog is too long already. Thanks for hanging in there and reading to this point. I’m almost done. Promise.
I’ve spent this time since Blue Ridge figuring out what my levels are. Am I drowning? Am I dehydrated? I heard those tiny shadow-voices over and over. You’ll never make it. You can’t be serious. No one believes in you. But I knew know those voices were are wrong. Here’s a hint: no one knows you like you know you. So when you’ve got a flame inside that can’t be put out, fan it, honey. Let that fire grow and glow until those shadow-voices are dispelled. Surround yourself with whoever and whatever it takes to help you get from here to there to THERE. #justdoit
Water seeks its own level. And I’m a hurricane. And I’m a writer. Which means, I’ve been seeking my own level. I’ve spent the last month really figuring out where I belong in the Write World, and how to move NOLA forward, and all these beautiful mosaic life pieces are fitting together in a pattern I didn’t see because I was too close up. I’ve worked more on NOLA in the last week than I did the last four months combined. #wow
I took a step back. Slowed down the social media, the blogging, the whatever-needs-slowing stuff. And I saw (see) the bigger picture. I ain’t drowning, no way! I’m surfing, baby. All the way to the top of the wave. That’s what I’ve been up to.
Because that’s my level. And that’s where I belong. Wanna come along?
Where is your level taking you?
With music in my heart and pen in my hand,
Happy surfing!
~Molly Jo
I hope you’ll subscribe to my monthly newsletter. The July edition will be going out this weekend, with a focus on Shakespeare, springs, and songs. Interested? Just click on this graphic to sign up:
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Sign up for the Author, Etc. newsletter. Because there’s nothing “just” about being a writer.
And Frankly, My Dear . . . That’s all she wrote!
