Sep 5, 2011
by MollyJoRealy @MollyJoRealy
There’s a fairly new song by Andy Grammer that basically says, no matter what, it ain’t that bad. So keep trudging along. The song is “Keep Your Head Up”. Not only does it have a catchy beat, but the words are nifty. I was pleasantly surprised to not hear anything about sex, drugs or violence.
Lately I’ve come to realize what’s really been holding me back from writing. I mean, really writing. From studying the craft, from expanding my vocabulary and resume. From doing what it is I have always known I was born to do. I was born to be a writer. So why aren’t I?
I’m afraid. I’m afraid of a great many things, but to let it influence how I do or do not use my gifts and talents… not much of a role model, am I? I’m not afraid of failure. I have a handful of rejection slips and “no thank you” emails already. That’s not it.
I’m not afraid of not being good enough. If I was a truly lousy writer, it wouldn’t bring me the joy that it does. I’m not even afraid of needing a “real” job to make ends meet.
It dawned on me a few weeks ago, and try as I might to push the thought away, to drown it out with the common sense mantra of “that’s so ridiculous!”, the fact remains . . .
I am afraid of success.
I’m afraid of leaving my foundation and flying. I’m afraid of the ghosts in my past coming back to haunt me. I’m afraid of reliving mistakes that I’d left behind. I’m afraid of people not understanding, of reminding me of who they think I am, of me not being able to stand tall and look ’em in the eye.
I’m afraid of becoming everything I know I can be . . .
Because that means things would change. It could mean meeting new people (a skill I still haven’t fully mastered). It could mean traveling. It could mean people counting on me for more. It could mean the opportunity to fail bigger.
It definitely means the unknown.
I used to have this joke-mantra. I’d say, “Change is bad.” To which my friend Jeff would tell me, “Change is change. It’s not good or bad. It’s just change.” We’d argue a lot on the subject. Nobody won, because we couldn’t convince the other.
Of late, I can see that he was right. And I’m ready. I’m ready to change for change’s sake. I’m ready to take the bull by the horns and do what I need to do to be the writer I’m supposed to be.
Today’s church sermon was about “Rejecting Old Excuses”. Let’s just say it was one of those puzzle pieces that is fitting neatly into the arrow God is building for me.
It’s time to stop wishing and hoping and thinking and praying. It’s time to act. And write. And submit. And be rejected. Over and over. And over again.
A few months ago, I was speaking with a close friend who was lamenting the lack of call-backs for job interviews, when it seemed others were getting so many. I quickly told him, “Why do you want so many? You only need one!”
I guess it’s time to take my own medicine. I can’t be kicked out if I haven’t stepped in.
So this is me. Back on in the saddle again. Writing it out. Keeping up with the To-Do List. And getting rejected.
It’s the best feeling, ever.
I promise.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Sep 3, 2011
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
This is another Writer’s Digest Community Writing Prompt from last year.
SONGS: Take two of your favorite songs, and match up a line from the chorus of one with a line from the chorus of the other. Then, write a scene that starts with the first lyric, and ends with the second.
“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?” he asked with a smile; his smile.
“It’s too early to think about that right now.” I tried hard not to fall under his spell. I was certain, however, that my clumsy efforts to avoid his gaze made me look like a fish out of water. A giant, washed-ashore, debilitated, practically dying, fish out of water.
He chuckled as if I were a cute toddler learning to walk. Emotionally, he wasn’t too far off. But I was planets away from letting him discover my reserves. And so I played it off by opening my datebook for evidence.
Datebook. How much more oxymoronic could it be. It was a personal jab, how these bound leather-jacketed pages screamed to be opened to reveal nothing of what they promised. Grocery lists. Doctor appointments. Work assignments. Contact information. Anything and everything. Except dates.
“Here,” I poked. “See? Today’s only – ”
He refused to let me finish. He gently wrapped his strong manhand around my accusatory finger. I’m pretty sure we lit the place up all by ourselves. It was painfully enjoyable.
He sat across from me, playing with my hand atop the café table. Gently pushing and pulling information. So easily, I didn’t even realize I was giving up bits and pieces. So earnestly, I forgot to lie.
“Wait,” I breathed, gripping the table for stability. Wait, I commanded myself.
“What’s wrong?” he leaned forward in his concern.
“You’re making it worse!” I edged my chair back.
“What?” he mock-gasped; knowing full well what I meant. I looked anywhere but at him. If I let go of the table, I would certainly float beyond the neon stars above us in my bliss.
He took my hand again, tethering me to himself. I would not fly away.
“Let’s walk.” It was a gentle command; for he was already rising from his seat, taking his coat and coffee with him. I followed numbly, playing his grown-up game of Simon Says.
He led me over the concrete path, through the intermittent crowds, under the trees raining color upon us. I shivered from the all-consuming experience and he quickly pulled me to the side of the path. Under a dim yellow lamppost, he brought his coat behind me and pulled it around me. I was surrounded by the scent of him. His warm hands soothed the collar around my neck and I shivered all the more, embarrassed that such gentlemanly care could turn me to Jell-O. I knew better than to try to speak.
A red-golden leaf fell between us, startling us both into chuckles. My pent-up, heightened awareness took advantage of my fallen guard; and my body convulsed into a loud symphony of laughter, letting go of all that was in me.
He joined with me, his baritone sound in harmony with my soprano.
A tear of relief sprang to life on my cold cheeks. Still laughing, still holding me close by the collar of his own coat, he raised one hand to tenderly thumb it away. I closed my eyes to avoid showing him inside me; but I felt his presence, his touch. He was not going anywhere.
“Hey.” He whispered. I hesitantly opened my lids to see his breath on the air. He placed a gentle kiss on my lips, and the warmth flooded me, staying even after he withdrew to look at me again.
His smile was new. It was mine. “So, what does your datebook say about tonight?”
I smiled back. “It’s Autumn.” With all it’s joyously colorful experiences. “Autumn in New York.”
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Sep 2, 2011
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
I’m the first to admit, whenever I hear “Ratatouille” I think of Remy the Rat and Alfredo Linguini from the Disney movie. That is, in fact, what inspired my first attempt at making this dish.
This dish is super easy, super cheap, and super delicious. It can be eaten as a main dish with bread sticks, or tossed onto pasta. I add the cooked veggies onto crust and sauce for a homemade pizza. It freezes great, and reheats in the microwave. However you choose, enjoy!
VEGETABLE INGREDIENTS:
1 medium eggplant
2 medium zucchini
2 cups cut mushrooms
5 Roma tomatoes
1 medium onion
1 green bell pepper
1 red or yellow bell pepper
OIL INGREDIENTS:
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 to 4 fresh pressed garlic cloves (depending on size and how much garlic you like)
1 TBSP dried Italian seasoning mix (I prefer Pampered Chef or McCormick)
Chop all vegetables and set half of each aside. Layer the first half of each in the crock pot in this order: Eggplant, zucchini, mushroom, tomato, onion, bell peppers.
In a small bowl, combine olive oil, pressed garlic, and Italian seasonings. Mix well. Drizzle half over the layered vegetables.
Repeat the layers of vegetables, drizzle with remaining oil mix.
Cover, and let sit on medium low for 5 or more hours, or on high for 2 hours. Stir halfway to blend juices, vegetables, and oil.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Aug 31, 2011
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
When I get to New York
It will be in the fall
When the leaves turn red and gold and yellow
And drop precariously all around.
When the crisp air carries
A promise of change
I will arrive on a train
Through Grand Central Station
And before I even enter the City
I will shop
And eat
And people-watch.
I will take a yellow taxi cab
To Central Park
And run along the paths
Before I buy a bag of roasted nuts
And sit on a green bench
To enjoy the sights, sounds, and smells.
I will think of the movies
And the songs
And the stories
That have filled my head and heart
With such wanderlust
That brings me there.
I will wait until the sun sets
And make my way
To Broadway
Where I will stand on the sidewalk
With arms open wide
And voice lifted high
And people will stare at me
But most will smile and applaud
In understanding.
I will quiet myself as I enter
The theatre
And hum quietly along
As I take it all in
And vicariously live a musical.
I will find a street vendor
For exhaust-flavored hot dogs and coffee
And stroll through the streets
Through the night
Until I find myself
Like Holly Golightly
Looking through early morning windows
At Tiffany’s
And their beautiful blue boxes.
I’ll lay my head on a pillow
At the Plaza
And wake to look over
The City that Never Sleeps.
I’ll walk underground
And ride the metal beasts
Of the Subway
From one end to the other.
I’ll go to Yankee Stadium
And cheer out loud
For my team.
I’ll ride the ferry
To Ellis Island
And remember how this Great Country
Was, is, and will be.
I’ll tread lightly at the Library
And smell pages and pages
Of History
Fantasy, Reality, and Life.
I’ll stroll through the Village
And eat treats unheard of
And pretend I belong in Soho
If just for the day.
I’ll skate at Rockefeller Center
And laugh when I fall down.
When the lights come to life
I’ll find myself exiting
The elevator on top
Of the Empire State Building
And again I’ll sing songs
While holding my breath
As I look over the expanse
And make more dreams
Than I knew I could hold inside me.
I’ll awake with my muses
Flying rapidly about
Onto paper and thoughts
And take myself to the MoMA
To let it all in
And let myself out.
I’ll sit on a bench
And instead of writing
I’ll look around
Until
I’ll close my eyes and see it all
I’ll open my ears and hear whispers
I’ll speak later, when I find my words.
I’ll walk in a daze
Down 34th Street
And find myself
In the miracles of Macy’s
And all it has to offer.
I’ll listen to street musicians
And tap my tennis shoes to the beat
Until my dancing feet
Take me
To Times Square
Where
In the midst of possibly everything
I will finally just stop
And stand there
In awe
Of neon lights
And honking horns
And tourists
Just like me.
I will buy me a keychain
And a statue of the Statue.
Then I will make my way
Home
And write it all out
As bits and pieces
Come back to me
Until
I
Come back
To it.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Aug 30, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
My favorite hymn is I’ll Fly Away. I particularly love the Jars of Clay version. In fact, when I die, I want everyone at my wake to gather together and sing it loudly and repetitively. I just love this song!
That really doesn’t have much to do with this post, except the title. Well, maybe just a little more than that. The title was inspired by a great story from my friend, Corrie. She even provided the photos.
It was earlier this summer when a baby bird fell out of its nest. Pushed, probably, by its momma who wanted it to fly. But the bird wasn’t ready. And so it fell. Ker-splat. Onto the ground. Corrie’s daughter, Amber, found the baby bird and rescued it. They gently placed it back into another nest with other babies and a new momma bird. The new momma bird looked after the baby, adopting it as its own. But again, when the other babies were pushed out into the world, this baby bird still wasn’t ready.
Ker-splat. Ker-splat. Each time, Amber found the baby bird. Each time, the baby bird followed Amber. It began to follow Amber around the yard. It became as tame as a wild sparrow could be, allowing Amber to pick it up and hold it often. Each evening, Amber put it to bed in the nest.
A few days later, the new momma bird kicked the babies out again. And while this baby bird knew how to fly, it didn’t want to. It wanted Amber. But this particular day, it couldn’t find Amber right away. So it did what any lost bird would do. It went looking for her… in the house.
It was Amber’s birthday, and the house was decorated in celebration. She wanted bright and colorful owls. She also got a bird. The baby bird. It made an appearance, sang its Happy Birthday chirps to her, and let her put it back outside.
A day or two later, after enough urgings from New Momma Bird and Momma Amber, the baby bird finally flew away into the world. It was strong enough, and secure enough, to make its own way.
The joy it brought to Corrie and Amber formed memories they’ll keep forever, and keep sharing.
This story got me thinking about how many times we think we’re in the right place, when really we should be some place better. The environment we sometimes find ourselves in, while even loving and safe, is not where we’re destined for. How often are we led astray, by others, by ourselves? How often do we resist the help of others to get us back on track?
Sometimes through circumstance we find ourselves in a new nest. Sometimes we fight too hard to stay where we don’t belong. We hold onto to what we know is good and safe, and forget we’re designed to move on and explore.
There are grand horizons just waiting to be crossed. So spread your wings and take the chance. You may fall. But know that if you do, there’s plenty of people willing to help you get back up, and get you where you need to be.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
