The Perfect Start

by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy

Welcome to the New.

Can I just tell y’all how hard it is for me to write this post? I mean this post, with that word in the title. Oh, yes. THAT word.

PERFECT.

It’s like a flashing neon arrow pointing right at me, screaming “HYPOCRITE!”

It’s a little funny, dontcha think? After last month’s post about embracing my imperfections? The thing is… I just don’t know where to start. Wait. That makes it sound like I have way too many imperfections. Okay, stop nodding in agreement, brother. I know where you live.

Frankly, My Dear . . . The Perfect Start

Frankly, My Dear . . . The Perfect Start

Anyway. I’m imperfect. CHECK. But I’m trying. CHECK. And I want to move forward. Uhm, check?

How does a perfectionist move forward with imperfections? Well, for This Girl, I’m just gonna start. Someone once told me, “Three steps forward and two steps back is still one step forward.”

I HAVE LISTS.

#truestory. I have list upon list upon list of things I want to do this year. Posts to blog. Books to read. Things to learn. Recipes to create. Experiences to, well, experience.

I’ve already embraced the imperfections of my planning skills and allowed myself to scribble in my Happy Planner. *gasp* Insert SCREAM face here, right?!

Well, being as I’m now what is known as a true Southerner, I queried my local writing friends over a cup of Starbucks. Cuz, you know, we’re writers. We need the coffee to do the thinking to do the writing. And I’m an extrovert. I need the talk to do the energy to do the writing. Put me in a social setting with caffeine and BAM! Instant Bohemian Hurricane. Anyway, focus: Yes. I received some excellent advice on doing a blog relaunch. Now, I’m not going to do a big Facebook Live Event. But I am going to narrow my focus. Rather, refocus my focus. Good gravy there’s a lot of focus in this paragraph and I still haven’t gotten to the point. *sigh*

IMPERFECT POST: CHECK.

I’ve kept myself locked in a holding pattern, unable to do anything but circle the target. I can’t fly away, I can’t land. Until I get the gears and the mechanics and the passengers (uhm, that would be all of you) in just the write right place, I can’t do anything. So I do nothing.

BIG UNCHECK HERE, PLEASE.

I’ve been wanting to relaunch Frankly, My Dear . . . with a stronger emphasis on the four tenets I’ve held all along: Faith, Family, Food, and Fun (Fun being the one that incorporates the outings and the writings and the everything elses that happen in life). Edie and Cathy told me to just keep doing what I’m doing. But, keep doing it. Don’t sit back and wait for it to magically appear. After all, Harry Potter doesn’t live in Simpsonville. So, think of the Four F’s as the legs of a table. And you’re all invited. And since I’m a true Southerner now (can y’all tell I just love saying that?!), I want to keep in line with the whole Southern Gone With the Wind “Frankly, My Dear . . .” theme. I mean, I just wouldn’t be me if I didn’t tell it like it is from my perspective.

Sidenote: Someone told me it takes ten years to become a true Southerner. Someone else countered it doesn’t take any time at all. In NOLA, Toni tells Josie what it’s like to be a local. This is where my good friend Beckie Lindsey would say, “You’re being Josie!” And this is where I agree.

Excerpt from NOLA by Molly Jo Realy

Excerpt from NOLA by Molly Jo Realy

[Click here to join my NOLA Swarm Facebook group]

So, ultimately, it comes down to boiling the potato like this: Do I want to start, or do I want to stagnate? Given that I’m adverse to mold and immobility, I choose the former. And I hope you’ll come to the table. There’s plenty to go ’round. And I hope you’ll keep me accountable to what’s on the menu.

With a heaping plate and a pitcher of tea,
Happy Everything.
~Molly Jo

And Frankly, My Dear . . . That’s all she wrote!

Sweeten my tea and share:

That One Time I Didn’t Have to Be Perfect

by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy

Zoiks! (Said in my best Scooby-Doo imitation). What a whirlwind. Some might suggest my life has been a bit of a hurricane lately. Hmmm…

I don’t know where I got the idea that being a Bohemian Hurricane went hand-in-hand with perfectionism. ‘Cause you know what? It doesn’t. [Stop nodding, mother. And don’t say anything when we call later.] Anyway, yes. I haven’t blogged because I haven’t written because I’m still unpacking from the beautiful chaos of having moved cross-country six weeks ago and downsized from a three bedroom house to a two bedroom apartment and helping Berry Sunshine cross the Rainbow Bridge and meeting and greeting all the people I moved to be close to and buying winter clothes (for the South? Are you even serious right now?!) and figuring out how to catch my breath and as of this moment, preparing to enjoy my first Southern snowfall. (So, yes. Back to the winter clothes thing. Apparently it is serious down here.) [Note to self: Get Starbucks card for Edie as thank you for finding the perfect coat when I had given up the search.]

Frankly, My Dear . . . That One Time I Didn't Have to Be Perfect

Frankly, My Dear . . . That One Time I Didn’t Have to Be Perfect

Now, y’all know part of the main reason I moved was to be needy attach to surround myself with some of the best writers I know: my peeps from Blue Ridge. Yes, that Blue Ridge. The Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference that I go to each year. The same one where Steve Laube and I are now expected to throw Scooby Snacks at each other every year. The same one where I do incredibly stupid things like shout at people at inappropriate moments (although, really. Bless your heart. Is there ever a wrong time to yell, “You go, girl!” or “Aaron Gansky? Ohmagosh, I know him!”?). The same conference that I attend every May, and every June tell all y’all how my life has changed and I’m better for it, and my writing will be better for it . . . yadayadayada. I. Know.

But this time, it’s different. Because this time, I’m surrounded by perfectly imperfect writing people. And I love them completely. And they love me. As imperfect as I am. What an example! What mentors they are without even trying.

And I realize I don’t have to have a perfectly clean house or perfectly quiet area or perfectly planned plot (Okay, say that last one five times fast!) to accept their friendships. Or to be who I am. I just have to keep writing. Keep cleaning. Keep breathing. Keep being me.

You know . . . Keep on Keepin’ On.

And when I make mistakes, it’s not the end of the world. If I leave a dirty dish in the sink for a day, if I don’t check the mail or respond to a message right away, if I have a typo or missing punctuation, the world doesn’t really end. *GASP*. I know. But it’s true! I’m totally living proof!

I have to stop waiting to get everything perfect in my head and heart before sharing it, even with myself. I have to let go of the image of a perfect Facebook-post-worthy me. Cuz let’s be real. That rarely happens. Snow angels have boot prints leading up to them. My life is quite often the epitome of #NailedItFail, okay?

I gotta take what I have and move it forward. Whatever that means. Hey, you get a small ding on your car, do you junk it? No way. You have a story to tell. Your bananas turn brown before you eat them all. Toss ’em? Uh-uh. Make banana-walnut bread! What am I waiting for?

Imperfections are the lessons we teach ourselves. It’s where we learn to be creative and allow ourselves to find alternate solutions. It’s the pieces of our mosaic selves and the music we didn’t intend to sing.

Imperfections are not failures.

I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.
~Thomas A. Edison
My word for 2019 is IMPERFECT.

And I’m going to embrace it perfectly.

Frankly, My Dear . . . : Perfectly Imperfect

Frankly, My Dear . . . : Perfectly Imperfect

With a scribbled-in notebook and a snowflake covered sleeve,
Happy imperfecting.
~Molly Jo

And Frankly, My Dear . . . That’s all she wrote!

Sweeten my tea and share:

That One Time I Didn’t Have a Midlife Crisis

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

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 . . . : Welcome Home.

Frankly, My Dear . . . : My New Morning View

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 . . . : I collected a mug (or more) in every state we drove through.

Frankly, My Dear . . . Crossing the Mississippi

Frankly, My Dear . . . Crossing the Mississippi

Frankly, My Dear . . . My New Mantra

Frankly, My Dear . . . My New Mantra. And New Jewelry.

Frankly, My Dear . . . : Greenville Falls Park

Frankly, My Dear . . . : Greenville Falls Park

Frankly, My Dear . . . This Thing Called Mist

Frankly, My Dear . . . This Thing Called Mist

Frankly, My Dear . . . : A Window With a View

Frankly, My Dear . . . : A Window With a View

Frankly, My Dear . . . Look, Meowma. There's a bird in the tree!

Frankly, My Dear . . . Look, Meowma. There’s a bird in the tree!

Frankly, My Dear . . . South Carolina Squirrel

Frankly, My Dear . . . South Carolina Squirrel

Frankly, My Dear . . . Paris Mountain

Frankly, My Dear . . . Paris Mountain

Frankly, My Dear . . . Goose at Paris Mountain

Frankly, My Dear . . . Goose at Paris Mountain

Sweeten my tea and share:

That One Time I Had News to Share

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

Sweeten my tea and share:

That One Time I Remembered Water Seeks its Own Level

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

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.

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!

Sweeten my tea and share: