May 23, 2015 |
There’s Nothing Like Coming Home. . .
North Carolina is full of rocking chairs and a Mayberry-esque lifestyle. There are rocking chairs in the airports, and there are rocking chairs in the restaurants. In the restaurants, people! I ain’t making this stuff up.
North Carolina Rocking Chairs are Everywhere!
I want to live there. I want to drink more sweet tea and say “y’all” and “honey, sugar” to strangers and call my friends “Sweet Potato” and rock on a front porch as the rain patters down. I want to live in Blue Ridge.
Unfortunately, Blue Ridge is an event, not a place. Well, it’s both, but when it’s not an event, it can get kind of lonely. Kind of, this-hallway-belongs-in-Stephen-King’s-The-Shining lonely (thanks for that thought process, Beckie).
Which could be pretty hard on This Girl who fills the love-tank with social interaction. I do not care (said with my newly adopted Southe’n accent) I do not care if you are male, female, black, white, cat, dog (scratch that. I care. I don’t like dogs). . . my point is, people is people, people! And when you’re in a place surrounded not only by people, but by people who understand, who help, who encourage, who laugh, cry, scream, giggle, play games, eat dinner . . . People who get you. . . how can it not be home?
In my life, I have felt alone, abandoned, worthless, a failure, confused, out of place, neglected, misunderstood, incomplete.
When I set foot on Ridgecrest, those insecurities left me. Completely, for six whole days, I was pushed smack-dab into what I can only describe as an immersion program for Christian writers.
Attending Blue Ridge wasn’t about making new friends.
It was about finding family I didn’t know I had.
Is it no surprise how I cried from loneliness when the plane landed in Las Vegas? Or when I thought of Sweet Cara and how it will be a year before I see my new sister again? Or (better), when I claim my place into this family of God’s children?
I’m sitting in my recliner at Bedford Manor now. Everything’s the way I left it. The cats are dozing. The house is quiet. But my soul is restless.
I long to go back to Blue Ridge. To find my own little parcel of land and put a rocking chair on it and say, “This is mine! This corner of the world, these people, this experience. . . This is mine.”
But I also long to stay here. To work at making Bedford Manor my home for as long as the Lord wants me to. I’m ready to get moving for the Lord, but that doesn’t mean I have to move.
In fact, through Blue Ridge, He has called me to be a spring in the desert. [Isaiah 43:19]. And I’m ready to do that, because that’s what He’s asking.
![My Little Plot of Desert, Where I Will Be a Spring [Isaiah 43:19]](https://i0.wp.com/franklymydearmojo.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/IMG_7809.jpg?resize=584%2C778)
My Little Plot of Desert, Where I Will Be a Spring [Isaiah 43:19]
I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.
[Isaiah 43:19, NRSV]
I imagine as the days take me further from my first Blue Ridge experience, this painful longing to go back will lesson, but only for a short time. Because then I’ll be filled with the drive to return next year, and this desire will push me to do all I can to accomplish that goal. I’ll work harder than I have at becoming the writer and speaker He has made me to be.
I’m okay with this kind of pain: The pain that pushes me forward, the longing that makes me reach beyond myself.
I am not perfect. But at Blue Ridge, I am perfectly me.
I can’t wait to go back, and move forward.
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
And They Say Getting There is Half the Fun . . .
My Two-Inch Peacock
Stop Fighting and Be Still.
May 18, 2015 |
Thank you, Mary Thompson, for urging my return back to California. If I could stay here, surrounded by these amazing people, I would. But once the conference is over and the halls are empty, I’ll return to Catford Manor and the High Desert.
There is only one other attendee who came as far as Beckie and I did to attend this conference. She came from Washington State.
#BRMCWC
New people are amazing. I have friended and been friended by more like-minded souls than I knew existed. So many are my favorites. So many are saying, “I need a friend like you!” and I’m honored and blessed and humbled and intimidated and flying high and feeling like the most successful trapeze artist ever. I feel free and safe all at the same time.
Tonight I’m particularly blessed by Cara, a young woman who adopted me as her big sister. And Alycia and Edie who are on faculty. And Jeremiah and Alex who stay up late playing games. And so many, many more. This feels like an acceptance speech. And it is, sort of. An acceptance of who I really am, who they’re letting me be.
Today I told Aaron, “This place is like the Willy Wonka Factory for Writers. And I’m after the Glass Elevator.” It brings out the best in us, for us.
Writers are a distinct group of professionals who choose to help each other succeed however possible.
My battery is getting low and the charger’s on the other side of the room, and my legs are somewhat angry at me for doing so much walking. . . so tonight will have to be another photo essay until I write a longer post tomorrow.
Ridgecrest, NC – view from my hotel lobby.
Lip Balm From Beckie, because we love cats and she’s nice enough to share.
Me and Alycia Morales. People say this photo makes us look like sisters so we’re going with that.
These stairs are the reason I’m losing weight and walking funny. They are my necessary nemesis.
BRMCWC Notebook
Today I learned about freelance editing (thanks, “Sis”!) and Social Media (I’m doing it right already!), and why and how to enter contests.
Tomorrow (Tuesday) is more advanced editing and media, followed by three faculty one-on-one’s. I’ll be speaking with an agent, publicist, and editor.
Followed by the Genre Night Procession. I get to dress up as my Genre. I’m not sure I can pull off a desperate New Orleans transplant but I’m gonna try.
One last photo. This one takes the cake. This guy here? Reminds me so much of my Uncle Roger who I speak of, whose logo I manipulated for my own New Inklings Press logo, whose sense of humor and care for us “young ‘uns” is comparable. His name is Ron, but I can’t stop calling him Roger.
Ron, The Replacement Roger
Oh, and the blog post title? When it’s late and you’re around a group of tired writers, these are the things we come up with to nibble on.
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
May 17, 2015 |
Let’s pretend this post is as fabulous as the last one. Please?
Because it’s been a great day and I want to share every minute of it with you. But it’s also almost midnight in North Carolina and I need some sleep.
So, no staying up until 2 a.m. to get this done, okay? Not tonight. Tonight, I want to be asleep by at least 1:45.
Since a picture is worth a thousand words, let’s make tonight’s post a photo essay, shall we?
Oh, thank you so much.
First, it’s life changing here. I feel like maybe I said that already, but I need to say it again. And again. This. Is. Life. Changing.
#BRMCWC
But before we get to the life changing part, there’s something I need to tell y’all about North Carolina.
They have rocking chairs everywhere!
North Carolina Rocking Chairs
And I mean, everywhere. At the airport. In the restaurants. All over Blue Ridge.
And the mountains? They’re not the jagged, rocky desert mountains of southern California. These are tree-filled, squirrel-rampant, vibrant-under-the-blue-sky mountains.
Then there’s the people I’m meeting. I can’t begin to tell you how amazing and fulfilling it is to be immersed in a culture of like-minded people. You know, the kind who get it. Who understand what it’s like to be a writer. Why we stare off into space, or play with our food, or draw on windows and always carry a notepad.
I’m too tired to tag everyone tonight, but here’s a photo of some of my new friends.
I’ve got an appointment for head shots tomorrow morning, followed by three intense workshops on freelance editing, social media, and how to be successful at writing contests. There will also be breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Today was fabulous, too.
Luggage UnLost
My suitcase came back to me, dirty but unscathed.
We ate some great food.
The weather has been comfortable.
I’m getting a great amount of walking exercise.
And I once again have my cuddle buddies.
Nippers and Harmon Bear
Not the same as the cats, but they’ll do for the next few days.
Tomorrow I have to remember to lug the laptop around.
And be on the lookout for bears. #TrueStory
But right now, I really need my sleep, y’all.
So, until the sun shines on your waffle cakes,
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
May 16, 2015 |
It’s almost 1 a.m. Sunday morning. Well, my watch tells me it’s only 9:45 pm, but I’m in North Carolina now, so it’s three hours later. Which makes it thisclose to sunrise. Ok, not really. There’s still an opportunity to catch some zzz’s but I just can’t go to sleep without sharing what the last 24 — okay, 36 — hours have been like.
Having been blessed with a scholarship and a share in the travel expense, I’m — wait for it. No, I can’t quite get my head around it yet. But yes, it’s true.
I’m at Blue Ridge! The Blue Ridge. The Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference. It is, to my knowledge, the largest and best Christian Writers Conference in the nation. And I just happen to know a girl who knows a guy who knows a guy . . . you know how the story goes.
#BRMCWC
I’m a good writer striving to be great, but without those connections, I’d be asleep in my bed back in California right now. Instead, I’ve worked my way here by writing, winning, striving, and socializing.
Throughout this upcoming adventure, I hope to share with you grand stories of what I’m learning, who I’m meeting, and what you can do to get here next year.
But . . . it’s almost 1 a.m. And I’ve had a crazy 36-ish hours. So let me run down the build up of how we got here.
My writing mentor, Aaron Gansky, is on faculty for Blue Ridge. Some months ago, he, his wife (my good friend Naomi), and I got together and prayed. They really felt I should be here. I wasn’t so sure. I wanted to come, but I wasn’t sure I was ready. I wasn’t sure, if I was ready, how I would get here.
Flash forward through lots of prayers, hard work, scholarship applications . . . and here I am. Along with my good friend Beckie Lindsey (follow her blog here!).
The Three Writing Amigos. . . and a Photobombing Flight Attendant
Being the frugal person I am, I suggested we fly out of Vegas because it’s cheaper. It’s only a three hour drive, and hey, who doesn’t love a good coin toss now and then. Right? I was also hoping for perhaps a northward layover so I could at least lunch with my daughter and her new husband in Seattle.
Yeahhhh. . .
Aaron’s flight had to be booked first through the Conference. He asked, on my recommendation, to fly out of Vegas and they obliged. Unfortunately, the flightpath is directly east, not north.
That’s okay. I followed suit and booked the same flights and close seating, and reserved the same for Beckie. She was on vacation in Mexico and I had no way of getting in touch with her except a short email that gave her the reservation number and the message of “They can only hold it for 24 hours!”
Thankfully, she saw the message in time, and was able to also book the same flight and neighboring seats.
Now, you would think at this point things are going smoothly, right? Not so much. Because in our zeal to fly cheaper out of Vegas, two things happened: we realized that in order to get to the airport in time for a morning flight, we’d have to drive up the night before. That’s right. Drive. North. On the 15 Freeway. To Vegas. On a Friday night. Thank you, Molly. I’m sure that’s what they were saying. I’m just not sure it was in a tone I care to recall.
Then comes the problem of where do we stay? I thought perhaps we could drive up after midnight and sleep in the car for a few hours, but they didn’t approve. Something about neck cramps and crazy talk. So I shouted out to my friend Corrie who lives in Vegas and after twelve seconds she invited us to stay at her house, and she even promised lattes in the morning!
Compliments of Casa de Corrie <3
After trying for several attempts online to pre-check, I had to call US Airways, who transferred me back to American Airlines who said everything looks fine, I just need to actually check in at the airport instead of online.
No worries, because Beckie did, too. Apparently, they didn’t like that the ticket was reserved “Beckie” but her legal name is “Rebecca”. And Aaron? He checked in just fine and I can’t guarantee this, but I think he might have been rolling eyes at us women by now.
At the check in, I received one boarding pass. To Charlotte, NC. I asked, “Do I get my other boarding pass in Charlotte?” To which the clerk responded, “Oh, you’re going to Charlotte?”
Now you would think I would have had some red flags go up at this point, but the truth is, with the three of us all trying to check in and get our passes with three different clerks and verifying names and seats and checking baggage . . . I just went with it. He corrected my ticket and we were ready to go.
Beckie got her boarding pass. I got my ticket. Aaron got his headache. And away we went. Up the People Mover, to the tram, down a level, up an escalator, through the halls, to the plane. And we pre-checked our carry-on luggage, although kept our laptops with us personally. [NOTE TO SELF: Always, always ALWAYS keep your computer and phone chargers with your computer and phone. Always.]
At the pre-check, once again my carry-on was tagged to go only as far as Charlotte. Jim M. was the only helpful person in this entire fiasco so I promised him a shout out. He worked behind the counter taking care of “one problem at a time”. First, my carry-on pre-checked bag was properly tagged for Asheville. Second, my reservation was confirmed. And therein lay the problem. Somehow my connecting ticket from Charlotte to Asheville was errantly confirmed by the man downstairs for a flight I couldn’t possibly be on–a flight that left Charlotte at 4pm when I wouldn’t even arrive until 4:40.
Jim M. worked his computer magic and reset my reservation, with my original seating. Problem Number Two solved.
Then he told me the bad news is the checked bag, from Mr. Man Downstairs, was probably going to stop at Charlotte. He tried to key in the information, but the system had just had enough of me and would go no further.
What can you do? We boarded our flight and a short four hours later landed in Charlotte. Per Jim M’s instructions, I immediately rushed the boarding counter to explain they had to “stop that plane!” or at least make sure my baggage was forwarded to the proper address. The woman politely told me I was wrong, there was nothing she could do, but chances are my bag was properly identified and on the plane anyway.
Okay. Our stomachs were beginning to hurt almost as much as our heads at this time so we just went with it. I mean, my carry-ons have the most important items: laptop, wallet, conference/writing Binder, Captain America T-Shirt and two Magic The Gathering decks.
We ate at Whiskey River in Charlotte and had just enough time to stresslessly board the last leg from Charlotte to Asheville.
They’re called Dirty Tots . . . and they’re delicious!
You know where this is going, don’t you?
Of course, we arrived just fine, but my suitcase didn’t. So we (and by “we” I mean “me-but-they-had-to-follow-because-I’m-the-one-getting-the-rental-car”) started toward the Ticket Counter to make a claim only to find there were several others in the same situation. Before I could say anything, someone said, “Oh, you must have come from Charlotte.” And that someone was behind the counter. What does that tell you? [Don’t fly into Charlotte if it can be avoided.]
We find out my bag was napping in Charlotte, where they would give it a nice bed for the night and deliver to me within twenty-four hours. In the meantime, they reversed the $25 check-baggage fee, gave me a claim form, a $25 credit for the claim so I can at least buy pajamas, and a really nifty one-night-only toiletry bag.
U.S. Airways Awesome Complimentary Gift for Losing My Luggage
I’m tellin’ ya, I felt like a Superstar. NOT. [But I did get these awesome SuperHero PJ’s thanks to the bill I’m sending them!]
Marvel Avengers PJs. How could I not?
But enough was enough and we’re exhausted so we finish up there, get the rental car, and head out. The Ridgecrest Conference Center is about thirty miles from the airport. If you turn left.
Of course, we didn’t. We turned right. And about 45 minutes into our should-have-been-27-minutes drive, we realized we were lost. And by “we” I mean “Aaron-because-he-was-driving-and-it-was-his-GPS-that-did-us-in” kind of “we”.
Aaron’s dad, Alton Gansky, is co-director of this conference. His flight was scheduled to come in about three hours after ours.
I said “Wouldn’t it be funny if we arrive at Blue Ridge at the same time your folks do?”
And guess what happened?
The neat ending for me was getting a hug from Al because I’d not met him in person before today. . . er, yesterday. Last night. Whenever it was! He’s on the Firsts in Fiction podcast every Wednesday with Aaron, and we have the opportunity to talk writing a lot. But this was the first time in several years of knowing who he was, that I finally met him. And he hugged me.
I’m a huggy person. And so right then, it didn’t matter what kind of day it’s been. I’d arrived at Blue Ridge. We had our room key. I had my we’re-sorry-we-screwed-up-but-take-this-dollar-bag-for-your-humungous-inconvenience-toiletry bag, and a hug from Alton Gansky.
I have Nippers and my Harmon Bear, which smells like Lizzie cat.
But now it’s nearly 2 a.m., breakfast is in five hours, and I’m ready for bed.
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
“What’s the Word?” Wednesday: Aaron Gansky on Magic and Writing
But I’m not good enough to attend a Christian writers conference . . .
Following Fabian
May 7, 2015 |
Lizzie Cat
Welcome to Life with Lizzie: a new weekly feature here at Frankly, My Dear . . .
You know me. I’m Lizzie Cat. I’m the oldest of five at Catford Manor. Now that the Human Sister has grown up and moved out, Mom is left alone with us. She calls us her FurFamily and I guess that’s right. I mean, we are family. And we are furry.
Does that make her a Crazy Cat Woman?
I’m her favorite. I know this because she tells me. Oh, she loves Berry Sunshine, Little, Sparkles and Iris just as much. But different. Mom and I? We have a bond. I’m her favorite, and she’s mine.
I steal her stuffed animals when she’s not looking. I don’t hide them or anything. I just claim them for my own. C’mon. . . she leaves all day and they’re just sitting there. Out in the open. Someone has to snuggle with them. Am I right?
She calls me her writing partner. I like that. I like when she’s got a great idea, how excited and animated she gets. I like that she leans over and kisses me (but don’t tell her that). Mostly I love sleeping next to her. She complains that she can’t get any work done that way, but I think that’s a lie. She always manages to do just fine.
Writing Partners
Mom’s different since the Human Sister left. Sometimes she’s sad, so my sisters and I sit closer to her. She doesn’t cry much but I think she wants to.
Sometimes she’s happy. She dances more. Not in any particular pretty rhythm. But she does okay when she thinks no one is watching. She turns on the big black screen and it thumps. Loud. I don’t like that, and try to tell her so but she doesn’t listen so I just go to the other room until it’s over. She sings, too. Loud. I do like that, for the most part. We used to sing together but that was years ago.
She doesn’t eat at home as often. I guess I don’t mind because I don’t eat her food anyway, but Berry Sunshine is a little sad because she likes licking the plates. Mom’s friend Tania brought pepperoni pizza the other night, and we all took turns eating the crumbs. It was pretty good. I think Mom should have people like Tania over more often.
On the weekends, sometimes, she lets me go play in the yard. I like to roll around in the sand because it’s nice and cool, but when I come in she yells at me for getting the coffee table dirty. But she was the one who opened the door! See? A bit crazy there, I think.
She talks to herself once in a while. Or to people who aren’t there. When she’s writing, she yells at her computer. She calls it Babycakes which is strange because it’s not a baby and none of us can eat it. She pets it, too, which I can’t imagine being comfortable. It has no fur.
My favorite part of the day is bedtime. I can always when it’s time because she folds up her silver Babycakes, grabs her bottle of water and slips her flip-flops on before walking back to the bedroom. As soon as she sits up straighter from the recliner, I know all those other things are about to happen so I always try to race her to the bed. If I get to the pillow before she does, I make her scrunch her neck and shoulders around me. Once I’m settled, I’m settled. It’s her fault for staying up later than me, right?
Uh-oh. Looks like Mom’s getting ready to go in now. I better get there before she does, or else I’ll have to find a spot at the foot of the bed.
I’ll be back next week with more stories about Mom and my sisters.
Until then, have a mewwy great week!
Love,
Lizzie
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
Catford Manor in Pictures
How a Bird Bath Destroyed My House
Lessons Learned: The Domesticated Cat Edition
![My Little Plot of Desert, Where I Will Be a Spring [Isaiah 43:19]](https://i0.wp.com/franklymydearmojo.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/IMG_7809.jpg)
