Note: This post is about four times longer than my usual. I hope you’ll read through it. I almost quit writing this week. Almost. Here’s how I didn’t.
First: Why did I almost quit writing? Simple answer: Life. Complicated answer: Life is complicated. I’m in my element at Blue Ridge. Extroverting on coffee on steroids. Learning. Sharing. Laughing. Writing. But this year there were many outside factors drawing my attentions and I had a hard time focusing on being in the moment. I am thrilledecstaticexhaling and ready to get back to it. Thanks to my peeps who take me as I am and didn’t push, but always pulled, me back into being me. All one hundred billion mosaic pieces of me.
Writing conferences are ahh-mazing experiences. #truestory. From the moment I back out of the driveway to the moment my head hits my own pillow a week later, every nanosecond in between is filled with . . . with . . . [*lifting eyes in thought*] . . . Well, it’s kinda hard to explain. But I’ll try:
When I first realized I was a mystery writer, it was like being diagnosed after a mystery illness. I could tell people what I did, but even I didn’t fully understand it. It was a glimmer of something I didn’t quite grasp. All I knew was there was something in me that no one could explain. A way of seeing things others didn’t. My brain would twist and turn when everyone else took the straight paths. And then I met Victoria Zackheim and Ann Perry at my writers’ club. After listening to them talk about their books, I realized that’s me, too. I’m a mystery writer. I’m not sure they ever knew how influential that day was.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Writing Isn’t a Disease. It’s a Diagnosis
Once I knew who I was, the light bulbs went on. The a-ha moment hit. I could breathe instead of holding my breath. And the best part is, there’s so many others who are just.like.ME.
Understanding the genre I write has been vital to not just my story, but to me as a writer, and as a person.
Flash-forward about four years, and I’m still doing the writing thing. Still working on NOLA. Still thrilled with mystery, suspense, and well, thrilled with thrillers. [Of late, I’m enamored with the Patrick Bowers series by Steven James, and the Dave Robicheaux series by James Lee Burke.] Still going to Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time I Recovered From my Writers Conference (With Scooby Snacks and a Wheelchair)
Four and a half days of heavenly extreme-extroverting. Froggie photos. Turning acquaintances into friends (thanks, Bob!) and turning friends into family (Edie, DiAnn, JB, exactly-like-her-Heather, and so many more.) Going to classes that focus on whatever I want to focus on: media, marketing, proposal writing, no-rules writing, diving deeper into character. It’s all there.
This year was admittedly harder for me, literally and figuratively. It’s all public knowledge now, but with my history of car accidents (#nevermyfault) and a kitchen-mop-turned-wrong-type-of-dance-move incident a few months ago, my knee now has this thing the doc likes to call “chronic injury”.
Imagine the beautiful, sloping hills of the Ridgecrest campus in North Carolina. All 1,300 acres of it. Yeah. I knew a while ago there was no way This Girl could navigate without help. Quick call to the airlines. “Sure, you can bring crutches on the plane. And would you like mobility assistance as well?” Happy Injured Girl say whaaat?! Turns out, if you have, like me, been assaulted and tormented by moving metal and your knee (or any other supportive part of your body) decides it doesn’t want to cooperate on a regular basis, and walking from Terminal A to Terminal D is more than you can handle (thank you, American Airlines!), you can get a wheelchair and attendant from entrance to exit! So that’s what we did.
Park the car. Take the shuttle. Sit in the chair. Transfer to plane. Boom. #thatwaseasy. Well, for me anyway. The peeps I was with all week had their share of “Will you carry this for me?” and “Please get the Fresca from the fridge in my room.” and “I will beat you with this crutch if you say one more thing about my immobility.” Oops. Scratch that last one. Never happened, okay? Not admitting to anything.
Thing is, a few times [read: at least once a day] my knee would give out. My arms were tired from the crutches. My wrist was sore from the crutches.
I was freaking tired of the crutches.
But I needed them. Until I needed more. And Kirk did his little minion dance and said, “Molly Jo, it would make me very happy if I could push you around in the wheelchair.” Well, who am I to deny Kirk some happiness? I mean, isn’t that what we’re here on earth for– to make others happy? So of course I get in the chair. Go here. Go there. Park in the corner. Ugh! Extreme-Extrovert going through interaction withdrawals!
And I see in the distance, Mary Denman (y’all remember Mary, she did some photography posts last year) raise her camera and snap a shot.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Book Signings and Froggie Photos
Not sure if y’all can tell by the look on my face, but I wasn’t really having a good time. I was stuck, lower than eye-level, immobile and unable to take part in some of the fun. But then Mary saw me. And she took this photo and put it online and it did something to me. It made me realize even when my body is imperfect, I’m still me. I couldn’t walk very well (sometimes not at all) [and even as I type this, I’m waiting another doctor’s appointment next week], but I could recognize my friends. I could connect with the authors, agents, publishers, editors, and faculty in the room. They were the ones sitting at their tables. And you know what? I was eye-level with every single one of them. From the Ganskys to Bob Hostetler to Steven James (see, Bob, I put you first!) (sorry Steven, he paid me) to Vicki Crumpton to Alycia Morales to ohsomany. And I’m feeling sorry for myself, and in pain, and then I get it.
These are my people. This is my crowd.
And not one of them cared that I was on crutches or in a wheelchair. Schweet.
“But what about the Scooby snacks?” You say. Oh, if only you could see the smile on my face right now.
I never told you about this? Well, sit back, sister. There’s a whole ‘nother story to write. So, last year this whole food fight thing broke out. Wait. Back up. Let me tell you about Lobby Time. That’s when the day’s schedule is over and we have free time. The conference center is set up like a small college with dorms/hotels, and in a few of these buildings like Mountain Laurel (where the cool kids faculty stay), the faculty hangs out in the lobby. It’s our chance, as mere underlings, to meet and greet and accost converse with them about all things writing. So last year, agent Steve Laube [who is never tired of us teasing him about his name sounding like “lobby”. Hulloh, Steve. My last name is Realy. How much sympathy do you think I have for you?!] was regaling many of us with his stories of encounters with, shall we say, interesting people. Paige, Caleb, Pam and I bring our load of junk food down and we’re sitting on the floor like teenagers watching a late night TV movie.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : BRMCWC Lobby Time with Steve Laube
And Steve keeps telling his tales. But I notice he’s looking in our direction. [I begin to wonder if I have powdered donuts on my nose or something.] Then he says something about my eating habits. Whatever, dude. It’s like, college for writers and I’m hungry, okay? So I chuck a packet of Scooby snacks at him. Now, I already told y’all I’m still hungry, right? I figure he’d do the polite thing and give them back.
Nope. Not Steve. He opened the pack and started to eat them. My Scooby snacks. He ate one. And another. All while still telling his stories, and we’re all laughing hysterically, and apparently I offend him [I know! Like I could offend anyone, right?!] because he takes little red Daphne and throws her at me!
So I say, “What did Daphne ever do to you?!” and throw her back. But I miss. So I pick her up and drop her on his head. He retaliates with some potato chips. And then, minutes later, there’s Scooby snacks, and smashed potato chips, and I can’t even remember what else. But it. was. FUN. About five of us got in on it. When I handed him my business card later, he was so tired he misread it. Instead of “Writer. Chef.” he said it was “Writter Chief.” Well, what the heck is a writter chief? “I don’t know! That’s why it puzzled me!”
Being the respectful person that I am, this year when I first saw him I politely acknowledged his old mind busy year and said, “You may not remember me, but I’m pretty sure you’ll remember this.” And I gave him his own box of Scooby snacks. Made even more perfect because I did this in front of others who witnessed last year’s attack. What? Planned? I’m shocked you would recognize suggest such a thing.
That was Monday.
Take a guess how many packs of snacks went flying throughout the week every time we passed each other on campus.
And let’s not forget to mention he stalked me at the airport- THE AIRPORT, PEOPLE! – and even accosted me there. Look, he started it, okay?! All I did was buy some snack food. [wink, wink.]
So, fast forward again to today. I quit writing four days ago. I gave up. Crawled in a hole and died. Resurrected myself just long enough to cry over my loss, then rolled over and died again. Locked up the pens. Turned the journals face down.
I’m not making this up.
Because no matter how much they try to tell you, a writer really is never prepared for the desert valley they return to after the mountain high of a conference.
It. Freaking. HURTS.
Big time. The absence of like-minded people. Walking through the day without crazy peeps at your side understanding when your mentor says things like this:
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Aaron Gansky the Bigfoot Killer.
And what? We’re supposed to go back to, you know, what the rest of you call “regular” life? nothankyouverymuch. Oh the sadness of it all. And, yes. Yes, I admit. Edie had to talk me off the ledge of comparison. She always tell us our writing journeys are our own. Don’t compare ours with anyone else’s. And I get that. I do. But dannnng . . . You know.
So. Life. Complicated. Writing. Compared. Blue Ridge. On the other side of the world.
So yeah. I quit writing.
Until today. Until now. Until a good-night call to Mom turned into a 45-minute “Oh, I forgot to tell you . . .” verbal essay. And since it’s getting time for MailChimp to send this out, I guess I can stop typing now.
The moral of this story is surround yourself with the Good Ones. The peeps who see past what you say. Who remind you what you’re meant to be. The Aarons, Alycias, Paiges, SuperGirls. The leadership teams. The ones who want to know you as a person, not a product. And the ones who understand the importance of a good hug, or a smile, or a Scooby snack.
The ones who not only stand by you no matter what, but who help you to stand when you can’t do it alone.
Bonus: You get to bring them along when you board first.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time I Recovered From my Writers Conference (With Scooby Snacks and a Wheelchair)
With a huge gulp of sweet tea and a hug for almost everyone,
Happy living.
~Molly Jo
And Frankly, My Dear . . . : That’s all she wrote!
May 30 is National Creativity Month. But, I think y’all might have picked up on that based on this post’s title. Am I right?
So, I just got back from a lovely trip along the milky way my yearly excursion to the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference. It was, as always, life changing. How many life changes can This Girl go through and still be changed? I’m so glad you asked. Apparently, the answer is, well, quite a bit.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time I Celebrated National Creativity Day
I still can’t put into words all this year’s trip meant to me. So I’m using my other creative notions today. Oh, but I do wanna add this. First, Mr. Laube started the Scooby Snack fight this year . . . Okay. It’s possible likelyaccurate that I may or may not have provided him with the snacks prior to the throw-down. But he’s the one who stalked me all the way to the airport just to chuck another pack at me. [Shhh. I don’t want to hear how he was “actually” flying home on the same plane we were taking halfway across the country. Reality has no bearing on this tale.]
Oh. Also: They. Served. GUMBO.#truestory
Frankly, My Dear . . . Gumbo at Blue Ridge
Oh, sorry. Did I get my drool on you? Anyway . . .
Creativity for many of us isn’t just one thing. Sure, we have That One Thing we do awesome-sauce well, but it’s not the only thing. So today, I’m embracing the many pieces of my creativity that make up the mosaic of me.
Whether you are an artist, a writer, a construction worker, a parent, sibling, or child, there are many ways you can express and celebrate today.
You can use this day as your catalyst to begin a creative project [click here to Jump and Jot], or start a new Happy Planner layout for next month. You can celebrate your muse by taking it (and yourself) to a movie, a concert, or a park and pay attention to the world around you.
Frankly, My Dear . . . Celebrating National Creativity Day
I’ll be sketching, cooking, journaling, plotting a backstory, editing some NOLA. Oh, did I tell you? I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a publisher . . . And now that publisher knows me. Fingers crossed, this may be the year of the NOLA. Schweet, yes?
Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get some fun/work done.
With smiley balloons and a song to sing,
Happy National Creativity Day.
~Molly Jo
And Frankly, My Dear . . . That’s all she wrote!
Click on the photo below to sign up for my monthly Author, Etc. newsletter, filled with marketing, social media, and other creative aspects of being a writer. And if ya do, there’s an award-winning short story in it for you. You’re welcome. [Insert creative smiley face here, wink-wink.]
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Writing Isn’t a Disease. It’s a Diagnosis
This week’s guest blogger is my beautiful friend and prayer partner, Beckie Lindsey.
We met through a mutual friend’s monthly dinner gathering, when I was invited to share my stories of how The Unemployment Cookbook and Penny Parable came about, and how I use them as missionary tools.
Beckie contacted me several months later and asked to take me to Starbucks in exchange for “picking my brain” on writing. Who am I to say no to a free Starbucks, right? Of course y’all know the answer was “Of course!”
And we’ve been friends ever since.
I asked her to write a post about blogging for God. It’s not just for writers. Read on.
How Blogging has Made Me a Stronger Christian
Heart pounding, my finger hovered just above the enter key on my laptop. I drew in a deep breath and clicked “post”. That was almost two years ago and yet I still go through some of the same angst before publishing a blog post.
I started my blog because I have fallen in love with God and His word and desire to share my journey in hopes of inspiring others. When I began writing Spotlight, I never imagined the blessings and trials that I would encounter—and yet it is both that have made me a stronger Christian. Here are a few reasons why.
Teaching Means Learning Double
“To teach is to learn twice over.” ~Joseph Joubert
Every post requires research and study of scripture. Blogging has made me a better student of the word as I teach to others what I have learned.
“Students are not greater than their teacher. But the student who is fully trained will become like the teacher.” Luke 6:40 NLT
I’m Accountable to My Readers
Research shows that putting a goal in writing along with sharing it with others increases our success by 85 percent. Since my major goal is learning and putting into practice scripture, blogging is a huge benefit to me in my spiritual growth.
“Let us think of ways to motivate one another to acts of love and good works.” Hebrews 10:24 NLT
Support and Prayers from Others
I cannot express how grateful I am for the support of other writers and Christians. I’ve gained a large community of some wonderful encouragers and supporters whom I’ve also learned a great deal from.
“I urge you, first of all, to pray for all people. Ask God to help them; intercede on their behalf, and give thanks for them.” 1 Timothy 2:1 NLT
Trials—it’s not all Rainbows and Butterflies
Blogging means making myself more public, and with that have come some difficulties. I have also noticed an increase in spiritual warfare. These issues have occasionally made me want to put a halt to sharing with the World Wide Web, but I know that God has used the trials to strengthen and grow me.
“Dear brothers and sisters, when troubles of any kind come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy. For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be perfect and complete, needing nothing.” James 1:2-4 NLT
You don’t need to be a writer/blogger to benefit in the same ways I’ve listed above. All of us are called to teach, be accountable, support, and pray for others. In addition to these, the Bible states we will go through trials and tests in order to strengthen our faith.
God uses the many things we go through in our lives to draw us closer to Him—IF we will let Him.
“But Jesus replied, ‘My Father is always working, and so am I.’” John 5:17
Even though my heart still pounds just before hitting “post”, the plusses of blogging far outweigh the minuses because God uses the process to lead me closer to Him.
Beckie is a wife and mother of three adult children and two adorable cats. She is thoroughly content with a piece of dark chocolate, a cup of coffee, and a great book. She loves to encourage others to not only know the truths of the Bible but to experience them personally and practically in everyday life. Beckie is a freelance journalist, writer, and blogger with two book projects in the wings.
Confession time: I haven’t known how to say everything I need to say. Pretty soon I’ll be rebranding the blog with a stronger focus on social media, writing, and editing. But now and then, I’ll still have some emo to share.
And starting two weeks ago it kept me company at the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference.
Blue Ridge Ready
Since returning, my peeps have been asking me to share stories with them. What was it like? Who did I meet with? Did I pick up new clients? What are my favorite memories? How hard was it to come home this year?
First, let me say this, as I’m sure most, if not all, at Blue Ridge would agree:
It was life changing.
As for the rest of it . . . It’s taken me a week to remember. To be able to talk about it. To share it authentically, and even then I’ve yet to do a complete job.
Because this year at Blue Ridge was a hard one for me. This year, God grabbed me at the beginning and said, “This is where the healing starts.”
When Healing Hurts
Last year, Blue Ridge was new and inviting and full of connections and adventure. This year, some of my peeps couldn’t make it. This year I had the room to myself, and at the end of the busy days, I went into solitude.
From the first night away, I had bouts of anxiety. And I missed the FurFamily. Every few hours I was certain I just needed to pack it up and head home early. But who wants to admit that, at what amounts to a family reunion? These things are supposed to be fun, carefree. Not, “I need a hand to hold just so I know I have someone holding my hand” kind of moments. Right?
And the conference, well, it’s for writers, not whiners. So I sucked it up. Or so I thought. The thing is with me, and if you’ve hung around my blog for any length of time, you already know this: I’m a bit of a crier.
So there I am. At Blue Ridge and I’m overwhelmed with the responsibility to prove that I’m worth the collective efforts it took to get me there. And I want to make the most of it. And I’m afraid of letting people down. And I’m afraid of not gleaning every ounce I’m supposed to. And I’m missing my best friend who I met there last year.
And the hurts and struggles and trials of the last few years that have nothing to do with Blue Ridge or writing, they rise like cackles on the back of my neck. They surface, they grab for my attentions. They fight their way into every waking thought. They don’t even belong at Blue Ridge! But they don’t care. Stupid emotions!
And I feel misunderstood. Forgotten. Put down. Cast aside.
Worthless.
I. Am. A. Fraud.
Cloud of Negativity
Which is exactly what the enemy wants us to think, especially at a place like Blue Ridge, right? We’re not supposed to learn how to write for God, how to bring His message into the world, or think we’re worth the effort.
Right?
Wrong.
As difficult as it is, I celebrate the hard emotions. Sure, they were a distraction. A huge distraction. And when I say huge, well . . . Let me take you to Wednesday morning Group Meeting. Filled with people I know and love, but very few I felt connected to. So in a room of over 400 people, as I sat in the very back row between two of the ones I trust the most, the music starts. The worship music. The open-your-heart-to-God-and-let-it-go music. The it’s-too-painful-to-listen-to music. And for an hour, I cried. I just cried. Through the music, the announcements, the keynote speaker. I couldn’t stop biting my lip as the tears raced. I’m not exaggerating.
It was excruciating. And yet, now . . . I can see beauty coming from it.
I began to glimpse the bigger picture.
Blue Ridge isn’t just about learning to be a better writer. Of course it is that, but not just that. It’s also connections. Not just professional, either.
Me with the Ketchup Man – James L. Rubart
I was lucky enough to meet this guy, James L. Rubart. We’re going to be great friends, and he’s even forgiven me for saying he uses too much ketchup.
Aaron, Alycia and I are now known as “The Sibs”. We’re the siblings who weren’t born to the same family, but Blue Ridge brings us together every year.
The Sibs at Blue Ridge: Molly Jo Realy, Aaron Gansky, Alycia Morales
Blue Ridge is where I was able to meet face to face with some of our loyal Firsts in Fiction podcast viewers. Like Bruce, who took it upon himself to Big Brother me and grab me for prayer whenever we passed in the halls. And get this – one of the last minute conferees came all the way from Australia because he heard about it on the podcast. How’s that for connections?
When I realized I wasn’t going to be able to be all things to all people all the time (I know. You’d think I’d learned that one by now. But hey. Work in progress, here, okay?), when I gave myself permission to fail, it was like giving myself permission to grow. I opted instead to do what I could for myself, not the world at large. Because being better to and for myself is better for the world at large. Yes?
Removing the parameters of perfection opened me. It was okay to tell others “I’m not okay right now.” It was okay to miss a few minutes of class and grab coffee with the Seesta. It was okay to sit in a corner, or in the front row. It was okay to say, “No,” or “Not now,” or just “Catch me later.”
And being not okay made the other things okay. I’d been fighting myself all week, and not paying attention to what was happening. And what was happening was confirmation.
Confirmation that I’m supposed to be there. That what I’m doing for my writing, editing, social media and marketing are spot on. That I’m getting better at what I do. That people believe in me and want to help me on this path. That I have friends-turned-family looking out for me. That I have something to offer.
I took new classes with favorite faculty, made the one-on-one appointments, prayed, connected, ate, hugged, laughed, shared . . . Everything I thought was missing, was actually happening.
The lie was that it was a lie.
Are you tracking with me here? Everything I thought I wanted to happen but felt wasn’t happening, because I was wrapped up in my tears and loneliness and anxiety . . . It was still happening. I just wasn’t experiencing it.
Until Wednesday morning. Naw, I’m not saying it all worked out that quickly. But I am saying on Wednesday morning I found myself surrounded by my peeps. Who kept surrounding me. And in retrospect, they had from the beginning. I just hadn’t noticed.
So here it is, a week later and I’m home. And it’s taken me this week of remembering and processing to realize, I still have so much to unpack.
Was it overwhelming? Yes. Would I do it again? As soon as yesterday. I know I’m not the only one who left the mountaintop and fell into the valley. We’re all gonna help each other back up.
“Next year, at Blue Ridge . . .” (Thank you, Lori.)
This is the song that did me in, Wednesday morning. God uses everything for His good.
“Blessings” by Laura Story. [How cool is her last name?!]
Yes, because there was much to learn, more to affirm, and an abundance of camaraderie.
No, because in this midst of all that, there were some treasured folk that were deeply missed.
I’ll tell y’all about it later (I said “y’all” again!), but this post is about what I learned about social media. In particular, it’s about one post that taught me about social media.
You see, there’s this thing we call Lobby Time. In the early mornings (not really), between classes (sometimes) and after the evening group session (always), most of us gather in the lobby. It’s where we connect, hang out, let our hair down, play Magic or other games . . . You get the picture.
And speaking of picture (see what I did there?), I took one. There I am chatting it up with some friends-turned-family and I think, This would make a great photo. So in the midst of their discussion, I lifted my cell phone and click. I took a photo.
This photo.
Lobby Time at BRMCWC with Alton Gansky and Lori Roeleveld.
The woman on the right of the photograph is Lori Roeleveld, a disturber of hobbits. She’s an excellent blogger, and a true friend. She calls me sister.
So why wouldn’t I want a photo of some of my favorite peeps?
And why wouldn’t I post it on Twitter and tag them in it?
And why wouldn’t they respond?
So apparently, it’s become a thing. Like, a thing-thing. Like, an internal, #BRMCWC, photo-gone-viral thing. This was taken Monday night. The conference went until Thursday afternoon.
Do you know how many people were talking about this photo by Thursday afternoon? Well, what’s This Girl to do when the conference director says, “Send that to me ASAP so I can share it.”
Of course I sent it to her.
Here’s the thing. It’s not the photo. It’s the reactions.
So many people love so much about this photo, but it all started with Lori’s Tweet-back:
“When did I start to resemble Al?”
And since she has her own Twitter followers, they saw her reply to the photo. And each time, we tagged Al in the retweets. So others saw it.
And kept the conversation going.
And directed others to it.
Two days later, I passed Lori in the hall. As she had broken her foot last week, I paused to ask how she was doing. She gave me a tired smile and said, “I’m alright except for starting to look like Al.”
It’s a good thing my peeps have a sense of humor.
I can honestly tell you upon pain of death that this is one of my most popular tweets ever. It’s certainly one of my favorites.
Sure it’s not a Kardashian. Or Justin Bieber with his pet monkey. Or a Kardashian with Bieber’s pet monkey.
But it is a pretty fantastic photo of some pretty fantastic people that received some pretty fantastic attention.
