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
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.
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]
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.
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.
![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)
