Fear, Waiting and Feeling A Fraud

3
Jun

Harp (Photo credit: spike55151)

It was a strange emotion, one that I couldn’t easily identify. It felt like a physical shift had taken place, like something had snapped off in my heart. It left a dull ache, a shortness of breath.

One moment I was fine, feeling confident and positive.

The next I felt hollow, as if someone had just let me in on a joke, and I was the butt of it.

I was the butt.

In trying to trace it back to its source, there was a conversation, the one when I was supposed to be thinking about new ways to develop my writing, except that 90% of the suggestions were things I already do naturally. So not only am I a know-it-all, now I’m a snob since I feel like I’ve got it pretty well figured out. Not that my novel’s published but I am on the right track.

It might have stemmed from the music on the radio, a harpist in the background playing a fairly simple, repetitive riff that was lovely and making the harpist millions. “I could do that,” I thought. And then it hit me: maybe I couldn’t do that. Maybe, although I play the harp and have since childhood, maybe I could never be that person who revels in being onstage, performing under pressure that way.

And that was it. The cogs clicked into place.

Maybe I’m a fraud.

Maybe I just think I’m a writer.

Maybe I just think I’m a good harpist.

Maybe I like the image of those roles and the sense of being set apart from regular, workadayjob people. If I can say I’m working on an article or preparing for a “gig” (see? even that sounds pretentious doesn’t it?) then I am doing something worthwhile, something more than simply being a stay at home mom.

In response to a failed attempt to make a tiger mask for my daughter’s school program, a dear friend gently pointed out that I can be domestic and not be crafty. WHAT?? I’m not crafty??

In the same way, I’m afraid that somewhere down the line a friend will gently pull me aside and tell me I’m more of an amateur writer than one with professional potential. That’s where the fear kicks in, when I think I’m on the road to being a writer and could discover, after I’ve worn out five pair of shoes, that I’ve been deluding myself this whole time, that I’m a dabbler not an author.

The harp thing, I can take that or lose it. I know that I was a skilled musician at one time, and in order to be one it takes a big investment of time and energy (having a pedal harp doesn’t hurt either). I don’t choose to invest my time that way now. I enjoy the music, I value music, but I don’t have to be the one playing it to benefit from it.

Is writing the same thing?

Will I look back on this time, shake my head and chuckle at my grandiose aspirations?

Possibly.

However, even while it is terrifying to say it out loud, I think I will always be glad I invested my time and energy in pursuing this dream. I don’t belittle the time I spent pursuing music, even though I don’t play in an orchestra or prestigious ensemble now. Why must a person continue the same activity over an entire life-span for it to count as a valid pursuit? Is it enough that a person put her whole heart into an endeavor, no matter how long that endeavor lasted?

I may be the butt of the joke, I may not realize how tiny I am or how microscopically small my chances are of being published, but isn’t it better to go after something with passion rather than sit idly by on the side-lines? What’s that phrase? Go Big or Go Home.

So even while it scares me and I think I may end up being a statistic,

I’m willing to invest time and energy in something I love doing, something that brings connection and joy, is a creative outlet and a salve for mind and soul, even if it ends up being for my own health and well-being. Even if people choose to look at my attempts as a joke,

I am willing to be the butt of that joke.

I’m going to be the biggest, best butt you ever did see.

Do you have any dreams that are taking a long time to happen? What do you do to counter-act fear in your life?

Visiting My Neighbor: A Guest Post for Tim Gallen

29
May

Today I’m over at Tim Gallen’s site, writing about silence. If you know me personally you might think I’m the last person to write about silence – I tend to whistle, hum, talk to inanimate objects, just generally make a racket as I move through life. But today’s post is about that silence you hear (wait a minute, can you hear the absence of sound??) when waiting.

Tim’s a great guy with a hilarious sense of humor and tons of creativity. I’d love it if you’d take your sweet little fingers and click over to check out my post. While you’re there, be sure to look around because I’m confident you’ll find lots of fun things to read and consider. Here’s the link, and feel free to tell all your friends! http://timgallen.com/when-silence-aint-golden/

Five Minute Friday: View

24
May

This blog post is part of a link up with Lisa-jo Baker. Anyone can be a part of it! Just check out Lisa-jo’s site (http://lisajobaker.com) for the word prompt and further instructions. The idea is to write for five minutes with out constantly editing or second guessing ourselves. It’s a supportive, positive community, and I’ve been blessed just by dabbling my toe into it.

Louie was a goofy friend of mine in seventh grade. He always wore a white baseball cap, most time paired with a turtleneck and a hockey jersey (I never did figure out why the turtlenecks). He was tall and gangly, with a fountain of brown bangs and a very prominent (read: big) nose.

Not the first hottie you’d notice.

But he was so funny.

He was generous and helpful. Louie was kindhearted.

When you’d known him more than a day you realized how handsome he was, how unique and athletic, how his brown eyes were warm, his height and stature comforting. Suddenly Louie was quite a looker.

I’ve started to wonder how other people look at me, not so much physically but how they view my dreams, my aspirations and quirks, probably because lately I’ve run into so many roadblocks and rejections.

Do they play along with my goals, no one willing to tell me I’m being unrealistic?

Do they pat me on the head and humor me so they won’t hurt my feelings?

Do I look different from the outside than I do to myself?

Does it matter what the view is, except that it comes from the One who made me who I am? The One in whom I am most fully myself?

It shouldn’t make any difference if I achieve “success” on earth if I have been faithful with what was given to me in the circumstances I’ve been placed. Sometimes, though, when I’m being really honest, the view from outside does matter to me.

It’s like the difference between current trend of ombre hair color and just being overdue for a trip to the salon so you have really bad roots. Or to use another hair analogy, it’s the difference between having beachy texture and a frizzy windblown mess. What if while I’m walking around thinking I’ve got it down and lookin’ good, everyone else can see that my dream is really a snarly hairdo in need of a comb and a dye job?

What are your dreams right now? How do you keep hope in a dream when it takes a long time to arrive? Most importantly, how do you maintain your focus on the One who made you?

Attractive waves or crazy mess? It’s a matter of opinion.

Know Your Goal: The Elusive Yellow Sticker

15
May

My 2nd grader had “Sports Day” at school. In a bizarre exciting twist, it turned out to be 98 degrees for the outdoor event — or at least that’s what the weather people said it hit and it felt like they were right — when it had been a high of 60 the day before. These were intense conditions for Sports Day, but the kids had a lot of fun and the organizer had the good sense to pass out freezies to cool off the children at various times. She won extra points for that, in my opinion.

Sunscreen is supposed to go on ALL exposed parts

I helped pass out stickers at the Sit-up station, and I feel I did a very fine job. Here’s further evidence of my dedication: ——>>>

Yes, I know. I am a wonderful model of motherly sacrifice. Sorry, no autographs at this time.

I was also the crowd cheerleader, and inspired the children to come up with cheers of their own, maybe because they thought my cheers were too basic. They cheered for individual children’s names, fish, “feel the burn” and various colors. They were very creative. It’s probably because of the great example I set. I’m a very enthusiastic cheer-er.

An interesting phenomena occurred a couple times through the course of the day. Certain kids figured out that yellow was the color for the highest performance. Categories were orange, blue and yellow. People who went the farthest, dribbled the ball enough times, or completed the most earned a yellow sticker. Once they figured this out, kids would ask us how many sit-ups they had to do to earn a yellow sticker. Surprisingly, many of the children who asked this question went on to attain the elusive yellow badge of honor.

This started me thinking about goals. Is it beneficial to know the outcome you’re striving for before you begin so that you can push yourself to a certain level? If we know the cut-off for a certain goal, will we naturally aim only for that goal and no higher? Can I be content with a blue or orange sticker?

This year I decided to enter some writing contests. It wasn’t a written out and posted sort of goal, something stuck on my bathroom mirror to remind myself, but I wanted to get my writing out there for feedback.

Be careful what you wish for.

I have heard back from two of the four contests I entered and it was not with letters of congratulations. I didn’t even make it to the next round.

But technically, I met my goal. I entered. The goal wasn’t to win (good thing!), although that would be a lovely outcome.

Would it have served me to have a goal of winning a contest, of getting a yellow sticker? I don’t think so. I think I would feel my accomplishment of entering, which was a big step for me, would have been diminished. I’ve got room to improve, but I showed up, had fun and did my best.

I’m happy with my blue sticker for now, thank you very much.

What goals are you working toward right now? How will you know when you’ve met your goal, and how will you reward yourself?

Poetry E-Book Now Available (And Awesome)

18
Apr

I like free. Do you like free? Who doesn’t like free? I mean, come on! Well, have I got a deal for you… *end used car salesman shtick*

But really, I want to tell you about a fun adventure, the fruits of which you might enjoy.

If you’re a super quick blog skimmer, here’s the link, so you won’t even have to scroll down. Am I helpful or what?! http://gabrielgadfly.com/writestuff/ You’re welcome. 🙂

I’m a part of a writers group on Facebook, Writers Unite. I hope I’ve mentioned it here before, because if you are looking for a fantastic group of committed writers, Writers Unite is the place for you. People are supportive, encouraging, collegial, funny and have a wealth of knowledge. They host a Twitter chat party on Tuesday nights that you can find (if you’re interested) using the hashtag #writestuff .

(Just a little aside, but are we connected on Twitter? If not, click the sidebar over here ——————> and we can join efforts in taking over the world.)

Okay, moving on. This group of writers opened up an opportunity to submit a poem and have it critiqued and considered for a free poetry e-book they put together.

It was gutsy, by my standards, but I went for it and submitted a poem. Note: I am not a poet. And I know it. (Stop stop, my sides hurt I’m laughing so hard.)

But I somehow tricked them into liking what I wrote. They offered some suggestions of things that weren’t as effective, I changed some things, and it actually made it into the collection!

!!!

That’s the adventure. That’s the story. Here’s the link so you can download your free FREE free copy today. And you should know that many of the people who submitted are also bloggers and writers, so try to look them up and check out their work around the interwebs.

As always, thank you so much for reading and following. I genuinely appreciate it. Whoops! The link: http://gabrielgadfly.com/writestuff/

Poetry (Photo credit: Kimli)

Visiting My Neighbor

17
Apr

Today I’m guest posting over at Pen Paper Pad. I’d love it if you’d stop by and check it out. T.A. Woods is an insightful poet with a sense of adventure (who else would move from out east all the way to Hawaii??) and a great sense of humor. After you’ve read my post, be sure to dig around her blog. You’ll find all sorts of goodies there!

Here’s the link to my post on her blog:

http://penpaperpad.com/2013/04/guest-post-poetry-for-all-my-friends/

Myth of the Tortured Artist

9
Apr

There is a longstanding attitude that for an artist to be profound, to be able to tap into something deep inside, that person must lead a tortured, angst-filled life.

Being eccentric is helpful.

Curmudgeondry is desirable.

Vagueness is expected, along with an attitude of superiority.

Alcoholism, extremes in weight, isolation and self abuse come with the territory.

Writers love the quote from Hemmingway: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” I can understand the appeal: I’m a mother and all mothers fight against martyrdom from time to time. There is power in sacrifice, nobility in giving to your own detriment.

There are those who would struggle with depression regardless of profession. There are people who are drawn to dark places. Are these people natural born artists? Not necessarily.

I would like to propose that writing is a joyous, exhilarating adventure.

English: Tortured trees Trees showing the effect of the harsh environment. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Wings.

Dandelion fluff.

Stars.

Mysterious forest.

Quest.

Beauty can be an intense experience, as can love and joy. Intensity of experience doesn’t have to be wrapped in darkness, cruelty or pain. And writing doesn’t have to be a torturous exercise. It can be elating, transcendent, illuminating, full of surprises. Maybe because of where I’ve come from, maybe because of when I returned to creative writing, the process of writing (this is going to sound trite) is a treat for me.

It is a savory meal bubbling as you come in from the cold dampness of the day,

a garden that makes you swoon with full scents of late afternoon,

a full-body fit of laughter that leaves you wiping the tears from your face.

There are times when finding words is hard, when the intimidating blank page dares you to make a peep into its cavernous maw. But nobody said your writing had to arrive perfectly, pristine in the first attempt. And when the words begin to flow, and they will flow no matter how you feel about that prospect in the slow times, that flow is a river that sweeps you away. You lose track of time, lose track of your surroundings and step into the story, similar to what happens when you read a great book…except that you’re on the flip side of that mirror, the creator of those wondrous worlds.

And it will be glorious.

Scared-y Cat

6
Apr

This post is a result of a writing prompt coordinated by Lisa Jo Baker (http://lisajobaker.com/five-minute-friday/) . Here’s what she says about it:

On Fridays around these parts we like to write. Not for comments or traffic or anyone else’s agenda. But for pure love of the written word. For joy at the sound of syllables, sentences and paragraphs all strung together by the voice of the speaker.
We love to just write without worrying if it’s just right or not. For five minutes flat.

Today’s Writing Prompt: After

I tried my first Five Minute Friday post and when I got done with my first five minutes, I balked. Full on chicken moment. It was too personal. It was about childbirth. It was about my daughter. It was about the pain of growing up and common hurts we all face as we grow into adults.

And I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t share it.

I already hide behind a pen name (do you think my parents named me Nita Holiday for real?). It’s mostly in an attempt to separate my writing life and other life. It’s mostly for myself, as an indicator of what hat I’m wearing when I sit down to write.

But it’s also to protect others. My husband. My children. My extended family.

If you don’t know who I am, you can’t judge me. If I keep you at arm’s length, you can’t dismiss me as being too old, too young, too female, too northern. If you deal only with the image I extend to you, then my anonymity keeps me safe.

It also keeps me from dealing with the people around me, making me brave on paper and a people-pleaser in person.

189/365 July 8 – Better Late Than Never (Photo credit: Sharon Drummond)

Hard-Earned Victories Taste Sweetest

2
Apr

Lathe operator machining parts for transport planes at the Consolidated Aircraft Corporation plant, Fort Worth, USA (1942). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Some things are worth doing even if they’re hard.

In college I had a friend for whom everything seemed to come easily. He was from a family with wealth and great connections, he had natural charm and charisma, and he was talented in many areas. It was easy to feel envious of him since, from the outside at least, everything seemed to be handed to him. Every job, every opportunity, every whim, every card seemed to fall in his favor.

In spite of all that, he remained grounded and humble. How did he manage it?

I sometimes wished for the challenge of remaining humble, but when your big plans all seem to be routinely thwarted, you’re automatically kept pretty humble with zero effort.

Flash forward to parenthood.

Our first son (let’s call him Rex) is compliant, pleasant, curious but reserved. He likes to weigh the risks and take in the landscape before trying things.

Contrast that with our second son (we’ll call him Bobo) who is headstrong, bold, intense and a risk-taker.

Sometimes Rex wishes he could be brave like Bobo. But I assure him that it isn’t bravery if you’re not overcoming fear. It doesn’t take courage to enter a situation that doesn’t present you with any danger. And my second son’s danger-gauge is faulty. The victories of parenting are harder won with Bobo. He tests my patience and creativity. He pushes my buttons. And sometimes he just makes me straight-up, plain angry. However, because we’ve had to work so hard to steer him in the appropriate directions, when he chooses those directions freely, it feels like a tidal wave of success.

Rex chooses wisely naturally, so it isn’t that we don’t appreciate his good choices, but the good ones Bobo makes took so much more work, they feel like big deals.

I’ve decided to take this approach to both parenting and writing: Some things are worth the investment of time, even if the results are long in coming.

I love this quote so I’m sharing it even if it’s not the first time:

“Never give up on a dream just because of the time it will take to accomplish it. The time will pass anyway.” Earl Nightingale

Maybe you’ll get rejected hundreds of times. Maybe you’ll want to pull out your hair when you child needs near constant redirection. But the investment of energy in a worthy endeavor is so much more gratifying than energy invested in a flight of fancy that is discarded quickly in favor of some new glittery distraction.

The challenge is to know the difference.

What is the nature of your goal right now? Worthy or glittery? (And a worthy goal can involve glitter, but you know what I mean, right?)

Lace ’em up and get moving.

Once you decide the goal is worth the time it might take to achieve it, then lace up your shoes.

Pull up your big-girl undies. Do what it takes to get off the couch and invest the time.

And when it hurts,

when you think it might not be worth it,

remember why you started.

Remember the relationship goal,

the parenting outcome,

the end result you’re aiming for.

And press on.

Leaking Into Everything: Faith and Writing

28
Mar

This post is a part of a linkup with the Writers Unite group on Facebook. Search the Twitter hashtag #faithartlife to find other blogs that are participating in the linkup. You’re bound to find some great stuff.

Confession time.

I tend to compartmentalize things.

You wouldn’t be able to tell from looking around my house, since there’s pot holders in with the kitchen knives, potting soil next to the hats and scarves, and Lego guys next to the jewelry box. In the organizational sense, I wish I was better at compartmentalizing. My home could benefit from the “a place for everything, and everything in its place” mentality.

But when it comes to friends, children, work, church, and grocery shopping, I tend to forget these circles overlap. It’s a bit like running into an old high school friend in a different city; you don’t picture that person anywhere other than where you knew them.

Or it’s the same way children think their teachers never leave the school building and are mystified (and slightly alarmed) to run into a teacher at the library or a parade. Are the teachers allowed outside the confines of school? Yes, yes they are.

There are a couple things though, that I can’t contain even if I try, things that can’t be shoved into a box and put away neatly:

Winter Beauty

Writing,

and

my faith in Jesus.

These two just spill out all over the place, willy-nilly.

They pervade my thoughts and attitudes, my observations, the way I listen, and my interactions with others. I can’t control it.

Here’s a practical example. My husband and I made a quick stop at a store last night and while he bought the few items we needed, I picked up coffee and waited for him at a table. Waddoya know, a man sat down at the table next to mine, clearly upset.

Two internal reactions:

1. Here’s a prime candidate for a slightly creepy, unpredictable character straight out of a Flannery O’Connor story. He had bandages on his fingertips, white socks with black orthopedic shoes, mumbled to himself and was sighing loudly and frequently. Another potential character was the employee, a Loud Talker who practically yelled at the poor guy when she asked him to wait while she got the incident report papers. This was great material.

2. Here’s a prime candidate for expressing care to someone who might need a little loving attention, an acknowledgment of his human-ness and inherent value as one of God’s creations. This guy was aching to talk to someone. I found out he fell and twisted his knee while checking out, and was worried that he might have busted stiches in his hand from his recent accident with a TABLE SAW when he almost lost three fingers.

You can’t make this stuff up, folks. Well, you can, but often the real stuff is just as compelling.

It was a brief encounter. I had to make a choice to engage that guy or keep my eyes on my coffee cup. That’s where art is not enough. Studying him to use in an upcoming suspense story is detaching myself from the situation and ignoring my role as an inhabitant of the world I observe.

My faith influences my writing and my writing gives me new insight into my faith. They flow back and forth into one another, leaking all over the place with no thought of compartments or boundaries…

…which is just the way I like it.