Almost. Almost. Almost.

This almost feels like one of those wishes I should have thought a little harder about before I wished it. I know I'm not the only one who has daydreamed of a pause button, fantasized about stepping off the hurried, worried world into a place of stillness, have no reason to hurry, nothing that needs to be done for a while. Almost. Almost. Filing big chunks of time with the moment. I'd forgotten how long a day can be, how many pages of a book can be read, how many dishes a family of five can get dirty! In the spaces where I'm not thinking about why we are here, why we are doing this, I can almost love the pace of this life. This isn't how I wanted it to come about, but there are pieces of this I am going to save. Pieces of connection/disconnection, that I am not going to give away again.

Happiness sometimes comes on a sticky note.

Rhythms and Routines, or – Is My “Exact Change Gene” Showing?

Life has certain rhythms, and I have long been a person who enjoys embracing my routine, tweaking my routine, inserting personal bits and challenges to change-up my routine, occasionally upending it altogether and starting over fresh. It can be fantastic (though also sometimes scary) when changes to life’s rhythms are personally driven. For instance, I took on a Jen-Sincero-Bad-Ass approach to publishing last year and the results were/are exhilarating. When I decided at the age of twenty-seven to leave my job and try on full-time parenting as a gig, it was a bit terrifying, but resulted in one of the most satisfying and personally growth-filled periods of my life (never mind the growing of kids, which was also rewarding).

But sometimes we don’t get to make those choices about the changes to our rhythms and routines. Occasionally one falls down the stairs, as I did quite literally in 2006, and everything you believe about yourself changes. Or a plague comes along, just as an example, and you find your routines spiraling out of control.

When R and I moved to Houston, I almost immediately began having difficulty sleeping. I would lie down in bed and begin to immediately wonder if I had locked the door to the apartment. I would get up to check the door, find that it was locked, and go back to bed. I would lie there for a bit and begin to wonder, had I already checked that the door was locked? Was it possible that I was remembering checking the door the night before and that I had, in fact, failed to check that the door was locked? And so I would get up to check that the door was locked again.

Gratuitous cute pup photo to
help spread the smiles.

In my favorite psychology course in college (abnormal – isn’t that everyone’s favorite?) I remember getting the giggles one day as I began plotting the extremes of the personalities of my friends and family to their most dysfunctional extremes. Because that’s both the beauty and curse of psychology, right? Things that we all experience and feel, become personality markers, and conditions or tendencies that may come and go, and for a few, full-blown extremes of debilitating proportions.

Psychology student that I was (or perhaps it was just my farm girl roots that taught me the solution to most problems was within me), I began to examine my “did I lock the door” behavior and ask myself, 1) when does this become a problem, and 2) what is triggering this behavior?

My solution was eventually two-fold. First, I began keeping a stack of hairbands at the door to the apartment. When I locked the door, I would slip a hairband onto my wrist, and when I was in bed and begin wondering if I had locked the door, I’d snap the hairband to remember that it was real and I had, indeed, locked the door. The second thing I eventually did was to stop watching the nightly news, a habit I had from my father, something that seemed to me to be necessary as an adult living in the world. I began to realize that the nightly news in Houston stressed the *lucky duck* out of me. Living in a metropolitan area that was larger than my entire home state of Kansas meant that the picture painted nightly on the evening news was very, very different than the one I had grown up with. I still vividly remember stories from our first few months in Houston, including a child that was abducted from a home and murdered on “our side” of town (it was miles and miles away, in a different city-entity… but in my mind northwest meant too-near me). One night, I remember the news anchor declaring that it had been a good day in Houston with not one stabbing, shooting, car wreck mangling, or death. That was my eye-opening moment. I turned off the television and began reading the newspaper, where I could skip over the headlines that triggered my “is the door locked” behavior, yet still feel informed. Eventually, the stack of hairbands became a simple convenience that I could grab to tie my hair up as I was headed out the door.

Through my late teens and early twenties, I had a developing hyper-thyroid condition, which I now believe also contributed greatly to my hairband on the wrist episode. When the body is in a constant state of fight or flight, the mind tends to look for reasons to support the accelerated heartbeat. The nightly news was feeding me an ample supply of evidence that I should be concerned about locking my door. I had half of my thyroid surgically removed at the age of twenty-four and immediately gained a whole new calm and perspective.

 More than a decade later, a time of blissfully embracing the rhythms of life and glorifying in my routines, I had an event (the above-mentioned stair fall) that put me on a path that eventually led to a number of less-than-healthy routines. Unfortunately, this round it took me much longer to identify and take action against the behaviors that were beginning to control me more than I was controlling them. I did not become agoraphobic, but I could certainly see it from where I stood. And I began to understand OCD on a level far deeper than my college textbooks ever showed me.

Most of my friends and family will be surprised if they are reading this. Or maybe they are nodding their heads, seeing it now--the must-be-the-last-to-use-the-bathroom Tracy, the she’s-never-going-to-let-you-drive Tracy, the must-pay-using-exact-change Tracy. I’ve never had the ability to share the things that make me feel weak as they are happening, only later, and often then only through writing or in intimate conversations with people I really trust.  

It wasn’t until the rolling panic attacks began hitting that I forced myself to stop and reassess the way I was living and take action to change it. They were terrifying. I would feel them coming on and had only minutes to prepare myself. It was like being consumed by an ocean wave. My body would break out in sweat, begin violently shaking, and then the tears would come. I had never experienced sobbing like that, not even when my mom was dying. I used all the breathing and meditation techniques I had picked up in my youth while dealing with a hyper-thyroid, but they wouldn’t stop.

I eventually figured out that lack of sleep was at the heart of my issue, and I wasn’t sleeping because of damage that had been done to my upper back and shoulder in the fall. The bruises on my butt had been so extreme, I hadn’t stopped to consider how the rest of my body had been affected.

This isn’t to dwell on my history of behavioral extremes, but to say (yes, as it is happening) that I feel my “exact change” gene showing. As I imagine do many of you.

Paying for groceries with exact change has—off and on through the years—been one of my challenges. For the positive, it’s great for budgeting, making me feel in control of money when I am attempting to hit financial goals. There have been moments in my life, however, when I’ve found myself fishing through my coin purse, my pockets, the bag on my shoulder, determined not to break a dollar bill when I look up and recognize the look of exasperation on the face of the clerk. That’s when I know I’m crossing the line. My quest for exact change has become a hindrance rather than a help. I did it at the grocery store, my one trip last week. My heart began to race as I searched for exactly seventy-three cents, while my fist was full of dollar bills.

These are stressful times we are living in. These are trigger-inducing times for the psyche, and I would expect that even those of you who have rarely ventured on this path of behavioral extremes (at least those you dare to recognize) are seeking coping mechanisms at the moment.

This is my 14,000 word way of saying—it’s okay. You are going to be okay. You may have to resort to snapping yourself with a hairband at night or disinfecting your doorknobs routinely with aplomb. Yes, your hand-washing routine may be feel like it’s becoming a major operatic production. You may be longing (like me) to tackle-hug friends and acquaintances with whom you’ve barely shared a handshake until now. (Oh, the horror, what is this world coming to?)

I leaked tears on at least four separate occasions yesterday, and my centered-self couldn’t come up with a reasonable explanation for any of it. Well… except for the plague and all. But you know, what’s a little social distancing for a solitary-loving girl like me?

It’s appropriate to have messy feelings right now. And it’s appropriate to come up with some creative behavioral modification techniques if that’s what it takes to get you through. Just don’t delay my grocery checkout by digging for exact change. That’s all I’m asking. Pay your bill and get a move on. I’ve got a decontamination routine to accomplish once I am through here.

No really, we’ll get through this. (Write it again, make it true.) We will get through this.

And maybe we will pick up some beneficial coping mechanisms along the way, and may those that are not beneficial for long-term use fall away naturally and gracefully as our “new normal” begins to evolve.

Sending love and light.

Wherein I Finally Determine What My Tattoo Should Be

Not my Tattoo!

In conversation with a new friend yesterday, I admitted that I had spent the last twenty years planning my first tattoo. I’ve come up with several possibilities, but I always end up dwelling on whether each design is something I really want to define me for the rest of my life. As well, getting a tattoo feels like it would be the ultimate act of rebellion, and though my mom has been gone for twenty years now and, let’s be honest, it would be pretty easy to hide one from my dad (especially if I did not blog about it in a public place or, say, post photos of it on Facebook once it actually happened) it seems funny that I would feel that way about a tattoo, when I think of much of the rest of my life as a gradual act of rebelling against what I was taught I should do/be/become.

Here I am, approaching my 50s, many years-clear of any of the traditional institutions of my youth that would have considered a permanent marking of the body unacceptable (though happily, not the people) and a tattoo still feels . . . well . . . Taboo.

I honestly don’t know that I’ll ever commit, but in my head, I am someone with a tattoo. I am also someone who wears long, flowy, colorful skirts and big dangly earrings that catch and reflect the light and chime softly when I move. (And I move like a dancer, by the way, rather than a person who relies on roll-bar technology in her shoes to keep her upright.) In my head, I am a person who can tell you what phase the moon is in, I know the Sanskrit names for all the yoga poses, and when my life comes to a halt at random moments to leave myself post-it notes of inspiration, I do so in the most beautiful calligraphy.

Living Timelessly in 2018

Gratuitous Bookstore Cat Photo:
The Raven Bookstore in Lawrence, Kansas
I have always wanted to start a collection
of bookstore cat photos. Maybe this will be
the year I actually do so.

It's a new year and I have not made a single mistake in writing the number 2018 yet. A good sign, as it seemed as often as not in 2017, I would pause before writing the date to contemplate the year. 2010? 2013? Where exactly in time was I?

I did make resolutions this year, and no, I'm not going to talk about them here. You will see the results of them if I succeed. You won't if I don't. Enough said. Once upon a time I called myself the Queen of New Year's resolutions. Then I spent several years saying that last year's plan worked well enough, I'd simply keep on doing the same ole' same ole'. This year I'm somewhere between the two, and I've committed to checking in with my family on working toward some long term goals.

I am trying something different this year, and seven days in, I'm fairly pleased with the results. For many years now I have been a diligent tracker of time. Perhaps a bit of a side-effect of a freelance lifestyle, or simply a need to document how I spend my time to give myself a record of progress made, I can go back many years and tell you how much time I've spent on "job" related tasks, such as working for/in my husband's law office, and working for the farmers market (a job where, though I was technically an employee, I was the only employee and pretty much the boss of me and how I managed my time). I can tell you how much time I spent on freelance work, most years broken down by the type of work I was doing (writing for pay, writing for fun, ghostwriting, editing, and other). In recent years, I've even tracked time spent on some of my volunteer commitments, not because I felt like I owed the communities I volunteered with any certain amount of time, but because I felt I owed it to myself to make sure that I was spending at least as many hours on me as I was on other people. I have a tendency to put myself last in line of importance, and by tracking these hours, I got better at making sure I was putting in time for myself, as well.

June Musings

June has zipped by in a flash! Spent a huge chunk of the month feeding my wanderlust. This is the year of my third child's 16th birthday trip, and we did it in style in Germany! The two of us enjoyed time in Berlin, Quedlinburg, and Trier. So the bulk of my writing was travel journal with a few bonus poems thrown in. Now we are working on our trip photo album and enjoying the light summer-time weather in Kansas.

A rainy day in the sweet little town of Quedlingburg, Saxony-Anhalt, Germany.

Meadowlark is keeping me busy! It's a very good kind of busy. I am so inspired by these writers who let me handle their darlings and fit them in the pages of a book. The bookshelf is growing and I am as proud as if each piece were my very own. There will soon be two books out for 2017. Five remain in the hopper and we are making very good progress.

Walking on Water, poems by Cheryl Unruh
Meadowlark Books, April 2017

WaterSigns, Poetry by Ronda Miller
Meadowlark Books, July 2017

It's been a good month for reading, as well! I have had the opportunity to read the second Pete Stone Novel (to be published by Meadowlark, Fall 2017) To Leave a Shadow, the first, can be found here and here.

I enjoyed Gloria Zachgo's Hush Girl: It's Only a Dream, a mystery, and it's page turner. I am currently reading Jillian Dunlay's teen dystopian novel, Untamed. This is Jillian's debut novel and I have to say that I am very impressed with this young lady. I have plans to write a more thoroughly about both of these books soon.

I have also been indulging on David Sedaris's new book, Theft by Finding.

Life is good. Reading, writing, and publishing are even better!

I found my writing buddy in Quedlinburg.
As my friend Sue pointed out, he's got a heart of stone,
but I enjoyed his company anyway.

May Musings

Starting the fifth month of the year that is 2017! Is it too late for a blog about plans for the new year?

Between travel, the loss of two very special loved ones, and just trying to keep up with life in general, I decided that this was going to be a say-YES year to publishing. My own collection of short stories is well on its way to being complete and, via Meadowlark Books, I am working on building a bigger bookshelf for Kansas authors! I was honored to work with my very good friend, Cheryl Unruh, on her first book of poetry, Walking on Water, which was released in April.

Walking on Water - April 2017
meadowlark-books.com

I have found myself returning to this post in recent days, where I wrote, among other things:

"I am convinced that writing is a profession of constantly becoming." 

I guess I have long understood that I find a great deal of satisfaction in simply putting together beautiful books. That I find this process as meaningful--and perhaps even more enjoyable--when I do it for others is still catching up to me. Working as part of a team is fun, and with each Meadowlark book, new team members have added depth and richness to my experience, and Meadowlark, as a publisher, has grown. 

Working so closely with writers fuels my creative fires. Dedicating time to book formatting and production seems to bring balance to my own endeavors in fiction. Each read through a book brings me closer to an author, and more appreciative of the view and perspective that person is sharing with the world through their writing.

Could I get my own work done more quickly if I didn't pursue these publishing endeavors?

In theory, yes. But my reality seems to be that I stay better focused on my own work when I surround myself with other writers up close and personal.

My short story collection is still on its way. I expect to have a proof ordered by the end of May, and I hope to be sharing it with the world by July... or so. In the meantime, there is a lot of becoming to focus on, including writing, publishing, travelling, and time with my family.  I am enjoying living life on that book mountain, helping others up and down the path.

A belated weekend post...

It's Tuesday. I got derailed a bit this weekend. Took a trip on the new Prairie Earth Tours bus to Tallgrass Prairie for the 20th anniversary celebration, and got to dine at Keller Feed & Wine Company. (YUM). Let's just say I highly recommend all three. Kansas may have issues, but the cool places and awesome people remain. You just have to get out and about and plug into the real-life community a bit.

Unfortunately, I was not in photo bug mode this weekend. This is the one and only photos I took of the tour bus. I didn't even think to document my meal until after I had eaten it!

Sunday was the first day this month that I did not hit my NaNoWriMo word goals. I was slightly ahead, so didn't get too far off pace. Today I am back at it, storing all the topics I really want to chat about for a later date.

For those of you who might also be writers, I purchased a book a couple of months ago (that I finally cracked open in November). It is called Story Genius; How to Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel. The author is Lisa Cron. This is proving to be a powerful bit of writing advice. I only wish that I had taken the time to read it completely through prior to starting this year's NaNo. Instead, I am taking it on as kind of a companion read, and I know already that I will read it again.

Muse Chasers Walk Across Kansas

My writing gang is growing and taking on new challenges. This month, six of us have banded together to form Muse Chasers, a team for Walk Kansas, a K-State Research and Extension Health Initiative. We mostly walk on our own, but have added a short walk together (for as many as can make it -- me, that's about half the time) prior to our usual Monday meeting write-in routine. Last Saturday--that's two Saturdays now as it has taken me just that long to get from draft to publish--three of us started the day at the Tallgrass Preserve for a little hiking.

Writing is often thought of as a solitary activity, and much of the time I suppose that is the case. Maybe writers don't suffer from loneliness because there is simply so much going on all the time inside their heads. For me, walking has often been the first step to very satisfying writing. A really good walk, in fact, often ends in hours and hours of time at the keyboard. This happened the day we hiked at Tallgrass--hours and hours... though nothing was completed because the current work-in-progress has several weekends of hiking/writing to go. In a perfect world, when the fingertips slow, the body goes on a walk again to refuel.

I have learned that walking with other writers is fun, too. When one shares a story, the others are often quick to point out that it's one that should be written down. And writers never seem to tire of talking about books... those we've read, and those we would like to read, as well as those we'd like to see written so that we can read them, and those we'd like to write just because...

How many muses have been caught? It's hard to tell. For each one I catch hold of, there's another one or two that manage to evade my grasp. Our team has made it about 3/4 the way across the state with 4 weeks left to go. Seems like pretty good progress for a group so easily distracted by the sparklies we pick up (both real and imagined) along the trail...

Hazel, Michelle and I hit the trail at Tallgrass Preserve. What do writers talk about as they hike? Books, of course.

Hibity Hibity: An interview with me!

From a birthday greeting on Facebook from an old friend (my second mother) ... hbty, hbty... I immediately read "hibity hibity" and I liked the way it rolled off my tongue. Hibity is a happy word. It's a new word (to me) and I'm keeping it.

My 2nd birthday, a few years ago, and the family dog, Poochie.

Today I celebrate 45 years on this planet with a little sleeping in, a lot of chocolate, and a nap! Inspired by my writing friend, Nancy, I have settled on an interview with myself for my 45th birthday.

Q: Are birthdays important to you?
A: Not the actual day so much; certainly not the way it used to be. As I've written elsewhere this year, I tend to kind of roll my age forward with the year these days. I've been thinking of myself as 45 since the beginning of 2015. I do enjoy giving myself a day of pure leisure, though I try to make that happen a time or two a month year round! A birthday is a good excuse to be spoiled a little. I took the time to respond to every single note I received on FB today. It was awesome to think about the web of connections I have after 45 years on this planet. I am proud to be the age I am. I have never been a 20-something, 30-something woman. Every year is a badge. I wear it proudly. I will not waste time mourning the years that are behind me.

Q: What is the best thing about getting older?
A: Growing confidence. With each year, I am less concerned about fitting someone else's image of what a writer should be, what a woman should be, what a mother should be... and more willing to simply embrace and BE what I want to be, moment by moment. I don't look for a prescription anymore. I don't need someone to tell me how to walk the path. I am simply walking it. Taking my steps and choosing the way I want to go, even if it means backing up, turning around, skipping over or finding my way around an obstacle or two.

Q: If you had one thing to do differently in your life, what would it be?
A: This always feels like one of those really dangerous questions. Sure, I have ideas (what about all that free time I had pre-kids... why didn't I finish a book or two then?) but what it always boils down to is this... I love where my life is at right now. The problem with doing any part of it over is that I might change the course that got me here. And while it might be another acceptable place I get to, I don't really have any desire to give up this place, so I guess I'll leave the past as it was, embarrassing moments, wasted time, and all.

Q: Okay, but if you were to pass on some writing advice to your past self, what would you say?
A: Stop worrying about it; just write it. Have fun with words. Say what you want to say. Don't be shy. Get your stuff out there and write, write, write some more.

Q: If you could save time in a bottle, what would you spend it on?
A: My family. No contest. I fill a lot of hours of my day. I probably work too many jobs, juggle too many balls. But nothing -- no money, no book, no completed essay -- is worth the price of time with my family. I have raised three very busy and involved people, and I will drop everything/anything, just to spend a bit more time with any one of them. Hubby, too!

Q: And how about your future self? What would you expect her to say, looking back on you today?
A: I would expect her to admit that the second 45 years went a little quicker than the first. That seems to be the trend, anyway. Each year passes a little more quickly. I hope she says that I learned to be a little more selfish and less giving... but in a positive way. That I learned to guard my time and keep it mine, still willing to share, but perhaps narrowing the focus of what I am available to do for others. I hope she says that I finally learned to never commit to projects I later resented (maybe I am already there?) and that I was bolder in my second 45 years, and more experimental in my creative endeavors. Above all, I expect her to say, "No regrets." Life is too short for regrets.

Let's Talk about the Illness

I am on page 65 of what I have decided to call the third draft of the current work-in-progress. It's proving much harder than it should. I've got a complete story, for goodness sake! A start to finish story with a beginning, a middle and an end. But this is my weakness, I understand. I love starting things. I enjoy diving head-long into a project and spending countless hours, days, weeks in the flow, losing track of time. Now I can see the finish line.

This is the biggest, hardest, most complicated story I have ever attempted to complete, and I feel myself slowing down. It would be SO EASY to walk away right now. It would be simple to start a new project that was full of fun, creative energy.

But that's not going to happen with this one. There is no doubt in my mind that I will finish this book. In spite of the fact that it may actually be crap.... in spite of the fact that people may hate it... I've been down this road so many times and I understand, now, how to cross the finish line.

That doesn't make it any easier.

That doesn't mean it's going to be effortless.

"You still have those doubts?" I asked my friend, Cheryl (who has published two books, and has nine years under her belt as a newspaper columnist, and has won awards with her writing and gets invited -- regularly -- to speak at events and do readings).

"Every day," she said.

What is it about being a writer that makes us feel like we are a continual work-in-progress, not quite there yet?

I fell into bed exhausted last night, scolding myself (just a little bit) for not getting more done on the work-in-progress. A little while later -- still not asleep, wondering if I was really as tired as I thought I was, or if I was just avoiding the work ahead -- I realized that I was plotting the NEXT novel. The one that follows the current work-in-progress. As if I haven't had enough of these crazy characters already. Full scenes from part II of this story are already being written in my mind.

This is the illness, the affliction.

It would make more sense to walk away, to just be done with words. I could get a job tending bar. I've been thinking of that as a job I'd like to try out. Pouring drinks. Watching people. Absorbing stories.

Like that would give me nothing to want to write about.

Collections: Beautiful, Meaningful Words

BuzzFeed has a post of 51 of the Most Beautiful Sentences in Literature and it inspired me. I keep a journal of my favorite lines from books I've read. Here are some words that I have collected where I found deep, personal meaning and connection.


"I was a New Yorker, and if you are a real New Yorker, you don’t leave. You want to leave all the time but you don’t. That’s something fake New Yorkers do. The same way that if you’re really part of a family, you don’t leave it. To leave a family physically felt more drastic. Like leaving a self behind."

Fiction Ruined My Life, a memoir, by Jeanne Darst

"Once my family’s strong, predictable safety net, I now felt like the trapeze artist himself, flying from bar to bar, grasping at any line that might swing my way in hopes of staying afloat."

Househusband, by Ad Hudler

"I’d always thought confidence was as permanent as eye color or earlobe size, but it had become clear to me that it was as fragile as cornchips."

Househusband, by Ad Hudler

"It takes time to find the courage to display the parts of yourself that aren’t bright and shining. But you have to see them, have to know they’re inside you, because they will resonate in the landscapes you control."

Sebastian, by Anne Bishop

"I have not survived against all odds. I have not witnessed the extraordinary. I have not lived to tell. This, this is my story."

Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, by Amy Krouse Rosenthal 

"It seems we humans so want to divvy the world up into clean little packages that fit neatly together. But in reality, each package seeps into the next, affects the next. And the pile forever shifts. And, as far as I can tell, no one understands where the contents in the packages came from to begin with. I certainly don’t. It seems to me now that the point of living is less to understand, more to not become dulled to the miracles that are everywhere."

Madapple, by Christina Meldrum

"I don’t know how to rest in myself very well, how to be content staying put. But mother knows how to be at home and, really, to be in herself. It’s actually very beautiful what she does."

Travelling with Pomegranates, by Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor

"The two most powerful impulses of my life have been the urge to create and the urge to be – a set of opposites – and they have always clunked into each other."

Travelling with Pomegranates, by Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor

"I began to realize how hard it was to separate out all the voices to hear the single one that came just from me."

Savvy, by Ingrid Law

"Memories and experiences become part of who we are. Kansas seeps into our cells, reconfigures our DNA, claims us as its own. If we leave, it follows."

Flyover People, by Cheryl Unruh

"We never lose this sense of being grounded, of knowing who we are and why we're here, of being nurtured by the soil and the grass and the stars."

Flyover People, by Cheryl Unruh

"I am homing in on forty years old. Another twenty years and I’m looking at sixty, and these days, twenty years seems like next Tuesday. I feel young but pressed for time. I am beginning to get a sense of all I will leave undone in this life. It makes my breath go a little short. I’m not desperate, just hungry to fill the time I am allowed."

Truck: A Love Story, by Michael Perry

"There is nothing further from calm than a shelf full of books. For these are the screams and the shouts and the moans of humanity, quiet only on the outside."

Harvey & Eck, by Erin O’Brien

"But for those hardy tempers who could love great spaces, where one spot was no more important than another, experience of the sea of grass was glorifying. On the Great Plains, a man of strong identity stood always at the center of his world – a king of infinite space."

Kansas Ghost Woman, by James S. Barnett

"It is true I do not speak as well as I can think. But that is true of most people, as nearly as I can tell."

The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver

"Some people have an inner voice. I have an inner to-do list. And since I'm a glass-half empty type of guy, my list is entitled "Things That Are Wrong With Matt." Whenever I am in danger of feeling too good about myself, that list starts flashing in my head."

American Shaolin, by Matthew Polly

"Who is the real person, I wonder—the ten-year-old being dragged or the sixty-year-old going round full of admiration and appreciation? How many other characters can I expect to be before I die?"

No, I Don’t Want to Join a Book Club: Diary of a 60th Year, by Virginia Ironside

Regina Sirois Inspiration Revisited

All the way back in August I attended a workshop in Topeka where author Regina Sirois was the keynote speaker. I said at the time that it was quite possibly the most powerful talk I have ever heard about our lives as writers, and it still holds true. I have found myself reflecting on her talk again and again in the weeks since.

Regina compared writing to mountain climbing. She actually told some very moving stories about people who had climbed Mt. Everest. The way she pulled it all together was simply amazing. I was inspired and touched in equal measure. I actually had to pull out a tissue during her talk. I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one in the room who got tearful.

Since there is no way I could ever do justice to Regina's speech, I'm simply going to leave it at this; if you ever get the chance to hear her speak, go! Listen. She's a powerful speaker.

But a little bit of my take-away, the message that grabbed hold of me and continues to echo in my head from day to day, that part I will attempt to share here.

If success in writing is akin to reaching the summit of Mt. Everest, the lesson we writers need to learn from the mountain climbers is that nobody lives at the top of that mountain. It's a thrilling victory, for sure. It's a marvelous view. But life is what happens at the base of the mountain. And as writers, the bulk of our lives is going to be spent working our way up the mountain, and coming down again, and simply living, day-to-day, at the base of that mountain.

We might define success as simply publishing a book, or selling 100 copies of that book, or selling 500 copies of that book, or making somebody's best seller list with that book... whatever success is, it's not a place you live. You don't go and camp on Mt. Success, saying, "I've won. I'm at the top of the mountain now. I have arrived."

The book might be the gold star; the view from the top of the mountain is certainly reward in itself, but where you live, what you choose to do with the rest of your time, that is what really counts.

A particularly poignant part of Regina's speech was when she talked about the people who die trying to climb Mt. Everest. In fact, reaching the summit doesn't seem to be the hardest part. It's the coming down again. So many people who don't make it down from Mt. Everest, actually make it all the way to the top before they are defeated, often somewhere along the road on the way back down.

With writers, I think it is the same. I've met so many people who have published books, and in some small way, I hope most of them recognize that publication as at least some sort of victory. But far too many stand there, book in hand, saying, "I've done it. I've written my book. Why am I not standing on top of the mountain? I don't like the view from where I'm at."

It would be easy to be that person, standing somewhere on the path, not really going up or down, wondering how it is that I've packed my gear, I've done some hiking, and yet I really can't see from here the view I was hoping to see. It would be easy to see my work as having failed.

If I am to become the writer I would one day like to be, it's going to be a series of trips up that mountain and back down again. Maybe, it's going to be understanding that this is a little mountain I have crested, and the view from the top of it was wonderful and brief and now I need to learn how to climb a bigger mountain.

In a recent email exchange with a yet-to-be-published author, I wrote, "I am convinced that writing is a profession of constantly becoming."

Becoming what? That's entirely up to each individual writer, I suppose.

I've been censoring myself here, I've come to realize. I've had lots of blog posts and thoughts on writing to share, but now that I'm a published writer, I've been doubting much of what I've come up with to share. I didn't want to sound like a novice, you see. I didn't want to defeat my previous victory--the published book--by admitting that I still don't always feel like I know what I'm doing.

I've been hesitant to say, "Yes, I've seen the view from the summit, but I'm not sure my mountain is the mountain you are looking for."

Everyone climbs their own mountain.

Everyone defines success in their own way, and if they are lucky, in my view, that definition is fluid and changing.

My new email-pal returned a note yesterday morning saying that my "thoughts were so affirmative" and that my advice was "a vital green light" that she was on the right path. For just a moment, while reading that email, I caught a glimpse of the view again. It felt good to know that I was part of giving someone else at least the belief, the possibility that they were on the right mountain, and that getting up it was possible from where they stood. Maybe someone's journey was easier, for at least a moment, because I was there, willing to extend a hand.

I am a writer, and I am still becoming the writer that I would one day like to be.

If you are a writer, too, I say welcome to the mountain. Don't give up. Don't wait for the perfect Sherpa to come along and show you the way, or be your guide. Just write. Learn. And write some more. Enjoy each success, and keep going, up or down the mountain, or camping out at the base for a while, it's all good. It's all about living.

Taking My Own Advice

A friend today said something about getting his stuff together so he could get his book published. I immediately answered, "Don't let getting your stuff together get in the way of publishing your book. If you wait until your life is in order, the book won't ever happen."

I continue to think of my book (published just over a year ago now) as something of a leap from the high dive. I may not have taken the most graceful way down, but at some point I felt that simply jumping was my only option. It was becoming quite clear that lingering on that platform with all the other want-to-be authors could become a lifestyle.

I took the plunge, and I've made a list of dozens of ways I could have done it better. Book number two should be easier, right? Just another opportunity to learn more lessons.

Anticipating Change and Enjoying the Creative Fuel it Brings

I've always maintained the belief that creativity begets creativity. Writing, painting, composing... it doesn't matter the form. One creative act leads to ideas for at least two more. Most of the time I would claim to be engaged in creative work on pretty much a daily basis. Most often it is writing, but I've been known to draw a picture, pick out a tune on the piano, experiment with recipes or take photographs all with that same satisfied-at-having-created-something feeling.

I also enjoy spending time doing more rote, logistical type things that I've come to think of as creativity fueling. I enjoy being busy, productive, and there are certain tasks that I know I can turn to when my mind needs time to process its more unruly thoughts. I am delighted by spreadsheets, for instance, and I take pride in the management systems I have created with them to aid my work with the farmers market or in managing the billing and bookkeeping for my husband's law office practice. I suppose the act of generating a good spreadsheet is creative, but the act of using a good spreadsheet is incredibly satisfying (especially if you are confident of all of the mathematical functions because you placed them there yourself for reasons you fully understand). I place a number here, and it calculates this, that, and another.

Sometimes my creative mode turns more habitual, however, and I come to the realization that I've not so much been creating as going through the motions simply because I think of myself as a creating kind of person. Perhaps I am writing the same words in a different tense, or putting them to paper in cursive rather than print. Maybe I have turned to doodling for the sake of filling blank space. Or I am serving the same dish meal after meal and forgetting what everything tastes like. Sometimes I am so practiced at what I do that I can fall into the habit of work without really feeling the satisfaction of actually having created something.

It is interesting to look back at my life and see these patterns of actively and passively engaging with the creative process, and the pattern of falling into ruts (usually caused by finding a pattern that works so well I never want it to end). When I was younger, I was more prone to get caught up in the fear of changing things, but now I've almost come to the point of looking forward to those moments. I might recognize that I am getting stuck in a groove, but am more content than I used to be to wait for the right moment. I'm less likely to feel the need to hang on to actions or routines because they once worked. Situations change. I change. My creative process changes. Sometimes I have to do something different in order to move forward and move my creative life to a place of greater satisfaction.

It may be that I've come to anticipate those changes so much that the knowledge that they are coming is enough to fuel a resurgence of creativity. The hubby and I had an idea last week. It was a big idea, for us. An idea that would involve a new house and a new business. I don't know where that idea is going to go, or if it is going to go at all, but I have felt that opening of my mind. I'm ready for change. I'm ready to switch up my routine in a bigger than usual way.

Just the idea of making this move has resulted in an flurry of creative energy. It's infused my market work, my law office work, and my writing. I've got more ideas on the plate than I have room for, but I'm happy that way. I'm coming to the end of each day exhausted and satisfied. I'm excited about that open state of mind, the feeling that anything is possible, and whatever it ends up being, it will be good.