2012

Sometimes It Takes a Lifetime to Find Your Voice

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(Note: This was originally written for my family who had begun to complain on Facebook about my ‘political’ postings and opinion pieces. I re-read it and kind of still liked it, so I’ve included it here even though I’m working on a newer version as I continue to find myself.)

For someone so quiet it may seem strange – my posts, my links, my commentary. I’ve always been quiet; listening silently, agreeing or not, but remaining silent and mostly following. Even though I felt this starting in education and parenting because of my kids, I’ve been online for almost four years, and it’s created an even greater voice I didn’t know I could have. That’s probably why I go kicking and screaming to each new social media, but I still go, looking for the one that fits; the one that will give a meaningful platform to my words.

I don’t know how someone goes from silently watching and taking notes hoping for change other than speaking out; for something, whatever that something is to being an actual activist. That was always a word I was afraid of, but the reality is that is what I feel like. The old cliche of “if I don’t, who will” has never felt more true.

As I said, it started by questioning teachers and administrators, and school nurses when I felt my kids were not being treated in the way that I thought they should be treated. My excuse was that I was old and cranky, and people would laugh, but it’s laughable that I needed some kind of excuse to do what was best for my kids.

I came very naturally to It Gets Better and The Trevor Project. Children should not be killing themselves. They should be playing and going to the mall and fighting with their parents about their computers, Xboxes and cell phones.

The Human Rights Campaign and Marriage Equality and Transgender Remembrance happened for me when I saw something first-hand and knew it was wrong, but didn’t know how to fix it. For me and for others, a lightbulb goes off and it’s always been there in front of you, but you’re too afraid to see it or too afraid to speak up or you remember times you’ve made mistakes from not understanding and then you do understand; some of it anyway. Besides a personal story that is not mine to share (more than one actually), I’ve also realized that my ‘tolerance’ was validation for someone else’s life, and the people living the life don’t need my validation or approval; just my love and support.

I started speaking out against domestic violence and abuse in all its forms when my closest friend was shot and his roommate, who would have been my friend eventually was murdered.

I’m starting to talk about and link to the topics of mental illness. Just the phrase ‘mental illness’ has negative connotations and everyone shudders and hugs and finds the pill to make it go away. But mental illness isn’t always illness and it isn’t always negative; sometimes it’s just different.

I’m also starting to post about Autism. My interest began with my own children and looking for warning signs, and reading about vaccines and other causes, but knowing more people and interacting with them and seeing different sides of a word opens it up to talking about it.

These things, whatever you want to call them – causes, projects, undertakings – they’ve come to me naturally and speaking out is hard; it’s the hardest thing I’ve done. I don’t want to embarrass myself or my husband and kids by either saying the wrong thing or speaking too loud. I still care what people think of me. I still don’t like a spotlight on me. I really don’t like the center of attention, especially if it’s extremely positive or extremely negative, but as hard as it is, it is still easier than what the people I link to are going through.

It may look a bit like follow the leader, but if I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t do it or talk about it. The one thing I found from this summer was that I was in my element with mapping and media lists and urgent cares and updating the website. I’d like to do it for something that’s not a grieving process, where I won’t feel guilty for enjoying the parts that are enjoyable; where I can help people and still do it for me, too.

And I want to write about it. There’s an essay coming about college and careers and writing and a long talk in a far away place, but for now this is what I want; what I need. And this is who I am.

At 45, I expected less change, but as physically lazy as I can be, all I see ahead are continuing changes and reaching out and touching the edge with my fingertips and pulling up and moving slowly forward, but never back; and then writing about it.

It scares me.

Activism. Living my life. Writing. Something.

Christmas Eve Mass

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I’ll start with the end first. When I was leaving the Mass, I saw the church lights shining through the stained glass on the front of the building; the Virgin Mary. I posted the photo after the service. Sitting in the car, I suddenly remembered driving past this church last Christmas Eve and seeing the same stained glass window, lit up, bright and colorful, shining in the dark. It was a surprise in the night sky and I hadn’t realized that there was a Mass going on; all I could see was the Virgin Mary, brightening one of my dark days.

I drove past the church all year since then, paying attention at night to recreate that scene from Christmas Eve, to find that feeling again, and every night I was disappointed. Until Christmas Eve. The first time, I’d only been in that church once before. I bought a Mass card for Brittany and in May attended that service when they said the special remembrance for her. Over the course of time in 2011, I would come back on occasion, when the need arose, and just sit in my car, staring at the big green tree, so much in the traditional shape of the Tree of Life, watch the branches blow in the breeze, and cry. And then I would go home, still not being able to explain to my family (or myself) why Brittany’s death affected me so much.
Christmas Eve went away. The stained glass window went away. The Tree, my special Brittany memorial tree, went away. Brittany never did, though.

I had been depressed, alone and lost. Sometime in the weeks before Holy Week, I would come to the Church and sit in the pew several times while there were no services. I don’t know what sent me there; I just knew when to go, and I would sit alone. Just me and G-d. He listened. And I listened to Him. And boy, did He have a lot to say! Lights and smells and sounds and Scriptures that read my mind. Friends He sent me with messages and songs and love. I’ve never known anyone to talk so much without saying a word.

I started going to Mass that Tuesday of Holy Week.

In the weeks that followed Easter, I went to the nine o’clock Mass three times a week unless I had a prior commitment or an appointment. I was the youngest one in the church. These were the people who had been going their whole lives; pious, the true believers, the devout.

In April, the Deacon let me take the Missal with me to my mother in law’s, so I could read on the days that I wouldn’t be able to attend Mass. A couple of weeks later, C. directs me to take the free book, The Word Among Us. It has all of the liturgies for the entire month. It has the Gospels. It has the daily responsorials. It has the meditations. When I asked the Deacon to borrow the book, I began to cry.

I carry the book with me, and I hide it. No one would understand this. I read it every morning that I don’t attend Mass.

The priest returns from Rome and his first Mass back is May 7th. Today is the first anniversary of Brittany’s murder, and I want the closure of a Mass. I am upset. Where is my priest? I don’t even belong to this church and I’ve become possessive about which priest is going to do the homily. He begins to speak and after talking about Rome, which is so much like my Wales, he speaks a bit about the Holy Spirit, and something he says reminds me of Brittany and why I am here in the first place. I begin to cry. Again. I’m also glad he’s back from Rome. I’m going to like him.

His homilies are soft spoken and humorous – he is very humorous and good natured – but they are also firm. He doesn’t need to tell you what to do with your life, your vote, your heart; he tells you what Jesus did, and then you do what you do with that in your mind and you can feel what he’s trying to say. He’s not beating you over the head with any kind of should and must, but continuing to welcome warmly with a “let me tell you what I believe; what do you think?”

In July, I meet with him. I have a stupid question, and I say that to him. “I have a stupid question.” After he hears it, he agrees with me; it is a stupid question. He doesn’t quite call it that, but we laugh and he gives me twenty minutes, letting me babble, asking me questions about myself and my family and why I’ve come here and not anywhere else. He’s a nice man. I tell him he’s not what I expect of a priest and he laughs at that also. He is not insulted. He is a cross between Father Mulcahy and Sheldon Cooper. I don’t tell him this.

I never paid attention to Jesus as a child or really up until the point that Job sent me to the church to meditate on one or two desperations. I pay attention now. There is a life size Jesus nailed to a wooden Cross in the chapel. I’ve never gone up to it, so I really don’t know, but I think He’s life-sized. Sometimes, I will have a thought of agreement or a question about my own faith and I can feel him looking at me.

I look back, but He hasn’t moved.

So many things between then and now that stand out in my mind.

A few weeks ago, the priest, Father J. came over to me in the parking lot, put his arm around me, and asked, “Are you Catholic yet?” I laughed and I think he thought he made me uncomfortable, but the only reason I may have seemed uncomfortable with the question is because I’ve become more comfortable with Jesus. I could never say his name in prayers at all, and if I spoke about him in passing through my life or as a topic of conversation, I’d cast my eyes downward as if I weren’t supposed to talk about Him; to keep Him hidden from my life.

The question hit a little too close to home, but of course, he couldn’t have known that. I’ve never expressed a desire to convert.

I have been thinking about it, though. I’ve only barely mentioned it to one person, and I’m still trying to have a conversation about it. To my logical mind, it seems the next natural step.

I mean why am I still going to church? What does it mean to me? Was it just a place to hang out while I waited for me to piece my life back together? Why the church and not the temple? That question is actually easy.

I knew they would welcome me.

And if not overtly welcome me at the beginning, I knew that they would not turn me away. I know that I can speak to the priest as a convert, as a non-religious person or as a Jewish person. He would see me, and he would support me, and I know this, not because he said it, but because I just know it.

Most of my life I’ve had that simplistic view. The very literal, whatever will be, will be. I worry. I angst. I get terrified and I fret. But I always fall back on everything will be alright.

And overall, that is Father J’s message. Every sermon. Here is what Jesus did. Here is a story from my childhood or someone I know. Here is what they did. Here is what I’d recommend. Now, go forward, and with Jesus’ help, everything will be alright.

You don’t have to believe it. You don’t have to say it out loud. But it will be alright, and I’m here to help.
Back to Christmas Eve.

The church was packed. Every seat filled. Every space for standing filled. I’m given a program and I greet the Father. He is surprised and happy to see me. He takes my hand and squeezes it. I think this is the most intimate thing that can be shared with someone not your lover. It’s only the second time I feel this surge of love from someone, agape love. He leaves his greeting space and finds an usher, telling him that I must have a seat. I insist that I do not need a seat, and I greet the usher. The look on his face says what I am already thinking, has the priest even looked into the sanctuary?

I put my hand in front of me in a stop sign motion so the Father can’t see and I tell the usher, no, it’s fine, there are others who need to sit. The usher laughs and puts an arm around me, thanking me for understanding reality. A second usher has missed this exchange and has convinced a man to give me one of his saved seats.

I am in the very last pew. The church is dim. Lights are off, but there is a light over the altar. There is a nativity scene that I can’t really see. All the altar cloths are now white, changed from yesterday’s purple. There is a large Christmas tree covered in white lights above the choir, who are singing one carol after another. There are wreaths with white bows filling every empty space on the walls that don’t have statuary. There is such a sensation of true Christmas and I feel the emotions surge up from my soul.

The procession began, and the choir began to sing Silent Night. The churchgoers joined in, as did I. This is the first time I’ve sung this song in its entirety, including Jesus’ name in the song about his birth.

This is a very musical service, and I love it. I’m very busy looking around, pleased that I know the Mass well enough that I don’t have to wait for the others to give me my cues. I know when to stand, and am thankful when the Father tells everyone that because of the numbers, we are to remain standing rather than kneel (which I still do not do).

Many people leave after Communion, although the church is still quite full. When the Mass is ended, I approach the Deacon, shake his hand and wish him a Merry Christmas.

I wait patiently behind an older man to speak to the Father, just to briefly wish him a Merry Christmas. I am happy here. I am surprised by my level of comfort. I reach out to shake his hand, and he doesn’t hesitate, he puts his arm around me and pulls me into a hug. I inhale deeply of the feelings this brings on, and I almost burst into tears from the emotion of it all.

I’ve decided to meet with him after Christmas.

This is such a difficult decision; I don’t even know if it is actually a decision as much as an exploration and I hate how much like a politician that sounds like. I feel as though all of these spiritual feelings are a betrayal of many. How will my family react? As it is, it’s causing marital issues. My parents are gone, but I still feel them. I wonder if I’d be so adrift is they were still here to guide me.

I’ve been trying to talk about so many of these feelings with someone, someone who can talk me through it, to be my soundboard, to be my advisor, to hold my hand, the only one I can actually speak to about this.

But this desperation, this loneliness doesn’t matter as much as Christmas Eve Mass, which was magnificent on so many levels, not the least of which was spiritual. It was the first time I celebrated a Christmas Mass; the Mass of Jesus’ birth; the beginning of his life on Earth. It’s so profound; so big; I almost can’t fit it all in my heart.

Unrequited Love

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The only unfulfilled love I’m willing to talk about openly is writing. And the realization that the love affair will never be reciprocated hurts just as much as that first time someone came out and said, “I like you. I just don’t like-like you.”

Writing will never like-like me. I’m too old, and it’s not that I’m too old as much as born at the wrong time – the non-generation. I’m not a baby boomer. I’m not a Me. I’m too old to be a Gen-Xer. Or Y and Z for that matter. I missed the computer age – I didn’t even have a computer until I got married and I was forty-one before I actually owned my own – a laptop, which took me a year to finally use with any kind of regularity. My kids know the VCR as the machine next to the TV that has never worked.

I read Julie Andrews autobiography recently. She grew up in the fifties, and I was sad to discover that her voice is my voice. That’s how I write. Very formally, describing how the leaves rest on the rooftop, narrative on top of narrative with very little emotion unless it’s purple prose. I write like someone who grew up in the fifties, only I have no story to tell. My parents weren’t alcoholics, I did not overcome drug abuse, I wasn’t abused or molested. My parents sent me to college. I lived at home until I got married.

This non-generation of girls was expected to grow up, be prim and proper, but still know everything, go to school, college and be anything you wanted, anything boys could be even President of the United States. At least until you got married and had kids and in that order. And when the kids were in high school you could go back to work because women were independent now.

You can’t be a writer. A writer is impractical. And they drink. They don’t have two nickels to rub together either.

Get a degree and then you can write.

Get married. You can write later.

You’re still young. You can’t wait to have kids. Writing will always be there.

Well, guess what?

Writing didn’t wait for me. Writing found someone else. Writing computerized. Modernized. Writing grew up, and changed with the times where it needed to. More do it yourself. More travel. More health care and fitness. New writers came along. Younger and prettier and having seen people like me get left behind knew just what to do to keep up.

Writing won’t ever come back for me, and I just can’t catch up. My writing is tired and old; timid. Like me.

My best friend, like any good friend, pushes me towards the love that got away, prods, challenges, shames, but he can only push so far. I keep my hand on the ledge. I don’t know what’s down there. I lean over, but I can’t see very far, and what I can see is dizzying.

What if I fall?

What if I catch up to writing and I’m just not good enough? Staying back and wondering is better than being rejected again, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

Sandy Hook

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I’ve had the television off all weekend. I heard about Sandy Hook in Newtown, CT on Twitter and then got on my smartphone and started googling. I got my information during the weekend from USA Today and Tumblr on my Kindle. The television stayed off.

On Sunday, I had to tell my kids about what happened. Surely, someone would mention it in school on Monday, and I wanted them to know that they would be safe even if I wasn’t sure I believed it.

I told my middle son first – he’s older and more fretful. He would have the most questions and the most logical solutions. I was afraid that his logic would take him to staying home. He was okay, and for a short while, so was I. And then my daughter sat down with us. I looked at her and started to speak; to explain to her what I had just told my son, and I don’t know why I didn’t realize it on Friday, how these things happen, we hear them and we immediately dismiss them into our multi-tasking minds of so much nonsense.

I looked at my daughter as if I had only seen her for the first time at that very moment.

She’s in first grade. FIRST GRADE. The same age as Charlotte, Olivia, Ana, Dylan, Madeleine, Catherine, Jesse, James, Emilie, Jack, Noah, Caroline, Jessica, Avielle, Benjamin and Allison. Three quarters of the children killed are my daughter’s age and grade, and I didn’t realize it until Sunday night.

I couldn’t’ speak. I almost couldn’t breathe.

I sent them to bed intending to watch the news for the first time, but I didn’t. I kept the television off. I kept the computer off. I sat in the quiet, not doing anything really, numb and thinking back on the violence that I’ve been on the periphery on; violence that’s affected my life recently. I should say indirectly, but while I haven’t been physically assaulted, I do feel that I’ve been directly affected; emotionally definitely, becoming proactive in some ways and withdrawn in others.

Within the last two years, I’ve received a phone call that my best friend was shot, his roommates murdered. There were 3AM phone calls and a move for him. In several things that I recall and write about, I’m a little surprised at how many begin with ‘my friend who was shot last spring.’

In July, I spent an intense morning in back-and-forth-have-you-heard-from-is-everyone-okay phone calls and text messages after the Aurora, Colorado movie theatre shooting and had to keep that from my son, the Batman enthusiast. That weekend we still went to see Brave. I couldn’t help but to look around at the exits, knowing the best way to get out of the theatre, scrutinizing my fellow moviegoers in a sad is this what our society has come to way.

On Friday, December 14th, while my children were in their school, where I think the security is lax but am often chided for being overprotective and paranoid, I had to wait quietly for them to come home as the families in Newtown waited to hear about which of their children were murdered.

Twenty children.

And I think it could never happen here.

I thought that about September 11th.

And May 7th.

And now December 14th.

These are no longer just dates on a calendar. These are moments when my life was touched by violent death.

How many more are like me?

I worry about my friend in Israel and our friend, the State Trooper but now I need to worry when my kids go to the mall or the movies; or to school?

Last week, there was a shooting in a mall in Portland, Oregon. My first thought? Do we know anyone in Portland? Who should we call?

There’s a sigh of relief. No. No one we know. And it’s already gone. We’ve moved onto the next one.

No one will be moving on from Newtown.

Sandy Hook is September 11th for those families. And for the rest of us, it is something that we can, and should not, ever forget.

Next week is Christmas.

I can’t wrap my head around it.

My daughter is in first grade just like all of the murdered children.

We have to make 2013 safer for our kids, for our friends, for our families.

It won’t just bebetter; we need to make it better.

Starting now.

Curry Chicken Salad

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Curry Chicken Salad

This is my own recipe based on The Fresh Market’s list of ingredients:

Ingredients:

1 cup Mayo,

1 TB + 1 tsp. Sweet Curry Powder,

Scallions, 1-2 stalks,

1 small box Golden Raisins, about 1/4cup,

2 TB Mango Chutney,

2 1/2tsp. Chopped Pecans,

Fresh ground pepper (I did five turns with a pepper mill),

Chicken, cooked, cut into cubes (in the picture that goes with this, the chicken is cut much smaller than I would have liked) – about 2 cups is what I used; with cubed it may come out to more if you’re actually measuring it,

Water chestnuts, drained – about 1/8-1/4cup (I just grabbed a handful and diced them).

Mix 1 cup of Mayonnaise and 1 TB + 1 tsp. Sweet Curry Powder and set aside.

Most of the rest is to taste.

Cut up chicken and put into a separate bowl.

Add diced scallions, chopped water chestnuts, a handful of golden raisins, 2 TB of mango chutney, about 1 tsp. of pepper (put in however much you like for your own tastes), 2 1/2tsp. pecans.

Mix with a fork.

Add in the mayo mixture and mix again, then add more until you have the desired consistency. If it’s too wet, add more chicken or solids like the scallions and water chestnuts, etc. If it’s too dry, add more of the mayo mixture (you should have a little left over.)

Election Diary and Recovery, Part 1

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I’ve been quiet overnight and since the Election Results.

Obviously, if quietly, I am ecstatic that the President was re-elected. I truly believe that of all the candidates who stepped into the field this season that he was the best person to do this important job.

It is more than a job. Just like my position as a parent, there are things that the President must do for all of his citizens, whether he likes it or not, whether fair to everyone or what’s best to some at the moment, and this President has shown over and over again that he is willing to compromise and have people in his own party be against him to do what is right, and I hope the Republican politicians learn something from this.

It’s hard to say. I will say that Democrats tend to be more diverse, and less divisive, and that is one of the reasons that we discuss things more and argue and don’t always agree, but still remain together and open-minded. And that is probably the best thing about being a Democrat.

I can talk about my views on reproduction and mental health and marriage equality, and I can listen to your views on those issues whether you agree with me or not, and at the end of the day, we can logically discuss and even debate issues and still remain respectful and friends.

I’m not going to get into any issue here. I may write a longer piece about my specific views, but that is for my family (read: siblings), and if I post it here, I will just let you know so you can read or avoid.

 

In the middle of Mass I was hit in the head with ideas that I’ve been looking for for weeks for a new online thingy. I’m going to get that worked up today.

As for Nano, I’m not doing exactly 50,000 words for the month. For one thing, I started late. For another, it’s daunting and I’m ready for motivating and inspiring, but not daunting. I’m going to set a goal of at least 1000 words per day and to take the pressure off, I’m going to write them as scene vignettes of what needs to be in the story and then weave them together into a semblance of a continuing story.

Today, I do need to do my workshop submission for their journal first and start the cutting/pasting for the Cookbook.

 

Something I will leave you with that kind of illustrates some kind of electoral gap. While the returns were coming in, I was on the phone with Andy, and MSNBC had projected the President as being re-elected. As with the last election, I gave Andy the good news. The President had 274 electoral votes and Governor Romney had 203. It was over. My husband was dancing around the living room (and actually, not that dissimilar to four years ago), and in my ear, Andy was saying that it’s not over, there’s nothing official, the President’s Twitter, his Tumblr have nothing, don’t get too excited, it’s not over. What is your husband doing? Stop that. My son is yelling from his bedroom the exact same thing – it’s not over yet, stop cheering, it’s not over yet. There is no confirmation.

Andy observed that the two people ‘in the room’ who were under 30 were not convinced that the President was re-elected until the social media weighed in, insisting that we wait for confirmation.

I didn’t need confirmation – it was right there on my news channel in big, bold, red, white and blue. FOUR MORE YEARS.

After about a minute more of this discussion, Andy ‘confirmed’, as did my son that Twitter had finally made it ‘official’ and the President would have another term. And then Tumblr exploded.

Confirmed.

I think my response was that it was nice that the youngsters caught up with the old folks with our old fashioned news outlets and teletypes, but we had our President almost eight minutes earlier.

My plea to the masses, my begging of friends, please, please, friends, please, do not let social media drive and drag us apart. Use social media to bring our two sides together. It can be done with a little faith. 😉

*tongue in cheek* And now, I go have a chicken salad sandwich and begin to write.

Day 1: Retreat

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Cool wind on my face as I step off the porch. Fall leaves swirl all around me. Deep breath. And a smile. What a difference one year makes. And so it begins.

This is what I tweeted/facebooked when I walked out of the door first thing this morning. It was a wonderful feeling. At the moment, I’m attempting to organize my six days of writing. Of retreat. It’s funny, that word: retreat. When the military use it, it’s a bad thing, but when an artist or a writer or just a vacationer uses it, it’s a special occasion, a special time to rejuvenate, to reinvent, to be reborn in something else, someone else. The English language is a funny thing.

So begins my retreat. Or whatever it is. I still can’t pinpoint what I’m doing. I just know that I miss my writer’s conferences. I miss the creativity that fills me from my friends. I miss the poking and the petting that I need, but am so afraid to ask for. I miss the feeling; a feeling. I miss Wales. Actually, that’s not true.

I long for Wales. In the Fall, the hiraeth is strong, so strong. I even enjoy when my friend E talks down about his hometown near Bangor because then I can extol its virtues and the top one hundred reasons why he should also love it too. I know deep down he does, but it’s his hometown and he knows all of its intrincasies, which are boring and sheep filled.

Last year, I went to Denver and got some of this. Plotting a trip for spring perhaps, but this year, I can barely afford to go to Starbucks, but I need something. Not want.

NEED.

I’ve decided to give it to myself. I still have appointments. I still have bills. I still have family obligations, but I’m spreading MY TIME out among the next two weeks and if I can manage my goals, you will be hearing about most of it (some of you more than others), and at the end of the two weeks, I’m hoping to have a foundation for the next year to carry me through with more goals and successes and growiing and journeying down this path; this seemingly new path that has always been a thread in my subconscious that I’ve followed haphazardly.

I’ve planned the family’s menu for this week and done the grocery shopping this morning after Mass. About fifty dollars. I may or may not be home for dinner, and my husband and teenage son will be in charge of cooking. I’ve packed the freezer with waffles for breakfast and I’ve promised not to leave before all the kids get on their buses.

I have also, believe it or not, labeled all the boxes and wrappings of the food with the day of the week that they’re supposed to be eaten on. I thought my husband would be insulted that I did that, but it thanked me. Hopefully, our daughter will stay away from the cheese until after grilled cheese night!

So meals are planned.

Shopping is done.

There will be a lot of introspection and reflection and the things I’ve lost and the ones I’ve found in the last year, but especially in the last ten months, and always harking back to the good and the lessons learned and who I am today rather than who I never was.

Today, I’m at the library in a quiet corner by the window. There is a waterfall, and a frog and trees of just the right color and height (that’s a joke – if you’re reading this in the future, Google: Romney, Election 2012, it might still be amusing).

Today, I organize and plan and prepare. There will be index cards and workshop homework and creating a new blog and a dedicated Facebook page.

I will get back on track for my self-imposed assignments and all the while, not so much finding myself as becoming myself.

Writer

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Some nights are spent settling into the dark, recalling the day’s thoughts, finding that subconscious place, and when the sleep begins to take me at that moment my body sinks deeply into the mattress, the fragment, the inspiration comes to me. I spend the next hour with the image on repeat, words quietly, almost silently recounted as if in prayer until it’s committed to memory. I feel the twitching, fingers shifting, flexing, but this place is too delicate for movement. It’s like when your hand brushes against a silken spider web. Jerk your hand or move too suddenly, the web turns to mist beneath even the smallest touch and it’s gone. This idea is like that. The wrong move, my husband’s snore, a car’s headlights in the window, and it’s gone forever. It’s a tired place; the kind of tired that is even too tired to grab the notebook from the bedside.

Yes, I sleep with a notebook and a flashlight next to my bed, and every damn time I forget to bring it up is precisely when I have these kinds of ideas that can never be remembered on the way to find that elusive scrap of paper as the thought turns first to a spider web and then to dust.

Why do I do this?

I’m a writer.

It’s only recently that my writer’s mind has shifted to where I think I want to be, but facing what’s been holding me back is almost as hard as looking at the blank page, much like I’ve been staring at it for the last couple of hours. I know that if I didn’t give myself this deadline, the words would flow, and I’d turn around in an hour and have two thousand words on what happened last night in politics (Mitt Romney won the Nevada caucus in case you were wondering), but I’ve put so much pressure on this one essay and on the outcome that it’s blocked what I want to say.

What I want is to write, but when I do, I hold back. I parse every word, every syllable, hoping to find the courage, but only finding procrastination, and when it passes from one day into the next, I talk myself into a new deadline. Procrastination puts off not only the work itself, but the rejection; the comments that don’t say what I want them to say or not enough petting to get me to be consistent in the output of my work. Do people really want to read it? It almost doesn’t matter.

Weirdly, the fear of being rejected is always there, but while I want people to read and want more, most of the time, I don’t write for others. I write for me. If I don’t write, I die. It’s that simple.

If I don’t write, I die.

And while the fear of rejection is always there, always ready to rear its ugly head with I told you so’s and you’re not good enoughs, it still doesn’t matter. Well, of course, it matters, but I still write. I can’t not.

And now with three kids full time in school, and the proverbial mid-life crisis crushing me, I’m reminded that it’s time for me to get a paying job, and that is quite literally the last thing I want. It’s always easier finding what I don’t want, but the one thing I do want is to write. I want to share my voice and my experiences. I want it more than ever; want to do it and get paid for it, and the question isn’t can I, but do I have the stamina to? Do I have the kind of stamina that can answer the question, what do you do for a living and answer boldly, I write; I’m a writer? And can I do it without casting my eyes downward with an embarrassed shrug as if to say, I’m sorry; I’m a writer. Do I have the kind of stamina to put out quality work and face the rejection and lay myself bare to the world, a world that is not the one I intended on being a part of forty years ago when I began this writing journey?

Writing has been with me since a very young age. I’ve always had journals, stationery, fancy pens (because everyone knows you need fancy pens to write anything). I carry notebooks everywhere because some ideas do come during the daytime. The one idea that no one else has; the one that would set my writing on its way and if it didn’t fit into my pretend fictional life, it would be good for that magazine article that I’m not writing or that book that’s not getting published. I had a notebook, still do come to think of it with all my false starts, all my half stories, opening paragraphs, marketing ideas and notes.

I thought I had all the time in the world. That’s what I was told.

Writing will always be there.

Writing wasn’t useful, was it? Being a lawyer was useful. Being a teacher was useful. Being a mother was useful. Writing is a fun hobby to do in high school or through the summer or when your studies are finished. Go to college. Get a job. Have a career. Get married. Have kids. Do this first. Do that first. You can always write later.

Writing would come later.

I don’t know if anyone actually said this to me, or if I ever said it out loud, but it was there in my mind; clearly. I believed it.

I believed that I had all the time in the world. When I wrote my first embarrassing self-insert Mary Sue fan fiction for The White Shadow, I had no idea there was such a thing as fan fiction. I had a crush on the actor and really, really, really wanted my pre-teenager self to be part of the show, and so I was. At least in my little black marble composition book.

After that, and all through high school and college, I created wonderful characters for Dungeons & Dragons, and gave them elaborate back stories, almost always non-Human because what fun were Humans anyway? Top Secret lent itself to Monique Jonquille, a French spy, not that I knew anything about that, and of course, as the photographer for 100 Club, a pretend opening act for Duran Duran who also wrote on the side, I wrote. Even in my pretend fantasy life, there wasn’t enough courage to actually be in the pretend band with pretend instruments. Someone had to stand in the background and take the pretend pictures. Someone had to write the pretend press releases after all.

And that’s how it went. I was an almost writer, carrying my notebook, listing names and places and quotations and funny ideas, but nothing of substance, and everything I have still is really nothing of substance. Through it all, I assumed my paralyzing procrastination would always serve me well. It wasn’t procrastination; it was perseverance. It was practice. It was becoming a professional. I wrote and I honed and I re-wrote and I edited and in the end, it was a perfect example of writing and dryer than the paper it was written on. I went to seminars and conferences and despite no published credits aside from a favor and a self-published chapbook, I was still a writer. Because I said so.

That was okay, though. Real writing would come later. This was as far as I could put myself. If I put myself too far out there, I might get rejected and rejected was bad. Getting rejected wasn’t part of the plan in my head.

All the while I thought I was writing and planning things perfectly and getting ready for just the right story and the perfect submission, I turned around and discovered that while writing will always be there, a writing job might not be if I wasn’t willing to change my outlook.

The print media, which I’d really trained myself for has mostly gone away. Yes, there are still many newspapers and periodicals, but there are so many actual professionals to write for them. Even looking at a magazine like Newsweek, which is now part of The Daily Beast, an online magazine, and everything’s consolidated and everyone else is so much better, not to mention that some writers write for free for, and how do I break into that as a nobody, which I am in so many ways? How do I change everything I thought I was working for and become what’s there now?

It’s almost too much.

Almost.

I don’t want to be afraid anymore.