A Life Full of "Isms"

Everyone has an "ism".  Skepticism, realism, optimism, pessimism, cynicism...sarca..ism....

You get the point.  We're all prone to SOMETHING!  Being prone to that something gives us our "ism" and makes us an "ist".

Today I found myself doing what it is I always do: Talking.  I am a chatty Cathy doll with a pull cord in the front so I can yank that thing whenever I want and yammer on all day.  On a good day, this is an endearing trait to most people.  Those around me have come to understand how I operate and they let me be.

But when it comes to my "ism", I'm quite the confusing "ist".  I blame logic.  I WANT to be an optimist, but am enough of a realist to be a pessimist.  The way I see it....

I'll tell you that glass is half full, but warn you to be careful because at any moment someone could come walking carelessly by and knock that glass to the floor....where it will shatter into a million pieces.  I will then tell you to stop crying over spilled milk, because I warned you this could happen in the first place.

I recently was given some good news.  That half full glass smiled at me like there was no tomorrow!  Unfortunately, tomorrow came, and I knocked into that glass all by myself.  It is currently falling to the floor. It's either going to shatter, and I will clean up the mess I made, or someone will catch it just before it reaches the bottom and all I'll have is a bit of liquid to mop up with a paper towel.

I don't know which will happen yet (though you can bet I'm banking on the shattering glass), but while ho-humming over this rather depressing incident, I received some good advice from my darling father (I'm paraphrasing)

"What good is worrying about whether or not the glass breaks until it's broken?  You're just wasting time wondering what's going to happen when the glass is on it's way down - you can't do anything past this point until you know the fate of the glass.  Better to keep your chin up and know I'm proud of you."

Those words were like gold.  In a world full of isms, I was offered the chance to choose which "ist" I wanted to be.  Yes I can take bets on what the outcome would be, but it wouldn't control the outcome any better than if I pretended I'd never dropped the glass.

We get so caught up in what could happen, that we forget to enjoy what's happening RIGHT NOW!  I heard myself talking about that stupid glass today to a friend of mine (who of course, can't do anything about it either).  When I realized what a DOWNER I was being about my good thing that, overall, WAS a good thing, I wanted to slap myself (Chris, if you read this I apologize for my Debbie Downer act).

My life is fantastic! I am blessed beyond measure!  There are bumps in the road, sure, but I can't dwell on them.  Sure, someone might knock over the glass, and I warned you they might, but cleaning up the shards isn't so bad (as long as you're careful with the shards).

I'm hoping I'm not alone.  Tell me, have you ever gotten so caught up with a "falling glass" in your world of "isms" that you didn't realize there was a table, chairs, and cupboard full of other glasses in the kitchen with you?






For the Record:
Optimism - That glass is half full and practically bolted to the table!!!
Pessimism - That glass is half empty....broken...already shattered on the ground....(Eeyore)
Realism - That is a glass.  There is liquid in it.  If I bump the table it will fall... if I pick it up I can drink it....so really it's all up to me.
Skepticism - The glass looks half full, but I bet it's half empty.  I bet they didn't even poor it for me anyway.  Might be poisoned. 
Sarca--ism---Nice glass.  Really quaint, the way you filled it straight to that middle line.  No, no, I was only kind of thirsty.  *Drinks glass*  Mm..ambrosia.

The Happy Dance

Writing takes a toll.  I've lately been fortunate enough to be introduced (electronically) to two Karens of the published author world:  Karen Akins (in the process of being published author of Loop) and Karen Amanda Hooper (author of Grasping at Eternity and Tangled Tides).  Both are amazing women that I feel blessed to have gotten a nod from in this perilous world of writing.  I want to publicly thank them here for their kindness and assistance in making MONSTROSITY that much better (one of them doing so by just reading a page).  If you've got the time...check out their books! (Ms. Akins when it comes out in 2013).

I'm also considering changing my name to Karen.

Jokes.

But the purpose for this blog is the Happy Dance.  It's time to happy dance, because I have finished writing a book.  I've done it before, but have you ever told a woman who had a baby that her baby isn't all that special because she already has two other kids?  No.  She feels just as awesome when it comes to the new baby as she did with the first.

So there it is, another child ready for the world.

I love my job.

Now it is time to query...well...query later; happy dance now.  Dance with me! A.D. CHICKEN DANCE!

Paint Splattered Shoes and Rejection Letters

Currently Listening To: Carry On by Fun.

Rejection letters:  Every writer faces at least one. Almost all writers face dozens.  My writing friends have their stacks, and I have mine.  We've joked on having competitions of who can get more.  

The truth is, jokes aside, rejection sucks.  Getting that letter means all your hard work isn't enough for that agent/publisher.  But rejection letters toughen our skin, give us the right kind of calluses, and force us to look at our work and see what we can do better.  

My Mushrooms from Halloween

I have two pairs of paint splattered converse.  One pair, a light blue pair, is dotted with the paint I used to adorn three beautiful three dimensional mushrooms used for our Halloween event.  These came naturally.  I put in the work and was rewarded with shoes that are no longer what they were originally - however, the paint adds something fun to them.

My other pair of shoes are black converse splattered in blue paint.  Not real paint, mind you, but pain decal. That's right, these shoes were BOUGHT with a paint splatter design.  It required no work from my end to get these shoes to look the way they do.  The hardest part I had was entering in my billing information, as I ordered them online.

I love both pairs of shoes.  I wear my black/blue pain converse all the time (my light blue ones are old, so I wear them less).  

Yet when I think on these shoes, and when I look at them, only one pair reminds me of the work I've done. (The other ones remind me of Texas Roadhouse peanuts, as the first time I ever wore them I went there and got peanut shells all over them).

Purchased with Paint

Do you ever feel that way?   About the work I mean, not the peanuts.   Fashion forward comes with a lot of rips in jeans these days.  While this isn't as extreme as it used to be, there are still pairs of jeans sold with pre-made rips in them.  This adds a rugged look to your pants, but let's be honest...those pants you ripped a hole in the knee in while sliding in the grass to catch a rogue kick-ball are way more rugged in your mind.

You EARNED that rip in your jeans.  Just like I earned the pain splatters on my light blue converse.

Life is like that sometimes.  Like a black-eye.  You earned the right to wear a badge of honor.  You throw yourself into something with such passion and vigor, and while you end up with paint on your shoes or holes in your jeans...you also walk away with  three painted mushrooms or the winning catch in a make-shift kickball game.

As a writer, I feel this way about my rejection letters.  I have a whole inbox file full of them.  They all say the same thing.  "No".

They are the rips in my jeans.  They are the paint on my shoes.  I haven't completed the project yet, and I haven't won the game.  Not yet.  Right now, the holes in the jeans of my publication journey mean that the game is not over yet.  But when it is, I'll hold my rejection letters like a trophy.  

They will be proof I was worth it to someone.  A stack of people said no, but one person saw something worthwhile and said yes.

The triumph of winning is only sweet when you know the bitterness of defeat.  If you've never lost - or never been rejected - you won't really know what it means to win.  You have to be willing to risk the defeat and the loss to get the prize.  In everything.  This isn't just about your "dream".  It's about life.  This is big.  It's about giving your all for something you believe in.

That's what I'm doing.  Every day of my life.  I'm risking it all in order to get the grandest prize.

Let's be honest...I'm not talking about publication.

1 Cor. 9:24

Buck Up. Move On.

Failure is reality.  It's a part of life.  I'll be the first to say--if there's anything I'm really good at, it's failure.  Right now you're thinking "Cool. Now why are you telling me this?"
Because--I'm currently struggling with one of my bigger failures of my personality.

I call this the "Suck It Up Initiative."  It's one of those things that was outvoted by humanity and can never be publicly accepted.

Truth be told, I'm an overly empathetic person 99% of the time.  It's obnoxious, really.  You cry, I cry.  You laugh, I laugh.  You mad, I mad.  No, that isn't proper grammar, but I don't really care.

While my empathy can be an occasional burden or bumbler(sobbing for no reason when someone else is upset), it more or less puts me in touch with those around me and keeps me caring about mankind.  My heart goes out to those who are happy, hurting, angry, sad, in love, allergic, and crazy.  It doesn't really matter; I can be like you and feel what you do if I need to, and both of us will feel good about it.

Sadly, my empathy crashes and burns when it is supposed to give way to my sympathy.  Sympathy should show up when empathy isn't possible.  After all, if I can't put myself in your shoes and feel what you feel, then I should be able to understand and acknowledge a hardship (or a joy) and comfort or advise.  Generally, this should work.

But some sort of failure (there's that word again!  I brought it back around!) in my system has my arms folding across my chest, my eyes narrowing, and my jaw clenching.
This is generally a localized subject, and even in that subject there's an even smaller sub-type to which I lose all traces of kindness.

Hence being such a defect.
What is it, you ask?  Oh, I'll tell you--or else why do I ramble so!

Subject: Self-Pity.
Sub-type: Public self-pity.

Funny thing is, I'm human!  There are bound to be times in EVERY human's life where they experience self-pity.  I am by no means an excpetion to this rule.  Yet, even when I myself face this wallowing chasm of despair (whoa is me)  I have the same, apathetic reaction.

Buck up and get over it.

I am the one person in this world I cannot offend beyond repair.  You can't offend yourself, really.  So I don't find it offensive to realize I'm sitting feeling sorry for myself and to tell myself to get over it--life goes on!  People have faced worse!  Grow up!

However, through much trial (and even more error) I learned this wasn't an acceptable practice to use on other people.  The dominant logic portion of my brain simply didn't understand.  The golden rule is "Treat others as you would like to be treated".
Well, I treat myself all right, and I tell myself the hard truth!  Doesn't everyone want to hear it? Bluntness be damned?

Nope.
Human beings don't appreciate an outside voice saying something as harsh as this--regardless of when it is "truth".  I myself don't want to hear someone else say these things most of the time (though sometimes it's just what I need.)

I ponder this because of situations which faced me today.  The first was a friend seeking advice.  Her situation made her wonder if she was a "horrible person" for not being someone's right hand (hard to do when you live in different states).
That's when I started thinking about this failure.  The person she felt she was being less than awesome to was getting far better treatment than I would give.  I would tell my friend's friend to "Buck up. Move on! Get going with life! Don't revolve around this or that and expect different results!"

The second was a much more public form of self pity.  Praise the Lord in Heaven for people kinder than I.
If left to me, I would have said something I'd have to apologize for later.
Which is why I'm here, writing obscurely, instead of saying exactly what I think should be said.  Especially after someone who is wallowing in self-pity attacks another who is just trying to be loving and nice.  Watch me turn into a monster then.  I'll take them out.

We all have our flaws.  I have several--thousands, quite possibly!  I should never be allowed to judge.  Yet this flaw is present in my mind.  This flaw is fighting against my restraints holding it back.

But the truth is:

Sometimes we just need to buck up.  You can't be coddled forever.  Take responsibility and make your choices as best you can.  I have failed NUMEROUS times this week--but did I feel sorry for myself?  Yes, for about one minute.  Then my brain said "Wallowing won't fix this mistake.  Get up and take care of it."
 Don't sit and feel sorry for yourself when things go poorly--what, and I mean WHAT will that accomplish?
Is it helping anyone?
Is it making things better?

No! Never! Nuh uh!
Self Pity is a one way ticket to Whinersville Poutakota.   I don't have the right (most of the time) to tell you to stop feeling sorry for yourself.  But someone in your life does--and I hope they tell you.
All you're doing is hurting yourself and the others who try to show their love for you.

Sometimes we have to grow up.  Face the facts.  We can't be children forever.  Put your big boy pants on and get on with life.

Don't make me tell you to cry me a river, build a bridge, and get over it.
We all fail.  We all fail.  We all fail.

It's part of life.  We're human.
Buck up, apologize if you need to, and keep moving forward.

Seven Weird Nothings About Little Old Me

It seems I'm under attack.  By attack I mean I've been "tagged" in a chain-mail type blogger fiesta.  You see, chain mail no longer comes in the actual mail.  Nor does it come in email form, warning you of the dangers or deleting.  My favorite back in the day was when they threatened of a little girl who would come kill you at 12:17am exactly because you didn't forward it to 50 people.  I never did, and I never died.  Or rather, if I AM dead, death is a lot like life.

But I digress.  These chain mails of old are now chain posts found in the lovely Social Media and Text Messages.  You know, the ones that say you aren't really a Christian if you don't re-post it?  Because Jesus requires you to post statuses in order to get into heaven.

I'm digressing again...

My darling Blue Monkey Cohort Stephanie (From The Glitter Globe) has endangered me by fancily drawing me into an intriguing and rather hilarious version of a chain blog forcing me to tell YOU 7 things about myself that nobody would ever care to know.

Stephanie was threatened with her ears falling off if she didn't abide, and in turn she threatened me with only being able to use the left portion of my space bar.Funnily enough, I wouldn't consider this much of a curse as I primarily use my left thumb to hit the space bar, so I would only partially notice.  Anyway, I'm ranting again.  It's late, I'm tired, and I should probably have saved this blog for another day.
Oh well!

So, to avoid the Space Bar Curse, I am going to tell you Seven things you probably don't care to know about me.  Here it goes:

1.  I remember numbers--especially meaningless numbers.  I can't help myself.  If I hear a number and it needs to be recalled, I can almost always succeed.  Be careful with your SSN around me...
2. I have "red white and blue" disease.  This means I have poor blood circulation to my hands and feet; they often turn red, then white, then blue as they get colder (and they're almost always cold).
3.  I also have vasodialation, so essentially my blood flow is TOO good to my face...which turns red at the drop of a hat.  Doesn't matter if it's hot or cold out, if I'm embarrassed, sad, bored, happy, or mad.  Random fluctuations of red face.
4.  My medical oddities stand no end: I run a couple degrees cooler than the average person.
5.  On a more than occasional basis, I become over expressive and act out everything I'm saying.
6.  When I was born, I looked so much like my father everyone was worried what kind of woman I would be (I grew out of it)
7.   I own an Irish Blackthorns walking stick, a pocket watch, a Robin of Loxley dagger, and a green bow and arrows.

All right.  My turn is up, and I'm sure all of you are SO THRILLED to know such exciting things about me.  Well now it's someone else's turn.  That's right, I'm playing along.  Here are some other bloggers I feel should tell me unexciting things about themselves.

What will happen to these people if they fail to comply?  Oh, well Stephanie thought she was being cruel when she said we would lose the use of the right portion of our space bars, but Stephanie doesn't know cruelty.
You don't follow my rules, you will be cursed for Seven (7) weeks with Feather Brain.
What is feather brain you ask?
Anytime you need to remember something (like, your story perhaps?), your brain becomes as blank and light as a feather.  Nothing holding weight or substance.
MUAHAHA!

Tag, you're it: If you want to see their blogs, click on the links!
Devin--The first Monkey I met
Andrea the Warrior
Donna--Mama Monkey with the Funky Jungle Dance
Karen Akins--Just read her Blog the first time today
Garrett Heidi, the curious composer
Jessica Mama Bear Hanson
Andrea Johnson, the optimist 

Perception: The Two-Headed Monster

Perception: the act or faculty of apprehending by means of the senses or of the mind; cognition; understanding. (As defined by Dictionary.com)

If you and I stood side by side and watched an argument unfold between our friends (a close friend of yours and a close friend of mine), we would walk away with different perceptions of what occurred.

We saw the same thing, heard the same words, and yet upon retelling the story, our personal biases will change our perceptions.


I will see things slanted one way, and upon retelling my story it won't sound like yours.  Sure, the same words or actions may appear in both, but the intent behind them will be observed differently.  My perception of the argument--the way my senses apprehended things--will be vastly different.

It happens all of the time in eye witness statements.  They will describe the burglar in an armed robbery in so many different ways that the police have no way of narrowing it down to one identity.
"He was short with blond hair" one will say.
"He was medium height, brown hair, and a mustache."  Another will be sure.

Who we are and how we see the world changes our perception of our surroundings.  There are two sides to every story; how you tell your side of the story depends on your perception of the proceedings.

Today I delve into the idea of the two-headed monster.  Ironically enough, it comes back to my recent theme of words.  Our perceptions don't really matter to the rest of the world until we voice them.  I can feel one way about something, but if you don't know then you can't be offended, pleased, outraged, or capable of changing it.

I'm currently positioned more or less on one side of a Two-Headed Monster.
I'm not going to go into details about the heads or who belongs to which brain.  That's not my style.  This blog is for others to read and glean a nugget of wisdom, comedy, or human frailty--not a place for me to rat out friends and acquaintances.

But when we find ourselves attached to one of the Monster's two heads, how do we proceed?

Do we openly air out our feelings?  Or do we bottle them up and hope the war dies down?  Is there a blood bath?  A calm before a storm, or sudden explosion?

Regardless of how we take on the Two-Headed Monster, we all face it from time to time.  Ignoring it simply spreads gossip and descent.  Whether you're one of the heads, or watching the two heads duke it out--the Two-Headed Monster is alive amongst us all.

How are you going to keep it from ruining your relationships?  How do you remain impartial?
Do you remain impartial?

I'd like to say I do--I'd like to say that, just as with Spock, logic always wins out.  But that isn't the case.  I'm a human, with human emotions; I have a tendency to show bias and be blind.

But I do know one thing:
If I bottle up my feelings, never tell, never complain--how could I ever expect my situation to change?

Type. Type. Type. Delete...delete...delete...

Only last night I returned from a vacation with a group of friends to Vegas.  Truth be told, Vegas is not exactly my cup of tea.  I enjoyed my time there with my friends, had several laughs, bought a few cute things, and gambled away 5 whole dollars, but if I never went back I wouldn't have lost any quality of life.

One thing Vegas is AMAZING for is people watching.  Talk about the baseness of humanity.  My interactions and observations with several drunkards left me with a new perspective on our inhibitions.  It make me think.

I recently started revising one of my novels.  I don't love revision--it's not my favorite part.  I know several writers who adore the revision process; it's where their juices start flowing.  Not me.  I was not blessed there.  The whole choosing which words to stay, how to phrase and structure, and strengthening.  Blah.
But in Vegas, I started wondering about how we as humans edit ourselves.  A drunk edits nothing--this I learned.

What would happen if we were handed a transcript at the end of the day of our thoughts, words, and actions?  Written out, just as an author writes our for his or her character, in third person objectively.  How would we see ourselves?  Reading my own thoughts on a page, knowing my latest eye roll is permanently inked, or reading the superfluous amount of words I used in conversation (I'm chatty).

How would I feel?  How would you feel?

And what happens if I am required to then give this transcript to another person so THEY can see what I've done with my day?

If I observed this day's worth and went back to edit/revise the way I do my novels--what would I take out?  Obviously I would kill the use of words such as "like", "that", and "um".  I would clean up my bratty actions and unkind thoughts filled with language I wouldn't dare say aloud.

But that's the thing.  All of it is now out loud.  By putting something in writing, we force even our character's private most thoughts to be seen (and heard) by all.

Doesn't it make you feel a bit gross?

You can argue "my thoughts are private".  But they aren't.  Not really.  Everything comes out into the light eventually, and God hears it all.

So what do we do with this knowledge?  Well, I write this blog, and you read it.
Then we go back to our days as though nothing is different.

We still think ugly thoughts about people: hateful, lustful, greedy, jealous, base.
We still say an inordinate amount of words: Like oh my gosh!  So then anyway...(Why do we even need so. then. AND anyway?)
We still make rude gestures and faces at people when we think they can't see.

The only difference between a drunk man and a sober man (or woman) is the drunk is less discrete.  He/she announces the thoughts they might've kept private (hateful, lustful, giddy, stupid, complimentary or otherwise).  They aren't capable of hiding the eye roll or look of disgust.  They slur their words, but still talk incessantly.

So if the only difference is that you don't SEE and HEAR my disgust, but I still think/feel it...how am I any better than a drunk?

And how do I walk away from this blog and keep the lesson I've learned?
Talk less--listen more
Less physical attitude--practice patience and love
Less negativity in my thought life--more prayerful compassion and understanding.

Now what are you going to do about it?