Plucked Swan

There's no easier way to say it--single men make me crazy.  They make me wish I was married so that I didn't have to deal with them anymore.  To be free of their games and their ability to break hearts would be a dream come true.  I'm lucky I've got Jesus.  Truly, when my heart takes a hit, I find it soothing to step back and say a prayer of protection and healing.  I always feel better after that.

But what about those poor single girls who haven't got what I've got?  They're still trapped out there, alone, being mistreated by men.  Don't get me wrong, women do their fair share of mistreating--but as I'm a woman, I only know of what being on this side feels like.

I posted a blog a few months ago titled "The Ugly Duckling", and I won't reiterate all that I said there, but I do believe that blog and this blog are connected.  I may often feel like the Ugly Duckling, but every once in awhile I get a glimpse of the Swan I'm told I can be.

Well, if you take a swan, pluck it down to it's bare skin, and chuck it out in the cold--ain't going to be so beautiful anymore is she?  She's going to be ugly, cold, and vulnerable.

Guys do that to girls.  Many a time they have no idea they've done it.  Words cut so deep, and they aren't careful in their choosing.  Example: I hate being referred to as "sister" in any respect by all of my guy friends but one (his is a reference to "Arrested Development", and I love that show).
When a guy calls me "sister", in almost any context, it says to me "Hey, I don't find you attractive or desirable at all!".  If a guy were interested, or thought you beautiful, why would he refer to you in a way that likens you to him in the least romantic way possible?  I mean...ew! Who has any interest in dating their sister?

A friend called me that last night.  It was like a slap in the face.  It doesn't help that he's cute and smart, so what I view as a complete brush off stings a bit more than it normally would.  It clicked the cogs into high gear, effecting a spiraling chain of thoughts that every girl who reads this post will nod at it understanding.

We just can't help ourselves.  We take everything literally and break down every syllable of conversation to discover "hidden meaning".  Even when we KNOW we are doing it, we can't help ourselves!  It's part of our makeup.

So the wheels are turning, and I'm offended.  My cute, smart, generally sweet friend has wounded my pride and tugged unceremoniously at my heart--and he hasn't got a clue that he's done it!  Now, I had/have recently been thinking more on this cute smart friend then was probably wise, so I will take the blame for being more offended then I might've any other day.

But already, I'm either the Ugly Duckling or the poor Plucked Swan.  My self worth has dropped.  This was one of those guys that I hadn't considered "Out of my league".  He seemed like the type of guy who might ACTUALLY take an interest in me for once.  And yet, here I type, shaking my head at my own foolishness.  And for that matter...his foolishness.

Because, you see, I do NOT believe myself to be beneath him.  Nor do I think he is beneath me.  So I feel very conflicted: Offended because he'd be lucky to have me; Upset because maybe he is too good for me; Annoyed because I'm thinking about any of it at all, and finally Amused, because I think I'm just that crazy.

Girls are crazy.  I laughed at myself last night, despite the negativity of my feelings.  What right do I have to his attention or affection?  Regardless of whether or not he's above, beneath, or right at my level--who cares?!  If he is the guy God intended for me, then he'll right that mistake (eventually) and life will go on quite pleasurably.
If he isn't, then I will find a new guy to unknowingly offend me and send me off on another completely pointless tangent.

Remember the poor plucked Swan?  Feel bad for her?
Don't.
She's currently picking up her feathers and honking at any mocking passersby who dare think she's any less strong just because a well-meaning fellow said something stupid (she'd fall apart daily, otherwise).  She doesn't feel defeated, nor does she run and hide.  She's standing brazen for the world to see, daring them to make fun of her silly tangents.
She's got some gumption, if she does say so herself.

Moonstruck by a Good Read

I'm staring out one of the tall glass windows that makes up my work's very glass eccentric building.  Directly in front and above me is the moon.  It's slowly disappearing behind one of the ledges of the window.  Yet I know in only a few more minutes it will appear in the window directly under that.  When it's gone for good, I will no longer feel this special sense of peace.  Like this moment is just for me--as I sit in a place where  I am alone, and no one else can see what I see.
It's momentarily hidden from me, but I can still describe how it will look when it appears again.  It's a half moon, though it's cut diagonally and not straight across horizontally or vertically.  Even being a half moon, it is still in such a state that I can see the three dimensions of it.  Gloriously round, even if part of it is fading into shadow.  It lies against the bright blue winter sky, teasing me mid morning.  I don't know how long it will stay, but eventually it will disappear until tonight.

But oh, how I love the moon.  The sun and I have never really been friends.  I don't appreciate heat, which I attribute to the sun (even in the winter).  I'm a fan of light and all, but there's something wonderfully mysterious about the moon.  I find I enjoy the night far more than the day.  I like to write in the evenings, not the mornings (which I am right now disputing by writing this blog at all, but it's a preference, not a necessity).
It's strange that I love the moon, and yet when I wrote a book about the daughter of both Sun and Moon, it's the Moon that is my less favorite parent.  It's her personality--and I can't help that: It's how she was long before I wrote her.

Last night I finished a wonderful book: Flat Out Love by Jessica Park.  I enjoy finishing books at night, when the moon is high.  Flat Out Love was wonderful in so many ways.   I didn't appreciate the use of some words, but that is how Jessica wrote it, and I cannot change that.  The story was interesting, romantic, and intriguing.
I LOVE a good romance story IF it is a part of a bigger story.  I don't generally jump for just romance--there isn't enough there.  Flat Out Love isn't just some love story.  It's a story hidden within a much more intriguing story about a very strange family's hidden secret.


Honestly, the book was so good I don't want to give anything away.  All you have to know is that the MC, Julie, ends up staying with the family of her mother's old college roommate after her housing falls apart when she moves to Boston for college.  The Watkins family is quirky, to say the very least.  Each of them has their own strange idiosyncrasy.  The Greatest of these is Celeste, the 13 year old daughter: She dresses like she's 9, talks like she's Data from Star Trek, and carries around a life-size cardboard cutout of her oldest brother Finn (the counterpart of which is traveling in exotic countries).

Celeste is the real mystery--why she is the way she is.  I can begin to recommend this book enough.  It was such a wonderful read that tugged at all the right emotions at all the right times.  The ONLY problem I had with this book (besides some un-fun use in vain of The Name--which is, sadly, everywhere) was that one of the key characters reminded me of someone I knew.  I learned to late that picturing my acquaintance in my head when reading about that character was a BAD idea.  I can get over that though.

Alas, the moon has left me--gone into hiding where I can no longer see it.

And so ends my morning's musings.   Read the book Flat Out Love.  Then read my book someday when it's published.

Pop Tarts and Power Rangers

Love them or hate them, Pop Tarts are a part of my generation.  To this day, a Strawberry Pop Tart will throw me back in a fit of nostalgia.  For some reason, that flavor holds that special trigger in my memory.  I generally lean toward Cherry or Cinnamon Brown Sugar if I'm actually going to eat a Pop Tart, only resorting to the Strawberry if I'm starving and need a quick snack.

And yet, even now without one anywhere in sight I feel that memory of childhood.  Something about the smell and the sight of multicolored dots dancing over a bed of white frosting casts a spell of warm thoughts and feelings about the days of old.

That feeling of nostalgia--no matter what brings it--is always something I appreciate.  That sudden sensation, like a phrase on the tip of your tongue, that you can't quite grasp specifics but know the emotions regardless.  Our brains are such hubs of information, and certain scents, tastes, and textures can send us spiraling back to yester-year as we hop along the rabbit trail in order to sift out a clearer picture.  There's something about not being able to succeed.   There's something in that inability to fully remember exactly why this trigger matters to you.

Specifics about the Pop Tart don't rush back into my thoughts.  Instead, I'm surrounded by images and pictures about life when I was a child.  I'm not that old--it isn't a far leap.  Yet I can remember watching the Wonder Years (almost a decade after they'd originally aired).  Sensations of summer and my mom's daycare--the friends I had then that I haven't spoken to in the fifteen years since we moved to another part of town.

One of my favorites from my days of Strawberry Pop Tarts is the memory of watching both Barney and the Power Rangers.  I had no idea that these two shows occurred early in the morning.  To me, they were prime time.  My mom--the angel that she is and was--recorded both shows daily so she could set us down all together in the afternoon to watch.  The young ones (we children in Kindergarten) watched Barney before the older kids returned from school.  One of her favorite stories to tell is the tale of our reaction when we discovered Tommy had become the White Ranger (Power Ranger Buffs know exactly what I speak of).
Apparently, we reacted much like my father did when the Broncos won the Superbowl a few years back.  So much yelling, shouting, and hugging--there were probably even tears.

I still watch Power Rangers every now and again--I still love it dearly.  I love the way I remember it, and I also love the way I see it now.  I can see the how they were almost making fun of it when it first started, and I wonder how much the actors laughed at themselves after each take.  But more than that, I see how they didn't just get a group of young twenty somethings to play high school kids--they hired a group of athletic and talented individuals to do their own martial art stunts.  That probably is what impresses me most as an adult--they weren't famous, but they had skill. 

The next big kick from Barney to Power Rangers was, undoubtedly, Harry Potter.  However, as Harry Potter has been such a large part of my life growing up, I think I will reserve a later blog to fully discuss such a wonderful topic.

Sometimes I miss being a kid--I miss the simplicity of it.  Being an adult is hard work.  I enjoy the knowledge and experiences I have, but when I remember the glories of nap time,  I often forget about the joys of an 8-5 job.  However, I will say that I love my driver's licence and won't part with it for anything.  As always, my thoughts have followed a jumbled confusing bumbling trail that undoubtedly leads to Underland.



 To think, all these thoughts were inspired by a Pop Tart.

Long silent

Snow has reached us, and I'm wondering if that means Fall was over before it began.  We had summer heat riding all the way through September and even sneaking into a good chunk of October.  I sure was looking forward to that in-between weather, but as long as Summer is gone, I don't care which season is waving at me through the windows.

It feels kind of strange to think that I've been quiet on the blog front for about a month.  October brought insanity into my work life, and I hardly had time to think let alone write.  Truly, since I finished my last novel I don't think I've written for even two consecutive days.  It's been splashes here or there when I've had both time and energy to think.  But now October is over, and I am smiling at my favorite time of the year.

You see, most people enjoy the holiday season.  I revel in it.  Christmas and Thanksgiving are some of my favorite times of the year--and my fun starts before those even arrive.
My birthday is about two weeks before thanksgiving (depending on the year), and I'm one of those individuals who is always excited to celebrate.  Lately a book about love languages has been brought up around me on almost a regular basis--by several different people.  My love language (my own definition, I haven't read the book) comes in two folds just as everyone else's does.  To show love, I'm a giver.  When it's someone's birthday, or just a Tuesday when I happen to find something perfect for them, I love to give them a gift that is filled with thought, time, energy, and when I have enough...money.  I like to see the look on someone's face when I have catered a gift to them, not just thrown something generic that I could have stuck any name on and it would have sufficed for a dozen different people.  Even when I have no clue and give a gift card I make sure the place is specific to the person.  I never have understood how people could hand someone like me a gift card to Lowes and think it was a smart idea.
With that in mind, I've had to do a lot of thinking on what my love language is when it comes to receiving.  I thought I had it pegged--at least in terms of what the book might've said.  However, the more I've thought about it, the more I've decided it's almost something a bit more.  I've done this thinking because in the conversations where this topic has come up, I've been very good about picking out what ISN'T my love language (I think anyone can succeed at that).

My love language is NOT touch.

I don't enjoy being touched.  My space. My bubble.  When it comes to family and close friends I enjoy hugs and playful shoving or pats on the shoulder, but when it comes to acquaintances, guys trying to flirt, and complete strangers I cannot stand being touched.  If you're a guy whom I find attractive you MIGHT be able to get away with it once in awhile.
It bothers me most when it comes from men.  I'm not one to show public displays of affection with gentleman I am dating, and so a gentleman I have no desire to date attempting to show affection by continually tapping me on the arm to get my attention generally is barking up the wrong tree with me.  Now, I know what you're thinking..."Tapping you on the arm to get your attention?  That's a bit extreme for you to be thinking that's showing affection.  Aren't you vain and full of yourself."
Well, yes, that would be the case IF the man in question didn't tell me "My love language is touch" and then proceed to jab me in the arm every time my attention wavered to the girl I mentor with whom I was having a conversation...first.
I'm being snippy.  And mostly unfair.  Sadly, this is what space invasion does to me.  The quickest way to put me on guard and make me uncomfortable/uneasy is to be a Male I don't know very well and find a way to physically interact with me more than once in a conversation.

While this stood out to me like a man streaking through a well publicized soccer match, the truth about what my receiving language was remained hidden.  Now, without reading the book, I've decided for myself what that language is.

Acknowledgement/Reciprocation.

I just deleted a slew of paragraphs explaining what this means, but then I felt it sounded too whiny.  Basically, what I do for someone else, I want them to be thankful for it and be willing to do the same.

So it seems my first jump back into the blogging world is silly nonsense about my love languages.  However, if you're trying to get to know me better (or just happen to be a friend wondering what I'd like for my birthday) then maybe this could be of some help.
If you are a passerby, I hope this blog thoroughly amused you, what with my rants and sideways tantrums about the things I do and do not appreciate.

Do you know your love language?  Do you think it's important to know?
I'm not sure knowing mine makes much of a difference, except maybe to say I now understand why I might feel more slighted than another might in the same situation.

Dueling Desires

I'm often of two minds.  I find myself saying contradictory things more often than I'd like.  The problem is, a lot of the contradictions are true.  Like a starburst candy, I seem to be two things at once, but without one of the contradictions I wouldn't be who I am.

I'll start here.  I live in a smaller city.  I live at home in a very comfortable arrangement with my family.  I don't pay rent, I don't buy groceries (unless I choose to).  I'm pampered and spoiled.  I love my family, and don't want to leave them.  I see no reason to spend money to live on my own in Chardeau when I am so happy where I am.

Yet.

I want to live on my own.  Not just on my own...I want to live in Ireland, England, or New York. Okay, less New York than the other two.  I want to be somewhere and apart of something else.  I want to go to my adorable stone cottage home after running to the market, plop down my bags, and sit at my quaint little desk to write.  I want to have friends with accents I would die to have, but also have a place where when I get back it's just mine.

But.

But I don't want to move.  The money, effort, change, fear, and lack of true commitment mean I don't go to these places I want to go.  I have a job, a family, a life, and friends.  I don't want to drop them all to go off and live in a place where I'd be lonely and probably cry myself to sleep nightly.  So then, I can't go alone.  Therefore, I can't live alone.

So you say to me "Don't go to live there, then.  Save your money and go visit there with a friend.  That way you aren't alone and yet you still get to go to these places.  Better yet, make it a long vacation and you'll get to feel like you really did live there."
Then I get to my next contradiction, which is more of a conflict.

I love vacations and being somewhere else.  I thoroughly enjoy being in a new place and experiencing the way they live...especially if I can be there long enough to feel like I'm a part of that world.  In Hawaii, I love the easy feeling of walking most places.  I'm not huge on the Ocean, but I like knowing where places are.  When I was in the South, I enjoyed the different layout of the land and seeing the older more colonial buildings.
When (yes WHEN) I go to Europe, I want to spend enough time there to know where the local cafes and best restaurants are.  I want to be able to stay in a flat, not a hotel.  I want to someday know what it's like to feel like a New Yorker.

Except.

I HATE TRAVELING!  Or perhaps you could say traveling hates me.  It seems there is no way for me to travel that I walk out of feeling good.  I get carsick, airsick...seasick if the boat is small enough.  I've never traveled by train, so I don't know how I would handle that one.
I don't do well in circulated air or gross food (which is all you have when in airports).  The longer the flight the less likely I'm going to be a happy (healthy) camper.  The destination is almost always worth it, but a big reason why I've never been further than Mexico (by boat) or Canada (by car) is because I don't want to take the 24 hours of travel (by air).
I know I couldn't fly alone.  I'd be far too miserable.

So how am I ever going to get to these places if it takes a day to recover?  I guess I'll just have to plan an extra day's vacation.

Last. For now.  I want to get married.  Surely and truly that's something I've always wanted for my life.  I have never seriously thought that it would NEVER happen.  I may have had times where I didn't want it, but I always assumed it still would.  As a matter of fact, I'd much rather be married sooner than later.  I'd rather have that person in my life at a younger age, and to have several years together until we decided to have kids.  That way (in my head this makes sense) I could still be a younger mom.  I don't want to have my first kid at over 30.

However.

There are so many things I want to do!  I want to travel. I want to live on my own *eventually*.  I want to be successful enough to support myself.  I want to be published and supporting myself through my writing.  My heart cries out for adventure, for fun, for a LIFE!  These things are things that, yes, could still happen when I was married.  However, the likelihood of me taking these risks, jumps, or adventures when I have to consider the cost it would take on the love of my life....well...I'm told it's less likely.

So what do I do?  I have all of these dueling desires in my heart crying out for satisfaction.  I don't have the money to make any of the travel happen...so I suppose that's out of the question (my heart breaks a bit).  I haven't a boyfriend, so I'm not too concerned about marriage getting in the way of anything yet....but then again, I don't have a boyfriend, so marriage is still a far way away for me (aw, sad).



My brain is broken, but, you know what?  I kind of like it the way it is.  I want these things.  I truly want them.  All I need now is the motivation to make them happen.  I've written two books (plus some) and that takes plenty of motivation.  If I can do that, I can find a way (and a friend) to Europe.  I can figure out a way to end up in a cottage or a flat instead of a hotel, I CAN get what I want.

I just have to figure out how!

An Ode to Sam

Critics.

I've been thinking a lot of critiquing and critics today.  I've found most people don't have enough heart or positiveness mixed into the corrections they have for writers.  By all this, I do mean amateur writers and amateur critics.

New writers want readers.  They scour, beg, and annoy many friends and family to find the people that are willing to read what isn't ready to be read by the world.  My family read my first book, and they'll listen to me rant and rave, but not many of my family members are really "readers".  I was born devouring words, and they have other hobbies.  I love my family just as they are and never would change them, not even to make them more interested in reading.  

My older sister reads what I write, but I refuse to take her opinion as honest.  I constantly am telling her she's biased, and therefor what she says doesn't count.  I think I frustrate her :).

I've had a few readers in my lifetime, though even less have actually finished a book.  Out of those readers, as helpful, hurtful, or pointless as some were, only one really stands in the place of "critic".

This critic is the only person I've ever known who can speak the harshest truths without me feeling defensive or angry.  He can tell me he hated a chapter and, while sometimes that makes me want to cry, it mainly just makes me want to be better.  He read my first two books---books, I might add, that were complete trash.  He stuck with me through them and gave me the feedback I needed at the time.

My critic, Sam, has been known to me for nearly my whole life.  We grew up a year apart in the church, and I've always known who he is.  Sometimes our paths cross as friends; others, as acquaintances.  He's one person who I could sit and discuss books with for hours, though what else we might talk about I wouldn't know.

Sam hasn't read in some time.  He's a busy young man, as I too am busy.

Today is my lament and my praise at once.  I lament that Sam is busy, but I say thanks for all that he has done for me thus far.  

I was pretty stubborn when I started writing--grossly so.  I wasn't going to change anything until I had an agent, and editor, and a publisher.  Then THEY could tell me what was needing changing, but they'd better accept me while it was still no good (I didn't realize it was no good).

With each rejection letter, I grew more discouraged and depressed.  My friends and family liked it, why didn't an agent?  It wasn't until I gave up entirely that Sam, unknowingly, brought me back to writing.  I'd told him I wasn't really interested in the story any more, and though he didn't know it, I'd grown weary of writing as well.  Sam's response was to tell me that, if it meant rewriting the whole thing to keep me telling the story, he would read it again.

Those words gave me the strength to do just that.  If Sam--my bluntest and most calloused reader--was willing to reread it all over again in hopes of it being better, than maybe others would too.  And maybe, just maybe, I would actually write something worth selling this time.

I rewrote both my first two books.  Have I sold them? Nope...

Has Sam read them?   

Nope.

In this moment, I expect those reading this are confused, angry, or amused.  No matter what you're feeling, I am  not upset that Sam never reread them.  As I said--he's busy.  What matters is that he pushed me forward.  He gave me the truth no matter the cost and he kept me from giving up on my dream.

We all need Sams in our lives.  We need that person that is not so close that they are biased or their words hurt, but not so far that their indifference chafes.  Sam is the type of person that you know just well enough to be honest with, and that person with you.  

Writers need Sams.  Without them, we'd never be willing to try again.

So thank you, Sam, for all you've done.

This is the only photo I have of both me and Sam.  The best part, if you don't know us, you'll have no idea which ones we are.

Stumbling Down Memory Lane

It's Friday.

Today I tripped and fell down memory lane, but the flashback wasn't one of my finest hours.  Moments like these make me wonder if they happen just to remind us not to be what we once were--or perhaps it's some sort of torture device the enemy uses to get inside our heads.  All in all, this memory really isn't that bad.

A blue monkey friend of mine posted on a group in facebook.  That's what started the colossal tumbling.  She'd had her little writer's heart punched by an individual who didn't understand.  When she laid who she truly was out on the table, the response she received was "oh....okay...I don't get it." or "It's confusing".  

Those are harsh words to lay in the lap of an individual who wants understanding and support.  For the most part, those are two things I have.  Most (if not all) of my friends and all of my family back me on my desire to be a published author.  They love me, and when they need to say the rough things, they know how to say them in love.  But that isn't always how it works.

My friend reminded me of what I'd faced once...a time when my reaction to the criticism wasn't pretty.  It was shameful to see how my defenses rose and I proceeded to act like a small child.  Albeit, I was only 18...not a very mature age from all those I've known to see it--myself especially.  I (foolishly) placed my heart on a note in Facebook, it was the first chapter of my first complete draft of my book.  This was my mistake.  You do not take your first born child to the (creepy) beauty pageant and expect the critical judges (with no children of their own) to think your child is as beautiful as you do.  Bad analogy..I hate those beauty pageants.

Regardless, I placed myself in a very vulnerable position.  My friends responded as they saw fit.  I don't agree with how they said everything, though looking back I agree with much of what they said.  It was my own fault for not expressing my vulnerability to them, so that they knew to "handle with care".  Instead, they spoke blunt harsh truths in well written paragraphs, tearing each strand of resolve and strength away from me--they left me bleeding on the floor with no doctor or medic to keep me alive.  It didn't take long for me to snap, tears filling my eyes as I made my replies.  These returns were all right in the beginning, with little marks here or there that screamed "Ouch! Okay, thank you, but no more".

But that wasn't enough for the slaughter to stop.  My friends, not seeing these signs, continued.  They kept tearing my firstborn to pieces in front of me.  Shredding my little darling and calling him ugly.  I got ugly myself, snapping back at them and forcing them into retreat.  They tried to apologize, tried to make me understand.  It was too late, I was already broken--they'd already murdered my child.

At least, that was how I saw it at the time.  Now, I see that they thought they were doing what was required of them--they just answered with their brains and not their hearts.  They left the feeling and the care for me at the door when they embarked on their comments--which really isn't a large crime.  They treated me with business when it was a matter of family.

Looking back, I found myself ashamed.  Sure, they'd hurt me, but not intentionally.  They hadn't set out with "let's make Kelsey cry" screaming in their hearts.  They'd only wanted to help.  Almost all of what they said, I eventually realized (much much later and without remembering they'd said any of it) was right.

I'm sure they saw me as ugly that day.  I'm sure they were offended by my harsh words and ready to fight action.  Fight or flight?  Fight please...too bad they thought they'd been invited to tea.

How silly we are.  I wonder how mature I am now.  In three or four years will I look back on this blog and laugh at my immaturity?  Will I think of how silly I was to think well of myself even in the slightest?  Do I think well of myself?

Flashbacks such as these always leave me feeling down on myself.  Too bad we can't change the ugly in our pasts.