Different New Year Resolution & Why Writing Makes You Healthier

Did you know that of those who make resolutions (45% of us) only 8% successfully achieve them. For more fun facts and statistics click on this link:

New Year Resolution Statistics and Fun Facts

THE POWER OF IMAGES
 
This year, I found a different way to approach resolutions. In my Christmas stocking, Santa left my annual  Marilyn Monroe calendar. (Isn't he a sweetie to remember what I want?) When I saw January's photo of the great MM, I knew how I would use the image.

Look at that expression! All joy and hopefulness. I'm using that image for my 2015 emotional rudder. She’s lit up and gorgeous, isn’t she?

TO MAKE NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS OR NOT?

Ok, some of you feel compelled to make resolutions. I understand. If so, read this post. I think it will help. Oh, and btw, it's ok to change your resolutions, refine them, ditch them, or even map them out over time. Whatever works. Just remember: be good to yourself, be kind, be reasonable. Ask yourself, would you want your son or daughter or mother or father to make resolutions like yours? Can you really achieve that? Or do you need to break that massive resolution (Publish a novel!) down into doable parts (write a chapter a month).

Resolutions Best Served with Humor

WRITING TO FEEL BETTER? YOU BET! PLUS, WRITE TO HEAL FASTER. NO KIDDING!

For those of you who don’t consider yourselves writers, I have news for you. Maybe you should try it. Not for publication, heaven help you, but to increase your life span and improve mental health.
   
In a 2005 study on the emotional and physical health benefits of expressive writing, researchers found that just 15-20 minutes of writing three to five times over the course of the four-month study was enough to make a difference.

Another study proved that wounds healed faster and cancer patients improved the quality of their life. Here’s a link to one article about the studies:
Science Shows Writers Have a Serious Advantage Over the Rest of Us

Grab one of those lovely journals or, if you hate messing up a lovely journal, a pad of lined paper. Dabble, scribble, pen your thoughts, your dreams, the ideas that you never want anyone else to see. You’ll be amazed when you let go of that perfectionist streak that keeps you from being messy. Face it! Thoughts are messy.

When you’re not worrying about what other people think about your writing, you don’t have to contain, perfect, or edit what you write. Just gloriously stream-of-consciousness get it down on paper. Or in the sand, on a wall (yours preferably), or across a roll of brown wrapping paper. I’ve written on napkins. (No to phones or laptops. You have to connect directly with pen, crayon, or pencil with any other surface.)

Wow. Doesn’t that feel good?

WINNERS OF NADINE GORDIMER & PD JAMES NOVELS

Congrats to Tonya Rice who won the Nadine Gordimer collection Life Times  and to Judith Watt who won the detective collection that includes PD James. What a great way to start the new year!
Hugs to you all,
Valerie

Coming Up! 
Sitting is the New Smoking: How to convert your writing space for a healthier you

My Disappearance

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I have always disappeared in one way or another. The history’s there; I just had to write this blog to discover it and understand why. 

My family lived in New Hampshire in a small ranch house across the street from Lake Winnisquam. I shared a bedroom with my sister who is six years younger. My brother, two years younger had his own room. The walls were thin, the commotion pretty constant, and finding privacy almost impossible. Dad used to tease me about spending so much time in the bathroom, the only room where no one barged in or bothered me unless it was an emergency.

I first disappeared into a typical pre-teen refuge, burrowing down after bedtime under my blanket where I would read or write in my diary by penlight with one ear bud plugged into my transistor radio. Even though I had school the next day I would stay up until one or two in the morning, leaving my parents dumbfounded as to why, when in the morning, I was so miserable to get out of bed. Sometimes my dad resorted to pulling the pillow out from under my head and yanking back the covers. One time he sprinkled my face with cold water. My escape was discovered one night when I fell asleep, the transistor radio cord unplugged, and rock-‘n’-roll woke my parents.

That was around the time the Beatles took over my life and I soon disappeared into a fantasy world with three other friends. We formed a secret club, each of us becoming “the bird” of our favorite Beatle and writing stories about our “luv” and then exchanging them. That only lasted until one of the parents caught Ringo’s bird passing a rather risqué story to John’s bird. We had to disband. After that, I didn’t dare write stories.

Next, I disappeared into my diary, filling it with a teenage angst pot of longing for love and someone to understand me, a place to help me figure out what to do with classmate troubles and old-fashioned, strict parents.

Then the summer after turning fourteen, I wrote in my diary that I’d fallen in love.

Because we lived on the opposite side of the road from the lake, we had to use the right-of-way at the west end to go swimming. That summer I met and fell for a boy from Boston who was there with his family vacationing in one of the summer cabins. His name was Bruce, but his cousin called him “Punk,” as I would. To my astonishment this handsome lad liked me. I kept him a secret as my dad thought all boys from Boston were “bad seeds.” Punk and I would meet and hang out at the right-of-way during the day and a few times we met in the evening to be alone. I wore peddle-pushers and a mod satin shirt with puff sleeves and twenty-five tiny buttons down the front. I wasn’t ready for the heavy petting. I only wanted to kiss him, and those buttons kept me safe.

After Punk returned to Boston without conquering that blouse, a few letters followed, but soon my first love faded away. My parents never saw the letters as I brought in the mail every day, so I was safe from discovery, or so I thought.

One night at dinner, Dad asked about the boy from Boston.

I can’t remember what I said, but I must have asked him how he knew, and he said, “You shouldn’t leave your diary out and open on your desk.”

I waited for some kind of punishment while I went from fear of discovery (Oh, my god, what had I written? What had he read?) to anger at this breach of my privacy. (What gave him the right to read my diary? And how could it have been open on my desk? I always lock it and hide it away.)

I don’t know what happened to that diary. I wish I had it now. After that, I only wrote notes to my girlfriends, poems, and school reports. For my escape, I started drawing and painting instead.

When the fights with my dad increased, I would retreat to the right-of-way and sit under the old tree where Punk and I made out. The roots that protruded above ground held me between them and I would lose myself in the cry of loons, the twinkle of lights from cabins across the lake, the smell of bar-b-ques, and the accompanying laughter and voices of other families that drifted to me over the water’s dark surface. I often took a book and could stay there for hours.

The day after my father committed suicide, I disappeared to the right-of-way, scaring my mother. But that house was too chaotic and filled with confusion, shame and grief. I needed to be alone, to cry, to settle my head, body and soul so I could return and carry on, although my heart would be damaged for a long time.

Life continued and changed many times, and so did my reason for and avenue of disappearing. Whenever life became too noisy and stressful, whenever I needed to escape trying times—the fear of moving to a new land three-thousand miles from home, the loneliness of being that far away with a three year old, divorcing an abusive first husband, the craziness of an out-of-control seventies and drug culture—I would lock the door of my house, hang up a do not disturb sign and paint or draw while listening to music. For days, I would do this, often having to tell those who stopped by, “Yes, sorry, that sign does mean you,” even when it was a new friend.

And here in the writing of this blog is where a memory brought an epiphany.

Kippy, a blue and green parakeet, was my first pet. I think I was around ten or eleven. He’d ride on my shoulder, poop on my cousin’s blonde flattop, repeat a whistle I taught him, and generally make everyone laugh. I fed him regularly, cleaned out his cage, did my best, which I admit, being a kid, probably wasn’t up to adult standards.

One day, after school, either my mom or dad forgot to bring home birdseed. Knowing that kids often don’t give their parents enough heads-up time about these things, I probably waited until the last minute to tell them I needed birdseed.

I walked to the local market and bought wild birdseed, the only kind they had. Just before dinner, as mom was cooking and dad was reading the paper at the kitchen table, Kippy started to choke. I took him from his cage. A sunflower seed was caught in his throat. I yelled for my mom and dad, raced to the kitchen with him in my hands, crying, as I watched my bird struggling and falling down. Mom continued to cook, dad read his paper. They looked over, but by the time they responded, Kippy was dead. I think I remember someone saying, "It was only a bird." Maybe not, but I heard it in my heart.

Something lodged in me that day, something that equates with how it feels to have something dying in me. I tried to feed my parakeet so it wouldn't starve, and I had the wrong food, so Kippy died. No one from the outside helped. And that’s what brought me to this conclusion as to why I disappear.

I believe that when creative people are threatened with the outcome of being a “starving artist,” it’s a way to discourage us from taking hold of our creative life. (My dad: “You are not going to be a starving artist; you will go to college to be a teacher, nurse or secretary.”) If you’re not being productive in the traditional sense, when you’re seen as selfish or self indulgent because you want to follow your art, your passion, then you're gifted a sense of guilt.

The real threat, however, is being starved of time, freedom and the opportunity to create. The real threat is not taking care of our true selves. The real threat is listening to that inner “guilt pusher” that says you should be doing something else.

In the past six months I have cracked a rib, had oral surgery, helped plan a big party for my mom’s 90^th birthday, gone to that party in Florida, returned home to the worst sinus infection I’d ever had, and during this time I had to make a decision: while I healed from these various health issues, I could concentrate on writing my novel or continue to take time from that writing and blog.

I took care of myself. I met with a few friends, but stayed home most of the time and was as quiet as I could be as I worked on my novel. I had breakthroughs. I had a-ha moments. I held myself in my hands and removed that sunflower seed. I fed myself the right food.

And the irony was, when I tried to blog in November, the universe slapped me silly. My blog feed would not work. No matter what I did, I could not get Feedburner to send to my email recipients. I didn't need a clearer message. I went back to work on my novel.

Since then, life has allowed a little time, and I switched my blog email feed to a reliable one. 

Hopefully, for those of you out there who have had a rough time lately—and I’ve read and heard many of your stories—I hope this brings some kind of epiphany for you, too. Even if you are not an artist or writer, you have a creative soul. We all do. 

Last year in January, astrologer Johanna Mitchell said about 2012, “It's a great year if you’re going to change. It’s not such a good year if you can’t find inspiration in chaos.”

My discovery makes me wonder if others out there have found themselves “disappearing,” or retreating, or whatever name you put on it. I wonder if you found your creative soul or true north in all that chaos and if you took the time to feed what was starving.

So much of our time is spent in trying to figure out what to do when we really know all along what we need; for some reason it seems counter-intuitive to care for ourselves. That’s when I go back to the context of “starving artist.” It all depends on who you’re listening to.

Hugs to all,

Val

Other blog posts that you might enjoy:

Enemies of the Art Part II--Psychic Vampires

Kristen Lamb's Blog

A Brain Scientist's Take on Writing

"Author Blogging: You're Doing It Wrong"

I think blogging is a wast of time.

 

Procrastinating Writers

"Get Rid of "Should" Once and for All"

The Intrinsic Writer

"They Call Me the Wanderer"

If your comment won't post, email me at ValinParis (at) earthlink (dot) net. I'll post it for you.

Save Your Writing Life: How NOT to Let Social Media Take Over—Part II

Part II --  Asking for help and making my biggest mistake,

sort of 

As you know from my last blog post, I was drunk with social media.

You know. Picture any Western where the cowgirl is stumbling from the saloon, looking happy as hell, yelling “Yippee!” and shooting off her gun. Too many saloons, too many drinks, too much time playing poker and having fun.

We all know what happens to her. She takes a header and lands face first in the dirt.

That’s what I did.

I felt foolish, stupid, out of control. Social Media was running my life, not vice versa. Kind of like when I was a smoker. The cigarettes controlled me, not the other way around.

More important, my writing suffered. I was writing maybe half the amount of time I had before, and I was finding it harder and harder to focus. I felt out of control. I felt like a failure.

But I don’t stay down long. I dusted myself off, sobered up and asked myself, “What do I need? How am I going to get out of all these saloons and get to work? What had other writers done?”

Asking for Help

I decided to call on members of my posse. They had to have made decisions about social media, hadn’t they? They had to have a plan? Or even if they didn’t have a plan, they had to have figured it out by now, right?

And it wasn’t as if I could drop it altogether. To have a career as an author, a writer has to have a presence on the web to build a readership and connect with those who will love the work. After landing a major agent, one of my critique group members was told by the agent she had to be at least on Facebook, Twitter, and have a website. She was told she needed to make herself known online—and that was before the agent went out with the novel. The agent even assigned an intern to help.

This is not a choice unless you want your book to die right after publication.

My Posse

I emailed four members of my posse for their advice:  Cheryl Strayed, Christina Katz, L.J. Sellers and Jennie Shortridge.

Cheryl writes novels and memoir, and if I have to tell you who she is, you’ve probably been living in the woods with Bigfoot.

Christina does just about everything and publishes helpful books for writers and mama-writers.

L.J. is a self-published mystery writer with amazing marketing chutzpah (and now has a big publishing deal with Amazon).

Jennie is a four-time novelist, queen of marketing (one of brains who created the Seattle7Writers), and her next novel will be out in 2013 in hardback, a triumph in the publishing world.

I asked them, What do you do online to give yourself a presence and why? Here’s what they emailed back:

Photo by Mr. Sugar

Cheryl Strayed, author of the novel Torch, her memoir and Oprah pick Wild, and Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Life and Love from Dear Sugar

            Here's what I do: I work the hell out of my Facebook page. It takes very little time to post links, comments, little bits of stuff here and there. I get tons of traffic on my page. I'm guessing most of those people, like me, have little time to read blogs or email newsletters. I think having a solid, active Facebook page does more for me than a blog or newsletter would.

Cristina Katz, author of Writer Mama, Get Known Before the Book Deal, and The Writer’s Workout.

            I do pretty much everything and update/upgrade every six months to keep up.

            I recommend creating a Wordpress.org blog that can serve as blog and a website. Go Daddy offers hosting for them.

            Typepad also can work as a blog/wesbite and would be simpler but I didn't care for their interface.

            I've posted a list on my blog of the things authors can do:  http://christinakatz.com/publishers-online-tools-every-author-can-should-master/

Jennie Shortridge, author of Riding with the Queen, Eating Heaven, Love and Biology and When She Flew

            With any kind of marketing, it's really helpful to see what other authors do, and decide which things you like or don't like. You'll only be successful doing those things you like doing, so choose for your own personality. Most marketing these days happens online, so check out authors' websites, Facebook pages, etc. With websites, you need a few key elements: about the author, about the book, order the book, events, contact/join mailing list, and of course links to social media and blogs. Readers really like having more detailed information, too, a "behind the scenes" look at the author and/or book they can't get anywhere else. I try to include some kind of background information about each book, and/or things inspired by it, like music or recipes. A lot of authors do contests and things like that to get repeat visitors, but I don't like doing that. To make my site more “sticky,” I put news and my blog on the home page, so that the content changes frequently.

           I use Maddee at Xuni.com to design and update my website. I provide her with the raw material: copy, photos, whatever. She works with my input, and I choose imagery from dreamstime.com, where you can download free images in the public domain. It's a great resource. I now send images I find there to my publisher to “show” my ideas for each new cover.  

            In addition to Facebook and (begrudgingly, Twitter) I have a presence on Red Room (which is really great) and to a lesser extent, Good Reads. I do more when I'm in promotion mode than when I’m between cycles, of course, but I try to keep somewhat current, just by posting something here and there or commenting on others’ posts. There is an old adage that if someone gets seven impressions of, say, a book (1. a review, 2. see it in store, 3. hear about from friend, 4. see author on TV, etc.) they will be more likely to want/purchase that thing. So it can’t hurt if they see you on Facebook here and there, or a review you wrote on Good Reads, or a blog you posted to Red Room. Speaking of blogging, book blog tours are wonderful. One good company doing that (among many) is TLC Tours.

            The other promotional methods that work well for me are reading events (not only the reading itself, necessarily, but also the promotion that goes into it, the stack of books that sits at the front of the store for an extra couple of weeks, and getting to know the bookseller personally), occasional email newsletters, and attending regional bookseller trade shows to meet lots of booksellers. Throw in a little radio here and there, a few reviews and profiles, some fundraiser appearances or writing conferences . . . it’s just really a big mix, and I’m always trying to think up new things, inside and outside the box.

L.J. Sellers

Author of provocative mysteries and thrillers and her latest Detective Jackson mystery Liars, Cheaters and Thieves.

When she started:

            The great thing about blogs now is that they’re so easy to set up, and both Blogger and WordPress let you create pages on your blog so that it has some depth like a website. And with sidebars you can create a newsletter look.

            I do e-zines only when I have a new release. But a lot of writers do them more frequently.

            Blogger is a good (easy) place to start if you just want to have a website presence and a place to express yourself and draw readers. Then see how it goes. Have fun with it.

Now:

            I’m on my third website design and I paid different designers for each version, spending more each time. But as my readership grew, so did the importance of looking professional and making a good impression. My website is set up in Wordpress and incorporates my blog, which is pretty common now. It’s so easy to update.

            I’m also part of a group blog, Crime Fiction Collective. And of course, I have several Facebook pages, and I’m on Twitter and Google+.

My Take on All of This

That was a lot to chew on. I liked what Cheryl did and would love to just work the heck out of Facebook. She went stratospheric with Wild so entered entirely different territory. But I didn’t have a novel to push, so I needed more of a presence online to show my chops as a writer.

Christina had great ideas, too, because she’s a writer’s writer, trying to help other writers with their marketing and management. She, however, markets non-fiction to writers, and that’s a specific niche. I read one of her books, Get Known Before the Book Deal, and used a few of her ideas, but I can't do them all, so I need to make choices based on my needs.

Jennie reminded me to do what I thought I’d like to do, not what I’m supposed to do. I loved all her advice. Jennie’s a wrangler; she could move a whole town from one place to another. I’m not like that. I need eight hours sleep, and I’m a slow writer. Her specific, helpful ideas made me think seriously about a blog.

L.J.’s another marketing maven and her best advice was “Have fun with it.” Her enthusiasm for a blog made me see how a blog would really help me as a writer of fiction.

My Analysis

These four authors were doing everything they could to connect with their readers. That meant they were doing everything I was doing and much more.

With their input and what I knew, I analyzed my situation:

·      First, why was I doing social media at all if I didn’t have a novel out?

o   To begin building my readership and get known online.

·      I had very good pieces in two anthologies, so could I direct readers there?

o   Yes, I needed a place to talk about them and start attracting readers.

·      I was on too many social media sites that were repetitive with business related info about publishing, agents, e-publishing, etc. Could I drop one or two of those?

o   Yes. There are only so many articles I need to read about those subjects.

·      If I wanted to reach readers, where could I go that would be better than just the blogs and groups that dealt with the craft of writing or how to get published?

o   I needed to be more focused on being active in reader communities such as Goodreads and Shelfari.

·      What overwhelms me?

o   My email inbox. Three of my social media sites have groups specific to a subject.

o   Much of my email was coming from those. I needed to unsubscribe.

·      What is the most important thing I should be doing?

o   Finishing a novel and getting it to my agent. Writing.

·      What would be most beneficial right now for me as an unpublished novelist?

o   Creating readers. Giving them a taste of my writing. Giving them stories.

·      What could create readers? How could I give readers a sample of my writing?

o   A blog.

That sounded like the best choice. And, because I was editing and revising two novels, the idea of writing something new and short excited me. Okay. All I needed was an idea for a blog and a focus, a blog name, and a schedule.

Soon I had my blog up and running.

My Mistake

Call me a nitwit. Call me dunderhead. Call me whatever.

I had added yet another social media item to maintain, and this one demanded not only daily maintenance, but creativity. (See Why I Haven’t Blogged in Over Two Months)

I did give myself credit for not working LinkedIn, dropping group emails, reducing my email inbox, and establishing a writing schedule, never mind restraining myself from reading everyone else’s blog and following every cool site they posted.

But now what? What could I do? I couldn’t just drop my blog. I enjoyed hearing from my readers. I enjoyed writing the blog posts most of the time. Plus, once I publish a novel, I’ll already be up and running and won’t have that to do.

But, everything goes back to that: finishing a novel and getting it published.

Again, the trick is to do the most important thing first—write.

The best way I can help myself do that is to keep social media sane and manage it. And I have found a way. I’ve developed a strategy.

For the next post, I’ll tell you what that strategy is and it's not necessarily about fixing my use of social media. Intrigued? Stop in for Part III.

How about you? Have you made mistakes and how did you fix them? Or if you haven’t fixed them, want some ideas on how to fix them? Do you have a social media strategy?

Leave me a comment, and I’ll even do a little counseling on your particular problem. Or if you prefer, we can brainstorm privately. I would love to hear outrageous ideas for managing social media. We’re creative aren’t we? Let’s blue sky!

Thanks for being there!

Val

Special thanks to my posse, Cheryl, Jennie, Christina and L.J. Plus, a big howdy do and thanks to Becky Green Aaronson who likened social media to The Wild West in a comment on Part I.

A few links to other good posts about this topic:

My Love / Hate Relationship with Social Media by Literary Agent Rachelle Gardner

Do Unpublished Writers Have to Blog? By Mary Kole of kidlit.com & Movable Type Management

COMING UP AFTER Part III:

Where I work. A photographic peek into my writing spaces.

A confession: What happened after my six readers responded to my novel.

Save Your Writing Life: How NOT to Let Social Media Take Over—Part I

... Or How to Make Choices about Social Media

A few weeks ago, I rode up to the Portland Art Museum to see a David Hockney exhibit with my pal Jan Eliot.

I confessed how life lately felt overwhelming, and I couldn’t seem to accomplish the simple tasks on my list.

As all good pals do, she reminded me that I’d just finished a novel and was revising my last one and with all the work I’d been doing, never mind juggling family and a part-time job, it was understandable that I was a little “fried.”

Don’t you just love best pals?

I was also in the waiting game—six readers had my manuscript and I was waiting for their feedback. Waiting always weighs on me psychologically even though I try not to think about what the readers will say. Did they love my characters? Will they love the story? Did I miss something? How huge will the changes be? Did I blow it somehow? Would they buy this novel as a book? A dump truck of doubts will unload in my mind without permission.

So back to my pal Jan and our conversation.

My dumb luck was to actually have good timing. Jan had recently returned from L.A. and a visit to her brother-in-law and his wife who just happened to be reading The Now Habit, first published in 1989 and recently updated.

Jan said, “After talking about the book, I came away with one great rule for getting things done—do the most important thing on your list first.”

For a minute, that sounded so obvious that I was about to dismiss it. Do the most important thing first. Hmm.

Then I had to admit something to myself—I usually did just the opposite. I took care of little tasks first so I felt that I’d accomplished something right away.

A follow-up to an email. Accepting a friend request. Sending a pdf of the notes to a meeting.

I should know that little trap. A few hours later, I’ve gone from email, to the web because I just have to respond to one of my social media pals because I’m a responsible human being. Or I need to post something so important. If I’m really sucked in (and my mind has been taken over by future tripping), I watch a TED talk on book cover design because, of course, that will be important in the future if I decide to self publish.

(Ha! Admit it. Right now you’re thinking, What TED talk on book cover design?)

Jan and I talked about this big aha moment, how such a simple bit of advice seemed so important. Don’t we always have to be reminded of the obvious? Then we arrived at the museum, and we surrendered to Hockney and art.

The next day, I remembered our discussion and downloaded a sample of The Now Habit onto my Kindle. This paragraph grabbed my attention; the bold highlights are mine:

“Surfing the Internet, instant messaging, e-mailing, and the use of cell phones have added to the number of distractions that can seduce us away from our mission of starting on a major project that could change our lives. Because these new devices give us an immediate response, they have an unfair competitive edge over activities that will not be rewarded until the end of the month or—as in the case of finishing school, writing a book, or learning to play the piano—until after one to four years of intensive work. All the more reason to use the tools offered you by The Now Habit.”

Bingo. I had a new rule—do the most important task on your list first.

One of his points is about procrastination, and I’m guessing here that this has to do with fiddling around with small chores before doing the most demanding because, well, it’s the most demanding. The other, I’ll bet, is about breaking habits that let us believe we’re being productive when, in fact, they’re not.

So how do I change the habit of going for the immediate reward?

(Well, not exactly)

Back to my beginnings

To answer that question (and while I read the book), I decided to go back to the beginning of my own experience in social media to understand what I’ve done, why I made my choices, and where I’m at now.

As a writer, I’m always reading about why I must be a social media expert in order to be successful. Articles abound about the topic, but I have not found many that help a writer make personal decisions about the social media that will work for them and how to manage it along with writing a novel, memoir or anything else.

I decided to approach such a big subject by breaking it down into three blog posts, kind of like a three-act structure--beginning, middle and end:

Part I (below) – Back to my beginnings. How I chose the social media that I thought fit my personality and needs, and my major screw ups.

Part II –Asking for help and making my biggest mistake. How four of my writer friends responded when I asked what they chose to do and why (Jennie Shortridge, LJ Sellers, Cheryl Strayed and Christina Katz), followed by my doozy decision.

Part III – What I’m doing to save myself, plus a few hardcore ways to manage social media and put writing time first. Ideas to vanquish demons, break a habit, and not feel guilty, plus a few tools for your toolbox for retraining purposes.

PART I

How did I begin? The usual. I just dove in.

I joined Facebook on November 23, 2007. How do I know this? Facebook’s Timeline. Great for keeping track of yourself.

From the beginning, I wanted the FB page to focus on writing. I’m not one for needing to know if a friend had just kissed a walrus or ate a nouvelle cuisine worm pie. (Sorry, but sometimes posts do seem this ridiculous.)

At the time, I was at a month-long writer’s residency at Vermont Studio Center. Two friends, Randy Sue Coburn and Cheryl Strayed, posted on my page. I think I had six friends in all. I started out with the right intention, to make Facebook focus on my writing. My first “like” was PBS. Good start.

But then came the social media gurus, the people who tell you that, as a writer, you need to build a platform, to “brand” yourself online so that you become known before you publish. Then that fan group will purchase your book.

I confess: my mom once said, “Valerie, you’re a good girl who wants to be a bad girl.” I think she meant I do what I’m supposed to do until I smack my forehead and say, “This isn’t working for me, People!”

Years went by and, like a good girl, I joined Twitter, two Yahoo groups, and LinkedIn. I joined groups within those social networks and the next thing I knew, my email box was flooded. I was following blogs, I’m clicking on links that have to do with how to encourage followers, how to e-publish, the pros and cons of self-publishing, how to use key words, etc. ad nauseum.

 If I were still a pirate, I would be yelling, “Arrrrrgh!”

Oh, what the hell. “Arrrrrgh!”

Soon, I was creating folders for articles I needed to read but didn’t have time for. Soon, I was dreading my email because I felt guilty because I couldn’t keep up. Then I received two abusive responses on LinkedIn for a post of an article about Amazon.

What in heck was I doing?

None of it helped the writing. None of it gave me that gorgeous imaginative space for creation. None of it inspired me.

I was fractured.

What happened next?

Tune in for Part II, next week, when I do something really stupid.

Until then, walk around a new neighborhood, fill your lungs with fresh air, clear your head, and escape into that magical zone of daydreaming.

And if you, too, have something to confess or can guess where this is going, leave a comment. I’d love to hear what you’ve been through, how you began.

Let your naked thoughts and confessions find respite here.

Hugs,

Val

COMING UP AFTER Part II & III:

Where I work. A photographic peek into my writing spaces.

A confession: What happened after my six readers responded to my novel.

And thanks, Jan, for your fun comic strips about the 40th Birthday of Title IX! Check it out:

Stone Soup Cartoons

The Day My Dad Died

            The day my dad died I was one month shy of my nineteenth birthday and six months pregnant. I’d spent the day with my husband, whom I would divorce three years later, driving around Lake Winnisquam, looking for a place to rent so we wouldn’t be stuck in our second floor, two-room stuffy apartment in Laconia. I’d grown up on Lake Winnisquam and needed a place with fresh air where I could walk outside with my baby, barefoot, maybe even see the lake shimmer in the distance. If really lucky, we’d find a place where I could sit under a tree by the water and wade in to cool off on hot muggy days.

My brother and I at the lake

            We drove all afternoon and found a place, a small two-room cabin just down the road from my parents on Hill Road, across from the right-of-way that gave everyone on the opposite side of the road access to a swimming spot. The right-of-way, as we always called it, held memories of neighborhood swims and my first kiss from an out-of-town boy called Punk. When I needed space from my family or a retreat from a fight with my dad, I’d slip down to the right-of-way and sit under a big pine to daydream, cry or cool off.

            The day my dad died, we rented that cabin, relieved to find a place we could afford. I thought how lucky I was to be near my lake when the baby came. As we drove down Hill Road and approached my parent’s house, something happened that I’ve only been able to describe as a flash of light, as if an old-fashioned camera bulb had popped in my face and blinded me for a moment. I clutched at my rounded belly and said, “We have to stop. I need to see Dad.”

            I’d been taking Dad to the VA hospital in Vermont, checking on him for my mom when she was at work, but being so wrapped up in new-found love and baby making made me blind to how ill my dad was.

Dad, me and my brother Kent picking beans

            My husband didn’t like my father, so he drove past the salmon-colored ranch-style house that my father spent years remodeling, my life-long home only six months earlier. As we pulled out onto the Route 3, I glanced back at the house where my dad had tended his garden and raspberry bushes, a house that he insisted was “salmon-colored” not pink. The tiny porch wasn’t big enough for a chair, but it was a good place to get out of the weather and take off boots, to greet guests, to sit on the steps as a little kid with a friend or my brother or sister. I remember window boxes, having always had a soft spot for them, but I’m not sure they existed.

Kent, our Beagle King, Wendy & I

 Aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends, and co-workers would pass through that front door for parties, holidays, and summer gatherings. Christmas was our favorite holiday because mom always over did it with presents and Dad would complain that she was driving him to the poor house. When I think of my dad, I picture him sitting in his recliner, smoking Winstons, eating his Bridgemix and reading a book, if he wasn’t watching our new color television, the cause of one of my parents’ biggest arguments that left them not speaking for days and put us three kids on our best behavior because one thing we never doubted, even through the bad times was the great love our parents had for each other. I may have doubted my dad’s love for me at times, but I never doubted that my parents were in love.

Me with my mom and her sister Vera on our "porch"

            When my fights with Dad started, it was normal teenage fare, the whole unfairness of life. Why couldn’t I ride in cars with my friends? Why did I need to be home at that hour? Why couldn’t I hang out at the Tony’s Pizza Parlor? That’s when I became the cause of their arguments. Mom wanted to give me more freedom; Dad didn’t. Mom said the reason Dad and I fought was because we were too much alike. Dad said it wasn’t me he didn’t trust; it was boys.

            After leaving Hill Road, after deciding not to fight with my husband about stopping at my parents’ house, we drove in silence and when we reached our two-room apartment in Laconia, I trudged up the outside stairs, wanting to go back. We had just entered the apartment when the phone rang. My husband answered it, then handed the receiver to me.

            “Valerie, this is Dr. Robinson. I’m sorry. Your dad is dead. He shot himself.”

            I screamed and dropped the phone.

My son Jason was born three months later. I never doubted I was having a boy, even from the beginning. After Dad died, I was even more convinced it would be boy. I don’t remember picking out a girl’s name, although I know we did.

            Jason looks uncannily like his grandfather and has his wicked sense of humor and wit, his mannerisms, his work ethic, his sense of responsibility, but thankfully no health problems. I think my dad would have loved him. Or, would the two of them been too much alike and rubbed each other the wrong way? I don’t know.

Mom and Dad

            My dad was responsible right up to the end. On the day he died, he bought a new license and tags for the dog, made sure there was enough paint for one of us kids to finish the garage, and went to the barber for a haircut. He told mom all this in a letter he left, including letting mom know was no suicide clause in the insurance policy. The letter glows with his great love and adoration for my mom. He didn’t want to be a burden on the family and knew the way it was going, he would be. He included a p.s. to me, saying he was sorry he wouldn’t be there to see his first grandchild and, to the end, tried for humor by writing he hoped we wouldn’t give our baby his middle name, Horace.

            Our family still carries on his insistence of having manners, table manners being high on his list: elbows off the table, sit up straight, slow down. Dad would often say, “Don’t eat like your mother,” meaning the English way with knife and fork reversed and fork piled high.

            But this is also a man who sometimes did not eat what mom served for dinner, instead breaking Saltines into a bowl of milk after a day of working outside in the heat and humidity. He ate slowly, chewed each bite over and over, driving us kids crazy. This kind of control extended to the way he raised us. When he couldn’t control us and we fought him, he’d punish. “You might not love me,” he said once, “but one day you’ll respect me.” He was wrong. All I really wanted was to love him and be loved back, but he was a hard man to please and he took my rebellion personally.

            I have grandchildren now and, if I lavish them with love, it’s because sometimes all a teen needs is a hug and a “It will be okay. You’ll get through this.” Many times my fights with my dad might not have happened if I hadn’t felt judged and shamed, if I hadn’t felt my emotions being negated by a parental need to be perceived as in control and being seen as a perfect family.

            Don’t get me wrong. I’m not kidding myself here. Teens have their emotional needs and drives that often supersede anything parents can provide. Guiding teens through their teens is probably the hardest job there is as a parent because they’re competing with peers and hormones. Dad had two more children coming up fast behind me and I’m sure that crossed his mind as we battled and he grew more ill.

Dad

            And he was ill, more than I knew. He battled rheumatoid arthritis and prescription pills, and was unable to work toward the end. The only way out for him, as he concluded, was suicide. He did what he thought was the responsible thing, plus it would end his pain and sense of powerless. In his besieged mine, the only way our family would survive would be if he didn’t become a bigger financial and medical burden. I don't doubt that that indeed would have happened.

            Yet on the day he died, he didn’t realize he exchanged those possible burdens on us for bigger, emotional ones.

            Time has given me perspective and knowledge of suicide. Time has given me an understanding of how a need for control can also cause a loss of control. Some have said to me that suicide is the ultimate show of control, but I don't believe that in my dad's case that's true. If he hadn't been ill, he would have never given up. But when he couldn't be the husband and father he wanted to be, needed to be, he couldn't fake it anymore.

            Time has also, above all, shown me that perception should never overshadow love. I don’t care what others think about what my family goes through. We all have problems and I choose to be friends with people who share them and exchange knowledge so we can help out each other. The generation of our parents living in a “keeping up with the Joneses” and “what will the neighbors think” culture better be over because they’re faulty paradigms and destructive on so many levels, especially for a writer like myself who was conditioned to keep a lid on everything of importance and has had to fight to be free and express myself truthfully.

Kent and I in snow

            A few days ago, Mom said to me on the phone, “I wonder what our life would have been like if your dad had lived.” I couldn’t say. I couldn’t imagine it. I hope she visualized something sweet and carefree, something that, like in an act of creating fiction, she formed in her mind while erasing sickness, lack of money, a crazy political world that would have turned my dad apoplectic. I hope she saw her and Dad, retired by the lake, him fishing, her reading or talking on the phone. Maybe they even hold hands while sitting in chairs on the dock. 

Poppy day or Memorial Day around 1961

But maybe they would still be attending their American Legion activities, maybe still dancing as they always did so beautifully. I think she can create that in her mind, create her own story for a life they'd live now. I doubt very much that they would have ended up in Florida where she now lives. I think he’d had enough of hot and humid. But maybe, after shoveling snow one hard winter, he'd have been happy to join the snowbirds. Why not?

* * * * *

            I remember one winter day after a storm had dumped a foot or more of snow. Dad was out shoveling the walkway and I was playing on one of those high snow mounds the snowplow had left along the road. I dug a hole, probably one of those “digging to China” holes, and I dug it so deep, I couldn’t get out. When I realized this, I yelled over and over, “Dad! Dad!”

            When he finally heard me, he walked up the mound, looked down, shook his head and laughed. Then he reached down for my hand and lifted me out.

Dad, my mom's mom Nannie Smith holding me, and Mom

 

In Loving Memory

Albert Horace Brooks ~ April 3, 1916 to April 30, 1970.