Through My Eyes

One more

2011-11-18T01:20:00.000-08:00

There we were. The four of us. Two boys, my miracles and my husband, also a miracle.

Life is never perfect, but sometimes it reaches that balancing point where you swear that if you could only hold your breathe forever the winds would never change. That was it for us. Our tea cosy moment.
And then.

My husband and I got a phone call. The kind of call appropriate for the lateness of night. The kind of call that made us exhale and the winds around us changed.

My mother was on the other end of the line. Sobbing. The Department of Children's Services had rung her to tell her she was a grandmother again. They'd been looking for family. My younger sister had a baby many months ago and did we want to leave him in Foster Care or think about offering him a home. There was no one else. No other family. No father. And his mother, my sister, left him.
You have to know that my sister wanted him. She did. I know that the way only a sister can. But my sister has a severe mental illness and hasn't been able to maintain any sort of support network or medication schedule.
My mother said she'd take the baby, but only if we couldn't. She's getting older. We already have a family. Boys. Wouldn't that be best? What did we think?

What did we think?
I didn't think.
I felt.

I felt everything. The waves of every sadness my family has ever known swelled up around me, their wet hands pulling and pushing.
I felt for those little girls. They way they played dollies. Pretended to be mummies. Dressed up in heels and pushed their prams around. Where were they?
They were gone.
They grew up. Barely. One surviving the trauma of their childhood, the other one swallowed whole by it.

She had a baby. My sister had a baby. For days I couldn't make that thought be real. I haven't seen her in nearly two years.
And I wanted to see her. Oh how I wanted to see her. And hold her and tell her the sorts of things that every big sister should say. That everything will be okay. Because of course we will take your baby, my sweet sweet sister.
I don't need to think about that question.
I only need to feel.

My husband and I began the process of have this little one come and live in our family and we are hoping the baby will join us early in the new year. We had no baby things. Our youngest is four and we gave everything away. But people have been good and so much has already been given to us.

Our two boys are excited. Another play mate.
My husband is busy finishing renovations to meet home safety standards to have the baby come and live with us.
And I am preparing mother another little one. Sometimes I am scared by the thought of raising three children under eight years. Then I remember not to think. Just feel.
Life isn't asking about my ability, only my availability.

To my dear sister, we are available.
X

(thank you to everyone who has already given your best wishes, thoughts and prayers. They matter)

Writer's Wednesday: Thinking

2011-10-05T05:35:00.000-07:00

What are you thinking?
Here's one that I am still yet to master. My thoughts. What have thoughts to do with writing, you ask? Everything.
I 100% believe that thoughts are a big indicator of future success or failure. Rotten thinking says, "I'll never make it, the things I write aren't important, what's the chance I'll find an editor/agent/publisher anyway?"
Show me any successful writer who accidentally arrived at their moment in the sun with a mind full of trashy thinking. There isn't one. Nope. Not one.
Many writers attribute failure or dark hours to their eventual success, but not a single author has ever said, "Oh just tell yourself you can't and you shouldn't and who the heck to do you think you are anyway and you'll achieve your goals."

Looking at a number of internationally successful writers including Stephanie Meyer, J.K Rowling or Stephen King and you'll find a thinking common to all of them.

BELIEF:
This is something you must have so deeply planted that not even a typhoon can rip it from the earth of your soul. Belief in your work cannot be an airy sort of thing. All writers must take time to think about exactly what and why they believe in their work. Even if that means talking to yourself out loud or eyeballing yourself in the mirror. Belief must survive. No. Matter. What. You do that by using your thoughts to tell yourself you believe in YOU.

Some of us will find ourselves in dead in end jobs supporting two kids on limited income while the car and rented apartment fall apart around us and still harboring the writing dream. If that IS you, you are in good company.

This was exactly Stephen King's situation when he started writing Carrie. He had an idea for what we now know as a best seller, but when the manuscript was finished he trashed it. He felt it was too far out of his league, Carrie being a girl and all, and the story was too long for the men's magazines that he wrote for at the time. His wife, Tabitha, found it and encouraged him to finish it properly. He did, of course and though he never liked the lead character he knew one thing, he could write. With that single thought and Tabitha's backing, Stephen sent the manuscript off to Double Day publishers. And forgot about the book. Not long after he got a call from that same publishing house. He had sold Carrie! The rest, as they say, is history.
Now tell me, if not for his thoughts of self belief would you even know who I mean when I say Stephen King?

HOPE
Hope is the twin sister of belief and it too exists in our thinking. Hope and belief must be born and raised together, for what good is belief if there is no hope in an end goal?
Now if you are out there tonight with an impossible dream then know this, hope is unbound by social class, race religion or anything else. All it cares about is if you know what you want and are willing to light the match at the end of that path with hope. You do that in your thoughts. Think on your goals. Think on the future, the possibilities, the stories that are still within you. This thinking builds hope.

J.K Rowlings has said publicly many times that failure was instrumental in her success. Why? because it caused her to refine what was worth hoping in. It refined her thinking.
Hope is not without effort and if one is stripped of all else and has no where to go but a place of their own future creating then hope becomes expensive. What should you hope in and what to hope for when there is so little of you left at the end of trauma or grief of failure? Yet if you are a writer then you must afford yourself hope. Such thoughts will be the best investment in your future that you will ever make.

There was once a time when JK Rowlings was as close to homeless as one gets without being on the streets. And she decided to hope. She had a single big idea for a big book. And she hoped. Tell me that cost nothing.
She began writing Harry Potter with the thought that if she did nothing else at least she would have completed the things she cared about. She says, "Any light at the end of the tunnel was hope."
And as we know it was all the light she needed.

PERSEVERANCE WITH JOY:

The road is long. So long. And I am not walking another step without trying to enjoy the way home. And joy too is born in our thoughts. It's near impossible to be joyous if you have negative thinking and also near impossible to be negative if your thoughts uplift you. If you aren't sure if you are truly joyful ask yourself what effect you have on those around you.

If you have decided to let them bury you with a pen in your hand then you know that dreams are not measured in inches or even miles. Some people reach their writing goals before others but all of us are waiting for something. The next idea. The first book to be published. An agent. Whatever it is, waiting will occur. Why not be joyful? Joy is a choice and so is perseverance. It's an attitude of the heart feed by thinking in the mind.

The book I am currently writing is a pure indulgence. I am entertaining myself. And I am in good company. Stephanie Meyer said that the first book she wrote was merely a story she was telling herself. She had a dream and she wanted to know what happened. So she wrote.

Writers our thoughts are powerful. Believe. Hope. Preserve with Joy. While we cannot control this life we can control our thinking. And while we cannot think our way to an agent's contract or publishing deal, we can refuse to let our thinking be an obstacle to these things.

PS- Sorry for the delay in visiting blogs. I will be around tomorrow.

Expect The Sea Water

2011-09-30T05:27:00.000-07:00

(photobucket.com)

I breathe
in the air
out the air
in
slower
out
stiller than dew on morning grass
breathe
I whisper
breathe
my lungs are shaky things on rickety legs.
I breathe in the air
out the air
in the...
and then she comes.
The Sea. With all her tides that pull. And I am under.
breathe
I whisper
breathe
my lungs are swollen things on thrashing legs.

I breathe in the air
out the air
and forget...

Expect the sea water.

What about you? Ever get the feeling that nothing is as stable as we hope? Not even things we thought could never change?

Writer's Wednesday: Be a Child

2011-09-28T04:50:00.000-07:00

(photograph- my son, Cyrus)

Three things children know and so should writers.

ONE
Children know that something you love is play. Make what you used to love work and the point is entirely lost. Duh! My four year old knows that... and yet I forget.
Remember play? Sticky fingers, sand in your hair, muddy feet and the sun on your cheeks? Do you feel that way about writing? The first thing I every wrote was a play. I was eight and I was in love with this pen on paper thing. It was fabulous darling! There I was casting my teddies and my little sister in minor roles while I, of course took the lead. Play. And fun. Remember?
Even work is not work if you have a heart of play.

TWO
Children know that they CAN.
They can... (fill in blank), anywhere anytime. Go to any kindergarten and ask them. Can you climb that six foot high pine tree? Yup. Can you out run a car? Uh huh. Are you going to fly one day? Will you play soccer for Manchester United? Yes, yes, YES!
Kids have no problems with believing. Remember that kind of unshakable belief? How much do you believe in your own writing?

THREE
Children just are.
It hasn't occurred to them hide behind inauthentic words, or laugh when they really want to cry. In fact most children have the opposite problem. They say it like it is at the most inappropriate (and often highly embarrassing) times.

Short illustration.
My four year old yelled out loudly in the shops, "Mommy, can I have some new underwear?"
"No," I said, feel a little red, "You have plenty."
"Yeah, but they are all dirty cause you haven't done the washing yet," he said.
I died.
We left the store.
See?
Children just are.
Are you in your writing? Really?

What about you? Do you write with your inner child?

If you Dance

2011-09-23T04:33:00.000-07:00

(photograph:photobucket.com)

I find it difficult to cast my cares. To close my eyes, stick my tongue out and taste the rain. To slip on those yellow heels and dance like all the world is my music.

Not in my imagination of course. There I am a winged bird.

But in reality, I ache to let go. To wall paper my photographs all over a feature wall. To buy the pea green dress one inch too short. To tell my mother what I'm really thinking. To trust someone enough to let them near. To whisper those things that have happened in my past and then set them sailing out to sea on paper lanterns.

These things are not in my imagination. They are apart of the skin I wear and the reason, I suppose, that I am not yet brave enough to shed it. It would be like losing apart of myself.
And then I think...
perhaps that's the point.

What about you? Do you Dance?

Writer's Wednesday: Backing Yourself

2011-09-21T04:36:00.000-07:00

(Photo: photo bucket)

Standing Up
There's a moment that I suspect happens in every writer's life, like a patch of light that finally enters your being and you understand your own words in a way you never have before.

When that moment happened for me crawled into that very light and did something I've never done before.
I stood up.

The Moment You Back Yourself
Last week I was re-reading the first couple of paragraphs in my WIP and I found myself doing something I always do. I deleted it. (Don't worry, I have backups)
Computer pushed aside, I went to my books shelf and pulled down all the authors I admired and read their first chapters. Then I berated myself for my own flimsy attempt, for every thinking I could write and finally for daring to breathe in the present of these books. (Tell me I'm not the only one who does this?)

Then it happened.
This little voice, kind of shaking, stood up inside me and spoke. (Go with me here)
"Tab, you aren't ever going to write those chapters or even one like them," it said.
I found myself asking why not. (If you don't talk to yourself then I suggest you get started. All sorts of great things are learnt in conversations with ourselves)
"You're not going to write those chapters, " the voice said, "because you aren't those authors. You weren't those authors then and you aren't those authors now, and I hate to break it to you, but you never will be. You are you. And the kind of first paragraph, first chapter, indeed first book you will write will be one that has never been written before, because YOU are the author. YOU. And you alone."

I thought on that for a long time. Then I agreed with myself. I looked my book squarely in the eye and declare the thing mine. That's right. I owned it. I finally decided to accept that I am a writer whose best is yet to come. Everyday I grow. There is much to be learnt from other authors, but I finally lost the desire to BE another author. I want to be me. I want my words. They are mine and I like em fine.
The expanding confidence in my work has astounded me. There's less second guessing my writing style, my voice and my unique flow of words on a page. In short, I am embracing me and where I am at on this Carnival Ride that we call The Writing Life.

What about you? Do you back your own work?

Arcs in the Sky

2011-09-16T04:04:00.000-07:00

(photo by photobucket.com)

"The soul would have no rainbows had the eyes no tears."~ author unknown

If the eyes have cried the ribbons of colored light should follow. Should? Perhaps.

I've been thinking about that a lot. About what happens when you've wrung yourself inside out and still you're standing under an empty expressionless sky.

Perhaps it depends where the soul looks.

Lately I've started thinking that unexpected kindness from a woman I barely know, the kiss of my four year old and 9000 words up on a brand new book might all be the colors I've been ignoring.

Arcs in the sky are nice. Everyone sees them.

But perhaps the rainbows of the soul are a more personal, intimate matter?

What about you? What have been your rainbows?

PS- when my rainbow finds its way to the thousands of miles above you'll all be the first know. :)

Season After Cold

2011-09-09T03:35:00.000-07:00

(photo: photobucket.com)

While some are ready to watch their land lay down under a sheet of snow, mine is stretching out under ever warming skies.

Spring reminds me of two things.

One.

There is always a season coming after the cold.

And two.

Dead things may indeed be merely dormant.

Here's to fragility. Life that breaks and then rebuild. Seasons that turn. And Spring. May it always follow winter.

What about you? What does Spring remind you of? If you write, what season are you in?

Writer's Wednesday- Open Eyes

2011-08-31T02:33:00.000-07:00

(photo from photobucket.com)

Writer's Wednesday- For those of you who are new to the blog, or have forgotten about Writer's Wednesday due to my recent absence, I wanted to reintroduce this segment. Every Wednesday I blog about the writer's soul. I have no intention of covering matters of character development, plot arcs, grammar, formatting manuscripts for agents etc etc because there are half a billion far more worthy writers than myself who are already blogging on these topics. Writer's Wednesday offers my thoughts on the very real inner struggles and joys of being a writer. If you are not a writer you might find that what I'm really talking about are the struggles and joys of life.

Writer's Wednesday- Open Eyes.

Until recently I have to admit that I secretly scoffed at those who said they had writer's block. I didn't actually believe that a writer couldn't write. Maybe they didn't want to write and just hadn't gotten around to admitting it to themselves because they were merely afraid to fail or perhaps to succeed.
And then my winter came.
It crept in the backdoor making me shiver. A cold thing in my heart that created a desert where once the words flowed.
I could not write.

Looking back there were many reasons for the desert. I thought I wasn't going to name the specific reason, but now I'm writing this perhaps the post will be more meaningful if I be honest and name it.
So, here it is.
A manuscript of mine was rejected by someone I really wanted to work with. The was the start of things, but it wasn't so much the rejection of the book as it was me. You see my book was a memoir. Such books are incredibly hard to get noticed in the first place, and I felt blessed that it drew the attention that it did. And then it was rejected. People say don't take that personally and I agree. You shouldn't.

The wonderful agent who rejected me was right to do so. The book will benefit from her advise. That did nothing to take away the sting rejection. Having come from a brutal childhood, rejection was a festering wound I had covered over.... until my book was rejected.

At first I didn't want to write. When I got over that bad attitude I sat down to write and found that something inside had broken. There were no more words. I doubted my ability. I wrote one or two words and deleted them. I sat and started at the screen. And after two months (yes, two months) of that I finally went and saw someone about it. Together we discovered the root of my problem. I wasn't dealing with those old wounds of rejection from long ago.

Writer's block is real people. And now I think it's beautiful. If it had not caused me to stop and open my eyes I might have missed to opportunity to deal with a much deeper issue.

So, I gently encourage writers who find themselves blocked to stop with their eyes wide open. A block is a stop sign, a warning, a chance to slow down and step back and perhaps ask yourself, "What am I not seeing?"

(A number of people have joined my blog recently and I would like to return the following, however there is no link on your profile. If you add a link to your blog I would love to visit you :)

Beautiful

2011-08-25T22:11:00.000-07:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird- Australian farming land)

The desert crept inside me dragging with it the stars from every night sky I have ever stood under so that when I looked up a hand of black was all I saw. It became the dry taste in my mouth and the desperate lack of words on the page. It was the brittle in my bones and the absence where good things once flowed.
Yet in my human wasteland I met someone.
I met myself. I met what I really cared about and what was worth the fight. I met things I'd been keeping long past there due date and I finally picked up others that wanted to be held.
This is why they say that the desert is a beautiful place. It is. All God's landscapes are. Every terrain has its purpose as does each person that walks through them.
I suspect the desert will always be a place inside me. Perhaps it's not a matter of walking out of deserts, but a matter of understanding as much as I can about dry places.

What about you? Where do you walk in life? ever felt the desert inside your words?

PS- I would like to thank everyone who came by while I was away to tell me they were thinking of me. Thank you for the emails, facebook messages and the tweets. (Karen Walker, Tamika, Donna, Patti and so many others) I read all your comments and went to many of your blogs even if I did not comment. I feel I am supported and cared about. It will be my greatest pleasure to visit your blogs and support you now. I am very happy to be BACK!

Where's Tab?

2011-05-30T03:19:00.000-07:00

After much thought I have decided to leave blogging for awhile.

There's come a point in this writer's life where I need to take some time to look after me and my words.
I'll be back at the end of the American Summer (for my Northern hemisphere readers) or the beginning of the Australian Spring (for my southern hemisphere readers).

By then I hope to have swallowed the rains.
I hope to have watered the open mouthed earth.
I hope to have touched the dry places and saved the drowning ones. Know what I mean?
Life is hard ground right now. And the writing has dried up. It's time for a break.

I will miss those who visit my space here. I email many of you anyway though.
So, I'll see you on your blogs and I'll be back here soon.
X
Tab

Writer's Wednesday: Here

2011-05-04T03:59:00.000-07:00

(Shipwreck: photo by Tabitha Bird)

Inside me there was a place I went with cupped hands. Words, the unformed black dots, dripping down my arms, oozing into the dry mouthed earth around be. Drops quickened their pace, impatient to be seen and held, to be known and placed on a page. My hands, brimming with the honey of everything I wanted to say carried the liquid letters best they knew how. Oh the happiness of doing something you know you were given to do. Only those who dare to bring out what is inside them can ever understand. Oh the ache to get the words set on paper. Day by day, between the hours of midnight and for always I typed.

How many times must I have returned to that place inside?

Thousands?

Past the point where dawn breaks dark?

Beyond lines of horizon and under corners that you can't see around?

Yes. Past all those times. Past all those hours. Everything should have continued. The words should have been a thing to be counted on like the moon drawing the tide.

Then it happened.

Inside me there is a place I go with cupped hands, but the words are lost. Shipwrecked. Beautiful only if you appreciate what is left and don't dwell on what was there.

I asked my friend, "Why do you come here?"

She turned to the coming sun and its dance across the arcs of waves. "You know Tab, I could photograph anything. Flowers. The whole bushland behind us. But I chose a shipwreck because it's still here. Against all odds, and even though it shouldn't be, it's still here. There's beauty in that."

I smiled. Yes. There's beauty in that.

And maybe I will go again to the place where words dripped down my arms. Maybe there is something left in me to write yet, because against all odds, and even though I should be, I am still here.

(For Meg, who knows lots about Shipwrecks and even more about being a friend)

Taking a Break

2011-04-26T21:32:00.000-07:00

I have been taking a break over Easter and will be taking a break for the rest of this week. I will see you all again next Monday.

Thank you to those who have voted for this blog in the Australia's Best Blog Awards. I have been blown away by how many of you contacted my off the blog to encourage me and tell me that this little part of the bloggy world matters to you. That is a win for me. No award can give me the pleasure of mattering to those who read me. So thank you to everyone who voted, commented on the post below or emailed me. You have stacked smiled inside me enough for many cold winter days :)

There is still time to vote if you haven't. Please read the post below and follow the links.

A warm welcome to my new followers too!

X

Tab

Nominated

2011-04-18T02:36:00.000-07:00

Nominated

Hey guys.

I don't often publicize this blog, cause I kind of think it will be found and read by those who need to find and read it. It would seem though that I have been nominated in Australia's Best Blogs Competition for 2011 by one of my readers in OZ. I'd like to thank my loyal supporter. You make me smile and you know who you are.

Would You Like to Vote?

For all those who have already clicked over to the site and voted for me, thank you. For those who emailed me specifically to let me know they did and wished me luck, thank you thank thank you :)

You don't have to be Australian to vote, so if you have time and would like to vote for this little blog to be in the running for the People's Choice Award please click this link and follow the prompts. http://www.sydneywriterscentre.com.au/bloggingcomp/peopleschoice.html

All the blogs are listed alphabetically by title of blog.

Thank you very much if you take time out to vote for me :)

And thank you to everyone who comes here to read me week after week, especially when I am running late getting to your blogs. I have always said that a writer without readers is a lonely thing to be. Thanks for sharing my blog.

Tab

Writer's Wednesday: Not all About The Book

2011-04-13T02:48:00.000-07:00

It's not all about the book.
That's all I wanted to say today. In the little tradition I have of stripping my life back to the truth bones and showing them for whatever they may be worth, let me explain.

For the last three weeks my book and I have been fighting. It's winning if you must know :)
I joke, but it really isn't funny... for me anyway. I've been sick over the stupid story. Really. I could write a book about not being able to write my book.
Anyway, all that fuss lead me to researching Uganda...yeah, Uganda. (Its a long story, which I won't get into).
I kinda got lost in all the research and hours later found a true story about a blind man who learnt to box. Against all odds he's become one of Uganda's biggest heroes. He still lives in the slums with, oh, half the country, and he still has no real means of supporting his family, but the man is happy. Poor. Dirty. Blind. And happy.

Is he worried about the POV for a book?
Is he concerned about inciting incidences and character arcs?
Does he wonder what supporting characters might present or how their story arcs intertwine?

I'm guessing no.
I'm also guess that the other millions poor, slum dwelling souls have never thought of these concerns either. It's because of my affluence that I get to have these concerns. Here I am in my nice first world country where my children are fed, housed and schooled and I am making myself sick over writing a book.

It's not that writing a book is unimportant, but I kind of lost perspective there for a moment.
It took a poor blind boxer from Uganda to remind me of this simple truth:
It's not all about the book.

What about you? Have you ever found that it was not about the book?
(Oh, and a.. um... friend... wants to know, how do you get out of a writing funk?)

Not on His Island.

2011-04-11T02:57:00.000-07:00

(photography by Tabitha Bird)

He is not obliged to look at you. Not obliged to be anything other than blind. And he likes it, this blindness. The way his eyes are opened without seeing. The way his mouth can kiss words like, "I tried," when he never moved his feet.

He imagines who you are. You aren't like him.

He likes his walls iced with roof on top and his windows edged with shutters. The way his house holds him in, tucks him back, and presses around him. The way his mouth can whisper words like, "I didn't know," while he stayed inside and held his own hand.

He imagine who you are. You are outside.

He likes winter's teeth removed by central heating and summer's sticky fingers wiped clean in his pool.

He has long forgotten words like homeless, penniless, anchor less or voiceless. Because he is not less. He is middle. Middle class, middle age. Middle income. Neighbors are people who park cars in the driveway next door. Strangers are everyone. Even him. Especially him. He has become suburbia. When he walks through the front door he can mute the channel when refugee eyes stare back. He is not obliged to look at them. Not obliged to be anything other than blind.

He imagines who you are. You are not on his island.

What about you? Do you live on the island of House? It is so easy, too easy to lock ourselves in behind picket fences, mowed lawns and automatic garage doors... don;t you think? Is there a group of people you tend to forget about because you are not 'less'?

Writer's Wednesday: Latitude

2011-04-06T03:35:00.000-07:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

"Working writers typically give themselves a lot of latitude in generating a first draft."

~ Ralph Keyes.

Liberate the Guilt

First drafts suck. No matter how much you preplanned, outlined, sketched or chiseled before you start the writing, the first draft will still suck. I have yet to hear from a writer who outlined till the cows came home and thus managed a perfect first draft. Even the demi god himself Stephen King goes back and edits his work. All mere mortals must write the Second Draft.

Yet if you read enough books on the craft of writing and listen to many authors you might be forgiven for thinking that outlining was ONE and ONLY true road to book salvation.

But what if you can't get it to work for you?

Then we have something in common. If, like me, you've been feeling guilty because you can't get outlining to work for you, if one size fits all doesn't fit, then this post is for you. I'ma liberate your guilt :)

Not One Size Fits All

Outlining is marvelous. Truly. I see the virtues. I am a convert. Except... it makes the cogs in my head freeze. Suddenly the character that I could hear so clearly says something like, "Oh well, if your going to spend three weeks outlining then, yawn, I'm gone!" And just like that I have no character and no ideas. Zip. Nothing. Nada.

Write Like You

It would appear that I need a combination of writing blindly and then plotting what I have written so I can see where the story is going. To keep the characters in my head cooperating with me I also need to tell them that no one else will ever read them. (yeah, lying to characters in your head is quite okay).

I also need to sneak up on my writing. When I sit at the computer those people in my head get nervous saying, "Oh crap, she's going to write about us! What if we don't do anything interesting today?"

So I sit at my computer for ten minutes ignoring my book and doing inane things like checking emails and the all important update of my facebook status in case the queen wants to know. (What? She might!)

Eventually the characters in my head relax and are actually thinking about doing some very intriguing things. If I'm quick I can get the word document opened before anyone (including me) panics.

What am I saying? I'm saying, write like you.

Need to drink a Coke and then pretend you are writing a novel to your mother in letter form?

Do it.

Need to speak babble into a tape recorder until the story starts to grow and you can later transcribe it as a rough draft?

Do it.

Need to complete a sketchy outline and then jump in at the end and write the story backwards?

Do it.

Need to write a full outline after you have written, and write only after you have played with the dog?

Do it.

You'll Get There Faster on Your Path.

There is more than one path to any destination. Everyone who walks without ceasing eventually gets there and when they do they are all holding a.... Rough Draft.

So it really doesn't matter how you arrived at it. Does it?

Outlines are wonderful things, but they are there to work for you. You are not there to work for an outline.

Oh, and writing is fun, right? :)

What about you? What works for you when it comes to generating writing or beginning a new book?

This World and the Other

2011-04-04T02:55:00.000-07:00

Things that are supposed to inspire the adult life are bought, built or birthed. By that standard I am doing nicely.
I bought my house (and am still paying for the privilege), bought my car, bought shoes and clothes (and frequently even wear them- now that has you thinking doesn't it :) I bought furniture to sit on and sleep on and furniture to hold more of the stuff that I bought. I even bought some furniture just to stand there and look pretty. I bought music and books and tickets to plays. I bought food and stuff to keep it warm and other stuff to keep it cool. It's safe to say that I have bought my fair share of stuff.
But has any of it inspired me?
Yes. If your definition of inspire is to provoke someone to do something than I have had many inspiring purchases that made me spend money. If only my husband could understand how truly inspired I was at the time.
But this is not the inspiration I speak of.

Other things I have built.
Suffice to say they have been more inspiring.
I built a teaching career, a marriage and many friendships. I have built the right to speak in certain circles, the right to be taken seriously and, my personal favorite, the right to get in a boxing ring and smack other girls.
Did all this building inspire me?
Yes, if you definition of inspiration is to stimulate a particular feeling.
There are plenty of feelings when I step into a boxing ring. Plenty of feelings when she eyes off against me. Plenty of feelings when my husband yells out "Smack her!" from the side lines.
But even this is not the inspiration I speak of.

Then there are those things in my life that I have birthed. Two of them are tucked up in their beds right now, the littlest sucking his thumb loudly.
I have birthed a mother, birthed the woman I want to be for my children and husband, and birthed a new sense of self after life changing news. All these things have turned my face to both the sun and stars and made me look at the comings and goings of life with new eyes.
But have they inspired me?
Yes, if the sum of who I am is a mother, a wife or even a woman. Yet I have found it is rarely inspiring simply to be. My sons' inspire me in the way their father inspires me, and yet there is more.

What inspires the inner part of me, the part that searches to express herself, the part that wants inspiration to take her into moonlight writing hours fueled by something inside that won't let go is very simple, and always with a good dose of the fantastical.

My definition of inspiration is that which draws wings upon you back. It is that which smells like a rose to you and you alone and promotes a creative expression of who you are and the unique world that wraps around your life.

I am inspired by the thought of stepping into a puddle and being sucked down into another world, by stones that look hard and round as they should, but would squeal if picked up or squeezed. I am inspired trees that make me believe they could reach out their gnarled hands and draw me close.

I am inspired by Lego ships that my son and I build and the wars we know will fly off into and by the smell of my youngest son's hair, imagining what flavor it would be if it were ice cream. I am inspired by my husband's hand on my shoulder as we dance to no music but the sounds of all the songs we have listened to over the last 12 years. In my mind I can see the notes as they spin around us, I feel the light of the street lamp as it invites itself into our living room, a friendly visitor that says nothing and sees nothing. It is there only that we might see in the semi darkness.

These are the true inspirations of my adult life. It is not so much what is in this world, but the depth and fullness of my reality and how it invites out of this world imaginings. The sum of which are the expression of everything I am. Now that is inspiration.

What about you? What does inspiration mean to you and why?

Writer's Wednesday: Beware the Lions

2011-03-30T02:23:00.000-07:00

(Okay, so this is my chihuahua and her name is Lion.

She kinda goes with this post... right?

Okay. Fine. She doesn't.

I couldn't;t find any actual lions in my neighbourhood to take pictures of.

I can't imagine where they all went.

I really just put this photo of my dog up cause she's cute.)

There are lions in writing.
Yeah, I know. You thought being a writer was a safe if not sedentary pursuit involving no plane jumping, ab sailing, one handed, 360, back flips or any other display of extreme sportsmanship. Until recently I would have agreed with you, and then I reached the mid way point of my latest manuscript. Imagine my surprise when there before me was a lion. A big mother of a beast complete with snarls and claws and general don't mess-with-me attitude.

My lion also has another name. Self doubt.
All of a sudden my story kinda... sucked. I questioned the POV I'd chosen, the MC seemed thin and cardboardish. The supporting characters seemed less supporting and more, say, jeering. Never mind that I'd spent thousands of words with these fine paper individuals, I didn't know them anymore. What were they going to do? Where were they going to do it? And what on god's white paper earth was the motivation behind what they would doing? I'd lost all track of plot, even though I'd spent time outlining. I was not longer confident that what I'd outlined was what should happen.

I am sure this has never happened to you... but I was scared. The problem if I am honest, wasn't even the writing. It was me. And my Lion.

When lions prowl.
There comes a point in most books, and I'm guessing midway is common lion fighting ground, where a writer has to confront the beast of self doubt.
The lion that stares you down and dares you to take it on.

It's not the same as the fears that existed before you began the book. You've faced them, or you wouldn't be halfway through. See, in someways it's easy to believe you'll write a great story before you've started. But half way through?
Half way through you are confronted by the reality of your own imperfections. You've had time to notice that your wrestling with words, that the plot holes has holes and time to get spooked about fixing them. You've also had time to see through your vague fantasies of this first draft being wonderful; it is living up to its name as a First Draft and will need major editing and re-writing. And you aren't even done yet!
That's when the lion prowls.

Killing this lion is all about the ability to face the uncertainty of the second half.

"I used to hate uncertainty, but I'm learning to love it. It's an acquired taste." ~ Mark Batterson

Your book, like all books, has to end. Keep writing and it will. Let things play out in your work. See where the plot leads or what the characters whisper. Go back to the outline and consider the possibilities. Embrace the uncertainty of the second half of writing a book. So the book is not everything you thought it was going to be. So what? So you are an imperfect writer who will need to revise. Big deal. Aren't we all?

Make a choice about the direction of the second half, any choice, and write on. Accept that you will second guess yourself no matter what you chose and write anyway.

The lion wins if you don't finish the book.
Nothing will end a career sooner than 23 unfinished books by a writer who's lost all belief that he ever could. Get to the end and produce what every writer should celebrate.
A FIRST DRAFT! In all it's ugly glory. Because a first draft is the product of lion killing.

And you thought writing was for wimps?
tsk tsk.

Well... what are you doing? Don't hang around here. Go kill your lions!

She Should Not

2011-03-28T05:03:00.000-07:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

A thirty-four year old woman should not want.

She should not want to learn french more than she speaks her own language.

She should not want to run away from the suburbs to live in an apartment above some Parisian street.

She should not want to touch the Mona Lisa.

She should not.

And yet, she does.

A thirty-four year old woman should not want to write more than she wants to have another baby.

She should not put her body on the line in a boxing ring.

She should not box.

She should not.

And yet, she does.

A thirty-four year old woman should not write more than she prays.

She should not want to publish a best selling novel.

She should not write to make herself be seen.

She should not.

And yet, she does.

A thirty-four year old woman should not want her abusive father to love her.

She should not want her mother to ask what it was like.

She should not want her sister to cry for the little girls they were.

She should not.

And yet, she does.

A thirty-four year old woman should not want to run naked down the aisle of a church and scream, "I hate you all."

She should not say she has bipolar.

She should not expect that friends will understand.

She should not want to be friends with people who cannot be friends.

She should not embrace those who have broken her.

She should not.

And yet, she does.

This one thing she knows. The world does not favor those who want. It favors those who settle.

She was never good at settling. It's a tiresome thing this wanting. An irksome habit.

Lonely, in ways no one will ever understand.

I am a thirty-four year old woman who should not.

And yet, she does.

What about you? What do you want that society says you should not?

Writer's Wednesday: Stay

2011-03-23T03:30:00.000-07:00

The question that bites.
Why do people persist at anything?
Why run, or write or take photos year in year out? For fun?
What if you want more than just a good time? What if you want to take your chosen pursuit to the next level? What keeps you going then?
Why do people STAY?

If you are a writer don't you need a reason to stay at it day in day out? Maybe yes.... and then recently I was watching my favorite TV show and now I think maybe the best reason you can have is... because you want to stay.

Here's what I mean. I am not a massive fan of TV since it's a major time suck and I have books to write already, that said there is one show I never miss. Australia's Biggest Loser. If you aren't familiar with it, basically all the contestants work their butts off to lose weight and the 'biggest loser' wins the show.
So, what's my obsession with it?
Well, it's the mindsets and why people persist. People's thinking intrigues me. Why people chose to over eat, how it impacts their lives and what they go through to change their thinking as the weight comes off.... people on the edge of themselves who want something bad enough that they are willing to change. The CHANGE is what I love to watch. but specifically what makes them STAY at it long enough to change.

One week someone asked the personal trainer what keeps her motivated to stay fit. What is it that got her up at 5:30am to go running or swimming? What kept her going back to the gym?
If you've read this blog for a while you know that I run and I am also a boxer. So I have my own answer to the question of motivation, but I wanted to hear the trainer's answer.
She said, "You don't have to be motivated. You just have to be consistent."

You just have to stay.
Yup.
That's it.
It really is that simple.
Writing for publication is a long long road. And sometimes, lots of times, its enough to just stay. To keep writing. Write today. And tomorrow. And next week. And the week after that. And next month. And next year. Because one morning, one fine and beautiful morning, you will wake up and find that you are a better writer. One day, if you stay, you might even find that agent you are looking for or the publishing house with an offer.

Of course, I can't guarantee success, but I can guarantee that if you DON'T stay you will fail.
So maybe hyped up motivation is good for some days. And the sheer grit of the will power to STAY is good for all days motivation fails you.

What about you? Are you staying?

The contestants are asignened personal trainers

If You Were a Toy

2011-03-21T04:25:00.000-07:00

If I was a toy....
I would be the transformer, minus the cool sound effects, oh
and also minus my left arm
cause I'd be kind of stuck in a transformation between car and robot because someone (I won't mention any names- might have been me) got a bit frustrated that they couldn't force the change.

I would be the doll with one eye rolled back in her head,
You know the one? You poke you finger in to retrieve the eye, but all you do is push it further back? Yeah... that one. I wouldn't see everything I should.

I would be the pea green T-Rex with shrivelled hands and a massively disproportionate body.
The one that would repeat, "I'm a predator. No, really, I am" if you twist my tail.
Stop twisting my tail. I won't sound convincing after the fifth time.

I would be the puzzle with a few pieces missing. Friends would keep me around though. Perhaps I would be an interesting enough picture without all the pieces. Or maybe they would have missing pieces too and wouldn't be bothered by my own lack of completion.

I would be the book with crayon drawings of stick... things. I am not sure what they are. But they shouldn't be there, should they? Unless you believe that life marks us all. And that having friends draw wings on your back is a very good thing.

But mostly I'd be the plastic Lego dude with the shield. And a missing sword. A very big one. I think the dinosaur ate it. Or maybe the dog... anyway... I would be the Lego warrior dude. Able to leap tall... Lego bricks in a single bound and fight off, um, .... boredom. I'd slay Lego dragons, and rescue Lego princesses.

I guess my point is this... I am the transformer still transforming, the doll who sees life a little differently, the T-Rex who wants you to think I'm big stuff, the puzzle that's not all there, the book that doesn't mind being drawn on if you are going to draw wings, and the Lego dude who can fight off what needs to be fought off in my own little world.
Aren't we all just a few toys short of a complete toy box?
Show me normal and I'll show you a pea green T-Rex.

What about U? What kind of toy are you and why?

Writer's Wednesday: Stillness

2011-03-16T05:10:00.000-07:00

Creativity doesn't simply happen. Sorry all you big ban theorist out there, but I know that nothing ever came from nothing. Creativity is not a random act of chance. Just like writing is not the product of words suddenly bumping into each other on a page and weaving themselves into sentences that cling in paragraphs, and paragraphs that lengthen into chapters.

You might think I'm stating the obvious here, but a book cannot happen of its own accord. If that were stating the obvious then more writer's would protect their creativity.

How do we protect our creativity?

Be still. Yup. That's it. We need to be still.

Life is noisy. Busy. Bold. And often in your face. As writer's we need to erect fences around the mental space required to create.

TIME

Put it in your diary. Ink it on the calendar. Write it on your arm. Make time to be alone without the noise of life.

QUIET SPACE

You can find this anywhere. Libraries, parks, your bedroom, swimming in the ocean, walking at sunrise.

Stay with yourself in quietness long enough to discover what you think and if in fact you have anything worth saying, much less a whole book.

FOCUS

Find a way to quieten your mind, not by emptying it, but by focusing it. For me when I want to find stillness I take my camera and head outside. The photo above is an example of one afternoon on sunset at a local park when I simply needed to be still.

Isn't that called writing time? No. Writing time is writing time. Too much is going on in our heads when we write. Stillness is about refilling that space inside up where the words come from. It's about letting go of trying to figure out plot twists and character arcs and simply allowing ourselves to breathe. Why do you think it is that good ideas come to you when you're in the shower or dreaming? Cause you're STILL inside your mind. A quiet mind is has great capacity for creativity. An unquiet mind is... unquiet.

"True intelligence operates silently.

Stillness is where creativity and solutions to problems are found."

~ Eckhart Tolle

Same Kind of Different

2011-03-14T05:00:00.000-07:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

I look like you do.

Life pulls us both in, sits us down and whispers something we haven't heard before. It's called a new day. And I open my eyes the same way you do.

When you cry, I understand, because I cry too. And when you yawn, I nod my head, because I ache for sleep. When you stand at the edge of your shore line and throw a pebble, I will see the ripples, because I am only on the other side. When you stare in the mirror and wonder, when you look backwards over your shoulder and then stumble, when it rains and your boots are sodden, I am in those moments, because we are not so very different.

Maybe that's all I need to remember... that we aren't so very different. Maybe that's all any of us need to remember.

I have bipolar2. Think about it this way, I look like you do.

Life pulls us both in, sits us down and whispers something we haven't heard before. It's called a new day. And I open my eyes the same way you do.

What about you? Trauma, tragedy, race, religion, mental health, age, sexual orientation, social status... does it separate us all as much as some might like to think?

(PS- A massive thank you to those who visited my blog when I was away tending to the realities of mothering alone while husband travels. I have not forgotten you and I will be visiting blogs again today. Thank you for the show of support and for those who drop by to tell me how much my words have meant to them. I am humbled.)

Alone in Big World

2011-02-21T01:16:00.000-08:00

(Photo of my eldest son by the bay. Taken by Tabitha Bird)

I'm going to be a soul Mom for two weeks while my man is away on business.

And here's the choice.

Feed kids, wipe kids, feed them again, wipe them again, kiss them, hug them, dry tears, separate them, find the lost lizard, take them to school, pick them up from school, feed them yet again, wipe them yet again, survive homework hell and 5pm Arsenic Hour, bath them, tuck them in and kiss them goodnight THEN find a good wine and a quiet book to maintain sanity.

OR
Do all of the above THEN try to fit in blogging and lose sanity...

Yeah, you know what I chose :)

So, love to all. But while I'm alone in the big world I am taking a break for two weeks until husband returns and I again have some ALONE time to blog. I will try to be on your blogs if I get the chance, but I hate throwing up a post here just for the sake of throwing up a post.
Know what I mean?

Back in two weeks.
X
Tab

Steal My Attention

2011-02-18T04:00:00.000-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

"In a world that demands attention, it's the little things that steal mine."

It was the end of day that had called my name. Called it long and called it hard. Do you know the day I mean? The one with the music playing so repetitively the lyrics loose their meaning.
That day.
And on that day, at the end of that day, I stole away to a place where the leaves of tree hum the song of twilight. There with my camera I remembered something.
Something little.

Children are the masters of 'seeing little.'
Two Lego bricks are dinosaurs. Stick are swords. Roads made of sheets and pillows are rivers with crocodiles in them. With such imaginations children follow a row of ants and they pick up the rust colored leaves because such things are whole new ways of seeing the world. The ants are friends off to a picnic, or tiny spies sent by a bug army. The leaf is a fairy's hat or a dragon's lunch.

That's when I remembered. Just me and the camera. And the stillness. What a threesome we were, what a grand party, because who should find me but the child I once was.
Inside me she me whispered, "Do you see how the grasshopper bends the blade of grass it sits on? Look at the rock with eye pattern. Touch the speckled feather."

It was that same child who saw the dragonfly. There on a branch above my head.
Sitting. Seeing. Watching me.
Watching me while I was quiet.
Watching me while I found the magic.
Watching me while I remembered how to let a dragonfly steal my attention.

What about you? Life is very loud. What steals your attention?

Writer's Wednesday- Connection

2011-02-16T02:23:00.000-08:00

In writing circles there is a lot of talk about connecting.... with the reader.

Forget that.

Honestly.

Forget it.

Want a book that stays with your reader?

If you want to write something that a reader won't be able to put down forget trying to connect with the reader and (wait for it...) connect with YOU.

We admire the writer who can show us something about our own humanity because they have shown us something about theirs. One of the primary reasons I put down a book has nothing to do with plot, voice, style or even genre (I have been know to read anything, even the cheerios box).

I put down books when I sense that the author has not said what they truly wanted to say. In short, they have not connected with themselves. Or worse, they have, and then they ignored the connection.

Then consider this:

"There are very few "writing problems," as such; only human ones. A lot of what we take to be writing problems are really courage problems, problems about being honest, problems confronting others and confronting ourselves."~ Ralph Keyes.

You have to get honest about your own humanity.

It's your job to find out what makes your skin itch and your brain tick. The most uncomfortable truth about you and your life THAT is what the reader wants insight into.

Readers want you to put into words what it means to be human. They want you to share the human experience through your characters. That kind of writing ONLY comes from self connection.

Put that kind of honesty into your writing and you can't help but connect with the reader.

Why?

Because we instinctively know when someone is being real and when they are full of ....well, you put your own word in there :)

It's Scary.

Don't say I didn't warn you :)

But then we are writers, not worm farmers. The writing life is suppose to freak you out :)

To share the intimacy you have found with yourself with a reader is TERRIFYING.

And yet, you must.

All other writing is candy floss and fireworks.

Too real?

Yup. It is. It is too real. THAT realness is what makes for mind blowing fiction.

I dare you, I double dare you to front up to yourself and establish the truth of who you are. Then write.

"E.B White thought that the writer's key problem was to establish communication with himself.. if a writer has been communicating with a reader, I think it is simply because he has been trying (with some success) to get in touch with himself." ~ Ralph Keyes.

What about you? Agree? Disagree? Connected?

Writing- How do I Love Thee?

2011-02-14T03:24:00.000-08:00

(My youngest when he was little- someone else who loves the written word... or is that his toes?)

Ahhh writing. Let me count the ways I love thee.

for making me embrace rejection- I love thee
for forcing me to strip back the crap and write it real- I love thee
for providing me with the term 'writer's block' so I don't have to say 'I'm afraid'- I love thee
for introducing me to twitter, blogger, facebook and many other ways to avoid a blank page I must fill- I love thee
for being my best excuse to be alone- I love thee
for helping me understand my own thoughts- I love thee
for all the lessons in humility (including the time I thought my first book was ready to query)- I love thee
for expanding my horizons to include like minded people so I no longer question my sanity- I love thee
for the sheer excitement of finishing 87,000 words without having burnt every dinner, neglecting the dog, forgetting where I put the children or filing for divorce- I love thee
for daily giving me reason to push through my limitations- I love thee

AND finally...

11. for being the vehicle through which I am seen, known and understood- I love thee

Happy valentines Day all :)

What about you? Tell me about what you love?

PS- Thank you to those who came by and left there best wishes when I was having a difficult Friday. I appreciate you all.
X

I'll Leave You With My Chihuahua

2011-02-11T02:07:00.000-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

Hey all,

I am just going to be really honest; I'm tired tonight. Sometimes life kicks too hard, ya know? Today was a heavy day for me and I am now tucking myself up in bed with a cup of tea and my chihuahua (yes, the one in the photo).

Sorry for the lack of blog post.

I'll be back Monday with all colors flying again :)

Have a great weekend all.
Tab

Writer's Wednesday- Dealing with the Fear.

2011-02-09T03:25:00.000-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

Disclaimer: As promised Writer's Wednesday debuts on my blog today. Also as promised there will be no talk of writing do and dont's. there are a million blogs that deal with that.

THIS is NOT that blog. Writer's Wednesday will talk about the kinds of things that debilitate us, scare us, inspire us and make us run for our pen.. or computer. The kinds of things that once someone else talks about up we all exhale quietly and say something like, "Thank god. I. Am. Not. Alone."

That said... let's get to it.

First topic off the bat- Fear.

(Yeah, I know, jump in the deep end, Tab. That's me. Deep End Tab :)

Consider this:

"Working writers aren't those who have eliminated their anxiety. They are the ones who keep scribbling while their hearts race and their stomach churns, and who mail manuscripts with trembling fingers."

~ Ralph Keyes.

Okay, now I'm going to be real honest. Fear is a writer's constant companion. There. I said it. The day I stopped expending time and energy trying to get rid of fear was the day I finally realized what it meant to be a writer.

Afraid?

For one reason or another every writer has periods of time where they CANNOT write. And I'm going to cut through all the excuses for why (the dog needed walking, your kitchen needed painting, your boss gave you overtime, you didn't feel ready, you had no ideas, nothing inspired you, everything inspired you, you didn't know where to start, you did know where to start, you'd made too many false starts) and just say it like it is. IT ALL BOILS DOWN TO FEAR.

I don't want to spend a lot of time discussing the various fears we writers have (I'll leave that for another post) but I do want to say that we all have them and if you get with yourself for five minutes and ask what's going on for you, what is behind all the excuses and writers block, you will most likely come up with your own loooong list.

Use it

If you were like me what you did when you discovered your fears was to try to get rid of them.

Great.

It's to be applauded.

But fear has a way of coming back. Example: I decided not to be afraid of the talent of various other writers and to simply be the best me I could be. Fabulous goal. Until the next time I read something from Uber Talented Writer Dude or Dudette. (she actually has a name. This is a true story, but I won't shame us both) I sat there reading her posts thinking, 'Crap! I will never be able to do that! Look what she did with 200 words! I couldn't do that with 200 000! (Yeah, come on. You have been there. Admit it :)

Once I'd stopped howling about how unfair life was not to have made me half the writer she was (and wasted a good portion of my allotted writing time to the self-depreciating cause) I re-read her post. Yep. I reread it. I decided that I was scared. The fear of not being good enough was real and unlikely to go anywhere by wishing it away. I was going to have to deal with it. AND here's how I dealt with it.

I USED IT.

That's right. (cue wild clapping... still waiting... okay... not coming :)

I used the fear to make a promise to myself. I was going to use this writer as a touch stone for my work. I was going to read her. Learn from her. And then compare the mechanics of her writing with mine. I turned the fear into a tool. This has become the single most proactive thing I've ever done for my writing. It stopped fear from being a debilitating thing and transformed it into the inspiration to write BETTER than I ever had before.

Consider this:

I strongly believe that the very thing that makes us better writer IS fear. FEAR USED WELL.

Ralph Keyes said it better than me (see, there's always someone :)

"The state you need to write

IS the state that others are paying large sums of money

to get rid of."

True?

What about you? What do you do with your fear? Does it stop you, or inspire you?

Standing by Myself

2011-02-07T03:33:00.000-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

"Feeling unpopular as a child gets one in shape for serious writing.

Misfits spend a lot of time alone. Future writers use that time to make up imaginary playmates.

As outsiders, the develop a habit of observing others.

And being rejected by other kids

not only fills young authors-to-be with grievances in need of redress

but it gets them used to being disliked.

That puts them in a very strong artistic position.

Putting people off feels like business as usual."

~ Ralph Keys (The Courage to Write)

People have often told me I am intuitive. Now you know why.

I've spent a great portion of my life observing. After a while I was actually surprised if I fitted in. The edge of the group became so familiar.

Here's the thing, I've spent so much of my childhood and adulthood being alone that doing things my own way has become second nature. Being unpopular doesn't scare me since it's not really an issue to begin with. I'm already firmly camped on that ground.

It's not that I don't want to belong, I do. But since I often find myself on the outside of things I'm left to take creative risks with my life that don't carry with them debilitating fear of ostracising myself from others. I am left to be myself in my words, in my writing and in my living. It has served me well. The more time I spend with me the more I find out about who Tab is and what she really wants to say.

I highly recommend a bout of loneliness for sheer honesty in your writing. Get with you and find out what makes you tick. Find out what you would say if no one else was a round and then... say it.

In my humble little opinion readers appreciate the authentic writer. Eventually I've found myself surround by others who live as though no one else is watching. There's freedom in that. I get to be myself. They get to be themselves. And suddenly I have a friend, perhaps two or three who don't need to take the social temperature of everyone around them before they speak... or in the case of a writer, before they put words on paper.

What about you? Am I the only loner out there?

There's Something About Boats

2011-02-04T01:39:00.001-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

Stories are held in the fibres of crackled paint and arthritic wood. If you have an ear to see and and eye to listen, you too will know...

There's something about little boats.

As a child I sat on the shore lines wanting to touch them. They were the rubber duckies of the grown up world only here the bathtub was filled with ocean water. Bobbing colors reflected on the waves, teasing me with how out of reach they were until the tide finished playing with them and washed them up on the beach.

Even then I knew there was a rhythm to little boats. A sigh. An exhale all of their own. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Ebb and flow. Come and go. To and fro as they moved with the watery hands beneath them. Hypnotic. Calming. But it's more than this.

There's a story to little boats.

They are the books of the sea carrying their own history in the very being of their wooded hulls. With every curl of weathered paint, with every scar on their frame, they speak. Telling their tales only to those who can imagine, using the language of those who can create their own worlds. If you have an ear to see and an eye to hear then you too will know...

There's something about little boats.

What about you? Do you find stories off the pages? What else besides books holds a tale for you?

Writer's Wednesday- And the Winner is...

2011-02-02T02:29:00.000-08:00

The Winner of my Blog Redesign contest is....

CHERYL!

Congrats, Cheryl. I will be emailing you to let you know how to proceed. I hope your new blog look is something you will be very happy with. And I am sure it will be.

Still want a new look?
Now to all those who didn't win, but indicated that they wanted a new blog design why not get in contact with Jayna and see what you can cook up together?
Remember my new blog look only cost $30! Considering that it is an investment in your career as a writer I think it's money well spent. And let's face it, blog design can be VERY expensive. Jayna's rates are down right reasonable and affordable.

You can email her at jaynahaws [at] yahoo [dot] com
Or visit her blog for more information. http://www.friendofafrienddesigns.blogspot.com

Writer's Wednesday
I've been at this writing thing for a while now, published in multiple magazines, and I think I might have something of worth to say about it all. So, Writer's Wednesday will be dedicated specifically to writers.
No, I 'm not going to turn into a how-to blog. I'm not going to give you ten good reasons why you should eliminate flowery prose or tell you how to craft a hook. But I am going to deal with some of the demons that plague a writer's mind. I am going to get real honest about some of the things that have worked for me and some of the things that can mean the difference between quitting and pushing your writing to new levels. The writer's soul is what I am about. So, please come and join me on Wednesdays. I'd love to see you here!

Monday and Fridays posts will be the ME you have always known. Poetry, prose, a few laughs about being a 'Writing Mommy' and the inspiration and hope I have found in life as I see it THROUGH MY EYES.

Join me then :)

X
Tab

Blog Design Giveaway

2011-01-31T02:37:00.000-08:00

Check it out here!

NEW LOOK!

The wonderful Jayna Haws of Friend of a Friend Blog Designs has done a wonderful job redesigning my little space of Internet over here. We worked together over the weekend using my photography and Jayna's html know how to pull off something that I am truly happy with. So, to celebrate....

GIVEAWAY

As a huge thanks to Jayna and a special thanks to my wonderful readers here (that's you!) I am offering a free blog design by Jayna. That's right, FREE. You get your blog pimped and I'll pay. You pay NOTHING!

TO ENTER

Leave me a comment in this post with your email address so I can contact you if you win. I will select one winner at random. Competition closes this Wednesday. Check back here on Wednesday for the winner.

WHY A WRITER NEEDS A PROFESSIONAL LOOKING BLOG.

If you are a writer then your blog is a show case for you and your work. You put time and effort into those posts. Why not have a great space to display them?
First impressions count. Sorry, but it IS about judging a book by its cover when it comes to blog looks. Agents and editors frequently check out potential clients' blogs. That should be enough to scare you into having a reasonably presentable blog. :)
Your blog is apart of your 'branding' as an author. Your blog says YOU. It should be something that gives us a feel for what you write and/or post about. It should also inspire people to stay awhile and check out your work. Example, if you write edgy YA, and you keep a blog to build a readership, then think about what kind of look your target audience is likely to appreciate.

The whole look of my blog cost $30! Yes, you read that right! What are you waiting for? Go and check out Jayna's services at http://friendofafrienddesigns.blogspot.com/

or email her at jaynahaws[at]yahoo[dot]com to get your blog looking truly fantastic!

Don't forget to enter my comp. Good luck all!

I am Marco Polo

2011-01-28T03:07:00.000-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

I am Marco Polo.

Last night I woke to find myself.
I was the ghostly form that hovered like a reflection above the waters of possibility.
I was the slight rocking of a boat moored to its pontoon, knocking knees with the the one beside.

I am Marco Polo.

She stood in front of me setting up a tripod.
I was the void of inky sea in front of her. Calm on the surface but underneath I was pressing my face up against the boarders I'd created inside me. The ones that were suppose to make it hurt less. The ones that kept me behind a glass no one would ever see.

She invited me to step up behind my camera. It was ready. Photo composed. Shutter speed set. Lens wide opened. A 30 second exposure to make use of the low light. Did I want to press the button?

I am Marco Polo.

I took the body of my camera in my right hand. So unfamiliar. A foreign object in the foreign land of photography. Through the view finder, I checked. Am I in focus? Do I see?

She stood beside me. A still shadow.
My finger paused just above the button. Was I ready to take the shot? Then I remembered, is anyone really ready for that? And...

I am Marco Polo.

A tender salt wind moved past my cheek. I clamored over the gates of my heart looked back over the gullies of my soul left behind after an old friend that once walked away... but

I am Marco Polo.

Without disturbing the spirit of the night and its becalmed boats I took the shot. Titling my head, I waited for the image to process counting every second of the exposure. My breathing. And her breathing.
Then, there it was.
"So?" she said, "What do you think?"
I nodded my head. A quite contentment. I smiled at her. We talked about something. And I knew. I'd let her in. I'd pressed my face up against the boarders of my own heavily guarded territories and I'd let her in.

In the car on the way back to her place I whispered inside myself,

"I am Marco Polo."

What about you? Do you ever find yourself up against your own boundaries. To you dare to push and discover more? Are you Marco Polo in your life, in your writing, in your living?

(photo taken at Manly Harbor not far from where I live. The image and the company I was in were both beautiful. It's fun to think that there may be more photo nights.)

I'm being Upstaged.

2011-01-24T01:07:00.001-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird.

Cyrus, 3yrs old)

There is room for exactly one Drama Queen in my house. One writer. One cupcake lover. One person most likely to down a glass of wine in the evening and say, "Whatever."

And then we had him.

I write.

He climbs onto the top bunk and draws on the ceiling. With black pen. Permanent black pen.

I eat my cupcakes.

He throws them.

At my dog. MY dog!

I down my glass of wine in the evening and say, "Whatever."

He downs his toy cars and screams, "Mooooommmmmmyyy! There's a hole in my belly!"

I drop my wine and run to his side. "A hole?"

What kind of a mother am I to have missed a hole in his belly?

"Look! There!" He points at his round little tummy sticking out over the top of his shorts. His tears are already spilling their fat drops all over him.

Then I see where he's pointing.

I bite my lip to stop the laughing and rock him on my lap to assure the poor child that he isn't dying. When I am sure I can talk without releasing the building laughter I say, "It's okay, baby. Everyone has a belly button."

Yeah. I am being upstaged.

And I like it. I like it a lot.

As I put him to bed I think, perhaps every writer should be upstaged by life and those who live it with them. If only to be reminded that words are not created from a vacuum, in an absence real of living. To all drama queens out there. LIVE it! And let yourself be upstaged. Occasionally.

What about you? Been upstaged lately?

Rage Against the Dying of the Light

2011-01-21T01:23:00.001-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

"Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave and close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light

Though wise me at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightening they

do not go gentle into that good night."

Dylan Thomas 1914-1953

My right in life is not to live, for even the grasses of the fields live and harvests are sewn and grow. My purpose is not to breathe in air, sucking gluttonously at mother nature's breast, for even swine can be found suckling. I am not the beast that grazes by sun and sleeps by moon. Nor the river that loses itself in the ocean. I am not that which washes up with the tide or expires with the orange death of Autumn never to see Spring.

But do I rage?

I am humanity. Each one beginning with the premise that we are unique. Each one built for more than survival.

But do I rage?

Never again will there be a 'Me' or a 'You' birthed into this world. Yet there I go, gently, gently. Stepping into each morning with slippered feet and a certainty I was never given. Eating of the fat of my land as if at any moment I might have it all again.

But do I rage?

As the light dies daily over every sea and behind every mountain there exists for each one question. There exists for me. One. Question.

Do I rage?

What about you? Well? Do you rage? Will you come to the end of your life knowing that your words have forked no lightening?

A New Day Under a Washed Blue Sky

2011-01-17T02:56:00.000-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

There is a plan. Even if there doesn't appear to be. Especially if their doesn't appear to be, there is a plan.
Lately I have been hanging on this though with a white knuckled grip.
Brisbane has flooded. No, I didn't loose my home. No I didn't loose my family. But I live in a city in morning. Matt and I lost thousands of dollars worth of exhibit stands that out company builds and stores in a warehouse in Rocklea. The warehouse was gutted. Literally. The owners of the warehouse are close friends of ours. They work in the exhibit design industry the same as our family. They have built their company from the ground up, the same way we are building ours. And they lost everything. There is no insurance because Brisbane flooded in 1974 and those areas that were affected then couldn't get flood insurance after. Rocklea was one of those areas.

Like everyone, we will carry on. You do. You just do. In all this I also have a book that I have queried. Not the best of times perhaps, but who knew my city was going to flood the very week I chose to send a query letter? So I wait. For life in Brisbane to begin again and for the pages of my own life to turn. And sometimes, just sometimes, in the quite of an afternoon, when the sky exhales and the sun lays its head on the horizon, I lay my head down too.

While I was away recently, stuck up the Sunshine Coast unable to get back to Brisbane because of road closers, I sat watching this man fishing. On the edge of a sand bag jetty covered with the murk of sea moss while the beach behind him swelled with he drift wood and debris of flood water now washed into the ocean waters he threw in a fishing line. I wondered if he had family he couldn't get back to. I wonder if he had a house in Brisbane currently going under. And if he did, why fish? With all this devastation around us, why try to catch anything?

Then last night I was watching this movie. The lead character is in the back of a Hummer with bombs turning the sky a burnt orange. the bridge they have to cross to escape is blown sky high. He laughs and turns to one of his mates and says. "There's always a plan. Even when there's doesn't appear to be, there is always a plan."

I sat in the unnatural flickering light of the TV and everything stopped for me. I asked myself what I believed.
Is there a plan? A being greater than myself who is in control? Is there a God? And if I believe that, which I do, then isn't He still in control even now? Even when there seems to be no plan?
Yeah. I know. It's probably not what everyone else watching the movie was thinking, but that's me. I'm seldom on the same thought plane as others anyway :)

I finally understood the point of fishing, even after a storm, even while Brisbane floods and a people grieve. There is a plan, even when I can't see it. And sometimes that's enough to know.
As long as there is still an ocean there is a chance a to throw your line in. To be apart of the living. And to see what might become of a new day under a washed blue sky.

So tonight I whisper to all the shaking parts inside me. "There is a plan. Even when there doesn't appear to be, there is always a plan."

What about you? Ever believed there was a plan even when there didn't appear to be one?

The Art of Thoughting

2011-01-14T04:17:00.001-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

When he was little his daddy and I would often catch him like this.

"What are you doing?" we'd ask.

"I'm thoughting."

"Thoughting?"

"Uh huh. I'm thoughting about all the things I haven't thought about yet."

And we'd leave him to it. Because Thoughting is very important, wouldn't you agree?

The art of drifting off with dandelions and dragonflies, to wander down whatever interesting summer paths your mind finds. To linger softly on the edges of possibilities. Imagining what if, and what might become of, and what isn't, but could be.

For Thoughting is the start of great things. Trees that haven't been climbed. A stream unexplored Books yet to be born. Stories yet to be told. A wish still closed in your heart. A belief in yourself that has yet to be watered.

They all begin with Thoughting.

The mind needs its Thoughting. Its wanting and wishing and dreaming. Such things are the mind's gift to the soul.

So, go Thought something.

A kernel. A bud. A seed. Thought it long and Thought it hard, and eventually the Thoughting will carry you away. To a place that even little boys know how to find. Dreaming the impossible.

What about you? What are you Thoughting today?

Land of Drought and Flooding Plains

2011-01-10T15:08:00.000-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

All Australians know that summer is the wet season. we know January will bring searing heat and tropical storms. And we all love our sunburnt country, our land of flooding plains... but 2011 has arrived with attitude. She's none too happy, this new year.

I spent yesterday watching pictures of regions surrounding Brisbane flooding. This after record rains all through December and regions to the north of Queensland already flooded. Toowoomba, a town about an hour from where I live here in Brisbane, went down under flash floods that have killed eight so far with 72 missing. It's not a large town to begin with, and now its a sea.

My mother lives in Toowoomba.
You can imagine my panic.

I finally reached her by phone late yesterday evening and she's okay. Her house isn't flooded, yet, but she can't get out. 43 people in her suburb where rescued by helicopter from their roof tops. All roads are cut off. The entire valley around her has flooded. There is no way in or out of the area.
So we wait... for further news and for these flood waters that are heading for Brisbane. Toowoomba is only an hour from Brisbane, our biggest city. Thank God I live closer to the bay areas and so far we aren't in the path of the floods. However, if you pray, I'd appreciate the prayer. Not so much for me, but for all those affected by floods who have lost loved ones and all belongings. Much of the north of Queensland is already under water. We are already a state in crisis. If Brisbane goes under, well... you can imagine. Thousands and thousands have already been left stranded in Queensland from December rains. More storms are predicted for the next few weeks with no end yet in sight.

So, sorry for the lack of posting yesterday, my regular scheduled time and for not visiting your blogs. I will be back on schedule as soon as possible.

Thanks all,
Tab

Writing Must Never be about Perfection

2011-01-07T03:11:00.000-08:00

If you could, would you change this tree? Would you smooth its skin? Run your hands over the scales of its trunk and make it new? If you saw the hole would you do as I did and marvel at the beauty? At the way it has built itself around its flaw with the twist of roots? Or would you scoop the earth in your hands squishing rocks and mud into the gap? Would you seek to fill it? Or be filled by the wonder of nature to be whole even with its imperfection.

Especially with its imperfections.

I am this tree.
The hole is mine. And I understand its hollow.
I also understand that I am made by the things I am not, the things that have created the void, the things that have drilled through and scoured my insides. I am made, not by the damage, but by the way I chose to breathe despite the missing pieces. I honor the hole. It reminds me that I have hurt and the battle to grow in spite of this has been hard won.

Especially with my imperfections.

Once I would have told you that I would change the tree. Indeed, I tried. Now I look at myself with wonder. Wonder that I grew around such a massive void. Wonder that I embraced it. Wonder that I thought to grow at all. And as I chose to write from that place, from out of that hole, from out of the longing and aching inside, I get to share me. In that kind of writing the hole inside reveals itself to me as beautiful. A great work of my life. A raw and honest place I have fought to live with and heal from. Life is not about perfection. Writing also must never be about perfection. It must be about the thunderous reality of living. About people who write with holes and can thus create characters with holes. About people who are whole even with their imperfections.

Especially with their imperfections.

What about you? Do you have a hole? Does it reveal itself as beautiful? A great work of your life?

(Photo is the trunk of a mangrove tree taken along the Redland Bay foreshore in QLD, Australia. Beautiful hole, hey?)

Last

2011-01-03T03:55:00.000-08:00

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

As the sun fell from its throne in the sky it stretched its arms towards the horizon.
An attempt to catch itself?
Maybe.

It wove its fingers through the leaves of a Morten Bay Fig. The wind dappling the fingerprints of the last sunlight on the ground.
Last?
Maybe.

The grasses rose to meet the light like an animal arching it's back, eager for the stroking hand of a kind master. The sun breathed with the afternoon. I breathed too.
Stillness?
Maybe.

I wondered how many sunsets have morphed into the liquid dark of night without me seeing them. How many before this one?
An eternity?
Maybe.

As I my skin drank in the last light of the year, a new year crouching at the door of tomorrow, I opened my eyes and saw. Not a last sunset. Not for me. For me, this was a first.
A beginning?
Maybe.

What about you? Happy New Year. How did you spend the last light of 2010? I went on a date with my camera. A new obsession. Photography.

For Without a Reader

2010-12-20T04:11:00.000-08:00

There was once a writer who had written no words for she had no words within her.
For without a reader to see her sadness there was nothing left to say

There once was a writer who didn't know she was until a listener encouraged her to talk
to open those pages and imagine what things inside her might spill out upon them
to breathe what was inside her very being onto the blank canvas of her dreams
And she did, that writer did.
For without a reader her words might never have been born.

There once was a writer whose dreams were short and her words unsteady on their feet, but there they were. On the page. Before her.
For without a reader those pages would have remained empty.

There once was a reader who began to build a little place to speak, a sentence placed here, a poem hung over there,
to give voice to the challenges that burned and the void inside that curdled
to reach out to those who might be like her; a writer, yet with no words of their own
And so she built. She stripped back and wove together.
For without a reader that building would remain unseen.

There once was a writer who finished her first book. Her dreams now longer. Long enough that her arms now wrapped not only around herself but around others. She is proud. And she is humbled.
For without you, my readers here, and all the many other readers in my life, there might never have been anything left to say.

Thank you. To all my readers. To my first reader. To the man who reads with me.
May you all read if your read, and write if you write, for there is plenty that has been said. And plenty left to say.

Merry Christmas.

{I will be breaking for Christmas from now until the 3rd of January 2011.}

Find Your Inner Cat

2010-12-13T04:59:00.000-08:00

This is why you should find your inner cat.

A few nights ago we were sitting around the dinner table, doing more talking than eating.
Isaiah, my seven year old, with eyes so blue it would appear that the summer skies have been squeezed into them, looked at me and said, "Mommy, what will I be when I grow up?"

"You can be whatever you want, baby. A lawyer, a doctor, a truck driver, a nurse, a teacher..."

Daddy joined in, cause that's what we do in our family. "Or you could be a designer or a dentist, a banker or bricklayer."

"Or a writer. You're a great writer. I love your stories," I said.

Isaiah looking thoughtful said, " Thanks Mom, but I think I'm more of an artist. I like my drawings."

I ruffled his hair and touched my finger to the tip of his nose. Cause who can resist that cute nose? "Well you be an artist then baby. I'll buy all your paintings."

Isaiah giggled.

Then Cyrus, our family's resident three-year-old, said, "Or a cat. You could be a pussy cat."

We laughed, but Cyrus started to cry.

"Oh, Honey. Sorry. Isaiah can be a pussy cat if he wants to," I said.

"Or a crocodile," Daddy added.

Cyrus laughed with us this time.

"Or a donkey," Isaiah said.

"Just don't be a chihuahua," Daddy said. "Our family has one of those already, and one is enough."

So I ask you, have you found your inner cat? Maybe you should. The world is funnier when you do :)

PHOTO: Me and my boys (oh, and the chihuahua)

Ode to Holes

2010-12-10T03:37:00.000-08:00

Wonderful, aren't they?
Holes.
They are the beginning of something. The thing I stand above, scratching my head, often wondering what is at the bottom.
They make me dream.
They also make me nightmare.
That's the nature of holes.
They aren't all sweet little slots where you place a coin, turn the handle and wait for what you want to fall down another hole and into your waiting hands. Not all holes are vending machines. And thank God for that.
I might never have seen the beauty of life if not for holes. If not for the chance to fall into one, to desperately shine my torch light along the roof of a hole that joined forces with many holes to become a tunnel, I would never have seen the possibilities. Because that's what a hole is. You can wonder what's at the end, if you'll get to the end or if indeed there is an end, but the hole remains what it is.
The perfect invitation.

Holes invite you to look. To search. To go places, or lead other's to places. They invite you to step down, step side ways, step around or stop. To poke your finger through or peer into the possibilities.

They invite you to notice.
The hole in your pocket. The hole in the fence. The hole in your writing. The hole in your dreams. The hole in your life, your marriage, your friendships.
Dare I say it?
The hole in your heart.

They invite questions.
Did something use to be where this hole was? Has this always been a hole or is something missing? Should I do something about the missing something?

They invite a challenge. Can I sew up the hole? bridge the hole? Climb out of the hole? Fill the hole in? Talk my way out of the hole? Or do I grab my quivering little heart full of holes and just jump right into life and all its uncertainties?

Holes make me more attentive. They make me walk around, take a different way home, take the time to talk to those I love, be more real, expose my own holes and care about the holes other people show me. They make me imperfect. They make my life imperfect. They mean I live in an imperfect world. And that my dear friends is the wonder of holes.

they say, this is not the end, it might not even be the beginning. It's just a hole. What will I do about it?
Holes invite change. Even the ones that collapse under foot and suck you in, even the ones that bleed, yes even them, they speak of possibilities.

Of course you could ignore the holes. You could. But I wouldn't. Holes have a way of still being there even with your eyes squeezed shut. I warn you though (it's only fair), holes lead to new worlds. Ask Alice who found madness, but also her Wonderland. She knew. And I know too. Holes are magical things. Ugly things. Beautiful things.

Despise not the humble hole. Without the hole, without the space, without the void, there is no pathway to somewhere else.

If This is How God Paints

2010-12-06T02:35:00.000-08:00

If this is how God paints.
If His brush strokes are the green carpet of moss on an Irish rock,
the velvet blue of butterfly wings that caress a tree,
and the liquid peaches of an afternoon sky preparing to sleep
If they are the silver dew clinging to a spider's web,
the fat grays of building storm clouds,
and the black of a starless night when my voice calls
Then it is here,
in the midnight colors,
that I see His hand most.

When I am alone with the chafe of a lonely heart,
and the sores inside that no one can see,
then I remember how stark an artist's canvas is before the painting.
How white a page is before I write upon it.
And I am full of hope. Because perhaps I am a color yet placed,
a word yet read...
and I wonder at the beauty of life yet to come,
If this is how God paints.

Fear of Skies Around Me.

2010-11-29T04:14:00.000-08:00

Clouds hung, fat and wallowing, gathered together like old women in a market square.
But He did not notice.
As the air built to a fever of sweat that collected on my neck and slid like a single wet finger in a line down my back, His eyes were closed.
Moment by moment the colors in the heavens changed. I'd watched all afternoon as the sky turned from liquid peach to burnt sienna and then grew dark. So dark. As if the hands of God wiped his canvas clean of the summer blue and replaced it with bruised clouds threatening to cry the tears of a thousand rains. And cry they most certainly would. I watched the sky draw itself up, build layer upon layer and then...
Silence.
The stillness before it broke.
And still He slept.
Thunder came from the very belly of the earth, but He did not wake.
He lay there asleep while the sky split itself in two above His head.
Only I cried out.

And when He heard my voice He opened one eye, reached out a slow and steady hand and said, "I have not left you. I am not moved by storms. Do not fear because you are not alone."
Then I knew.
While I watch storms and shudder in the aftermath of thunder as the skies spill from above, He listens only for me.
The storm did not move Him to wake. I did. My cry. My fear. Because I am His.

So I did as He does.
I curled up beside Him. I wrote. I laughed and loved. I ate and lived. And I slept.
Because you can.
If you are not alone.
You can.

What about you? Who sees you through the storms? Who stills your fears?

The art of Losing.

2010-11-26T04:20:00.000-08:00

Those of you who have followed my blog for awhile know that I fight. Yep, as in boxing. Yep, in a real ring with a real girl who throws real punches. (oh, don't I know it)
And here's the thing. Boxing is a lot more like writing than you would expect.
To win a fight you have to want it. You have to train hard and be hard and box harder. And when the other girl is up in your face and you are deep into the third quarter and long past the ability to suck in a decent amount of air you have to remind yourself how much you want it. And when it's all over you have to hope that was enough.
And sometimes... sometimes it isn't.
Tonight it wasn't.

I lost my boxing match tonight by one point.
Yeah.
One. Point.
Got any idea how many times I have been over the fight in my head and saw all the places I could have picked up one measly point? I'll tell you. Too many times.

And writers, it's the same thing with books. You gotta want it and train hard and writer harder. And when the hours are long and lonely and the book up in your face demanding things of you you aren't sure you can deliver, you have to remind yourself how much you want it. And when it's all over you have to hope that was enough.
And sometimes... a lot of times. It won't be.

What do you tell yourself then?
What is your internal dialogue like when the thing you want you can't have and you really have no one but you to blame?
There is an art to losing writers. An art to not getting what you want.
In boxing there is an art to getting back into training the week following a losing fight. There is an art to saying, "I did what I could and it was not enough." And then going after what you want again.

In writing there is an art to writing another book following the one no agent wanted. Or re-writing the query letter and manuscript after enough rejections to wall paper you house.

That people, is what separates the true fighters out there. And as writers we fight too. We fight everyday for what we want and who we want to be. In fact no matter who you are or what you want, life is far more about art of losing than it is winning. Because most of us will spend more time losing than winning. It's what you do after you gave everything and failed that really determines what you are made of. That, I think, is the art of losing.

For now, though, I'm off to bed. Cause I kinda hurt. In my head and in my heart. (Some of my ribs don't feel to great either) Tomorrow I'll have a little chat with Me. Me needs to hear that she fought a good fight and lost. I'm proud of her. And she needs to hear that next week she will be back training. Yes body. I did say next week.

Night all.
Bless.
Especially if you too are learning the art of losing.

Writers, hear me. Your words matter.

2010-11-22T19:44:00.000-08:00

Some of you may remember that back in OCT I took a break from blogging to focus on my re-writes. Well, they are very nearly complete. But that is not the reason I am back from my blogging hiatus early. While I was gone people visited my blog and I thank you, all of you. One person in particular though gifted me the following words and I want to share them with you. Especially if you are a writer.

Writing is often a lonely pursuit. (No, sorry , being friends with your characters doesn't count.) And every now and then I stop and wonder about the purposefulness of it all. If giving of myself, my raw, honest hidden self, to my words is going to matter to anyone but me.
And writers, hear this.
Please.
Stop and hear me on this.
What you write DOES matter. It already matters and it will matter in the future. For there are as many different writers as there are readers who need to hold your words.

A wise person recently said to me, "If you have a story inside you, write that story. You were given those words because someone out there needs to read them."

This is the comment a fellow reader left on my post titled "Do I matter?"

"I ask this question too, all the time. I found this beautiful post by googling.. "Do I matter?". I wanted to hear what others came to, deep down in the heart of hearts.

For me, I care about the world and all its people so, so much. I have always felt that they mattered, without a doubt, just because. I always felt that by treating each other better, helping to bring joy and love and growth and opportunity that we could bring that much more meaning to all of our lives.

But without realizing it.. I had always considered myself the exception to that rule. That everyone mattered, was unique, was lovable, was talented, was deserving, was memorable.. but me.

Here I am in in my first year of university, wondering if I matter. If what I will do one day matters. I also grew up hearing about how flawed, disappointing, angering and hopeless I was. I spent my younger years trying to be invisible, the least of a burden that I could be. I am trying to change those beliefs, and the fear they bring with them, at the very core.. and it is the hardest thing I've had to do yet. I can't thank you enough for these posts, and these comments.. because I know now that in the hearts of perfect strangers, I mean something important, and in mine.. they do too.

I am crying tears of joy. Thank you so much."
~ from Anonymous

So, write on my fellow writers. They are the words someone needs to hear. Never mind how imperfect you feel your words are.
Funny, isn't it, that when you extend your raw and honest hand through your words, someone takes it, pulls you close, and hugs you right back.

Taking a Break

2010-10-18T05:52:00.000-07:00

Okay. It is apparent that Blogger and I need to part company for a couple of weeks.

I am working my ass off on edits, trying to finish the re-write of my memoir asap. Though I have tried to keep posts going here and have time to edit, the book simply has to come first right now. I will miss you all. Thank you for the support over here. I will be back towards the end of November. I will have finished all re-writes and edits by then and have the work out to my critique buddies. Hear that crit buddies? Wendy? Lisa? The work will be in your in boxes by the end of November (if not sooner) or you can come get my ass.

Love you all. Keep up the writing people.
X
Tab

PS- I have been published over at the Rose and Thorn Journal. Check out my poem here. www.roseandthornjournal.com/

The Picture of my Life

2010-10-13T03:24:00.000-07:00

Today was not the puzzle piece I was looking for. The colors were wrong. It didn't fit with yesterday. And it didn't seem to fit with the picture I have in my head of the future. Maybe I got the wrong piece? Maybe I am making the wrong puzzle? Or maybe, just maybe it is the right piece, but I don't yet see enough of the picture...

For the last two weeks our family has poured over 1000 puzzle pieces in various stages of fitting together and with various success. When one of us gets frustrated the other comes along and picks up another piece. Sometimes we do it together. Isaiah, my seven-year-old is proving himself a very competent puzzler. My husband, Matt, very determined. My three-year-old, very random. And me? Well, let's just say that I spend a lot of time glaring at stubborn pieces that will not fit where I want them too.

Isaiah was watching me the other afternoon and said, "Mom, that doesn't go there."
"Well, " I said, still trying to smoosh two pieces into some sort of happy union, "Well, they should!"
Isaiah laughed at me and went on his merry way. Later that night Matt found heaps more pieces that fitted together. By the time I went back to the puzzle it was easy to see where my piece belonged. I clicked it into place and thought nothing more about it.

Until today. My day that didn't fit. My day that seemed random and completely out of step with the picture I am desperately trying to create. And then I got it. It's not the puzzle piece. It's me. When handed a day that doesn't fit I am all determine to stomp through until it submits to my will. Inevitably I end up in some sort of knotted mess saying things like, "Why, Lord, why? When, Lord when?" You know the kind of day. I'm not the only one who gets these, right?

But today I thought, what if 'why' and 'when' and all the other questions I throw up to the heavens are not even the right questions? What if I I simply need to wait another day, or month, or year, or three, to understand how this very day fits into the grand picture of my life? Maybe sometimes what I need is a few more puzzle pieces that click together before this piece makes sense to me, before I can see how this day is apart of my living and how everything is as it should be. Maybe then I can ask the right questions and find the answers that fit. Maybe. Maybe not.

But his I know. Everyday, even a stubborn day, even a puzzle piece that I was not looking for, is apart of something. It is apart of the picture of my life.

Maybe it is only when the picture is complete that we see how beautiful this messy thing we call life is.

What about you? Do you puzzle?
If you write, do you puzzle your way through a book, or does it have to fit from the start?

Puzzle on people, puzzle on

Crazy? Welcome.

2010-10-08T03:04:00.000-07:00

"The only people for me are the mad ones,

the ones who are mad to live,

mad to talk,

mad to be saved,

desirous of everything at the same time,

the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing,

but burn, burn, burn,

like fabulous yellow roman candles

exploding like spiders across the stars."

~ Jack Kerouac

Yeah, Jack. Me too. Me too.

The crazy ones inspire me. They push me forward. They keep me breathing.

The crazy ones run with me at 5am. Thank you Tracey.

The crazy ones read my manuscript for the fiftieth time and still see hope. Thank you Wendy.

The crazy ones aren't afraid to go three rounds with me in the boxing ring. Thank you Sam.

The crazy ones run around my house giggling and playing chasey. Thank you Isaiah and Cyrus.

The crazy one calls himself my husband. Thank you Matt.

One day a crazy one will agent my book. A crazy one will publish me. And lots of crazy ones will read me. Oh, to see that crazy day!

Here's to crazy ones. You know who you are.

What about you? What crazy ones do you surround yourself with?

Off Track

2010-10-06T04:00:00.000-07:00

I spend a lot of time off track.

I can see the track with its cobblestones and open spaces, winding through seaside villages I want to visit and arriving at destinations I am keen to see. Some days I join the traffic. I too am one of the Traveling People, doing things and going places. And then there are other days. Mondays. Thursdays. Wet days. Windy days. Forgetful and forgettable days. Or just days when I am not moving.

On those days I slump into a cafe, squeeze myself into a plastic red booth and order a stack of pancakes I don't really need. Or I am the homeless man riffling through your trash, a tin can at my feet and a sign about my neck which reads, 'Feed the hungry.' Some days I am the wrinkled woman with faded photos in my pocket who walks into a library near you and tucks herself up in the back behind last week's newspaper.

Some days I am not a writer. I am not a mother. And I am not a wife. I am barely me.

I get angry with me about those days. So pointless, so full of wasted hours. Then, in a last bid effort to rescue some of those hours, I decide to write anyway. Right there in what ever hovel of a state I find myself, I write. Sometimes the words are as flat as me. But often the words rise up with the wings I wish I had. They are full of everything I need to tell myself and can't.

And that is the writing I have been able to publish. Not the carefully planned out, well ordered, life-is-on-track writing. But the I-am-off-track-and-daring-to-write-anyway writing. THAT is the writing I have success with.

Now, when I am off track, I grab my lap top. I sit in the mud by the side of the track I should be on and I write. I am not afraid to write in that place. And I am not angry with me any more. Because those words are flavored with grit. They are full of girl who sometimes sits because she can't stand and sometimes writes because she speak. They are the real words that come from that deep place inside that I used to keep hidden.

And they are the words that return to me with an editor's letter of acceptance.

Off track is nice. You meet people there. People like you, friends. Because this blog is mostly my Off Track Writing.

So now you know.

I spend a lot of time off track.

What about you? Off track? On track? Don't care?

On a Day Like This

2010-10-04T02:24:00.000-07:00

On a day like this clouds gather together like long lost family, their voluptuous love for each filling their insides to overflowing, threatening to weep their joy in an afternoon rainstorm. You watch them meet, a kiss on the cheek as they embrace. If you could touch them, you would embrace them too. Instead you sit alone and wonder...

On a day like this the skies are a wash of blue straight from the artist's hand. The brush strokes long and even across the sky. The winds whisper, cotton wool conversations that float so far above your head. It is like the distant chatter of loved ones enjoying everything spring can squeeze into a day. How you long to join something, anything outside your glass window. Instead you tuck a newborn baby in close to you and whisper your own love stories...

On a day like this you gather your thoughts inside, perhaps sheltering them from the rain of your tears. You wait for the skies to open so you can cry together, but they won't. Not today. Not on a day like this. Somewhere you imagine the world you use to occupy, still there, waiting, whispering for you in its sleep. Your husband, your toddler, all settling into the corners of life until you return...

On a day like this you imagine you are her. The woman in the tall grasses. The woman whose hands stroke the wind as it chatters to the leaves and moves the green carpet on the earth's floor in waves. You imagine the freedom of being able to come and go, or simply stay, if you chose. You imagine a year from now when all this being enclosed and prodded and poked by medical staff is over. A week from now when you are home with those waiting people. A day from now when the doctors give you the all clear. A moment from now when your newborn finally sleeps beside you in the hospital bed and you can rest again, look outside the window and dream...

On a day like this...

(For Andy, who I love and admire.

You will be home soon. I can't imagine...)

WHAT ABOUT YOU? Are you looking out a glass window waiting for something? If you write, I know you are waiting. We writers are always waiting. But visiting with my sister-in-law today I thought about how, in many ways, we are all sitting behind a glass window looking out at something, waiting...

New born in the house

2010-09-29T05:17:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of posting. We have a newborn baby in the house. My sister-in-law is very sick in hospital and my mother-in-law is looking after her son. A new mother again in her sixties. So tonight I am giving my mother-in-law a break and we are looking after my 3 week old nephew. He is a beautiful baby, and I am super enjoying having him with us, but obviously I want my gorgeous sister-in-law well and back with her little man. We are hopeful that all will be well soon. The doctors seemed positive today. So, no Wednesday post, but I will be back on Friday. (Sorry. I am amending this to Monday. I will be back Monday. We've been at the hospital all evening and I am beat. I want bed.)

X
Tab

PS- Thank you all for the out pouring of support after my last post. Your comments and encouragements matter. Thank you for being a wonderful group of blog followers :)

This is why I write

2010-09-27T05:16:00.000-07:00

As I type this I don't even know if I will have to courage to post it. But I want to get it down while it is raw within me.

You may have heard about the book SPEAK by Laurie Halse Anderson. A book many people are calling it 'pornography.' Let me say for the record that I have not yet read the book. Let me also say for the record (whoever among you are keeping such records) that a book about a young girl who is raped and then too ashamed to report the crime is not EVEN CLOSE to my description of pornography.

Here are the links to several much better posts on why this book is so profoundly important. They have said everything I could on the topic, except that they are not me. And they have not shared with you why I am crying even as I type this.

Weronika, literary agent with D4EO, on her post here contemplated the almighty question: WHY I WRITE. Ever since that post I have been trying to come up with my own answer. It seemed like something a writer should be able to put into words. But nothing I wrote explained my profound need for words. Then the blogosphere exploded with controversy over SPEAK and finally I have my answer.

This is why I write.

I am a Christian. There. I said it. (Yes, I that word hard to say sometimes.) And my family considered themselves Christian too. As a child I lived in middle class suburbia, where the fences are mostly picket white and the weeds dare not dip their toes in manicured lawns. My father paid the bills. In advance. My mother cleaned his house and wiped the sticky fingers of his children. I was one of them, though my finger were usually between the pages of a book. I found it the safest place to escape.

The thing was every Sunday my father totted our family off to church. He sang the songs. We sang with him. He smiled. We smiled too.

Yet beyond our weedless lawn, down the hall way of dare-not-be-dirty tiles, stood a cursing man. A large looming man. Yes, THAT man. The Sunday morning, singing, smiling, handshaking man. The man with the bills paid and both his daughters in private school.
Not only did he curse his wife, but he 'spanked' her too. His word for it. Not mine. To this day he says he was simply trying to maintain control. Trying to gain her respect. Whatever way you paint that, it's abuse. And two little girls watched year after year as their mother's beltings healed outside, and tore her apart inside.

Fear is something I knew so well I panicked when the house was still and voices soft.

Not only was my father abusing my mother, but both my sister and I were physically and sexually abused for years.

There were no listening ears because I had no voice. I learnt young that you did not tell because, as my mother said, "you might get taken away." Maybe you think it is strange that a child would rather live with abuse than be taken away, but when that is all you know the fear of losing the parents you love, yes I said love, is overwhelming. So I said nothing. For years and years I said nothing.

In my teens I tried to tell, but no one knew what to do with my story. Such a nice Christian family. My mother went to the church for help and was told she simply needed to be a better wife. (This is why I find the word Christian hard to say sometimes)

To this day my father reuses to acknowledge much of what he did. And my mother says she didn't know my sister and I were abused. But my point in telling you all this is not to judge her or even my father. It is to TELL.
THIS IS WHY I WRITE. Because I think someone needs to hear that this is not where the story ends. THERE IS HOPE.

When I was 16 I met an amazing guy, who stood up to become a man who would hold me through twelve years of marriage while I struggled with the trauma of my past. I knew nothing about becoming someones wife. And motherhood? OH. MY. GOD. along came these beautiful little boys who needed me to hold them when I could barley hold myself.

Finally I curled up in the fetal position inside and all but died emotionally. Dependant on self-harm to regulate my feelings and escaping into my own mind to split off from any reality that made me uncomfortable I knew I was no longer coping. The strong TAB,the girl who made others laugh and listened to all your problems, she was crumbling away before her own eyes.
I was emptiness.
A black hole.
A woman with no idea how to love the little girl within her who had been rejected and abused for so many years. No idea how to mother myself. No idea how to speak about the pain, the guilt and the ever present shame. And I had no idea how to birth the woman I wanted to become. All I knew was that I MY SILENCE WAS KILLING ME!

My husband rang around to find help for me (at my request) and was put in touch with an amazing counselor. (I write about her quite a bit on this blog without using her name.)

When the blackness curdled around I would write my about the 'characters' BEAST my pain, and LITTLE GIRL, and the battles they fought inside me. Daily those words helped claw and scrape my way to healing. I used words and metaphor to paint what those inner landscapes of my heart looked like and as I let those words be seen I saw myself. For the FIRST time. Finally I began to heal.
.
Words paved a road back to living. And it saved my life. Literally. Those words saved my life. But even this is not why the writing was important. It was later when I could look back at all the places I'd walked that I wondered it other people might see themselves or their pain in the 'characters' I'd created. I wondered if I might share BEAST and LITTLE GIRL with others who needed a way to see their pain and embrace the ignored and scared little person inside themselves. I wonder if my metaphors might be a voice for the voiceless.

I cannot begin to tell you how passionate I am about books like SPEAK. It is a monumental work of importance, because it is one more voice screaming THIS HAPPENS AND IT IS NOT OKAY.
This world needs many honest, brave voices who can put into words what it is like to curl up in the fetal position with the silence killing you from the inside out. People who aren't afraid to write about our fallen, messed up world AND still say THERE IS HOPE.

THIS IS WHY I WRITE. It is why I will listen to honest and raw feedback about my memoir. Write. Re-write. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

If you know pain, or know someone who does, then honestly how can we stand by and let others say that books which cover this subject matter should be banned?

SPEAK out.

SPEAK did.

This is why I write.

Pause

2010-09-24T05:11:00.000-07:00

There is a woman who knew about things. A listener who knew how powerful it was to be heard. A woman who invited my words to breathe on paper. She knew about that sacred place where a reader meets a writer and a writer is read. She knew about joy when she asked about my pain. About the void in a life when numbness mistakes itself for feeling and feeling anything became the enemy. She knew open space and its equally important partner, closeness. About when to hold and when to let go.

And she knew about pauses. How to hold the stillness between her questions and my answers without needing to fill the silence.

In that space I found myself.

Then I became a woman who knew things. About how profoundly lost I was until I finally became still. About how to simply breathe through a day, any day, all days. About the little girl I'd hidden away inside my heart and how to hold my own hand.

Now I am becoming a woman who knows how powerful it is to hear others. A woman who craves ways to invite other people's words. A reader who understand the sacred place where writers are met. A lover who embraces joy and pain, as equally important partners. I reach out to the voids in life so numbness does not mistake itself for feeling. I create open spaces for myself and sometimes, just sometimes, I dare to let others close. I am learning when to hold on and when to let go.

That is the gift of her pause. A moment to simply be. A place to sit in the silence inside yourself and listen to the breathings of your very being. A velvet stillness. A pulse. And a chance to become the woman who knows.

What about you? Have you ever found yourself or the pulse of your writing inside the stillness of a pause?

.

One day. But not today.

2010-09-22T03:45:00.000-07:00

I don't set alarm clocks. I don't need to.
The day climbs onto my bed and bounces up and down. Laughing. Saying things like, "Can you get up now? Are you awake, Mommy?" As if anyone could be asleep.

Some days are full of fight and yelling. The day pounds its feet up my hallway and cries, "Mom! He won't give me my (insert name of must-have-toy-or-world-will-end)! He ate my toast! He sat on my head!" Of course the day does not take all the facts into account. Ones brother is probably reacting to having his head sat on first.

Sometimes the days wake me with giggles and sloppy kisses on my cheek. Little hands sneak under the covers to grip my own. " I love you, Mommy," the day's voice whispers. Those days have blue eyes. The kind that house 'Cheeky' and 'Cute' in equal proportions.

Some days don't bother to come into my room at all. Those days sound like stomping feet in the kitchen and banshee calls of, "Mom, there's no milk left!" On those days even the covers over my head don't hide me.

Sometimes the day is whiny. Fretful. Or just plain needs to go back to bed. The day gets started on the wrong foot and I find myself hugging it to my chest while it sobs incoherent things with its thumb in its mouth. The day can be so little then. So needy. But I wake to it anyway. I rise with only half myself up and the other half of me laying unaware still kissing the moonlight. Sometimes I rise with not much of me at all. Only a teaspoonful of me is available to change wet bedsheets, kiss the bleary eyes and welcome the breakfast dishes and piles of laundry.

Other days I, well, I'd like to say some days wake me with a superwoman outfit. But that day hasn't come yet. I keep waiting for it. Do you suppose it's just late?

Some days are 24 hours long. TWENTY. FOUR. HOURS. And I wonder if it might let me take a nap or go to the toilet in peace. I don't wonder for long. The day is banging at my door, kicking my walls and refusing to co operate.

But this I know.
One day, oh shiny day, those mornings will be a memory. A tiny piece of the way we were. The day will come when I won't be as needed. I will wake in my own time to greet the sun in my own way.
One day, oh sad day, no little hands will need help to pour milk on their cereal or butter their toast.
One day, oh happy day, I will wake to a house of quiet.

But for today, and for lots of tomorrows, I don't set alarm clocks. I don't need to.

What about you? What kind of day wakes you today?

Before you are get there

2010-09-20T03:48:00.000-07:00

Before you get there:

- the path will wind up that hill, through the valley and around the corner. The corner will look like the last several thousand corners you have past and will be followed by craggy mountain peaks or a pit the size of a craggy mountain peaks.

- your computer will loose all your writing, the dog will eat your homework, the baby will throw up on your while blouse and that dream, the one where you turn up in public butt naked, will come true.

- it will rain... and rain and rain and rain and rain and... you get the picture.

-Ten people will tell you to give up, seven will mean it, two will be your closest friends, and the last one could care less if you make it or not, but since he is going no where, why should he be happy that you want to?

-you'll query the book 3987276987 times more than you planned to. You'll pitch the dream, go for the job interview, take that next step, reach out, speak up and you'll walk through the door. None of it will be successful.

-Monday will be a bitch. Tuesday will be her best friend. Wednesday will side with the first two days, Thursday will follow cause now there is an official trend, your week sucks and Friday? Well Friday will do what it wants, cause Friday can.

-You'll bang your head against your desk, the wall and other people's ignorance. If your lucky that last one won't knock you out.

-You'll quit. Twenty times. Twenty times twenty times. Per day.

-You'll loose you will power, your imagination, your sense of fun, your sense of reality, your best mate and your mind. These are the signs that you are really close. Especially that last one. REALLY REALLY close.

And here's the kicker. Just when you think you cannot go another step, when the road looks like continues past the horizon and on into forever, the day you let it all go and just breath... finally...

....you will be there.

What about you? What happened to you before you were there? Or are you like me and still getting there?

Between Sky and Sea.

2010-09-17T04:02:00.000-07:00

There is a space between water and sky where we are neither swimming nor flying. We are neither floating nor soaring.
In these places we walk.

Our feet touch the earth and, if we are wise, we walk with footsteps that are aware of the purposefulness of their treading upon the ground. In this space between above and beneath we are apt to meet other creatures. For you see it is the gathering place for those who would fly and those who would swim. And if we walk with time enough to sit, and sit with time enough to listen, we may open our ears to stories of what is beneath the waves and what is above the clouds. We may learn that we have something to give and something to take away.

For the fringe of society sit upon the sands. Lost sea lions, gulls with broken wings, star fish washed up on the shore. Those who breathe, take space or slip outside their own worlds for a time are found along the shore. As one of Gods creatures great and small this walking in the betwixt and between is the most important walking we may ever do. We too may join the Sand Sitters for awhile and come away changed. A gull who shared her story of flying, a sea lion that told of his passion for diving. And for those lost souls who may well have forgotten they can indeed fly or swim, we may be blessed enough to led them again to the edge of their blueness and watch them take their own journey home.

If there is a greater place to live than on the edges of what we know then I am not aware of it. To come together and walk or sit is the gift of living, the gift of loving and the human part of humanity.

There is a space between water and sky... in these places we walk.

Ugly Fruit

2010-09-15T04:14:00.000-07:00

"But if something is slightly bruised, speckled or dinged on the outside, we don't usually take the time to wonder if it might be ambrosial within."

~ Monica Eng, Chicago Tribune, August, 2010.

Around the blogosphere I hear a lot of self-doubt. Writers are known to wade in a fair bit of the muck. I include myself here. If my words don't strut onto my page in high heels and Versace dress first time around I want to throw my computer off the balcony. You might say I expect a lot of myself and you'd be right. I want the divine. Red carpet all the way.

When my words clunk on in with torn checkered shirts and mud on their Ugg Boots (as they frequently do) I am not sure whether to attempt a makeover right there on the red carpet or throw myself on the floor and head bang. (Sheesh! Who do these words think they are anyway?)

Then I got to thinking, what if words are really more like fruit? (I know, from red carpet to fruit- work with me here) Ever grown tomatoes? They start with a little flower. Pretty, but if you are only interested in the red fruit you'd miss that. If you didn't know something better was coming you wouldn't be excited when those first buds appeared.

And avocado. Now there's and ugly fruit. The thing is black and wrinkled before it has flavor inside.

What am I saying? (apart from the fact that I am obviously lovin my metaphors today)

Embrace the ugly fruit.

Enjoy the little flower.

How can a fruit know how close to being ripe it is?

Our job is to be where we are on the path to wherever we are going. Given time our lives and words might also be ambrosial inside.

What about you? Red carpet glamoring? or Lover of the Ugly Fruit?

SQUEEE! A poet?

2010-09-10T02:19:00.000-07:00

SQUEEE!!!

I wanted to share with you all that I am to be published in the Fall 2010 issue of the

Rose and Thorn Journal.

This will be my first piece of poetry published and I am VERY excited. My work will be available at http://www.roseandthornjournal.com/ on the Rose and Thorn website from Oct 15th 2010.

If you are a writer and would like to submit work to the Rose and Thorn journal check out their submission guidelines found below.

PROSE:

http://www.roseandthornjournal.com/Prose_Submissions.html

POETRY:

http://www.roseandthornjournal.com/Poetry_Submissions.html

IN OTHER NEWS:

The winner of my 'A case for Sad Books Competition is Wendy Paine Miller. Find her blog All in a Day's Thought here http://thoughtsthatmove.blogspot.com/

To enter the comp you had to post another good reason why we need sad books. Wendy said:

"I like sad books. Sometimes reading one is the only thing that can spring my tears from their locked place in my soul."

~ Wendy

I couldn't agree more. Tears do indeed sometimes get locked. Oh, the value of sad books!

Wendy, please email me your address so I can get your copy of Michael Rosen's Book into the mail ASAP.

Thanks to all who entered.

What about you? Share with me your SQUEEEEE! for the week.

Rest?

2010-09-08T02:15:00.000-07:00

This is not Cyrus having a rest. Oh no.
Rest Time is for the weak.
The unimaginative.
The restrained.

Rest Time is for those other three-year-olds, who do not live in my house, who gladly give their mothers an hour or so of peace. Rest Time is for those children with no imagination. For those who cannot see how marvelously fun it would be to take ones room apart toy by toy, and then venture into their brother's bedroom to dismantle his Lego creations.

Rest Time is for those who don't seek new discoveries, like how much toilet paper a toilet bowl can hold and still flush. Or perhaps what might happen if one sneaks out of one's bedroom and smooshes the toothpaste together with the liquid hand soap. Rest Time is for those who don't seek new horizons, like the top of their mother's wardrobe or the deepest reaches of treasures under his brother's bed.

Rest Time is for those who cannot see that the dirty clothes basket is indeed a boat waiting to be sailed across the hallway. Or that all the clothes in ones drawers could form a Picasso type picture when strewn across the floor. Rest Time is for seeing how long it will take Mommy to figure out that nothing like 'resting' is occurring. Or for seeing how long it will take her to abandon her Writing Hour, the word count, any looming deadlines and finally admit that she will get exactly no writing done at all today.

Rest Time is for turning beds into trampolines and Mommy's nerves into a plate of spaghetti...

No, this photo was not taken at Rest Time. This picture is Bed Time. A time when Mommy sits, has a cup of tea ( or glass of wine) and then creeps bleary eyed with her rose coloured glasses firmly in place into her son's room and imagines she would like another one. Bed Time is for looking at that little face with those apple-pie cheeks and falling in love all over again. Bed Time is when all is forgiven, because look at him people. And tell me, could you stay mad?

What about you? If you write or pursue anything in life with kids in tow... how do you do it?

A Case for Sad Books

2010-09-06T02:19:00.000-07:00

There is a little girl inside of me. She is alive and sometimes she is very sad. I read this picture book for her.

We need sad books.

They remind us that grieving people still smile. And maybe they need someone to look behind their smile. Maybe...

We need sad books.

They hold our hands and sit on our laps. They whisper things like "It's okay. I understand. I too have been sad."

We need sad books.

They remind us that sad is okay. It is not bad. It is just sad.

We need sad books.

Sometimes life is sad. At times like that a happy book won't do. It feels wrong. Like know one thinks you have a right to hurt. Reading 'Happy' is like sandpaper to open wounds when all you want to do is have your 'Sad' be noticed.

We need sad books.

They give us words to say to the hurting people we care about when we ourselves are out of words. They give us words to share with children who know what sad is, who might be sad, or who just wish someone big would tell them that sad is okay.

Michael Rosen writes:

"Where is sad?

Sad is anywhere.

It comes along and finds you.

When is sad?

Sad is anytime.

It comes along and finds you.

Who is sad?

Sad is anyone.

It comes along and finds you."

At the end of his book he says, "There must be candles."

I agree.

Even in the sadness, there must be candles. This book, Michael Rosen's Sad Book, is a candle.

We need sad books, because they light a little light.

They are the hope that we are not alone. Even in sadness.

Someone else was there. They wrote about it.

Some one else is here. They bought the book.

And they want you to know they care.

Buy the book for the person inside you who knows what sad is.

Or give the words away to some who you desperately wish you had words for.

We need sad books.

Light a little light.

I am giving away one copy of this picture book to the person who, in my humble opinion, comes up with another great reason why we need sad books. You have until Friday this week to enter. Leave your response in the comments section of this post. No extra points for tweeting or posting on Facebook, but that would be nice :)

Awards

2010-09-03T01:07:00.000-07:00

Wendy Sargeant, multi award winning author and editor of Aussie Writers has awarded my blog the Inspirational Blog Award. Happy Dance!

Thank you very much Wendy. You can check out her site here.

My blog is featured on their site. You can check it out at http://aussiewriters.blogspot.com/p/blogs-of-note.html

Karen, author of a wonderful memoir titled Following the Whispers has also awarded me The Circle of Friends Award.

Thank you Karen. She is indeed a dear friend and has spent much time trawling though my memoir giving me feedback on the many drafts. Not to mention all her heartfelt encouragement of both myself and my writing.

Where would writer's be without people like this?

I would like to pass this award on to the following people:

Wen Baragrey, aspiring YA novelist and one of my super amazing critique partners. Not to mention she is a beautiful woman who speaks wise words into my life. (Okay, so I mentioned it.)

AND

Patti Lacy, multi published author and wonderful encourager who has lifted me during times I did not think I could be lifted. I am sure she has no idea how her wisdom has watered seeds inside me. Thank you Patti. You can buy her novel, An Irish Woman's Tale here

I must apologize. I cannot remember who awarded me this wonderful award. Please link to yourself in the comments and I will amend this post accordingly. I am, of course, always humbled that anyone thinks to award this blog of mine. so thank you, whom ever you are. The award and your thoughts matter.

I would like to pass the award on to:

Lisa Sommerland who is new to the blogging world. Welcome Lisa! She is my other wonderful critique partner who has just signed with equally wonderful Weronika Janczak of DE40 Literary. Check out Lisa's blog and congratulate her. Her writing is full of funny. This girl is going places people :)

That's all folks. Thank you to those who visit my blog. Your comments always matter. And congrats to my 'awardees'. You guys rock.

Tab

About a Dog

2010-09-01T02:09:00.000-07:00

There's a little head resting on my ankle as I type. I get so used to the furry weight that I forget she is there. But she is. Always. She is simply there.

When I go to bed at night she tucks herself up behind my legs. When I nightmare she tucks herself in closer. If I wake to grainy images still running though my head and a dark, too-quiet world, she is there. When I wake in the mornings, twisted in my sheets, she is there. When I drag my limbs from the tangles and wonder how on earth to put my feet on the floor and begin my day, she is there. When I creep into my morning with a sodden heart from a night of crying, she is there. As my boys bang and fuss and race about in my morning chaos, she is there. If I take five minutes to sit with a cup of tea and gather my head, she is there.

Some days ebb and flow better than others. She ebbs and flows with me. Some days find their rhythm without my forcing the hours along. Together we barely notice how time moves around us.

Some days are bent only on crashing me on the rocks of all alone. My arms dangle by themselves until a little wet nose pushes into my hand. She is simply there.

She has no answers. She asks no questions. I don't have to tell her how I am feeling, but if I want to she'll sit for as along as I sit, and listen. She watches me yell at the walls when no one else is home. She knows I cry in the shower. She also knows I laugh at lady bugs and dance when it rains. And we love cupcakes. Both of us. Even though we know we shouldn't eat them, we do.

And we write. Since she was a tiny handful we have written together. She was there for all the midnight hours of my first draft. And for the stolen daytime hours of my second and third drafts. She was there during the chaotic hours, both day and nigh,t of my fourth draft. And she is with me now, as I attempt the fifth draft of my memoir. If I am at my computer I know where she will be- with me.

This I know: Dog is not Woman's best friend because Woman is such good company. Dog is Woman's best friend because Dog is there. Always. She is simply there.

What about you? Do you do the long hours with someone who is 'simply there'?

(photo: Me and my chihuahua "Lion." Yes, you read that right. Her name is Lion :)

The Woman with Holes

2010-08-30T01:43:00.000-07:00

There was a little girl whose world was full of holes. Big ones. Small ones. Ones that only tripped up her foot. A bit like protruding gnarled tree root.

She fell. Maybe she scrapped her knee. But she got straight back up.

Then there were other holes. Nasty ones with sharp teeth and big jaws that sucked her in and swallowed her up.

Other people did not see the holes in her world. But she saw them. There was one next to her bed most mornings. It is hard to get out of bed when you are worried about falling into a hole. And sometimes it was hard to face the day when she knew there would be more holes everywhere she walked.

So the little girl was scared a lot. Other people didn't understand that. They told her to smile. What was she afraid of? What could possibly happen? But the girl knew. She was scared of her holes. Scared that she wouldn't see them. Or that someone would say something, or do something that would push her into a hole. Or that she would see the hole, but only when it was too late and she was already falling.

Some holes were not so bad. They didn't scare the little girl so much. Those holes were shallow. The kind of holes that didn't block the sun, even at the bottom. Those were the holes the girl fell into when she couldn't run fast enough to win the race, or because she growled at someone she loved, or maybe just because it had been raining for days. She'd sit in those holes for a little while, but then she'd remember that not everyone is a fast runner. She could say sorry to the person she growled at. And if she waited just a little longer the sun's light would reach her again. Sometimes she even remembered how to enjoy the rain. Even rain that went on for days. Puddles were fun sometimes too.

But then there were other holes. Sink holes. There was no sun at the bottom of those holes. It was so dark the girl could not even see herself. She could hear things. Like her Mommy screaming. Or feel things. Things that hurt. But she was lost in her hole. Lost, even to herself.

Those holes scared the little girl so much she started pretending that bad things weren't happening. She told herself not to think about them. Ever. Then she wouldn't sit in holes, and that was just fine with her.

For a while that was okay. All the bad wolf holes were covered. Or she cover them when they appeared by pretending to be someone else or be somewhere else. She got very good at that game. Very good indeed.

Then the little girl grew up and became a woman. Because that is what Little Girl's do.

The Sink Holes started appearing again. No matter how hard she tried not to think about sad things, the sad things came and found her. She thought about Little Sister. She used to tell her stories and make her laugh. That is what big sisters do. Little Sister's laughing always mad her laugh. Little Sister used to watch her eat ice-blocks, and then try to eat hers the exact same way. That is what Little Sister's do.

You might think that sounds like a happy thing to think. It's not. Little sister grew up too. And she got sick. Too sick to hear the stories. And much to sick to eat ice-blocks. Maybe one day... see the woman was thinking sad things again.

When she thought sad things for too long, she cried. And when she cried the ground beneath her feet got soggy. That is when the holes opened up. The sadder the thing she was thinking, the more tears, and the more tears, the deeper the hole.

Those kind of holes scared the woman. She worried about not being able to get out. Not ever. And having to live her life out at the bottom of a hole. Which would be dark. And cold. And very very lonely. No one would come looking for her, because no one saw the holes in her world.

One day she got brave. Or perhaps she was more scared of the sink holes than she was of telling someone about them. So she told. She told her Sink Hole stores until she cried and cried.

The Listener was very good. Gifted even. She saw the holes. The big ones and the small ones. Together The Listener and the Woman with Holes started talking about how to fill them in. How to build bridges. How to tell other people in her life about the holes. How to make paths. Safe paths. Paths that curved around Sink Holes. It didn't mean the woman didn't fall. It meant she was not alone. The Listener sat by the edge of those holes until the woman worked out how to climb up again.

Now days the woman is still scared of holes. It's becoming a healthy fear. One she uses to remember to look where she is going and where she is putting her feet. She still climbs out of holes.

Maybe one day there won't be holes. But until then, she is not alone. She climbs. She talks. And she writes.

What about you? Do you have holes? Do you climb? Do you talk? Do you write?

(image credit: http://physicsworld.com/blog/2010/06/post_6.html)

Not feeling Well

2010-08-23T02:57:00.000-07:00

Hey all,

Sorry, I won't be on blogger this week. I have been sick for a while now and I am taking this week to really rest, be with my boys, enjoy my husband...

and see if I can't kick this stupid chest infection in the you know what.

See you all when I get back.

Love

Tab

Give the Boys some Plates

2010-08-18T03:52:00.000-07:00

Amusing three-year-olds is an art from. And being that Cyrus is the second three-year-old to come through the ranks in our house I am after my Masters Degree in this art form. Well, aim high, right?

We recently attempted a shopping trip in IKEA. Which coincidentally is the word Cyrus learnt to say, right after 'Mumma', 'Dadda' and 'No'. Okay, fine. It was the first word the kid said. So, we go there a bit. So what? There are worse sins people.

Anyhoo, Cyrus and I were making our way through the delicious windy paths, much like the yellow brick road taking us to All-The-Stuff-I-Didn't-Know-I-Needed. I was employing all my Mommy tricks for keeping him happy while I played with all the Big Girl Toys. (There's a lot to push, pull and generally muck with in those stores- delightful!)

I gave Cyrus the little pencil complete with IKEA order form to draw on. I gave him a quick turn on the twirly chair. I let him open all the drawers in the display kitchen (okay, that was me). But after an hour of looking, and me still not being done, Cyrus was making a game out of chase me down the breakables isle. Clearly I needed diversion. Or a straight jacket. Are they illegal for kids? Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the diversion.

Stuffing some plastic plates into my sunshine yellow IKEA bag of happiness I went to catch my child before the stack of glass cups caught him first. (relax, this ends better than you think it will) Cyrus saw me and started to run. But then he stopped. The plastic plates pile behind me caught his eye. Miracle of miracles the boy came back of his own accord. He looked at the plates and peered into my shopping bag pulling them out.
"Oh wow, Mommy. I like these, do I!"
Well, who who have thought. Plastic plates. Of course. The perfect diversion. So I let him hold the plates. Situation conquered. Right?
Sure.

He held those plates through the rest of the store. He held them through the check-out. He held them on the way to the car. He held them on the 30 min drive home. And when we got home I naively thought the game was up and we could now put the plates away. After all I did actually buy these plates for my kids to eat off at some stage. But I realized the error in my judgement when I tried to take the plates off him.

Bursting into fat sobbing tears Cyrus looked up at me and said, "But I love my plates Mommy. I wanna take them to bed."
They were pretty plates. Like over sized flat candy. Six in total. All the colors of a crayon drawn rainbow.

"You really like those plates, Bubba?" I asked
"Uh huh, and I want to cuddle them in bed. There my plates. You bought them for me. I like them, do I." He was stroking them by this stage. No, I am not joking.
Taking my hands off his plates I said, "Yes, yes you do. And they are all yours."
Hey, for two dollars I can get some more.

Who said happiness had to be extravagant and hard to find? I got my master's degree today people. Just sayin. And I have a smile. Right now, in the middle of really tough re-writes, I'll take any reason to be happy. Writing is not for the faint of heart. Maybe I should go back and buy myself some of those rainbow plates to cuddle?

IKEA, oh land of plastic happiness, I love you, do I.

What about you? Got yourself some rainbow plates to keep you company while writing? If you take them to bed, I don't want to know. :)

Do You See Me?

2010-08-16T03:25:00.000-07:00

"Good writing is honest, alive. The more honest and alive our writing, the more we show ourselves. The more we show ourselves, the greater the danger we're in. The greater the danger we're in the more scared we are. Hence fear is a marker on the path toward good writing."

~ Ralph Keyes, The Courage to Write.

If you have a goal, a dream, something you are pegging your last (possibly unspoken) wish on then I am betting you understand FEAR.

We writer's have so many fears we developed a lovely, not so honest term. We call it Writer's Block. But it's not Writer's Block. It is Writer's Fear.

I am never more scared then when I sit down to write. The thing I most love, the thing I say I could not live without, the thing I feel called to do and am most passionate about is WRITING. And... it scares me SH*#!*#less.

When I sit before a blank page, I am really sitting before myself. To write well, to be honest and raw enough to have something I know is worth sharing, I have to get to that vulnerable place inside. I have to peel back the layers of my skin and see myself for who I am. Then, after I have faced the reality of my own ugly feelings I expose my being and write from that place. The place where my best stuff comes from . The place where I am known to me and risking sharing that with you, the reader.

Terrifying stuff.

This fear is so real that I often sit before my laptop in complete silence for long long moments. I am afraid. I am afraid I will have nothing to say. I am afraid that if I do have something to say, I won't be able to say it.

I fear not being able to put my heart into words. I fear the words I do put not being good enough. I fear being a fraud. I fear everyone reading it and knowing that I am a fraud. Or worse, I fear everyone reading it and know that I am NOT a fraud. That they have seen the real me. I fear being seen. I fear NOT being seen. Thank god that fear overrides all others or I would be the author of nothing at all.

I fear someone better than me, more skilled, more gifted reading me and laughing. I fear their rejection. I fear the reader's rejection. Since I put me on the page, I fear the rejection will be so personal I will not be able to take it. I fear failing. I fear succeeding. I fear the whole damn thing.

I develop Writer's Block. I can't do it.

I am too busy. The kids are too noisy. It's too hot. It's too cold. It's too... I have other things to do after all. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a sister and a friend and, and ... I am a writer. And as a writer I eventually face my fears, rip back the layers covering my vulnerability and I write. Then damn it, I share the stuff. ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING.

The next day I do it all again. Because that is me, and that is writing.

I just wanted you guys to know. Since we writer's love to pretend we are all so darned brave when it comes to this writer's gig we say we couldn't live without, I thought I tell you all. I am scared.

Every. Single. Time.

I procrastinate with the best of them. I am daily afraid.

Good things come from that people. The best stuff I write is the stuff I write afraid.

And I am guessing that whether you write or not, whatever passions are within you, whatever cuts closest to your bone, also scares the crap out of you.

That's okay. Necessary even. It is fear that sets my work alight. It might also be fear that strikes enough fire within you to take you where you need to go.

So go fear. The world needs more people who show up and be who they are. You tell me that doesn't take guts. You tell me that doesn't shake a soul to it's core. Fear has held the hands of many brilliant success's.

What about you? Afraid?

Power in the Personal

2010-08-13T02:51:00.000-07:00

I'd like to welcome to my blog today Karen Walker, friend and author of Following the Whispers, a memoir. Not only is she a talented writer, but she opens her soul in a way that the reader feels they have gained a friend. I asked her to come here today to speak about not only memoir, but the importance of sharing our lives through our writing. The power of the personal. Even if you don;t write memoir sharing yourself in your work is the mark of a book that has the power to impact.

Tabitha asked me to write a guest post that speaks to the importance of personal stories and how they benefit the world of literacy. I’m not sure that can be done in a relatively short blog post, but what I can do is talk about the power in memoir – the power which comes from writing one, and the power which comes from reading a well-written one.

It took 10 years for me to write my memoir, Following the Whispers, but that included a four-year stint back in college to complete a degree I’d started in 1969. I took virtually all the writing classes the university offered, but I especially loved the Creative Nonfiction ones. One of my professors said that when you set out to write a memoir or a personal essay, you pose a question. The essay or memoir is that exploration and you may or may not end up with a neat, tidy answer.

In 1977 I lost custody of my 3 ½ year old son. Out of the despair and devastation resulting from that, a question arose deep from my soul: what was wrong with me that such a thing could happen to a white, middle class young woman? Answering that question began a soul-searching journey of healing which continues to this day.

I didn’t decide to write a memoir. It decided me. In 1994, shortly after moving to New Mexico from Portland, Oregon, I wrote a short essay about that journey which was published in an anthology of women’s stories called “Chocolate for a Woman’s Blessings,” published by Simon and Shuster. I received letters and emails from women all over thanking me for writing my story—it helped them with similar struggles. I began to think that if a two-page snippet of my journey could help, how much more beneficial would a full-length book be?

Writing the memoir was both agonizing and cathartic. When I stepped up to the podium at my book launch and held up my book, I felt as if I’d stepped into the person I’d been striving to become for the past 30 years. That is the power of memoir for the writer. And for the reader, well…we all have our issues we deal with on a daily basis, whether it’s having grown up in a dysfunctional family, being a victim of sexual, emotional, or physical abuse, compulsive disorders, whatever. There are universal themes that each and every one of us can relate to. A well-written memoir taps into those themes. As we read someone else’s story, we can perhaps connect the dots to our own. Writing helped me make sense of my life. It still does. Even though I’m writing a fiction piece for the first time, it is still helping me make sense of my world. If you write from your heart, it can’t help but be powerful.

Perhaps memoir has a bad rap because of well-publicized issues like James Frey fictionalizing part of his story and calling it memoir. I don’t know. What I do know is that reading memoirs have moved me along my journey of healing and writing my own took me to places I never thought I could go in terms of feeling good about who I am.

Thank you, Tabitha, for asking me to do this. It is an honor to write for your blog, because you are one person who always writes from her heart in such a beautiful way.

Blessings,

Karen

Thank you Karen. Writing, whether it is fiction or non-fiction helps us to make sense of our lives. And when we do that well we also offer readers the chance to do the same. Many blessings for your continued writing and thank you for your support and for the honesty of your memoir.

Find Karen here:

http://www.karenfollowingthewhispers.blogspot.com

Her book FOLLOWING THE WHISPERS is available on her website and at amazon.com.

What about you? How do you use writing to share your soul?

If you Give a Girl an Edit

2010-08-11T02:59:00.000-07:00

I thought I had nothing to say. My insides are a mash of soaking bits of my soul that need drying out and words that long since dried. Despite the mess, I have to admit, the words, such as they are, should probably be shared. What is a writer, after all, if they can't write even when the typing hurts?

So, many of you know I have written a memoir. After receiving unexpected interest from agents and editors at a conference in May this year I gathered my dreams and started planting them in fertile soil. Recently I have had spectacular advise from an agent on how to restructure the book along with an expressed desire to read my re-write. All of which is wonderful... and down right scary.

The thing about memoir is that in order to craft something worthy of seeping into other people's souls the author must first open their own soul and cut to the bone of their life. Not easy. In fact, it's terrifying. And while I know I have this story within me, it takes guts to get ones head in a space to sit down again with nightmares of your past and ghosts of your hopes and re-write a memoir. Indeed all writing, no matter the genre, takes such courage.

And that's the question. How much courage do I have? Enough for a simple re-write? Or enough to plunge deep into the Shadow Lands and emerge with a book that has truly changed me, and thus possesses the possibility of changing others?

Because I know what I want. I was never the girl who floated on the surface of life. Like I have said before, wanting hurts. Even holding hopes hurts sometimes. I guess that's where courage is birthed. On the edge of myself I chose to both want and hope.

What about you? I am hopeful that this year will see something open up for my memoir. I am hopeful for your writing too, blogging friends. I know many of your dreams are the same as mine.
Hope with me?

X
Tab

Here's to the Crazy Ones

2010-08-06T01:43:00.000-07:00

"Here’s to the crazy ones.

The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes.

The ones who see things differently.

They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo.

You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them, disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them.

About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things.

They invent. They imagine. They heal. They explore. They create. They inspire. They push the human race forward.

Maybe they have to be crazy.

How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art? Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written? Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?

While some see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do."

Word credits- Apple Mac Add titled 'Think different' Produced in 1997.

Image credits- photobucket.com

What about you? They say you have to be crazy? Do you dare?

Do it afraid

2010-08-04T02:09:00.000-07:00

One fine evening (possibly wine and pizza fueled) you think- I think I want to be a writer.
This though is a cozy fire in your hearth until the unexpected knock at your door.
A brash, cigar smoking man complete with moustache is standing in your entry. "You want to be a writer? YOU?"

You answer. "Yes. I love to write."
Your first mistake. Because all fear needs is a conversation to invite himself in.
"You love to write, hey? And what have you written?"
Fear needs no further invitation to mosey on over to your couch and put his feet up on your coffee table.
But he makes a good point, you think. What will I write? Oh gosh, if I want to write, that means I HAVE TO WRITE. It will involve, gasp, a blank page!

By now fear is flicking on your television and taking off his shoes.
"Yes, and you will have to fill that blank page." He chuckles as his puts on your dressing gown and ashes on your rug.

You cringe.
What if you have nothing to say? What if all those ideas in your head just shrivel up and die once nailed to a page?
You pace the room. For days.
Fear comes and goes always returning with a larger box. He says he's moving in. Your apartment is nicer than his. Plus you have a view over Central Park. How you afford that apartment since you want to be a writer is not the point of this story. You afford it. And fear wants in.
You don't question it. Fear seems to belong. Every time he returns with another box it is as if he has always lived with you.

Two pillows, a beer fridge, a dart board, a stereo, his CD collection and the entire star wars trilogy later, fear has taken up residency. The final evidence that he lives with you is the appearance of his tooth brush next to yours in the bathroom. Yes, fear has teeth. BIG sharp ones. All the better to...

While all this is going on you are sitting before that Dreaded Blank Page. Foolishly you wonder, how scary can one blank page be? You quickly find out. Terrifying. The stuff horror movies are made of. Writing sputters out of you. At least you think that's what it might be. But it could just as easily be blood, sweat and tears filling the page. Nothing sounds as good as it did in your head. Nothing comes close the the magic you'd planned in your careful outline.
Then... nothing comes at all.

Fear runs a bubble bath for himself, his second today, and demands you make his dinner. Lamb chops with mint sauce. Or a roast. He doesn't mind, as long as you go to lots of trouble.
Lots of trouble and several weeks later you have yourself (not to mention your kitchen) in a state.
What were you thinking? People are going to read this stuff you call a story. And they will laugh. Laugh and laugh and laugh. And then everyone will know. You are not a writer. YOU. ARE. NOT. A. WRITER!

This goes on for months. You cooking and cleaning. Fear shouting orders. "Bring my pillow. I need another beer. What are you doing at that computer? Give up already. You have nothing important to say. No story wroth writing. Quit now while you can still pretend you didn't really try."

You don't stop. Okay, you do. In fits and starts. Tending to fear is exhausting. He has you refilling the beer fridge and doing his laundry. Not to mention entertaining his friends, Doubt and Worry.
But you write. You write and write. Embracing the anxiety, you write. Afraid of people reading you, you write and re-write and revise and write again. Afraid of people saying you had nothing to say, you make darn sure you write from that place that exposes your very being. At least you will know you wrote in raw honesty.

Almost a year later, you have it. A complete first draft. And fear. He's a little quieter these days. Since it's apparent that you did indeed write. Some times you succeed in evicting him for days at a time. There have been lots of clothes out the window, yelling in the kitchen, knifes thrown at walls scenes straight out of War of the Roses. But fear always returns. You getting better at not letting him in. Or writing even if he's in the room.

Months of editing and alpha, beta, gamma, whatever, readers later you submit. Query. Resubmit. Re-query. Cry. Wage war with fear and finally... finally... you...

Well, that's a story for another time. But that, my friends, is called being a writer. We do it afraid and we conquer our fears.

What about you? Have you got a house guest? How to you chase you goals even if fear is present?

Hold Belief

2010-08-02T03:19:00.001-07:00

I believe in painted colors splashed across a post-storm sky.

I believe in beauty from junkyards, left overs and the overlooked.

I believe in cracked lives that aren't afraid of their imperfections.

I believe in holding your future, though it be water in your hands.

I believe in music even if you cannot hear.

I believe in whispers that reach you in the midnight hours and wrap themselves around your wounds.

I believe that could be you.

I believe in saving photos in your mind to keep you company in old age.

I believe in the thunder of togetherness, the healing in holding hands and kissing lips.

I believe in home being a place where you always are, not a building you live in.

I believe in the possibility of one drop becoming an ocean.

I believe in those we least expect doing the unexpected.

I believe that could be you.

I believe in the power of words to eclipse your life time.

I believe in stretching the dimensions of our thinking so we may never return to smallness again.

I believe in the greatness of Him to add to the littleness of me.

I believe in the unseen, the unprovable, the improbable.

I believe in finding when you are not looking and seeking when you think you've found.

And I believe in miracles.

I believe that could be you.

What about you? What do you believe in?

The Missing Feet

2010-07-30T01:50:00.001-07:00

Running was born in me the day I realised I could send my feet one place and my mind someplace else. I made a home out of everywhere I ran without remembering much of the physical places I passed by. Imagination was a wonderful companion. And if that failed to transport me the music I stuck in my ears took up the slack. I never knew there was anything missing.

Since my own feet beneath me were much less painful than the possibility of someone joining me and then leaving, I ran alone. Always.

I was not looking for her the day we met. Yet there she was. Crashing into my space with a smile and a request. "Wanna run together?"

Damn my mouth. Why did I mention I was a runner at all?

I tried to talk her out of her own idea.

"I run early."

She didn't care.

"Like 6 am."

She kept smiling.

"Actually 5 am."

"Whatever. Fine with me. Where do you want to met?"

Honestly, I could have cried. And I could have said no. After all, I ran alone. But sometimes persistence should be paid. Besides, I wondered what this girl with the cheek to ask me to run would be like at 5 am.

I let her come. Once, twice. Twenty times. Fifty times. Six months in it turns out she is quite the chatter. One hour into a run, she is still telling me stories. And damned if I can out run her. While I am working she appears to float.

So she talks. I listen. She flies. I pound pavement. She is there... I am not.

My feet go one direction, my mind another. Pieces inside me simply aren't ready to glue themselves back together and risk including another person who could leave me again. I've been there. And 'There' is not somewhere I am keen to revisit. Maybe she understands that. Maybe that's why she lets me add little to our running other than my feet beside hers.

This morning I pulled my car up beside hers at our regular 5 am. She was already looping the car park, warming up. I stopped to strap my feet. Blisters care of last nights boxing weren't stopping me today. She went back the her car to get something. I didn't ask questions. I rarely do.

With my feet strapped and shoes back on, we headed off. No discussions about where we were going. We both know the loop by now. 7.5km if you don't add the extra hill, 8.6km if you do. 10.8km if you loop the warm up road twice. She was doing her usual flying while I worked hard. Only halfway through this morning my body hit the breaks. My lungs, still recovering from infection, ached, and the morning air was cold.

"I'm heading back," I said. " I don't have the rest of this run in me."

"I know." She waved me on in front. "And go to back bed. You need to let your body rest."

I headed back. She kept going.

But here's the thing, for the first time in a long time I was running alone again. And something began to happened to me on those last few miles back to my car. I missed her.

Her chatter. The distraction. Her feet.

I missed her feet.

Somewhere in between all the miles we have jogged I've developed a taste for her story telling and the sound of her feet beside me.

Honestly, I could have cried. Maybe I have been missing some one's feet to run beside me for awhile.

I gathered my crying inside and drove home.

Taking the kids to school later on I noticed a small gift box sitting on the front seat of my car. Inside were a pair of heart earrings. Very funky. Very me.

I called my husband to thank him, but he was confused.

"I didn't leave them for you."

And then I knew. She did. That's what she was getting from her car this morning.

Honestly, I could have cried.

I guess I like her feet beside me, or in front of me and occasionally, if I can push the pace early enough so that I am leading, I like those feet behind me.

No one really runs alone I guess. Maybe that is why my mind was elsewhere on runs for such a long time. It's been searching...

What about you? Do you 'run' alone? If you are a writer, who 'runs' with you?

~In honor of Tracy. The running partner who story tells when she should be working hard, floats when she should be running and gave me heart earrings when I expected nothing. Thank you.~

Do I matter?

2010-07-28T02:07:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke with billions of others and breathed in the air they breathed out. My eyes opened at the same time yours did. I stood. You stood. They stood with the masses. Alone in my room, I hung my head.
Do I matter? I wondered out loud to the walls and millions echoed my question.

As I dressed and ate and went through my morning trillions of people passed by my window. They trawled through their day just as I trawled through mine. We ate. We slept. We loved and lost and cried out. We died and we were born. Another soul. An endless sky of humanity. And all of us, every single one, were thinking the same thoughts that ticker-taped through mind.
Do I matter? I wondered out loud to the walls, and millions echoed my question.

The trouble is not that I only see me in the mirror. The trouble is that I see you, and you and you and you and... Where do I end? Where do you begin? And as I stared into that mirror I further blurred that line of distinction.
Do I matter? I wondered and millions echoed my question.

I am afraid. As you are afraid. As they are. As we are. That I am not here for anything more than the space I occupy. That when the numbers are counted I won't have added to the sum. That nothing within me matters so much that I am the only one who could share it. Mothers wonder if their mothering matters. Career people if the jobs make a difference. Leaders wonder about there leadership. Followers about their following. Artists wonder about their creations, singers about their songs. And as a writer my question scared me senseless. Do my words matter? Will it ever matter?

Do. I. Matter? I wondered and millions echoes my question.

Today in my guttered silence I asked again, and though it was only a lowly whisper, He heard.
This I know for sure. He is the One who has numbered the hairs on my head. We number many things. Who numbers hairs? He is the One who watched over my unformed being as I was knitted together in my mother's womb. Who has such vision?
And this is what my heart heard. "I think of you constantly. Though I hung the stars and turn the planets, I think of you. Though I set the foundations of the outer rings of this universe in place. I think of you. You are mine. You matter. Do you hear me, child? You matter. My thoughts towards you are greater than the sands on every beach. You are created for a purpose and day. An appointed hour and a time. A life and a living. Before all time, I thought of you. And my plans for you are perfect."
And I knew. Deep in that Little Girl place that cried out. I knew.

"Do you matter?" you asked. And millions echoed your question.

What about you? How do you answer that question? Do you matter? How do you know?

For Shame

2010-07-26T02:54:00.000-07:00

Since these moments are so small, I might have missed them...
For shame.

Tiny tear drops of water resting on my son's cheek before sliding off into his laughter and bath time splashes.

Fingers of the sun weaving through his baby hair as his chest rises and falls with the softness of an afternoon nap.

A drive to nowhere in particular with my seven year old when he looks out at the afternoon sky and says, "It looks like orange peel Mommy, only oranges are too bright. This sky is a smudgy orange, like peach-orange maybe."

The pride in my grandmother's voice from across the miles telling me she has all my letters, every single one. Right back to those I wrote while traveling through Asia.

The way he can't say dinosaur, or hospital. 'DiN-a-Nors' and 'Hos-t-ables' make me smile.

His look across the dinning room table, over the heads of our sons... over the noise... over the bubbling chaos of family meal times... his look that holds me.

Since these moments are so small, I might have missed them...
For shame.

What about you? Do you see the moments? If you are a writer, do you make a point of seeing?

Write the Dragon. Read the Beast.

2010-07-23T04:10:00.000-07:00

"Fairy tales don't tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be killed." Author unknown.

She draws with candy sticks of color. Stick figures smiling back at her from the page. She looks in the mirror wondering where her smiles have gone. Who has seen them? Who would know?

Passion fruit eating fairies listen to the stories she tells in their garden. Little winged people all tucked up in her mother's forgotten garden. Weeds live here too. She thinks she might be one of them.

She reads. Like one would breathe, she reads. Mostly at night. As if darkness could gobble up her bedroom and torch light could free the words on her page. She hasn't yet worked out that she will one day grow up. When she does these stories will matter.

Wolves huff and puff. Piggies shake in houses that fall. Red Riding Hood isn't safe is stalked in the forest. Gingerbread men run away. Grandmother's morph into creatures with big eyes, and ears and child eating teeth. The sky is falling. And dragon's breathe fire.

Children live in world's you could never imagine.
If you write for them, tell the truth. Dragons can be slayed.
If you read to them, discuss the truth. Confront the villains. Cut the beasts to size. And give childhood back its freedom.

What about you? Do you write the dragon or read the beast?

The Vision Behind My Eyes

2010-07-21T02:46:00.000-07:00

What would I know about myself if I was only one and not one of many?
Would I know simple things still? My height. My hair color. My skin. all the same. Nothing changes.

But what about character?
Would I understand the length and breadth of myself if other people didn't provide someone to rise above or someone to strive towards?

What about the degree of my own ability or depravity?
Would I understand the depth of my capacity for both light and darkness, to both illuminate and drown out, if there were no other voices to be heard? Would I ever be all I could be?
Would such a question even matter, you may ask?
They matter. Because there are others, those questions matter.

I am not who I am only in relationship to myself, yet I need to find me in the silence of skillful listening to the One who created me and the true whispers of self.

No one writes on the pages of life in a tunnel of isolation. Those around me constantly shape my words. It matters what I know about me when I am with you. And it matters what I know about me when you are gone. How well I understand the depth and length, the day and night of my very being becomes my life's song. The steps I will take. The words I will write. And ultimately the me I will birth.
It matters that I see me through clear eyes. That is why a writer is never anything without a reader. A musician never heard without an audience. A soul never unwrapped outside intimacy with another and a life never lived unless you hold plenty of hands along the way.

My writing began as a way to share myself with myself. To get to know the woman trapped within. But is has become more. I want it to become more. That is why I don't post about the mechanics of writing very often or share what I am learning about plot, pacing or structure. The words I share here are me. It is another way for me to hold more hands in life and be blessed by those who join with me. It is my way to clear my vision in regards to my writing ability and my personal growth. What you read here is who I am. Never less. But often more.

Through My Eyes is a place for me to be seen, but more importantly, it is a place for me to see. It is a blog to share the vision behind my eyes, enriched by what is reflected back. Through My Eyes is memoir of whatever moves me on a daily basis. Inspiration in the big and the little. Life, in all its glorious mess. I dream that you might take something of what you find here and write your own big bold words of HOPE and INSPIRATION across your own life. I pray you do. :)

I passed 200 followers a little while back.
Thank you. For taking the journey with me. And for sharing whatever you do of your own. We are not the only one. And yet, we are not simply one of many. :)

PS- Click the facebook badge or twitter fed on this blog if you care to connect with me there too http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1258498368
http://twitter.com/tabithabird

It's Mine

2010-07-19T02:25:00.000-07:00

Book Ownership Laws for Husbands/Partners of Avid Writers/Readers

1. If I am reading it, it's mine.
2. If I had it a little while ago, but put it down, it's mine.
3. Even if I put it down on your desk/favorite chair/lap, it is still mine.
4. If it's mine, it must never in anyway appear to be yours.
5. If I burnt dinner, forgot to pick up the kids from school and neglected the washing for a week, the book was mine.

6. If you're reading it, and I think it looks better than what I am reading, it's mine.
7. If you're reading it and I haven't read it, it's clearly mine.

8. If I bought the book with my money, it's mine.
9. If I bought it with your money, it's mine.
10. If I bought the book with our money, it's all mine mine mine.

11. If we have an extra $20 in the budget and I get to the money first, the new book is mine.
12. There will never be an extra $20 in the budget, because the book is mine.
13. If you get the the money first and foolishly waste it at the hardware store, I will return your purchase and invest wisely. You guessed it. The book is mine.

14. If I bought it and haven't read it, it is still mine.

15. If I bought thirty and haven't read them yet, I will be buying more, and they too will be mine.

16. If it is on my wish list, it is as good as mine.
17. If I asked for it for my birthday, it had better be mine.
18. If it's on your birthday list, it had better be about football, or it's mine.

19. If it's torn, moldy, boring or otherwise defective, it's yours.
.... I'll be buying another one, and that will be mine :)

What about you? Got any great rules for book ownership in your house?

Branded with a Butterfly

2010-07-16T02:08:00.000-07:00

"Just when the caterpillar thought her world had ended she turned into a butterfly."

Are you branded?

Twelve years ago, without words to express why I was drawn to them, I had a butterfly tattooed on my right ankle.

Blue, vigorous and enduring.

The foreverness of tattoos coupled with the image of fragile wings whispered everything my heart couldn't speak about my life.

I was broken and I was strong. And I was about to be married.

Two years ago, with a vague understanding of the landscape inside me, I drew the designs for two more butterflies. The entwining creatures were tattooed on my left shoulder blade. The names of my sons sit underneath their wings. The foreverness of tattoos coupled with the fleeting nature of boyhood. Flight and children. A perfect partnership?

I was broken and I was strong. And I was searching for a way to hold them eternally.

Almost a year ago I started sharing my writing here. Blogger demanded an image. A tag. A brand.

This time I was halfway to a memoir and halfway to healing. I came across this proverb.

"Just when the caterpillar thought her world had ended she turned into a butterfly."

And I knew.

I was already branded.

Around the blogosphere you'll see my wings. The blue butterfly that tags my comments.

I am broken and I am strong. And daily I birth the woman inside me.

What about you? Are you branded?

Insert Screeching of Brakes

2010-07-14T02:39:00.000-07:00

I was born. Fast and hard.
I grew up. Fast and hard
I played. Fast and hard.
And I broke.
Are we there yet?

I met him. Fast and hard.
We grew up. Fast and hard.
We played. Fast and hard.
But I was broken
Are we there yet?

I got honest. Fast and hard.
I looked in the mirror. Fast and hard.
There were moments. Fast and hard.
But I found me.
Are we there yet?

I boxed. Fast and hard.
I ran. Fast and hard.
And I wrote a memoir. Fast and hard.
My work gained interest.
Are we there yet?

(insert screeching of brakes)

Here's what I know.
Fast and Hard is at great risk of missing Gentle and Ready.
The right moment is known only to itself. Or God. And they aren't telling me.
I'll get there when I get there.
No. Not now.... or now ...... or even now.
And when it happens, I'll understand the divine purpose in waiting.

I still box. Fast and hard.
I still run. Fast and hard.
I still write. Fast and hard
And I ask-
Are we there yet?

What about you? Do you do slow well?