How many times in our lives do we stand at a precipice looking out at the life we could have, wondering if really do have the strength, the intelligence, the fortitude, to take a step forward and leap into the life we have chosen?
I sit and stare at the rejection letters, and the news of dear friends who are finding work in their chosen fields, writing or teaching or whatever combination they can make fit into their lives. I'm wondering if I'm going to be able to make it out there with them. I'm wondering if I have what it takes to succeed, to believe in myself enough to fight the necessary battles within myself and within the field I'm venturing into.
In addition, I have to take a long hard look at the outside commitments I have made, the ones that involve tons of work and no pay, and wonder if I have the fortitude and the patience to work toward the changes I believe need to happen.
Some part of me wants to retreat. Retreat back into my own dark little box, the tiny space I allow my mind to occupy when my own personal demons take over. I want to hide within my misery and prove to myself exactly what kind of failure I am by remaining inactive save for the dark thoughts. Some part of me wants to give in to the voices of doubt that creep in, hand them a microphone and tell them to have at it, knock me down with their words of failure and unworthiness, shred me with truths I don't want to hear, cloak me with the invisibility of my own misery.
But alas, as tempting as giving in seems, it really isn't an option. I don't have the patience to be utterly miserable. In truth I like myself a little too much do any real harm, or allow the voices free reign.
I originally began mulling this subject over with thoughts of career in mind, but am beginning to see recognize my surroundings. I have been here before.
I suppose that when I was about to become a parent, I must have stood here. I must have surveyed the world ahead of me, one that was so new I had great difficulty fathoming what was ahead. One that didn't seem to match the words of the other parents who can gone there before me, the ones that tried to share their wisdom and experiences. I looked up one day and realized that that new world had become my entire reality, there had been no choice but to move forward.
I knew I stood here when I made the decision to go back to school and complete my long neglected college education. I must have sat here looking beyond the critical math homework that so often reduced me to tears, knowing that if I gave up on math that I was giving up on my dreams of a degree, of the education I so desperately wanted. That wasn't an option. I knew that if I gave up, that I wouldn't be able to live with myself. It's strange to receive praise from anyone, inside or outside my personal circle, that point out the awesomeness of my educational accomplishments. To me they were necessary. Kind of like parenting. There was no possibility of giving up.
I don't suppose I'll give up now, either. I'll reevaluate. That much I can do. I have made conscious choices that led me here, both in my career and in my volunteer work. I have to move forward. I have no choice but to jump, to take a leap. To have faith in myself.
Lake Mendocino
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Best Friends Forever and Bobby Sherman
From the age of about four until I was in sixth grade, I considered Debbie Potts my best friend. The fact that we didn't attend the same school, live in the same neighborhood, and were two years apart in age probably contributed to the long-term success of our friendship. It also contributed to the time and distance that has now placed us, as adults, into the mere acquaintance category. I wasn't very socially adept as a young child, either that or the kids I attended grammar school with were all horrible people (something I don't really believe is true), but Debbie and I always got along splendidly. I have pictures of us dressed up in our warm jackets making mud pies in my driveway, and a wonderful picture in my own mind of us in our swimsuits playing in a little plastic pool that held less than two feet of water on my front lawn. Debbie always had long blond hair and was small and slender. I always felt like a behemoth next to her, with my short dark hair (cut the way Gram like it, not the way I wanted it) and my perpetually overweight child self.
We spent the majority of our visits at her house. Her parents lived on property owned by her grandparents. Her grandmother, Gladys, did my grandmother's hair. Gladys had a beauty parlor, complete with huge mirrors, cool hairdresser chairs that went up and down, and giant dryers you sat under with a head full of curlers, housed right next door to her carport. I learned to cut hair, mine and later my friends' and family's, sitting on a seat under an unused dryer watching the ladies get their hair done. Sometimes when Debbie was visiting her Grandma, we would hang out in Gladys' house and watch TV or scour some uncle's room for girlie magazines.
Mostly, though, we either hung out in the dough boy swimming pool behind Gladys' house, or went horseback riding on the property. I loved riding horses with Debbie. I loved riding horses in general. I wasn't a horsey girl–I wasn't madly in love with and obsessed like so many girls I knew (including Debbie). I didn't have miniature horses all over my bedroom, or posters of horses running, mane flying, plastered on my walls. I didn't seem to obsess about most things that girls my age did. I had very few hobbies, I didn't collect certain kinds of dolls, I didn't draw, dance or sing in a choir or like the mainstream heart throb bubblegum rockers that the other girls my age seemed to love (the Jacksons, the Osmonds and most especially Donny Osmond).
There was one singer I did love, truly madly deeply and passionately. Bobby Sherman. Almost no one heard of him, it seemed to me, but I thought he was just the best thing. Ever. He had hair similar to Donny Osmond's–longer on the sides with bangs that swept across his forehead, always threatening to fall across one brown eye. He had a square jaw, and a great big smile (a slight case of buck teeth), and dimples on his cheek and one on his chin. I loved, loved, loved his chin dimple. I remember wearing button up shirts that I made sure had the top three buttons left unbuttoned, just like Bobby Sherman, and a choker, just like Bobby Sherman (something like the one he wore on the poster on my closet door), and my hair parted exactly the same way.
The second to last time that I saw Debbie, she was working in Tuttle Drug as a cashier. She was taking classes so she would get work as a typist or secretary or something like that (I remember thinking that she was aiming way too low) and she was so excited to remember how I used to wear my hear–just like Bobby Sherman.
The last time I saw Debbie was from a distance in downtown Petaluma. She was walking with a man pushing a stroller. After that I often thought of Debbie and wondered how she was. If she was still in town, how many kids she had. I tried looking her up on classmates.com, but had no luck.
A few weeks ago, I attended a meeting at Petaluma High School. The school is in the process of renewing their accreditation and I was asked to come as an "involved" parent. Several people I knew came through the doors of the library, my friend Lynn included, who sat next to me. Equally as many people that I didn't know came in. I spent some time hanging out with the former mayor and his wife Bonnie. In walks a woman with blond hair hanging simply down to her shoulders, small and slender with a very familiar (and much older than the last time I saw her) face. I knew that it had to be Debbie. She was on the other side of the room with her husband, and I couldn't quite make out her name tag. What I wanted to do was to jump up, run (or crawl over seats) across the room and say something witty like, "Debbie, is that you?" What I did do was stay quiet as the meeting began and keep an eye on her in case we locked eyes in a moment of recognition. It didn't happen.
Plan B: Once the meeting was over and we were all invited back to the multi-use room for food, I decided to approach her. I carefully planned my strategy. I would gently touch her arm, when she turned to me I would say, "Could I bother you for a moment? Are you Debbie Potts?" If she was I would then tackle the explanation of who I am. I didn't get the question out of my mouth, she knew me. We had a nice stranger to stranger hug, and spent about 5 minutes catching up on each other's lives. I was clearly much more enthusiastic about seeing her. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't unhappy to see me. She seemed genuinely pleased. She was just so…I don't know…grown up. She was very glad to see that, "you're doing well." She didn't ask about my grandparents, which is very unusual in my experience of running into people I haven't seen in awhile. Maybe she already knew that they were gone. I asked about her grandmother and got a brief update, as well as about her parents. It was very clear to me that we had nothing in common save a few childhood memory scraps, none of which we talked about. Life now was simply more interesting, the lack of school and neighborhood memories that had cemented our friendship those long years ago now created a chasm between us. Other than children around the same age, we had nothing in common. She and her husband didn't even go out to the movies together! I just couldn't relate.
Since sixth grade when Debbie and I mutually decided that we had grown out of "best friend forever"-ness, I didn't have another best friend until high school. Counting Debbie, I have been close to four people that rated that label. Two of them are still in my life. But I still like Bobby Sherman better than Donny Osmond.
We spent the majority of our visits at her house. Her parents lived on property owned by her grandparents. Her grandmother, Gladys, did my grandmother's hair. Gladys had a beauty parlor, complete with huge mirrors, cool hairdresser chairs that went up and down, and giant dryers you sat under with a head full of curlers, housed right next door to her carport. I learned to cut hair, mine and later my friends' and family's, sitting on a seat under an unused dryer watching the ladies get their hair done. Sometimes when Debbie was visiting her Grandma, we would hang out in Gladys' house and watch TV or scour some uncle's room for girlie magazines.
Mostly, though, we either hung out in the dough boy swimming pool behind Gladys' house, or went horseback riding on the property. I loved riding horses with Debbie. I loved riding horses in general. I wasn't a horsey girl–I wasn't madly in love with and obsessed like so many girls I knew (including Debbie). I didn't have miniature horses all over my bedroom, or posters of horses running, mane flying, plastered on my walls. I didn't seem to obsess about most things that girls my age did. I had very few hobbies, I didn't collect certain kinds of dolls, I didn't draw, dance or sing in a choir or like the mainstream heart throb bubblegum rockers that the other girls my age seemed to love (the Jacksons, the Osmonds and most especially Donny Osmond).
There was one singer I did love, truly madly deeply and passionately. Bobby Sherman. Almost no one heard of him, it seemed to me, but I thought he was just the best thing. Ever. He had hair similar to Donny Osmond's–longer on the sides with bangs that swept across his forehead, always threatening to fall across one brown eye. He had a square jaw, and a great big smile (a slight case of buck teeth), and dimples on his cheek and one on his chin. I loved, loved, loved his chin dimple. I remember wearing button up shirts that I made sure had the top three buttons left unbuttoned, just like Bobby Sherman, and a choker, just like Bobby Sherman (something like the one he wore on the poster on my closet door), and my hair parted exactly the same way.
The second to last time that I saw Debbie, she was working in Tuttle Drug as a cashier. She was taking classes so she would get work as a typist or secretary or something like that (I remember thinking that she was aiming way too low) and she was so excited to remember how I used to wear my hear–just like Bobby Sherman.
The last time I saw Debbie was from a distance in downtown Petaluma. She was walking with a man pushing a stroller. After that I often thought of Debbie and wondered how she was. If she was still in town, how many kids she had. I tried looking her up on classmates.com, but had no luck.
A few weeks ago, I attended a meeting at Petaluma High School. The school is in the process of renewing their accreditation and I was asked to come as an "involved" parent. Several people I knew came through the doors of the library, my friend Lynn included, who sat next to me. Equally as many people that I didn't know came in. I spent some time hanging out with the former mayor and his wife Bonnie. In walks a woman with blond hair hanging simply down to her shoulders, small and slender with a very familiar (and much older than the last time I saw her) face. I knew that it had to be Debbie. She was on the other side of the room with her husband, and I couldn't quite make out her name tag. What I wanted to do was to jump up, run (or crawl over seats) across the room and say something witty like, "Debbie, is that you?" What I did do was stay quiet as the meeting began and keep an eye on her in case we locked eyes in a moment of recognition. It didn't happen.
Plan B: Once the meeting was over and we were all invited back to the multi-use room for food, I decided to approach her. I carefully planned my strategy. I would gently touch her arm, when she turned to me I would say, "Could I bother you for a moment? Are you Debbie Potts?" If she was I would then tackle the explanation of who I am. I didn't get the question out of my mouth, she knew me. We had a nice stranger to stranger hug, and spent about 5 minutes catching up on each other's lives. I was clearly much more enthusiastic about seeing her. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't unhappy to see me. She seemed genuinely pleased. She was just so…I don't know…grown up. She was very glad to see that, "you're doing well." She didn't ask about my grandparents, which is very unusual in my experience of running into people I haven't seen in awhile. Maybe she already knew that they were gone. I asked about her grandmother and got a brief update, as well as about her parents. It was very clear to me that we had nothing in common save a few childhood memory scraps, none of which we talked about. Life now was simply more interesting, the lack of school and neighborhood memories that had cemented our friendship those long years ago now created a chasm between us. Other than children around the same age, we had nothing in common. She and her husband didn't even go out to the movies together! I just couldn't relate.
Since sixth grade when Debbie and I mutually decided that we had grown out of "best friend forever"-ness, I didn't have another best friend until high school. Counting Debbie, I have been close to four people that rated that label. Two of them are still in my life. But I still like Bobby Sherman better than Donny Osmond.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Connecting the Dots & Taking Control
Ever have a duh! moment, when you connect dots you knew were there, you knew were related, and that had even occur ed to you were part of a pattern, but that you simply chose not to accept as the reality? I had one of those moments this weekend. It led to a panic/anxiety attack, but an attack with a twist. My body was doing what my body does when anxiety/panic attacks: difficulty catching my breath, which led to hyperventilation, shaking, crying, difficulty forming words. But my mind was working, my thoughts were cohesive, clear. I understood what was happening to me the entire time.
Ever since the bio-mother called I have been chewing and chewing on the problem of what to do about her, about her calls, about just how I wanted to end things with her. I considered writing a letter to "break up" with her once and for all, to explain why I haven't returned the last three calls and why we can't have a relationship. I considered having Joe call her posing as a stranger and telling her that "Ginger" doesn't live at this number. I also considered doing nothing, ignoring the call and keeping an eye on call ID. And during all this, I tried to justify in my mind why it was okay to not have a relationship with my mother. My birth mother. The woman who left me with my grandparents. The woman who has messed with my mind and emotions my entire life. And I didn't get the worst of it–Grandma, Grandpa and Sonny did.
The obstacle I kept putting in front of myself to thwart any definitive decision was compassion. Not forgiveness, not empathy (well not a lot anyway), but the need to understand why she is the way she is. This need got in the way of taking care of myself and by extension my family. I continually found myself making excuses for her behavior and undermining my own resolve.
Then I connected the dots, put aside compassion and took a long hard look at a visceral memory, an innate knowing about her abusive behavior that took place years and years ago. The compassion is gone, the forgiveness indefinitely forestalled, the empathy has gone by the wayside. And the panic attack is over. What is left is the residual depression that is a natural by-product of any contact I have with her. It probably won't last past tomorrow.
So what will I do? Probably have Joe call, as himself, and tell her not to call me anymore. It may work or may not. The one thing about my mother is that she is tenacious. The one parental skill that she possesses is the ability to keep coming back, to keep asserting her presence into my life. She did the same thing to her own parents. Even when they asked to her leave and not come back, she came back, called, visited. She once sent the police to my door after telling them that she hadn't heard from me in awhile and was concerned. Never mind that I had written and asked her to make contact by mail only. Never mind that we had purposely un-listed our home phone so that she couldn't call. She just kept at it, no pattern, no regularity, no consistency. So she may continue her inconsistencies. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm done.
Ever since the bio-mother called I have been chewing and chewing on the problem of what to do about her, about her calls, about just how I wanted to end things with her. I considered writing a letter to "break up" with her once and for all, to explain why I haven't returned the last three calls and why we can't have a relationship. I considered having Joe call her posing as a stranger and telling her that "Ginger" doesn't live at this number. I also considered doing nothing, ignoring the call and keeping an eye on call ID. And during all this, I tried to justify in my mind why it was okay to not have a relationship with my mother. My birth mother. The woman who left me with my grandparents. The woman who has messed with my mind and emotions my entire life. And I didn't get the worst of it–Grandma, Grandpa and Sonny did.
The obstacle I kept putting in front of myself to thwart any definitive decision was compassion. Not forgiveness, not empathy (well not a lot anyway), but the need to understand why she is the way she is. This need got in the way of taking care of myself and by extension my family. I continually found myself making excuses for her behavior and undermining my own resolve.
Then I connected the dots, put aside compassion and took a long hard look at a visceral memory, an innate knowing about her abusive behavior that took place years and years ago. The compassion is gone, the forgiveness indefinitely forestalled, the empathy has gone by the wayside. And the panic attack is over. What is left is the residual depression that is a natural by-product of any contact I have with her. It probably won't last past tomorrow.
So what will I do? Probably have Joe call, as himself, and tell her not to call me anymore. It may work or may not. The one thing about my mother is that she is tenacious. The one parental skill that she possesses is the ability to keep coming back, to keep asserting her presence into my life. She did the same thing to her own parents. Even when they asked to her leave and not come back, she came back, called, visited. She once sent the police to my door after telling them that she hadn't heard from me in awhile and was concerned. Never mind that I had written and asked her to make contact by mail only. Never mind that we had purposely un-listed our home phone so that she couldn't call. She just kept at it, no pattern, no regularity, no consistency. So she may continue her inconsistencies. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm done.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
To Care or Not to Care
My bio-mother called last night and left yet another drunken message. We weren't home, but truth be told I wouldn't have answered the phone even if we had. Thank goodness for Call I.D. It has been almost 14 months to the day since the last time she called, drunk. In fact in the last three years, all three phone calls have been while under the influence. My theory is that it takes enough alcohol to get this alcohlic drunk enough (to slur) before she can summon up the nerve to pick up the phone and dial in a vane attempt to reach out to her oldest child. She has said to me a number of times over the years, "Remember, you're my first born, Ginger." Clearly she is implying that first born means something special. But I have no real memories of feeling the kind of special she wants me to feel.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Those Silly Pheromones
There is an article, more of a blurb really, in today's Press Democrat that supports about half of what I already believe about personal scent. According to a study done at UC Berkeley, "A chemical in male sweat can boost mood, brain activity and sexual arousal in heterosexual women…"
I realize that science has a compulsion to take perfectly logical ideas and prove them, but all they had to do was ask any woman who loves the way a man smells, and they possibly could have saved some money. And the scientists who conducted the study didn't even let the women really smell the "guys." Women were instead instructed to take 20 whiffs of a chemical with a hugely romantic name, androstadienone, from a bottle and then had their vitals checked. The chemical is a compound "found in male perspiration and other bodily secretions." Lovely.
I once had a crush on a guy who always showed up at the bar we were hanging out in after work smelling like he had been working all day. He had B.O. It was borderline unpleasant, but it still turned me on. There was something about him that really got me all hot and bothered sitting next to him, his androstadienone wafting off his torso and drifting toward me in my chair. I found myself leaning in toward him and inhaling deeply. It reminded me a bit of a food that on first taste isn't great, but once you chew on it awhile and let the inner flavors permeate your taste buds, it is really great and you forgot that the first taste wasn't so great. Come to think of it most alcohol is like that as well. The bitter or biting taste of the fermented grain or grapes that precedes the warmth spreading down your body as the first sip makes its way into your system eventually starts to taste good because you associate it with a pleasant feeling. That is how this guy smelled to me, I got used to the unpleasant outer shell of his end-of-the-day scent because embedded in each scent molecule was some chemical that made my heart race, dilated my capillaries and got my juices flowing.
Conversely, I have seen this phenomenon have the reverse affect on a heterosexual male. My fifteen-year-old daughter went to the movies with a new boyfriend. My hubby and I liked him fine, we had met him and spent a bit of time with him. We weren't eyeing him as potential son-in-law material, but basically he was okay. We offered to give him a ride the few blocks from the movie theater when we came to take the daughter home from the movies, to the restaurant where his parent was waiting and would take him home. As soon as the kids were inside and the car door closed, his scent filled the car. I looked over my shoulder at him in the backseat with my daughter, they weren't even touching, just smiling and chatting. But boy, did he smell great. Whatever he was wearing filled the car. Wow. As covertly as I could, I inhaled deeply and thought briefly about Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Robinson. This kid was much cuter than Dustin Hoffman.
He was only in the car a few minutes, we let him out, the kids said a quick goodbye, he thanked us for the ride and sauntered off as we pulled away from the curb. The usual parent-child chit chat ensued.
I said "Boy, Joe sure smelled good, what was he wearing?" Whatever cologne that was, I imagined, was rivaling Ralph Lauren's Polo from my youth.
To which my daughter replied, "He wasn't wearing anything."
"He sure smelled good."
"Yeah he did."
To which my husband responded, "I thought he was just irritating."
What? Mother and daughter were stunned. What had this kid done to irritate Dad? He had said almost nothing, but not in a surly, dark teen kind of way. He's just kinda shy around adults and was making small talk with the daughter. He hadn't done anything overt to irritate Dad, just being in the car made Dad feel annoyed and irritated. Could you smell him? No. Didn't smell a thing. Ah. The androstadienone was a welcome addition to the car air for us girls, but for the man, it was all about irritation.
Those silly pheromones!
I realize that science has a compulsion to take perfectly logical ideas and prove them, but all they had to do was ask any woman who loves the way a man smells, and they possibly could have saved some money. And the scientists who conducted the study didn't even let the women really smell the "guys." Women were instead instructed to take 20 whiffs of a chemical with a hugely romantic name, androstadienone, from a bottle and then had their vitals checked. The chemical is a compound "found in male perspiration and other bodily secretions." Lovely.
I once had a crush on a guy who always showed up at the bar we were hanging out in after work smelling like he had been working all day. He had B.O. It was borderline unpleasant, but it still turned me on. There was something about him that really got me all hot and bothered sitting next to him, his androstadienone wafting off his torso and drifting toward me in my chair. I found myself leaning in toward him and inhaling deeply. It reminded me a bit of a food that on first taste isn't great, but once you chew on it awhile and let the inner flavors permeate your taste buds, it is really great and you forgot that the first taste wasn't so great. Come to think of it most alcohol is like that as well. The bitter or biting taste of the fermented grain or grapes that precedes the warmth spreading down your body as the first sip makes its way into your system eventually starts to taste good because you associate it with a pleasant feeling. That is how this guy smelled to me, I got used to the unpleasant outer shell of his end-of-the-day scent because embedded in each scent molecule was some chemical that made my heart race, dilated my capillaries and got my juices flowing.
Conversely, I have seen this phenomenon have the reverse affect on a heterosexual male. My fifteen-year-old daughter went to the movies with a new boyfriend. My hubby and I liked him fine, we had met him and spent a bit of time with him. We weren't eyeing him as potential son-in-law material, but basically he was okay. We offered to give him a ride the few blocks from the movie theater when we came to take the daughter home from the movies, to the restaurant where his parent was waiting and would take him home. As soon as the kids were inside and the car door closed, his scent filled the car. I looked over my shoulder at him in the backseat with my daughter, they weren't even touching, just smiling and chatting. But boy, did he smell great. Whatever he was wearing filled the car. Wow. As covertly as I could, I inhaled deeply and thought briefly about Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Robinson. This kid was much cuter than Dustin Hoffman.
He was only in the car a few minutes, we let him out, the kids said a quick goodbye, he thanked us for the ride and sauntered off as we pulled away from the curb. The usual parent-child chit chat ensued.
I said "Boy, Joe sure smelled good, what was he wearing?" Whatever cologne that was, I imagined, was rivaling Ralph Lauren's Polo from my youth.
To which my daughter replied, "He wasn't wearing anything."
"He sure smelled good."
"Yeah he did."
To which my husband responded, "I thought he was just irritating."
What? Mother and daughter were stunned. What had this kid done to irritate Dad? He had said almost nothing, but not in a surly, dark teen kind of way. He's just kinda shy around adults and was making small talk with the daughter. He hadn't done anything overt to irritate Dad, just being in the car made Dad feel annoyed and irritated. Could you smell him? No. Didn't smell a thing. Ah. The androstadienone was a welcome addition to the car air for us girls, but for the man, it was all about irritation.
Those silly pheromones!
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Sense of Accomplishment
Yesterday I:
1- Worked on my book proposal.
2- Submitted an essay to a contest (to Missouri Review It Started with a Kiss and Ended in Silence).
3- Finally got an envelope to Susan Cohen for letters of recommendation.
4- Receive a very nice rejection from Sara Lawrence's publication Lumina thanking me for my submission, but regrettably they can't publish it.
5- Did lots of practical chores and errand running (including buying blinds to put up in my office).
Today I:
1- Submitted an essay for a fellowship contest (Writers at Work Dust and Dried Blood).
2- Trimmed the rose bushes.
3- Scooped the yard.
4- Checked on my dossier at AWP.
5- Printed out as essay to submit tomorrow (Lessons in Love to The Sun).
6- Did some laundry.
7- Worked 1/2 hour and got paid for 1 hour evaluating essays.
8- Remembered that I will likely have a job before all the big bills come due. I'm not lame, I'm not lazy, I'm not unemployable. I'm just getting started. (hold that thought!)
1- Worked on my book proposal.
2- Submitted an essay to a contest (to Missouri Review It Started with a Kiss and Ended in Silence).
3- Finally got an envelope to Susan Cohen for letters of recommendation.
4- Receive a very nice rejection from Sara Lawrence's publication Lumina thanking me for my submission, but regrettably they can't publish it.
5- Did lots of practical chores and errand running (including buying blinds to put up in my office).
Today I:
1- Submitted an essay for a fellowship contest (Writers at Work Dust and Dried Blood).
2- Trimmed the rose bushes.
3- Scooped the yard.
4- Checked on my dossier at AWP.
5- Printed out as essay to submit tomorrow (Lessons in Love to The Sun).
6- Did some laundry.
7- Worked 1/2 hour and got paid for 1 hour evaluating essays.
8- Remembered that I will likely have a job before all the big bills come due. I'm not lame, I'm not lazy, I'm not unemployable. I'm just getting started. (hold that thought!)
Sunday, February 4, 2007
The Heart of the Matter
What is it that holds an individual back from personal success? Yes, I understand that fear of success is in serious competition with fear of failure. But what is it, specifically, that nurtures those fears? What in our psyche, personal experiences, thought processes, or individual temperament that build the foundations of these fears? Foundations that are so strong, we have to find a way to move completely out of the neighborhood in order to dwell in safer, stronger, healthier homes whose foundations are built on solid beliefs, personal integrity, strength of character and are tall enough to take us to the pinnacle of our dreams?
I have spent so many years looking ahead to someday, that I'm having trouble adjusting to the concept that someday has become today.
Someday I want to try to sell my book proposal and use the advance to pay the bills while doing research and maybe having some other part-time income. So why is it so hard for me to open the damn thing up and work on it? To put the thought and effort, and research time into honing it, moving it toward the agents' mailboxes. I have and I do. But–damn is it hard. The opening part, the wrapping of my own head around part, the settling down and closing off all distractions is the hard part–the really heavy lifting. The work itself is great. I enjoy the research and being distracted by interesting tidbits that I know will further the proposal, and ultimately the story itself, along. I enjoy working the sentences over and over again, until they are molded into exactly the form I want them to be.
But when I'm not working on it, when I'm fretting about money and wondering where I can find a big enough paycheck to meet all of my upcoming obligations, when my head begins to hurt from the worry, I look past my goals and my dreams, toward what I believe to be the more practical. And who defines practical? The voices in my head. Gram and Grandpa. Their worries have become my worries. The shoulds that I fought so hard against while the Grandparents were alive are making a stealth attack comeback.
Don't get me wrong, these aren't their worries about my potential failure I'm talking about, it's theirs. Their fears that were at times projected onto my life. They always made it clear they felt that I was smart and could do whatever I set my mind to. They were from the generation that foresaw my potential to include beauty school or flight attendant school, or working for myself doing housecleaning, or secretarial work, or even a supervisory position in a bank (but not the manager). I'm not sure that they believed enough in themselves to have far reaching dreams, or consider that I would either.
When I got my substitute teaching credential, I was terrified. I wondered if I could have success one day at a time in someone else's classroom. Once I did, I found that I didn't really want to do it, I didn't enjoy it, it wasn't the kind of intellectual challenge I thought it would be. I surpassed a goal. The next goal isn't into my own primary classroom, but into a college level one.
When I try to see myself as a published writer, it is easy for me to forget that I have in fact already been published in local publications, and all I need to do to stretch that out to something larger, is to write. And submit. To take myself seriously and not allow the non-creative issues to cloud my perception. To not see myself as a failure because I don't clean house as thoroughly or often as I believe I should. Or to beat myself up because I want to write instead of scooping poop. Or to dive headfirst into volunteer work, and put aside the essays that only need a few spelling corrections and a couple of addressed envelopes.
I have put into place so many of the pieces needed to move myself towards my goals, but I have to admit that I am too afraid to move toward them. Yet I know that financially and emotionally I need to. When the financial motivates me, instead of sitting down and working on the practicals of publishing and writing, I start looking at full-time jobs in Marin county posted on Craig's List, trying to see myself 8 eights a day writing marketing material, or updating databases, or researching real estate, or watching the alcohol industry, and if the bottom line, the takehome salary, will meet the financial goals I believe I need to reach. On those days, the financially motivated days, I spend far more time fretting and surfing job sites than working toward my writing goals.
I think that I am as afraid of success as I am of failure. There are really many more reasons for my fear than a couple of voices in my head. Like everyone else, I am me because of dozens of experiences over a lifetime. I am afraid because I sometimes don't like being out in the open, being seen and noticed. Which makes if difficult to be successful, doesn't it?
As always, writing helps. It is at the heart of the matter. I am and have wanted most of my life to be a WRITER. Writers write. Writing helps. By writing, I am fulfilling goals. Which is a very large chunk of my reasoning behind starting a blog. I don't really expect anyone to read this, but I'm not posting anything here that I wouldn't willingly talk to someone about in person or on the phone. No big secrets, just working through life by writing.
I have spent so many years looking ahead to someday, that I'm having trouble adjusting to the concept that someday has become today.
Someday I want to try to sell my book proposal and use the advance to pay the bills while doing research and maybe having some other part-time income. So why is it so hard for me to open the damn thing up and work on it? To put the thought and effort, and research time into honing it, moving it toward the agents' mailboxes. I have and I do. But–damn is it hard. The opening part, the wrapping of my own head around part, the settling down and closing off all distractions is the hard part–the really heavy lifting. The work itself is great. I enjoy the research and being distracted by interesting tidbits that I know will further the proposal, and ultimately the story itself, along. I enjoy working the sentences over and over again, until they are molded into exactly the form I want them to be.
But when I'm not working on it, when I'm fretting about money and wondering where I can find a big enough paycheck to meet all of my upcoming obligations, when my head begins to hurt from the worry, I look past my goals and my dreams, toward what I believe to be the more practical. And who defines practical? The voices in my head. Gram and Grandpa. Their worries have become my worries. The shoulds that I fought so hard against while the Grandparents were alive are making a stealth attack comeback.
Don't get me wrong, these aren't their worries about my potential failure I'm talking about, it's theirs. Their fears that were at times projected onto my life. They always made it clear they felt that I was smart and could do whatever I set my mind to. They were from the generation that foresaw my potential to include beauty school or flight attendant school, or working for myself doing housecleaning, or secretarial work, or even a supervisory position in a bank (but not the manager). I'm not sure that they believed enough in themselves to have far reaching dreams, or consider that I would either.
When I got my substitute teaching credential, I was terrified. I wondered if I could have success one day at a time in someone else's classroom. Once I did, I found that I didn't really want to do it, I didn't enjoy it, it wasn't the kind of intellectual challenge I thought it would be. I surpassed a goal. The next goal isn't into my own primary classroom, but into a college level one.
When I try to see myself as a published writer, it is easy for me to forget that I have in fact already been published in local publications, and all I need to do to stretch that out to something larger, is to write. And submit. To take myself seriously and not allow the non-creative issues to cloud my perception. To not see myself as a failure because I don't clean house as thoroughly or often as I believe I should. Or to beat myself up because I want to write instead of scooping poop. Or to dive headfirst into volunteer work, and put aside the essays that only need a few spelling corrections and a couple of addressed envelopes.
I have put into place so many of the pieces needed to move myself towards my goals, but I have to admit that I am too afraid to move toward them. Yet I know that financially and emotionally I need to. When the financial motivates me, instead of sitting down and working on the practicals of publishing and writing, I start looking at full-time jobs in Marin county posted on Craig's List, trying to see myself 8 eights a day writing marketing material, or updating databases, or researching real estate, or watching the alcohol industry, and if the bottom line, the takehome salary, will meet the financial goals I believe I need to reach. On those days, the financially motivated days, I spend far more time fretting and surfing job sites than working toward my writing goals.
I think that I am as afraid of success as I am of failure. There are really many more reasons for my fear than a couple of voices in my head. Like everyone else, I am me because of dozens of experiences over a lifetime. I am afraid because I sometimes don't like being out in the open, being seen and noticed. Which makes if difficult to be successful, doesn't it?
As always, writing helps. It is at the heart of the matter. I am and have wanted most of my life to be a WRITER. Writers write. Writing helps. By writing, I am fulfilling goals. Which is a very large chunk of my reasoning behind starting a blog. I don't really expect anyone to read this, but I'm not posting anything here that I wouldn't willingly talk to someone about in person or on the phone. No big secrets, just working through life by writing.
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