…going to get this life under complete control. That’s what I tell myself between Christmas and January, the only time I ever think about making a standard work list that includes a time slot specifically devoted to chopping vegetables and organizing the fridge.
Here’s how resolution delusion plays out: Starting January 2nd, I’m going to find myself suddenly shirking cake balls and Boursin cheese—and, desperate for snap peas, I’ll handily pluck some out of the sanitized cold box that has a method inside there. All because I resolved. I’ll be popping radishes and snacking on seaweed.
The way things work now is I go to the store after the obligatory quota of there’s-no-food-in-the-house! rants. My sons fry pepperoni, use up all the eggs, and when they’re really desperate they open the freezer and cook something. I know it’s almost time to go shopping when that happens. The actual time is the moment we run out of heavy cream or coffee.
2018. I honestly don’t even know how to frame it. I’ve been a student of calamity (I’ll thank you, March, for my brain tumor) and valedictorian of the Rocky Balboa School of Right Hooks (I’ll thank you for the querying process on my debut novel).
But heck, let’s remember the high points. I just went through my most recent notebook, in which I wrote goals and thoughts. In 2017 I had a story rejected by a local literary journal. That same (revised) story was published in a sci-fi anthology. And the local journal nominated a different piece for Best Small Fictions 2019. Progress! Two years ago a paying lit journal rejected one of my stories, and in 2018 accepted one. My work is presently knocking at the doors of two crazy-selective lit mags. This means I’m more likely to get rejected. Each time I get rejected, I re-examine the piece, edit if necessary (it always is), and send it out again. That’s the Rocky Balboa School of Right Hooks. You keep getting up. Keep submitting.
In November, I wrote a 50 paragraph “short” story for Owl Canyon’s Hackathon. They gave paragraphs 1 and 25 and asked writers to supply the rest (and match the tone of course). I thought it would be a fun, like a puzzle. Walt Whitman didn’t break that much of a sweat penning “Leaves of Grass.” As the hours in-craft stretched into double digits, I consoled myself I could win the prize because no one else was crazy enough to attempt such literary alchemy. Last year they had north of 900 entries—just found that out as I wrote this. Excuse me while I claw out my eyeballs.
Hope’s a funny thing. It’s not rational. But neither is thinking I’m going to get a handle on my veggies in 2019. Still, I’m resolving. You probably are too. Here’s to some of them sticking in 2019 and one piece of advice. Make resolutions you can control. Example: I will get either 100 rejections or an agent in 2019 vs. I will get an agent in 2019. I cannot control whether or not an agent signs me, but I can decide on how many attempts I’ll make. Likewise, I can’t control how organized the fridge is (I have teenage sons, after all), but I can decide to roll up my sleeves every six months or so and get in there and organize. Happy New Year!
Sometimes I slug the coffee down. Sometimes I sip. Depends on what I’m trying to achieve.
What’s on my mind as I wrap my hands around a steaming mug of superhero? Lions and gazelles. I’ve got Africa fever lately. My sister lives there. My husband’s going there. I just put an Africa-shaped blood stain in one of my stories.
Lions and gazelles. They see each other and a chase begins. Both run as fast as they possibly can. They’re pushing their limits, and the stakes couldn’t be higher. One has to eat to survive. One has to survive, to survive. They have so much in common, the lion and the gazelle.
You’re wondering why I’m going all philosophical on you? I’ve no idea.
So which are you, a lion or a gazelle?* (Truthfully, there’s a third option, hyena. Hope you’re not one of those.)
Like so many people, I made some poor choices in my formative years. Doesn’t that sound benign? Poor choices, formative years. You can tell how old a person is by whom they blame for their imperfections. Under twenty, parents. Twenties and thirties, spouse. Forties, fifties, and beyond, the actual culprit.
For the longest time, I saw myself as a gazelle running to escape my failures. I was running from who-knows-what to who-knows-where, and it was exhausting. The shine of my accolades wore off too soon. My failures loomed like the HOLLYWOOD sign over the valley of my life.
When I mutated from a gazelle to a lion, I don’t know. But I did. Thank God, I did.
You know you’re a lion when the taste of gazelle is enough to get you to sprint. Any time, any day. The only reason the gazelle runs is because she’s being chased. The lion runs because she’s hungry. If you know me at all, you know what drives me, what my personal gazelle looks like.
The gazelle is running away from something and the lion is running toward something.
People who are running toward something can actually get there. People who are running away from something only live to see another anxious day. Thoreau said, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation. They die with their song still inside them.”
Sing before you die, Kelly. Or roar. I seriously tell myself these things.
Not that it’s easy street for Lions. 1 in 8 survive to adulthood. I wish the survival odds were that good for writers who want to publish.
The coffee is gone. It’s a chugging sort of day. Till next week, friends. 🙂
2017. Crushed it. Really and truly. Those of you who know me know I beat myself up at regular intervals. I raise self-flagellation to an art form. My friends tell me I’m too hard on myself. If there is no enemy within, the enemy outside can do me no harm. I like to think I have an Anne Lamott aren’t-I-funny? aren’t-I-endearing? eggshell personality. Or that it comes as a side-effect of being rejected on a regular basis. All this to say, I’m not accustomed to patting myself on the back. But for 2017, I’m making an exception.
With 2017 I am thrilled, even with the number of rejections. Because rejections mean I’ve been trying. Rejections mean I’ve been hit and I’m still in the ring. In fact, I stayed in the ring and completed my first novel.
RESOLUTE was my word for 2017, and I’m proud to say it matched my year.
There is so much more to writing than just writing well. Does that seem obvious? Or confusing. I thought if I just wrote well, I’d be well read. If you build it, they will come. But noooooo. They don’t come. They don’t. You have to build it, repair it, arrange it, repair it, raze it, re-build it. Then, you may commence begging…begging for them to come. I BUILT IT, PEOPLE! You say. (then you hear the echo) You get the bullhorn out and street-preach at them.
If you build it, they will not come. You must go gather them. In 2017 I committed to spending time each day reading and commenting on fellow bloggers. The more I read, the more inspired I became. What started out as a commitment to encourage others, ended up encouraging and growing me. And along the way I’ve met some cool writer-friends.
I’m not a planner-blogger. I post whatever is in my mind. If the mind is full of cobwebs, I don’t want to give you cobwebs. I just wait. This explains my large chunks of blog silence. A commitment to a regular posting schedule is one of those things that sounds good on a list of resolutions, but is not realistic for me. My goals for 2018 are to get Trespass represented, publish more shorts and flashes, and have less cobwebs.
My 2017 writing accomplishments.
Finished my novel, Trespass. It’s out to beta readers now, and I hope to send it to agents in 2018.
Four works accepted for publication.
Several flash/shorts out to literary journals, awaiting news.
Wrote/edited almost every day.
Took part in writing contests whenever I needed a break from my novel.
My whole family had a sort of Rocky Balboa year. Perhaps this stuff is contagious. I credit my husband with getting the ball rolling. Each of my children worked hard, challenged themselves, and took giant strides out of their comfort zones—whether it was a work promotion, a new sport, or an ambitious school schedule.
This is how my kids inspire me: I’ll be jogging, feeling like someone scooped out the flesh of my quads and put led in there…wanting very badly to walk. Or fall over. Then I think of one of my kids and how they don’t stop when it gets hard…and I don’t stop either. I can’t give less than I ask of them. Competition at its finest. And the more I overcome in one area, it spills over onto others. I expect 2018 will have its challenges and blows. If it please God, I plan to stay in the ring.
I’m in the valley every writer goes through. I keep showing up day after day intending to make something amazing. If I were an artist, I’d be making stick people. If I were making dinner, it would be haggis. If I were conjuring up an animal, it would be a platypus. Sure, I just got petted last Friday. Won a contest. Got to judge. But without a steady stream of word-gold, I become convinced the well is dry. I’ll ever write anything good ever again.
I worry the story I’ve been working on, bleeding onto the page for eternity squared, is a total waste of time. I worry I’m selfish. I AM selfish. I ask myself, what have you done for others? Surely not this writing gig. So I try to list out the selfless …act I’ve committed recently. It’s a short list.
So I’m writing and writing and every so often is the thought: Why don’t you do something eternal like laundry or weeding or deep cleaning? The grime is holding my home together, I tell myself. The weeds have feelings too. Things get dirty again. I wax certain I’m an undiscovered C.S. Lewis (the moment I won a little contest) and certain I’m a grub (most other times, beginning a few minutes after I won the contest).
To really keep things interesting, I sabotage myself by revealing my political leanings to people who would’ve liked me well enough had I just kept my mouth shut. If I had multiple personalities, they’d be Ann Coulter, Ann Lamott, and little orphan Annie. I’m the most liberal conservative in our family, the most confident insecure person I know. The nicest mean person you’ll ever meet. I don’t know why I feel the need to cough up my worldview every now and again. I hope it’s an involuntary trait of a writer. Like how the kidneys clean out your blood without you telling them to. My soul churns this stuff out against the advice of a meek little voice: are you sure you want to post that? I plunge ahead.
Today I read a lovely, worthwhile blogger writing from the mountaintop I can see from my valley, where he talks about writing “whatever the hell he wanted” for five years and he has no regrets and over a hundred thousand followers. He “likes” many posts, including mine. I emailed him to ask, does he really read the posts he likes? Because if so, does he sleep? Is he human? He has not answered my email. Oddly enough, I also have been blogging for five years.
This is what I say when I’m a grub: He didn’t even read your post. Some days a rational being who’s just finished running a few miles and done vitality yoga– that person will tell me I’ve got something important to say, that to give up is the only failure. And, some really weird people like haggis. Days like today must be climbed over or crawled under or blasted through. On the horizon are days where I’ll come away thinking I’ve made something worthy– and had a great time doing it.
Non-fiction Hardcover, 309 pages
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
I grabbed this off the classics section of my library on a whim. I’m not sure how it got shelved in the classics section, except to think that some brilliant educator realized Outliers should be required reading for anyone with a pulse.
Exaggeration? I’m known for it. But not this time.
The sort of books I take on vacation are strictly page-turners. I don’t want to feel like I’m working while I’m reading. I do enough of that at home.
Some people take worky books on vacation as a sort of counterbalance, like the man in the hot tub next to me reading The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. You could jack your car on The Fountainhead. Some people just can’t relax… but we had a nice discussion until the chlorine and heat had melted away several layers of my skin. Over the course of the week, I saw him in the same hot tub, and noted his steady progression through the literary behemoth.
Even on cruises, gossip abounds. Apparently, the Ayn Rand reader garnered a reputation. As in, people avoided his tub for fear he’d opine in their personal space for inordinate amounts of time, apparently bad taste on vacation. I thought he was nice enough.
Tangent, but ever-so-timely: sharing an opinion is dangerous business. At best, people will avoid you. Unconvinced? Wear a Make America Great Again hat through the streets of San Fransisco, I dare you. Dress in a rainbow-colored toga and stroll through any rural Texas town. Let me know if you don’t find yourself staring down the business end of a homemade AR-15. We’ve devolved. The idea of mutual respect in the face of differing opinions is not the status quo. How did this happen? Trump. He did it. Just ask anyone.
Alas, Outliers doesn’t solve the world’s problems, but it is a book anyone, of any political/religious/socioeconomic status could read, enjoy, and be better for the time spent.
The moment I began to read, the premise– what makes us successful, the supporting evidence, and the artful storytelling all conspired to suck me in. “Listen to this…” I’d say to my husband, and I’d quote whole swaths of text as we lounged by the pool. So intriguing were the connections Gladwell made, so sensible yet revelational. Smack your hand on your forehead revelational. Did I mention this was non-fiction? I did, but it bears repeating. A page-turner non-fiction book. Holy cow.
This is my first review ever, and I’m realizing I’ll probably only “review” books I want everyone on planet earth to read. I’m like a cheerleader for team Outliers, and I’m not even giving you substance. I’m like Donald Trump. It’s gonna be great. Believe me. Really great. Huge.
But really– have you ever wondered what’s the difference between greatness and garbage? All things being equal, that is.
Take J. Robert Oppenheimer and The Radioactive Boy Scout. Both built dangerous nuclear devices. The boy scout at age 14 and Oppenheimer at age 38. One was arrested and the other commended by the governing bodies of their day. The Radioactive Boy Scout does not appear in Outliers (but it’s another must-read for scientifically minded young people or anyone interested in the lengths to which inspiration can take us); however, Outliers would show, systematically yet with flair, the reasons why one genius is stymied and another exalted. We don’t build our own stairways to heaven. Our thighs burn on the way up, but we climb stairs provided to us by a Las Vegas blend of social and cultural constructs. Personal grit, while important, is one of several factors to success.
I’ve decided, now that I have three years swim-parent experience, swimming is a sport about the following: 1. conquering your fears, 2. conquering your flesh, 3. extreme repetition, and 4. pressure. As a child, the extent of my swimming was the drowning preventative offered by the local pool. I had no idea there was a whole world of splashing and angst and sweaty bleachers where parents wring their hands and tap their feet like speed-jacked jazz musicians.
Setting: the sweaty bleachers. I mention this is Gabe’s third year swimming. “And he’s here?” says a mom. I didn’t tell her he was here last year too. Mom-pride, rein it in.
Getting to the Great Lakes YMCA Zones swim championship was an achievement Gabe coveted in his first year swimming. Like I said. We were new. Zones was the pinnacle, so when the kids were told to make goals, a Griffiths makes them lofty. (Gabe’s dad ran the Boston Marathon just 5 years after his first 5K.)
I watched the coach’s face as she read Gabe’s goal, saw her body language. It laughed to the other coach standing nearby. It said, let’s be reasonable. Gabe didn’t make it to zones his first year swimming, but he did make it his second year. Gabe’s second year he was under a new coach, pictured above. If there is even a speck of work ethic in a swimmer, Mike draws it out. For Christmas Mike has the kids swim 10,000 yards (5+ miles). I’m convinced Gabe would swim the English Channel if Coach Mike told him he could do it.
Swimming is set up so that no matter how fast you are, there’s always someone breathing down your neck. Or more aptly, swiping at your toes. The races, called heats, pit like swimmers against like, and you’re ever-reaching for a better time, a personal best. There are harder and harder cuts to make, exclusive meets for which to qualify. This past weekend we swam the zones meet at Bowling Green State University. The hotel stay meant “team building,” aka romping the halls like a gang of street thugs. Who wouldn’t get heady on a cocktail of zones-glory, camaraderie, relief (the season’s almost over), and independence (parents? what parents?). “It was the best time I’ve ever had,” said Gabe. You’ve heard the expression over the moon? He was, we all were.
Mom-delight, I won’t even bother to rein it in. 🙂
In this book David and Goliath, Malcom Gladwell writes about a dynamic I find true in swimming and in life: courage is acquired. “Courage is what you earn when you’ve been through the tough times and you discover they aren’t so tough after all.” This dynamic explains how Blitz-era Londoners handled life so casually. It explains Stonewall Jackson’s near mythical moment when he sat upon his horse while bullets whizzed by him, earning him the name. In both cases the courageous ones had been through brutal experiences and had come out the other side, stronger.
Desirable difficulty is the phrase, and it quantifies the boon that is swimming, and perhaps all athletics, to young people.
Desirable difficulty is this: People who’ve been through hell, find the temperature wasn’t as bad as they’d imagined it would be. In other words, the fear of the future is actually worse than the future itself. Gladwell states, “We are all of us not merely liable to fear, we are also prone to being afraid of being afraid, and the conquering of fear produces exhilaration…”
Exhilaration. Well, if that doesn’t define Gabe and the other zones swimmers…
Throughout the season swimming places fearful moments squarely in front of a kid and then the kid must watch the horizon event come closer, closer. He’ll feel the curl of fear in his stomach, perhaps puke it up when he enters the pool. The swimmer must face the fear and step onto the block of his own volition.
Over and over again.
For the 1650 race (that’s a mile, friends), I had the honor of timing. The 11-year-olds who were about to jump in that pool– they were facing fear square on. But I was also there when they touched the wall after the 66th lap, exultant. They swam through the fear and came out the other side. Gladwell seems to describe swimmers when he’s describing surviving Londoners: “…the contrast between the previous apprehension [of swimming the mile] and the present relief [of surviving it] …promotes a self-confidence that is the very father and mother of courage.”
The father and mother of courage: whatever we face that scares us. Makes me want to jump up off my couch and run bull-style into a public speaking engagement… or onto a dance floor. Makes me want to recruit kids by the hundreds into a sport or challenging activity.
…makes me want to smile at the weekend we just finished, to thank Coach Mike and all the RYD coaches for the work ethic they promote, and the swim parents who work tirelessly to provide the celebrations of a year well-spent.
A rust-ravaged truck would take us to the base of Mt. Liamuiga. After the 45 minute drive through St. Kitts, our 2+ hour ascension hike would begin. Behind me lay the Adventure of the Seas with its hushed hot tub waters and attendant waiters, plush deck chairs, everlasting soft-serve ice cream cones…
What had I done?
Across from us sat a young, solid-looking couple. How can you tell a woman knows exactly what she’s doing in the wild bush? By the handkerchief expertly tied around her tightly braided hair of course. Best I could do was a half braid and a camouflage ball cap. Pieces of my unruly hair already stuck out like wild feathers. This couple read the reviews too; they’d run half-marathons, Tough Mudders, trail races, etc. I sensed oncoming disgrace.
Then another couple climbed in the truck. Surely they hadn’t read the reviews. Both were older, somewhat heavy, and the woman– her overlong, manicured nails would never survive the crags and crevices we’d have to grasp in order to heft ourselves to the top of the 3,792 foot volcano. I simply could not imagine her completing. Thank God, I thought. I won’t be last.
How does one have such ruthless, Darwinian thoughts on a cruise vacation?
Part of the fun of cruises is choosing your excursions. Amongst the taxi tours and beach visits, the volcano hike stood out as something different. We are lovers of different. The hike was labeled extremely strenuous, but on a cruise “strenuous” is taking the stairs rather than the elevator. So how bad could it be, this extremely?
Trip Advisor used phrases like “way harder than described,” “you are looking at the ground most of the time so you don’t die,” and “of the 60 [hikers] only 15 made it to the top.”
Or this, my favorite:
This is the hardest thing that I have ever done and I have biked a century, hiked mountains in Italy, Wyoming, and Montana. The best way to describe this is extreme hiking. Imagine doing Stair Treadmill for 2 hours and you are ready. Don’t take this for the scenic photo ops, no this is for people who love extreme challenges. I took this tour from Celebrity cruise and they described it as extremely strenuous. That does not really describe it because you get the impression that this is just really tough exercise like running on a treadmill. No!! The elliptical machines don’t prepare you for this… – Krsna T January 5, 2017
I’m a review-reader because I believe in being prepared, whether I’m buying a product or putting my life in the hands of a St. Kittsian Bushman to guide me up a volcano. I like knowing what’s coming. In this case knowing what was coming struck fear into me that I wouldn’t be able to finish, that I’d fall and break a leg (that was in one of the reviews), that I’d have a heart attack or (more likely) a panic attack and stop up the whole group, that I’d have to hold my pee for inordinate amounts of time (also in the reviews).
These fears plagued me especially because of a previous, extremely-strenuous hike I took in West Virginia. My hiking company: Bob, a marathoner, Luke, a soccer player, and Gabe, a swimmer. The three of them bounded up the mountains like billy goats on amphetamines while I straggled behind, heaving and gasping and feeling like a zombie.
Though I run five miles regularly, a set of stairs winds me. A part of me thought maybe it was foolishness, this volcano. The opposite pull was the idea of letting Bob down, of looking a challenge in the eye and letting it beat me. Let me be clear: Bob puts zero pressure on me. Bob wants only my happiness but he’s often stuck because I’m happiest when I don’t feel like a wimp. What to do? I decided to train for my cruise vacation.
Before, I worked out with less-than-average intensity. With the hike looming, I became a fitness honor student. I Googled How to train to climb a mountain. I ran faster and harder and longer. I found HIIT routines and used weights. I even surprised myself by losing weight. “Good,” said Bob, “It’ll be less for you to pull up the volcano.” He was right. Much of the volcano is pulling your body weight up the rocky and root-infested face.
Excursion day. At first, Bob and I were in the slow group. When our guide called experienced hikers to the front of the pack, I could not in good conscience go. We were put in the second group, which was also the last group. At the first rest stop I had to use the “bush room.” This put us as the last two hikers of the entire group. I noticed the guide breathing as heavily as I, and it comforted me.
At the next rest, the lead guide said we were short on time, that we’d have to split up and he needed two climbers for the fast group. I raised my hand. Bob looked at me, wondering if I’d lost my mind. We were sized up and chosen to go with the experienced climbers. Was I afraid? Yes. But I was more afraid of missing the summit.
As the trail morphed into walls of rock and roots, I felt rather billy-goatish myself, though I breathed louder than a dragon. My walking stick became my best friend, grinding blisters into my palms but relieving some of the pressure off my legs. I focused on my next step and my next, and… bam! Rest stop. Bob and I, by placement of where we sat as we began the next leg, were in the front of the experienced climbers, right behind the guide. Now I really felt compelled to push. I didn’t want to hold up people behind me.
Can I tell you what a delight it is to do hard things I can do? Just like little Anna said that day at Whipp’s Ledges, when her mom offered a hand over the slippery rocks and Anna declined because she wanted the full glory of her accomplishment. I love vacation. I love rest. But unearned rest is sloth. I speak from both sides of this issue. I remember complaining to Bob about how awful running felt, the whole time.
“Try running harder for sections,” he advised.
“That’ll just make it even more awful.”
“No, that’ll make the other times feel easy. If you don’t ever push yourself, the whole run feels hard. Push yourself and you’ll get the reward of an ‘easy’ stretch.”
But I didn’t want to hurt. Hurting stinks, so I kept plodding along at the same slow pace for my runs– until Mt. Liamuiga gave me a reason to push myself. What I gave in extra effort, I got back in ease later. And the whole process was more fun. Yikes.
Truth: the hike down was harder for me than the hike up. I’d expended all my energy fighting gravity for 2+ hours, when it came time to pick my way over the slick roots and rocks, my legs were jelly. No one talked on the way down. Not only were many exhausted like me, but total focus was required “so you don’t die.” At the bottom of the trail we were cheered by the folks who’d turned back at some point. (That’s what all the extra guides were for.) Also waiting was a spam sandwich on white bread with iceberg lettuce. Bob had one.
The rest of the cruise was as you’d imagine… take one before you die. C.S. Lewis said it best: A pleasure is full grown only when it is remembered. …it [the experience] was nothing. Now it is growing into something as we remember it, what will it be when I remember it as I lie down to die, what it makes in me all my days till then – that is the real [experience]. -excerpt from Out of the Silent Planet, the book I’m working through with my 5000 Words class.