The Day I Stopped Being Afraid of Victoria's Secret Employees

In case you've forgotten,
this is what I typically wear

On Thursday, July 25, I traveled to Portland to go to the DMV for the third time that week. It turns out, to be a journalist, it sometimes requires driving. As such, I need a working car, and a driver's licence. Only, mine had been expired since my birthday...in April.

The first time I'd gone, I'd needed a birth certificate. (Hard to do because my mother is unreliable, etc.) So I got my birth certificate, and went back a few days later with a co worker. This time, because I don't have a lease, and haven't registered my car to the town I'm living in, and all my mail goes to my PO Box, I don't exist as a person....so I was rejected again and handed affidavits for people to fill out stating that I do, in fact, live in Maine.

Finally, at my third time at the DMV, I got my picture taken, proved my vision is worthless without my glasses or contacts, and boom! I now have a temporary licence while I wait for mine to come in the mail. (For those keeping count, I've now had licences in Michigan, Massachusetts, and now, Maine!) In celebration of FINALLY being a real person again, I went to the mall to buy a new bra.

I have this thing with Victoria's Secret. I love their bras and undies, however, I'm always SUPER awkward about going into their store. As always, I stood outside for an extra second, took a deep breath, convinced myself I'm an adult, and walked through into the land of pink.

Somehow, though I'd been waiting for it all year, I'd managed to miss the semi annual sale. There was still a small bin of bras left, so I looked at them and went to the fitting room. (Ladies, if you've never tried on anything at Victoria's Secret, you need to. I am not kidding. Their mirrors just make you want to take off your clothes.) So I took off the dress I was wearing and tried on the bras that were the same size as the one I had on...only...something didn't feel right.

In the fitting rooms, they have service buttons, and the woman who'd opened the door for me told me to push it if I needed "sized". Well, it turns out I did. After about a minute of debating with myself (I didn't have any pants on, I'd only worn a dress in...etc) I pushed the little button, panicked because I was literally standing there in a bra and underwear, and then she came in and agreed, I was totally wearing the incorrect size. Not only the band size, but cup as well. I had to go down two band sizes and up a cup.

From that moment on, she came to my fitting room several times with different bras to try on, a tape measure, etc. She didn't look at my body like I was disgusting. She didn't shame me or make me feel like an idiot for being uncomfortable in my own skin, or not truly understanding how to pick out a proper bra even though I'm 25 years old. She was professional and incredibly helpful. She even went so far as to find me which bras I wanted to buy.

And on that day, I bought two new bras :)

I understand that for many women, this sort of thing is easy, but for me, it wasn't. I'm not used to wearing girl clothes. I'm not used to talking about boobs, or bra sizes, or allowing strangers to see me mostly naked. But the woman who helped me never once made me feel like an idiot, or some sub par female for needing/asking for help.

I'm not going to lie, it felt pretty empowering to finally get a bra that hugs me rather than hides me.

X is for Xenophobia

He's so cute sometimes 

For those of you who don't know, Xenophobia is the fear of strangers/strange places.

We all heard about that time my sisters were late to my graduation, walked into my house, and Baxter hid and peed himself, right? Well, it turns out, he hasn't changed all that much since then.

Sometimes, if it's not ungodly hot (or too cold) outside, I'll put Bax in my car (because he loves it) and go to work. (Don't worry, he also has his food and water bowls in the car, too.) I'll come out during my lunch break where we'll sit in the sun, and enjoy the day.

One day, my manager got my attention. "Hey, Lynne. I'm going on a smoke break, want me to let Bax out?"

Bax had met her countless times. She'd pet him, he'd lean into her, it was puppy love. "Yea, that'd be great."

About ten or so minutes later, she walked in. "Um, dude. He pushed himself against the far side of your car and wouldn't come out. I think I scared him. Go let him out."

He's all "I will growl quietly
while you walk past"

It took a minute, but it dawned on me that this is kind of Baxter's trademark. He's scared of the world unless I'm there to tell him it's okay.

When we first arrived in NC together we went to Jockey's Ridge State Park. We walked on the board walk out to the sand dunes. There were people everywhere asking to pet him. He would shove himself against me, and look at me like the approaching people were a big body of water. "It's okay," I'd tell him. Then he would slowly leave me and walk toward them.

He's gotten better the longer I've had him. If we're out and about, he'll go up to strangers and be all, "Hi, love me! LOVE ME!" But if I'm not around, typically he'll still hide like he's afraid the stranger will take him and he'll never see me again.

The Fear of What If?

I just love books so much

I read a lot of books. It kind of comes with the writing territory. Some books are amazing (like If I Stay, Looking for Alaska, etc), and some are just okay.

But when I finish one of those great books; the ones where the characters haunt me, or the plot annoys me, or I wish I were friends with their friends, I struggle with The Fear of What If.

What if I can't ever write something this good? What if my story doesn't flow as well, if the characters never fully come to life, or if my ending doesn't conclude the way it should? What if...

my writing sucks?

Sometimes I recover quickly from these episodes. Sometimes, I hide my pen and computer for a few days saying, "Well, you should just quit while you're ahead and continue with your dead end job."

I may have a small book addiction...

But some days, I look at the books in my room. I sit among great authors like Alice Hoffman, and Kerry Cohen, and Jodi Picoult. I sit among the books I've loved, and thrown, and not cared about. Their presence brings me a sense of hope. When in doubt, I read an acknowledgement page. When I'm really, really, in doubt, ready to curl in the fetal position and cry, I look at the pictures of authors I've met.

They were like me once. They had blogs. They have tweets. They had hopes, and dreams, and they kept going. They already wrote their books. The great books that I'm jealous of are already out there. I need to write my book, with my words.

So, I open up my computer and stare at the cursor as it blinks back at me.

It's all part of the writing game. (You should keep going, too.)

"You're Going To Get Murdered"

Sad isn't it?
But, at least I'm saving $40/month

As my previous blog suggests, before I went off adventuring, I told everyone I was going to Boston via a train, and that I'd be there from THIS time to THIS time, and I'd be on time for work Thursday. Their response? "You're going to get murdered. We need to find someone to cover your shift."

The morning of, I found my comfy yet sensible shoes, and drove to close up my storage unit (sad, I've had it for two years), and then waited at the train station where I realized, I really suck at public transportation and I forgot to pack myself snacks.

I was tired when I got on the train. I needed to pee. But I sat next to a kind stranger who was in law school (I told her about my author-ness, and my public speaking-ness, in case some day I need a lawyer), and she offered to escort me to my mysterious twitter friend. I told her I'd be fine, and tried to stay awake. When I got to the point of wanting to gnaw my arm off, I ate some cough drops to tide me over until I could get food.

Soon, we arrived in Boston. I said goodbye to the kind stranger, and ventured off, potentially ready to get murdered, potentially ready for a fun day. Either way, I was holding my breath and trying to keep an open mind because I had no idea what I was in store for.

I looked through the crowd before I figured out that I really only knew what her hair looked like, not her face. (In her profile picture, she's looking to the side.)

Liz (left) me (right) standing
on the Holocaust Memorial

Then some sketchy woman kept walking beside me. But when I looked again, she had blond hair, like in a profile picture, so finally, I said, "Are you Liz?" And she said, "Yes," and is no longer sketchy. I actually hugged her in a greeting (and you all know how I feel about hugs, don't you?)  From there, we went to Dunkin Dounuts and I was given an egg and sausage sandwich and an peppermint iced latte, which was mostly delicious. And then the fun began!

The nice thing about meeting someone who is as indecisive as you is that your adventure turns into a "Hey, this looks cool, let's go here!" adventure. We saw the Holocaust Memorial (heartbreaking, truly. If you haven't seen this, you ought to) and a woman who was preserving the engraved stones. We saw street performers spin on their heads and do a flip over about four people. We walked through a large mall (just to keep warm!) and tried to stop in the Boston Library (except they closed early because the following day was Thanksgiving). After that, we walked past a Barnes and Noble, so of course we went in (and she bought a book, while I gushed about authors I've met in real life, and the ones I follow on Twitter, and how some day, we'll be able to see my book there). Then we had some time to kill and sat at a Starbucks while I trusted strangers to keep an eye on my $800 cell phone (which I did NOT pay $800 for, but only a penny). And then...

We went to the Mother Church.

Not sure if I was allowed to take a picture, but I sure did

We were only able to stay for a little while, but it was fun. Definitely different than the Catholic church I was brought up in, but it was a nice reminder that I need to freshen up on religions I'm not a part of. After that, we took a bus to a restaurant where I met her friends (and they weren't murderers either!) and we had a wonderful meal.

By the time we finished eating (and I talked A LOT), we had to pretty much run to the store (Baxter needed food...we'd run out that morning) and then literally ran to the train where I sat beside a lovely handsome boy who is about to become a certified teacher (so of course I told him I write, and I do presentations). We watched Casino Royal and used my ear buds and apologized about ear wax. It really was a lovely day, with a lovely end.

The moral of this adventure is sometimes, it can be dangerous to meet strangers from the internet. But sometimes, it can be an epic day of adventure. If you do decide to go out, please, please, please be safe!

My new friend, Liz, and myself :)

Spooktoberfest

And we have arrived at the Spooktoberfest blog hop. Five manditory words:

Jack-o-lanter

Ghost

Razor

Cauldron

Cobweb

One spooky less than 300 word flash fiction piece. 

So, here is mine:

The cobwebs hang from the bookcase like a sweater begging to be tried on. If they were fake, they’d be charming. Instead, their ghost-like wisps send shivers. I know this place is haunted. The jack-o-lanterns we’d carved when I was seven are still here, preserved like we’d done them yesterday, rather than years ago.

Taking a deep breath, I wander the house I’d lived in.

“We have to cook the seeds first! Otherwise the witches will come and put you in their cauldron and cook you for dinner!” My mother scolded.

“How would they find me?” I challenged, chomping away at the uncooked pumpkin seeds.

“The seeds give signals…”

I shake my head and push the image away. It wasn’t the witches that found us. It was my father.

Outside, a twig snaps. My bones freeze. I can’t breathe.

I beg the ghosts, “Please make me invisible, protect me.”

A breeze floats through the curtains, and the door bursts open. He’s here, wild, drunk.

I’m frozen, a statue to be shattered. There’s nowhere to hide.

His line of vision meets my eyes, but it’s like he’s looking through me. He stumbles through what used to be the living room, and I back myself against the counter, hands frantically pawing for anything to use. A cool razor blade, the kind you’d use to cut open a taped box with, finds its way into my hands. I step forward, toward the monster rather than freedom.

As I raise my hand to strike, the man trips, and falls. A small trickle of blood escapes his mouth. Please let him have hit his head hard enough to have brain damage, I pray again.

Beside his crumpled body, I drop my weapon and venture into the night.

Who says miracles don’t happen on Halloween?

The New Place

There's no trace of me...

The thing that people don't tell you about your early 20s is that you become an expert at being a ghost. You move into an apartment or dorm, put down a security deposit, and then a few months later, you remove every trace of you. Hair is taken out of the bathtub, that spot on the floor is buffered out, the piles of clothes get packed away in your car. Everything you brought in here, is taken out.

By the time you take the pictures of where you'd just inhabited (just in case your sketchy landlord tries to take you to court), your essence has already been Cloroxed out. You no longer exist here. But if walls have memories, your ghost will haunt this dwelling place. I hope my ghost haunts the places I've been, because for a time I've fallen in love with each place I inhabited.

I've mentioned I'm messy, right?
This is my 'living room'

I told you guys awhile back that I moved away from the crazy neighbors, but I haven't showed you the new place, or told you much about it.

Probably because I'm still going through an adjustment period. Probably, also, because I no longer have wifi at this new place so I sit in the Young Adult section of the local library, hoping that the voices of the kick-ass authors around me will help muse me. (So far it's been working, I think.) This means the blogs you read are usually posted a week in advance now (trying to utilize my time, you know).

Well, Baxter and I live in Poland, Maine now. We live with an older woman, her son, his wife/finance/girlfriend (I'm not sure which so fill in your own blanks), and their son. (That's right, three generations in one house, and me and Baxter.)

Because I'm neurotic and freaked out when they started eating my food, they gave me a mini-fridge to put downstairs (it's the black box on the floor in the picture below). I'm now like a vampire; dwelling in the basement, getting no sunlight. I'm awake at night, mornings are still awful, and I'm still a horrible roommate. To be proactive, I'm trying to keep my head low and just hang out downstairs or go running. If I'm not around you can't fight with me, right?

Look, over there on the left. There's a bed.
Not an air mattress! 

The drive is significantly less to work, so that's nice. They also let Baxter out to pee while I work long shifts, so that's a huge help, too. But my anxiety level has increased substantially. It turns out, I don't like to talk as much as I think I do. Sure, I've been calling my sister for hours every day to chat but it's not talking. I don't like the superficial, "How's your day? How was work/school/etc?" I don't like answering the same thing countless times, "Oh, you know, I hate my job."

It taxes my energy level, and I retreat to the basement to be antisocial. Tell me about important things; politics, the fact the Shell broke the ice in the Arctic and is now helping destroy the world, religion, changing the world...Don't ask me about my day, when it's the same as yesterday.

I know at some point I'll be moving again. I don't know where (especially since I didn't get into TFA), and I don't know when. But at some point, I would like to live on my own again. In the meantime, it's nice to know that while a million things keep changing...

...Some things stay the same

**Note**
If you're a Twitter follower, I said that I was blogging today about Harry Potter. Sadly, the library I'm at doesn't seem to have any of the books, and I like to have pictures on the blog, AND my sister had some issues with getting her picture to me. Stay tuned, the blog post will happen. Sorry if that's what you were expecting today.

The Kindness of Strangers

It's almost 10pm, and after a long day at work I'm finally driving home. It's pitch black outside, with the exception of my headlights cutting through the darkness. My gas light turned on about ten miles ago, and I have another ten to go til I reach the gas station. (And another 15 after that to get home.) I'm holding my breath, and sucking in my stomach in the hopes I can make my car forget its 120 pound passenger and will make it to refuel okay.

Well, we do.

I'm tired as I work unscrewing the gas cap, eyes shutting against the sudden burst of lights above me. All I want to do, is get home to my dog who's been home alone for 10 hours now. I want to curl up in a ball and sleep. I do the math in my head, and figure I should have about $10 left on my credit card (because I have $0 left in my bank account). I watch the numbers zoom by, and release the handle. $9.93, sufficient to get home and maybe to work tomorrow. From there, I don't know what I'll do, but I'll breathe for tonight.

I cap the can, dig my wallet out of my car, and enter the gas station to pay. When I had the cashier my card, he looks at me robotically and says, "Declined."

I stand there, heart sinking through the floor, breathing coming in quick gasps. Can they siphon out the gas if I can't pay for it? I shake my head. "Try running it again."

My sensor didn't look anything
like this, sadly :(

He does, same response. Now I can't breathe. The toll of work, the long drive, the lack of money hits me. What am I going to do? What am I going to do? I have to get home tonight, I have to get to work tomorrow. (Insert f-bombs now.)

"I don't know what you want me to do," I say, ice chunks breaking off inside me as I swallow the tears. There are about four people in line behind me, and I can't look at any of them. "I can leave you all of my contact information, I just checked my bank account today, it said I should have money. Literally, I drive by here every day on my drive to work, it's not like you won't see me again. I don't know what you want me to do." (Pretty sure I am shouting this.)

"You can leave something here, but if you're not back by the morning to pay, we'll call the cops," he says simply.

I go through the list of things in my car; my ID (nope, I get pulled over too much for that), my credit card (not sure they'll accept that as clearly there is no money, so technically, right now, it has no worth)...I have nothing. For a moment, I consider giving him my shoe, but it's my work shoe, and I need that, too.

I stand there shaking my head, struggling to breathe through the wisps of air I'm getting. My heart is a drum beat in my ear, louder than the stereo in my car. I storm out to my driver's seat, combating the tears that just want to burst out of my eyes, and pull out my phone. I call my credit card, and they tell me I have close to $15 pending, and an available balance of $3. It's better than nothing. I start digging through the bomb explosion of my car to find more change, because maybe, just maybe, I can find enough money (not likely).

There's a knock on my partially opened window. I look up, eyes red and swollen from the tears still trying to come out. There is a man (with glasses) I believe. Because I have automatic windows, I can't open the window any farther.

"I'm sorry it's mostly in change, but here is $10," he offers.

And a damn erupts inside me. Tears fall freely from my eyes. "I am so sorry," I say sobbing. "I thought I had more money than this, and I just...." I can't talk, the liquid strangles my words as the kind stranger puts his hands through the small crack and hands me gas money.

"Just get home safe, okay?"

I cry more before regaining composure and the ability to drive home.

This isn't the first time something like this has happened. There was another night a kind stranger put $5 in my tank. Two days ago, another stranger gave me $1 so I could buy the 3 liter of water (because I felt like I was dying). One of the women I follow on twitter has offered to send me money via pay pal because she knows I'm broke. I've never met her, but her kindness amazed me. There are a lot of horrible things going on in the world, but people like this give me hope. I can't wait until I have enough money to be the kind stranger to give handouts, but for right now, I'm the one with tear stains accepting them.

To those of you who are the kind strangers from time to time; thank you. With every bit of my being. (Baxter thanks you, too.)

Villains and Fear

Last week's YaLitChat revolved around horror, and the chat went from scary, to super scary. We talked about invasion of space (that feeling you get when you think someone has broken in to your place), what really scares us (monsters under the bed), etc. But the things that scare me the most are the things that happen in my head. That whole, "What is he/she willing to do next?" Conveniently, this saga unfolded shortly after this topic:

This is a mile walk from my apartment
I love this. Love it.

I've had my share of horrible living environments. I lived in a place in North Carolina that got infested with bedbugs because of a creepy man in his 50s. Before that I lived with a girl whose dog pooped and peed on the floor so Baxter got a rash, and I got sick for two months.

Then I moved to Maine, and I thought it'd be smooth sailing. My 60-70-80 year old roommate played guitar, talked a bit much when I was writing, but I thought you know, it'd be okay.

Then he and his elderly mother decided to start terrorizing me (yelling, moving/touching my stuff, throwing my food away, locking me out of my room, turning off the heat in the middle of winter, etc), so Baxter and I began staying in my friend's basement. Then, when I returned to the house to get my stuff, he exposed himself to me....and I called the cops. (The arresting officer is a somewhat regular where I work. He's said he thinks he has PTSD from the ordeal. You and me both, kid. You and me both.)

After staying almost two months in my friend's basement, when I found my apartment, I was so blissfully happy. So happy, so excited for the future. The only reservation I had about this place was the driving distance, but soon I rocked out to all sorts of CDs, and on days where I had to be up by 5am, so I could leave by 6am, and make it to work by 7am, I didn't shower (those are overrated, anyway).

The stuff under my name is his response

The neighbors seemed cool for the first couple of weeks. There was one I didn't like because she is living with her boyfriend, and yet spent 2-3 nights all over another guy (classy, huh?). Only one of those nights she was drunk, and so I was judging her pretty much the entire time she was stealing his hat.

Anyways, we'd sit on the porch, and chat, and try out for ninja warrior. I breathed easy for the first time since November. One of my neighbors invited me over for dinner a couple of nights, another let Baxter out while I was at work.

But, as is my luck with living situations, the crazy set it much too quick.

First, it started with the crazy neighbor next door and the wifi (yes, this was the one with the boyfriend). Then it exploded this last week when I went down to the laundry room to find my Tide laundry detergent in the trash (I'm broke, I had half a bottle left. When you get one day a week to do laundry, this is not what you want to find). So I did what any other passive aggressive person would do. I wrote a note:

It was nice to come down to do laundry today and see that someone has stolen all of my Tide. I had about 1/2 a bottle left.
Whoever you are, please replace. I was hiding it for a reason, and that s#$t is expensive. 
Thanks,
Lynn(e)

A bit later, I went to check my laundry, and my note was tapped to my door, with chicken scratch that read:

Next time leave your f@#$ing soap in the house Don't accuse any of us of stealing your s%^t and speaking of s&*t the next time I step in s&*t your gonna hafto buy an extra jug of soap to clean your car. And (neighbor's girl's name) is no longer at your dog watching disposal cos of your being a b@#$h. 


First of all, it was hard for me to take this seriously due to all the cursing, the misuse of your/you're, cos rather than cuz, or even because. (I judge people who misuse words.) At the bottom he wrote other threats, and crossed them off (that purple blue streak.)

Let me explain this a bit more. The neighbor who wrote this, yea, he's been in prison for murdering someone. Clearly I'm not comfortable with having me or my car threatened, and so I called the landlord to let him know. Landlord said he'd talk to the guy, and I figured that'd be it.

Instead, after a long day at work, I came home to find this:

Yep, that's poop.

So, we're adults, right? We're not sixteen years old. The dude is 32 years old, I can hear him screaming at his girlfriend nightly, she's come over after several of their fights, once when he allegedly threw her engagement ring in the bushes. (By the way, she's only 22.) You can look up my twitter feed because the walls are paper thin and I live tweeted them.

So I let Baxter out the poop night, and we get back inside, and I lock the door because that villainous fear crept in, What is he going to do next? Followers on twitter told me to call the cops, and my manager at work said the same thing. Because it wasn't an emergency, so much as annoying, I figured I'd wait until morning.

But instead of him being crazier, it was the wifi neighbor, who created an account that same night specifically to attack me. She tweeted at me about 9 times, all of which I didn't respond to, but continued to complain about the dog poop, the psycho neighbors, etc. Well, around 11:30pm, I heard her yell something and storm over and start pounding on the door. I told her point blank (through the open window), I'm not opening the door, to go home, or I'd call the cops. She told me to call the cops, so I did.

I'd finally started making this place my own!

Well, cop hottie (who is married but let me out of the fine when he pulled me over) showed up about an hour later. He told me this is ridiculous, and I couldn't agree more, but I was somewhat more comfortable because if something happens to me, to Baxter, or to my stuff, there is now a record of this craziness.

I texted a picture of the poop to the landlord saying that he needed to speak with his tenants because this is unacceptable, and by the time I got home from work the following day, the poop was removed from my door step.

None of the neighbors have had contact with me since, though an animal control officer (who walked over from next door), came over yesterday to ask if Baxter was registered because we'd been here for longer than 10 days (yea, bro. We've been here two months. Where were you then?), which leads me to suspect one of them is still trying to make trouble.

I'm very frazzled about all of this. My mangers at work are suggesting a new living arrangement but, I love this place. Not the neighbors, but my apartment. My place to live alone, my punching bag in my bedroom with my air mattress, a mile walk to a river and beautiful views.

But, if we move, it would be closer to work, and I could potentially go home during lunch to let Baxter out. If I could find a cheap place, maybe I could actually start saving up some money.

But if we move, I wouldn't be able to hop the border and head to New Hampshire and avoid sales tax. I'd give up the river, the drive where I get to collect my thoughts (though granted, sometimes the drive sucks). We'd have to give this up:

I'm not sure I'm ready to do that, but maybe giving all of this up is better than you know, coming home to a dead dog, huh?

Show and Tell II

A million years ago, I posted about Showing vs. Telling. Consider this segment two.

In early February, Callie Kingston made a call for beta readers, and like a hungry lion, I latched on. Thus far, it has been the best writing step I've taken (aside from, you know, getting a Twitter account). When she sent me her first two chapters of critiques on My Sister's Memories, I sat there cringing. You should back down now, she's tearing your crap apart. As I looked at my computer screen, I realized that I needed to step up my game; not only with writing, but also with editing.

This is my "Oh crap, she might know more than I do face"
Worst. Picture. Ever. I hope you got a good laugh :)

While I had those You don't know what you're talking about, don't reject my writing moments (in private! Never to her e-mail face!), I took time away, came back to them, and found that most of the time, what she said was sadly correct. This gave me a profound respect for her, because she wasn't afraid of telling me what sounded weak, and it was what I needed to hear, even if I needed a shot of whiskey afterward.

One of the things she told me was the use of words like, "I saw," "I felt," "I wondered". She taught me ways to manipulate my sentences from telling you that I just saw my dog run across the street, to having my dog just run across the street. (Can you see the difference?)

Let me break it down for you a little more.

If you're writing in first person, you ARE the character. Which means (from my understanding) any time you're saying "I think, I feel, I see," it causes detachment. Try this instead:

Find the points where you use those statements. Delete them. Look at the sentence you have left. Does it still make sense? Chances are, it probably will, and now you're much closer to showing me something, rather than telling me.

I went through My Sister's Memories today and used the FIND tool to search the word "feel". Each sentence I deleted that stupid word (well, most sentences, not all), and replaced it with something better. "I feel his hand brush against my cheek," became, "His hand brushed against my cheek." It's an easy fix and you'd be amazed by how much stronger the writing sounds because you're just allowing things to flow  naturally. You're allowing the reader to be right there, getting goosebumps as his lips graze the soft spot on her shoulder...rather that just telling them what she's feeling.

Just thought I'd pass along some kick ass advice. Hope this helps.

Don't Be Afraid

Being human...well...kind of sucks. And here's why:


We have all of these emotions, all the time. There's never a time when you're not feeling something. Even if you're feeling blah, you're still feeling. But the worst thing (to me) is being afraid. (Now...start singing some Eminem, no, really, sometimes it helps.)

My sister and I thugging out. (I'm on the left, funny, no?)

Anyways, I hate learning new things. More-so, I hate admitting that I don't already know how to do something. Part of it, I think, is ridicule, "You don't know this?" like everyone on the planet already has this knowledge that somehow managed to elude me, that maybe I should have been born with it. Some of it is shame, like I should in fact already know these things... Some of it is just my typical anxiety. 


But, something I've learned over the last few months is to ASK for help. 


Don't be afraid. 


I got a Twitter account and had no idea how to use it. I thought it was like facebook, where you could like stuff and write on people's walls (profiles). Turns out, I was wrong. In the end, I asked one of my fellow employees how to use it. She gave me advice on how to post and get more followers, how to start conversations, what tags meant, etc. 


Once I was on twitter and rocking it, the entire universe expanded (although I still don't know how to schedule tweets...I'm still trying to learn that one..). 


I learned from Marilyn Almadovar, who I met on twitter, how to more efficiently utilize blogger. Did you know that you can schedule blog posts for the next day? Or a week later? Neither did I, so I asked and she taught me how to do this. (You go to post options, there's a little section that says "Schedule at:" I may or may not have been doing this all week.) 


From Janna Cawrse Esarey, I learned how to perfect my pitch which ended up getting me two agent partial requests. She hosted a panel at PNWA and stayed after, critiquing writer's pitches. But, in order to get help, I had to stop being afraid of her tearing me apart, and it turned out really well. (I made sure to find her by the end of the conference, buy her book, and thank her.)


A couple of months ago, I got an e-mail from a reader on the blog who saw that I'd written two novels in under 30 days, each. She asked if I had any tips on writing quickly, so my next blog post was about speed writing.  


Beyond that, if you just give a call out, "Hey I'm looking for a beta reader," sometimes people will respond. If not, what have you lost? Nothing, really.


Remember: It never hurts to ask, the worst a person can say is no. Most of us writers want to help out because we've all been there. (Just please, don't harass the agents or editors. It makes us all look bad...)

In other, unrelated news, I just finished an entire pack of Mint Oreo cookies in under 24 hours...more like 12 hours. Don't judge.

Fear Journal

My sister last year got me Journalation, a book that has tips and things like that to keeping a journal. I still haven't gotten very far into it, but one of the things I picked up was when journaling to write a few things at the top of the page:

Date (I always write the date. If I don't, there's usually some significance why. I'm probably hiding something)
Location (Where are you? What are you doing? Are you with anyone? Why are you here? Music on?)
Time
End writing time

And so, I kept my regular journal for a couple of months, daily lists of random crap I did through the day. Usually things of non-importance but I did like keeping track of who I interacted with through the day. (I have a really bad memory and these things would be lost otherwise.)

Then something happened and I started falling a little off kilter. I found a composition notebook that Laura had given me before I'd started college. I'd been saving it and bringing it along everywhere because I knew someday I'd need it. So, I started a Fear Journal. When I would start worrying about something, I'd write about it and specifically track what I was afraid of, possible outcomes, then probable outcomes. Entries are far between, usually once a month, maybe less. (I lost the journal in my trunk for a long while.)

Just recently, I've been writing just about every day. Today, I asked Laura if I could read her my entry from yesterday though it was a million pages long. She sat on the phone with me while I read. There's something nice about reading out loud, it allows you to detach if you just focus on the words and not the fact that something horrific has just happened to you. There was one point during the reading I almost cried, but I kept it together. Her response?

"That....was intense. I know someday you're going to write about this...."

Which I found funny, because hadn't I just written about it?

This is kind of my point. As a writer, we channel a lot of energy through our writing. I keep journals and write when things become too much because it's like releasing it. It can't eat me from the inside out if it's on paper. I try to write when wounds are fresh because it's much more honest and someday when I come back to it, I can face it again and turn it into a story of some sort. I don't have a lot of coping mechanisms, but writing is by far one of the strongest ones I have.

And so....when you're scared or overwhelmed, what do you do?

Bottom Line?
Fear. Nothing.

Reading Out Loud

I'm an anxious person. I hate talking on the phone, I hate talking in person. I used to have anxiety attacks when I was in high school and had to present anything to the class. 

So what'd I do? I enrolled in a Forensics class (the kind that gets you in front of the class, becoming emotional, writing things, reading things, presenting something each week). Then enrolled in a communications class. I can now combat the urge to vomit, ignore the fact that my heart is beating out of my chest. It makes me feel like superwoman. 

Since that time, I still get anxious when I know I have something to interject to a crowd. But, I still push myself out of my comfort zone because I feel my voice deserves to be heard. 

With attending AWP for the last two years, I've also set the goal of being on a panel at some point. Which means, I'll get to speak to a room full of people. Which means, I'll need to talk clearly, slowly, and intelligently. Why? Because I have things to say, and I would love to discuss the marvels of writing, or the chaos of trying to land an agent, or getting rejection letters and KNOWING that I'd make it through (Oh my Gosh!! It's not the end of the world!).

But I have a problem. 

And that is reading out loud, or even speaking out loud. 

I read too quickly and my mind fumbles around with the words, and I put in words that aren't there. I need to relax, and slow down, and think "They'll still listen to you."

So, because of this, I've been calling my mother and reading her chapters of my new novel. I've been calling my sister during her 20 hour drive and reading selections. I have my not-boyfriend sit beside me and listen to me read. I try to read out loud when I'm alone, (though that's rare now, so I usually find myself reading to my dog, Baxter, who is a lovely listener) because when the moment comes, I want to be able to speak in front of my peers (other writers), and know that I am worth listening to.

So...if you ever get bored and wanna hear a reading...lemme know :)