buh-bye summer

Could we really be down to the last weeks of summer already? My kids didn't even get out of school until the end of June, so the idea of starting up again in two weeks seems like time went oh too fast.

It's been a different kind of summer, the first I've ever spent without my boys. We talk regularly and they are having a great time back in Idaho with their dad--fishing, floating the river, going to all our old favorite places. J, half his teeth now missing, held up his wrist for me yesterday on the camera phone and proudly showed off the strand of yellow wrapping paper ribbon tied around it, signifying he had been certified to swim in the "big kid" pool at the YMCA. Z got glasses. E's voice is as deep as his brother's now. L seems to have grown braver, older in his mannerisms. I miss them dearly.

Trying not to spend the time alone feeling helpless, I had lists of things planned to keep Mr. Perfect and I occupied over the summer--a list of house to-do's and a list of fun things. Thus far there has only been one thing crossed off each. Sigh. It's not as if we haven't been busy though.

We marched in the big Huntington Beach 4th of July--or skateboarded, rather, with the OC Ramps float. That's my husband, the big furry guy. I was on my long board. It was an unforgettable introduction to the city's most celebrated holiday.

We spent several beach days, some I did on my own since Mr. Perfect had a lot of long hours to work in July. Some with the girls. The beach here is really crowded in the summer--tourists love it. But the warm water is worth the trade for the crowd. I noticed, too, that there seems to be a sound universal in every language for the moment your feet touch the ocean for the first time.

Mr. Perfect's band has played some great shows. It's his hobby, no money to be made, but it's a great one and they always put on the most entertaining performances--all heart. Lots of snacks and hours passed in strangely-scented green rooms waiting for the show to begin. I get to sell t-shirts and dance by myself in the back, which is way more awesome than it sounds :)

I managed to pull off a successful surprise party for Mr. Perfect's birthday. Surprise mostly because it was nearly a week before his birthday. His family and friends have taken me right in and I feel a loved part of the gaggle. Grateful they all turned out at my request to make the occasion a special one.

We got to take the girls on a private tour of the Jim Henson (Muppet) studio, which used to be Charlie Chaplin's studio and was a gorgeous, turn-of-the-century gem in the middle of L.A.. The girls got to try out puppets on the green screen and we all got a sneak peek of projects in the works. Plus I saw all the memorabilia from "Labyrinth." A dream come true I didn't even know I had!

There have also been a lot of simple days just spent enjoying the perpetual round of nearly perfect 75-80 degree temperatures, always with a tingle of sea breeze any time it starts to feel too hot. There really is a reason people will pay through their nose to live here. I try to get out and walk as much as I can, even though not many but the hobos do that here. But I've been able to discover some tucked away treasures, like this--one of the first homes in the city, now hidden behind a daycare and a bank:

The highlight of the summer was definitely the week I spent at the Tin House Writers Workshop in Portland, Oregon. It is touted as one of the finest workshops in the country, attracting 675 submissions this year alone, of which 250 were accepted--mine being one of them--with me being able to go only because of the faith of family, friends, and readers who helped cover my tuition. One long time blog reader picking me up at the airport, allowing me to stay the night at her home, and driving me to the workshop the next day. Two other readers taking me back to the airport at the end of the week. Several others offering both of these services as well.

After blogging for over five years, these people feel like close friends to me. I am so glad the feelings were mutual, that they truly did feel like old friends. Grateful that none of them were actually axe murderers.

Thank you, again, to all who helped in any way--big or small. I'm all slobbery and teary inside just thinking of what it means to have the support of so many as I chase this dream of mine--to share the world as I understand it, as I've experienced it, in a fictional way, in a way that only I can, in a way that I hope will bring a little spark of hope to the world of literary short fiction.

The workshop was held on the campus of Reed College, dating back to 1912. All old Oak trees and red brick, surrounded by a forest and lake that I ran around faithfully every morning. In the company of only other writers, with workshops, lectures, and readings from 9 am-9 pm, plus amazing gourmet food options in the cafeteria every day, life quickly became an alternate reality where nothing but writing and reading existed.

There were all kinds of successful, Pulitzer Prize-nominated writers, and talented upcoming writers and MFA graduates, (and fire dancers!) all with great advice. I think the one I took most to heart was what Cheryl Strayed (author of Wild) told me: "Writing is hard. But you know what else is hard? Coal mining. Only the coal miners don't stand around talking about how hard it is to mine coal, they just start digging."

Mr. Perfect had a little decorative bottle of coal pebbles from the time he lived in West Virginia. Painted on the outside are the words, "We Mine Coal." I put it up on my desk and have started digging, or writing, regularly and voraciously since. I'm determined to protect a short amount of time for writing daily, even after my boys come back. But also trying to protect time for exercise and time for scripture study and all the other little things we are counseled to 'protect time' for may upset my good intentions, but I hope to push on. It's all worth it and it will all get done. I'm not interested in publishing quickly, but publishing my best work. I trust myself. And I know what I am writing is improving all the time (sloppy blog style excluded :) )

So, for the next two weeks of summer, I'm focused on trying to check a few more things off those lists...and also enjoy the time I'm not checking off. I love life--bumps and all. I love my husband with all my heart. I love mothering. I love letting myself settle in to this new place at my own pace. I love ice cream. Heck, I even love you.

it's ok to be happy and stuff

I can hardly believe it has been a month since my last post. A MONTH! I mean, I know no one is blogging like it's 2009 anymore but it's unlike me to commit to something and then go this period of time without either following through with it or formally ending it. My bad--or whatever it is the yunguns are saying nowadays.

I am still adjusting to everything. Mothering six is such a joy--exhausting but worthwhile. The boys are all feeling settled and accepted and at home, even Z. We finally found a vehicle in our price range that could seat all eight of us and it is liberating to go where we need to without having to make multiple trips everywhere or do the occasional desperate trip with two kids laying down in the hatchback trunk. Girls have been delightful to have--I'm slowly developing hair styling skills, and I love that all the children genuinely love and enjoy one another's company.

Mother Perfect accepted a job in another state so we sadly said good-bye to her last weekend. Which leaves us with a spare bedroom, a bit more space to spread out, and no more dog and all that dogs entail. We will miss her and especially her laugh but wish her all the best in her next adventure. The house is coming together design-wise. I promise to post pictures when it's complete.

I suppose the one thing that is less than ideal is my relationship with my writing as of late. There are a few factors standing between myself and my ability to zone back in on what once came to me like breathing. One, of course, is just being busier--bigger home to care for, more children, more (lots more!) driving. A different sleep schedule because of earlier school start times, requiring me to surrender those precious early morning hours between midnight and 2am that used to be my 'magic time.' Also, with the fact that Mr. Perfect's career is further advanced than my own that it just makes sense right now to put my supporting efforts into boosting him over the top.

Life with Mr. Perfect is dreamy. So much so that, as a writer who has so effectively channeled her struggle and longing in the last years, it makes me a bit unsettled at times. Like I'm not sure what to do with all this happiness and sunshine and fresh air and smiling.

As an answer to all that shiny/happy, my first exposure to California fog rolled in about 10pm last night, just when I was heading off for my run. Damp and thick, it swallowed up all the tops of the buildings and the length of the strip malls. As I moved forward, it was eerie watching one palm tree after another apparate in  front of me and then disappear in a mist behind me. I let all the weirdness and dark settle into my bones like a familiar friend, a comforting reminder that struggle in the human condition--great and small--is always available, and that to be a good and effective literary writer doesn't always require me to pass through the struggle myself but simply to understand the truths of the human condition and convey them through character change and imagery.

I lost myself in my first marriage, in the way of writing. Not in a way that I regretted but in a way I'd not like to repeat if I don't have to. I have worked too hard over the last few years to hone my craft, produce some quality material, establish connections with other writers I deeply admire, and to publish regularly, and I would hate to lose it all now--when no one has asked me to--but simply for lack of trying to find the balance. Especially when I've never shied away from doing hard things. Although the move distanced me from a lot of what I had built up, it doesn't have to erase what I was and am still capable of. In fact, some of my all-time favorite writers and poets (Ron Carlson, Eileen Myles) live and teach just miles from me. There is much to be had here as a writer, I just have to find it.

So, for now, *I'm re-committing to dedicating a minimum of 30 minutes DAILY to writing and/or reading to improve my work. *I've found a writers group and will continue to find a place in or help to establish a writing community here.*I will apply for a scholarship to Tin House Writers Convention in July. *I will work to complete my novella, which I think represents my best writing so far, and a home for it. *And I will allow myself to be ok with being happy in my life and still being unsettled in my writing. And if the sunshine breaks through and thins all this fog out...I'll be ok with that, too.

2012, the golden bowling trophy of big changes

Each year since my divorce has seen major changes. And each year, I've thought, Whew! Don't think I could top this one!

But I think maybe 2012 holds the prize. The golden bowling trophy of big changes. The fact that I sit at my desk in my new home, looking down at my wedding ring and out at a rainy California day is testament to this...

Here are this year's highlights:

In my writing:

*I took third in a major fiction contest,scoring the $200 prize (the most I've ever been paid for a published piece...thus far)

*I was accepted to the prestigious Pacific University MFA program and then decided against it as I just couldn't justify the financial and time commitment. Maybe one day I'll try again, but for now have decided to write as passionately as though I were in the program. I'm still at peace with the decision.

*I was a featured storyteller at an event called Story, Story Night where I learned I could tell my story without reading it off a page.

*Published four of my own articles as literary director of Fusion magazine and things in other publications including one short story, two poems, a restaurant review, a look at a major local building project, and acted as editor and layout designer for the real estate newspaper associated with my job. It was a landmark year for putting my name out there.

*Started on my novel and became engulfed by it...hoping to return to it soon.

*Interviewed 48 amazing writers and others influencing the literary world on my radio show, The Writers' Block--including award-winning David Abrams, Alan Heathcock, J. Reuben Appelman, Carla Neggers, Pauls Toutonghi, Stephanie Reents and others. Very aware of the priceless amount I learned about writing, editing, and publishing during my stint as host.

*Made the dedication page of Mr. Perfect's book. I've always wanted to be on one of those :).

 

In my family life:

*Z, at 15, is as tall as me now with feet several sizes bigger. He's into parkour and rugby, which means I have to close my eyes a lot and remember how important it is to let kids be fearless within reason. He can carry in all the groceries by himself and I'm pretty sure he could, if needed, sling me over his shoulder and carry me out of a canyon with my leg broken. That's a nice feeling, though I can't say I don't miss my baby.
I broke down in tears when the boys all arrived safely here on Christmas day, knowing my Z had shepherded his younger brothers safely through two airports. He has always done hard things without complaint and I am ever so proud of him.

*E, now 13, made me mother to two teenagers this year. He is a fiercely loyal friend, still so aware--as he has been since his youth--of just what is right and what is wrong, and constantly stands up for the underdog and the weird. His grades have slipped this year, largely due to his homeschooling background where he preferred self-guided learning instead of a bunch of busy work with due dates, and yet all the reports I've received from his teachers say he is one of their favorite students. I have no doubt of his intelligence and trust he will find his way with a little motivation and organization, and I often remind myself of the number of  highly successful people who weren't great students. Plus, he's an uber-talented musician and can quickly calm my worst of days with his music.

*L, 8 years old, is still the most shy of all my boys, though once he warms up--his smile lights up a room and his laugh could warm the coldest heart. He is top of his class in all subjects and loves being on time, crossing off lists, and planning projects. He has taken more of an interest in money and savings this year and wouldn't be surprised if he asked to start investing in stocks soon. He's also my snuggliest boy and I look forward to his daily hugs.

*J turned 6 this year and doesn't seem to mind being the youngest and battling for his spot to be noticed or get seconds of dessert. He has a natural love for performing and a knack for humor--both purposeful and not. He has taken off as a reader this year and his teacher says he's a natural classroom leader, often winning the class award for helpfulness and character. I do worry he'll grow bored (like E) in classes if they don't keep up with his pace of learning, but I'll keep finding ways to push him here at home. He is truly a delight to me and all those he comes in contact with.

Like most moms, I alternate between worrying my children will grow up distant as a result of all the bickering and slugging they do, but then am calmed by those not-so-uncommon moments where I find them all huddled together on the couch looking at a book, or laughing at a movie, or working at a game, and I know everything is going to be alright. They've all taken warmly to our new family situation and Mr. Perfect, as I suspected, takes his role as a step-dad very seriously and prays daily for guidance. The boys love their new sisters and often declare our house "boring" without them here. I look keenly forward to our lifetime of adventures together as a blended family.

In my social life:

*The first few months of 2012 still found me nursing a seriously broken heart, struggling to get over my break up with Dr. Yummy, and also trying to date someone whose company I enjoyed but who just wasn't right for me. It all felt forced and led to a lot of unnecessary emotional turmoil. Plus, there was this deep lingering crush I was still harboring for Mr. Perfect that seemed to interfere with my ability to really "re-attach" myself to anyone. Though I might agree to a dinner or movie with another man, it was nearly always Mr. Perfect I would call to talk to at the end of the day.

*June was a big month. I threw an unforgettable backyard birthday party to celebrate turning 37. I had several bands, a slushee machine, a BBQ truck, and confetti canons. And nearly all of it was free, favors from friends. I didn't know it would be the last of my backyard birthday bashes, but it was a great send off, and a great reminder of the blessings of loving and being loved.

I also finally decided to fly out to California--not just because it had become a yearly tradition since my divorce, but to visit Mr. Perfect for the first time in a year, hoping for a chance with him. We all know how that one ended :)

June also brought about my reunion with Dr. Yummy who asked, rather out of the blue, if he could take me to lunch. I hadn't seen or talked to him since October of 2011, and while something in my heart was stirred at seeing him and being with him again, it didn't compare to what I was now feeling for Mr. Perfect, and I had one of those blessed moments where I understood why I had to go through what I did to get to where I was now.

*Within a five month period, I dated Mr. Perfect, got engaged, and got married at a drive-thru window in Las Vegas. Now THAT was some major life changing! :)

*Socially speaking, I am currently adrift in unknown territory. I feel blessed to live with my best friend and, now, to have my dear boys with me too. I have wonderful friends here in California but it will take time to cement the relationships like I had in Boise--to find a group of writers I respect and challenge me creatively and intellectually, to find those kindred spirits who get my quirky personality. But I'm excited for the adventure and still feel I am just where I'm supposed to be.

In my spiritual life:

*My lessons continue--mostly in faith and trust in the Lord's timing. I have learned, time and again, that things generally work out and my worry over them, beyond that which keeps me motivated in moving forward toward a solution, does no one any good. My motto quickly became: Can you do anything about the problem? If yes, good--don't worry. If no--good, then why worry?
Letting go and letting God help has been a beautiful, developing relationship I hope I continue to nurture.

*I feel incredibly blessed to have helped and been helped this year. I get teary just thinking of all the service, time, and monetary help given myself and my family. I am a blessed, blessed woman.
*I also learned more about forgiveness this year--with Brad losing his job and being unable to pay child support for several months, putting the children and I in dire straits financially. I could have devoted a lot of energy to being angry at and verbally bashing him, but I didn't. Though I wouldn't let him forget his responsibilities, it felt better just to give him the benefit of the doubt, understand his perspective, and try to find solutions on my own. Yesterday would have been our 18th wedding anniversary. I still feel sad to have lost the ideal situation for our family, and I do still miss the man he was--but I wouldn't change things either. I am content. Brave. Joyful. Optimistic. More sure than ever that everything works out in the end, with God's help--and if it hasn't worked out...it's not the end.

Wishing you all a blessed and prosperous 2013. Thank you for your continued love and support. Thank you for your kind words and more. Thank you for continuing on this adventure with me. May peace be in and around you.

With love,
~Jennifer P.

i was brave

*It was a good week for being brave. *

Monday morning, I sent off my last two MFA applications--one to North Carolina, one to Oregon. They both said to expect answers in 3 weeks--about the time I should be hearing from the other three schools I applied to. So, in the next 3 weeks, the next two-three years of my life should become clear. I love that I'm already at peace with whatever happens. I'll be disappointed if I don't get in, but not crushed. I feel proud of myself for pushing through the incredibly difficult process of applying...again. That, in itself, feels like a reward to me. I didn't give up. I won't.

Monday night, I stood in front of over 500 people at a local event called Story, Story Night. Based on a story I submitted, I was chosen as a "featured storyteller." It's kind of a big deal. The theme for the night was "Breakups." The first story I submitted (which has to be true to life) was a funny one--painful to live through at the time it happened but rather humorous when I look back on it. It would have got a lot of laughs, the thought of which made me immediately comfortable. BUT word around the Story Story selection committee was that they needed a more serious breakup story...and that I had it. So, I wrote the serious story. And it was picked. Then I stood up and told it--no notes--straight from the heart and with all the bravery I could muster.  I was proud of me. My mom would have been proud of me too, I think.

And then there was this final, simple, maybe silly thing to be brave about--but the Plain White T's song, "Hey There, Delilah" came on the radio yesterday...and I made myself listen to it. That is a song I usually avoid like the plague. Any time it comes on the radio or my Pandora station, I change it/turn it off/turn the volume down...whatever. If it comes on in a store or a restaurant I'm in, I cover my ears and take my mind somewhere else for a while. Like Wesley in Princess Bride.

Not that it's not a good song. I rather like it, in fact. Or I did. A sweet song about young love against all odds played on acoustic guitar. Who wouldn't? But it was a song that just happened to be wildly popular during my separation. It would often play on my blog playlist late at night while I was trying to write through all that pain, enough that it BECAME all that pain for me. Hearing it would send me into emotional flashbacks or whatever.

But, this time when it came on and my hand automatically reached for the buttons to change the station, I told myself, "You can do this. You're braver than this now. Look at how far you've come. Look at who you are now. That period of time can and will continue to effect you, but it doesn't have to hold power over you anymore."

So I listened. Right up to the very last "whoa-oa." Then I turned the radio off and drove home the rest of the way in silence--knowing I'd just gotten passed something significant.


The best part of the week was that I was able to take all my bravery and be brave for someone else. A dear friend whose ex-wife is re-marrying this weekend--re-marrying my friend's former best friend that she swore nothing was going on with during their marriage, which was obviously not the truth. And my friend had to listen to his kids be excited about it and smile and try to explain lovingly why he wouldn't be at the wedding.

I was able to listen and nod in empathy, give him some brief advice on a good way to deal with it based on my own semi-similar experience, let my bravery fill in where he didn't feel he had any.

I think that's the best use of bravery. Using it for/with someone else. Being able to be that first one to walk in to the dark tunnel and say, "It's ok. I know the way. Follow me."

Yeah.

Probably better than being strapped to one of those spinning wheels in a Circus sideshow and having knives hurled at me. Though, I think if someone had asked me to do that this week...I probably would have said, "Sure. Why not? What have I got to lose?" :)

so what exactly is it that you're doing, crazy woman?

Hi. I'm crazy. Seriously.  Working on about 10 total hours of sleep over the last three nights. My bleeding ulcer is acting up again. I'm starting to see little gnats flying around in my peripheral vision. Everything is super funny or super sad. I'm all shifty and nervous, pumped up on hourly cups of Starbucks dark hot chocolate. I sit down and write for about ten minutes, then fill out application forms for five minutes, then go play Just Dance 3 for a few songs, then get distracted figuring out the intricacies of how my stapler works, then send my poor friends mumbly, crazy-person texts, then back to writing.

And what, you ask, am I allowing to drive me to this point of temporary (oh, let's pray it's temporary!) craziness?

MFA application time again, baby.

Last year, it was 3 am the night before my submission was due, and I suddenly decided that a major portion of my story needed re-written. There was much weeping and fretting and cursing myself and my character. Poor Ninja came over to help and even he, brave warrior of the night, looked kind of afraid to approach me. This year...it's that all over again but times five, since I'm applying to five schools. And I'm giving every one my very best.

My portfolio was already pretty fine-tuned after a year of work, so I haven't done the amount of weepy, last-minute editing. But what has thrown me for a loop are the amount of hoops that every school makes you jump through. UC Irvine is the WORST (but also the best. Love you UC Irvine. Pick me. xoxo.). They want not only your "Autobiographical Statement of Purpose", but also a "Statement of Purpose" and a "Personal History Statement." And by statement, they really mean meticulously crafted essay of 2-4 pages, keeping in mind they will be reading about 600 of these and even though all 3 of those things they are asking for are essentially comprised of the same information, you better darn well make sure yours sound different and brilliant, man. Or else.

Within the five programs I'm applying to, there are forms to fill out in triplicate. Publishing histories to assemble. Letters of Recommend to secure, along with waivers to fill out that take away all your rights to ever read the nice things the letter writers say about you. There are portfolios required of various lengths in specified type fonts. Specific ways transcripts are to be sent. And yes--don't forget you have to PAY them to do all this work yourself. $55-$100 a pop. Paid for with money that Dr. Yummy gited me for this purpose back in October, which feels a little awkward, and moreso with the whole crazy thing going on, but yeah. Anyway....

The most common question I get?
What's an MFA? or sometimes made into a statement:
"Oh, so you're getting your Maters degree?"

I figure it was worth dedicating a post to just so people will understand why my eyes are all twitchy and my hair looks like it's been pulled out of my head in large clumps...and I totally think it's worth it.

MFA stands for Master of Fine Arts. It's a terminal degree, like a PhD, but with a different end goal in mind. It's much more difficult to get into than a normal Master's program (I'll explain why in a bit).
An MFA graduate CAN become adjunct faculty at most universities--usually every one's favorite teachers who take keen interests in their student's lives, who work long hours with no benefits, occupy offices in the university janitor's closets, and eat handfuls of dry oatmeal for nourishment. But the end goal of the MFA is not teaching, but to produce writing yourself. MFA students are polished writers on the verge of blossoming careers, willing to dedicate their lives to the craft, and just needing a few years more of complete immersion under the tutelage of truly amazing writers to really fine-tune their voice.

Also--most MFA programs are funded. Which means, you're given a tuition waiver and often a stipend that comes from teaching or assisting in research. Basically, you are being paid to write for 2-3 years. That's why nearly every one of the hundreds of available, funded MFA programs receive 400-1,000 applicants a year and accept between 3 and 10.

Insanely, insanely competitive.

Even the ones that aren't funded, that you have to go another $35,000-$75,000 in debt for, but which have a killer line up of instructors (i.e. Pacific University, one I'm applying to) STILL are about as easy to get in to as running after a storm cloud trying to get hit by lightening.

It looks good to have *MFA* after your name when submitting stories or manuscripts. It's extremely helpful to get yourself worked into a publishing network that often these schools provide the first step towards. But, unlike last year when I thought I would DIE if I didn't get in--I've learned, by talking to a lot of talented writers over the year, that the MFA isn't necessarily the guidepost it once was. There are a lot of thriving writers' communities (like the one in the city where I live) that allow you consistent interaction with other high-caliber writers, and opportunities to keep writing, improving, and sending off for publication. Same as those fancy MFA-ers.

So--yeah. For now, I feel like I needed to give the MFA program one more concentrated, full speed run. It seems to me the best and fastest way to become the writer I want to be. But...if I don't get in, I'm pretty happy where I'm at now, too. I'm making a lot of progress, and actually getting PAID to write in two of my jobs. It might not be the literary short fiction or poetry I long to compose, but it's still working the same process of delivering a message, a story, in a unique and effective way.

That's it. That's why I'm allowing myself to ride this wave of mania a few more days before I get to sleep. For the glory of one golden CHANCE.

Now you know :)

it's good to be me

It's been a really good week to be me, yesiree. I don't often get those weeks that go right,every day. So I'm really letting this one sink into my heart.

Thursday, I got to help my friend (and now boss) with her interview radio show "The Writer's Block." She taught me to run the sound board, record, cue, etc BECAUSE....I will be guest hosting for her on February 1. An hour to talk writing with guests of my choice...um, yes, please! I'm very excited. Green Eyes also met us down at the station that day to give me a copy of his newly completed (and most excellent) CD. My friend was so kind that she took it from him and played three of the songs during the music slots in the show. Hooray for being able to help out!

I got the call on Friday that I'd placed in the 101 word fiction contest I entered. It's sponsored through a widely read, local, weekly newspaper, and it's kind of a big deal around here to win it since all the really good but not yet professional writers enter. I will find out on January 4 when the winner's issue comes out just how I did, and then will get to participate in a special reading the next night. If I happened to get first place, there's a $400 prize. Not too shabby. And enough to cover the cost of the tires I had to replace on my van.

Friday night was my annual Festivus party, surrounded by old friends and new, sharing lots and lots of laughs.

Then Saturday, I was offered the Literary Director position at Fusion Magazine, where I've freelanced and run social media since April. It doesn't come with a lot of pay, but some, which is good for working it into my nights and weekends. And I get a huge say in shaping the tone of the magazine. Would love to steer it towards the direction of Harpers or Esquire. We certainly have the pool of writers around here to do it.

Anyway, I was really happy. It was so nice to have a week where nothing/no one pushed me down . Of course, I'm resolved to always see my blessings and be happy, no matter what--but wow (!) What a nice feeling when it's an EASY thing to do :)

Then, tonight, I did one of the hardest things I've had to do. Ever. And I didn't even know I would have to do it. It was Z and E's Christmas piano recital, and I sat in the same room with my ex-husband and his new wife and their baby. I've never had to do that in the two and a half years they've been together. Brad has just come to family stuff alone. But tonight, he brought them.

 I hadn't seen his baby before. She was cute. Not as cute as our kids, of course--but cute like babies are. I watched family members fawn all over said baby (which is fine--I strongly encourage baby fawning!).  I listened to Brad two rows behind me introducing "his wife" to people who hadn't met her, and heard a voice not mine saying, "Hello ______." And I sat there, alone, in the front row, being brave.

I held it together. My boys played brilliantly. I came home. I put them to bed. I stood over the sink and had a brief, intense, shoulder shaking, silent cry; my mind trying to wrap itself, again, around the fact that this is my life now.   For now and for how long I don't know, it will be just me and the boy squad. Then, I took one giant inhale/exhale and...let it all go.

And I was fine again...

Perfectly comforted in the fact that one day Brad WILL feel what I have felt, just as I have felt it. More than being thrust down to hell or made to roll a rock eternally up a hill or whatever, that's the only "justice" I ask for him from God. To feel without filter. And understand what he's done. Not just to say he does, but to really, really understand.

A rough situation that may have taken me days or weeks or even months to get over a few years ago, I now got over in the space of a half hour.  I think that's some great progress.

Yeah. A series of happy victories and one awesome display of strength and grace. Good to be me :) Hoping you all had a good week of being yourselves, too.

jumping out of my comfort zone...voluntarily

Isn't that a nice title for a post? I especially like the *voluntarily* part. I like that I have not been forced out of my comfort zone, nor pushed, nor drug from it. I guess I'm even impressed that, for as crazy and undecided as my life is, I even HAVE a comfort zone to begin with. But I do. And although it has been a very different place at different times of my life, it has always been there.
I decided it might be time to move out of it though. It was time to chase a dream.
It was time again to see what I could make happen. This is the how and why of it...


I have lived in Idaho nearly all my life, just a short drive away from picturesque pine-dense mountains lining twisting, churning, frothy rivers. ~A sportsman's paradise.~ And yet I have never been whitewater rafting. I remember my mom and brother going several times, so I don't know if the invitation was never extended to me knowing I was too busy, or if it was and I just turned it down. Anyway, rafting was not in my plethora of experiences. And I was honestly ok with that. I've never been on a roller coaster that goes upside down either and don't feel like a lesser being. But, Dr. Yummy has been rafting and loved it and thought it a shame the boys and I had never experienced it.

He didn't force. He didn't tease. He didn't beg. He just suggested. And a week or so later...

That's me in the bandanna with the look of joy on my face, Z in front of me, E across from me, and Dr. Yummy in the conductor's cap taking up the rear next to our guide (and also some dude from Chicago riding on the front with his 25-years younger girlfriend in her purple string bikini hiding behind him because she didn't want to get wet or paddle...yeah...they were delightful or something).

And guess what?

I had a blast! I would do it again in a heartbeat, string bikini girl and all. Although I make sure I'm always having new adventures and adding to my cache of life experiences, many of them, I have realized, are still adventures of my choosing-- great, but all relatively within my comfort zone.

So I stepped back and considered my life under the lens of this new realization. Was there something I really wanted but was afraid to try?

There was.

Remember back in January when I worked myself to the brink of complete mental, physical, emotional, and creative breakdown getting my application in for the MFA program in addition to mothering, working, and taking 25 credits? And then remember how I got rejected come April? That was rough. Really, really rough. Yet, I have begun to see the why and how of why it needed to be--the happy jumble of blessings that have come as a result, including becoming an even better writer as I had another semester under my belt to learn and read.

But you know what? I still want to get into that MFA program. I am terrified to try again, and I am honestly happy where I'm at right now, but what if....what IF I jumped out of this comfort zone and just saw what happened if I tried again?

So, I got to work.

With only a week left until school starts, one of my good and incredibly talented professor friends invited me to TA for his Fiction class--guaranteeing my continued and needed exposure to teaching, reading, and writing. Then, on a whim, I asked permission to take a graduate level Poetry course. NOT easy to get in to--those MFA students are a tight, exclusive bunch. But, I sent some samples of my work as requested by the professor and...guess who will be taking a Masters-level Poetry class starting next week? If you guessed me, you're right :)

So, with the much appreciated support of Dr. Yummy, I'm making one more aggressive run at getting into an MFA program...just to see. The worst that can happen is that I'll be pitched off the metaphorical raft and into the roiling, summer-warmed water and I'll float around, laughing and enjoying the sunshine, until someone yanks me up by my life jacket and pulls me back into the raft.. And I can think of worse places to be :)

writing, writing, writing: i think this is me living my dream?

Sorry to wait so long to update the ol' blog. I have been writing....every day in fact. For work, I've been writing Terms of Use and a Privacy Policy for a website. And tweeting. And writing updates for Facebook and Google Plus. For my Fusion magazine job I've been writing an article on outdoor concert venues and The Decemberists. For my literary short story writer's group, I wrote a really cool, stripped down story about a tire fire and one woman who thinks she's looking for love, but really just needs to learn to trust again. For my flash fiction writer's group, I put together a little ditty about a professor/student relationship--nothing scandalous, just an accidental thing.

** I DID want to be a writer...and I feel blessed to be doing just exactly what I love, even if it's not in the acceptance to an MFA/ write a bestseller type of way. **

Oh, and I've been writing a blog post too. A really, really great one that I'm sure I could probably even charge you all admission to read. But it may or may not get the "publish post" button hit. We'll see. My blog life is generally a month behind my real life just because real life changes so quickly, and I need some time to see what's going to stick around and what's not. Like trying to eat a cookie off the cookie sheet as soon as you pull it out of the oven. It generally falls apart since it's still gooey. It tastes yummy, but it would probably taste even better if given a bit of time to set. Real life is the gooey cookie, blog life is the set one.

Does that make sense? I think I'll find that humorous after a night of sleep.  It's 2:30 am. Again. I'm tired. My metaphors are tired. But I love you so I'm writing something :)

I also realize how long it has been since I've shared any piece of my actual story writing on the blog. I have refrained simply because of the amount of submitting I've been doing, with a lot of journals refusing to publish anything that's been previously published...blogs included. But, I'm pretty sure that I'll never make it as a flash fiction writer, so I'm going to give you the middle 1/3 of my story called "The Night at a Reading My Professor Got Broken up with and Drunk." AND I promise to write something better tomorrow. Or Wednesday. After I sleep. Thank you :) ...


I took his hands, which continued to rub at the length of my back, and held them between us for a moment before letting the drop. “Let’s get your bike and put in in my trunk. I’ll drive you home and stay with you for a little while if you want, but nothing more, ok? Not like this. Not when you’re all drunk and heartbroken.”


His house was just like I thought I would be—more books than furniture, a collection of miniature Space Needles lined up along the mantle. I sat at one end of his plaid couch. Finn emerged from the bathroom, laid down, and set his head in my lap. My fingers paused over his silver blond hair before I let them wind and unwind through it. It felt like what I should do, what I would have done were we in this situation under different conditions. His breathing stretched and steadied as he fell asleep. The TV was tuned to a mountain bike race. I watched, indifferent, volume low. It was 2am. I considered just leaning over onto the arm of the couch and closing my eyes but knew that would only lead to something awkward. I imagined him waking, neck stiff from the odd position my lap had held it at all night, wondering if he should wake me, too—if, perhaps, I was late for work. He might offer me coffee, notice but not mention the meshed imprint of fabric on my cheek, the strange angle my hair was sticking out at. The space between us would be filled with strained, hung-over conversation and the faucet water–gray light of morning. He’d be wanting aspiring and a shower, anxious for me to leave so he could have them.

Then again, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe we’d sleep late then walk a block over to the pastry shop for chocolate croissants, sit in the little corner booth. At some point during our eating we’d comment on the boundaries our sadness can push us toward. How grateful we were we’d only put our toes over the line instead of our entire bodies. Under the table, our knees would touch. I would dust a buttery crumb off his chin. He would lick his thumb and wipe a smear of chocolate from my lip.

That scene was harder to see, I guess because I wasn’t sure what exactly had gone on earlier tonight, or what Finn and I were to each other. Just that a few hours ago, he had been my professor, my editor, my friend, someone whose talent I admired. There had been the author’s voice reading in the ballroom and the more distant sound of Finn and his girlfriend, Amy, fighting at the elevators in the lobby. I was near the exit, had just gone out to make sure everything was alright, watched the doors close in front of her angry face, her crossed arms. He had taken me by the hand, led me off campus and to the tavern across the street. He cried in an unobvious way. The more the thick-rimmed glasses, empty except for an etching of foam, accumulated in the corner of our table, the more he told me he had always liked me, always wondered what it would be like to hold me. He kept tracing little circles on my arms. I told him I’d always liked him too, knowing he wouldn’t remember in the morning.

And I had.

Liked him.

Always.

---

Now I slid from beneath the soft weight of his head and stood. For another minute, I watched him sleep, shifting camera angles on the television turning his face yellow, then green, then blue—colors highlighting, diminishing the little laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked sad and beautiful.

How unfair it is, I thought, that sometimes there are things you think should mean something, situations you think should go somewhere—but they don’t. And you just have to be okay with it.
 
-The End-  
Well, not really, but the end of what you're getting. If any of you are actually interested in reading all 1,000 words of this story from the beginning, speak up and I'll consider publishing the whole thing. If not, well, tricked ya into reading this far, didn't I? Also, no actual professor's or their ex-girlfriends were harmed in the writing of this story. Good Night and Good Morning :)

the final stretch

Three weeks of school left. Just three. Four more major papers to write. A few more novels to read. One project. One Shakespeare performance. Two more online class sessions. Fifty hours of internship. And a film treatment. Then I. am. done.

And I am a bit lot terrified.

It seems like just yesterday I was making the announcement that I'd decided to go back to school. I thought I only had a year to finish up, but changing majors turned out to be more work than I thought, as did having to juggle mothering, working, and taking classes when I could squeeze them in--preferrably without having to find child care. So...three years later, here I am.

I am amazed at how quickly and thoroughly school became my world. Everywhere I go on campus, I know or am known by someone. I love eating oatmeal with vanilla milk in the campus Starbucks between classes, reading poetry and chatting with friends and professors as they come and go. I love that I am aware of the comfy black chair on the 4th floor of the library that I can grab a quick nap in (assuming the homeless guy isn't already sleeping in it). I love being stretched to my absolute limits physically, mentally, and creatively---and rising to the challenge to produce something better than I thought I could. I love being surrounded by intelligent, funny, like-minded individuals who appreciate my quirks--including the time I danced to Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" for a class project. I love that I can ride my longboard to class if I'm running late. I love that a classmate once called me a hipster. Because usually, at 35, this is not the social classification one is put into :).

I feel safe at school. I feel like I have found my niche there. I have my own parking spot.

---I don't want to leave.---

But I kind of need to be paid some money now instead of paying it.

So, May 14 I put on my robes. And that gold braided honor's cord I earned through my blood, sweat, tears, and 25-credits-in-one-semester-calloused-fingertips. And I walk the line. And I say good bye to my comfort zone.

When I put a picture to this point in my life, it is of me standing on the edge of a cliff, my back to the gray green water far below. My arms are outstretched and my eyes are closed, swayed breath and the thump of heart fierce in my ears. Now I'm leaning backwards, further, further, tipping over the edge, sun on my face, impressed by the way my body carves through the air, impressed at my bravery. I don't know what it's going to feel like to hit...but the fall is amazing.

Here's to the final stretch and to the next adventure ahead. Somehow, someway, I am going to find out how to provide for myself and my sweet boy squad. Failure might be a forced stop along the way, but it will never be the final destination.

Thank you all  so much for the generous support you've given me, my decision making, my gumption, and my writing during these past years. I'll think of you as my hand grasps that diploma.

these winds they are a-changing

I have always considered myself a positive person. But optimistic? Yeah...not so much. Not that I don't believe in good things and good people and (mostly) happy endings, it's just that the scope of my life's experiences from a very young age have taught me that while it feels good to hope for the best, I should mostly get prepared for the worst. I hope that doesn't sound too negative, because--like I said--I'm a positive person. I guess you could call me a realist? But a realist in the worst sense of the way because deep, deep down inside I believe whole-heartedly in dreams coming true and Wheeeeee!!!! Isn't this circular logic FUN?! :)

ANYWAY, this is just a post to acknowledge the good things that are starting to take shape in my life and God's direct hand in them. Like a really good pencil sketch still waiting for some color, but you can begin to see how it's going to turn out, and it's beautiful. I feel like I'm almost back to the point I was in January before this happened. I've sort of  been waiting for my new year to start ever since then, with each month bringing with it some new weighty trial or disappointment. But thus far, April has been nice. Really nice.

I didn't get into the MFA program, but I did finish up the 56 page poetry manuscript I'd been coddling for the last 3 years (and really, the last 13 years). It's almost perfect. I'd say another 6 months and I will be ready to start sending out query letters. For now, it's in an actual PDF with a title and an order and a table of contents and everything.

I just put my resume together with the help of an incredibly talented Communications guru niece of mine. Since I don't have much work experience beyond owning my interior design firm, she helped me to highlight the "scope" of my experience: skill sets learned in the various volunteering, interning, and freelance projects I've done (and am doing). Even the ol' blog got a section devoted to it!  It shows I can stick to something for a long period of time, regardless of pay, and that at least a few of you care to read it. I'm in a great spot to score a possible summer internship with an amazing Marketing/PR firm in town. Next to writing, that's the job that I would want the most.

At the beginning of the semester, I had 27 BIG books I had to read. Now...I have 4 left. I've been prepared for every class, every day of every week, every time. Thus far, even taking 25 credits, I'm pulling a 4.0. My graduation robes are purchased. I'm done in May. :)

I've made some really great new friends, at the same time I'm watching old friends settle happily into their new married lives. 

I checked another item off my "To Do Before I Die" list when I got to play tambourine for one song along with the incredibly talented Al Deans of Quasi-Stellar Radio (yes, I can play other instruments too, but the tambourine just holds some mysterious power over me! :) )

Although Spring is still dragging its heels, we've enjoyed a few warm days. My landscape beds are waiting for their flowers to fill in. My garden waits for a good tilling. The strawberries are starting. I've gotten in a few hikes and trips around the block on my longboard. The birds wake me up in the morning with their song. It smells like rain outside all the time. It makes my heart smile.

The book I publicist for, Volt by Alan Heathcock, got a glowing review from the New York Times, and was a NYT Editor's Pick. We're currently in our third printing. **That is an incredible experience to be a part of!**

Of course, my dear boys are still my delights. And they're healthy. And happy. And never fight....really, hardly, almost, practically never :).

I'm just happy to be me right now. Not that I've ever not been. But it feels particularly true right now.

(I am knocking every available wooden surface at this point. Including my teeth. Ha. That was an obscure George Washington joke. 2 points and a thumbs up if you 'got' it.).

I think this post would be best wrapped up by the little ditty I wrote to console myself upon not getting into the MFA:


I have drank with a prince and danced with a homeless man. Saved an old woman from a burning house. I have stumbled out into a Paris street at sunrise after spending all night in a disco not understanding a single word spoken to me. I have been forced off a bus by an armed South American militant. Survived the illness that killed Mozart. Once, in an antiques store, I licked an old necklace made of bones on a nickle bet. I have known terrible cruelty but choose to be kind. Known lies and deceit and flippant evil but choose to believe in the inherent goodness of others. I never need sleep because most of my internal organs have been replaced with robotics. And all but the second half of that last sentence is true. That...that is the reservoir of a writer you passed up.

Yup.


Hope the winds in your life are blowing favorably, too :)

really, truly, i don't want to star in my own tragedy

I am trying my hand at writing a screenplay. Because the astronaut's husband that is my professor is making me. And because my friends who successfully make movies (yeah, I got 'em!) swear that in the next century the written word will be completely replaced by the visual.  But mostly because I've always just wanted to try. That way I can say: Poet (check). Fiction writer (check). Technical writer (check). Non-Fiction Narrative Journalist (check). Screenwriter, and.....(check).  

Like anything I do, I'm trying to do the best I can at it. Most of what I have produced thus far is in the recycling bin (post-apocalyptic romantic comedy anyone?) but luckily I still have until Thursday night to come up with a good pitch and the first three pages. To help me along, I read Aristotle's Poetics for Screenwriters by Michael Tierno (and Aristotle). I actually chuckled out loud at the irony of the chapter called "Oops! I Caused My Own Undeserved Misfortune Again." In it was a list of undeserved misfortunes you can give a character that will arouse pity in audiences:

1. Death
2.Bodily assault or ill treatment
3.Old age, illness
4. Lack of food
5. Lack of friends
6. Ugliness
7. Weakness
8. Being crippled
9. Having your good expectations disappointed
10. Having good things come too late
11. Having no good things happen to you
12. Having good things  happen but being unable to enjoy them

Now review my blog over the last four years and chuckle with me. Old, ugly, debilitated by Rheumatic Fever, (boy)friendless, foodless (ha!), ill-treated, weak me who has no good things happen to her. Ever.

I'm being facetious, of course. Which I love being because all the vowels are lined up in that word in their correct order and it makes the OCD in me very happy.

Except, honestly, a generous handful of the things on that list HAVE been my lot as of late. I'm sure that's why many of you read this blog. At least I notice my posts that detail how my life is proceeding like a well-orchestrated train wreck are the most read ones. I like to think that those are just the times when I'm being most vulnerable and honest, which makes for good writing, and THAT is what is attracting readers. Then again--we all like a good train wreck...as long as we're not on the train.

The trick is, and always has been, what I do with my misfortunes. I can be destroyed by them like in Gladiator. Or overcome them like in Rocky(I'm a little behind on my movie references, I know). I genuinely love the guts out of my life--unfortunate or not--and have no desire to sink into the tragic role the fates are trying to deal me. And if it means drinking three raw eggs every morning and sprinting stairs to make sure I get to do a *** fist pump of triumph*** at the top, then I will do it. And whatever else God requires of me to get to that refined place He wants me. Which I hope doesn't actually involve drinking raw eggs. And that walking to the top of the stairs is ok, too.

Now, give me some ideas to write a movie about. And quick.

~FINIS~

why i am (mostly) ok with not getting into the MFA program

Dear Ms. Peterson, We have given your candidacy very careful consideration, but are sorry to say your application was not a finalist. The interest in our MFA program was very high this year, etc. etc. Wishing me the best. And...the end.


I only had a 1 in 150 chance of getting in, assuming they were going to take someone from the university to begin with. If not, I had a 0 in 300 chance. Not very good odds. And I was up against some fierce competition. And I only really felt comfortable with half of what I submitted. And it was the literary equivalent of a kamikaze run to only apply to one school. So, I honestly didn't expect to get in anyway. But dang! If it didn't still hurt. Like, a whole lot.

I suppose most of the pain stems from the cold, hard truths that yet another "no" presses out of me:  That I am pushing 36 years old. Whatever youthful optimism or beauty I once had has been slowly bled out of me over the last few years of cruel, harsh reality. I have no idea where I am going to go or what I am going to do to provide for my precious children. I have lost my father. My mother. Lost close friends to death or distance. I've lost my husband. I've lost a good deal of my health. I've lost the few relationships I've been in. I will more than likely soon lose my home. And now I've lost the one foreseeable path I had to accomplishing my dream of being the type of writer I want to be. People whose talent I very much respect looked at what I put hundreds upon hundreds of hours into writing and said, "Not good enough." Will my best ever be good enough for anyone or anything?!

God...I will go where you want me to go and do what you want me to do, but please tell me you're still there and still mindful of me. Please tell me that there is still some purpose in my acting, that I do not have to surrender to being acted upon.

Boo hoo. Poor me. Enough self-deprecating already, I know. Sometimes I just have to get it out of my system.

Despite not having the time to do so, I sat down and re-read all of John Gardner's "On Becoming a Novelist". It was one of the books that first inspired me to chase this dream in the first place. Only this time, I read a portion of it I hadn't before--the foreword, written by Raymond Carver. And this is what it said:

"So along with this desire to get an education, I had this very strong desire to write; it was a desire so strong that, with the encouragement I was given in college, and the insight acquired, I kept on writing long after "good sense" and the "cold facts"--the "realities" of my life told me, time and again, that I ought to quit, stop the dreaming, quietly go ahead and do something else."

And may I remind you that was Raymond freaking Carver?! Who soon went on to become the darling of the literary world for over a decade? I'm sure every great novelist or short story writer has said at some point, "I should give up". But they don't.

Not that I expect Carver-esque fame, but I KNOW I am a passable writer. Better than the average bear, even. The MFA seemed like the most probable way to get me to where I wanted to be, with the joyous added benefit of teaching, but I can go on and get better with or without it. Not all publishers care if you've got an MFA stuck after your name.

Ninja promised to take me to the gun range to shoot the rejection letter. That sounds therapeutic.


Something will come along, right? And who knows. Maybe, just maybe, I've got enough gumption left in me to apply one more time.

wanting what you have...and other things that make your hair turn gray

my wonderful friend M and I at the party. And my purple dress.

So Friday night's Volt launch party was amazing--just like I thought it would be. Standing room only. A fabulous reading from the book by Al. Great music. The whole atmosphere buzzing with the feeling of triumph and celebration.

At one point, I looked around and thought, look at me! If anyone would have told me five years ago that I would be standing shoulder to shoulder with incredibly talented student writers who (hopefully) consider me their equal, or that I would be consorting with nationally acclaimed authors, screewriters, and poets, or that I would have a working knowledge of which MFA programs are the best and how to find a literary agent. I would have told them.....I don't want that (!)

Surprised at that response?

Because, really, although I'd always wanted to be a writer eventually, I wouldn't have cared about any of that five years ago. I was at home with my three amazing boys, expecting the fourth. Homeschooling. Decorating and organizing my house. Planning gourmet dinners. Planting flowers. Volunteering at the library. My mom had just passed away,sharpening my focus on all that was most important to me--my faith, my husband, my children. I was busy but I always had enough spare time to just sit and observe and drink in life. I was happy with who and where I was. Really, really happy.

Now--as a teenager, it was a different story. The whole writer scene was EXACTLY what I wanted and what I thought my life would look like. Motherhood and home life seemed dull and 'below' me somehow. I wanted adventure. I wanted fame. I wanted to live in Europe. And yet, when I settled into the roles of wife and mother, when I CHOSE to love them,  when I discovered for myself how immensely challenging and satisfying they were, I couldn't help but nearly burst with gratitude to God for leading me to a life better than one I could have imagined up for myself.

And now God, while allowing me to keep at least a base of my life as a mother and homemaker, is leading me back towards a semblance of that first vision of the future I thought would be so nifty. Life is just funny sometimes. Sharply ironic even.  Maybe this means that now I'll finally get to marry Joe McIntyre from New Kids on the Block? Or get a red Pontiac Fiero with the speakers in the seats? I always wished for those things to be in my future a lot when I was younger, too :)

Honestly, while I would rather just be able to remain a stay at home mom, I must embrace what is before me as well. My kids will always come first. But because they come first, I have to provide for them, and if I am able to do so utilizing a talent I have been blessed with, then it seems very ungrateful not to find the joy in the situation I'm in...and believe I'm in it for a purpose.

So, let's review: First I didn't get what I wanted, then I loved what I didn't think I would, now I'm back to having what I wanted in the first place even though it feels very bittersweet to want it anymore. Yup.


Do I wish I would have gotten divorced and been forced down this path of total independence? Of course not! But I'm powerless to change it. All I can do is make sure I keep the best parts of who I was and find all kinds of new best parts to add to them as I barrell roll through this crazy adventure called life.

May who you are always exceed who you were.

xoxo,
The Future Mrs. Jennifer P McIntyre ;)