Buzzed

I was outside today, staring at my vegetable garden noticing that nothing was producing anymore except for these gorgeous little white flowers on my flowering garlic, which is sad because I live in California where you'd think my whole summer would be overflowing with veggies. But it's not. No, my tomatoes are finished; green, but finished. My zucchini has bitten the dust. Likewise my summer squash. I think it's probably my fault somehow because at some point, too early every year, this happens. Too much water? Too little? Who knows? I love to garden but I'm no expert. I throw the plants in there, boost them up with good stuff and hope. That's really what planting a garden is, right? It's a hopeful act. You hope you'll eat off of it every year.

Here's my zucchini in better days.


Oh, sweet zucchini! I loved you!

Its leaves are peppered with fallen purple jacaranda blossoms from my nearby tree. I would swear that (The Artist-Formerly-Known-As-) Prince came up with his song title "Purple Rain" from these blossoms. Well, not specifically my blossoms. But from one of these gorgeous, crazy making trees. (Hint: Never plant one in your backyard.) Do you think this has anything to do with my failed garden?

And here, hiding under pristine green leaves with no trace of the powdery futurama that awaits it, is the yellow squash.


Aren't they little beauties? But alas, they are no more.

So, anyway, I'm staring at my garden that is sliding into its yearly oblivion and notice bees swarming all over these garlic flowers. Totally ignoring me. Unconcerned by my presence. So I took some pictures of them. Of their little shiny, transparent wings.





They were busy, working. Not thinking or worrying about the zucchini flowers that had gone away. No, they were only thinking about these flowers. The ones that still had some sweetness in them. And I thought...bees are naturally wise.

...And Do It Anyway.

In my thirties, I decided that I should do something that scared the heck out of me at least once a year. And I don't mean 'try sushi' or 'drive the LA Freeways at rush hour.' Although, both of those things could, possibly, hold valid fear factors for certain people... People who shall remain nameless... *shudder*

Anyway... I wanted to try something that was so far outside my comfort zone that it would make me break out into a cold sweat, possibly keep me up at night for weeks at the mere thought of how the heck I would ever accomplish it? Okay, I'm a middle child: that need to please, to succeed, and to prove that I, in fact, exist is in the job description.


Writing books was one of my wild hairs. Submitting them for sale, even scarier. Picture yourself stripped naked, holding a flogging strap with a little word bubble over your head saying "Thank you, sir, may I have another? (Name that film.) It turned out, I liked writing and selling books. It became a career.

Teaching writing at a major university extension was like that, too. (I endured an entire sleepless summer wondering how I could conceivably fill a three hour class and BTW, teach anything anyone wanted to learn.) Friends warned me against it, saying it would only interfere with my writing. But I did it anyway, because according to my devious plan, the very idea terrified me. I knew it was a good one. Ten years ago, I conquered that fear and I did not actually expire. I'm still teaching today. Sensing a pattern here?

It's been almost three years since I made the decision to apply to grad school after finding myself smack dab in the middle of an empty nest crisis. I did it with serious prodding from my DH (who understands my middle-child insecurities) but deep down, I relished a new challenge. And I thought it might be a good idea to have a backup plan for the future. Besides writing. Something that might involve a steady paycheck. Like teaching in a real college. So, I applied.

Then, I began to rationalize (Oh, yeah. This was part of the process.) "They won't take me." "I'm too old." "The low residency program is across the country from me. In Vermont. That's just crazy talk." No, I put the application in, I decided, and that was the scary part. I felt vindicated. Relieved. I'd done the hard thing.

Then one day as I was innocently listening to my cell phone messages, counting cracks in the sidewalk, I heard this:
"Hi, Barbara, this is P---, the program director at Goddard. I just called to say congratulations, you've been accepted into the Creative Writing MFA program starting in June..."

The rest I didn't hear. I think I said a four letter word.
By now, this sense of panic was familiar. But this time, I was so scared at the prospect I actually considered not calling him back. It took me two days to even tell my husband about it. But in the end, I did call the director back. And I accepted his acceptance. Because, did I mention? I'm a middle child.

Then, for the rest of the spring, I had a hard time sleeping.

Stay tuned for the stories of my Haunted Dorm Room and other grad school adventures. Meanwhile, inquiring minds want to know: Have you done anything to really scare yourself lately? I'd love to hear.

The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is...

Kathryn at Tender Graces asked this question today-- Who are you? How do you label yourself? And how do you validate yourself about what you do? Great topic, Kathryn!

This is a question that comes up with my students over and over. And to be honest, it's one that rears its ugly head with me as well. Students who struggle for years with their own writing wonder if they'll ever get published. I wonder if I'll find the level of success I want. It's easy to fall into the trap of comparing ourselves, our careers, our publishing advances with others. After all, most of my friends are writers. Published, unpublished, I've found that the way success looks on the outside doesn't always match what the writer feels on the inside.

One friend talked about making the New York Times for the first time and being elated. For a minute. Then she started to worry how long she'd stay there. Would her next book make it onto the NYT? And if it did, would it move up the list? Would she feel like a failure if it didn't? These fears are really no different from the ones unpublished writers have. Will I ever sell? Will this rejection be better than my last one? And if I win this contest, will it make me feel like a writer?

The line that we draw in the sand as our measure of success shifts constantly as we take steps toward our goals. We redraw the line and erase the one behind us. But why can't we be happy about our successes? Is it just human nature to forget what we've accomplished in favor of driving ourselves forward?

Maybe.

But here's what I know. Spending time worrying about things out of our control like publishing, sales figures, book lists and reviewers will only keep us from what we're really meant to do: To Write. Worry keeps us from putting our butt in the chair and doing the work. Fear freezes up creativity. It is the bogey-man of artistry. Whether you write, paint, compose, or do anything that fulfills you, Fear's only job is to stop you in your tracks. Most often, it comes in the form of small negative voices-- maybe the naysayers in our past-- who chip away at our confidence. But all we have control over is what we do. If we paint, we paint. If we write, we write. No one can take that away from us. And it cannot label us. Only we can know who we truly are.

And now a word from my Id (as in the Freudian neuroses to whom this post was really directed.) "That was very enlightened. But can we just readjust this sand line here a smidge?"

"No."

You see sometimes, I need to listen to my own advice. Thank you.

Easily Swayed

A couple of years ago, I decided to adopt a furry friend. Though we'd always had cats and for many years, a dog, they were all sweet memories now. I was officially in the dog camp now. I couldn't help myself when one would pass me on the street. I fell in love. Yes, I wanted a dog, preferably. One who would get me out of the house to walk, sit beside me as I wrote and make me laugh. My husband, David, wasn't as enthusiastic. He saw the writing on our (traveling) wall. Me, worrying about the dog. Me, with separation anxiety that always settled into my relationships with my dogs. Me, saying no to going out of town because of the dog... You get the idea.

But I was undeterred. I campaigned, I scoured shelters. I was determined.

Finally, I found a cute little mutt who needed a home. I twisted David's arm and dragged him to the shelter and tried not to notice he was lagging behind me, dragging his feet. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: "Wait til you see him. He has the cutest eyes. I think they're hazel."

Him: "Hey, look. A cat house. Let's go look in there first, just for fun."

Me: "But I want a dog."

Him: "We're just looking."

Me: (actually falling for this line) "Okay."

We prowled through the cat aisles. There were so many of them. Young, old, chubby, street-thin. One little tiny calico with a waist I could wrap my fingers around, peered lovingly up through the bars at me and meowed.

She was the most beautiful calico I'd ever seen. I nearly caved. But I steeled myself. I came for a dog. A DOG, understand?

We kept walking. And soon we saw a cage with a lump of a towel in the middle. No cat. Naturally, David had to see what was under the towel. That's just the way he rolls.

We weren't prepared. Nothing could have prepared us. Under the towel was a black and white long-haired beauty of a cat, hiding and madly sucking his thumb.

David had to have a closer look. He took him out of the cage. In the little private room, he cuddled him. I let him curl on my lap where he continued the thumb-sucking, and the paranoid glances up at us from under his inch-long lashes. And then, I was toast. His name was Sylvester and he was 11 1/2 years old. Who else would take this neurotic puddle of anxiety? He'd been raised with his brother (who had already been adopted away) and he was alone and scared. We had to have him. The note said "No Dogs. No other cats."

What??

That can't be right. He was raised with a brother. Look how he's missing him. I went back to the calico's cage. She looked deliciously up at me and meowed. She was a baby. 9 months old. If we were getting Sylvester, then we were also getting this one. This little girl for Sylvester. We weren't sure how it would work. But we hoped. I gave up on the idea of a dog. For now. I'm easy. Did I mention that?

We signed the papers. The little girl needed to be fixed. We would have to wait a couple of days. So we took Sylvester home alone. And he promptly disappeared. We found him under couch skirts, in closets, hiding amongst the towels in the pantry--sucking his thumb! Oh, dear.

Finally, the calico came home. We named her Maisy. We separated them by a door. Maisy meowed. Sylvester miraculously appeared from his distant, unrevealed hiding place. Sniffed under the door. Talked back to her in cat. She answered him. We opened the door.

A love story was born!

Sylvester and Maisy.

Maisy and Sylvester.

Picture them (music over) running in slow motion across a field of flowers toward one another... fur blowing in the wind!

They make me laugh.

It all couldn't have worked out better. Sylvester sits on my lap while I write and (of course) sucks his thumb. The long walks? Well, I have to do those on my own.

PS. That little mutt got adopted that same day by someone who is less of a cat cream puff than me.

Be good to yourself, Barbara

It's The Journey, Not The Destination. Right?

First, I wanted to thank all of you who stopped by and left such sweet comments on my last (uh, first) post, buzzing by from sweet Sarah's blog. I am thrilled to meet you, hear your thoughts and to visit some of your blogs--which I will continue to do as I go. Wow, this can really be addictive! You're all so interesting!

Years ago, (don't ask me how many) I found a book called "The Writer's Journey" by a guy who taught at UCLA Extension named Chris Vogler. It has since become something of a bible in the screenwriting world when it comes to developing structure and it was based on Joseph Campbell's 1000 page epic, "Hero With a Thousand Faces," which, if I had two hundred years, I might attempt to plow through.

Vogler's book ( a condensed version) was kind of life changing for me. It was all about myth and The Hero's Journey. You know...character arc and figuring out how characters change in your story? Anyway, there are these stages that characters go through--out of the darkness and into the light? It's all very riddled with adventure and angst! At least, that's the way it's supposed to go. His title, "The Writer's Journey," eluded me for a while. I was so distracted, figuring out how my characters could use this structure in my stories.

But as I embarked on this new empty-nest chapter of my life (ie.-- flapping like an under-feathered baby bird in the grass, crying "Mommmeeee!") it occurred to me one sleepless night as I channel-surfed mind-numbingly bad infomercials that I had just stumbled into my own Inmost Cave! My own Tests, Allies and Enemies! The inevitable Crossing the Threshold! (Sorry, that's Vogler-speak for the *&^% is about to hit the fan!) All that I knew to be true was about to be tested. I was up a tree and some nameless force was throwing rocks.

What? I'm a character in my own life?? Hmm. This was an interesting concept. And as I looked around me, I realized it was true. And not in any archetypal sense either. For real. And most of my friends had inadvertently stumbled into it, too. We were all suddenly in this weird scary place, smack dab in the middle of our lives and none of us could figure out where the light switch was. The trick was, how to get to the other side with the prize. My own personal prize--if I could find it--would be to be figure out who I was. This new me.

I began to plot my way out of this fix. I decided to be--(er, I contemplated being) proactive, like any good hero. (Okay--in the interest of full disclosure, my husband latched onto this new idea with the optimism of man whose last floatation device has just drifted by.) He literally sent me dozens of emails during the day full of possibilities for story lines, ideas for jobs, connections for jobs.... Finally, he ran into a friend who had just come back from this fabu place in Vermont where she'd apparently unleashed the inner Her! She had a One-Woman show going up that had been part of a project she'd done for this place. My husband forwarded me the web site. Then, an application. He was relentless.

So, of course, I did the next logical thing. I applied for Grad school.

Be kind to yourself--Barbara

WHEN THE MUSE AND THE EMPTY NEST COLLIDE

When I decided to do this blog, I contemplated what it would be about. I mean, it has to have some kind of focus, right? Had I started it a few years ago, the focus would have been my kids, my family and BTW, my writing. Not that writing wasn't important in my life then. It has been years since I sold my first book-- a romance novel for Zebra/Kensington.

When I began seriously writing, my daughter and son were little. So I put my desk in my living room, near the front window, where I could be part of things. Where I could see my kids as they ran in and out and, when on a horrid book deadline, give them a hug, or stop to talk about their days. I wasn't the kind of mom who said, "Don't bother me unless there's blood!" Because, frankly, blood makes me queasy and I always figured it was prudent to intervene before things got that far.

But back then, I knew who I was. I was a mom. My real job was to make sure my kids survived childhood. (Seriously.) And to make sure they were happy. Amazingly enough, they did grow up to be wonderful adults who are now off and running in their own lives. My son is following his dream in the film industry and my daughter and her darling husband just had a baby--our first grandchild! The little Boo. (see above)

Okay, now I'm totally distracted by the deliciousness in this picture....Sorry.

After my kids grew up, went off to college, there was this....long pause in my life. Those of you who've been through this know what I'm talking about: It was kind of a "Now, what?" moment. Or...a "What the hell?"moment. Okay, fine. It was a full-on identity crisis. Which was ironic, really, since I'd always thought my book writing would save me from that. I thought I'd know who I was because I had this whole writing career thing going... I'd breeze through, buck up and write. All would be well.

Could I have been more wrong? I don't think so.

My writing life skidded to a screeching halt. Not a word found its way to the computer screen. The blinking cursor mocked me. Repeatedly. I thought I'd give it some space. Allow myself to be in my empty-nestedness for a bit. Then I'd be okay. But the longer I went without writing, the harder it was to get back to it. I feared I'd never write again. This went on for a couple of years. My husband gave me foot-rubs and told me it would all be all right. (Did I mention that I love my husband?) But I still grappled with dark questions like: WHO AM I? And WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT, ALFI?

Then, in the grandest of ironies, writing saved me. Lifted me right up and cradled me against its bosom. Angels sang and clouds parted and my muse stepped right up and--

What? Oh, right. My muse has asked me to inform you that none of that is true. No bosom cradling was involved. A couple of shin kicks, a shiner, as I recall. Some other injuries I won't go into here. But the part about writing saving me is true. But it didn't happen without serious determination on my part. Some call being stuck like this writer's block. I don't really like that term. I think it's life-block, because if I'm so stuck I can't write, there are definitely other reasons why. It's not about the writing.

Did I mention I teach writing? No? The only reason I mention it is that I get to see from a completely different perspective why people stop writing or doing any creative thing they love. And believe me when I say, it's not because the muse stops talking. It's for other reasons. Reasons that are important to address and work through. Ignoring them simply aggravates them. So, deep down I knew this. I knew I had to take action before the whole thing got away from me and I slid down that slippery slope I'd seen so many of my students take who'd given up on themselves completely. And despite the old adage, "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach," I wasn't finished with writing yet. Besides, what good would I be as a teacher if I couldn't walk the walk, talk the talk...write the books?

(to be continued...)

Be good to yourself-- Barbara