Persist Without Exception

When I was completing my coursework for my doctoral degree, I had an inkling that I didn’t want to finish my dissertation. It was going to be a LOT of work, and, at that point, I had decided that I no longer wanted to be a full-time college professor, but wanted, instead, to focus on my kids, and work part time. But… I had a GINORMOUS school loan, and my mother, father and father in law had invested HOURS in my life babysitting so I could do homework. I knew that if I did quit I would have felt like a failure. I would have been a statistic. Apparently 90% of doctoral candidates quit after the coursework is complete. The dissertation is the hardest part. I had a helluva time writing my dissertation. I believe I went through 57 drafts. I won’t explain the problems I had with it, except that I had giant problems.

When I WANTED to quit, from every pore in my body I wanted to quit, I had my steadfast cheerleaders urging me on; Marie, doctoral student extraordinaire and now a professor at a college, let me vent and cry, and would say, “You CAN’T quit. You’ve got too much to say, too much to share.” She was definitely my It-sucks-but-you-can-do-this-and-I-love-you-regardless-of-what-you-decide-but-please-finish-it person. Benita, another amazing soul, and now also a professor at a college, was much more Girl-I’m-keeping-it-real. She would look me square in the eye and say, “I don’t care. Finish it. Don’t let all those people down.” To both, I would hem and haw and say, “I know, I know.” And then I’d go home and avoid my paper, cruise the internet, or blog. My blog writings hit my peak during this time. I wrote daily.

Failure was so imminent. I wanted to walk away and forget. But those school loans. Damn those school loans. And my kids. I could not look at my kids and tell them that “Yes, it is a good thing to quit.” That would be a lie.

Around this time, I started to pray again. I sincerely wanted God to tell me “Quit. I command it.” And dammit, he never did. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. I knew that I was learning some powerful lessons in graduate school: Humility. Grace. Kindness. I was, I am, a very proud person. Completing my dissertation pretty much broke me down to my core until I was nothing. I had no shell. My walls had been broken and all that stood there was my core.

I discovered my core is made of platinum. Wind, rain, snow, sleet, hail may pour down, I may get blasted, and I get dingy and scratched, but I stand.

Dammit. I stand.

I heard a lecture given by Andy Andrews and the one thing I took with me every day that I looked at the pieces of my dissertation (and cried) was “Cease without exception.” In his lecture and his book, The Travelers Gift, Andy Andrews says to Not Quit. Ever. Never ever. If you want something, if you have to do something, do it, without exception. Stand up, sit down, write, run, knock on doors, make phone calls, whatever it is you have to do to finish, PERSIST WITHOUT EXCEPTION. It is the only way to glory.

I did this. I wanted that damn degree. If only to validate the size of my loans. I persisted.

I was told by my professor upteen times to rewrite and revise, and when I finally stopped trying to impress and just kept it simple, when I just DID THE WORK, when I took my ego out of the whole thesis, she said, “This is great! Finally!” I think she was a happy about it as I was. Lord knows she was there every step of the way.

But the process, the damn process, it broke me down, leveled me, made me a destroyed mess of rubble and mud. I showed up at the finish line a battered wreck, so that when they told me “Congratulations Doctor,” I could only exhale, and weep.

Persist without exception. You finish tired and exhausted, but you finish. Pride becomes something different at this point. Pride becomes one of “I did it, and I do not care what you say or what you think, because I DID it.”

It has become common for friends and family to refer to me as “Doc” now. It makes me smile, but I know in my heart I did not do the work for the title. I did it to avoid failure.

The rest is just glory.

(Read more of Andy Andrews decisions for life at http://www.andyandrews.com/downloads/pdf/AA_SevenDecisions.pdf )

Stop

Stop the whining and do the work.

Waiting on your approval

I’ve spent the last few days choosing a purpose for what I’m doing. I’ve been writing–kinda. Writing other things and not at all focusing on my novel, except to submit it to a workshop I would like to attend. I read my novel, and it feels separate from me. It doesn’t feel like *I* wrote it, rather it feels like something I am reading and just trying to enjoy.

But I am hesitant and anxious to see if I am accepted to this workshop. My rational mind says, “Workshops are unnecessary. What matters is the work of writing. There are no shortcuts to that.”

My less-evolved emotional mind says, “Your entire potential career rests on if you get accepted or not.” And I know that is unclear thinking. I know that no one determines my life, except me.

My entire life I’ve lived waiting on approval. I think I was a student for eons because in that role, I was always told “You are good.” I’ve never suffered failure.

I took a modern poetry class with a professor from Harvard once. I was terrified, because 1.) it was modern poetry, and 2.) the dude was from Harvard. For our final paper, we had to write a 12 page thesis about some poet and their poems and make a logical, cogent argument. My feedback on that paper was “You took a difficult stance and for the most part you’ve done a decent job defending it. Much better than I expected.” I got an A. I remember that comment because it was as if both the professor and I knew that I was, in fact, a sham (I was the only non-English major or MFA student).

That comment meant something to me. It meant a great deal. It meant that I had exceeded this professor’s, FROM HARVARD, expectations. Maybe he had very low expectations, but my paper wasn’t entirely marked up and vilified. I felt like I had really passed. I felt like I could stand my ground.

Now, again, I wait to see if I pass. This is a shitty way to live life. I wonder if I can make a career of this? Writing something, letting my fingers bleed, and wait on feedback?

I tell my students that life is not either/or, life is not this versus that. There are different perspectives but they are not “bad” nor are any “evil”.

Philosophically, I do not believe in yin and yang. What I believe in is a continuum–the further you get from goodness and light, the easier it is for the darkness to creep in and take over, but the darkness will not win. The darkness will not rule. The darkness is just distance from what is bright and true.

Life is not pass/fail.

Life is “how close do you choose to stand to Truth?”

This is how I should approach any writing endeavor.

Naked

These last 48 hours have been odd.

I received two rejections for different pieces I’ve submitted. Well, okay, I received one actual rejection, the other hasn’t had any response, but I can read the writing on the wall.
But there is something within me telling me to press on and write.

I sat and thought today about what I want to do with this blog, and what my fears are and if I am strong enough to face them without any battle armor. Because the truth of the matter is that when you write, you stand naked in front of people. And not only do you stand naked in front of people, you stand there in your god given suit in front of readers. Readers blast it all! The most educated, curious, and gawking group there is!

You let them see your bulges, your wrinkles, and the saggy parts of your skin that are no longer taut and dewy. You expose it all. In fiction you do this through character—but most intelligent readers realize that the really good authors, the ones who willingly undress on their pages, are a little “off”. They call this genius, but what they really want to say is “You are odd. But thank you for saying that because I did not have courage enough to stand naked, like you, in a room full of people wearing winter coats.”

For the writer, it’s all a bunch of show. Parading naked and begging, crying, pleading for people to look at your dilapidated mess,and like it. Like it! Blast it all! You want people to like your writing. You want it to make them think, you want to create images that will last in their memory. So, you glam up your writing with verbs and nouns. You try, try, try to not use adjectives. You bejewel your writing with concrete imagery. Jewels, make-up, a really great hair do, are things you do to feel less naked. To give you balls enough to put the words on the page and to let someone else read those words.

Naked is hard. Especially if you are out of shape. Especially if you doubt the size of your important parts.

And it is excruciating when you stand there naked and no one bothers to even gander at you.

This is the most deplorable thing of all.

“I’m NAKED here.”

“Thanks, but we’re not interested.”

In spite of this, I will write. Naked. Let my tummy pooch over my waist, let my thighs show some dimples. Maybe I’ll use more oil, make myself shinier. Maybe I’ll shave better, and make things a bit more proper, but whatever I do, I’ll muster the courage to walk out into that room of readers, lift my arms over my head and say “Here I am!” Because in writing, naked really is beautiful, lumps and all.

Battle armor is for wussies, not for writers.

Chickened out, grabbed a pen and paper, sat down and I wrote this song

Last week I called a friend to get perspective on a life decision I am trying to make. Essentially the question is whether I “follow my dream,”  and scrimp and squeak by, or if I return to full time work (which I also thoroughly enjoy) and pay off debt.

Now the problem with option #2 is that I am not superwoman and I know that my dream will take the backseat again as I focus on my responsibilities of family and work.
Is this so wrong?

I honestly have no idea.

On the one hand it is honorable to pay the bills and put food on the table, and work in an honorable career (teaching).

On the other hand, I would like my children to learn that do something relentlessly, in the face of rejection, is worth ten times more than gold.

Here is the dilemma. I am a good teacher and I love teaching. It took me a long time to own this truth. Perhaps I am not the most phenomenal, but I am good. There is a decent career to be had in teaching. I also went to school for upteen years to be a good teacher. But… it is not that “if you could do anything you want, what would it be?” goal. I’m wondering if that statement is a bunch of hogwash and if it derails you into a state of perennial discontent.

I love writing. Well, let me clarify that… writing is excruciating. To find pockets of time to sit and write is difficult with a home to clean, children to bathe, and errands to run. I also cannot write in pockets. I need caves. Giant caves of time that are dark and quiet, when the world disappears and I forget what the sun feels like. Caves that let the demons dance and the creatures come out to drink, because it is the demons and the creatures that make any story mesmerizing and haunting. This is how I write—disconnected, distant, and removed from demands.

In these moments, when I do find time to write, I am never confronted with writers block, instead I am confronted with “Whom the bloody hell cares about what you have to say?”

Writing feels profoundly selfish.
Egotistical.
Vain.
It is so hard to sit and write and compose while the voices in your head tell you, “You are crap.” Confronting that beast takes a mighty sword. The pen is so very heavy to pick up.
Self doubt. Ridicule. Fear.
These things trip me up and make me question every story I want to tell.

A character walked into my head today. He is a time traveling bigot. Interesting idea, I think. Whenever we think of time travel, we think of improving the world and state of events. This character has a different goal. He wants to just travel back in time and be a bastard to everyone.

Now, that’s a character, and he probably has a decent story.
But I lack the courage, time, and resolve to trust myself to write his story.
Pity.
Bastards can be such fun to create.

I think I may be a writer though, because I am constantly composing. I have taken up knitting, and I find it to be a perfect side hobby for me because as I knit, I am free to compose, and write in my head. But to say “I am a writer,” takes a lot more gumption than saying “I am a teacher.” I feel like an imposter in this writing field. In teaching, I can stand my ground.

What is the point of this post? Who bloody knows? Who bloody cares? I guess it’s because I’m trying to sort out which is best… to do what is good, and honorable, or that which is hard and selfish?

I haven’t a clue. All’s I know is, I want to write… AND put food on the table.

“Good luck,” says the clanging voice in my head. “Good friggin luck.”

[Title comes from Barenaked Ladies "What a Good Boy". You can see the video here.]

Who Are You?

My children have a tendency to watch television, and fight over which character they think they are. “I’m Alvin.”
“I’m Carly.”
“I’m Andre.”
“I’m Spongebob.”

It doesn’t matter if they are watching a 30 minute sitcom, or a 2 hour movie, they each choose someone they “are”.

I find this so very familiar. I distinctly recall doing the same thing with my friend Jennifer and her twin brother Jeff. We’d watch shows, and among the three of us, we’d define the role for each of us, and then those roles were set. In stone. Forever. Watching re-runs of the Monkees, I somehow became Davy Jones because he was the shortest and I was the shortest. Watching the Nickelodeon show, Kids Writes, I was Carlos, because he was short and Mexican and I was short and Mexican (we weren’t at all racist). But we did this for every bloody show we watched. I recall wanting to be Bill Murray’s character in Ghostbusters (both the movie and the requisite cartoon) because he was snarky and cool, and in many ways I was snarky. Jeff was Egon, at least I think he was Egon. And Jen didn’t care for Ghostbusters so it didn’t matter one way or the other. Though I think she was Dan Akroyd because he was kind and naive. Regardless… we would all say “I’m so and so.”

Now, my kids do this.

What’s funny is that I see still grown ups (myself included) doing this. I see people the world over trying to figure out who they are. I remember when I joined Facebook, the then popular rage was to take quizzes to figure out which Harry Potter character you were, or Twilight character, or Disney Princess, or what color you were, vegetable, song, planet, and on and on.

We want to take a quiz, watch a show, go to church, read a book, listen to a song, choose a major, read a blog, and say “That is SO me. I mean honest to God, THAT is me.”

Can’t we write the story, the character, they lyrics ourselves?

How is it that we live in our bodies and minds day in and day out, but we have no clue who we really are? Why is the world so noisy and why do we care so much about what it says?

It’s damn terrifying to sit quietly and figure out who you are without the clamor of the world intruding.

I write this because my kids, MY KIDS, haven’t a clue who they are. How do I teach them that?

This is a new goal for me, a new purpose in life if you will, teaching my children, my beautiful, soul-filled, curious children, that they are enough.

They do not need to be anyone else.

They are enough.

When the world is quiet and your soul nudges your heart, who does it say you are?

Fasting

A few years ago I went on a complaining fast, and just decided I didn’t need extra negative energy in my life. When I stopped complaining, I noticed how often others complained and Lord, have mercy, people are complainers. My fast made me conscious of what, when, and why I felt the need to complain. I hoped this type of fast would be a magic cure for happiness. It wasn’t. I still have to work with dogged determination for happiness. I’m just not a pie in the sky person. I’m much more reflective and thoughtful and inquisitive. When you sit and think all the damn time, a state of happiness just kinda gets pushed aside. 

I’ve decided to fast two things this year: Worry and Food. 

Worry-When I was taking yoga, I learned how to sit in uncomfortable situations and not try to do anything with it, just sit there and feel all the ICK without judgment. This was a powerful lesson. I also learned how to focus your thoughts. When you think about something, you just think about it more and more, and I was going through a situation where I did not want to deliberately think about it, so I allowed myself 20 minutes to sit and spew and cry and worry, and after the 20 minutes, whenever the thing I didn’t want to think about entered my mind, I said, “I’ll think about it tomorrow,” and changed my thought pattern. 

This pushed away all the ICK into manageable processing–I found myself not so consumed with my problem and I was able to figure out exactly what was wrong. Perhaps it was a bit of self-brainwashing. I don’t know, but it helped. 

Now, I shall broaden this mind trick to a bigger venture: Worry. Whenever I find myself worrying currently, I pray. I learned this from Philippians 4:6,7. Yet, I still worry. This year, I’ll focus on not even worrying. I’ll just change my thought pattern. Sounds easy. I’m positive it won’t be.

Food-I’m getting over a horrific cold I’ve had for the past two weeks. In the process, I’ve dropped about six pounds. Yes, I need food, but really only for nourishment and to get things done. I LOVE food, especially fried and fatty foods, covered in cheese. I love carbs, and sugar, and grease. Yumm-o. I’m not choosing to give up these foods, rather, I’m just choosing to only eat when I’m hungry. 

I’ve been thinking about this. Food is just fuel and medicine. It is not something that should be hoarded or obsessed about; food should bring us joy, but not to the point where we feel sick. Many times I mindlessly eat. I’m all about texture, and I like soft, gooey foods (chocolate cake, enchiladas, mashed potatoes, cheese fries) but if this is all I eat, and compound it with mindlessness, I’m pretty much setting myself up for disaster. 

I have tastebuds that love fat (don’t we all?), and a stomach that is repulsed by it. I have to eat these foods in moderation, lest I’m on the toilet for 48 hours straight (which has happened more times than I can count). A friend said, “This is good. You’ve got a built in defense mechanism against obesity. At least you get sick. I just gain weight.” Maybe it is a blessing. Who knows? 

Back to my point… these last two weeks, I’ve eaten about one meal a day, and that’s just when I take an ibuprofen so I don’t get ulcers. I’ve not been hungry because I’ve just been sitting on the couch doing nada. Not eating has amazingly resulted in weight loss (sarcasm). 

I can understand the science that says we should eat six small meals a day. But I really think I only need to eat when I’m hungry. There are days when I’m just not hungry, and days when I eat everything in the house. I also have nights when I sleep 10 hours, and nights when I sleep only five. Your body constantly adapts to any given situation. 

So, my fast with food… only eat when hungry. This will be a new mind trick to learn. And how amazingly spoiled we are that we can eat anything and everything we want, whenever we want, and then feel deprived when we can’t feed our impulsive desires. Seems like the pinnacle of self-centeredness to me. 

I am not a planner

I just cannot do it. I cannot plan. It overwhelms me. 

I can organize and I can figure out how to get somewhere. I can map things out. I can get from Point A to Point B, but I can’t plan. My throat tightens with all the things that need to be done and things start getting hazy, my head gets light-headed, and I just want to run away.

When I was getting my masters, we were given an assignment of planning a dream vacation. I chose the Mediterranean, and I think my itinerary included: 1.) Go to the beach and 2.) Eat dinner. That was about all I could do. I had a slew of beautiful pictures but no agenda. I’d rather just get there and see what happens. Perhaps this is why it took me almost a decade to finish my doctorate. I didn’t plan it out too well. One day, I just sat down to do the work, and didn’t get back up until four months later. This is how I do things. What needs to be accomplished? Nose to the grind until it’s done. It is not at all a balanced approach to life. (I think this is why I can plan parties, though. Parties are just one big project.)

If you ever call me on a given day, and I sound bitter, it’s because I have more than 4 appointments that day and my day is too structured. Nothing drives me crazier than an entirely structured day. I cannot stand it.

So, let me tell you about my recent experience. It’s 2012. I think, “Maybe writing some goals will help me.” I write

Family 

Health

Nutrition 

Career

Writing

I wrote about five things in the Family list and wanted to cry. There were easy things in that list, things like Technology Free Sunday and Family Game Night, and work on Scrapbooks, etc., but then my chest tightened, I got to thinking about WHAT IF I HAVE TO DO SOME WORK ON SUNDAY?!? and all my ridiculous neuroses kicked in. I deleted everything and began to write this. 

I cannot write goals. I cannot plan. I’m not balanced. I think the people who can are oddballs. 

Instead I focus with laser intensity on one thing and do that until it’s finished, feels right, or until I’m bored. 

This is me. The non-planner. 

I’m at Point B right now trying to figure out how to get Point C. Need a map, but don’t want a plan. I just think life is better that way. Don’t you? Or are you an oddball? 

 

 

Showboating

I suppose I should preface this post with the fact that I’m getting the flu, I’m homesick, and I am having a blue Christmas.

That said.

Driving my children around town to look at Christmas lights, I noticed a common thing I had never paid much attention to–very few people decorate the back of their houses for Christmas. I’ve seen houses that could compete with Clark Griswold’s and I’ve seen the obligatory one-string-light-in-the-windowpane, and they are all lovely. I truly enjoy driving around town looking at lights, but this made me think.

Why don’t people decorate the back of their houses?

I’m never in the backyard? It’s too expensive? No one will see it?

Precisely my point. We showboat and beautify that which others will notice. We pay little attention to that which doesn’t get scrutinized.

Verily I say unto you… shine your light in the dark corners. Pay attention to the areas of neglect. Let Christmas be about your entire house, inside, out, back, front, even if it’s just a single string.

Christmas isn’t about lights, and music, and festivity. I think it’s about goodwill toward men, and if you are going to do something for the goodwill of others, be so kind as to include yourself.

We do the work today

 I attended the Highlights Workshop this past summer and I’ve not written about my experiences because I’ve wanted to bottle my memories, keep them safe (my precious), and not unearth them until it is time to do so. Now, I think it might be time.

At that workshop, I met some many great people, some many wonderful authors, and I listened with intent. My mentor, Mitali Perkins, was kind, gracious, and encouraging. I told her I had little faith in my writing, but I had a bit of confidence in the story that had been knocking around in my head for almost a decade. She gave me great confidence, and helped me find a kernel of pride to finish my story.

I returned home, and had to finish my dissertation. My dissertation is complete and now I’ve decided to write my novel.

Last week, I went out of town.

This week, I’m out of town again.

Yesterday I decided to clean my house from top to bottom. I scrubbed the floor on my hands and knees. I vacuumed my van. I hosed my front entryway. I started to organize my closets.

I went to bed feeling very clean, worn, and content.

I woke up disgruntled and as if I was avoiding a very large task. A phrase Candy Fleming said to me (us?), during the workshop keeps singing in my head: ”We do the work today.”

Today I have not worked on my novel. Instead I am blogging about how I *should* work on my novel, and I do not know what makes me so afraid.

I have shared my so-far written story with about 7 people: Mike, Mitali, Candy, Wendy, Cour (who actually read a backstory), Rachel, and Jeff. (Oh, and Eric Rohmann read it too, but that’s because he’s Candy’s mate and not so much because he asked to read it.)

I suppose if we say it, if we write it, purge it, we can face it. We can own it. We can shred it. So, I’ll write out my fear:

I am afraid to write a very decent story in a crappy way.

I trust my characters. I clearly hear their voices.

I understand the plot.

I get the motives.

I just do not think I can string two words together coherently.

But, today, I will do the work.

After I put the kids to bed.