The family thing... the holiday thing...

Must be the holidays...

Because family issues are bubbling to the surface for some folks.

And I'm here to tell you, YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

(At least in the past, you weren't alone. I was right there with ya).

Things have change a whole lot since then. (Thank God). But I can't tell you how many Xmases I wanted to spend either working or with my head in the sand (or my hand around a bottle of Jack Daniels) because stress levels were going to shoot higher than dropping a 25 lb turkey into a vat of gravy.

It was always just a matter of time.

The closer we got to the big day, the greater the barometric pressure rose. It usually resulted in some nasty thing or other happening to me. To make matters worse, Xmas happens to land on my birthday.

Yep. Me and the big JC are like twins.

Double whammy.

But no matter. life is good now. Yet, old habits and old fears can be a bitch to break.

I'll never forget the first 'normal' Xmas we had. Me and the boys were now on our own and had been invited to my son's girlfriend's house for a drink. We sat around, having polite conversation amid decorations and presents and most of all, a civility that was foreign to us coming from an abusive household.

When it was over and we were driving home, son #2 turned to me and said:

"That was really weird."

I said,"It was nice wasn't it?"

He said, "That's what I mean, it was really weird. I can't handle it."

I said, "We're going to have to retrain ourselves on what it feels like to be normal. This was good for us. Yeah, it was weird. But remember, it's not suppose to be. It's just weird to us, because we're used to being terrorized."

He said, "I don't want to do it again".

And the other two boys chimed in: "Same here. I'm not doing that again".

It has taken us almost fourteen years to start feeling the least bit normal. And we still have that initial knee-jerk reaction to Xmas.

And this year, when I caught myself falling into the old pattern based on a past that no longer exists, I decided to put the humbug away and decorate my place with vim and vigor while listening to Xmas tunes non-stop.

And you know what? It worked.

By the end of the day, I was feeling positively stellar.

Because there is no past, except in our memories. All we have is the NOW. It's all we ever have. And it's the only place where we can make a difference regarding what happened to us and change our destiny - the very course and quality of our lives - for BETTER.

We all deserve to be loved, to be safe, to just "be". It's an unconditional benefit, an entitlement to being human.

You don't have to earn it. It's a God-given right.

All you need is a little courage. So choose wisely. And choose now.

This post is for the lovely person who had the courage to send in a comment beneath the post "Dealing with mother issues"...

Have yourself a very Merry Xmas.

And do it your way.:)

Reinventing the Art of Dreaming Big - PART II

To give you a tiny background of the goings on with my literary agent over the last two years, it went something like this:

She was excited to take me on as a client (woohoo)! (3rd week of September)

She was equally excited (aka overwhelmed) because she had been made a junior partner at the agency, was getting married the following weekend, going on a honeymoon and then moving to a new condo with hubby upon her return.

Uh-oh. Someone's got a lot on their plate.

We spoke on the phone exactly twice - the first time, she had many plans for my book - the first of which was to pitch it at a publisher's market in Europe at the end of October.

(woohoo x 2)!

The second time we spoke on the phone, she got me mixed up with someone else and didn't remember my particular project. She also denied ever having discussed the convention in Europe. "How could it possibly be ready"?

I reminded her that I had not simply sent her my non-fiction proposal but had actually finished the entire manuscript before I even approached them for representation.

Which told me that she hadn't even read it.

(Double Uh-oh. Someone doesn't give a shit).

But, she assured me she would polish up my proposal and send it out in November.

(deflated woohoo!)

Fine.

End of November, her email:

"I'm not going to send out your proposal until after Xmas because everyone is starting to go on holidays and besides publishers have already spent their budget for the year. But first thing in January..."

Okay. I'm not happy, but I'm buying the argument. I didn't have the guts to ask her if she even read it yet. The proposal was good enough for her. I guess it's good enough for me.

End of January, her email:

"Okay, I've sent it out! Fingers crossed!"

I'm happy. Hopeful. Patient.

six months later, still nothing. I send a follow-up email. She responded with this:

"One publisher rejected it on the grounds that there wasn't a big enough market for a book on Internet dating... a second publisher rejected it on the grounds that the market was already saturated with too many books on Internet dating, so if you have anything else to send us, feel free!"

(Triple uh-oh. My book is dead in the water).

Now I'm demoralized.

I can't write much of anything for a few months. But I was working full-time and throwing around ideas - maybe I need to do something... different?

Eventually, I start working on another book - a completely different genre for a completely different audience - upper middle school, fiction.

But something didn't feel right.

I can't wrap my head around the fact that I had gotten loads of positive feedback on my first book and that Internet dating is the 3rd largest revenue producer on the Internet.

Not a big enough market? I think not. Saturated? Given my platform, my research, and the numbers, impossible. That's like saying there are enough restaurants in the world so nobody should bother starting a new one.

Food and Love. Both are necessities.

But my self-esteem had taken a huge hit. Not because of the rejections, but because of how it played out. And now I was doubting my writing. Not the process... but my actual ability to write ANYTHING.

After all, if my lit agent couldn't be bothered to read the damn thing, then how interesting could it have been?

A few months later I get an email:

"Good news! I will be going on mat leave in two weeks! So excited to be introducing a new member to our household. The owner of the lit agency will be taking on all my clients so if you have anything new to send him, please do so." Best, A.

Official end of story.

It had been a year and a half since she had first taken me on.

I never got a real report, never got proof that she sent anything anywhere, and she never touched base with me as a human being. Had I not initiated contact sporadically, I would have disappeared in her files.

Which I in effect, did.

So I waited. Again. Maybe the new agent would have something to say. He was after all, the owner.

Silence.

But I was under contract. If by some miracle, I could get this thing off the ground myself, they were entitled to their 15% whether they did anything or not.

The other argument I considered was that it's bloody hard to get an agent.

And I was on the verge of terminating my contract.

I have to be honest here. The thought of giving up something that was hard to retain in the first place was scaring the shit out of me.

On the other hand, what kind of power did they have on me psychologically?

But before I cut the umbilical cord of my literary career, I decided to send the new agent/owner an email asking if he was looking into my file or was planning on doing anything with the book.

When he responded with "Nope. She did her best", I sent an email asking him how I could go about officially getting out of my contract. "Do I send a letter, etc."?

His response was:

"Your email was good enough. Consider yourself out of a contract. Best of luck with your work".

Wow. That was WAY easier than getting them to actually DO anything. And what an awesomely FAST response!

All told, I was 2 months shy of a stagnating two year relationship with this agency.

I never grieved for a moment over the loss of what has grown in reputation as a hot and impossible commodity - the elusive literary agent.

I felt nothing but great and grand relief. And a renewed possibility in this project, and in myself.

I felt my sense of personal power returning. I was now in control of my own destiny again. And if I fell flat on my face, it wasn't going to be because someone else was in charge.

I kinda like being responsible for my own screw-ups. Or my successes.

And in the end, I realized that it wasn't the success or failure of my book that mattered most...

Yes, it's about hard work, perseverance (and to some extent, destiny)...

But mostly, it's about THE FEELING...

Sustaining the right FEELING, paying attention to what you are FEELING, to the messages those FEELINGS are sending you, might be the single most important factor that determines the quality of your life.

But I am starting to get that FEELING back...

And here, is that FEELING in progress...

www.cyberlovemuse.com

Reinventing the Art of Dreaming Big - PART I

It's been a crazy, long time since I've blogged...

And by now I realize that excuses don't mean squat. My good friend and fellow blogger Jim Makichuk started blogging just after I did, but with one big difference - he's as consistent as a healthy egg-laying hen.

Hats off to you Jim.

And it isn't because his life is all peaches n' cream or that he doesn't suffer the ups and downs of his profession. God knows we are all subject to the vicissitudes of life regardless of where we work, what we do, whether we're independently minded, or makes volumes working for a corporation. I'm sure Steve Jobs wasn't perky or motivated every day of his life either.

But consistency is key to success in any endeavor.

I spent half my summer contemplating my existence, asking myself how I was to get out of the doldrums of non-creativity and sink my teeth into something that actually meant enough to me that I would do something about it. And that's when it happened...

I fired my agent.

After nearly two years of essentially non-communication with my literary agent, I did the unthinkable and felt damn good about it.

In the last I would say, 30 years or so, agents have taken on a different slant than ever before. With more people writing books than they can handle, not only do they have their pick of talent, but rather than work from a premise of faith in the author and their product (based of course on the agent's professional opinion), roles have reversed.

You have to prove yourself FIRST before anyone wants to waste their time with your work. Which means you have to be up on tech-friendly self-promotional techniques and hope at some point that you go VIRAL.

I love this term. It has reinvented the Art of Dreaming Big.

Now, once your blog/website/youtube video/podcast gets so many hits, you are considered hot commodity. I think the standard number is 10,000. That when heads slowly start to turn. Before that, you might as well be invisible. 10,000 ebooks, 10,000 blog followers... for youtube videos, I think it's even more...

That doesn't mean everything that goes viral is quality-driven, nor does it mean it will prove itself worthy of a long career (think reality TV stars) but what it does, is get you noticed.

For me, becoming well-acquainted with the bells and whistles of technology poses its challenges, but that's okay.

More and more, I am learning that life is more about keeping the flame alive inside, of remembering what triggers your passions and keeps you on the lighter side of life, than it is about going viral.

More about what I've been up to in the next blog.
Stay with me.
I think I've just found my guts again.

I have to stop eating WHAT? - part 2 - and the decision to Hello Kitty

Since my last post, I've had 3 acupuncture sessions and done my VERY best to stay on the food diet Dr. Pins n' Needles put me on - sadist that she is.

The following is a list of foods I can no longer eat (at least for a while): no red meat, pork, dairy, animal fat, vegetable fat, wheat, chocolate, beer, wine, or alcohol of any kind. And NO SUGAR or foods with artificial flavors or colors.

It's a boring palate. Which explains why I fell from grace (moderately of course): 6 glasses of red wine, 3 margaritas, two beers, champagne, 2 glasses of white, a slice of pizza, feta on everything, a hot dog, fries (and gravy), a lemon cake, a bag of chocolate eggs and crab dipped in enough melted butter to worry all the pastry chefs in the world that there might be a shortage if I keep it up.

Oh dear...

What started as a perfectly acceptable short list (in the interest of denial) turned into an embarassingly detailed confession.

But that was only week 2. I was a saint for the first 10 days, I swear. I'll get back on track. And really, I have loads to celebrate. For one thing, I now own a cat.

Don't ask me why. I don't even know why.

It's possible I'm having a mid-life crisis and I'm replacing any dwindling ambition I might have with something fun and furry that will provide me with the perfect excuse not to burn the candle at both ends, (which I am apt to do) but I don't know for sure.

All I know is I woke up possessed one Sunday morning with the specific goal of coming home with a furry beast and then begged an unsuspecting accomplice to accompany me so I wouldn't change my mind.

Perhaps I simply wanted a non-human to teach me the long lost art of relaxation once and for all. And just for the record, I wasn't going to pick up any old stray. But whatever plans I originally had to drive up and down the streets of a sleepy suburb fell short when I realized catnapping was a federal offense.

No. I had to do this right. I would let the feline pick me.

Whatever stray liked me enough to follow me around and rub himself up against me was going to be swimming in Friskies for the rest of his (or her) life - as long as he wasn't too needy.

I was after all, still a commitaphobe and sharing my space without wanting to banish him to the hall or couch every night was going to take some deep breathing exercises and maybe a few Xanax.

But if no cat chose me, then I had my answer. I wasn't about to pick someone I had to support without some entertainment value or reciprocal cuddleability. I was prepared to stay single.

This had to be a mutual relationship.

And pick me, he did. What's more, he's a 'chill' cat. As a bonus, he's a social cat and likes everybody. And he could care less about toys, which means I don't have to entertain him.

Bonus.

If he wasn't a cat, I might have just described my perfect boyfriend.

His name is Rodin (after the French sculptor) but I call him Pumpkin. Which makes no sense because he's black and looks like a little panther and I don't think anyone who saw a panther in the wild would ever be inclined to call it 'Pumpkin'.

'Killer' maybe, or 'Zorro' but never 'Pumpkin'.

Nevertheless, he's 7. Which in people years, makes us about the same age. It's a match made in heaven. He wants to lay around on me all day long and I like the feeling of a hot water bottle.

What's more, he'd been living in the shelter for 4 years. His owner had to give him up because she was diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor. She was young, and with two small children still at home.

That story pretty much sealed it for me.

Anyway. Whatever possessed me to seek him out follows the same line of reasoning that is also possessing me when it comes to my health.

I think it has to do with being in the feel good stage of life. Whatever short (or long) term plan can improve the quality of my life is going to garner some serious attention whether it's a pet or a diet.

The same goes for choosing friends. Or Work. Even a partner.

Maybe, especially that.

Suffering is out of the question. I've done enough of that.

So for now, acupuncture it is. (And with it, the damn diet that in spite of my complaints, makes me feel ten years younger).

And of course, Hello Kitty.

I have to stop eating WHAT?! Part 1

My body is like a car that hasn't had an oil change in a VERY LONG TIME but runs just fine thank-you-very-much so "put that George Foreman grill back where it belongs pal"!

Yeah, you know what I'm talkin' about. And furthermore, you know who you are.

Most of those who dare to claim oil-change-diligence do so only AFTER they learned it the hard way.

Most people can think of at least one car they royally abused in their wanton youth.

The typical case involves a hormone-blinded pubescent, driven to neglect the maintenance needs of their vehicle (or God forbid, their mom's car) so they can use the cash they saved to buy enough gas, beer, and cigarettes to last the weekend and then drive all over town to pick up enough friends to break a Guiness world record.

Even the Diabetes Association won't pick up your red chevette after that.

ahem

The typical person treats their body the same way...

Except instead of saving money, it's more about being in denial - of your age, your mortality and most of all, the knowledge that you will have to devote some time (and give up some things) to maintain a status quo of general health.

But deny we do...

And just because no little light goes on to warn you it's time for an oil change, doesn't mean you don't need one.

Today, as I sat at my new acupuncturist's office, pen poised, ready to fill out my health complaint form I thought to myself;

You know I don't really need this appointment considering I've been going to the gym, but it did take me three months to get in, so I might as well follow through and write shit down. After all, I've got fifteen minutes to kill and this is going to take me all of FIVE - if I write slowly AND use good penmanship AND pause thoughtfully, AND use complete sentences.

sigh. WHATEVER. Quit your internal whining and just do it.

scribble scribble scribble.....pause....jot jot jot....pause.... jot some more.... feel beads of sweat begin to form... write more frantically..... aw to hell with my penmanship....! weep quietly.... completely and utterly defeated...

Twenty minutes later, I hear my name.

"Ms. Alexander, the doctor will see you now".

I look up at her with the same wild look a raccoon has when it's been caught eating garbage."But I don't have enough time! You people didn't give me ENOUGH TIME"!

She smiled at me sympathetically as if she'd seen all this before, then looked down at the illegible chicken scratch on my page.

What started out as elegant calligraphy turned into what looked like someone's last will and testament written by a gangrine-infested hand using a piece of charcoal while clinging to life on driftwood in the open sea.

"Don't worry, you can explain it all to the doc when you see her."

Or, I thought to myself, I could high tail it out that door right now and no one would be the wiser...

But like someone who knows they've gone too far, there was no turning back now.

Head hung low, I walked the green carpet to her office and sat patiently, reflecting on the bad deeds I had done....

If only I had changed the oil in my car...

The genius of Hugh Macleod

I recently read a quote by Tim Burton in a book by Hugh Macleod called Ignore Everybody - and 39 others keys to creativity. .

Burton said something to the effect of If you have the creative bug, it's never going to go away so you better get use to it and do something about it.

And if you've never read any creative or social truisms by Macleod, I suggest you check out his blog gapingvoid.com or buy one of his books.

Because anyone with a creative inclination is in the same boat. If you've EVER had the tiniest desire to create something, ANYTHING - be it a doodle, a crafty object, novel, painting, or an inventive leftover meal - you soon realize there's something addictive about the need to express yourself.

What's more, that feeling NEVER GOES AWAY no matter how much you ignore it or try and tell yourself that life would be easier if it just didn't matter.

Because the truth is, it does.

And even when you manage to leave it behind for a few days, weeks, months or even years, (like I did for sixteen years while I was in a very difficult marriage) it still finds its way back. Like a recurring zit. Or eczema. Or a recurring dream. Or winter in the 'Peg.

So for the last few days, (okay more like weeks), I've been what I call 'gearing up' for the big push where I get to put all my other obligations aside emotionally and devote my energy solely to my writing.

My golden child. The chalice of truth. My raison d'etre.

So much for balance. And yet, without it, I feel the scales tip towards a life of mediocrity and the stagnation that comes with adhering to the status quo.

But am I to assume that life will suddenly be on hold for me? At least long enough to get that one Jack Kerouac acid-induced spurt where I will spew out the entire contents of one novel in a single sitting? Or maybe I can do it on coke like King. (Except King could do it with or without drugs or alcohol, I'll give him that).

For me? I figure all I need is a little peace and quiet. A break from the guilt of parenting kids I really don't need to parent anymore but use as a crutch to excuse my lack of resolve. (Discipline I have. Habit, I do not).

Or if I just had a break from the emotional drain that comes with teaching (when really I've gotten pretty good at using all of my spare time during the day to hammer most of the work I need to do while I'm in the building).

But I don't want YOU to know that.

Or if I just had a little vacation first - say in BALI - then I could write the damn thing no problem because what I really am is burned out from years of responsibilities.

'Cuz I'm the only one with SO MANY of those.

(And what's more I don't want you to know that a couple of days at home watching the travel channel while doodling and drinking wine works just as well).

ahem

Then again, I might be feeling the fluctuations of motivation and self-pity because I'm hormonal. That's legitimate, but not insurmountable. And it's certainly not because I'm lacking any one thing on Maslow's hierarchy of basic needs (that being the only legitimate excuse to a suffocating creative output).

Nosirree.

It's high time I admit it. Creating comes with doing. And I'm not doing enough of it.

Sometimes there's a bit of foreplay. A precursor to the act. Legitimate planning if you will. Buying paints. Setting up a work station. Thinking about an idea born of inspiration until it becomes clear enough to work with... but none of the aforementioned activities takes very long.

Inspiration comes in an instant.

Certainly not weeks. Or even days.

So what's left?

Taking a good, hard, honest, no-holds-barred look at what I want - if I really want it badly enough that is - maybe every ounce of procrastination is really just a testament to my unconscious desire not to work at it?

Maybe just maybe it overrides my need to produce creatively.

Something. Anything.

But I know that's not true.

The question is, what am I willing to do about it...

It's all about intent...

"Those who can, write... those who can't, blog".

That was essentially the dour note served by my lovely companion (and writer friend) over dinner yesterday.

Okay. Maybe I read between the lines a little.

It was more like, "Well, I suppose if you don't intend on finishing that book you can always blog".

Or something to that effect.

I don't remember exactly as the truth behind his words obliterated the superficial content of his throw-away comment. But I read it right. I must have. It cut like a knife.

In a split second, I read the intent behind the words.

The real meaning.

The hidden message.

Wrapped in certain tone, a tilt of the head, the raising of an eyebrow. A subtle challenge. A taunting, duel-like proposal from a like-minded individual.

Writers.

An ultra-sensitive lot of life-observing sleuths with sharp tongues. We have no problem letting other people know exactly what we think - especially other writers.

I was bang on.

It's the same as a kid in my class using the word 'fudge' today.

In grade 3 somebody is bound to rat you out.

The loyalty of an 8 year old lies strictly in avoiding the principal's office and that usually means shifting the focus elsewhere.

As a result of covering their own butts, I've got a class policing its own behavior.

It's awesome. Nobody gets away with squat.

Anyway... in his defense, the kid says to me:

"What's wrong with fudge"?

"It's not the word" I told him, "It's the intent. You intended to use a bad word but knew you'd never get away with it so you replaced it with another word, but really? WE ALL KNOW what you REALLY wanted to say."

"Yeah" said the mini moral police, "you REALLY wanted to use that OTHER bad word".

The kid didn't have too much to say after that because it was true. But based on his look of shock and confusion for getting into trouble for (technically) NOT SWEARING, I let him off with a warning...

"Remember" I said, "I'll bust your intent every time. So search your mind for the truth and honor behind your words and actions as these are the only things that will keep you safe from my wrath should you falter again Grasshoppa...".

Okay. Maybe I didn't say that either but I wanted to. It came out more like:

"Go home kid. And if you say it again, you're dead meat".

Dead meat. The kid chuckled then nodded. INTENT. They all know I don't mean it so they're never scared. As a matter of fact, they probably spend too much time laughing at me and don't heed my warnings nearly enough.

It's not what you say. It's NEVER what you say. It's the power and energy behind your words that determine how you come off. At least in person.

But not in your writing.

It's trickier there. People can't see your face when you tell the story so they have to trust that you're telling it well enough that they are interpreting the tone the way you intended it.

And then there's the trickiest intent of all - The INTENT TO DO SOMETHING.

An intent to DO something is worth NOTHING unless it's followed through.

The rule that applies to spoken INTENTS possess an additional component because those words require an accompanying action to justify their own validity.

Take for instance the following statement:

"I intend to write my book".

The truth is lots of people do. I'm one of them.

But until I finish this one, the only thing I have to go on is the fact that I managed to write one before. But that's no guarantee that I'll do it again.

And right now frankly, I'd be happy with a bloody outline.

But I think I'm okay with that. For what it's worth, my intention is pure. I know when I say, 'write' I don't mean 'ponder', or 'pretend to write a book' or 'talk about writing a book' or even 'fudge a book'.

I mean, WRITE.

But only time will tell...

Like a bad penny...

...I will always come back...

I don't even know what that means.

How does a bad penny come back? And who would want one to? Who even uses pennies anymore except when they're adding to one of those 'add a penny, leave a penny' dishes at the gas station?

Anyway...

It's been too damn long.

For better or worse I had given up the blog to engage in more fruitful pursuits - namely to focus on my job and to write another book.

Truth be told, I couldn't balance it all; a new teaching assignment, a new writing venue, an always busy family life and as usual, a weird love life.

True, I am a reformed Catholic, but the guilt of being unable to keep up with my blog on a regular basis ate at my soul like that vulture chewing on Prometheus's liver.

Poor bastard.

I admit, I am prone to exaggeration. It's not like I stole fire from Zeus or anything but I did experience something that everyone experiences many times in their lives but I just couldn't take it anymore.

FAILURE

Truth be told, failure is a relative term and can only be gauged by the individual experiencing it (one guy's failure is another's lottery win) but here I was, pulling my hair out because I had done what I thought was everything to make my six month experiment a success and came up painfully short.

I did manage a number of things that have changed positively over the course of the last year and I will get into that next time, but publishing my book wasn't one of them - in spite of having secured an agent within 3 weeks of finishing it.

But I also haven't heard from her in almost a year.

That can't be a good.

So, here I am, in the middle of report cards and less than 7 weeks away from the end of my teaching term at which time I will go back to subbing until the end of the school year. This way, I can come home from work and leave the day behind me instead of feeling like a snail carrying its house everywhere it goes.

Sure, there will always be distractions - things that add to that journey, things that take precedence - like my stepmom's aneurism for example (that's another story) - but all in all, if I really believe that anything is possible - and yes, I still do - then it's time to get my act together and give it another shot.

So, here I go again - time for another six month experiment.

I'll be damned if I don't give 'er until the day I die...

P.S. It's good to be back...