Alexa Jacobs's Blog, page 4

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February was a weird month. It was the kind of month where I stood on the edge of the world and took stock of life as I know it.

Last year marked a pretty significant anniversary of a lot of things. Every time I turned around, there was some iconic symbol of my youth being trotted out from the darkness and celebrated with renewed spirit for it’s 20th or sometimes 25th anniversary. It was a whole year of, “Can you believe we’re this old?”

Reminder after reminder after reminder, happy anniversary to what was the best of my 90s youth.

I was prepared for more of the same this year, another pretty significant anniversary of a lot of things will happen. What I was not prepared for was to spend the better part of this month, in one way or another on the edge of 17.

My childhood home is being cleaned out as I type these words. I’m one of those odd ducks that grew up in the same house, spending all of my formative years in one place. While I moved out decades ago, and the room that was mine has been turned into the catch-all room, I can’t help but feel a little uprooted. Two weeks from now there will be a for sale sign on the lawn and my entire existence and every single important and monumental milestone in that house will be erased. Once it’s sold, I will have little to no reason to return to my hometown. I will have zero reason to drive down my street. I will not know if and when the new owners will make what I had their own, or if they might even tear it down completely and build new. There is a very high probability that the three bedroom, 1000 square foot rancher that was the setting of so much of my life won’t even exist in a month.

I don’t know how I feel about that. Part of me wants to drive by in the days and weeks to come and see what fate has in store. But the other part of me needs it to remain as it is, untouched in my head, my heart, and my memories.

In the process of taking the last of me from this place, a friend of mine mentioned they would like to pop by to say goodbye. At first, I thought this was such a sweet offer, and we would hold hands and close our eyes and take in the last moments of this place together. Cue the sappy music to the last episode of every show in the history of ever where the family ends the series with a moment of silence before they turn out the lights of an empty room.

But then I got a little sad. Do I want the last of us to be standing together in an empty room? Or do I want us both to keep what once was in our hearts? There are places I will never go because I do not want to see what I once had erased with time and change. Ultimately, I said goodbye to my home alone. It wasn’t that I didn’t want anyone with me, it was that I wanted what we shared to be the last thing they remember of this place.

At some point in my youth, I came to own a butterfly sticker. I don’t know why I bought it, or what about it was so special. I remember it being the first thing I didn’t ask permission to have. I just wanted it, bought it, and stuck it on the mirror on my closet door. I didn’t know it at the time, but this butterfly would be the transitional item. The very last thing I bought for my childhood room, and the very first thing I bought for myself without consultation with the powers that be. I kept passing by this sticker, still on the mirror more than two decades later, and thinking how this would be the one thing I would wonder about. The one thing that if I ever did find myself in my hometown, driving down my street and passing by, I would wonder if it was still there. I know it wouldn’t be, but in my heart, I would pretend it still was. Now I know why every kid in every movie took their doorknob when their parents decide to sell their childhood home. Stupid silly little things.

Just as I was turning out lights and double checking to make sure I got everything I might still want, I turned to the mirror. I picked at the corner edges of the sticker and very carefully pulled the butterfly from its home.

My butterfly, perfectly preserved, in my hands. Seems twenty years later, it will remain my transitional item. The very last of my old life, sitting silently smack dab in the middle of my brand new one. When I look at it now, I feel the girl I used to be. There is much still to be done before keys exchange hands, and my parents will go back I’m sure a dozen times more. But I won’t. My chapter there is over.

 

This whole huge thing in my world also coincided with the loss of two friends. Two people who traveled in two very different versions of my circle of friends died within days of each other. One person I knew for almost all of my life. Every memory of school from kindergarten to graduation had him involved in some way or another. While we lost touch in adulthood, we were never far. We talked a few times, sent notes over the years. We wholeheartedly wished each other well. Not that long ago we were in the same place at the same time, and we got together for lunch. I was so excited to see my old friend. But the man I had lunch with was not him. As it turned out, though I said my final goodbye to him just last week, I lost him a long time ago. In the years of absence, he had become an addict. Jaded with life in general and bitter with anyone who ever loved him, I knew my sweet friend must have gotten lost along the way. As I gathered with people I hadn’t seen in so long, they echoed my words. We lost him a long time ago. And while there were stories of the jaded bitterness of his life, we did talk about how ridiculously fun he was. How this quiet boy sometimes shocked the world with color and flair. How he adored his mother and did everything he could to take care of her. How we were all friends with each other because we were friends with him. He was friends with everybody.

We found the butterfly, the piece of him that we will carry with us.

The other friend I didn’t know for as long, or as well. He was part of the core group that defined high school for me. It was kind of funny, I knew him through other people. He was a friend of my boyfriend’s, a friend of my friend. He was such a great guy, everyone said so. And then one year, his focus found me. I’d be at his house, part of the crowd, but at some point I’d wonder into his room and find him. We talked. I’m a good listener. I’m a fantastic secret keeper. I adore the fact that he found trust in me, and would tell me what was on his mind. And this became our friendship. I’d walk down the halls with him, or find a quiet corner, and he’d tell me things. We never hung out on our own or went anywhere together. But he’d find me in a crowd. He used to visit me at work because it was on his way to where ever it was he was going. He didn’t have to stop by and spend a casual half hour checking in with me, but he did. He always did, for years. I adored him more than he would ever know. Actually, I told him that once, that I adored him. He got all silly on me, it was very sweet.

When my son was born and we were thinking up names, this guy’s name came up in the list of likable names. My heart smiled on it because of this guy. Without hesitation, I said yes and we gave him the same name. It carries nothing but goodness in my mind.

It’s been forever, but when I learned he left us, I knew I had to go home. I had to go home to say goodbye to the boy I adored. He was exactly where I had left him last. Adored by everyone. Going out of his way to check in with people. It was a true celebration of life, and I think his family honored him so well by gathering everyone home. At one point, his brother who was sitting next to me looked around. He said he felt like he was 16 again and time had stopped. I felt the same way. There was a guy there I had not seen in forever, and I thought for sure he would not remember me. He scooped me up in a big hug, and it felt like home. He whispered in my ear, “I remember you.”

For a night, we were all 16 again. We found the pieces of ourselves that defined us at our core, we found the best of home.

I think this is what has been on my mind all month. Finding the things we can’t, or don’t want to let go of. The things that define us at our core. The things that make it easier to let go of what doesn’t matter because we hold onto what does. For every person, it may be different. For some, it’s old letters stashed away in a box that you know will follow you into all of your different tomorrows. For others, it might be as silly as a butterfly sticker on the bedroom mirror.

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I remember the courageous spirit of one.

I carry with me the trust of the other.

I take the last piece of my childhood with me.

I choose not to see what time and change has in mind. I hold onto what matters and I move forward.

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Copy Cat

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I’m a writer. I’m a writer 365 days a year, 24 hours a day. While I only get to type the words a few treasured days of the week, my brain never shuts off. Everything around me is an idea waiting to happen. I’ve just recently watched a documentary on the late incomparable Nora Ephron where she speaks of her mother saying (and so the documentary is aptly titled), “Everything is a copy.”

Her parents were screenwriters, and very often she’d find parallels between what was happening at home and what was happening to the fictional characters on screen. Despite hating seeing conversations she’s had and teachable moments she’s experienced on the big screen, she couldn’t help but continue to use herself as material when she became a writer. The truth is, life itself gives you such great material. She laid her friendship with Rob Reiner out to fill the incredible dialog between a guy named Harry and his friend Sally. She opened the door to let everyone in to see the insanity that was her family in This is my Life and Mixed Nuts. She oversaw the overbearing version of herself in the movie Hanging Up, which depicted her life entirely through the eyes of her younger sister. Toward the end of her life, she wrote a final love letter to New York City, to the food she loved, and to the husband she adored among the pages of Julie and Julia. In the very end, she produced a Broadway play whose main character was nothing more than a mediocre journalist with a wild streak of luck. Ultimately, this is how she saw herself; a mediocre journalist with a wild streak of luck.

Everything is a copy. At least most of the time.

I’ve written three books so far, and with all three there are strands and strings you can pull and find my truth. It’s funny to me who finds what. I’ve had three people find a shameless plug for a yet to be published book I’m working on in The Dreamer, and they were quick to ask “isn’t this your next book idea?” Yes, yes it is. My life has been enriched with some of the most wonderful girlfriends who are all wildly different from each other. They’ve all found the best of themselves through the personalities of many of my female side characters. There are particular people out there in the world, who know they are responsible for how I view love, and how I view heartbreak. I find when I write the strongest of my dialog that I am talking to one person. It may not be the same person every time, but it is, most certainly one person. I’ve dug this particular emotion from a place where I was with you. Just recently, a friend looked over my latest work of art (yet to be published), and in first nine chapters, he underlined one sentence. His note read: It’s like you’re sitting here, talking to me. 28,000 words, and he found the nine that belonged to him. My sweet hubs never finds himself as the leading man (honestly, he’s mine and I’m not sharing) but if he looks deep enough, he’ll find himself in every man. He will forever be the good in all of my stories because he is the good in me.

This is what’s been on my mind this month. How much of a writer’s truth do you see in their work?

I don’t know if you know anything about writers, if you don’t then please know, the space between draft one and draft two is called Hell. In the first draft, a writer only cares about two sentences: the first one, and the last one. Everything in between is just a mad dash. Imagine a sprinter, poised at the starting line who takes off like a rocket when the bell sounds. He doesn’t look back, he doesn’t stop. He just runs. When he crosses that finish line his heart is pounding with exhilaration! He did it, he got the The End. But then he turns around, and he sees. He sees all the hurdles that he knocked over. He sees where his feet left marks in the grass because he didn’t stay within the defined lines. He sees the cast of characters he trampled over, leaving them half described and confusingly defined. Sometimes he even finds a few characters and ideas hanging out by the starting line because he simply forgot they existed. It’s a hot mess. Looking at it all and wondering how on earth you can fix it is pure hell.

Even though I stand at the end of my book, breathless from the race and overwhelmed with the mess I’ve left in my wake, I’m exhilarated in a whole different way. The walk back is what it’s all about. The walk back is where I find my truths. I start at the beginning and I am able to shade in the finer details. The skeleton that was merely a non-descript anywhere USA on page one has now become the very best of what I love about the towns and cities that I have seen with my own eyes by the last page. I’m able to bring that love back with me to first page and give it a bit more color.

The characters who were nothing more than emotionless actors reading lines from their scripts are now giving me something real to work with. They have thoughts, and feelings, and they take these original words of mine and make them their own. Sometimes they agree and say what I ask them to say, and sometimes they turn to me and say, “Um…I’m not saying this.” Often, way more often than you’d think, draft one dialog becomes the idea of what I want them to say and draft two is all their words. To me, they are now people. They talk, I write.

I am amazed when I see my own personality spread out among these people. There is always a character who cusses like a sailor, because there is a side of me who values the utility of the word fuck. There is always a voice of reason, this is the part of me who was built from my own friends and family telling me that I’m a good listener and that I’m able to help them take a step back and really see what’s going on. There’s always somebody that wants something completely different than what they have. I’d like to say I’m unique in this desire, but I think we all have a wanderlust for something completely different than what we have. There’s always a snarky extrovert because that snarky extrovert is buried so deep within this quirky introvert. Things I would never be brave enough to say out loud, I write on the page. Spotlights I would run from in real life, I bask in within a book.

And then there are the emotions. The love, the excitement, the adventure, the pride, the hope, and the heartache. They were all mine first. Nothing I have ever written has been an exact moment of an exact time in my life. Okay, well, almost nothing. What happens is my characters bring my readers to a specific place. That place I was, that one time with you. Did you recognize it? I swear, I think there are people out there that feel a little ping in their hearts, and they ask themselves is this me? Probably.

I thought maybe I was unique in my writing, and I should be more aware of what I lay on the page. But then I connected with this idea that Everything is a Copy. I recently read On Writing by Stephen King. I’ll admit, this was the first Stephen King book I’ve ever read as horror isn’t a genre I enjoy. Even though it came highly recommended, I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it. He’s funny, and a bit of a smart ass. He’s got the sort of personality that light up all the happy little lights in my brain. His advice on the act of writing is solid, but it was how he handles his own writing that fascinates me.

All of his characters are him in a way. All of his side characters are either people he knows or demons that he deals with. Sometimes, like me, one person represents an emotion for him. I love the idea that in Misery, Annie Wilkes represents the hold that substance abuse had on him during that time of his life. Out of curiosity, I’m reading one of his non-scary books right now, my first true Stephen King novel. I giggle at the parallels I see to the things he shared in On Writing about his own life. There is so much of him in this book, and I don’t even know him at all.

And it makes me wonder, what truths have I read? What truths have I read in all the books over the years? What parallels would I be able to draw if I knew the writer personally?

I realize now there is an answer to this. Every book, every character, there is a truth to be found. We lay our personalities on the page and dole them out like playing cards to the people we create. We take every raw emotion we have ever had and weave it into the heart of the story being told. Strands and strings of truth, whispers of me left for you to find.

Everything is a copy.

Alexa’s Latest Blog

[image error]

I’m a writer. I’m a writer 365 days a year, 24 hours a day. While I only get to type the words a few treasured days of the week, my brain never shuts off. Everything around me is an idea waiting to happen. I’ve just recently watched a documentary on the late incomparable Nora Ephron where she speaks of her mother saying (and so the documentary is aptly titled), “Everything is a copy.”

Her parents were screenwriters, and very often she’d find parallels between what was happening at home and what was happening to the fictional characters on screen. Despite hating seeing conversations she’s had and teachable moments she’s experienced on the big screen, she couldn’t help but continue to use herself as material when she became a writer. The truth is, life itself gives you such great material. She laid her friendship with Rob Reiner out to fill the incredible dialog between a guy named Harry and his friend Sally. She opened the door to let everyone in to see the insanity that was her family in This is my Life and Mixed Nuts. She oversaw the overbearing version of herself in the movie Hanging Up, which depicted her life entirely through the eyes of her younger sister. Toward the end of her life, she wrote a final love letter to New York City, to the food she loved, and to the husband she adored among the pages of Julie and Julia. In the very end, she produced a Broadway play whose main character was nothing more than a mediocre journalist with a wild streak of luck. Ultimately, this is how she saw herself; a mediocre journalist with a wild streak of luck.

Everything is a copy. At least most of the time.

I’ve written three books so far, and with all three there are strands and strings you can pull and find my truth. It’s funny to me who finds what. I’ve had three people find a shameless plug for a yet to be published book I’m working on in The Dreamer, and they were quick to ask “isn’t this your next book idea?” Yes, yes it is. My life has been enriched with some of the most wonderful girlfriends who are all wildly different from each other. They’ve all found the best of themselves through the personalities of many of my female side characters. There are particular people out there in the world, who know they are responsible for how I view love, and how I view heartbreak. I find when I write the strongest of my dialog that I am talking to one person. It may not be the same person every time, but it is, most certainly one person. I’ve dug this particular emotion from a place where I was with you. Just recently, a friend looked over my latest work of art (yet to be published), and in first nine chapters, he underlined one sentence. His note read: It’s like you’re sitting here, talking to me. 28,000 words, and he found the nine that belonged to him. My sweet hubs never finds himself as the leading man (honestly, he’s mine and I’m not sharing) but if he looks deep enough, he’ll find himself in every man. He will forever be the good in all of my stories because he is the good in me.

This is what’s been on my mind this month. How much of a writer’s truth do you see in their work?

I don’t know if you know anything about writers, if you don’t then please know, the space between draft one and draft two is called Hell. In the first draft, a writer only cares about two sentences: the first one, and the last one. Everything in between is just a mad dash. Imagine a sprinter, poised at the starting line who takes off like a rocket when the bell sounds. He doesn’t look back, he doesn’t stop. He just runs. When he crosses that finish line his heart is pounding with exhilaration! He did it, he got the The End. But then he turns around, and he sees. He sees all the hurdles that he knocked over. He sees where his feet left marks in the grass because he didn’t stay within the defined lines. He sees the cast of characters he trampled over, leaving them half described and confusingly defined. Sometimes he even finds a few characters and ideas hanging out by the starting line because he simply forgot they existed. It’s a hot mess. Looking at it all and wondering how on earth you can fix it is pure hell.

Even though I stand at the end of my book, breathless from the race and overwhelmed with the mess I’ve left in my wake, I’m exhilarated in a whole different way. The walk back is what it’s all about. The walk back is where I find my truths. I start at the beginning and I am able to shade in the finer details. The skeleton that was merely a non-descript anywhere USA on page one has now become the very best of what I love about the towns and cities that I have seen with my own eyes by the last page. I’m able to bring that love back with me to first page and give it a bit more color.

The characters who were nothing more than emotionless actors reading lines from their scripts are now giving me something real to work with. They have thoughts, and feelings, and they take these original words of mine and make them their own. Sometimes they agree and say what I ask them to say, and sometimes they turn to me and say, “Um…I’m not saying this.” Often, way more often than you’d think, draft one dialog becomes the idea of what I want them to say and draft two is all their words. To me, they are now people. They talk, I write.

I am amazed when I see my own personality spread out among these people. There is always a character who cusses like a sailor, because there is a side of me who values the utility of the word fuck. There is always a voice of reason, this is the part of me who was built from my own friends and family telling me that I’m a good listener and that I’m able to help them take a step back and really see what’s going on. There’s always somebody that wants something completely different than what they have. I’d like to say I’m unique in this desire, but I think we all have a wanderlust for something completely different than what we have. There’s always a snarky extrovert because that snarky extrovert is buried so deep within this quirky introvert. Things I would never be brave enough to say out loud, I write on the page. Spotlights I would run from in real life, I bask in within a book.

And then there are the emotions. The love, the excitement, the adventure, the pride, the hope, and the heartache. They were all mine first. Nothing I have ever written has been an exact moment of an exact time in my life. Okay, well, almost nothing. What happens is my characters bring my readers to a specific place. That place I was, that one time with you. Did you recognize it? I swear, I think there are people out there that feel a little ping in their hearts, and they ask themselves is this me? Probably.

I thought maybe I was unique in my writing, and I should be more aware of what I lay on the page. But then I connected with this idea that Everything is a Copy. I recently read On Writing by Stephen King. I’ll admit, this was the first Stephen King book I’ve ever read as horror isn’t a genre I enjoy. Even though it came highly recommended, I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it. He’s funny, and a bit of a smart ass. He’s got the sort of personality that light up all the happy little lights in my brain. His advice on the act of writing is solid, but it was how he handles his own writing that fascinates me.

All of his characters are him in a way. All of his side characters are either people he knows or demons that he deals with. Sometimes, like me, one person represents an emotion for him. I love the idea that in Misery, Annie Wilkes represents the hold that substance abuse had on him during that time of his life. Out of curiosity, I’m reading one of his non-scary books right now, my first true Stephen King novel. I giggle at the parallels I see to the things he shared in On Writing about his own life. There is so much of him in this book, and I don’t even know him at all.

And it makes me wonder, what truths have I read? What truths have I read in all the books over the years? What parallels would I be able to draw if I knew the writer personally?

I realize now there is an answer to this. Every book, every character, there is a truth to be found. We lay our personalities on the page and dole them out like playing cards to the people we create. We take every raw emotion we have ever had and weave it into the heart of the story being told. Strands and strings of truth, whispers of me left for you to find.

Everything is a copy.

Burning Bridges

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I love the first day of the year, it is filled with the sort of magic that Santa is made of. Totally not real at all, but at the same time…it’s everything.

You woke up this morning believing in yourself a whole lot more than you did yesterday. There’s a goal you want to accomplish, and today you love yourself enough to take the first step in achieving it.

What is this magical element that makes this all possible? A blank calendar of course.

I have to admit, I’m obsessed with calendars. I love layering my life in pencil on the empty boxes. I love highlighting the things I do by subject. I love to-do lists, and post-it notes, and being a pinteresty pinner. My absolute favorite thing in the world to do, and don’t you dare tell a soul, is to go into an office supply store and just imaging how the things that I might buy will make me ten times the organized junkie that I am right now.

And for one day a year, everyone else is just like me. It’s fabulous.

But for some, and when I say some, I mean nearly all of us, these goals that we bring into the new year  are usually born of expectations not met the year before.

That’s no fun. Somewhere along the line we replace the world goal with the word expectation.

Expectations make me want to burn down bridges.

A couple of months ago, I had this really great lunch date. I was super excited because it was with an acquaintance that I see from time to time at writer events. However, because we’re both there with business in mind, we never get more than a few minutes to exchange pleasantries. Emails were exchanged and a date was set. We had a lovely chat about all the fun things, and I was having such a good time. It was the perfect date, until it wasn’t. There had been something on my mind, for a while at that point. Expectations in a relationship with another person, which unfortunately were not met. This poor date of mine asked me the question that was the proverbial crack in the dam and before we both knew it, I had flooded the restaurant with bitter emotions.

Check please!

This was not my finest hour and I went home knowing that there was a very big bridge I would need to burn down if I was ever going to get any peace.

But then I realized something terrible. Or wonderful. Or….enlightening? I don’t know.

This person, I love them. But they are not who I need them to be. And the truth is, they never were. Expectations, my expectations brought them to that bridge.

Is it their fault that I put them in a place where they never asked to be? Be given a responsibility that they had never wanted?

No. They’ve promised me noting, they’ve told me no lies.

But is it my fault for bringing them here, because I see the best in them? Because I want them to be here?

No. Love is blind.

I can’t burn this bridge. Love is also unconditional. But I can put my match down and walk away.

I give you your freedom. I give me my peace.

I think a lot of us could remember that. Not about the bit burning a bridge (or not) with a loved one, but the bit about the difference between goals and expectations.

A goal is an aim for desired result. An expectation is the belief that it will happen.

At some point this year, you will feel the shift. The happy, cheery goals of January will be the expectations that strangle you in July.

In November, I was reminded of the difference between these two words daily.  November is National Novel Writing Month and there is an organization called NANOWRIMO who encourages you to stop living your crazy life, and just write. The end game is to write 50, 000 new words in those 30 days. I wasn’t sure if I could do it, and honestly, it was insane trying to. But I did it, and I am very proud of myself. In that month, I fell in love with a whole new world of people that I cannot wait to introduce you to.

But every day, I got emails. They weren’t reminders of what I was and wasn’t doing. They were reminders that NANOWRIMO didn’t expect anything from me. They didn’t need anything from me. Here’s a little inspirational quote to remind you to believe in yourself. Nothing happened if I wouldn’t reach my goal. In fact, in the months since I’ve discovered only a tenth of the people who participate actually complete it. They reminded me, daily that this was a goal. Not an expectation. If I reached it, then great! I get a T-shirt! And if I didn’t, then at least I was that much closer.

I sit here with my 2017 calendar and it is filled with goals. I will remind myself every day to do my best not weigh myself down with expectations.

Hell, maybe when the year is done, I’ll even buy myself a T-shirt.

Alexa’s Latest Blog

[image error]

 

I love the first day of the year, it is filled with the sort of magic that Santa is made of. Totally not real at all, but at the same time…it’s everything.

You woke up this morning believing in yourself a whole lot more than you did yesterday. There’s a goal you want to accomplish, and today you love yourself enough to take the first step in achieving it.

What is this magical element that makes this all possible? A blank calendar of course.

I have to admit, I’m obsessed with calendars. I love layering my life in pencil on the empty boxes. I love highlighting the things I do by subject. I love to-do lists, and post-it notes, and being a pinteresty pinner. My absolute favorite thing in the world to do, and don’t you dare tell a soul, is to go into an office supply store and just imaging how the things that I might buy will make me ten times the organized junkie that I am right now.

And for one day a year, everyone else is just like me. It’s fabulous.

But for some, and when I say some, I mean nearly all of us, these goals that we bring into the new year  are usually born of expectations not met the year before.

That’s no fun. Somewhere along the line we replace the world goal with the word expectation.

Expectations make me want to burn down bridges.

A couple of months ago, I had this really great lunch date. I was super excited because it was with an acquaintance that I see from time to time at writer events. However, because we’re both there with business in mind, we never get more than a few minutes to exchange pleasantries. Emails were exchanged and a date was set. We had a lovely chat about all the fun things, and I was having such a good time. It was the perfect date, until it wasn’t. There had been something on my mind, for a while at that point. Expectations in a relationship with another person, which unfortunately were not met. This poor date of mine asked me the question that was the proverbial crack in the dam and before we both knew it, I had flooded the restaurant with bitter emotions.

Check please!

This was not my finest hour and I went home knowing that there was a very big bridge I would need to burn down if I was ever going to get any peace.

But then I realized something terrible. Or wonderful. Or….enlightening? I don’t know.

This person, I love them. But they are not who I need them to be. And the truth is, they never were. Expectations, my expectations brought them to that bridge.

Is it their fault that I put them in a place where they never asked to be? Be given a responsibility that they had never wanted?

No. They’ve promised me noting, they’ve told me no lies.

But is it my fault for bringing them here, because I see the best in them? Because I want them to be here?

No. Love is blind.

I can’t burn this bridge. Love is also unconditional. But I can put my match down and walk away.

I give you your freedom. I give me my peace.

I think a lot of us could remember that. Not about the bit burning a bridge (or not) with a loved one, but the bit about the difference between goals and expectations.

A goal is an aim for desired result. An expectation is the belief that it will happen.

At some point this year, you will feel the shift. The happy, cheery goals of January will be the expectations that strangle you in July.

In November, I was reminded of the difference between these two words daily.  November is National Novel Writing Month and there is an organization called NANOWRIMO who encourages you to stop living your crazy life, and just write. The end game is to write 50, 000 new words in those 30 days. I wasn’t sure if I could do it, and honestly, it was insane trying to. But I did it, and I am very proud of myself. In that month, I fell in love with a whole new world of people that I cannot wait to introduce you to.

But every day, I got emails. They weren’t reminders of what I was and wasn’t doing. They were reminders that NANOWRIMO didn’t expect anything from me. They didn’t need anything from me. Here’s a little inspirational quote to remind you to believe in yourself. Nothing happened if I wouldn’t reach my goal. In fact, in the months since I’ve discovered only a tenth of the people who participate actually complete it. They reminded me, daily that this was a goal. Not an expectation. If I reached it, then great! I get a T-shirt! And if I didn’t, then at least I was that much closer.

I sit here with my 2017 calendar and it is filled with goals. I will remind myself every day to do my best not weigh myself down with expectations.

Hell, maybe when the year is done, I’ll even buy myself a T-shirt.

My Generation

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I’m in a weird spot, and it seems so strange to me. My grandfather died about a week or so ago, and with him went an entire generation.

My family is young, or maybe perhaps we have good genes. I don’t know. When I was a kid, my great-great grandmother lived long enough for me to remember her. My great grandfather stayed with us long enough for me to be able to tell you the smaller details of his world.

When we lay my grandfather in his final resting place tomorrow, he will be surrounded by the love of his two children, three grandchildren, eight great-grandchildren and two great-great-grandchildren. May I be so lucky to be this blessed at the end of my days.

But that’s not what’s weirding me out. What’s weirding me out is that I am grandparent-less. With my grandfather’s passing, I have lost an entire generation of my family tree. Now I know that being the age I am, I got lucky. This doesn’t happen to most people. It still doesn’t make it less weird for me.

I’m going through my grandfather’s house slowly. When my grandmother passed, we did go through her things but he was still there. Those things were part of the life he built, they were still his. Now, there will be a house to close up, and everything will have to be sorted.

I was telling a friend that it is the oddest thing to miss a person, but be completely surrounded by them. My grandfather’s death was unexpected. He got a longer life than planned, so we are thankful. However, he died very much in the middle of his busy day. His house is still in working order, there was even a fresh new cake in the refrigerator to have for a treat. As I sat in his office, I expected him to come through the door at any moment. It wouldn’t have surprised me one bit.

As my mother pulled photos for his memorial service and I looked through them, I found this one. This is the only picture I know of with all four of my grandparents. Taken at a birthday party about six months before I was born, they had been in-laws and the best of friends for about a half of decade already. My mother and father were high school sweethearts and for better or for worse these four people are the founders of my tribe.

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And now they only exist in stories. That is the saddest thing in the world to me.

Good thing they left behind a storyteller. I will sprinkle their names in my books. I will share their best sayings in my dialogs. The world will know the pieces of them that I hold closest to my heart.

But for now, I thought I would introduce you to the original Fantastic Four.

The man on the far right is my father’s father. He looks Southern, doesn’t he? I know you can’t hear his sweet drawl when you look at this picture, but I can. I can smell the cigar smoke in his clothes, in the air. I lost him first, those damn cigars. But before he left me, he made sure he was a man who would never be forgotten. He was a former Mr. Universe bodybuilder, and hands down the strongest man I knew. In his later years, he owned a restaurant famous for its Steak and Ribs. His Steak and Ribs, he has truly ruined me for life when it comes to a plate of good Ribs. But the memory that sticks in my mind the most is walking into the kitchen of that restaurant and seeing this giant of a man in his crisp white chef uniform with a plastic apron on top which was covered in fresh blood. A butcher knife in his hand and a smile on his face. This was the face of love to me. His employees revered him, and I adored him. He taught me that if you work hard, you can do any damn thing that you want to do. But you have to work hard. Make no excuse. Dig down deep and get it done. There is nothing in this world that you can’t have.

The woman to next to him is my mother’s mother. This woman ruled our family with an iron fist until the day she died. I lost her next. Her voice is the one I hear when I have to deal with this silly little thing I call life. All the mom sayings that I tell my children come from her: Lies will always catch up with you. Don’t worry, everything will come out in the wash. Only by the grace of God go I. The little voice in your head telling you not to do something is Jesus because he knows…he knows even when Mommy doesn’t. And my personal favorite; Don’t you take no shit from anybody. She was the one that taught me that when I’m right to dig in my heals and stand tall. And when I’m wrong, pay my debts.

The fiery redhead next to her is my father’s mother. Remember when I said this photo was taken about six months before I was born? Yup, she screams Grandma, doesn’t she? She was one of the greatest loves of my life. Her southern accent was so thick my poor husband could never understand a word she was saying. It was ridiculous to a hilarious degree. She was life personified, if that could ever be a thing. She’d burst into a room ready to party. She’d hug you so hard your ribs would crack and she’d steal a kiss and exclaim, “Give me some sugar, Sugar!” Every damn moment with her was an adventure. She lived in a huge house with an emerald green spiral staircase and a pink chandelier in the bathroom because why not? Life is meant to be lived, baby! She was my Go Big, or Go Home Grandma. But…she always sat me down and asked me what my plan was. You always have to be ready. You always need a plan. You always have to know that when you jump, it’s gonna be good. She listened to every plan. Every task on my to-do list, and she’d ask questions. She really listened to me. And she never stopped dreaming. The last conversation I had with her, we talked about what she’d do if she won the lottery. Such plans, that one….

And then there was Pop. He loved me first, he left my last. My mother’s father and my first love. Can you see the handsome guitar player? Can you hear his deep smooth voice singing beautifully to a sick nine-year-old little girl with the Chicken Pox? He made my world right. He taught me that nothing is ever truly broken. He loved gadgets and gizmos and was convinced he had invented things long before they were invented. The thing is, he probably did. His basement is full of the weirdest most fascinating doodads. He taught me to never give up on anything. He was the one who showed me how to skate, how to ride a bike, how to drive. There was never a toy he couldn’t fix, he was magic to me. He was the one, most of all, who told me that life is meant to be figured out. Make it work for you.

 

All the good parts of me came from these four people. I want to remember them always.

Latest Blog

 

I’m in a weird spot, and it seems so strange to me. My grandfather died about a week or so ago, and with him went an entire generation.

My family is young, or maybe perhaps we have good genes. I don’t know. When I was a kid, my great-great grandmother lived long enough for me to remember her. My great grandfather stayed with us long enough for me to be able to tell you the smaller details of his world.

When we lay my grandfather in his final resting place tomorrow, he will be surrounded by the love of his two children, three grandchildren, eight great-grandchildren and two great-great-grandchildren. May I be so lucky to be this blessed at the end of my days.

But that’s not what’s weirding me out. What’s weirding me out is that I am grandparent-less. With my grandfather’s passing, I have lost an entire generation of my family tree. Now I know that being the age I am, I got lucky. This doesn’t happen to most people. It still doesn’t make it less weird for me.

I’m going through my grandfather’s house slowly. When my grandmother passed, we did go through her things but he was still there. Those things were part of the life he built, they were still his. Now, there will be a house to close up, and everything will have to be sorted.

I was telling a friend that it is the oddest thing to miss a person, but be completely surrounded by them. My grandfather’s death was unexpected. He got a longer life than planned, so we are thankful. However, he died very much in the middle of his busy day. His house is still in working order, there was even a fresh new cake in the refrigerator to have for a treat. As I sat in his office, I expected him to come through the door at any moment. It wouldn’t have surprised me one bit.

As my mother pulled photos for his memorial service and I looked through them, I found this one. This is the only picture I know of with all four of my grandparents. Taken at a birthday party about six months before I was born, they had been in-laws and the best of friends for about a half of decade already. My mother and father were high school sweethearts and for better or for worse these four people are the founders of my tribe.

And now they only exist in stories. That is the saddest thing in the world to me.

Good thing they left behind a storyteller. I will sprinkle their names in my books. I will share their best sayings in my dialogs. The world will know the pieces of them that I hold closest to my heart.

But for now, I thought I would introduce you to the original Fantastic Four.

The man on the far right is my father’s father. He looks Southern, doesn’t he? I know you can’t hear his sweet drawl when you look at this picture, but I can. I can smell the cigar smoke in his clothes, in the air. I lost him first, those damn cigars. But before he left me, he made sure he was a man who would never be forgotten. He was a former Mr. Universe bodybuilder, and hands down the strongest man I knew. In his later years, he owned a restaurant famous for its Steak and Ribs. His Steak and Ribs, he has truly ruined me for life when it comes to a plate of good Ribs. But the memory that sticks in my mind the most is walking into the kitchen of that restaurant and seeing this giant of a man in his crisp white chef uniform with a plastic apron on top which was covered in fresh blood. A butcher knife in his hand and a smile on his face. This was the face of love to me. His employees revered him, and I adored him. He taught me that if you work hard, you can do any damn thing that you want to do. But you have to work hard. Make no excuse. Dig down deep and get it done. There is nothing in this world that you can’t have.

The woman to next to him is my mother’s mother. This woman ruled our family with an iron fist until the day she died. I lost her next. Her voice is the one I hear when I have to deal with this silly little thing I call life. All the mom sayings that I tell my children come from her: Lies will always catch up with you. Don’t worry, everything will come out in the wash. Only by the grace of God go I. The little voice in your head telling you not to do something is Jesus because he knows…he knows even when Mommy doesn’t. And my personal favorite; Don’t you take no shit from anybody. She was the one that taught me that when I’m right to dig in my heals and stand tall. And when I’m wrong, pay my debts.

The fiery redhead next to her is my father’s mother. Remember when I said this photo was taken about six months before I was born? Yup, she screams Grandma, doesn’t she? She was one of the greatest loves of my life. Her southern accent was so thick my poor husband could never understand a word she was saying. It was ridiculous to a hilarious degree. She was life personified, if that could ever be a thing. She’d burst into a room ready to party. She’d hug you so hard your ribs would crack and she’d steal a kiss and exclaim, “Give me some sugar, Sugar!” Every damn moment with her was an adventure. She lived in a huge house with an emerald green spiral staircase and a pink chandelier in the bathroom because why not? Life is meant to be lived, baby! She was my Go Big, or Go Home Grandma. But…she always sat me down and asked me what my plan was. You always have to be ready. You always need a plan. You always have to know that when you jump, it’s gonna be good. She listened to every plan. Every task on my to-do list, and she’d ask questions. She really listened to me. And she never stopped dreaming. The last conversation I had with her, we talked about what she’d do if she won the lottery. Such plans, that one….

And then there was Pop. He loved me first, he left my last. My mother’s father and my first love. Can you see the handsome guitar player? Can you hear his deep smooth voice singing beautifully to a sick nine-year-old little girl with the Chicken Pox? He made my world right. He taught me that nothing is ever truly broken. He loved gadgets and gizmos and was convinced he had invented things long before they were invented. The thing is, he probably did. His basement is full of the weirdest most fascinating doodads. He taught me to never give up on anything. He was the one who showed me how to skate, how to ride a bike, how to drive. There was never a toy he couldn’t fix, he was magic to me. He was the one, most of all, who told me that life is meant to be figured out. Make it work for you.

 

All the good parts of me came from these four people. I want to remember them always.

Time in a Bottle

One year.

These are two words that have been floating around my mind for months. They’re just words, unless you can feel each and every moment of the 365 days these two words represent.

One year.

It was my personal deadline. As far back as I can remember, the thing that I really would have liked to have done was write a book. Quietly, on my own, I took all of the year 2015 and discovered what it was like to chase a dream. If I had not accomplished it in that time, then I would never speak of it again.

One year.

One year ago, to this very day I shared with the world what that dream was.

One year.

One year ago, I discovered what it was like to have unabashed hope and heartbreaking sorrow all within the same heartbeat.

One year.

Every day since I have gone to bed wondering if tomorrow will be the day that I stop chasing dreams.

One year.

Every day since I have found at least one reason to keep going.

 

It’s been a year since the announcement of my first book. My life, while ideally the same as it ever was, is wildly different. I look around this office of mine, and smile at my name on the door. That wasn’t there a year ago. Neither was the stack of well-read Romance Writer Report magazines, or the pile of reference books for my writerly brain to consume. Nor were there presenter badges from the Baltimore Book Festival, or a beautiful thank you card from a woman in Mississippi who enjoyed my book so much she thought to write me and tell me.

My social media time has changed vastly from skimming to see the latest happenings of my friends and family, to skimming helpful articles and groups who are preparing for NANOWRIMO. My phone pings with excitement, bouncing critique type messages back and forth between the five most important other writers in my life and myself.

My time is no longer counted by the second, it’s counted by the word.

 

These are all good changes. Each of the last 365 days has brought me closer to the person that I have always wanted to be.

But like with all hard work, it has not come without blood, sweat and tears.

 

There have been a lot of tears.

 

I have learned that my dream, while wildly important to me, is not all that important to anyone else.

I have learned that not all support groups are supportive.

I have learned that feelings invested are not always feelings returned.

I have learned that in order to receive validation from some, I have to compromise my values.

I work damn hard. And while I do “have” a publisher, having one at all does not validate my work to me.

My hard work validates it.

My determination validates it.

My creativity validates it.

I validate it.

I was recently told that if I ever wanted to make it as a writer, that I would have to figure out what my audience wants and produce it. Over and over and over and over. I will get no attention with writing just one book a year, and I may as well pack up and say my goodbyes if it’s not a series.

I refuse to accept that.

There are moments of this last year that did nothing short of break me.

But I’m still here.

I’m still here because a stranger who reads a book a day told me that Olivia was the most relatable character she’s ever read.

I’m still here because a woman at the pool excitedly chattered on and on about how sexy Rohan is.

I’m still here because just before I gave a speech, the organizer of the event told me she had the chance to read my book and could not put it down.

I’m still here because I have five other writers, whispering in my ear, that 15 pages at a time is not enough. They want more.

The New York Times best-selling list may never be a list that I find my name on, but that doesn’t mean that the story that I share is any less of a value to a reader.

My first book laid on my heart for twenty years. My entire youth is giftwrapped within its pages.

My second book holds such pride. Born from my first set of writing classes, it reminds me how capable I am of learning.

Today NANOWRIMO begins. And rather than dreaming, I will be typing.

One Year.

These are the first two words of the best book I’ve written yet. I cannot wait to share it with you.

Alexa’s Latest Blog

One year.

These are two words that have been floating around my mind for months. They’re just words, unless you can feel each and every moment of the 365 days these two words represent.

One year.

It was my personal deadline. As far back as I can remember, the thing that I really would have liked to have done was write a book. Quietly, on my own, I took all of the year 2015 and discovered what it was like to chase a dream. If I had not accomplished it in that time, then I would never speak of it again.

One year.

One year ago, to this very day I shared with the world what that dream was.

One year.

One year ago, I discovered what it was like to have unabashed hope and heartbreaking sorrow all within the same heartbeat.

One year.

Every day since I have gone to bed wondering if tomorrow will be the day that I stop chasing dreams.

One year.

Every day since I have found at least one reason to keep going.

 

It’s been a year since the announcement of my first book. My life, while ideally the same as it ever was, is wildly different. I look around this office of mine, and smile at my name on the door. That wasn’t there a year ago. Neither was the stack of well-read Romance Writer Report magazines, or the pile of reference books for my writerly brain to consume. Nor were there presenter badges from the Baltimore Book Festival, or a beautiful thank you card from a woman in Mississippi who enjoyed my book so much she thought to write me and tell me.

My social media time has changed vastly from skimming to see the latest happenings of my friends and family, to skimming helpful articles and groups who are preparing for NANOWRIMO. My phone pings with excitement, bouncing critique type messages back and forth between the five most important other writers in my life and myself.

My time is no longer counted by the second, it’s counted by the word.

 

These are all good changes. Each of the last 365 days has brought me closer to the person that I have always wanted to be.

But like with all hard work, it has not come without blood, sweat and tears.

 

There have been a lot of tears.

 

I have learned that my dream, while wildly important to me, is not all that important to anyone else.

I have learned that not all support groups are supportive.

I have learned that feelings invested are not always feelings returned.

I have learned that in order to receive validation from some, I have to compromise my values.

I work damn hard. And while I do “have” a publisher, having one at all does not validate my work to me.

My hard work validates it.

My determination validates it.

My creativity validates it.

I validate it.

I was recently told that if I ever wanted to make it as a writer, that I would have to figure out what my audience wants and produce it. Over and over and over and over. I will get no attention with writing just one book a year, and I may as well pack up and say my goodbyes if it’s not a series.

I refuse to accept that.

There are moments of this last year that did nothing short of break me.

But I’m still here.

I’m still here because a stranger who reads a book a day told me that Olivia was the most relatable character she’s ever read.

I’m still here because a woman at the pool excitedly chattered on and on about how sexy Rohan is.

I’m still here because just before I gave a speech, the organizer of the event told me she had the chance to read my book and could not put it down.

I’m still here because I have five other writers, whispering in my ear, that 15 pages at a time is not enough. They want more.

The New York Times best-selling list may never be a list that I find my name on, but that doesn’t mean that the story that I share is any less of a value to a reader.

My first book laid on my heart for twenty years. My entire youth is giftwrapped within its pages.

My second book holds such pride. Born from my first set of writing classes, it reminds me how capable I am of learning.

Today NANOWRIMO begins. And rather than dreaming, I will be typing.

One Year.

These are the first two words of the best book I’ve written yet. I cannot wait to share it with you.

Wake me Up When September Ends

 

I don’t know about you, but September was one hell of a month! On any given day, I felt like a champ undefeated in her arena! On any given day, I felt like a chump, who in the world let this girl in here?

Ahh..balance.

Oh, September. You hurt me so bad, but it felt so good.

If you’ve missed any one of the 97,000 facebook posts, tweets, or instas, let me catch you up to speed:

The Dreamer has arrived!

I began the journey of writing it in September 2016, so it’s kind of fun that it wound up hitting the exact one year mark.

People ask me all the time how it’s going and honestly, I don’t know. With a traditional publisher, your guess is as good as mine as far as how many books have sold. I suppose I will find out at the end of the year when they release their quarterly sales report.

However….tap, tap, tap. Is this thing on?  You CAN tell me you’ve read it and loved it (or hated it, but I hope you don’t) by taking a few minutes to leave a review on Amazon & Goodreads!

This time round there has been a little more fanfare, which I don’t mind of course, but oh how I miss my bed.

And my friends.

And outside. Remember outside? I have such fond memories of outside.

September was the Baltimore Book Festival. If you’re a book reader, it’s kind of like a little bit of heaven sprinkled on the sidewalks of the Inner Harbor. For me, it was yet another moment to collect in this surreal little double life of mine. All weekend long, I was hanging out with my heroes. And at least two people out there will appreciate this; …and I had a press pass.

It was all sorts of awesome.

As if I were a glutton for punishment, the crazy schedule continued with my first ever online release party. To celebrate The Dreamer, I along with five other Romance Novelists, invited readers to play games, chat books, and win pretty spiffy prizes.

Now, as the last five minutes before show time were ticking down, I did worry. It doesn’t matter if the party is online or in person, the worry is the same; what if nobody comes? Thankfully, a good number of you are spectacularly fun. We partied until around midnight, two hours past my original ending time.

Again, all sorts of awesome.

Just yesterday I stood at the head of the room and gave my first public speech all by myself! After re-writing said speech no less than five times, I hoped that I could deliver whatever it was that these folks paid to see. The line for signed print books afterward was long, and my heart was full. It seems I was a hit!

My calendar has one more public event just around the corner and then maybe I can breathe a little.

I remember at the Book Fair, another Author asked me what I wrote. I responded by saying that I used to be a writer and then I became a traveling sales person. She put her hand on my shoulder and said—Now honey, ain’t that the truth.

Don’t get my wrong, this is all wildly exciting! But it’s exhausting.

Marketing is a beast.

I am looking forward to the quiet of October. I am looking forward to sitting down and writing something new.

I am looking forward…