Lisa Phillips's Blog, page 4

The Whole Glass Is Half Full Thing

I recently received an email from a twenty-eight year old young woman, who had seen me mention I was diagnosed with Lupus several years ago. The young woman received the same diagnosis the week before, and was reeling from all the information she was trying to gather from doctors and in research she was doing on her own. It can be extremely overwhelming, especially as Lupus often affects different people in different ways, as most autoimmune disorders do. For me, the diagnosis was somewhat of a relief. I had gone from doctor to doctor with a myriad of different symptoms over the years to be diagnosed with everything from Pernicious Anemia to thyroid disorders to I was just such a Type A personality, who couldn’t sit still, so I was simply wearing myself out. As overwhelmed as I was with the diagnosis, I was a little relieved to have a name for the variety of symptoms I’d juggled for much of my life.

My heart went out to this young mother of two, as I had been there, done that. There is nothing more difficult than trying to muster the strength to run around after a two year old, when all you want to do is go back to bed, and pull the covers up over your head because you feel so bad. I was finally fortunate enough to see a doctor who said, “Lisa, there are some things you have to try to see as the glass being half full.” Right, I thought. That’s easy for you to say. You aren’t the one whose immune system is attacking your thyroid to the point of making it so hyperactive you are so thin you look like a concentration camp refugee and all your hair is falling out! And you know next month, your immune system might go after something else, besides the cold you got from your kid, and then you have another whole set of new health issues to endure.

My doctor suggested rather than being so focused on the symptoms I was experiencing, and the depression that many people with Lupus suffer from as result of the frustrations of the disorder, I should focus on the things I could do to stay as healthy as possible, even given my diagnosis. Oh, nooo… I knew where that was going. He was going to start talking about nutrition and regular exercise and vitamins. And the power of positive thinking… I didn’t think positively. I looked out on the horizon of life, and anticipated every single thing that might go wrong, so I could be prepared when it did. I was already storing canned goods and bottled water in my garage in anticipation of the coming apocalypse.

After another six months of spending more time in a doctor’s office than anywhere else, I decided I was desperate enough to try just about anything. So little by little, I began to make small changes in the way I ate. Instead of spending hours online reading about all the ways Lupus could affect my life, I went for walks instead. While I was walking, instead of thinking about the coming apocalypse, I thought about how lucky I was to have two healthy boys, and a loud, loving, loud family, all of whom drove me crazy. Instead of lying in bed at night counting all the things that had gone wrong that day, I listed all the things that had gone right. Next thing I knew, I went from getting less than four hours of sleep a night to eight. And OMG, the difference it made in not only how I felt, but my skin! To a woman over forty, nothing short of murder is acceptable for better skin. I stopped eating anything that came out of a box, or can, drank a glass of red wine on the porch in the evening as my kids told me about their day, rather than obsessing over mine. I switched from milk chocolate to dark chocolate, because I wasn’t giving up chocolate for any reason. I stopped drinking diet sodas, and drank green tea instead. It was the proverbial snowball, and that glass was more than half full day after day.

In the last year, I have been healthier than I have ever been in my life. Now, I’m not saying always trying to see the glass as being half full is a cure for Lupus. And positive thinking cannot completely undo all of life’s challenges. But, I learned there is something to be said for concentrating on blessings, rather than struggles, and when you do, you might find the struggles are a whole lot fewer and far between.

Now I just have to figure out what I am going to do with all those canned goods and bottled water.

Quiet Time

As the mother of two rowdy boys, quiet time isn’t something I often get to enjoy. Then there is my extended family, which when gathered together rates somewhere between a riot and a sonic boom. Since the holidays, that joyous noise is still echoing in my head. And there are the boys’ ballgames, where I’m trying to keep up on the parental gossip going on in the stands, while some kid’s grandmother slaps me on the back every five minutes and shouts, “That’s my grand-baby!” as he sinks another three-pointer to tie the game. Her grand-baby is on the opposing team, so I’ll get to hear my kid complaining about him all the way home. And then there is my mother… Have I mentioned my mother?

There is the phone ringing, and the timer on the oven going off, and the TV blaring, and my boys arguing, and the cats swarming around me and meowing because they are hungry, and my mother, my brother, my kids, and my mother!

Tonight, I stepped out onto the porch to let the cat out, and the silence was like a little slice of heaven in the midst of all the noise constantly surrounding me. There was this beautiful full moon over the mountains that are covered with snow, and it was freezing, but more importantly it was so quiet I didn’t really care. I could smell woodsmoke from chimneys, see stars, but I couldn’t hear a thing on a cold winter night in East TN. Okay, I could hear the muffled sound of video games coming from the family room where my boys played, but other than that, there was complete silence. I sat down on the steps, shivering with the cold, but it was still worth it just to relish a little quiet time away from the chaos of life as I know it.

Those are the kinds of moments writers want to write about. The moments when the world around you takes your breath away, and you wish everybody could smell woodsmoke, see stars, and hear nothing. I love every season we enjoy in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains, but tonight there was something about the quiet time of a cold winter that may make the rest of the year pale in comparison.

I’m hoping you all have a wonderful week filled with quiet moments that take your breath away!

Another New Year...

It is official. Holidays 2010 ended with my neighbors kids’ setting off bottle rockets just after midnight last night. We welcomed 2011 at my house the way my family has for generations… Cornbread, black-eyed peas, and greens swimming in pork fat. I may have adopted a vegetarian lifestyle, but my family will not be swayed. I am exhausted from endless hours in the kitchen over the last couple of weeks, but it was so worth the memories of another holiday season welcoming friends and family to our home for celebrations. As much as I enjoyed the rush of the holiday season, I am looking forward to the long, cold, quiet days before we welcome spring to the Smoky Mountains. There will be more time for writing, reading the work of some of my favorite authors, and the lazy snow days my boys pray for.

The last year was filled with blessings I hope not to forget during the struggles of the new year ahead. I often say I believe life is about balance, and realizing what goes around comes around. So this year when having a teenager in the house makes me doubt my sanity, or the weekly grocery bill gives me a stroke, or my mother makes me want to bang my head against a wall by telling me I am not the boss of her… I will think about my house being loud and crowded with family for our annual Christmas gathering and counting down to the New Year with my boys as the neighbor’s kid set off another bottle rocket. The blessings far outweighed the struggles in 2010, and here’s hoping the same is true in 2011.

Wishing you all a happy, healthy, prosperous 2011!

A Few Of My Favorite Things...

For me, a few of my favorite things are the “Oh, look!” moments as my family prepares for the holiday season. I can recall being a kid, helping my mother drag out all the decorations, and listening to her say it over and over. She would unwrap the angel that went on the top of the tree, or the ornaments my brother and I made in school, and always said “Oh, look, Lisa!” as if she just unwrapped something so valuable. I’d smile and nod because I thought it increased the odds of the Easy Bake Oven I mentioned to Santa, but I honestly thought my mother was making a big deal out of an angel we’d had for years and a few ornaments obviously fashioned by a 1st and 4th grader.

It took a few years, two kids, and an appreciation for a family I now realize is my greatest joy, for me to experience my own “Oh, look!” moments. The angel atop the tree when I was a child had to be replaced by another several years ago, but when I unwrapped her this year, guess what I said. She is special to me because the last Christmas I shared with my father, his dog kept knocking the tree around, and Daddy would send me up onto the ladder to straighten the angel before Mama noticed she was about to topple over. There are the first Christmas ornaments my parents bought my boys. When I unwrap them and say “Oh, look boys!” I know they are smiling and nodding because they’re thinking about video games and new cell phones… I wonder what their kids will be thinking about when they smile and nod years from now? There are the wooden reindeer my father made, and my brother and I painted, the Happy Holidays tray my cousin Diana made for us the Christmas before she passed away, the Christmas dishes my grandmother gave my mother I hope to pass on to a granddaughter one day… I unwrap gift after gift, all the things that bring back memories that are so valuable to me. Nothing will ever be more precious than my last Christmas with my father and my cousin, or my first with each of my sons. And though I can clearly recall a few of my favorite things being the Easy Bake Oven and Barbie doll Santa remembered to bring me, today most of them are the same things that once made my mother say, “Oh, look!” as she unwrapped the gifts of cherished memories with friends and family.

I am wishing you all the happiest of holiday seasons!

Santa Baby...

Slip a new washer and dryer under the tree for me. I’ve been an awful good girl! Santa, baby, hurry before the extended warranties run out!

Santa, honey, what I really could use is FOOD for the 6’2″ 13 yr old who wears a size 15 shoe! You can keep the duplex, but please make the checks out to the mortgage and utility companies. Santa, sweetie, what I need is the deed to a dairy farm, because the price of milk is ridiculous indeed. Oh, and there’s one more thing! A ring… I don’t mean the land-line. I need GPS cells, so I can track who in my family is where, spending what???

Think of all the fun I’ve missed, think of all the boys my heroines must kiss so I can afford all of this! Santa, honey, can we please talk about my mother, and why my sons cannot understand my tendency to smother?

Ba-doopy-do…I need shoes too!

Santa, sweetie, what about tires for the SUV I NEED to haul groceries, Gatorade, ball bags, and half the team? Come and fill my Christmas tree with coupons and a credit card that’s interest-free… I really do believe in you, let’s see if you believe in what it’s like to be me!

Ba-doopy-do…I need chocolate too!

Santa, baby, forget the chimney and please clean out the gutters toooonight!

The Name of the Game

I’ve mentioned before how regularly I get comments from people on how thrilling being an author must be. And I often say how blessed I feel to be doing something I’ve dreamed about since I was nine years old. However, even dreams come true sometimes aren’t as sparkly once you get up close and personal. The truth is, being a writer is often a lonely, frustrating, demanding pursuit that requires diligence and discipline as you try to allow your mind to wander to that creative realm where none of those things impede on a story that will whisk your readers away from their struggles with the same.

About the time you’ve become comfortable with locking yourself away from the rest of the world to finish a manuscript, it’s time to shift into what I affectionately refer to as promo overdrive. There’s dealing with editors, publishers, an agent, if you haven’t been politely declined to the point of sticking needles into your eyes, and can no longer query the thousands out there. There are blog tours, online signings, and nightmares about bookstore signings in which only your mother shows up out of the same sense of obligation that had her sitting on the front row at your elementary school Christmas pageant. You’ve spent months with fictional characters who do and say whatever you want to now be thrust back into the real world…where people have opinions…about the heart and soul you stuffed into a novel. They’re called reviewers. And they are not your mama!

From the moment of beginning a novel to the giddiness of release date, the roller coaster ride can leave an author paralyzed with fear one moment and then jumping for joy at the realization of a dream that can sometimes feel like a scourge on the soul. Like most industries, the name of the game in publishing is meeting customer demand. Resting on the laurels of one title every so often rarely yields a career. So even while navigating promo overdrive, there is the urgency to begin the next novel that will start the roller coaster ride all over again. Just when wondering if the vicious cycle might be too much to bear, a reader emails to inform she’ll be naming her baby girl after the heroine in your last book, or the reviewer who got an advanced copy of your title months ago gives a glowing appraisal that was more than worth the wait.

The world of an author becomes all sparkly again, though the essentials are the same as with most professions. Hard work, diligence, discipline, dedication to readers, and developing a thick skin for reviewers who are not your mama are the name of the game, especially while making dreams come true.

The Perfect Holiday

My suggestion would be don’t hold your breath.

As I see it, perfect holidays rank right up there with perfect families and pigs flying. The expectations alone are often overwhelming, and added to that are usually the long list of disasters from holidays gone by. There was the year my grandmother called two hours before our Thanksgiving dinner to announce she invited my father’s third cousin twice removed and his entire family to be added the eighteen my parents had already invited. And they would be an hour or so late. This pushed the guest total up to twenty-six, and my mother only had twenty-four place settings of good china. It was the first time we had ever heard my mother use that word as she wrestled a twenty pound bird back into the oven, and slammed the door. She and my father had a particularly loud discussion about HIS MOTHER. I thought Mama was completely blowing the situation out of proportion until eleven years later, when my mother-in-law announced hours before my first Thanksgiving dinner for my new husband’s family she had invited my brother-in-law’s in-laws. I’m pretty sure the neighbors heard me use that word several times as my husband and I discussed HIS MOTHER, and I made a few suggestions as to what he could do with that bird.

Then there was the year I prepared Thanksgiving dinner with a 103 degree temperature, which caused me to forget to remove the plastic bag with the gross stuff from the turkey. I was too high on cold medicine to care about my family peeling melted plastic from the roofs of their mouths. There was the year my father and I had a shouting match over pumpkin pie after he announced he would be a whole lot more thankful if his daughter wasn’t a bleeding-heart liberal with an affection for Slick Willie. There was the year my brother announced after pulling a 4.0 at the University of TN college “just wasn’t for him”. It took myself and two cousins to revive my mother, and the other twenty family members to restrain my father. Let’s see… The year my beautiful baby boy spit up into the sweet potato souffle, the year my great-aunt Gracie kept asking over and over whose house this was and who are all those people, the year my second beautiful baby boy rode his Powerwheel Harley through the living room and over his grandmother… I could go on and on with the not so Norman Rockwell tales of Thanksgivings Past.

Oddly enough it’s recalling all those disasters that are a favorite part of our holiday celebration. Great-aunt Gracie is no longer sitting at our table, nor is my father. And my boys don’t remember spitting up in souffle, or running down their grandmother. But, they love hearing all those tales about not so perfect holidays shared by their not even close to perfect family. They know shouting matches, mother-in-laws, and cooking nightmares aside, we’ll all come together and find more than enough for which we are thankful.

Wishing all of you a joyously flawed Thanksgiving!

Hannah's Story

I don’t believe in coincidence, or even luck. I like to think there is a grand plan which we all contribute to with everything we think, say, and do. What goes around comes around… I also believe we are all given many opportunities to be in a specific place at a specific time for reasons we might not understand at that moment, but will find later was our chance to impact the lives of others.

I had one of those moments a little over a year ago.

I hadn’t even had time to fully relish my boys being back in school, therefore allowing me to devote more time to writing the stories that would hopefully balance out the ever-rising cost of child rearing. Then the 8 yr old sneezed on the way home from school, and my mother’s intuition kicked into overdrive. Sure enough, by bedtime he had a raging fever, that barking seal cough, and I knew neither of us was getting much sleep that night. By the next morning his brother had chimed in with the same symptoms, and I had our pediatrician’s office on the phone. Advised to give it another twenty-four hours before bringing them in where they might contract something else on top of what they already had, we spent night number two with no sleep as I forced fluids and handed out Tylenol.

By ten the next morning I was sitting in an office knee-deep in coughing, sneezing, cranky kids, and their even crankier parents. Besides my kids being sick, my entire work schedule for the week was blown, and I had not figured all that Tylenol and Pedialyte into the budget. I knew from the sheer number surrounding us, we were no less than an hour from being seen, and the adorable 2 yr old licking snot from his upper lip was anxious to share whatever he had with my kid as he climbed up into his lap. That’s what happens when you teach your kids to be kind to other children, I thought irritably.

In the midst of all the chaos, I looked up from the magazine I was flipping through to see a woman who didn’t look a day past thirty toting an infant carrier come into the waiting room. A boy toddled along behind her, holding the hand of a little girl who looked to be four or five years old. A nurse came in with a thick chart. and sat beside the young mother. Now if you follow my blog, you know I have a shameless habit of overhearing others’ conversations. I chalk it up to the curious mind of a writer. The nurse kept her voice lowered, but finite hearing is one of my Mommy Superpowers.

In the infant carrier was a six week old baby girl named Hannah, who had Down Syndrome. Hannah also had a heart defect that required immediate surgery. I couldn’t hear the name of the hospital where the surgery was to be performed, but I did hear the young mother ask if there was a Ronald McDonald House in the area. She went on to explain her family wouldn’t be able to afford other accommodations, and would have to take their older children with them as well. The nurse assured she would check on it, and left her with a pile of forms to begin filling out. I thought of the expenses I had when my father was in a local hospital. Parking, cafeteria food due to not wanting to leave his side, time missed from work… I also knew as a former health care professional the chances of a patient recovering from any injury or illness were much better when they were surrounded by those who love them.

It seemed like forever before that nurse came back out. I was ready to jump up and demand she better not dare tell that young mother already facing what had to be one of the most difficult times in her life there was no Ronald McDonald House. And she didn’t. She said there was one within a few miles of the hospital. I will never forget the expression on that young mother’s face. I know a blessing when I see one unfolding, and in the midst of what that family was going to face, a Ronald McDonald House meant they could all face it together with the support of others who knew exactly what they were going through.

I looked over at my two strong, healthy sons, with the exception of a virus they would recover from in days, asked forgiveness for the woe-is-me I had indulged in, and said thanks for being in that place at that moment. Since that day a percentage of every royalty I earn goes to Ronald McDonald Houses. In a single moment I saw exactly what a difference those houses make in the lives of injured or ill children and their families. I know there are so many charities that need and deserve our help to make a difference in the lives of others. But, I will always believe I was sitting in a waiting room that day so that I could share with others Hannah’s Story. And I hope in doing so her family’s struggle makes a difference for many other families and the children they love.

http://rmhc.org/

The True Meaning Of Service

When I was in the seventh grade, the South Knoxville Optimist Club sponsored an essay contest in celebration of Veterans Day. I entered because my grandfather was active in the club, and because I’d won a contest they sponsored before, and scored free dinner at Shoney’s for my family. Even in those days there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for a hot fudge sundae. The essay was to be about what Veterans Day meant to me. Frankly at that point in my life I gave far more thought to how I could make my hair look like Farrah Fawcett’s, and I certainly hadn’t mulled over Veterans Day for any length of time. My grandmother suggested I interview my father and grandfather, who both served in the military years before I was born. I knew they served. We had the pictures to prove it, as well as the letters they both wrote to my grandmother while they were away. However I had never asked either of them about their time serving their country.

I won’t get into all the specifics of what each of them told me, but I will say there was a common theme in both conversations. My grandfather and father were both educated men, who traveled all over the world, thanks in part to their service. They ran a successful family business while raising families of their own, and trust me, being married to my mother and grandmother couldn’t have always been the easiest thing in the world. They each had a list of accomplishments to be proud of, but it was apparent to me after those conversations, serving their country was what they considered to be defining points of their lives.

While writing that essay I learned things about my father and grandfather I might never have known, and even more about what it really means to love this country. I was raised to believe when you love somebody or something sacrifice and service are part of the deal. I’m not suggesting those of us who have not served in the armed forces don’t love our country. But, I am suggesting one of the ways we can all serve is by honoring those who have as often as we can. Today I have friends and family members whose sons and daughters are serving in a time of war. And as a parent I cannot imagine any greater pride, or fear than knowing your child is willing to sacrifice and serve the country we all love during these turbulent times.

I am grateful for a seventh grade essay contest that taught me the real meaning of Veterans Day. I am grateful for my sons growing up in a country where so many served and died for the opportunities and freedoms they enjoy. And I am grateful to those serving today and their families who carry on the proud traditions of service, sacrifice and love of our country.

Build Your Brand

The days of readers only knowing as much about an author as what is reflected in the bio on the cover of their novel are long gone. These days even authors writing for large publishing houses with deep pockets for promotion are expected to put themselves out there. For those of us writing for small presses, or self-publishing, being out there is an even bigger must. If you think what readers perceive about an author personally doesn’t matter, check out any number of boards, chats or sites that should soon convince you otherwise. How you market yourself is just as important as how you market your novel. You are your brand, and every second you are out there for public consumption will likely reflect on your success as an author.

I want to build a following not just for the genre I write for, but specifically for my books. The ones I have published to date are set in the South. Trust me, I am as southern as anybody should ever aspire to be. So on my blog, in interviews, even on my facebook page, I often refer to living in the South and comment on how that reflects on everything from how I cook to how I speak…y’all. In my novels, female characters often interact over chocolate cake and truffles. Anywhere out there I put myself, I make no bones about it not being too far from a chocolate fix. The bonds between family and friends are always a part of my plot, so I often discuss more about my family and friends than I hope they ever find out about. My novels are going to appeal to readers looking for a more traditional romance complete with prose and fairytale-like settings. Therefore I comment on everything from chivalry to not giving up hope of my own knight in shining armor sweeping me off my feet one day. I just hope when he does we’re in the kitchen so he can catch a pile of crumbs or cat food while he’s at it.

I think after pouring as much of our heart and soul into a novel as an author does, we should also do the same with how we portray ourselves to readers, potential agents, editors, publishers, anybody and everybody involved in the industry. Writing the best book we can is the first step, but how others perceive us personally could also determine how far we get on a career path.