Megan Morrison's Blog, page 8

Rain themes: Changed “For Good”

“Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better? But because I knew you, I have been changed for good.” –Wicked, “For Good.”

So, I think it’s about time I talk about this quote — this song — a little bit.  I’ve held off on it for a while, quite frankly because it’s just too easy. It’s my book in a nutshell, which is why the first time I heard it, sitting in a Chicago theatre watching the musical “Wicked” five years ago, it immediately brought tears to my eyes. 

Music has a way of touching us like nothing else can, even more so when the lyrics strike a particular chord (no pun intended). Yet what made this song most touching to me was the story leading up to it. Two young girls, so different, who came into each other’s lives unexpectedly, and taught one another lessons without intending to. The hero? There really isn’t one. The villain? That’s not necessarily clear either. You sympathize with both sides, you understand both sides. Both the good and the bad inspire learning.

That’s the thing about people who change you. You don’t always get to choose the way they do, and the lessons can disguise themselves in some very challenging, even heartbreaking situations. They can leave you wondering if it was worth it. Couldn’t there be an easier way? 

I still wonder. 

As recently as last Saturday, a chance encounter with the person who once moved me more than any other left me wondering why it all had to work out the way it did. What could I have done differently? If I had done things differently, would it have made it better? Would we still have grown apart naturally? 

Don’t dwell on the past, right? No, I don’t. In fact, while my memoir may seem to be about looking back, it’s really about moving forward, putting all of that energy I once spent trying to help someone else, into trying to help a whole lot of other people — using my experience to inspire others. But the questions will stay with me, especially as more and more people read this story, a few who have already asked me their own questions: ”Do you still talk to Maya?  What do you think of her now?” 

Once more, I go back to the song. 

“I’ve heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn and we are led to those who help us most to grow; if we let them, and we help them in return. Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true, but I know I’m who I am today because I knew you.” 

Full song here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzrGFQysfYU 

Who has changed you “for good?” How?

Rain themes: Changed "For Good"

"Who can say if I've been changed for the better? But because I knew you, I have been changed for good." –Wicked, "For Good."

So, I think it's about time I talk about this quote — this song — a little bit.  I've held off on it for a while, quite frankly because it's just too easy. It's my book in a nutshell, which is why the first time I heard it, sitting in a Chicago theatre watching the musical "Wicked" five years ago, it immediately brought tears to my eyes. 

Music has a way of touching us like nothing else can, even more so when the lyrics strike a particular chord (no pun intended). Yet what made this song most touching to me was the story leading up to it. Two young girls, so different, who came into each other's lives unexpectedly, and taught one another lessons without intending to. The hero? There really isn't one. The villain? That's not necessarily clear either. You sympathize with both sides, you understand both sides. Both the good and the bad inspire learning.

That's the thing about people who change you. You don't always get to choose the way they do, and the lessons can disguise themselves in some very challenging, even heartbreaking situations. They can leave you wondering if it was worth it. Couldn't there be an easier way? 

I still wonder. 

As recently as last Saturday, a chance encounter with the person who once moved me more than any other left me wondering why it all had to work out the way it did. What could I have done differently? If I had done things differently, would it have made it better? Would we still have grown apart naturally? 

Don't dwell on the past, right? No, I don't. In fact, while my memoir may seem to be about looking back, it's really about moving forward, putting all of that energy I once spent trying to help someone else, into trying to help a whole lot of other people — using my experience to inspire others. But the questions will stay with me, especially as more and more people read this story, a few who have already asked me their own questions: "Do you still talk to Maya?  What do you think of her now?" 

Once more, I go back to the song. 

"I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn and we are led to those who help us most to grow; if we let them, and we help them in return. Well, I don't know if I believe that's true, but I know I'm who I am today because I knew you." 

Full song here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzrGFQysfYU 

Who has changed you "for good?" How?

The Big Picture

"One day, one night, one moment, my dreams could be, tomorrow." –Enya

So, I couldn't sleep last night — hardly got a wink. I was all set to. After signing off on that final draft of my manuscript and putting it in the hands of my publisher, I thought for sure I'd drift right off. But then suddenly, I remembered a word in the opening sentence that was capitalized. 

Now, there was a chance that the word should be capitalized. But, I could also think of a couple reasons why it might need to be lowercase. And if that was true, then there it was: an error in the opening sentence. 

After tossing and turning all night I got up for work this morning and thought about it more. Like most people in this day and age, I also got on facebook for a bit — 5 more fans of the book, all waiting anxiously to read it.  Great, but… what if that book had a word capitalized that shouldn't be? 

Okay, I needed to talk to my editor. The thing is, I was in no mood for e-mail — sending something and then watching my inbox like a hawk until a new message finally pops up. No, this situation needed a phone call. 

I just had to find his number. 

There's a folder in my Outlook e-mail entitled "book" where I put all things related. I probably should've written down my editor's number a long time ago, but I didn't. So I had to scroll through to our initial back and forth two years ago to find it. I started typing the down arrow and… oops!  I scrolled down too far… Or, maybe not too far. 

The first e-mail in that folder is from August 28, 2007, and is simply meant as a "save" e-mail. Yes, I know I should invest in an external hard drive, but for the time being, just to make sure I never lose something particularly important, I often send documents to myself and file them away. The version in that e-mail is the oldest version of the book there ever was, the version I'd been working on since 2004… and it doesn't even go past Chapter 25. 

A few e-mails up, there's a series of messages from Fall 2008 to my "initial readers" as I called them. "Here guys, here's the final draft of my book. I'll be sending you a printed copy next week (long story about Fedex Kinkos that I'll save for another day), and here are the things I'd like you to look for." There are also a number of responses back from that group of friends and family with things like, "Can't wait to read it!," and "So proud of you for finishing!" 

Again… 2008. 

I've got a few more "save" e-mails with the revised versions after that. Those nine people had some great feedback, and I incorporated just about all of it. Now, I had a true version entitled "Final." All I needed was an editor. 

The phone number was indeed in one of those Fall 2009 e-mails from my then new editor, but for the moment, it didn't matter. Instead, I focused in on an e-mail from December 2009 where, after a few review sessions, he told me I literally needed to rewrite the entire book. The story was there, sure, but what I had was an essay. I needed scenes, characters, playing it out as though a reader was there in my head with me during all of those experiences. 

I still remember getting that message, three days before my best friend and I were headed to Paris. I understood everything my editor was saying, but I needed a couple days to just sit with it, figure out where I'd start, and as long as I was on vacation, why not? I thought about it often as I roamed the streets of what is now my favorite city, taking in the Eiffel Tower and other scenery, and came back with some great ideas for the opening scene. I had Chapter 1 finished by the end of the holidays. 

Chapter 1. As in 49 chapters more and I'd have a finished copy again. 

In December 2010, 12 months later, I thought I did. My editor signed off, and I sent the "final draft" to that folder to save.Time to send some query letters to agents, my project for the next couple of months. 

In March, I have some e-mails from when the idea of Evolved Publishing came along. With this company, I could publish my book now, or at least soon if I wanted. Great! One last review to make sure it was ready for primetime, and then I'd be set. 

Did you know a memoir is typically supposed to be between 75,000 and 80,000 words? I didn't, and at the time, mine was 93,000. According to a few more e-mail exchanges entitled "cut like crazy," in the course of three months, my editor and I took it down to 80 — a lot of reconstruction, a lot of updates. A lot of more editing. 

We finally finished at the end of this summer, and all I needed now was an independent reviewer. Let her make a few simple suggestions and I'll be good to go — let's get this thing out by Halloween! 

Or, according to the e-mail she sent back, maybe I should restructure the first 8 chapters entirely. 

Hence, why there are about fifteen more e-mails in that folder with "updated" copies to and from my editor, all the way to yesterday, with that final signoff. 

It turns out, after I finally called him this morning, that the word I was concerned about is actually fine being capitalized — good to show emphasis and importance to the readers. But there is a much a bigger lesson to take away than proper capitalization.

When I got to my dream school and cried every night from homesickness, I couldn't imagine staying all the way to graduation. I did, and graduation day was one of the proudest days of my life — I'd reached a goal I'd been working towards for 4 whole years. 

I've been writing this book for 7. 

If you got bored with all of those e-mails above, I apologize, but each one helps to demonstrate the magnitude of this journey, and why it's now almost comical that I lost a night's sleep over a single word. 

I've heard it said that "success often comes to those who are too busy to look for it," but if you're too busy, or too caught up in the small things, to appreciate how far you've come once in a while, then you need to take a step back. 

I know I'm going to. After a few more good nights of sleep the rest of the week, Saturday night will be a huge celebration of the release, complete with friends, family, and some wine I've been saving for two years — I purchased it in Paris.

If You Steal My Sunshine — Excerpt from And Then it Rained: Lessons for Life

I know it's up for me, if you steal my sunshine. — Len

Anxiously awaiting next Saturday?? I know I am! In the meantime, here's a little preview to hold you over .

~~~

I rehashed the conversation on my ride home.  Was there anything I could say to help?  Should I tell her she's crazy for thinking those things?  What if that made her mad?  Would it make a difference if I told her how much I looked up to her?  Probably not.  She had so many other people in her life who were closer to her.  What could I do?

***

The second Sunday in August, an idea tunneled from the bottom of my mind like a worm fighting its way through an apple.

I marched inside and straight down to our basement family room, which housed our computer, and yanked the wooden chair from under the desk.  I sat and rested my hands on the cool, plastic keyboard. 

The inspiration to write Maya a letter had come a couple years prior.  How neat for her to walk out to her mailbox one day—long after we'd gone our separate ways—and discover the incredible way she'd affected the life of another person.  She'd done so much for me.  Shouldn't she know that? 

I hadn't thought about it much the past few months; the soonest I'd send the letter would be when she went to San Diego State, and even that was over a year away.  But now, other reasons compelled me to write.  I needed to say something, even if no one could hear me.

"Dear Maya, I have no idea how to start this letter."

After a couple agonizing minutes, I forced myself forward.

"I have contemplated writing it to you for a very long time, and I cannot even begin to imagine what your reaction will be."

Would she be flattered?  Or would she deem my admiration over the top?  It doesn't matter.  We'll hardly know each other by the time she reads this. 

After introducing the letter's purpose, I moved on to my memorable moments with her  That's where the letter took on a timeline format—the summer we'd met, how she'd become my idol.

The story about my focus on her academics sparked additional hesitation. Would she be upset at me for calling out something negative?  But to appreciate why she was my idol, she needed to understand how I'd come to recognize those qualities. 

She'd taught me quite a lesson, among other things. 

I took my last bike ride to the coffee shop the following week.  Last, both because school started a day later, and because Maya had informed me that the owner was shutting down the store.  Those slow afternoons were a little too slow. 

Our conversation topics proved more positive this time—school starting, the new apartment she and her friend Chloe were moving into the following weekend.  Yet she still spoke in the same tone—defeated.  The radio played softly in the background, Len's "Steal My Sunshine."

I glanced out the window at the threatening clouds, and then back at Maya.  Sounds about right. 

We said our goodbyes and I dashed to my bike, hoping to get ahead of the impending storm. 

Too late.  Five minutes in, the sky unleashed its fury, complete with thunder, lightning, and hard, cold rain. 

What a bad day.

What a bad month, really.

Coming November 12, 2011!

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The rewards of perseverance (to the tune of Canon in D)

The race goes not always to the swift, but to those who keep running.  — Author Unknown 

It all started with George Winston. 

My parents never pushed me into piano lessons.  Really, they never pushed me into anything, which I appreciated.  They encouraged my sisters and me to pick activities that we liked, but they weren't the sort of parents that had this list to check off — get kids into something musical, something athletic, something cultural.  Make sure they practice 2 hours a day, etc….  No, it was my choice, and as soon I heard George Winston's Canon in D, I made it.  

I was going to play that song someday. 

We didn't even own a piano.  We didn't even own a keyboard.  So not only did I have to ask Mom and Dad to enroll me in piano lessons, I also had to ask them for something to practice on.  And what did I get for Christmas that year?  A 3-foot long Yamaha and a stand to put it on.  Not quite a Steinway.  But I'd take it — I had to start somewhere.  

Have you ever tried out a beginner piano book?  If you're lucky, by the end of it, you'll know how to play Hot Cross Buns.  After the second level — maybe Ode to Joy.  An hour or more a day of practicing for a whole year, and that's where I was.  "You're really talented, Megan," my teacher told me, "one of my best students."  Because I can play five songs?  Two chords? 

At year two, my parents gave into my begging.  This piano thing — no matter how challenging  — was here to stay, so they might as well get me something that sounds good too.  They even cleared out a spot in Dad's office for the brand new Baldwin so I had some privacy to work.  And I did.  I worked up to being able to play those "easy piano" books of popular songs.  The compositions didn't contain much besides the melody, but I could recognize and relate to the music now, and that motivated me. 

It wasn't until fifth grade, 3 1/2 years after starting, that I could take a more difficult piece and learn it.  To my disappointment, good old Mr. Winston didn't publish his music, but that was fine, I just needed to play the song.  The version by Robert Schultz seemed pretty close to what I'd heard — complex and difficult — but close.  I picked up the sheet music, bound in a sleek, black cover, and took it home to practice.  For the next six months, I worked every night. 

I mastered the piece by the beginning of sixth grade.  A few years later, I even played it for my final high school recital.  I'd moved on to some more challenging pieces by then, but the song just seemed too fitting.  The round of applause following my performance left me in tears.  What could be better?

When I went off to college, I gave up playing.  Back home for a break or the holidays, I'd often sit down at that Baldwin for a little while, but nothing regular.  I played even less after graduation when I moved into my own townhouse.

During my third year out working in the "real world," my company asked if anyone was interested in playing some background music for an upcoming event.  The request struck me — I missed it terribly.  My childhood home was only 20 minutes away, so I could go over there a few days a week to practice, and what a great way to start up again.  I volunteered, and headed into the music store for some new material. 

I stopped dead in my tracks. 

There, on the front display racks of the store, lay an anthology of George Winston songs — just published.  Hands trembling, I picked up the shiny, blue book.  Could it be in here? 

I opened the cover, turned the pages and… Variations on the Kanon by Pachelbel. 

I not only purchased the book of music that day, I also purchased a small piano.  Within hours of the most impulsive decision I'd ever made, I could perform the song that had inspired me to start playing twenty years earlier. 

Not all dreams, not all goals, are simply a result of working hard.  I could've decided in second grade that I wanted to be a quarterback in the NFL — anyone who has seen me throw a football can tell you how unrealistic that goal would've been.  I once pondered being a singer, playing my own background music, but my mom walked in on me trying that one out early on and quickly put the idea to rest.  "Thank God you can play the piano," were her exact words.  (As I watch people on American Idol get their first round of criticism, I'm thankful my mom was honest with me ). 

But some dreams… many dreams… can be reached — if you just put your mind to it.  You're going to face setbacks, you're going to be challenged on your path, so much so that you want to give up.  But keep going.  No matter how long the road to your destination is, there's only one way to know if you can get there.

And on that note, I am thrilled to announce to you the official release date for And Then It Rained: Lessons for Life.

November 12, 2011!!

Prettiest College Campuses – My Top Ten

Something, something about this place.  — Lady Gaga

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I love college campuses.  LOVE them.  I could spend all day, every day exploring them.  There's just something about the design, the buildings, the landscaping, that is so unique, setting each one apart from the rest.  

In the past six years I've had a chance to visit dozens of them, with a count upwards of 30.  I've still got a lot to see, but for today, in honor of a few recent articles on the most beautiful campuses in the country, I thought I'd post my own top ten from where I've been so far.  This post is also in honor of the ten-year anniversary this past weekend, of the first time I set my sights on the campus of my dream school. 

Forgive my descriptions — I'm no architecture buff — but I've included links to websites if you want to see more.  

The List:

#10: University of California – San Diego: Location isn't key to this list, but it sure helps.  The cliffs and beaches of La Jolla, California are breathtaking, and when you add in some beautiful buildings and palm trees you've got yourself a pretty nice place to spend four years. http://www.ucsd.edu/prospective-students/tours/virtual/index.html 

#9: Columbia University – NYC:  If you like unique architecture with big city surroundings then this is the place for you.  Personally, I prefer a college town atmosphere, but really enjoyed my short two days at this university. http://www.columbia.edu/ 

#8: University of Wisconsin – Madison: I really wish this school would pick a more distinct architectural style, but you can't beat a student union on the lake (even when that lake is frozen).  There's also not a lot of campus spots prettier than Bascom Hill.   http://vip.wisc.edu/destinations/landmarks/

#7: University of Wisconsin – Lacrosse: Surprise, not all the schools on my list are Division I.  When I visited this campus in high-school for a band competition I came home and told my mom that if she forced me to stay in state, I'd go here.  Luckily, I had the country to choose from, but I still love this campus.  The bluffs, the red brick buildings, and it's got that small, homey feel to it. http://www.ecampustours.com/VirtualTours/Default.aspx?FafsaCode=003919&login=false

#6: Duke University:  This is not a list of my favorite teams, but this campus has grown on me.  The architecture is hard to argue with, in particular the famed chapel, and the forest and other landscaping is awesome. http://visit.duke.edu/

Top 5 (My Standouts)

#5: University of Iowa:  I never thought I'd find the twin campus to my dream school in Iowa City, Iowa, but it literally is, the buildings are just gray stone instead of red brick.  I love the gold domes, the hill (yes, there is at least one hill in Iowa) the football stadium flanking one side and the pedestrian mall flanking the other. http://www.uiowa.edu/admissions/campus-views/vtREC/index.html

#4: Davidson College:  It's smaller than my high-school, but this campus right outside of Charlotte is a gem.  Red brick buildings with beige columns (yes, I'm partial to the Southern style architecture), and just a cozy feel in general.  My favorite story from my aunt who went there is how they call it the "sophomore year abroad" due to the fact that the 2nd year dorms are just a little longer walk to classes than the ten feet connecting all of the other buildings. http://www3.davidson.edu/cms/x389.xml 

#3: University of Maryland: Much of today's blog post was inspired by my run through this campus this morning.  I'll admit, I'm a bit partial to campuses I visit in the fall versus the dead of winter, yet I think I'd be in love with this one during any season.  Again, I'm a sucker for those red bricks and beige columns. http://www.umd.edu/campus_tour/

#2: Stanford University: If you haven't been to "the farm" in Palo Alto, CA yet, I highly suggest you take a trip, whether it's to pay tribute to the late Steve Jobs or check out the other amazing scenery within an hour or two drive (my colleagues joke about my affection for Half Moon Bay).  There's no red bricks here, instead the California white stucco and clay roofs.  Add in some mountains in the background, along with sprawling horse farms, and it's hard to beat. http://www.stanford.edu/dept/visitorinfo/

#1: I'm going to guess most people, like me, would put their Alma Mater at #1, and the thing is, that's what makes college so great.  You get to choose the place that fits YOU, the campus that catches YOUR eye, whether it's 10 minutes or 1000 miles from home.  What was mine?  Well, since the book comes out in less than a month, I'm not going to ruin that now!

Top 5 campuses I want to see (in no particular order):

Harvard
Notre Dame
University of Virginia
University of Tennessee
University of Texas

What are your favorite campuses?  The prettiest?  (either your Alma Mater or otherwise)?  What campus do you want to visit? 

In case you're interested, here's the list of 30 or so I've spent more than an hour on.  Please don't take offense if I didn't include yours' on my list of the prettiest, though I'd love to hear why you think it should be on it! 

Columbia University (NYC)

Davidson College

Duke University

Georgetown University

Georgia State

Georgia Tech

Iowa State University

Northern Michigan University

Ohio State University

San Diego State University

Southern Methodist University

Stanford University

Syracuse University

UNC – Wilmington

University of California – San Diego

University of Chicago

University of Illinois – Champaign/Urbana

University of Iowa

University of Maryland

University of Minnesota

University of Minnesota – Duluth

University of North Carolina – Chapel Hill

University of Pittsburgh

University of Wisconsin – Madison

UW – Green Bay

UW – La Crosse

UW – Oshkosh

UW – Whitewater

Vanderbilt University

West Virginia University

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Pumpkin Candy

Our lives remain

In these small hours

These little wonders,

These twists & turns of fate

Time falls away

But these small hours,

These small hours still remain

 - Rob Thomas, "Little Wonders"

Can good experiences with someone outweigh the bad?  It's a question I've struggled with at many times over the past ten years, and one I don't think I've ever really found the answer to.  Some days I get angry when I remember certain events.  Some days I'm sad.  And some days, I smile.  But every October, I go to the store and I buy a bag of pumpkin candy.

Pumpkin candy — you know, that sugary hard stuff?  It's basically candy corn in a different shape (if you want, you can even buy it in the same package as candy corn).  I just buy the pumpkins though.  I take them home, eat a few pieces (not like exam time in college where I used to eat the whole bag), and with that sweet, sugary taste, I remember how the smallest of actions — something as simple as a piece of candy — can positively affect the life of a child.

I'm not going to get too far into why or how I was affected so much, or especially, why I sometimes need that bag of candy to remember the good stuff.  That would sort of defeat the purpose of the manuscript I've spent the last seven years of my life working on.  But when I walked into my local Walgreens this week and saw those seasonal bags of goodies out on display, I was inspired to write this post, to remind everyone out there that you too can have that kind of an impact.

On Monday, I get to go meet my new "little sister," a little girl whom the Big Brothers Big Sisters program deemed a "match" for me.  They'd asked me if I'd be okay with a brother, a little boy, and I'd told them fine.  Give me someone who I can talk sports with and we'll be buds in no time.  Yet it's fitting that they found me a little sister instead, a twelve year old girl in need of a mentor.

Just like I was. 

Who had an influence in your life growing up?  How did they have an influence?  What do you remember most? 

PS:  I know you're wondering why it's pumpkin candy that's special, and I promise that story's in the book too.  Only a few more weeks 'till it's out…

Ode to the farm

"They call it paradise, I don't know why.  Call someplace paradise, kiss it goodbye."  –The Eagles 

While revising a few early chapters in my book this week, I came across a short scene that needed a few additions.  I started making them, adding details, and 200 words later, I had to stop myself — it was just one scene, after all.  But it's about… the farm. 

I could probably write an entire book about the farm.  Actually, in second grade and fourth grade I did.  My picture books earned me perfect scores from my instructor.  But since the slightly longer book I'm working on now is not about the farm (though there are a few pretty major events that happened there), I'll instead write some more about it here, since I'm just in that kind of a mood now. 

You'd think some place so significant, so engrained in me, would be a good distance away… take a little while to get to, not be that accessible.  Yet it was only about 20 minutes from my house.  You simply drove down one highway for about 5 minutes, got on another highway for about 10 — taking you into a small, unincorporated town — and then this, this was the most crucial part.  

Turn left at the blue barn. 

I've heard the same directions a million times over the years.  Someone may have looked at you funny the first time you called the blue barn out as a landmark, but after they made that turn once, they knew… that was the way you got there.  And once there, well…. 

We'd head outside early every morning for "chores;" only me, the city-girl, I never saw our daily responsibilities as chores.  My four cousins who had to get up at 5am every other morning did, but I loved them.

We'd start out with the bunnies, filling the water bottles and pellets, careful not to get our hair caught on the metal wires of their cages.  "Magic," the gray bunny with floppy ears, was always my favorite.  I usually spent a little extra time at his back-corner pen, petting that soft, fuzzy fur. 

Once the bunnies were cared for, we made our way over to the big dairy barn.  By then, my uncle had usually brought the cows in for milking.  We'd watch him fill his wheelbarrow at the feed shoot, and then, as he emptied a portion into each cow's trough, we'd follow behind with the cup of their mineral.  Maybe it was the smell — sweet, somehow — but I could never get enough.  In fact, feeding the mineral was usually the chore I "called" as soon as we got outside. 

The calves needed their morning meal too.  My uncle would milk the mother cows first, so my cousins and I could fill some bottles and get over to their pens.  The female calves always caught on quickest to the whole bottle-feeding thing, while the males slopped all over.  I usually walked away with at least a little of the liquid on my clothes.  Oh well.  

Don't tell Mom, but after that, my cousins usually drove me around on the tractor to give the steers their food.  She'd warned that only my uncle was supposed to drive me on the big, yellow, loader, but sometimes he got busy.  Sure my middle school cousins didn't exactly have a driver's license yet, but they did this every day… they were pros.  I'd sit on those wheel caps flanking the driver's seat, the breeze blowing in my face fresh will all of those wonderful farm smells — hay, a little bit of manure.  Not a care in the world.

After a hearty breakfast served by my aunt, it was time for the real adventures, and let me tell you, we had some adventures.  Like the kitten we rescued in the hay barn. 

There were always farm cats around.  Some, like "Peaches," an orange, chubby tabby-cat, were regulars.  Some came and went, and litters of new kittens running around proved typical.  Yet the meow in the hay barn as we climbed the 20-ft stack one day caught us all a little off guard.  The poor thing had fallen into a shaft left by a few bales my uncle had removed.  So we had to rescue it. 

The problem was, it was a tough climb down.  I wasn't going to do it, and though my youngest cousin claimed to be brave enough for the task, it would be nearly impossible for him to climb all the way back up with a kitten in his hand. 

Enter the bucket and rope. 

The seven-year-old made the trek down into the shaft, wearing oven mitts on his hands (who knew what to expect from a feisty kitten who'd been trapped for a couple of days).  My three other cousins and I lowered the bucket down, he deposited the little gray feline (hissing and clawing — good call on the oven mitts), and we pulled it back up.  Voila!  Saved kitten.  

The majority  of our adventures were more routine, like riding our bikes down the "dusty trail."  The windy path was supposed to be for tractors, yet its rocks and gravel were nothing a dirt bike couldn't handle.  Some days my cousins and I rode well into the cornfields (again, don't tell Mom) and got lost in the endless stalks.  It took a little time to find our way back, but what else did we have to do? 

Campfires were also common place.  My aunt would pack up supplies at dusk and walk us all the way down their half-mile driveway to a small wooded area where my cousins had set up a perfect, cozy spot.  Sitting on tree stumps, we roasted marshmallows for hours amidst hooting owls and growling bears (okay, the bear was just my cousins' huge black dog, and he didn't growl, but if he snuck up behind you on a dark night, it was quite frightening). 

Sometimes, our adventures didn't even stop at bedtime.  Half-asleep, the whistle of a train would wake me up.  My cousins and I would race to the window to count the passing cars, sometimes topping one hundred.  On other nights, rare, but not as rare as you'd think, my aunt would come wake us to go down to the barn to watch a new calf being born.  It's kind of gross to think back to now, but at the same time, hilarious that we'd all stand there, huddled in the middle of the dairy barn in our pajamas, watching my uncle bring a new baby calf into the world. 

I've quoted one of my all-time favorite songs at the beginning of this entry, the Eagle's "The Last Resort," which suggests a place called paradise can't last forever.  And the farm didn't.  My cousins grew up and my aunt and uncle sold it eventually.  A turn down that road by the big blue barn doesn't take you to the same place anymore. 

But it doesn't mean I can't get there.

The picture books from elementary school, and the manuscript I've recently completed (side note, there are a number of more fun stories in that), are only a sampling.  The rest is all in my head.  

A childhood's worth of memories.

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Taking Feedback

"There is only one thing more painful than learning from experience and that is not learning from experience."  –Archibald Macleish 

A couple years ago, in the midst of managing a huge project for a quite prestigious organization, my boss called me into his office.  "Megan," he said, "I've got some feedback to share with you from your team.  It's not positive." 

"Oh?"  I looked at him intently.  "Please tell me." 

He proceeded to fill me in on how some of my direct reports were unhappy with my communication to them — keeping them informed, escalating their concerns.

I nodded throughout — I could see where there was room for improvement.  

He got to the end and stared at me, a perplexed look on his face.  "So… does that make sense?" 

Not knowing what he wanted, I elaborated on my nodding.  "Yes,"  I told him, and explained my ideas for how to make things better.  

He once again shook his head.  "Wow, you're really good at taking feedback." 

I smiled.  "Uh yeah… "

Why wouldn't you be?

Oh I know it's tough.  It's tough to hear the things you're doing might be having a negative impact,  the path you're down the wrong one.  But still… why wouldn't you want to change it?  Why wouldn't you want to get on the right path? 

Two years ago I submitted a manuscript to my editor.  Actually he was an editor at the time, who responded and said that for him to take me on, I had to be open to some major modifications.  I told him I was, that I didn't mind the constructive criticism. 

Many hours of work later I can honestly say that what I submitted to him then was by all accounts an essay.  What I have today is a story, with dialogue, characters, scenes — all things I didn't even know I was missing until I opened myself up to someone else's opinion.   And I'm still not done improving it! 

A couple weeks ago, I submitted that story to a professional reviewer in my target audience.  What do you think — no revisions suggested?  Ha, I wish!  Actually she suggested some pretty big changes, ones that had me trembling a bit when I first read them.  Could I really take on the extra work?  Could I still get this book out by Halloween, or at least the holiday shopping season? 

Three days later, I'm already loving this new version.  I've added so much more depth to the characters, in particular, myself , and have put in some scenes that really bring the story to life.

When I e-mailed this reviewer back to tell her about the adjustments, she told me that she was impressed.  Most authors might give up when someone points out some flaws in their work, she said.

Nope, I thought, not me.  I don't see feedback as a letdown.  

It's an opportunity.

Are you good at taking feedback?  How have you benefited from constructive criticism?  Who can you count on to give it to you?

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A place to dream

"Take me away… a secret place… a sweet escape… " – Natasha Bendingfield

I vowed when I graduated from my "dream" college five years ago that I'd never go more than a year without returning to it.  I cut it close this time — by only two days — but I'm back… and I remember why I said I'd never go more than a year. 

There are places you go to relax, to unwind, to escape reality and refresh… most of mine end with the word "Beach."  

This isn't one of them. 

This place – this campus — is where I go when I want to feel inspired.  At one point in my life, as I've alluded to just a few times, it was a place I dreamed about.  But the moment I arrived it became so much more than that.  The experiences I had, the challenges I pushed through, and the lessons I learned have made it into somewhere that shows me nothing is impossible.  It's why I still get teary every time I set foot on those zig-zagging red brick paths.

It's ironic that one of my biggest dreams is within such close reach right now.  As I sit at a campus coffee shop working on some final touches, I can hardly believe the book I've been writing for over seven years will be published in just a few short weeks.  So what do I do now?  Well, as I learned here, destinations are where we begin again. 

How well will the book do, and in turn, how far can Sky Blue Mission go?  What about a sequel?  Can I write another book?  What would the next one be about?  Could it provide another avenue for Mission funds?  How many different ways can the Mission help young kids get to college — are there ideas I haven't thought of yet?  Opportunities to join forces with other organizations?  Other Alumni even? 

Hmmm… so many possibilities. 

In the years since graduating I've often thought of my dream school as having saved me.  Yet being back here, I remember that instead, it showed me I could save myself.  That distinct toll of the famous bell tower, the shimmer of the library's golden rotunda, they remind me that the future is wide open.  I can be anything I want to be, and do anything I want to do. 

Where do you go to dream?

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