Jennifer L. Place's Blog, page 3
November 8, 2011
One Side of the Door...
Here is part one of a short story I recently wrote which was inspired in part by a song - "Stay" by Mayday Parade and also by two people very close to me. I will post part two as a separate blog in the days to come. Comments totally welcome and appreciated.
One Side of the Door...
These last days have been agony. Every waking moment, second, minute, hour. All of them full of pain, of loss. Of knowing what I had before I so carelessly threw it away.
And for what? For an hour or two of escape? It's not even an escape. It's a brief period of silence. A small respite from all the thoughts I've been trying to outrun all my life.
The other…the other I can't even bring myself to think about but know I have to force myself. Answers will be needed and I'm just not ready to give them.
How do you explain to the person you love best that you made so many mistakes that they spiraled out of control? How do you say you've shared your bed with someone else, not out of love but out of a sick need for approval, for attention, for validation? How do you find the words to say you're sorry for that?
I don't believe the right words exist for that.
I trudge down the sidewalk, feet brushing aside crumpled newspapers, the scattered detritus of all the other beings that shuffle the same street but living completely different lives. I shrug farther into my sweatshirt, pulling my face as far back into the hood as I can, not only to shield it from the bitter wind and stinging rain, but to hide it and my shame from the rest of the world.
Not that there is anyone else walking down her street at this time of night. Quiet neighborhoods are just that - quiet. And when you're approaching midnight, they're like a giant tomb.
My fingers curl in frustration within my pockets, wrapping themselves around the small bags that lay within them, stroking them almost reverently. They want out of their prison. I'm fighting the urge with every part of myself to remove them from my pocket, fighting the urge to duck down a back alley for five minutes of privacy that will lead to temporary oblivion.
That's really what's brought me to this place, isn't it? Those goddamn bags that I can't get out of my head. It makes my skin itch, the anticipation of feeling their contents within my bloodstream.
That constant siren song of silence, of quieting all the discord in my brain. The voices of all those others in my life who said I was nothing, unworthy, stupid, unlovable, broken and damaged.
All those voices…but never hers.
How could I betray that? The one pure soul that ever saw past the faults, tried to see past my mask. That mask of normalcy I try to put on each morning to function like all the other animals in this world.
I'm getting worse at it. The façade I've spent so many years constructing to make me accepted, to look like everyone else I see is cracking. Maybe I want it to crack. Maybe I'm just tired of all of this.
I don't know another way to live.
My clothes are getting too big. Well, that's not entirely accurate, is it? So much for that honesty I've been aiming for. My clothes are staying the same size. I'm getting smaller. That's what happens when all you want to do is shoot dope and drink. Eating is pretty low on the priority list.
Her door. I'm at her door. How did I get here so quickly? What the hell am I going to say? How do I fix this?
How do I put into words that I'm sorry? That I love her? That it was never anything she did, it was the deficiencies in me? That I don't know how to be loved. That I have to destroy everything good in my life, partly because I feel I don't deserve it and partly because I'm afraid it would feel so much worse if it were taken away from me rather than setting it all aflame myself.
I can't do this.
I have to.
She hasn't spoken to me in weeks. I've written her countless letters, emails, text messages, trying so hard to explain the how's and why's. She wrote me one in return, on a scrap of paper, probably ripped from a notebook, which merely said, "Please understand if you see me again, please don't even say hello."
I was gone for two days straight after that note.
I raise my hand to knock at the door, my fist shaking as it grows closer, inch by painful inch.
My stomach is roiling and I don't know if it's because I'm terrified or if it's because it's been two days since I used. My body is not happy with me on so many levels.
Just do this. Just make it through this. If she throws you away, you have us, those little bags in my pockets keep whispering to me.
I shake my head, scattering those spidery voices away for a moment.
I knock. Once. Twice.
Silence.
The overhead light above her door stays unlit. I stand in the cold and the dark, waiting.
I know she's home. Buttery light glows from the picture window in the living room. Her car hulks silently in the driveway.
I remember riding in that sleek machine as we glided toward the ocean for a quiet weekend. I remember talking about our plans for the future, our work schedules. I remember fighting over the stereo. I remember her holding my hand as she drove, wrapping her slim fingers around my larger ones. They were always so cool, those fingers, as they touched me.
Their absence on my skin has been noticed. Missed.
I knock again.
There is movement inside. I can hear her feet, wrapped in the comfortable socks she wears at night, padding down the front hallway to the door. I hear the silence as she's stopped in front of the door.
Is she looking at me through the peephole right now?
Does she know that I haven't slept in days?
Of course she does.
"I know you're there," I say, my voice trembling but at least loud enough for her to hear me. "I know you're angry. I know you probably hate me."
More silence.
"Are you looking at me right now?"
Silence.
"I'm sure you can tell I haven't slept very well since the last time that we spoke," I offer, a weak attempt at humor, not fooling either of us.
Nothing. Not even the sound of her feet retreating.
That's a start, I suppose. That she hasn't walked away yet. Guess I'd better get on with it before she decides to.
"I tried. I tried so hard to be good. I tried to be who I thought you needed me to be. I tried to be me without all the fucked up parts. I tried to be me without the damage. Without the Mommy and Daddy issues. Without the drugs and the drama. I tried to give you a version of me that you deserved, that was worthy of you. I misjudged. There is no part of me that is worthy of you."
Was that a sound? It sounded like a sob.
"I know I broke your heart. I know I betrayed you. I can say all the things I'm supposed to, like it was nothing, nothing compared to what we have and while all of those things are true, I don't think they'll make you feel any better. I think they're just the things people say because they're standard."
Can silence be stony when you can't see the other person?
"I wish I knew how to make this right. I wish I knew how to pretty it up so I didn't sound like a complete addict loser. I wish I could be the man you need. I can't. I don't know how. There is something missing in me, something good that I just don't have. You're all good. You're kindness and light and love and beauty and forgiveness and I am none of those things. I am dark and damaged and broken and sad and weak."
More padding feet noises. Except they're coming closer.
"I cheated. I've been using. It's been worse since you left. It's been two days since I last used and it's been hard. I hate it. But I know I have to stop. It's not just because I want you back. That's part of it but not all. I have to stop if I want to ever get to a place where every moment of my life isn't spent hating myself. And I hate myself all the more for what I've done to you and put you through. It's a start though, isn't it? Everything has to start somewhere."
Silence. But I know she's still there.
I'm starting to find a rhythm to this, I guess. My voice is getting a little stronger, a little louder. I'm almost shouting. It's a good thing her neighbors don't appear to be home.
"I'm sorry! I don't know how else to be other than how I've been my whole life. You're the first person who has ever accepted me the way I am - or at least as much of that as you've seen. I'll admit that I was wrong about everything. I was wrong. I fucked up. I did unforgivable things. I broke your heart and your trust. Despite all of those things, those awful things you didn't deserve, I love you. You've shown me a life I never thought possible. You asked for nothing in return other than for me to love you. In my life, everyone wants something, everyone has their hand out. They all want to take a little piece of you with them when they walk away. Not money, not your time, not help moving a couch. They want to take a piece of your soul. And mine has been chipped away for so long that I don't know how much is left. I don't know what I have left to give. But please know whatever I do have left belongs to you."
Still there. There might be crying. I hope there's crying - yet at the same time I hope there isn't. I've done enough. More crying is no good.
"I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't strong enough to carry this without it destroying us. I love you. I love you more than anything. I love you because you loved me, you loved me selflessly. If I made you stop loving me, I will never forgive myself. I don't want to do this to myself anymore. I don't want to hurt you anymore."
My fingers stroke the bags, feeling the smooth plastic as it warms to the same temperature as my fingertips, which feel far hotter than they should.
"I'm not even sure why I'm here. I know you never wanted to see me again but I couldn't leave this unfinished. I couldn't say nothing. Even if these words mean nothing to you, I had to say them. Just say you love me and I'll say I'm sorry. And I'll walk away still. Just say it through the door. Just say something, please."
More silence.
Shoulders slump in defeat. I can feel me drawing into myself as the loss sinks in. My hand curls around the bags. I take a few steps back toward the street to walk home again.
Warm light spills over my back as she opens the door for me. I can see her shadow on the porch floor.
What that open door will mean in the future, I don't know and can't say with certainty. But right now, that door means salvation.
I throw the little bags into the gutter, turn, and walk into the light.
One Side of the Door...
These last days have been agony. Every waking moment, second, minute, hour. All of them full of pain, of loss. Of knowing what I had before I so carelessly threw it away.
And for what? For an hour or two of escape? It's not even an escape. It's a brief period of silence. A small respite from all the thoughts I've been trying to outrun all my life.
The other…the other I can't even bring myself to think about but know I have to force myself. Answers will be needed and I'm just not ready to give them.
How do you explain to the person you love best that you made so many mistakes that they spiraled out of control? How do you say you've shared your bed with someone else, not out of love but out of a sick need for approval, for attention, for validation? How do you find the words to say you're sorry for that?
I don't believe the right words exist for that.
I trudge down the sidewalk, feet brushing aside crumpled newspapers, the scattered detritus of all the other beings that shuffle the same street but living completely different lives. I shrug farther into my sweatshirt, pulling my face as far back into the hood as I can, not only to shield it from the bitter wind and stinging rain, but to hide it and my shame from the rest of the world.
Not that there is anyone else walking down her street at this time of night. Quiet neighborhoods are just that - quiet. And when you're approaching midnight, they're like a giant tomb.
My fingers curl in frustration within my pockets, wrapping themselves around the small bags that lay within them, stroking them almost reverently. They want out of their prison. I'm fighting the urge with every part of myself to remove them from my pocket, fighting the urge to duck down a back alley for five minutes of privacy that will lead to temporary oblivion.
That's really what's brought me to this place, isn't it? Those goddamn bags that I can't get out of my head. It makes my skin itch, the anticipation of feeling their contents within my bloodstream.
That constant siren song of silence, of quieting all the discord in my brain. The voices of all those others in my life who said I was nothing, unworthy, stupid, unlovable, broken and damaged.
All those voices…but never hers.
How could I betray that? The one pure soul that ever saw past the faults, tried to see past my mask. That mask of normalcy I try to put on each morning to function like all the other animals in this world.
I'm getting worse at it. The façade I've spent so many years constructing to make me accepted, to look like everyone else I see is cracking. Maybe I want it to crack. Maybe I'm just tired of all of this.
I don't know another way to live.
My clothes are getting too big. Well, that's not entirely accurate, is it? So much for that honesty I've been aiming for. My clothes are staying the same size. I'm getting smaller. That's what happens when all you want to do is shoot dope and drink. Eating is pretty low on the priority list.
Her door. I'm at her door. How did I get here so quickly? What the hell am I going to say? How do I fix this?
How do I put into words that I'm sorry? That I love her? That it was never anything she did, it was the deficiencies in me? That I don't know how to be loved. That I have to destroy everything good in my life, partly because I feel I don't deserve it and partly because I'm afraid it would feel so much worse if it were taken away from me rather than setting it all aflame myself.
I can't do this.
I have to.
She hasn't spoken to me in weeks. I've written her countless letters, emails, text messages, trying so hard to explain the how's and why's. She wrote me one in return, on a scrap of paper, probably ripped from a notebook, which merely said, "Please understand if you see me again, please don't even say hello."
I was gone for two days straight after that note.
I raise my hand to knock at the door, my fist shaking as it grows closer, inch by painful inch.
My stomach is roiling and I don't know if it's because I'm terrified or if it's because it's been two days since I used. My body is not happy with me on so many levels.
Just do this. Just make it through this. If she throws you away, you have us, those little bags in my pockets keep whispering to me.
I shake my head, scattering those spidery voices away for a moment.
I knock. Once. Twice.
Silence.
The overhead light above her door stays unlit. I stand in the cold and the dark, waiting.
I know she's home. Buttery light glows from the picture window in the living room. Her car hulks silently in the driveway.
I remember riding in that sleek machine as we glided toward the ocean for a quiet weekend. I remember talking about our plans for the future, our work schedules. I remember fighting over the stereo. I remember her holding my hand as she drove, wrapping her slim fingers around my larger ones. They were always so cool, those fingers, as they touched me.
Their absence on my skin has been noticed. Missed.
I knock again.
There is movement inside. I can hear her feet, wrapped in the comfortable socks she wears at night, padding down the front hallway to the door. I hear the silence as she's stopped in front of the door.
Is she looking at me through the peephole right now?
Does she know that I haven't slept in days?
Of course she does.
"I know you're there," I say, my voice trembling but at least loud enough for her to hear me. "I know you're angry. I know you probably hate me."
More silence.
"Are you looking at me right now?"
Silence.
"I'm sure you can tell I haven't slept very well since the last time that we spoke," I offer, a weak attempt at humor, not fooling either of us.
Nothing. Not even the sound of her feet retreating.
That's a start, I suppose. That she hasn't walked away yet. Guess I'd better get on with it before she decides to.
"I tried. I tried so hard to be good. I tried to be who I thought you needed me to be. I tried to be me without all the fucked up parts. I tried to be me without the damage. Without the Mommy and Daddy issues. Without the drugs and the drama. I tried to give you a version of me that you deserved, that was worthy of you. I misjudged. There is no part of me that is worthy of you."
Was that a sound? It sounded like a sob.
"I know I broke your heart. I know I betrayed you. I can say all the things I'm supposed to, like it was nothing, nothing compared to what we have and while all of those things are true, I don't think they'll make you feel any better. I think they're just the things people say because they're standard."
Can silence be stony when you can't see the other person?
"I wish I knew how to make this right. I wish I knew how to pretty it up so I didn't sound like a complete addict loser. I wish I could be the man you need. I can't. I don't know how. There is something missing in me, something good that I just don't have. You're all good. You're kindness and light and love and beauty and forgiveness and I am none of those things. I am dark and damaged and broken and sad and weak."
More padding feet noises. Except they're coming closer.
"I cheated. I've been using. It's been worse since you left. It's been two days since I last used and it's been hard. I hate it. But I know I have to stop. It's not just because I want you back. That's part of it but not all. I have to stop if I want to ever get to a place where every moment of my life isn't spent hating myself. And I hate myself all the more for what I've done to you and put you through. It's a start though, isn't it? Everything has to start somewhere."
Silence. But I know she's still there.
I'm starting to find a rhythm to this, I guess. My voice is getting a little stronger, a little louder. I'm almost shouting. It's a good thing her neighbors don't appear to be home.
"I'm sorry! I don't know how else to be other than how I've been my whole life. You're the first person who has ever accepted me the way I am - or at least as much of that as you've seen. I'll admit that I was wrong about everything. I was wrong. I fucked up. I did unforgivable things. I broke your heart and your trust. Despite all of those things, those awful things you didn't deserve, I love you. You've shown me a life I never thought possible. You asked for nothing in return other than for me to love you. In my life, everyone wants something, everyone has their hand out. They all want to take a little piece of you with them when they walk away. Not money, not your time, not help moving a couch. They want to take a piece of your soul. And mine has been chipped away for so long that I don't know how much is left. I don't know what I have left to give. But please know whatever I do have left belongs to you."
Still there. There might be crying. I hope there's crying - yet at the same time I hope there isn't. I've done enough. More crying is no good.
"I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't strong enough to carry this without it destroying us. I love you. I love you more than anything. I love you because you loved me, you loved me selflessly. If I made you stop loving me, I will never forgive myself. I don't want to do this to myself anymore. I don't want to hurt you anymore."
My fingers stroke the bags, feeling the smooth plastic as it warms to the same temperature as my fingertips, which feel far hotter than they should.
"I'm not even sure why I'm here. I know you never wanted to see me again but I couldn't leave this unfinished. I couldn't say nothing. Even if these words mean nothing to you, I had to say them. Just say you love me and I'll say I'm sorry. And I'll walk away still. Just say it through the door. Just say something, please."
More silence.
Shoulders slump in defeat. I can feel me drawing into myself as the loss sinks in. My hand curls around the bags. I take a few steps back toward the street to walk home again.
Warm light spills over my back as she opens the door for me. I can see her shadow on the porch floor.
What that open door will mean in the future, I don't know and can't say with certainty. But right now, that door means salvation.
I throw the little bags into the gutter, turn, and walk into the light.
June 23, 2011
Slacker...Thy name is Jennifer
So, I've been rather lax in keeping up with the whole website/blog dealie. The last month and a half have been busier than I would have liked, but what can you do? I've been dealing with a huge transition in my job duties at the office, the complexities of trying to keep a toddler in bed at night without involving duct tape or the authorities, the anniversary of a death and the actual death of a friend, trying to write one book and finish the final touches on another...the list goes on.
And it's now drive-in movie theater season, something I've missed out on since 2007. So there's that.
I'm realizing that there just aren't enough hours in the day, not if I want to sleep for some of them, anyway. Michael refuses to stay in bed at night - there are at least five occurrences nightly of me or Aaron yelling down the hallway for him to get back in bed or we hear little-boy giggles in the hallway as he sits on the floor and sticks his fingers in the ferret cage or feels the need to hide behind the fishtank stand. I never knew that watching TV at night or trying (futilely) to write was interesting to a three year old.
I've reached the level of frustration where I burst into tears last Friday night because he refuses to sleep and I just didn't know what to do with myself. We've tried a number of methods to get him to stay in bed. They work for one night and then the next...epic fail. And apparently now this is translating to weekend naps. Aces. This past Sunday I spent two hours trying to get him to nap. Aaron had gone out to lunch with Shayne and I had a few blessed hours to try to work on a book. Well, it went right to hell. There was no napping. None. Not even for a minute. Aside from blinking, that wretched little kid didn't even close his eyes.
At one point, which almost pushed me over the proverbial edge, he came trotting out into the living room to show me the lovely paint job/faux tattoo sleeves he'd given himself with the little kid (thankfully washable) markers that Aunt Karen had given him for his first birthday. One arm was green, the other brown and red. I can only reason that this was Aunt Karen's way of saying hello to us. He still isn't ready for those markers, lady, but I'm glad you've kept your sense of humor. Rather than tear my hair out of my head (first instinct), I just laughed and busted out the bucket o' baby wipes and thank goodness it came right off.
This alone is enough to keep my nerves taught as a mofo and then adding in the commuting, the working, it's just ridiculous. I'd like to go back to working out in the morning but lately I can't bring myself to even get up on time, let alone early to exercise. Forget reading a book - and I have about six on my bookshelf that I've bought and have yet to crack the spine of a single one.
So bear with me a little. I'm working hard to try to finish up the final touches on Letters to My Child so that can get out there. That book being as near and dear to me as it is isn't getting out of my hot little hands until I'm good and ready to send it off into the world. It has to be right; it has to be perfect. And it's not perfect yet.
I'm trying, peeps, just like everyone else in the universe. So I'm not in hiding or on the lam or anything like that, just a total slacker in the whole blogging department. Not that I think anyone was overly concerned that my drivel was absent over the last month and a half. I'm pretty sure you can all sleep at night.
Here's hoping I can, too.
And it's now drive-in movie theater season, something I've missed out on since 2007. So there's that.
I'm realizing that there just aren't enough hours in the day, not if I want to sleep for some of them, anyway. Michael refuses to stay in bed at night - there are at least five occurrences nightly of me or Aaron yelling down the hallway for him to get back in bed or we hear little-boy giggles in the hallway as he sits on the floor and sticks his fingers in the ferret cage or feels the need to hide behind the fishtank stand. I never knew that watching TV at night or trying (futilely) to write was interesting to a three year old.
I've reached the level of frustration where I burst into tears last Friday night because he refuses to sleep and I just didn't know what to do with myself. We've tried a number of methods to get him to stay in bed. They work for one night and then the next...epic fail. And apparently now this is translating to weekend naps. Aces. This past Sunday I spent two hours trying to get him to nap. Aaron had gone out to lunch with Shayne and I had a few blessed hours to try to work on a book. Well, it went right to hell. There was no napping. None. Not even for a minute. Aside from blinking, that wretched little kid didn't even close his eyes.
At one point, which almost pushed me over the proverbial edge, he came trotting out into the living room to show me the lovely paint job/faux tattoo sleeves he'd given himself with the little kid (thankfully washable) markers that Aunt Karen had given him for his first birthday. One arm was green, the other brown and red. I can only reason that this was Aunt Karen's way of saying hello to us. He still isn't ready for those markers, lady, but I'm glad you've kept your sense of humor. Rather than tear my hair out of my head (first instinct), I just laughed and busted out the bucket o' baby wipes and thank goodness it came right off.
This alone is enough to keep my nerves taught as a mofo and then adding in the commuting, the working, it's just ridiculous. I'd like to go back to working out in the morning but lately I can't bring myself to even get up on time, let alone early to exercise. Forget reading a book - and I have about six on my bookshelf that I've bought and have yet to crack the spine of a single one.
So bear with me a little. I'm working hard to try to finish up the final touches on Letters to My Child so that can get out there. That book being as near and dear to me as it is isn't getting out of my hot little hands until I'm good and ready to send it off into the world. It has to be right; it has to be perfect. And it's not perfect yet.
I'm trying, peeps, just like everyone else in the universe. So I'm not in hiding or on the lam or anything like that, just a total slacker in the whole blogging department. Not that I think anyone was overly concerned that my drivel was absent over the last month and a half. I'm pretty sure you can all sleep at night.
Here's hoping I can, too.
April 25, 2011
All these things...
These thoughts kept banging around in my head the other day and I needed to get them out, get them down. I think they came out in a way that translates not only to me - but could translates to others. So here's a little view into my head - remember - no refunds.
I am not the death of my brother.
I am not the divorce of my parents.
I am not someone else's addiction, or the cause of it.
I am not the violence I felt at someone's hands.
I am not the knife to my throat.
I am not the rape I endured.
I am not my depression.
I am not my scars.
I am not their lack of coping skills.
I am not his infidelity.
I am not his inability to have "enough".
I am not a victim.
I am not the size of my jeans.
I am not the stores where I shop.
I am not my divorce.
I am not his ego.
I am not my own ego.
I am not here to inflate anyone's ego.
I am not my penchant for tattoos, piercings and hair color.
I am not his selfishness.
I am not a statistic.
I am not a "have".
I am not a "have not".
I am not the car that I drive.
I am not in competition with anyone.
I am not a paycheck – no matter the amount.
I am not their narcissism.
I am not the status quo.
I am not someone else's lack of self worth.
I am not her unmanageable pain.
I am not her bad decisions.
I am me.
I am the sum of all these things and more – decimals and numbers and zeroes and life and death and emotion and hate and love and loss and loyalty and betrayal. I am the ability to find strength in the pain. I am compassion. I am empathy. I am accountability. I am kindness. I am survival. I am honesty. I am love.
I am my heart. Which I can choose or not choose to wear upon my sleeve.
I am endurance. I am endurance in all things. I am comprised of rising from the dirt and brushing myself off and never relying on the actions of others to save me.
I can save myself.
I don't need the love of another to complete me. I don't need the approval of another to complete or validate me. I should be beautiful in my own eyes; it shouldn't take the reflection in another's to validate that belief. My failures are not your successes.
I should be whole in my own eyes.
I am the phoenix, time and again. I've risen from the ashes of my life over and over, every time I've been knocked or beaten down.
No matter what, I will continue to rise. I will not stay down, not ever. I am more than that, stronger than that, better than that, better than the notion that I need saving.
I am not the death of my brother.
I am not the divorce of my parents.
I am not someone else's addiction, or the cause of it.
I am not the violence I felt at someone's hands.
I am not the knife to my throat.
I am not the rape I endured.
I am not my depression.
I am not my scars.
I am not their lack of coping skills.
I am not his infidelity.
I am not his inability to have "enough".
I am not a victim.
I am not the size of my jeans.
I am not the stores where I shop.
I am not my divorce.
I am not his ego.
I am not my own ego.
I am not here to inflate anyone's ego.
I am not my penchant for tattoos, piercings and hair color.
I am not his selfishness.
I am not a statistic.
I am not a "have".
I am not a "have not".
I am not the car that I drive.
I am not in competition with anyone.
I am not a paycheck – no matter the amount.
I am not their narcissism.
I am not the status quo.
I am not someone else's lack of self worth.
I am not her unmanageable pain.
I am not her bad decisions.
I am me.
I am the sum of all these things and more – decimals and numbers and zeroes and life and death and emotion and hate and love and loss and loyalty and betrayal. I am the ability to find strength in the pain. I am compassion. I am empathy. I am accountability. I am kindness. I am survival. I am honesty. I am love.
I am my heart. Which I can choose or not choose to wear upon my sleeve.
I am endurance. I am endurance in all things. I am comprised of rising from the dirt and brushing myself off and never relying on the actions of others to save me.
I can save myself.
I don't need the love of another to complete me. I don't need the approval of another to complete or validate me. I should be beautiful in my own eyes; it shouldn't take the reflection in another's to validate that belief. My failures are not your successes.
I should be whole in my own eyes.
I am the phoenix, time and again. I've risen from the ashes of my life over and over, every time I've been knocked or beaten down.
No matter what, I will continue to rise. I will not stay down, not ever. I am more than that, stronger than that, better than that, better than the notion that I need saving.
April 15, 2011
MCHS Bleeds Black and Orange
Today, similar to what I did last month at Highland High School, I spoke to two groups of students. The difference this time was that I spoke at the high school I graduated from, Marlboro Central. It was strange to me to be back in those halls I hadn't set foot in in years. So much has changed yet they still felt like the same old hallways they had always been. So much had been renovated and changed - and all of it for the better. The names of my friends were still up on the board in the entryway for their rank when we graduated back in 1994, which was comforting to see. I revisited a lot of old memories when I walked through those doors this morning, some of them good...some not so good.
There are still teachers remaining from when I attended there, also good to see. I got to spend time with Mrs. Casey, or Anne as she now insists I call her though it is certainly strange to call her by her first name, who was my English teacher during my senior year. While I don't think she was much of a fan of my writing when she was my teacher and I her pupil, she appears to have been converted now. It was great to be able to have a conversation that wasn't teacher/student and it was even better to discuss writing and reading and various other topics before the students came in as well as after. I have to say special thanks to her as well as Jenn Atkins for bringing me in and letting me speak to the students. They're both wonderful and admirable women and it was my pleasure to spend my day with them today. It was also fantastic to meet some of the administration as well, which was an honor to me that they took time out of their busy day to listen to me prattle on.
On to the students...
The first group of students I believe had entered a lottery of sorts to be able to sit in and listen to my "talk", for lack of a better description. This time around I was better prepared - instead of flying by the seat of my pants for the whole thing I had the foresight to prepare a Power Point presentation (for which I solicited much feedback from my inner circle - including my new pal Pri from Highland High School who enduring me "winging it" last time) to keep me better on track and not floundering so much to think of what I wanted to say.
The second group of students I spoke to were part of a creative writing group that apparently meets after school one day a week or so. I think by the second round of kids I was a little less nervous (read: terrified) than I'd been for the first round. The first group was great and listened to my nonsense unfailingly and was respectful and asked good questions. The second group....wow. Just wow.
Round Two asked me more questions than I can even remember. They were ravenous with questions. Most of them stayed in the library for a second period there were so many questions! I showed them my playlists that I use for my writing, both the playlist for Second Chances as well as the playlist I'm using to work on the novel I'm working on now and managed to feel like I'm not an irrelevant, supercilious old poop, which I have to admit, felt marvelous.
To all those students who may happen upon this blog - thank you. Thank you for listening, thank you for being interested, thank you for allowing me to intrude upon your day to talk to you about my passions, about my work and all the other nonsense I blathered on about. But what I said to all of you is true - believe in yourself and you can achieve your dreams. The stories you hold in your hearts and your heads that you are working to tell - keep at them. They are stories that should - and need to be - told. Be brave. Be diligent and tenacious. Never let the words of strangers keep you from continuing to work toward fulfilling your goals. Let nothing deter you. Don't apologize for the person you are. It was a true honor for me to speak to each and every one of you today. It moved me beyond description.
Speaking to these kids is like a drug to me. I felt almost high after it was over, such a rush of adrenaline and terror running through my veins that I was ready to crash and burn from exhaustion by 2 PM. Seeing their faces as they listened and paid attention, hearing and answering their questions, knowing that at least a few of them weren't bored to tears by what I had to say was like nothing I've experienced before. This experience coupled with the one I had at Highland made me think - if I could make a living at this, at speaking to high school students, I would do it in a heartbeat. I remember how hard it was to be at that age, where you're trying to figure out who you are, who you want to be, what is important to you, who your friends are and aren't - it's the most psychotic time in your life. It's hard. You're still a child but on the cusp of adulthood. You're supposed to still act like a kid yet not. I'm not sure how any of us make it out alive, yet most of us do. A little worse for wear, but alive nonetheless. I don't want to preach to any of them or be one of those ridiculous out of touch grownups who try to be relevant. I want to be able to speak to them on their own level. It's not guaranteed to reach them but I do try - I try to be a grownup outside of speaking to students but occasionally, that's an epic fail. More than occasionally. Despite the terror I felt, it was an exhilerating experience and one I'd be happy to do again and again.
A few students asked for my email address for any other questions they may have - so here it is: jlplace76@gmail.com.
A few also asked for my playlists to be posted on here - so here they are:
The playlist for my as yet untitled vampire project:
Lost - Avenged SevenfoldHurricane - Thirty Seconds to MarsA Cross and a Girl Named Blessed - Evans BlueKings and Queens - Thirty Seconds to MarsThunder - Boys Like GirlsFar From Home - Five Finger Death PunchThe Kill - Thirty Seconds to MarsUntouchable Face - Ani DiFrancoDance with the Devil - Breaking BenjaminIf It Means a Lot to You - A Day to RememberSay You'll Haunt Me - Stone SourHappens All the Time - ColdYour Love Kills Me - The Veer UnionAttack - Thirty Seconds to MarsFrom Yesterday - Thirty Seconds to MarsDrowning - Saving AbelInside Our Skin - EmerySavin' Me - Nickelback (don't judge me)This is War - Thirty Seconds to MarsNight of the Hunter - Thirty Seconds to MarsSavior - Rise AgainstBrompton Cocktail - Avenged SevenfoldFirework - Katy PerryVox Populi - Thirty Seconds to MarsThe Story - Thirty Seconds to MarsJumper - Bedlight for Blue EyesJar of Hearts - Christina PerriRaise Your Glass - Pink
Seconds Chances Playlist:Breathe (2 AM) - Anna NalickA Place Called Home - Kim RicheyAnthem of the Angels - Breaking BenjaminGone Away - The OffspringPictures of You - The CureSo Long, Goodbye - 10 YearsShow Me What I'm Looking For - Carolina LiarYour Ghost - Kristen Hirsch & Michael StipeSecond Chance - ShinedownJust Like Heaven - The CureCongratulations - Blue OctoberPush - Sarah McLachlanFly From Heaven - Toad the Wet SprocketRain King - Counting CrowsThe Wood Song - The Indigo GirlsNever Be the Same - RedThe Ponytail Parades - EmeryWhat Lies Beneath - Breaking Benjamin Who Knew - PinkCall Me - ShinedownDevils and Angels - Toby LightmanStop and Say You Love Me - Evans BlueChameleon Boy - Blue OctoberHard Headed Woman - Cat StevensDo What You Have to Do - Sarah McLachlanIt's Been a While - StaindBreath - Breaking BenjaminCome On Get Higher - Matt NathansonCold - CrossfadeNever Again - Kelly ClarksonNear to You - A Fine FrenzyAm I Wrong - Love Spit LoveAsk - The SmithsThe Way I Am - Ingrid MichaelsonHeart in Hand - Vertical HorizonBeg - Evans BluePieces - RedThey Weren't There - Missy HigginsLost in You - Three Days Grace
Again - from the bottom of my heart - thank you all who made today possible so very much.
There are still teachers remaining from when I attended there, also good to see. I got to spend time with Mrs. Casey, or Anne as she now insists I call her though it is certainly strange to call her by her first name, who was my English teacher during my senior year. While I don't think she was much of a fan of my writing when she was my teacher and I her pupil, she appears to have been converted now. It was great to be able to have a conversation that wasn't teacher/student and it was even better to discuss writing and reading and various other topics before the students came in as well as after. I have to say special thanks to her as well as Jenn Atkins for bringing me in and letting me speak to the students. They're both wonderful and admirable women and it was my pleasure to spend my day with them today. It was also fantastic to meet some of the administration as well, which was an honor to me that they took time out of their busy day to listen to me prattle on.
On to the students...
The first group of students I believe had entered a lottery of sorts to be able to sit in and listen to my "talk", for lack of a better description. This time around I was better prepared - instead of flying by the seat of my pants for the whole thing I had the foresight to prepare a Power Point presentation (for which I solicited much feedback from my inner circle - including my new pal Pri from Highland High School who enduring me "winging it" last time) to keep me better on track and not floundering so much to think of what I wanted to say.
The second group of students I spoke to were part of a creative writing group that apparently meets after school one day a week or so. I think by the second round of kids I was a little less nervous (read: terrified) than I'd been for the first round. The first group was great and listened to my nonsense unfailingly and was respectful and asked good questions. The second group....wow. Just wow.
Round Two asked me more questions than I can even remember. They were ravenous with questions. Most of them stayed in the library for a second period there were so many questions! I showed them my playlists that I use for my writing, both the playlist for Second Chances as well as the playlist I'm using to work on the novel I'm working on now and managed to feel like I'm not an irrelevant, supercilious old poop, which I have to admit, felt marvelous.
To all those students who may happen upon this blog - thank you. Thank you for listening, thank you for being interested, thank you for allowing me to intrude upon your day to talk to you about my passions, about my work and all the other nonsense I blathered on about. But what I said to all of you is true - believe in yourself and you can achieve your dreams. The stories you hold in your hearts and your heads that you are working to tell - keep at them. They are stories that should - and need to be - told. Be brave. Be diligent and tenacious. Never let the words of strangers keep you from continuing to work toward fulfilling your goals. Let nothing deter you. Don't apologize for the person you are. It was a true honor for me to speak to each and every one of you today. It moved me beyond description.
Speaking to these kids is like a drug to me. I felt almost high after it was over, such a rush of adrenaline and terror running through my veins that I was ready to crash and burn from exhaustion by 2 PM. Seeing their faces as they listened and paid attention, hearing and answering their questions, knowing that at least a few of them weren't bored to tears by what I had to say was like nothing I've experienced before. This experience coupled with the one I had at Highland made me think - if I could make a living at this, at speaking to high school students, I would do it in a heartbeat. I remember how hard it was to be at that age, where you're trying to figure out who you are, who you want to be, what is important to you, who your friends are and aren't - it's the most psychotic time in your life. It's hard. You're still a child but on the cusp of adulthood. You're supposed to still act like a kid yet not. I'm not sure how any of us make it out alive, yet most of us do. A little worse for wear, but alive nonetheless. I don't want to preach to any of them or be one of those ridiculous out of touch grownups who try to be relevant. I want to be able to speak to them on their own level. It's not guaranteed to reach them but I do try - I try to be a grownup outside of speaking to students but occasionally, that's an epic fail. More than occasionally. Despite the terror I felt, it was an exhilerating experience and one I'd be happy to do again and again.
A few students asked for my email address for any other questions they may have - so here it is: jlplace76@gmail.com.
A few also asked for my playlists to be posted on here - so here they are:
The playlist for my as yet untitled vampire project:
Lost - Avenged SevenfoldHurricane - Thirty Seconds to MarsA Cross and a Girl Named Blessed - Evans BlueKings and Queens - Thirty Seconds to MarsThunder - Boys Like GirlsFar From Home - Five Finger Death PunchThe Kill - Thirty Seconds to MarsUntouchable Face - Ani DiFrancoDance with the Devil - Breaking BenjaminIf It Means a Lot to You - A Day to RememberSay You'll Haunt Me - Stone SourHappens All the Time - ColdYour Love Kills Me - The Veer UnionAttack - Thirty Seconds to MarsFrom Yesterday - Thirty Seconds to MarsDrowning - Saving AbelInside Our Skin - EmerySavin' Me - Nickelback (don't judge me)This is War - Thirty Seconds to MarsNight of the Hunter - Thirty Seconds to MarsSavior - Rise AgainstBrompton Cocktail - Avenged SevenfoldFirework - Katy PerryVox Populi - Thirty Seconds to MarsThe Story - Thirty Seconds to MarsJumper - Bedlight for Blue EyesJar of Hearts - Christina PerriRaise Your Glass - Pink
Seconds Chances Playlist:Breathe (2 AM) - Anna NalickA Place Called Home - Kim RicheyAnthem of the Angels - Breaking BenjaminGone Away - The OffspringPictures of You - The CureSo Long, Goodbye - 10 YearsShow Me What I'm Looking For - Carolina LiarYour Ghost - Kristen Hirsch & Michael StipeSecond Chance - ShinedownJust Like Heaven - The CureCongratulations - Blue OctoberPush - Sarah McLachlanFly From Heaven - Toad the Wet SprocketRain King - Counting CrowsThe Wood Song - The Indigo GirlsNever Be the Same - RedThe Ponytail Parades - EmeryWhat Lies Beneath - Breaking Benjamin Who Knew - PinkCall Me - ShinedownDevils and Angels - Toby LightmanStop and Say You Love Me - Evans BlueChameleon Boy - Blue OctoberHard Headed Woman - Cat StevensDo What You Have to Do - Sarah McLachlanIt's Been a While - StaindBreath - Breaking BenjaminCome On Get Higher - Matt NathansonCold - CrossfadeNever Again - Kelly ClarksonNear to You - A Fine FrenzyAm I Wrong - Love Spit LoveAsk - The SmithsThe Way I Am - Ingrid MichaelsonHeart in Hand - Vertical HorizonBeg - Evans BluePieces - RedThey Weren't There - Missy HigginsLost in You - Three Days Grace
Again - from the bottom of my heart - thank you all who made today possible so very much.
April 13, 2011
Miscellany
I have a lot rolling around in my head today, some good and some bad. My brain is kind of all over the place and I'm doing my best right now to make some sense out of it.
I've come to realize that, while I attempt to live a drama-free lifestyle, despite my best efforts drama does manage to work itself into my life on a daily basis – as is really the case for everyone. Everyone has their own drama every day of life. I suppose the key is not to feed into it, which sounds good on paper but in practice isn't always so simple.
The first thing today was seeing a piece on the morning news about a mother who drove herself and her four children into the Hudson River last night. One of them was able to escape, her ten year old son. Her other children, ages five, two and 11 months were not so lucky. I can't comprehend this, I just can't. And while stories like this affected me before I had a child of my own, they doubly affect me now. My heart breaks for those little children, it cracks into little pieces at the thought of those tiny lives snuffed out far too soon. How any mother could do something like that to her children…I just don't know. There aren't words. Our children trust us, trust us to do right by them, to help them make decisions, to fight for them, to keep their best interests above all else. And when parents betray that trust, well, they never should have been granted the gift of children to begin with. I have to trust there is a special room in Hell for those parents who would visit hurt or betrayal upon those precious lives they were given the privilege to raise.
My inbox at work had become unmanageable at a little over 10,000 messages that went back I don't know how far. In attempting to do some housekeeping, I came across the exchanges I'd had with my family last year around this time when my aunt became ill and was moved to hospice. The one year anniversary of her passing is coming up on the 28th. I can't believe it's been almost a year already. I still haven't reconciled myself completely to the knowledge that she's gone. Thinking of those events a year ago unleashed a flurry of unexpected tears today – the hurt, the fear, the pain, the heartache and the loss. I keep focusing on a mental image of her in hospice giving her son the finger when he wised off to her. Her personality stayed true to the very end. And I know she knew we were there with her at the end, that we didn't abandon her or leave her alone. And while we weren't there with her when she went, she was in all of our hearts. She's still in my heart. I carry her with me every day and somehow that knowledge will have to be enough. I miss her.
While I found these sad emails, I also found a few that made me happy – those being the messages sent around on April 23rd of last year when I was offered my publishing contract for Second Chances. So within the sad, there's the balance of happy. That contract was the fulfillment of dreams I'd held close to my heart since I was little, when someone had given me a manual typewriter for Christmas to write my stories on, when I wrote silly stories with Tennille that we stuffed inside a pillowcase to hide from Mom and Heather. That contract was written proof that I'd accomplished something, whether I sold more than a single copy or not. I'd moved from the ranks of "writer" to "author" by receiving a two page document stating that someone had found my words, my story worthy of printing. No matter fame, fortune or notoriety, I had accomplished that one dream that had outshined all the other dreams I'd held dear. I haven't found the words to express how I feel about it yet, even after a year. Not pride. Not arrogance. Not boastful. I can't define it. It's prompted me to put effort forth in an attempt to talk to others about how they can make their own dreams come true, hence my visits to two area high schools to speak with the students about writing, the message not being so much the ins and outs of writing and being published but more believing in your dreams and believing in yourself, something I'm more than occasionally terrible at.
So call this little collection of thoughts what you will. I think of it mainly as trying to bleed out a little bit, to release some of these thoughts so I can concentrate on other things. Nothing overly profound or helpful to anyone but me, but I suppose that's okay.
I've come to realize that, while I attempt to live a drama-free lifestyle, despite my best efforts drama does manage to work itself into my life on a daily basis – as is really the case for everyone. Everyone has their own drama every day of life. I suppose the key is not to feed into it, which sounds good on paper but in practice isn't always so simple.
The first thing today was seeing a piece on the morning news about a mother who drove herself and her four children into the Hudson River last night. One of them was able to escape, her ten year old son. Her other children, ages five, two and 11 months were not so lucky. I can't comprehend this, I just can't. And while stories like this affected me before I had a child of my own, they doubly affect me now. My heart breaks for those little children, it cracks into little pieces at the thought of those tiny lives snuffed out far too soon. How any mother could do something like that to her children…I just don't know. There aren't words. Our children trust us, trust us to do right by them, to help them make decisions, to fight for them, to keep their best interests above all else. And when parents betray that trust, well, they never should have been granted the gift of children to begin with. I have to trust there is a special room in Hell for those parents who would visit hurt or betrayal upon those precious lives they were given the privilege to raise.
My inbox at work had become unmanageable at a little over 10,000 messages that went back I don't know how far. In attempting to do some housekeeping, I came across the exchanges I'd had with my family last year around this time when my aunt became ill and was moved to hospice. The one year anniversary of her passing is coming up on the 28th. I can't believe it's been almost a year already. I still haven't reconciled myself completely to the knowledge that she's gone. Thinking of those events a year ago unleashed a flurry of unexpected tears today – the hurt, the fear, the pain, the heartache and the loss. I keep focusing on a mental image of her in hospice giving her son the finger when he wised off to her. Her personality stayed true to the very end. And I know she knew we were there with her at the end, that we didn't abandon her or leave her alone. And while we weren't there with her when she went, she was in all of our hearts. She's still in my heart. I carry her with me every day and somehow that knowledge will have to be enough. I miss her.
While I found these sad emails, I also found a few that made me happy – those being the messages sent around on April 23rd of last year when I was offered my publishing contract for Second Chances. So within the sad, there's the balance of happy. That contract was the fulfillment of dreams I'd held close to my heart since I was little, when someone had given me a manual typewriter for Christmas to write my stories on, when I wrote silly stories with Tennille that we stuffed inside a pillowcase to hide from Mom and Heather. That contract was written proof that I'd accomplished something, whether I sold more than a single copy or not. I'd moved from the ranks of "writer" to "author" by receiving a two page document stating that someone had found my words, my story worthy of printing. No matter fame, fortune or notoriety, I had accomplished that one dream that had outshined all the other dreams I'd held dear. I haven't found the words to express how I feel about it yet, even after a year. Not pride. Not arrogance. Not boastful. I can't define it. It's prompted me to put effort forth in an attempt to talk to others about how they can make their own dreams come true, hence my visits to two area high schools to speak with the students about writing, the message not being so much the ins and outs of writing and being published but more believing in your dreams and believing in yourself, something I'm more than occasionally terrible at.
So call this little collection of thoughts what you will. I think of it mainly as trying to bleed out a little bit, to release some of these thoughts so I can concentrate on other things. Nothing overly profound or helpful to anyone but me, but I suppose that's okay.
March 25, 2011
Back to School...Sort of...
One of my former - and most influential - teachers recommended to me not so long ago that I should make an effort to reach out to the librarians in my local high schools to come out and do an "author talk" with the students at the schools not only to do some grassroots marketing for myself but also to talk to students about believing and being dedicated to your dreams. I thought that was a brilliant idea - thanks Penny - and reached out to two of them - the high school in the town I live in and the high school I graduated from.
Today, I visited Highland High School and met with a number of the English classes throughout the day. It was a weird experience, walking into a high school as an adult. Granted, I had never entered Highland High School but it felt like a regular high school. I had that immediate feeling of "Where the hell am I supposed to go" and thankfully had Shayne with me (though she didn't know where to go either) to keep my paranoia to a manageable level. After signing in at the office and heading toward the library, I met with Linda Bailey, the school librarian, who made the experience such a fantastic one I don't even have words. She was a delight to talk to and was so welcoming and kind. She helped me at every turn today, from keeping conversation going during the talks when things got quiet to giving me grand introductions to each set of classes to ordering lunch for us and giving me a beautiful plant as a thank you. So huge thanks go directly to Linda for that.
I have to admit to being completely terrified at the prospect of speaking to the students. Shayne's advice was wise - show no fear. They'll smell it like blood in the water. I tried very hard not to present myself as about to pass out. Not sure how successful I was in that but at least I didn't pass out or do anything to completely embarrass myself. When I did the book signing at Barnes & Noble and spoke in front of adults it was nerve wracking but nowhere near as much as talking to teenagers. At 35, I'm not considered old to my peers. To someone who's 16 or 17, I'm positively aged. Coming off like an old person who has no idea about being a teenager was a big fear. Couple that with the fact that my book isn't geared toward that audience and you have a recipe for me to be in a complete state of panic.
I think I pulled it off for the most part. I tried to speak honestly about writing in general, about the book, about how to get published and the things to watch out for, about the work that I've done since. I was amazed that some of them asked questions, amazed at the level of interest some of the students showed. I got to meet and talk with some of the English teachers and that was beyond wonderful. One of them is the mom of one of my son's schoolmates, which was also pretty cool.
Today, out of all of the days I have officially been a "published author", has been the biggest honor and the biggest success. One student asked me for my autograph. Another had actually read my blog before I came to speak at the school and asked me about it. That blew me away.
It all blew me away.
Two girls stayed after their class was over to talk to me about writing and about reading.
Some of the theater kids did an improv skit of part of the book. It was amazing. They all so accurately captured the tone and feel of the book that it almost brought me to tears there in the library.
I came away from today not feeling so much like an old fart in their eyes. Well, at least to some of them, if not all.
After I got home tonight from running errands, I got my biggest treat of the day and what I consider the embodiment of today's success. One of the two students who stayed after to talk to me commented on my previous blog about Legacy and it brought me to tears.
Out of all of these kids (and I say "kids" with the utmost respect), I got through to at least one. One of them listened and understood and *heard* what I was saying. I walk away from this experience with such a sense of honor that I don't really know how to accurately describe it. In some small way, without fame or fortune or fanfare, I left a mark, however tiny, on another person. To me, that's the greatest success I could imagine coming out of today. I hope that my next experience when I go back to my high school to speak to the students goes as well as today.
I could not have asked for anything more. To each student who sat and listened today - whether I held your interest or not - thank you for being there, for being patient and for listening to what I had to say and for being respectful. It was appreciated. For every student who asked a question, who had an interest - I hope what I had to say was helpful. Maybe it gave some of you hope that one day, the dreams you hold in your heart can come true. And they can. The key to making those dreams come true is you and your belief in yourself and your determination. For those students who talked to me after your obligatory time spent with me, thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to talk to you further and personally. Thanks to Shayne for being my "handler" and keeping me in coffee and water and not punching me in the mouth for occasionally putting her on the spot during my talks and for being a fabulous BFF. To the Highland High School, Linda Bailey (especially!) and the wonderful teachers I met today, thank you for giving me the opportunity to talk to you and to the students. I am honored beyond words, from the bottom of my heart.
Today, I visited Highland High School and met with a number of the English classes throughout the day. It was a weird experience, walking into a high school as an adult. Granted, I had never entered Highland High School but it felt like a regular high school. I had that immediate feeling of "Where the hell am I supposed to go" and thankfully had Shayne with me (though she didn't know where to go either) to keep my paranoia to a manageable level. After signing in at the office and heading toward the library, I met with Linda Bailey, the school librarian, who made the experience such a fantastic one I don't even have words. She was a delight to talk to and was so welcoming and kind. She helped me at every turn today, from keeping conversation going during the talks when things got quiet to giving me grand introductions to each set of classes to ordering lunch for us and giving me a beautiful plant as a thank you. So huge thanks go directly to Linda for that.
I have to admit to being completely terrified at the prospect of speaking to the students. Shayne's advice was wise - show no fear. They'll smell it like blood in the water. I tried very hard not to present myself as about to pass out. Not sure how successful I was in that but at least I didn't pass out or do anything to completely embarrass myself. When I did the book signing at Barnes & Noble and spoke in front of adults it was nerve wracking but nowhere near as much as talking to teenagers. At 35, I'm not considered old to my peers. To someone who's 16 or 17, I'm positively aged. Coming off like an old person who has no idea about being a teenager was a big fear. Couple that with the fact that my book isn't geared toward that audience and you have a recipe for me to be in a complete state of panic.
I think I pulled it off for the most part. I tried to speak honestly about writing in general, about the book, about how to get published and the things to watch out for, about the work that I've done since. I was amazed that some of them asked questions, amazed at the level of interest some of the students showed. I got to meet and talk with some of the English teachers and that was beyond wonderful. One of them is the mom of one of my son's schoolmates, which was also pretty cool.
Today, out of all of the days I have officially been a "published author", has been the biggest honor and the biggest success. One student asked me for my autograph. Another had actually read my blog before I came to speak at the school and asked me about it. That blew me away.
It all blew me away.
Two girls stayed after their class was over to talk to me about writing and about reading.
Some of the theater kids did an improv skit of part of the book. It was amazing. They all so accurately captured the tone and feel of the book that it almost brought me to tears there in the library.
I came away from today not feeling so much like an old fart in their eyes. Well, at least to some of them, if not all.
After I got home tonight from running errands, I got my biggest treat of the day and what I consider the embodiment of today's success. One of the two students who stayed after to talk to me commented on my previous blog about Legacy and it brought me to tears.
Out of all of these kids (and I say "kids" with the utmost respect), I got through to at least one. One of them listened and understood and *heard* what I was saying. I walk away from this experience with such a sense of honor that I don't really know how to accurately describe it. In some small way, without fame or fortune or fanfare, I left a mark, however tiny, on another person. To me, that's the greatest success I could imagine coming out of today. I hope that my next experience when I go back to my high school to speak to the students goes as well as today.
I could not have asked for anything more. To each student who sat and listened today - whether I held your interest or not - thank you for being there, for being patient and for listening to what I had to say and for being respectful. It was appreciated. For every student who asked a question, who had an interest - I hope what I had to say was helpful. Maybe it gave some of you hope that one day, the dreams you hold in your heart can come true. And they can. The key to making those dreams come true is you and your belief in yourself and your determination. For those students who talked to me after your obligatory time spent with me, thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to talk to you further and personally. Thanks to Shayne for being my "handler" and keeping me in coffee and water and not punching me in the mouth for occasionally putting her on the spot during my talks and for being a fabulous BFF. To the Highland High School, Linda Bailey (especially!) and the wonderful teachers I met today, thank you for giving me the opportunity to talk to you and to the students. I am honored beyond words, from the bottom of my heart.
February 28, 2011
Second Chances available now for Nook and Kindle!
Second Chances is now available for both Amazon's Kindle and Barnes & Noble's Nook format. This was a while coming but it can be downloaded at the following websites:
Nook:
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Seco...
Kindle:
http://www.amazon.com/Second-Chances-...
Nook:
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Seco...
Kindle:
http://www.amazon.com/Second-Chances-...
February 25, 2011
Tattoos and the Reasons Why
I got my first tattoo when I was eighteen and still in high school. They warned me when I got my first one that they were addictive, and that soon I would be back for more. I scoffed at this suggestion, like most eighteen year olds do.
But in the end, they were right.
When my dad found out that the sun on the inside of my ankle was real and not a temporary tattoo, he called me an asshole and didn't speak to me for two weeks.
I didn't get my second tattoo until ten years later and then it was another three years before the next.
I'm about to get my seventh tattoo this weekend.
Over the years I've gotten mixed reactions on them. People either love tattoos, would love to have tattoos, or they loathe them. Like, psychotically loathe them.
Now here's the thing. I don't begrudge anyone for their opinions about tattoos. Quite the contrary – we're all allowed our opinions. However, much like in everything else in life, just because you have an opinion does not make that opinion fact. Because you like/don't like tattoos does not make that opinion universal. And yes, I am aware that they are permanent, and when I am an old woman I will still have these designs under my skin.
If you hate them – super duper. Just don't begrudge me mine. Or judge me for them. Or look at me down the length of your nose as if I'm a lesser being for expressing myself in such a way. Tattooing goes back thousands of years and has become extremely popular over the years. My one lament is that perhaps people don't always put a ton of thought into the designs they choose for themselves, such as the overwhelming number of Tazmanian Devil tattoos, but to each their own.
My tattoos are part of who I am – part of the essence of who I am. This thought process doesn't always apply to everyone who gets them (read: Popeye, Tweety Bird, Taz, the list goes on) – but then again, maybe it does.
The designs I've chosen over the years have all been significant to me, to my own journey through life. My tattoos help to tell the story of who I am, of what's crucial and important to me.
My first tattoo at eighteen was, as I mentioned, a sun. The significance behind that choice was that the sun is the sustainer of life. The year prior, I spent two weeks in the hospital and two months out of school with meningitis. I almost died. It was the same illness that had killed my younger brother years before. Living through that gave me an appreciation for life, for treasuring each day I was granted. Hence, my tattoo choice.
The second one I got may seem at the outset to be a "nerd" tattoo. It's a pseudo-Celtic knot design which actually comes from Doctor Who (for any Whovians, it's the Seal of Rassilon). The choice here was because I really liked the design but also, it represented my friendship/relationship with my now ex-husband. Despite the fact that we've been divorced for approaching six years, his friendship was – and is – still very important to me. He added a lot to my life and who I am as a person. I am glad though that I didn't get his name. That would have been a bit much.
I got my third tattoo a few months after my son was born. It's the zodiac signs for me, my husband and my son, a nice representation of my family, the absolute most important facet of who I am and my highest priority.
Fourth were roman numerals of two years – 1979 and 1984 – for the year my brother was born and the year he died. His life and the loss of it contributed more than I can describe to the person I am today.
Fifth was a phoenix. The significance is obvious, though I did once explain it to my boss as "rising above personal bullshit", which is, I think, sort of crassly elegant and succinct.
I almost lost track here and had to mentally recount them all by placement. Is that a sign that I have too many?
The sixth and most recent is the phrase "Illegitimi Non Carborundum", which is mock Latin for "Don't let the bastards grind you down". It's close to a phrase from Margaret Atwood's "Handmaid's Tale" and was something a friend of mine posted online that just stuck with me. Words have power. And these words, having these words inked on my skin, have been extremely helpful and extraordinarily empowering in reminding me to hold my head high, no matter what those surrounding me say or do. It helps me to rise above more bullshit.
These words and images are a physical and outer manifestation of who I am on the inside, something I'm not always adept at conveying. They represent important events and people in my life so far.
There's always the question of "When will you be done?" In truth – I don't know. I'll be done with tattoos when I feel I'm done. And I can't give more of an answer than that.
Of course, another prickly point with this subject is the fact that I'm a girl. And evidently, according to some social guidelines to which I hold no allegiance, girls should not have so many tattoos.
To that line of thinking I'd like to give a proper, "Go pound sand".
Personally, I'm not over-fond of the notion that, because I happen to be a girl (woman), there are certain things I should or should not do. I don't necessarily need to blaze a trail but please don't put your standards on me.
I do have the presence of mind, given the stigma attached to tattoos in general, to place them on my body where they can be, if the need arises, hidden. Bracelets, long hair, shoes that cover the top of my feet, and general clothing mask them all.
I have tattoos but am not in a gang. I have never been to prison. I don't own a motorcycle. I don't believe they truly make me any less of a woman. I have no desire to tattoo a puzzle onto my face or get as many as Kat Von D but again, those were their choices. I may or may not agree with them but I can't say as I would call anyone an asshole for getting a tattoo.
I'd call someone an asshole for running a red light, shoplifting, or in general doing something bad. I don't believe that tattoos make you bad. My only recommendation is to think about what you're getting before you get it. That's all. Beyond that, you're on your own.
I would absolutely love – LOVE! – to get the thoughts/opinions/experiences of others who do and don't have tattoos and those who hate them. It's not a hot button issue in this country – hell, don't we have enough other problems these days for sure – but just something that, for some reason, I felt compelled to write a little dissertation on. Cuz that's what I do.
But in the end, they were right.
When my dad found out that the sun on the inside of my ankle was real and not a temporary tattoo, he called me an asshole and didn't speak to me for two weeks.
I didn't get my second tattoo until ten years later and then it was another three years before the next.
I'm about to get my seventh tattoo this weekend.
Over the years I've gotten mixed reactions on them. People either love tattoos, would love to have tattoos, or they loathe them. Like, psychotically loathe them.
Now here's the thing. I don't begrudge anyone for their opinions about tattoos. Quite the contrary – we're all allowed our opinions. However, much like in everything else in life, just because you have an opinion does not make that opinion fact. Because you like/don't like tattoos does not make that opinion universal. And yes, I am aware that they are permanent, and when I am an old woman I will still have these designs under my skin.
If you hate them – super duper. Just don't begrudge me mine. Or judge me for them. Or look at me down the length of your nose as if I'm a lesser being for expressing myself in such a way. Tattooing goes back thousands of years and has become extremely popular over the years. My one lament is that perhaps people don't always put a ton of thought into the designs they choose for themselves, such as the overwhelming number of Tazmanian Devil tattoos, but to each their own.
My tattoos are part of who I am – part of the essence of who I am. This thought process doesn't always apply to everyone who gets them (read: Popeye, Tweety Bird, Taz, the list goes on) – but then again, maybe it does.
The designs I've chosen over the years have all been significant to me, to my own journey through life. My tattoos help to tell the story of who I am, of what's crucial and important to me.
My first tattoo at eighteen was, as I mentioned, a sun. The significance behind that choice was that the sun is the sustainer of life. The year prior, I spent two weeks in the hospital and two months out of school with meningitis. I almost died. It was the same illness that had killed my younger brother years before. Living through that gave me an appreciation for life, for treasuring each day I was granted. Hence, my tattoo choice.
The second one I got may seem at the outset to be a "nerd" tattoo. It's a pseudo-Celtic knot design which actually comes from Doctor Who (for any Whovians, it's the Seal of Rassilon). The choice here was because I really liked the design but also, it represented my friendship/relationship with my now ex-husband. Despite the fact that we've been divorced for approaching six years, his friendship was – and is – still very important to me. He added a lot to my life and who I am as a person. I am glad though that I didn't get his name. That would have been a bit much.
I got my third tattoo a few months after my son was born. It's the zodiac signs for me, my husband and my son, a nice representation of my family, the absolute most important facet of who I am and my highest priority.
Fourth were roman numerals of two years – 1979 and 1984 – for the year my brother was born and the year he died. His life and the loss of it contributed more than I can describe to the person I am today.
Fifth was a phoenix. The significance is obvious, though I did once explain it to my boss as "rising above personal bullshit", which is, I think, sort of crassly elegant and succinct.
I almost lost track here and had to mentally recount them all by placement. Is that a sign that I have too many?
The sixth and most recent is the phrase "Illegitimi Non Carborundum", which is mock Latin for "Don't let the bastards grind you down". It's close to a phrase from Margaret Atwood's "Handmaid's Tale" and was something a friend of mine posted online that just stuck with me. Words have power. And these words, having these words inked on my skin, have been extremely helpful and extraordinarily empowering in reminding me to hold my head high, no matter what those surrounding me say or do. It helps me to rise above more bullshit.
These words and images are a physical and outer manifestation of who I am on the inside, something I'm not always adept at conveying. They represent important events and people in my life so far.
There's always the question of "When will you be done?" In truth – I don't know. I'll be done with tattoos when I feel I'm done. And I can't give more of an answer than that.
Of course, another prickly point with this subject is the fact that I'm a girl. And evidently, according to some social guidelines to which I hold no allegiance, girls should not have so many tattoos.
To that line of thinking I'd like to give a proper, "Go pound sand".
Personally, I'm not over-fond of the notion that, because I happen to be a girl (woman), there are certain things I should or should not do. I don't necessarily need to blaze a trail but please don't put your standards on me.
I do have the presence of mind, given the stigma attached to tattoos in general, to place them on my body where they can be, if the need arises, hidden. Bracelets, long hair, shoes that cover the top of my feet, and general clothing mask them all.
I have tattoos but am not in a gang. I have never been to prison. I don't own a motorcycle. I don't believe they truly make me any less of a woman. I have no desire to tattoo a puzzle onto my face or get as many as Kat Von D but again, those were their choices. I may or may not agree with them but I can't say as I would call anyone an asshole for getting a tattoo.
I'd call someone an asshole for running a red light, shoplifting, or in general doing something bad. I don't believe that tattoos make you bad. My only recommendation is to think about what you're getting before you get it. That's all. Beyond that, you're on your own.
I would absolutely love – LOVE! – to get the thoughts/opinions/experiences of others who do and don't have tattoos and those who hate them. It's not a hot button issue in this country – hell, don't we have enough other problems these days for sure – but just something that, for some reason, I felt compelled to write a little dissertation on. Cuz that's what I do.
February 7, 2011
Legacy
Twenty-seven years ago, I lost my brother. I lost my aunt last year . A few days ago I lost a beloved teacher.
This most recent loss has me thinking about legacy, about what we leave behind when we're gone for those who knew us to remember us by.
Today, in honor of the contribution my former teacher made not only to my life but to the lives of his other students, I created a group on Facebook where friends, family and former students could share their memories of this tremendous man.
I started the group in the afternoon and now, about six hours later, the group stands with over 230 members. 230.
This man, this one man has left an indellible mark on all of those 230 people.
What will I leave behind when I'm gone?
What will you?
What actions, what kindness, what characteristics are there within us, that define us to leave a mark on those who knew us? On those who knew us best? On those who barely knew us at all?
At the end of your life – what will people say about you?
Will your lasting impression be your wardrobe, your impeccable hair, the cars you drove, the job that you held? Will it be the charities you gave your time and money to? Will it be the impact you had on your children? Will it be narrow-mindedness and hubris?
I wonder what they will say about me. What will my son take away from the years he had with me?
I want to be good. That's all. I want to be a good person. I want to help those who need helping. I want to guide my son to be a good person, to listen to those who need to be heard, to reach out a hand to those who are slipping. I want him to understand that one of the most important things in this world is to be present.
Know what's going on around you with the people around you. Know what's going on with the people you love, the people closest to you. Don't believe your own shit. Stop thinking that your crap is the most important crap out there. Don't be afraid to stand up for what you believe in.
I want to be at peace with the fact that, when it's my time to go, I did the absolute best I could to be there, to be an anchor for someone who needed it at the time. And I don't mean this in a preachy, holier-than-thou kind of way. I'm not holier-than-thou, far from it. I'm pretty cantankerous and mean and occasionally petty with a bad temper but I'm there at the end of the phone when someone needs me.
I might be a grump; I just want to be a good grump. I'm flawed but hey, I'm honest about it.
I believe situations like this - losing someone who was important to so many - should give us all pause. It should make us more conscious, more cognizant of our daily actions. It should make us want to be better people. It should make us more aware of our own mortality.
The sand still runs through the hourglass whether we're thinking about it or not. Our days are all numbered. I'd like to think that as my sand trickles down, I'm doing my best to be good to those I love. And to also be good to those I don't love.
I don't think this should be done out of selfishness or out of vanity but to just be, when you get down to the meat of it, good people.
I've lost a lot in my life and those losses make me appreciate what I still have even more...and those losses make me work all the harder to be good to those around me.
I don't need to touch 230 lives, the way Mr. D did. If I can touch one life, if I can be good to one person, truly good, and make a difference, then my life was a success. Then I can be content with my legacy.
Maybe we should all think a little bit harder about what our legacy would be. Because no one is guaranteed a tomorrow.
Let's try to be better today.
This most recent loss has me thinking about legacy, about what we leave behind when we're gone for those who knew us to remember us by.
Today, in honor of the contribution my former teacher made not only to my life but to the lives of his other students, I created a group on Facebook where friends, family and former students could share their memories of this tremendous man.
I started the group in the afternoon and now, about six hours later, the group stands with over 230 members. 230.
This man, this one man has left an indellible mark on all of those 230 people.
What will I leave behind when I'm gone?
What will you?
What actions, what kindness, what characteristics are there within us, that define us to leave a mark on those who knew us? On those who knew us best? On those who barely knew us at all?
At the end of your life – what will people say about you?
Will your lasting impression be your wardrobe, your impeccable hair, the cars you drove, the job that you held? Will it be the charities you gave your time and money to? Will it be the impact you had on your children? Will it be narrow-mindedness and hubris?
I wonder what they will say about me. What will my son take away from the years he had with me?
I want to be good. That's all. I want to be a good person. I want to help those who need helping. I want to guide my son to be a good person, to listen to those who need to be heard, to reach out a hand to those who are slipping. I want him to understand that one of the most important things in this world is to be present.
Know what's going on around you with the people around you. Know what's going on with the people you love, the people closest to you. Don't believe your own shit. Stop thinking that your crap is the most important crap out there. Don't be afraid to stand up for what you believe in.
I want to be at peace with the fact that, when it's my time to go, I did the absolute best I could to be there, to be an anchor for someone who needed it at the time. And I don't mean this in a preachy, holier-than-thou kind of way. I'm not holier-than-thou, far from it. I'm pretty cantankerous and mean and occasionally petty with a bad temper but I'm there at the end of the phone when someone needs me.
I might be a grump; I just want to be a good grump. I'm flawed but hey, I'm honest about it.
I believe situations like this - losing someone who was important to so many - should give us all pause. It should make us more conscious, more cognizant of our daily actions. It should make us want to be better people. It should make us more aware of our own mortality.
The sand still runs through the hourglass whether we're thinking about it or not. Our days are all numbered. I'd like to think that as my sand trickles down, I'm doing my best to be good to those I love. And to also be good to those I don't love.
I don't think this should be done out of selfishness or out of vanity but to just be, when you get down to the meat of it, good people.
I've lost a lot in my life and those losses make me appreciate what I still have even more...and those losses make me work all the harder to be good to those around me.
I don't need to touch 230 lives, the way Mr. D did. If I can touch one life, if I can be good to one person, truly good, and make a difference, then my life was a success. Then I can be content with my legacy.
Maybe we should all think a little bit harder about what our legacy would be. Because no one is guaranteed a tomorrow.
Let's try to be better today.
February 5, 2011
My First Bloggy-Blog
So....first and foremost - welcome to the online page for me! Here you can catch up on all my rants, raves, and any and all news pertaining to my authoring endeavor.
Read about the things that are making me happy, pissing me off, or just making me think.
I'll post updates on my current novel, Second Chances, my upcoming book Letters to My Child and basically anything else pertaining to my new career as an author. Which if you know me, is as much of a shock to me as it must be to anyone else.
Thanks for stopping by - and stay classy.
Cheers!
J
Read about the things that are making me happy, pissing me off, or just making me think.
I'll post updates on my current novel, Second Chances, my upcoming book Letters to My Child and basically anything else pertaining to my new career as an author. Which if you know me, is as much of a shock to me as it must be to anyone else.
Thanks for stopping by - and stay classy.
Cheers!
J
