I can't believe it's been so long since I last posted, but life, book/writing coaching others, writing my own someday book babies, and, most wonderfully, bringing LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER to the community anyone who knows me will tell you it's no secret I love, has taken over. Also moving. Also the holidays. And most recently a most exciting endeavor, my husband's soon-to-embark food truck, Baja Gringo Tacos! Yes, someday there'll be a cookbook in our future, too. But for now, we've been eating a LOT of tacos as he experiments and perfects the recipes that have filled our boy since we lived in San Diego. The story of what this means to my husband, to our family, is on simmer. But for now I'll just say that it makes me very happy to once again bear witness to the dimples that won my heart in the first place. 

This chilly Easter weekend, with night-time temps that are still a bit too cold for making tacos in the truck, spring cleaning in preparation for a long overdue visit from my stepdaughter and her husband has me counting the numerous books cluttering my coffee table and about every other flat surface. Is Evelyn Woods speed reading still a thing? Because I need to invest if I'm going to keep up with the many prolific authors I'm blessed to know personally, even if in some cases, it's only online. Getting to know authors is something I've felt driven to do as I battle my own writing doubts, demons, and dragons. We all have them. Some of us are simply farther ahead in the conquering department. Holding their books, ruffling the pages, taking a whiff, and brushing my hand over the signatures of authors I've met in person and built friendships with online makes me feel that one day publishing a book--sooner rather than later--is possible for me, too. And you all know how I feel about POSSIBLE. 

I know that my own "authordom" is about managing my time and prioritizing the completion phase of those projects on which I'm already so close I can smell the ink. But I also know that the same drive in me and my family that makes my husband's irreverent, anti-establishment, stick-it-to-the-man, cleaner eating and naturally gluten free taco truck a reality that makes sense for us, will open my work and my life up to critique and criticism. I have to acknowledge it: that fear is a part of what's held me back. There's so much nastiness and judgment online. It can be downright scary to put yourself, and by default your kids, out there. 

What Amazon doesn't tell us is why Galit set out to write this book in the first place. The author, herself, was a victim of online bullying and downright heartless cruelty. Breen published a beautiful piece on Huffington Post entitled, "Twelve Secrets Happily Married Women Know." In it, she shared a beautiful snapshot of her and her husband on their wedding day. The post went viral. What followed was a troll-fest rife with vitriol and hate directed, not at her words, but at her weight. One of the reasons (besides the fact that one of the wealthiest women in the world doesn't believe in paying writers who publish on her website) I, myself, have never published on HuffPo is the reputation that played out right under Galit's original post. Check out what Galit had to say about the experience and what became her book here, on her Twin Cities Live appearance. Kindness Wins releases this Tuesday, April 7th, and is available for preorder. I can't wait for my copy to arrive!

Next on my to-read list is another book that releases this Tuesday, April 7th. This one features a topic that's near and dear to my heart, and it's brought to us by a woman who shares the mission of online and in person kindness, compassion, and understanding. That has to be what's at the motherhood heart of the national, 39-city movement that in it's sixth season also celebrates the book, "Listen to Your Mother: What She Said Then, What We're Saying Now." Ann Imig, founder and national director of the live stage show and social media extravaganza, has compiled and edited a selection of some of the amazing stories that first graced Listen to Your Mother microphones and stages across the country. Yes, you can watch over a thousand archived videos from past seasons, but there's something truly special about lying in bed and reading the words as they were originally authored, dog-earing your favorites, and revisiting them time and again. The stories remind us as mothers, as humans, that we share so much more than separates us. The stories remind us how resilient we are, and that we are not alone in this world. 

Okay, technically? I've already read this one. But Patty Chang Anker is one of the storytellers represented in the Listen to Your Mother Book. She is a warm, witty, and delightful author I've had the pleasure of meeting, twice! Her book, "Some Nerve: Lessons Learned While Becoming Brave," is now available in paperback, and sports a beautiful new aqua blue spine. And it's clearly (see second paragraph, above) one I could stand to revisit. I had the honor and pleasure of introducing Patty when she visited Forever Books last summer. And then I met her again in New York when I drove there for #BinderCon just three days after moving last fall! Crazy, I know! But I had a free conference pass I'd won, the promise of meeting several online friends IRL, and a welcoming friend with a comfy sofa whom I'd met at a prior conference. So nothing was stopping me! The opportunity to see Patty again was just too irresistible. Her book and her experience with Listen to Your Mother had so much to do with me auditioning and garnering a spot in the Northwest Indiana show in 2014. And it certainly helped me find my brave and pitch my community as a new city in 2015. 

As tender, green, delectable shoots emerge from the earth, "Eating Wildly: Foraging for Life, Love and the Perfect Meal," is a perfect spring read by another lovely and vastly talented author I met at #BinderCon in New York. Ava Chin and I shared deviled eggs and conversation as we sipped Chardonnay and chatted with other authors at a bar in Manhattan. (An event that prompted me to ask whether this was my life!) Her beautiful book has been on my to-read list for far too long, and now is the perfect time to move it to the company of my currently reading list! Without a kitchen since moving into our house in October, I must confess that the idea of reading about food as the world around me was going to sleep felt rather torturous. But I've decided to think of it as inspiration to recommit to cleaner eating, and to get my GANE Possible kitchen moving in the right direction. And I'm hoping to convince Ava to visit southwest Michigan for a foraging tour and book signing this summer. Be sure to Subscribe--->so you'll know when & if it happens!

I can't mention authors I've met without reminding you of my time in spectacular Whitefish, Montana, with Laura Munson, author of "This is Not the Story You Think it Is...: A Season of Unlikely Happiness," and Haven writing retreat host. I mentioned how happy I am lately to see my husband's dimples again, but back when I read Laura's book, those dimples were a far off memory. Laura's book spoke to the pieces of my heart that felt desolate and alone in the aftermath of my husband losing his job, leaving California, and returning to Michigan with no prospects. I truly believe it not only had a significant part in my marriage surviving its darkest moments, but the book, Haven, time spent in Laura's company and in the company of other women writers inspired my participation in Listen to Your Mother, as well. Laura's book and Haven helped me to focus on the future I wanted to create, and it helped me to live as an example for my husband. Even though he never read a word of Laura's book, I honestly believe that without it he wouldn't have the opportunity to heal the loss of our restaurant by living his dream of opening Baja Gringo Tacos. Life is feeling pretty complete for us these days. And I owe a big piece of that to Laura and to Haven. My project has changed a great deal since Haven, but it's growing and it's becoming closer to the book I dreamed of writing when our daughters were young. 

This has turned into a post about being brave, which really wasn't my intention. But I suppose a short month away from showtime, it's what I needed to remember at the moment. There is little braver than reexamining and correcting a lie as an adult that began in childhood. In "Cinderland," Amy Jo Burns has done so in smooth, warm, amber words and turns of phrase, recalling small town America in eloquent, and in turn beautiful and ugly ways to which many of us can relate. In her gripping memoir, she holds herself and others accountable, while exploring the impact secrecy and speculation had on her life, and the lives of others who told, ignored, assumed, and judged the truth. In Burns' book not a single word is out of place or wasted, each one carrying the weight of their topic impeccably. And I think it sports one of the most beautiful covers ever. I've gotten to know Amy a bit online, and hope for an opportunity to meet her and hear her read in the future.

I can't thank Ruth Curran enough for sending me a copy of her important book to giveaway this spring. I'm currently reading my own copy of, "Being Brain Healthy: What my recovery from brain injury taught me...," and I'm finding it wise, well written, and hopeful. Together with the brain training games she's developed and offers on her website, Cranium Crunches, Ruth's mission is to help everyone understand, no matter their stage in life, "harness and use neuroplasticity to live a richer, deeper, more fully engaged life." Ruth's empowering message of self care and self responsibility is one, A) I needed to hear, and B) we share. Though I'm reminded that I want very much to be able to walk and function later in life, which means I want to conquer that exercise portion of wellness she writes about. I'm going to need all the stamina I can build, and spring is the perfect season to do it!

During the time I've gotten to know Ruth online, and having been interviewed by her recently for a podcast, I never guessed she suffered a brain injury until I became aware of the topic of her book. I'd have to endorse what she teaches as impactful for those with brain injury, and for those who want to optimize their own neuroplasticity. One of the most important things I've found to help lessen my self-diagnosed ADD is writing, which Ruth talks about in her book. I'll keep doing it. And I'll add more purposeful exercise to my list of empowered wellness activities.  

At the end of the month (April 2015), I will randomly select one winner from among the comments I receive on this post to receive Ruth's book! So tell me about a memoir, novel, or work of nonfiction I should put on my to-read list this summer! 

Women and minorities got caught holding our breaths, waiting for our next “Savior.” In doing so, last night’s midterm results, wherein the GOP took control of congress, were a punch in the gut this morning.

I can’t recall voting in a mid-term election before yesterday with the vivid detail I imagine I will later recall this one. I know I did, but never before were the results as devastating. In the past I was guilty during a general election of just checking a box because I recognized a name or knew a family. Not because the state of our government and our country doesn’t matter to me, but because I didn’t feel I knew enough or that I was smart enough—maybe I felt I didn’t have enough “skin in the game,” so to speak.

I’m slowly adjusting my thinking. I did a bit of political writing before the 2012 election. I expressed my frustration with both parties and revealed that I didn’t identify with either one. As a result, an essay I wrote is included in the upcoming book, 51%: Women and the Future of Politics (http://womenandpolitics.us). That essay was adapted from a post I wrote which was featured and got some traction on BlogHer. “The Enlightened Middle Majority and Why The Sides Are Alienating Us,” was later honored by BlogHer amid the 2013 Voices of the Year in the Op Ed category. It was written as a follow-up to another BlogHer featured post, “My Friends Think I’m the Only Liberal They Know. I Don’t Know What I Am.” And when Yahoo! Voices existed I was excited to be counted as a contributor with an original piece entitled, "Am I the Only White Person in America Offended by Racism and the Tea Party?" My post was bound to be controversial, which is why they selected it. Your clicks and comments would have been much appreciated, but I chickened out. I didn’t promote my Racism/Tea Party post, and thus it fizzled into the ether.

But what if a discussion about bigotry and the blatant factor it is in the utter constipation that has become our government had taken wing? What if my post had inspired a conversation that led to some sort of progress back when John Baynor and Barack Obama couldn’t keep their distaste for one another away from rolling cameras? What if it had gone viral? What if it had the power to activate voters and voices and breed new politicians at all levels of government? What if it had the power to activate women to say, “Hey I’m pissed, too,” possibly preventing the erosion of women’s rights we’ve suffered since 2012 and before? ...What? It's possible. Women earned the right to step into that booth and vote their hearts and their minds and their truth less than one hundred years ago. Many exist who wish they could control what we do behind that proverbial curtain, or wish we didn’t have the right to vote at all. They are the ones preaching absolution through political action. And they are the ones who won last night.

Instead of the beautiful, progressive growth Obama’s election felt like at first, and could have validated in our society, his presidency has spurred a vapid effort to quash women and minorities. Women’s rights supporters yield ground every day, week, month to Tea Party supporters and conservatives. Because we don’t gather each and every Sunday, because we aren’t as organized, because we aren’t in each other’s faces, talking about our truth week after week, and maybe because we have a perceived “Savior” on the horizon, we lose. Even though conservatives lack a clear frontrunner, they won because they’re organized. They came together despite their ideological differences, and they took action toward one goal: to overtake our government. Brandishing those words is scary, but that’s what happened. The most worrisome issues will likely pass in committee. And the two thirds of registered voters who hit the snooze yesterday and in the years before won’t even notice.

It astounds me that we’re still having a discussion about same sex marriage, for instance. Since Obama’s reelection, progress that was made in the fight for women’s and gay rights has slipped, and now it will only slip further. Many in the middle likely felt they didn’t have an alternative to re-electing President Obama in 2012, because of our fear that what happened yesterday would happen, the events of which underscore the flaws in our two-party, push/pull/dig-in-your-heels system (and which don’t begin to call out the squiggly delegate maps that have completely skewed things to give advantage to those who already have plenty).

Leading up to the 2014 Midterms, we had no vocal leader, inspirer, activator, and it showed. While we sat waiting, political analysts and publishers weighed the odds of how and when they’ll get the most votes or sell the most books. No leaders stepped up to fan the flames, and thus they died. We’ve been waiting for Hillary to announce her candidacy for president. And because she hasn’t, we didn’t. We didn’t engage. We didn’t take lessons from the conservatives’ handbook. We didn’t have signs on our gathering houses reminding our flocks to get out and vote; the words not said reminding every parishioner of the message and the stakes and the end game and the promise of life everlasting…if they vote properly.

And I’m guilty. I personally did nothing in advance of the 2014 Midterm election to organize or to engage all those I know – all those who nod with me, who whisper, “me, too” – to vote. I see now that many of them didn’t. It was chilling to wake up to the reality of what each and every one of us allowed. And why did we allow it?

Because the shame of rape and abortion and domestic violence still keeps us silent.

A Facebook friend posted that a man grabbed her ass while waiting in line last night to vote. If that isn’t an ugly, frightening metaphor for precisely what happened to women and the marginalized during this election, I don’t know what is. (She wasn’t silent. I applaud her for calling the scum out.) We gain ground, but then because we are silent in between the “big” elections the rain pounds and the mudslides begin. We think it’s only the presidency that matters. We think we need a leader to show us the way. Because we’re marginalized, we think we don’t know enough or we don’t matter enough or we can’t make a big enough difference. And we’re guilty, and we’re silent, and we don’t want anyone to know our secrets. So we do nothing. We say nothing.

Little people can accomplish so much when they band together and take action. Doing something gets results better than passive activism, which takes place when we click and forget. Like the #YesAllWomen social media campaign in response to Elliot Rodgers,’ as it turns out, not so bizarre acts of terrorism against women,  (source: http://www.tomdispatch.com/blog/175850/), we’ve shown what can happen when you and I have the guts to have open conversations in a real and meaningful way. But unlike religious conservatives, we’re not following it up with political organization and action that can lead to the sort of change we say we want to see in our society. We’re too busy dodging the title of feminist, while our clicks lull us into a false sense of security. So that when action is needed, we hit snooze rather than wake up and show up at the voting booth.

Did the #YesAllWomen Twitter swell prompt the trolls to come out in force? Yes. Did it showcase some frightening, pervasive patterns among young women and girls who didn’t get it? It did. A completely screwed up mindset (yes, rape culture) exists toward women, and we need to change it.

Like French Montana’s acid rap Pop That and Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines, etc., etc., music beats into kids’ brains through their ear buds (source: http://www.buzzfeed.com/cakeshep/10-songs-perhaps-just-as-rapey-as-blurred-lines-f7az). They get “news” and images of what’s truth and what’s important from places like TMZ. The TMZ network “reports” in a “newsroom” style discussion. Speculation and humor inspire clicks rather than actual facts. Next to inflammatory headlines, a perpetual sidebar of ads with degrading links for bigger breasts, flatter tummies, and smaller waists degrades our body image – in our own minds, our value withers. A smorgasbord of mental drivel pops up for kids to consume and consume some more — it’s no wonder girls’ and boys’ brains are full of “rapey” themes that confirm their worth only if they’re skinny enough. It’s no wonder they begin to think rape and domestic violence is totally acceptable. Nay, cool. My generation grew up ashamed of our thoughts if they were “impure.” Our youth today are conversely ashamed of too chaste ones, of not being ghetto enough. We middles who don’t speak up, who didn’t show up, who because of shame and because we’re afraid they’ll think it’s okay don’t speak to our kids, are up against an almost insurmountable hurdle.

On the other side of the spectrum are messages that tell us we’re going to hell unless we find redemption and vote the right way. On not-so-super-Tuesday, a creep can grab a woman’s ass waiting in line to vote, but once he casts his vote correctly and shows up to testify on Sunday, the keys to the gates of Heaven are his, so who cares?

The great motivator for silence is shame. We’re ashamed of our sexual histories, of our choices, even when choice was taken from us, as in the case of rape and domestic violence. As in the case of recent domestic violence victim, Janay Rice, we can’t help but be aware of how victims are mistreated and blamed. There are thousands of blog posts and articles weighing in on why she married Ray Rice after the beating we all got to witness and speculate on, thanks to victim mishandling and the leak of a security video by the NFL. Which brought about another round of hash tags, #WhyIStayed and #WhyILeft.

I declined a friend’s offer to share a post I wrote in response to the #YesAllWomen campaign, “#YesAllWomen: Abortion, Rape and Why Shame Can’t Keep Us Silent” (source: originally posted on BlogHer, http://www.blogher.com/yesallwomen-abortion-rape-and-why-shame-cant-keep-us-silent). Though I hoped it would contribute to the discussion, I wasn’t prepared to lead it, and the post decidedly did not appear on my own website. I told myself it was because I work so hard to focus on the positive. My #YesAllWomen post was anything but positive. It was about my own experience with rape and why maintaining women’s reproductive rights is so important to me as a woman who ended an unplanned pregnancy, and who later chose life and became a single mom at only twenty. Later still, I battled six years of infertility with a constant question running in my head of whether or not I was paying for my sexual history. I was not. There were physical and emotional reasons. But I never spoke to anyone about my feelings because of the shame. Even now, as a relative grownup, I’m not sure I’m ready for my small town to lump me with, “you libs,” or weigh in on whether I’m going to hell or whether I’m crazy. But I feel worse this morning about what my silence – yes mine, and yours –cost us last night.

In follow up to my #YesAllWomen post, I also wrote this poem of sorts, because in addition to two grown daughters, I have an eleven-year-old son at home:

My fellow Enlightened Middle Moms of daughters and sons: we have important voices and we need to use them. Because we sat passively by and allowed it, last night we were raped at the polls. This morning and every morning that follows we need to tell everyone about it who will listen. Silence equals permission. Not being silent can shut down an aggressor, as told in “The View From the Victim Room,” an amazing Modern Love piece by Courtney Queeney, a woman who refused to be silent after she was beaten by her boyfriend (source: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/06/30/fashion/the-view-from-the-victim-room-modern-love.html?_r=0). We mustn’t give permission with our silence any longer.

Whether or not you agree with my thoughts and beliefs, I encourage women, the marginalized, and mothers especially, to do the following:

·      Whatever your medium, use your voice

·      Hold your politicians accountable

·      Consider becoming a politician yourself

·      Gather & Check In: Participate in thought-provoking, productive conversations about the state of our country and      
       anything else about which you feel passionate

·      Don’t chicken out!

·      If you are concerned about reproductive rights, consider going public about why

·      And for God’s sake, talk to your kids

·      Talk to groups of kids

·      Talk to and engage each other

Speaking out is how progress occurs. This is how we call out bullies and tell them we're not having it anymore. Talking about rape and how objectification has impacted our own lives is how we teach young people—both boys and girls—that it’s wrong. Open discussions around the dinner table about current events are how we help kids identify the mixed messages with which they are inundated. Rather than preaching at them, asking kids questions and listening with open ears to what they think and sharing both our own experience and our own questions is how we can encourage kids to share and discuss their own uncertainty at home. If we don’t, they’ll figure out how they’re supposed to feel based on what their friends on SnapChat or Instagram have to say on a given day. Communicating is how we elevate awareness and let others know they're not alone if they feel the same, or afford those who disagree the opportunity to give thoughtful rebuttal. And parents, exhibit for your kids that we can disagree respectfully and still be friends. It gives kids power. Power to stand up to a bully or to a rapist, power to vote their truth, power to own how they feel. Power to no longer keep silent.  

Just as spirituality doesn't belong only to the Christians, however, neither does politics or the responsibility for our collective future belong only to those who identify with either the Democrats or the Republicans. And it certainly doesn’t belong only to the menfolk. Every ideology thinks they're the only ones going to Heaven. Despite that, conservatives have successfully banded together as a scary, up and coming political party. In the case of politics, each ideology thinks they’re the only ones with the right answers for our country. When the best, fairest, most progressive answers most certainly share bits and pieces of each one.  

I believe that political ads have grown more distasteful and polarizing to cause those of us who don't identify with either party to turn away and not be active. Maybe their purpose is to compel us to cover our eyes and our ears—to stuff our mouths with our fists and just pick a side, any side.  


Even before 51%: Women and the Future of Politics is released, I'm grateful that being involved with the pending publication has empowered me to discuss things that are important to me, that fall neither to the right nor to the left, or that at any given time fall to both. From many of your nods and responses, public and private, knowing I'm not alone is gratifying. Even disagreements are gratifying (source: http://www.cuteconservative.com/blog/2012/05/03/to-the-enlightened-middle-majority-its-time-to-be-honest/), because it means we're alive and it means we’re having a conversation.

51% validated me as a writer and as an essayist. But I believe the publisher’s decision to wait – one can only assume for Hillary to announce her candidacy for president – based on the goals and import of the content versus the goal of selling the most books, has been a terrible missed opportunity. Whether or not the book ever comes out, or whether I’m still in it after publishing this essay, I still have a voice and a responsibility to speak out and to frickin’ VOTE. We all do, whatever our beliefs.

I may be “just” an Enlightened Middle Mom, but my thoughts matter. I’m fighting for my daughters’ and my son’s and my nieces’ and my someday grandchildren’s future. I’m fighting for girls to believe they have the right to say no, and to make reproductive choices that are right for them if no isn’t heard. Or if we give our yes to the wrong guy and biology wins over pharmaceuticals, or even if we make a youthful mistake. I’m fighting for boys to believe and to understand that they are worthy of waiting for that yes, and to recognize yes as the gift it is.

And yes, as a young unwed mother whose daughter saved her life, and later as a married woman who struggled with six years of infertility, believe me, I recognize that life is a gift. I’m all about life and possible. But the potential for life is not more important than my life. And as I said in, The Enlightened Middle, “…children deserve so much more than to merely exist.” Let’s do a better job of taking care of the mothers and children who are already living and breathing, starving, neglected and abused in our country before we cast stones about when life begins and what every single speck is worth – as long as it’s the right demographic and nobody has to pay for the prevention of its existence, for the termination of it, or for its care and feeding.

Any amount of controversy or flack we must endure will be worthwhile if we can give voice to those who have felt drowned out by the extremists bumping chests and posturing for attention. You know, the ones who are now strutting about the yard crowing.  Even those of us who can’t pick a party deserve to be heard. Because this is still a free country. Or at least, it was.

Instead of rolling our eyes and changing the channel, or worse, waiting breathless and wordless and action-less for our “Savior” to announce, let us pay attention. Let us hold our politicians and ourselves accountable. I have the same right as anyone else to not sit idly by, but rather to pay attention, to care, to question, to express myself and to vote my beliefs. And you do, too – starting today.

I hope to incite folks who are as frustrated and as guilty as I am this morning to never let this happen again. Inform yourselves. Feel responsible. Whatever your beliefs or whatever you think you know, research and question. Look inward and review objectively the state of your own families over the last fifteen years or so, your truth, the state of the world as you know it. If we don’t speak out, we make no progress. Let us uncover our ears and take off our blinders. Let’s forgive ourselves, and rather than keep silent, let’s wear our shame close to our hearts but boldly on our lapels. Because uncovering our mouths and using our keyboards is where our power lies. Let’s get involved. Our hard work and sweat and heartbreak have benefited many who aren't looking out for us in the least. Let us look out for ourselves. Whoever you are, wherever you sit, I invite you to participate in the conversation. All the Enlightened Middle Moms out there need to join in a collective dialogue. We need to share our stories of rape, of abortion, of single motherhood, of all of it, as in my case, and speak openly about why reproductive rights are so essential to our survival, and not only during an election cycle. We have a lot of work to do before 2016 to halt this slip back into black and white era Pleasantville politics, and it needs to start today.  

Hillary doesn’t have an exclusive on leadership. Progress could have been made had we all stood up as leaders. If we continue holding our breaths, we continue to yield ground in the fight for our reproductive rights, for gay rights, in the fight to no longer be marginalized, to no longer be held down by the thumbs of the 1%. Whether the former First Lady/Senator/Secretary of State does or whether she doesn’t become the first Mrs. President, we are, each one of us, responsible for taking the lead in gaining back the ground we’ve lost. Today I believe that Hillary is the most qualified and prepared individual to lead our country. I wish like hell she would thumb her nose at the Democratic Party to run as an Independent. She could be that much stronger with those of us in the middle leading the charge than she will be with us tagging along behind. 

My son will begin middle school this year at the middle school I attended. It’s the same middle school my brother, my eldest daughter, and two of my nieces attended. My son will likely be a fourth generation graduate of St. Joseph High School. And it is on that beautifully renovated and fully updated stage where I, and some 160 others from the 1950s through the 90s, will return this weekend for our ENCORE Variety Show to benefit the St. Joseph Public Schools Foundation. I’m among the very proud alumni of a school system in which I staunchly believe, and for which I am a proud advocate.

I haven’t sung in ages except for the occasional family wedding or funeral and alcohol-infused Karaoke. I’m mortified each time I recall when Jeff and I attempted to sing Islands in The Stream after neither of us had even heard the song since we'd rehearsed sufficiently and performed it with a band backing us for Showtime thirty years ago. There’s a reason neither of us volunteered to revive that performance for ENCORE. If you saw Sunday’s Herald Palladium, you are as excited as I am that Jeff is appropriately reviving a comedy skit, The Old Prospectors. He performed it back in the 80s with Jim Bartalone, and will again, hopefully to a welcoming and supportive full house.

Though he didn't graduate, Robin Williams was classically trained at Juilliard. Times are hard and cuts are prevalent for performing arts programs in schools across the country. Whether or not we shine brightly or fizzle hopelessly on our old stage this Friday and Saturday, it’s only a small piece of what this week means. It’s about supporting the future of St. Joseph Public Schools. It’s about continuing to provide programs that are sometimes the only lifeline for kids who desperately need to succeed and to shine and to have control of something when they often have so little control over what happens in their young lives.   

2014 has been a turning point for me. I wanted to stop being angry. I wanted more, so I decided, and I got it. I put myself “out there,” owning the title of Writer. In the winter, I took a train to Montana to attend a writers’ retreat. In the spring, I auditioned and won a spot reading one of my pieces for Listen to Your Mother in one of thirty-two shows across the US. This summer is almost over, and I am at the editing phase after completing a draft of my first GANE Possible Publication for release late this fall. I accomplished that through the #Write2TheEnd program I co-facilitate with my friend and fellow writer, Ami Hendrickson. We can’t wait to begin our fall session September 15th.  We hope you’ll join us and claim the title of Writer for yourself if that’s something you’ve always wanted to do. In 2015 I plan to learn to play the guitar my husband bought me over a year ago.

The idea is to stop dreaming, stop worrying about failure, and start doing. A foundation of my #MOREin2014 philosophy includes going back to my roots, to the things I enjoyed when I was young; before poor choices, responsibility, jobs, family, kids, new friends, or a spouse with different interests allowed me, little-by-little, to push my passions aside. Before I knew it, I'd allowed myself to make the choice to stop doing what I once loved: singing.

I can’t wait to grace my home stage with old friends and fellow alumni. The idea is thrilling. It’s exhilarating. And I especially can’t wait to honor the many years of Showtime and the teachers who made the spotlight, writing, comedy, music, and drama possible for generations of kids who desperately need the outlet and pure joy performing was and will be again. Whether it’s with us or at us, take time out to laugh this weekend, and do it while supporting a great school. 

Tickets are available online or in person at Edgewater Bank at the corner of Broad and Main streets. Get yours today! 

Like Tom Hanks' character in Castaway, I want to shout to the seagulls, "I [former aimless flake who talked and wrote plenty about doing it but just couldn’t seem to finish]—WROTE A BOOK—this summer!" A shitty first draft, at least. There is still much editing to do.

But it’s true. I wrote the first draft of a whole, complete book this summer. I never dreamed I would finish something. And now? I’m hooked. Because let’s face it, not everyone wants to schlepp pennies for clicks for conglomerates. Some of us have shit to say. We have stories and memoirs that burn black, ashy grooves in our brains until we finally let them out into the world. 

Once we finish, edit, polish, and publish, in order to reach our audience, we must promote ourselves. According to the brilliant and savvy Rachel Thompson of Bad Redhead Media, what's often missing from the streams of shameless self-promoters is the work of other awesome writers and interaction; give & take, aka conversation.

I don't promote the work of other writers without thought or care. I do it strategically. I do it for authors whose platforms I support, and yes, agree with. I do it for individuals that work to spread positivity rather than judgment, or I do it for interesting, likable people with whom I hope to sit on a panel someday. People like New York author Patty Chang Anker, who I’m introducing when she visits Forever Books this Thursday, August 7th, at 7:00 PM. She will sign copies of her book, Some Nerve: Lessons Learned While Becoming Brave. Patty surfed for the first time off the coast of Silver Beach in Lake Michigan, after renting her surfboard from Third Coast Surf Shop (see chapter 7). No biggie for them, they surf in winter all the time, because that’s when the waves are totally rad. But Patty was a newbie. And FYI, Lake Michigan acts a LOT like an ocean, complete with rip tides. Several people who haven’t spent a lifetime learning to respect the lake are at risk of drowning, and some do drown, each season.

Another for instance, I can’t thank my co-facilitator, Ami Hendrickson of @MuseInks enough, from the bottom of my procrastinating, doubtful heart for bringing me along for the #Write2TheEnd ride of a lifetime this summer.

            While co-facilitating our maiden 8-week session of #Write2TheEnd, I was talking, you see, to myself about giving ourselves permission and casting out our doubts and claiming our worth (thank you, coaches Nancy & Nicci). Funny how that works. And what a delicious, evil brain Ami has for thinking up #Write2TheEnd and inviting me to co-facilitate the course with her.

As I was teaching, I was learning beside our participants and listening to Ami share amazing tools that actually make writing a book possible. And those who know me know I’m all about possible. But we humans can’t always see what’s in front of our faces. We throw up walls and excuses and what ifs and we let fear get in the way.

And we let the judgment of others who use terms like “humblebrag” make us question ourselves and feel icky about an essential aspect of getting our work out there: marketing and self-promotion. Even if you get a publisher these days, you’re doing your own marketing. And the current climate makes that a difficult and delicate balance to strike.

Investing in a course like #Write2TheEnd, or gifting yourself with a writing retreat like the Haven Retreat that changed my life when I took a train from Michigan to Montana in the middle of the coldest winter in decades, is so much different than talking about writing a book. This is actually taking meaningful steps toward DOING it with purpose and with a plan and with accountability and with amazing support, if I do say so myself. ~blush~

And I will be the first to champion #Write2TheEnd alumni the moment their stories are no longer tentative, private, wistful ideas. The success they have achieved already, just by investing in the work and in themselves, and accomplishing their goals, means they've already earned Ami's and my eternal support.    

So this is me, humblebragging all over my students, and all over Ami & myself, too. Because I did what I feared was impossible, and she helped me get there. And now I know how to do it again & again. 

I picked the “low hanging fruit” method, to kind of fool myself into submission. I started our eight-week session with the goal of turning blogs from a site I had shut down into a book. Easy peasy. It’s already written, right?

Ha! Silly me. One thing led to another, reading and tweaking my old blog posts prompted more writing and the need to fill in holes, to connect the bits and pieces, and include more data about what I’ve learned and whom I’ve learned from along the way. So what began as maybe a 50,000-word book, will likely end up closer to an 80,000-word book. And I’m not even getting $100 back at the end. Because…teacher. That wouldn’t be fair. Buy wow! I did that!

I’m pretty geeked. But my pride and joy in my own accomplishment doesn’t begin to compare with how my heart is swelling with pride and joy and amazement at the progress our participants have made, in the breakthroughs they’ve experienced, and in the success they’ve achieved.

It’s obvious to me from the process of writing my book this summer that I have indeed overcome and achieved a great deal: I have three amazing kids and we’ve held our blended family together for over twenty years through a lot of struggle. But building and supporting writers ranks in the top ten of my greatest achievements thus far.

As we wrap up our summer session and gear up for our fall session, which begins September 15th, I’m looking back with the amazement and pride of a momma bird watching her flock take flight.

Sooo…perhaps I am bragging about writing a book this summer, but there’s nothing humble about it. And well, it’s just too bad if I am humblebragging anyway. It’s amazing to me that I finished something, and I’m damn proud of myself. And I’m damn proud that I’m a part of something that can help make that happen for others. Shoot me. Call me a braggart. I don’t care.

It isn’t an understatement to say that if I can do it, you truly can, too. I hope you’ll join us. Even if you’re not local to southwest Michigan, be sure to get on the mailing list for the newsletter. We’re working on offering online options and on expanding the site in 2015, which, it freaks me out to say, is right around the corner.

On Monday, August 25th, 6:00 – 8:00 PM, at our offices, 420 Main Street, St. Joseph, Ami and I are planning an evening to introduce ourselves to a new batch (or returning batch) of local writers, share a little about our program, and share a little about the Midwest Writers Workshop in Muncie, Indiana, we recently attended. We will hold a mini session open to your questions with answers to help you meet your goals and build your writer community. If there’s time, we may open it up to a read-around during which you can share a short work of your own.

I hope you’ve done something as amazing and outside your comfort zone with your summer as I have. If so, I hereby invite you to humblebrag about it in the comments.

AUTHOR NOTE, 05/20/14: Wrong? I was wrong?! A friend pointed out that the narrator in The Book Thief is not God, as I--I can only say--hoped, but is the Angel of Death. I'm leaving my original post as is, because A) it's not the first time I've been wrong, and it certainly won't be the last, and B) I think it brings up an important discussion about art and interpretation. Each of us appreciates and interprets what we, as individuals, need to receive when we take in art. When we put something out there for the public to consume, it becomes theirs to read into what they will and what they need.

Clearly I need to watch The Book Thief again. Better yet, I need to read the book!

Knowing the truth, hope still lives for me: I mean, if we can make Death appreciate life, then writing books is something we need to keep doing. Which is--I could be wrong, but I suspect--what the story is all about.


Writing has become my way to salvation--my way to myself. I can no more imagine my life without writing than I can imagine my life without my family, or without an appendage I've been accustomed to using my whole life.

For those of you local to southwest Michigan who have followed my journey as a writer and thought, "me too ... someday." That day is here.

Editor, full-time working writer, and friend, Ami Hendrickson, and I are here to support you, inspire you, light a fire under you—to help YOU make someday today.

We're holding a free, no obligation informational meeting to introduce you to our joint endeavor, #Write2TheEnd Writers Workshop™. On Wednesday, May 28, at 6:30 pm, in the old Masonic Temple, downtown St. Joe, at the corner of Elm & Main (420 Main St.), we will give you an overview of our syllabus and answer any questions you may have. In addition, you will leave with a small sample of what's to come; a mini-tool you can employ immediately to help move your writing from parked to forward.

I've overcome and come to own the permission and the soul pieces of writing for myself, and I believe I can help you do the same. I can assist with transformational writing, with essays, persuasive writing, blogging, and memoir. I can also help you see the value in being open to coaching, which I believe is one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves. It’s difficult to be objective about our own creative endeavors. It’s easy to fall in love with our own words. Someone who truly has our best interests at heart—who believes in us—is invaluable in helping us see our goals to fruition. And seriously, Ami blew my mind when she introduced me to our first get-it-done tool. The tools, the HOW, the discipline, the next steps, that's what I need and I look forward to digging in to what Ami has to share, right beside you.

If you're thinking, "this summer just isn't the time," then perhaps you need to either give yourself permission to let go of your dreams of being a writer and move on to something else wonderful & fulfilling—but please do move on and actually do something else—or give yourself permission to take this course and see what you can accomplish right now. Chances are, if this opportunity appeals to you and you let it pass, someday will never come. The excuses only get better, believe me. 

But consider this: how many summers have gone by since you first dreamed of writing that great American novel or memoir or screenplay or stageplay, or since you’ve let a completed project fester in a drawer? This is the summer you could turn dreaming into finishing--into writing to The End--Your End. If you could do it yourself, you would have by now. You need a team, a tribe of like-minded individuals to help you succeed in the goals we share.

Is your life worth less than mine? Is it worth less than your mother's, your father's, than your child's? There are many ways to support and to parent and to care for others. Ami and I agree that caring for ourselves—that leading fulfilling, joy-filled lives—is an important way to care for those we love, and provides a beautiful example for our children, and the joyful lives we hope they grow to lead.  

Nowhere else will you get such a powerful combination of tools, know-how, practical and functional writing advice, combined with the coaching and inspiration that will help you overcome your writing hurdles. There's a reason Ami and I have found one another. We each fill the other's gaps in ways that can help turn YOU into a powerful FINISHER where your writing goals are concerned. 

We want this for you. We want this for you badly enough that we’re willing to give you back $100 at the end of the eight weeks when you meet the goal you set on the first night. But we can't want it more than you want it.

Have you seen the movie, The Book Thief? I strongly recommend it, particularly for writers.

"She was one of the few souls that made me wonder what is was to live"..."The only truth I truly know is that I am haunted by humans." –God, “Himself,” as a truly omniscient narrator in, The Book Thief.

If we are to believe the story, God's effort to know all life’s ups and downs lives in our suffering and comes alive in our writing. It is only through our words that He can know the sun on His face, the persistent ache of losing a loved one, the consuming bliss of loving, being loved and making love. God can only feel the wretchedness of love lost through our writing.

Our compulsion to write, then, serves God--or the Universe, or whatever you wish to call it—or not. Regardless of any higher power, through our story we gift others. 

God giveth and He taketh away. We suffer and we write: to help God know what it is to live and to help others navigate their lives through their struggles, to fully experience and relive and lend a frame to their joys. Or perhaps we write purely to entertain, but that has value, too.

I can't recall watching a movie that moved me as much as The Book Thief. Framed in the expected horrors and the unimagined gifts of Nazi Germany, it tells the story of a girl who experiences so much loss and death, but in whose writing humanity lives. The acting is as glorious as the writing, and they play together, haunting and true like a cello in the hands of a master.  

The Book Thief celebrates books and writing and it makes me wear the title of writer like a badge of honor, like a testament to a life lived. It makes me eager to keep doing both.

Liesel was meant to write for Max. You were meant to write for someone. I was meant to write for someone. There will always be those with more experience, more education, or someone loftier for whom the words appear to come more easily. That's fine. They will write for their someones. Don't let that keep you from writing for yours. Know that it is only through writing for ourselves that we can impact, transform, and truly haunt others in all the best ways.

The human experience is rife with layers and levels, with soaring catastrophe and bottomless joy. It is our duty as writers to paint our understanding for others—for humanity to experience through us. I hope you will consider completing your dream project with #Write2TheEnd this summer.

Join our Facebook group, even if you’re not local to southwest Michigan, for free writing tips, engaging discussion, and inspirational posts. And please, if you’re able, join us in person on Wednesday, May 28th. We look forward to welcoming you, and any writer friends you’d like to bring along.

Here’s to writing to The End. Your End. 
--Kim Jorgensen Gane, (c) 2014, all rights reserved


#Write2TheEnd Writers Workshop(TM) is a MuseInks / GANE Possible Production, Copyright (C) 2014, All Rights Reserved.

Join the Facebook group for writerly info & free writing tips:  https://www.facebook.com/groups/Write2TheEnd/
Check out the #Write2TheEnd Blog:  http://write2theend.blogspot.com

AUTHOR NOTE: This post has been edited to include the embedded video of my LTYM performance, which may require a trigger warning for some. It deals with #SingleMom, #StepMom, #Infertility, #Suicide but it's also victorious and full of HOPE for #SuicidePrevention. #ItGetsBetter. Don't be alone. Please reach out and share your powerful story in the comments, below. Or call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK(8255).

I once participated in a yoga session in which we learned to balance our chakras. My hands took their turn on each of my eight chakra points, as guided by our instructor’s soothing voice. I felt calm and at peace. At the end I noticed that one of my hands was very warm and one of my hands was cold. I asked the woman whether this meant something, and whether it was normal.

She nodded, knowing, her whole being smiling at me. “You felt it. One of your hands was giving and one of your hands was receiving.”

Once I hit publish on a post, I wait. Sometimes I get a comment or two or maybe several after a few days. Sometimes I hear crickets. I’m writing for myself, to process my own life experiences, yet I hope to help a few people who need my particular brand of reflection or awareness along the way. Sometimes when I hear crickets, it’s a little disappointing. Even so, I’ll still write, whether or not I get feedback that tells me I’m making a difference in the lives of others. I’m happier, more balanced, more fulfilled, more forgiving and more loving to those around me. Writing makes a difference in my own life, and therefore it’s worth doing, because I’m worth it.

Because of writing and blogging, I had the privilege last May of being part of one of the most meaningful things I’ve ever done professionally.Listen to Your Mother hit 32 cities across the US over two weeks in celebration of mothers and Mother’s Day. I joined thirteen other women from the Chicago area, northwest Indiana and southwest Michigan to give some pretty remarkable Midwestern mothers a microphone. Here's my performance. I hope you'll watch the others, too.

Why was being a part of this show so remarkable? Because it stretched me, it challenged me, and it validated me as a mom and as a writer in ways I could only dream of before. I played Anna in The King & I my senior year in high school, and began singing solos when I was five years old--I LOVED doing those things. 

Listen to Your Mother was vastly different and so very much more than either performing or writing/blogging—it was a powerful, magical and mystical intersection of both. And I had no idea of its incredible power until I stepped on that stage.

I had to audition. That was similar to singing solos and having the lead in a musical. I had to perform. That was similar, too. My words and my story are things I’ve been sharing online for over two years now, with beautiful, heart-warming response via comments, shares and emails from many who have followed and been touched by my journey. What if I'd Said "Just Drive?" started right here, as a blog post for a #JustWrite exercise via Rebecca T. Dickson. I'm so grateful for her support and the kick-butt inspiration she offers so many writers, me included.

Performing my own writing was risky. It was gut wrenching. It was exhilarating. And yet it was like being enveloped in a warm, protective blanket of love and acceptance, much like my recent trip to a Laura Munson Haven retreat in Montana (by TRAIN, which I wrote about here). 

Our first reader, Donya Kolowsiwsky, had never done anything like it in her life—talk about a stretch! Despite never having spoken into a microphone before, she knocked her three-ring circus intro out of the park! Our second reader, Carrie, shared a story of infertility and victory through adoption that touched and enthralled us all. I was third to read. I stepped on that stage, completely naïve to what the two women before me had just experienced. I’ll try to explain, but I won’t do it justice:

My two predecessors set me up for only success, and every one of us that performed after made for a flawless show. I felt allied with my fellow cast members and with the audience like a golden shimmer of aspens—connected and breathing and responding as one organism. We were joined by a shared root system of struggle and joy and existence, warm and rich, clinging tight to the nourishing loam of our stories. It filled the room and pulsed back and forth like the warm blush of sunset. I received the audience and they received me. Our connected energy rose with laughter (as during Robyn Welling's hilarious, How to Scar Your Kids for Life), fell with heartache, and bloomed with understanding, as during fellow single mom, Sheli Geoghan Massie's, Prego at Summer Camp. I didn’t want my turn to end in eight minutes. I wanted to do it again, and again, and again. I close my eyes and I can feel the energy still. The unexpected and unprecedented gifts we gave and received in a ninety-minute show on a warm evening in May, will stay with me for a lifetime. I hope you'll enjoy watching the other touching, hilarious, and sometimes tearful readings from our show.

From national producer, Ann Imig’s, humble beginnings with one show in Madison, Wisconsin in 2010, to 32 cities across the US in 2014—if you don’t know what Listen to Your Mother is about, or if you didn’t get enough, you can spend hours watching this season’s and past seasons' videos. You’ll find all those who have come before, giving in exactly the ways you need to receive them on the Listen to Your Mother YouTube channel. Go watch, follow their blogs, and leave a comment now and again to let someone know how much their words matter. And check out our national sponsors, BlogHer (from where I received the Voices of the Year honor in 2013), and Chevy.

Northwest Indiana producer/director, Lovelyn Palm, selected my story as part of Listen to Your Mother this year. I am grateful for her faith in me and in my story, and I feel so lucky to have met this remarkable mother of NINE, as well as our entire cast. With Lovelyn’s support and blessing, I want to do this for my community. I will complete the application process later this year in the hopes of producing and directing Listen to Your Mother in southwest Michigan in 2015. 

If this sounds like something you’d like to be a part of, either as a sponsor, as a reader, or as a necessary and vital member of the audience, please subscribe to my email list to the right. You do not have to be a mother or a working writer to audition and participate. Stories come from sons, daughters, husbands, moms themselves, motherless children, and childless mothers. Listen to Your Mother is a beautiful celebration of motherhood and story in all its forms. And it’s a giving franchise, as well. A portion of ticket sales for our sold-out Valparaiso show supported the northwest Indiana Food Bank. Given the chance, I will choose to support the Boys & Girls Club of Benton Harbor, where I’ve enjoyed the honor of speaking to young girls about their future.

Whether or not I’m successful at bringing the show to my hometown, I look forward to next year and the years to come. I will be a part of this remarkable, uplifting, entertaining celebration again and again, even if it's an essential place in the audience.

1) What am I working on/writing?    
I have a LOT going on! I expect to release my first GANE Possible Publication, Beating the Statistics: A Mother's Quest to Reclaim Fertility, Halt Autism and Help Her Child Grow from Behavior Failure to Behavior Success late this spring. I'm always working on my memoir, My Grandfather's Table, for which I hope to secure a publisher who will go along with my plans to release it by my 50th birthday. That gives me two years. Hey! It's important to have goals! And of course, there's co-editing on the #JudyBlumeProject, which is ongoing and hopes to one day become an anthology in honor of Judy Blume's iconic and prolific contribution to libraries and homes across the world. In addition, I work as a part-time communications and media consultant (and future spokesperson) for UprightFarms.org, which is a small vertical farming startup, and which melds beautifully with my #MOREin2014 -- VARIETY & Veggies, GANE Empowered Wellness philosophy. We're currently doing all the behind the scenes work on getting our website and social media up and running in the very near future, but you can view our testimonials reel online now. As a freelance ghostwriter I've been published in a design industry magazine, and I've encouraged and advised numerous people on how to own the title of writer and pursue writing themselves. As such, if you feel called to writing, but need support in sharing your writing or finishing any writing goal you choose, I’m co-facilitating a local, face-to-face writing workshop with writer and editor friend, Ami Hendrickson (see her bio below, she's among the next participants in the BlogHop). *Every* writer dreams of spending a summer writing the Great American Novel--or maybe you want to write a screenplay, dust off a manuscript that's been sitting in a drawer, write a query letter, and actually SUBMIT it, or write a short story or memoir. #Write2TheEnd is an eight-week program that began in mid-June. We're finalizing our fall offerings now. It’s something you don’t want to miss, and it’s another really good reason to sign up for my email list. --->

2) How does my work/writing differ from others in its genre?
Genre? That's one of those scary words that can frighten off those of us who aren't too confident about our writing. All this writing and blogging nonsense began for me back in San Diego when I was so miserable I couldn't stand myself. After wallowing the first year we were there, I decided it was time to build a life for myself. It all centered around my novel-in-progress, Bluebirds, which I've been working on intermittently for six years or more. I haven't abandoned Bluebirds, and I still work on it from time-to-time. But it was proving really hard to write because I found myself trying to fit in too much memoir. Thus, My Grandfather's Table was born--a story of contrasts that flows between the nurturing, love, and nourishment that was freely given me as a child, against the shame and sadness of untold secrets that I believe led to my struggle as a young single mother. It's my quest to forgive and to love myself through food instead of punish myself with food. I need to exorcise the memoir bits in order to just tell the beautiful story that I believe Bluebirds is meant to be someday--because my Gramps continues posthumously to tell me so through birds. 

3) Why do I write what I do?
I've covered that with question two, but overall, it's honestly to keep myself sane. As women, as mothers, we often judge one another. Through sharing my writing, I feel so blessed to have experienced the fellowship and support of other writers, which has led to so very much more than I’d ever dreamed possible. Between my trip to meet and learn from Laura Munson at Haven, and being a part of Listen to Your Mother, this is shaping up as an incredible year. I don’t believe I would have auditioned for Listen to Your Mother without Haven. And I don’t believe I would have tried without the support of my wonderful midlife women blogger friends of Midlife Boulevard. This is what they mean by tribe: I had fought the compulsion to write my whole life, pushed it aside as something frivolous and silly because I lacked a college degree. I had to seek out coaches and like-minded individuals and surround myself with their support, energy, and encouragement in order to feel justified in pursuing writing as a career. Because of my history, because of shame, because of allowing myself to be defined by perceived failure, before, I wasn't enough. The sky truly is our only limit, otherwise it's the self-limiting beliefs that hold us back from realizing our own greatness. Why NOT you? 

You are enough and you and your story matter; you have the ability to impact yourself and others in ways you can’t yet imagine. GANE Possible: make your life what you’ve always wanted it to be…and bring someone else along for the ride. Why do I feel compelled to share my story? To be better for myself, for my family, to follow in my grandfather's footsteps and fully embrace and engage in this life I'm so blessed to have (especially if, like my grandfather, I live to 100!), and to help others do the same.   

4) How does my writing process work?
Ugh! My writing "process" isn't one I can highly recommend if production (organization? what’s that?) and completion is your goal--and yet I've built three websites and produced a TON of writing over the last three years. I need to give myself credit for that! I probably write more in the Evernote app on my phone, standing naked and dripping wet in the bathroom, than I do actually sitting at my keyboard. I pray it’s the water that inspires my cancer spirit and not the cracked pink tiles that line all. four. walls. of the loo in the rental we currently occupy. I'm very encouraged by my #Write2TheEnd habits/progress this summer. I've just completed my first draft of Beating the Statistics, a mini, wellness-focused memoir, which I'd hoped would help me break the finishing and publishing ice. Having this awesome cover done by Julia Mattice at Tice Designs has helped inspire me to keep working. I have many projects of my own in process, as well as volunteering, consulting, and freelance work. Taking time to focus on my own writing is always a challenge. When I do, I have a ready list of notes in Evernote from which to copy and paste. I can then take off with fingers flying and often produce thousands of words at a sitting. 

Mine was definitely the "pantser" method before. I'm benefiting greatly and producing more by adopting pieces of the plotter method, which is Ami's very large and essential piece of #Write2TheEnd, thankfully! ***WRITER/ BUSINESS TIP: Knowing and acknowledging our own weaknesses and joining forces with those who fill our gaps is a brilliant strategy I highly recommend! It's worked for my husband and me over almost twenty years of marriage, even though my creative "process" exasperates him!*** My new office is complete enough that I've moved in, so I'm getting better organized. It was difficult working from home where there was no separation of work hours and family or (barely existent) leisure hours. I look forward to getting settled into a routine after school starts this fall, and having designated work time and space. I will have to figure out where and when my writing time is most productive. This summer, it's been first thing in the morning before my son wakes and BEFORE social media, standing at my kitchen counter. Perhaps this fall I will devise a hanger for the doorknob to my new office that says, “Gone Writing.” 

And now, I'm pleased to introduce my #Write2TheEnd partner, Ami Hendrickson, as well as Sabrina Lovejoy, and Joan Stommen. They are the next batch of writers on this transformational and inspiring Blog Hop all about writing. 

Ami Hendrickson is the ghostwriter for several internationally recognized master horse trainers and other notable experts. Books she has been involved in creating include: Clinton Anderson’s Downunder Horsemanship; The Rider’s Pain–Free Back, written with neurosurgeon Dr. James Warson, named by American Horse Publications as one of the “Top 3 Books of the Year;” Geoff Teall on Riding Hunters, Jumpers and Equitation;Beyond a Whisper, with behaviorist Ryan Gingerich; and Photographing and “Videoing” Horses. She is the editor of the Trainer’s Certification Manual for the United States Hunter Jumper Association (USHJA).

Ami is also an award-winning scriptwriter. Her screenplays have received recognition in the Cinequest Screenwriting Competition, the Great Lakes International Screenplay Competition, the Austin Heart of Film Screenwriting Competition, and others. "Valentimes Day," a short film written for the SONY 4K Challenge as part of the 2013 Napa Valley Film Festival, was a featured selection in the 2014 Cedar Rapids Independent Film Festival.  "The Interview" won both the Grand Prize and the Audience Choice Award at the Out of the Box Playwriting Competition in 2012.  

A  tireless mentor and cheerleader, Ami has helped scores of writers from 13 year–olds to septuagenarians get their first byline. She is always looking for ways to help writers make the most of writing time, jumpstart creativity, and pack more firepower into the writer’s arsenal.  When she discovers something that works, she is quick to share it.  She especially enjoys speaking to writers and conducting writing workshops. She graduated with distinction from Andrews University and holds degrees in English and Education. 

Some of Ami’s favorite things (in no particular order) are: riding her horses, losing herself in a book, drinking good coffee, eating chocolate, smooching her husband or snuggling her daughter during a movie.  She and her family live with their “vast menagerie” on a 100+ year–old farm in southwest Michigan. Find Ami via her website, www.AmiHendrickson.com, and her blog, Muse Inks. Read her post here.

Sabrina Lovejoy is most comfortable writing about what life has taught her. From becoming a single mom several days after her 18th birthday to her more than 20 years in corporate America, her hope is that her experiences encourage women to keep pressing towards their finish line. While fully aware that we all come from different backgrounds, Sabrina believes there is nothing that she’s been challenged with that someone, somewhere, hasn’t already experienced and overcome (Ecclesiates 1:9 “...there is nothing new under the sun”). She believes the journey of women would be easier if they’d more frequently seek those that know how to get from calamity to clarity. And, while that road has already been paved in many different ways by some of the most amazing women, writing has allowed Sabrina the opportunity to add her own bricks here and there.  

Sabrina’s blogging journey started in 2009 with a blog geared towards encouraging single moms in corporate America. Later, she decided to lean more towards sharing the life lessons she wished someone had shared with her. In 2013, while pursuing a career as a Life Coach and disappointed with her own corporate journey, Sabrina founded a 30 day challenge entitled “Career Success through Self-Awareness”. Due to its success, Sabrina has begun the process of creating resources for women new to or frustrated with the corporate climb.
 
Sabrina’s blog, Much Needed Advice, is a compilation of her journey as a writer. Read her post here.

Joan Stommen has always been a writer. Her shelves are full of letters, essays, journals, newspaper clippings and lessons used as a writing coach. Retiring in 2007 after 33 years as an elementary teacher, she returns a few days a week to sub and stay active in the writing and learning process.

She’s a National Writing Project Fellow, a former staff development instructor for various school systems and taught writing instruction to teacher candidates at Kennesaw State University. From her college newspaper to various publications, she’s written news stories and columns for over 40 years. A native of Michigan who now lives in Georgia, she enjoys 5K’s, Zumba, hiking, gardening and reading.

In addition to compiling stories of her Dad’s war experiences, she contributes to national blogs and websites and writes the Gramcracker Crumbs blog  (www.gramcrackercrumbs.com). Initially started with her 5 grandchildren in mind, she now writes about the aging process in Senior, Single and Seventy, fitness, education, family and, after the death of her husband, about Becoming a Widow; befitting her tag line “the bits and pieces of my life.” Read her post here.


Yours in Wellness Always,
--Kim Jorgensen Gane, (c) 2014, all rights reserved

My Grandfather's Table is a story that flows between the nurturing, love, and nourishment that was freely given me as a child, against the shame and struggle of untold secrets.  I suppose it's fitting that my trip across country to attend a Laura Munson Haven Retreat would be a story of contrasts as well. 

The train ride out wasn't so bad, despite the fact that I was planted in coach for thirty plus hours. Thirty-four, to be exact. Which would prove nothing compared to the trip home, but that was only a whisper in my mind at the time. 

I arrived in Whitefish, Montana after midnight, and secured my rental car key from the little honor-system lock box inside the early twentieth century, sturdy and somehow familiar brick of the train station. I hit the unlock button on the keyfob, the lock button, and caught sight of lights waiting for me less than half a block away. I slogged, slipped and slid my way through the alleyway. The task was complicated by my heavy laptop backpack/purse and the tether of large suitcase and smaller matching carryon my seasoned business traveling husband had rigged up for me. 

I am not seasoned for business travel in the least, though here I was doing it. I was sweating beneath my layers, at the same time each intake of breath felt like menthol against my teeth as I hauled too much gear, alone, in the dark, in a strange town, to a waiting rental car, to drive myself about twenty minutes to a Super 8 in Kalispell that I prayed would be clean and ready for my arrival. And it was, despite Laura's disappointment at my interim location. "You're here to experience Whitefish," a town she promotes and features with tangible and deserving pride in her book, "This Is Not the Story You Think It Is." 

This whole trip was a Candid Camera exercise in giving up control and attempting to shift some focus to myself and my writing: a mammoth task. I've been a stay-at-home mom for over ten years. I have been the chief decision-maker, gluten-free, non-toxic food-chooser, taxi-driver of my long-sought son's destiny, for nearly every moment of his eleven years outside of my body. It took six years of loss, disappointment, surgeries, charting, research, self-teaching & self-deprivation to bring him to existence. Letting go, leaving his admirable, albeit vacillating, sweet positivity at the prospect of Mommy being away for eight days for the first time in his or my twenty-seven year old daughter's, and twenty-five year old stepdaughter's lives, at times felt like he was being ripped out of me again. 

I've been a mother my entire adult life. It's my job, my joy, my lifeblood. The only things I've been longer than I've been a mother, are a daughter, a sister, a singer, and a sometimes writer. I haven't even been a wife longer than I've been a mother, because my husband and I met when our girls were five and three. And I didn't figure out the writer piece of my puzzling ADD brain until I was forty-five years old.  When, as our oldest two embarked on their individual tentative forays into adulthood, taking one to New York and the other to Florida, for the first time, what was a necessary choice (a move across country, briefly to California) for our youngest didn't feel like a good choice for the older two. 

Once again, here I was torn. This trip and the two weeks leading up to it felt like I was conjoined twins trying to keep one foot in what's always been--motherhood, wife, safe, control, not claiming my soul as a writer and not holding myself accountable to finish a book--and the other foot reaching forward to Destiny, to what has niggled, and at times shouted at me ever since my fifth grade teacher encouraged my writing. Occasionally it was loud enough to actually get me to sit down at a keyboard and do the work; to write the vortex of words and stories that swirled within me. For a time the ADD would be quelled, my sometimes quiet, sometimes feverish release finally giving up it's hold on my mind. But doubt and self-criticism and responsibility and disdain for the preposity, the frivolity of the idea of my non-collegeate self being a *Writer*, would inevitably return to reign once again. 

And the fear: the thought of writing about what's kept my story locked within me has seized me with steel-tipped talons. I know it's precisely what I must do to release the power it's had over me since I was five years old. Five is also when I sang my first solo in church. I was a very small singer with a big voice who couldn't form the words to tell my parents of the sadness that singed my memories of an otherwise happy childhood, that tinted them with the lens of shame and knowing too much. I can't see my story through, and therefore move forward without doing something big, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar, something that makes my skin prickle and my hackles raise at the financial nonsense of it, even as the other part of me plants its feet, crosses its arms and says through gritted teeth, "You must."  Another moment she’s gentle; she places her hands over mine, looks into my eyes in the mirror and says, "You know what you must do, you just don't want to face it." Words I've said to a friend before. I had to be my own friend, when as usual I didn't fully express to anyone the conflict that plagued me about taking this trip. 

The Friday before the Sunday I was to leave, I placed my first real paycheck in eleven years, for a new part-time endeavor as director, communications and media for Upright Farms, an exciting startup, on my husband's desk. I hadn't told him it was coming. He got choked up. I did, too. We embraced. With my family's intervention and unyielding support, pride and encouragement at the front end, I paid for my own travel expenses along the way. It felt a little Thelma & Louise. Like having choices. Like driving off a cliff but having one of those giant cushions meeting me at the bottom. I know that more will come. I know that I have the skills, the talent, and that I can deliver. 

And after this retreat that is Haven, that was a haven for my writer's soul, after placing myself in Laura Munson's, her business manager, David's, the other brilliant, open, talented attendees', our very capable and supremely talented vegan chef, Emma Love's, and Walking Lightly Ranch's grower, Wes's, warm embrace--after challenging myself with stepping away from what's comfortable and pressing through what's scary as hell, after learning about silence (a condition I always feel compelled to fill with too many words), and brevity (something I may never conquer, but awareness is the first step), I know that I can deliver on this memoir, on the many books that, when I grant myself permission to write, can't spring from my fingertips to meet ruffled and bound pages fast enough. 

Patience is key for me. Knowing and plodding and doing it despite what does or doesn't make sense is essential. Between writing, work compiling my first GANE Possible Publication which I hope to release late spring, blessed work, an audition and BEING CAST in Listen to Your Mother (our performance is this Thursday in Valparaiso, Indiana), it's taken me all this time to fully process my reentry into reality--to process what this chapter really meant to my life, to my future, to my family. It felt like I was away for a month. It's crazy that after two welcomed spring-like days, Michigan pines drooping with a March snow weeks later, these words finally began to release about a journey that took me to where conifers climb the sky.  I found myself at home as I wandered the Flathead Valley of northwestern Montana. A wrong turn in the glorious sunshine took me around glistening Flathead Lake, her gentle ripples revealing pebbles beneath a bit of lapping shoreline particularly close to the road. My heart sighed. Lake is so comforting to this Midwest girl. Much like Michigan, the entire Flathead Valley around Whitefish, Montana, is full of them.

I was eventually brave enough to set out to Glacier National Park, though not brave enough to walk alone into the woods.  There were a couple of cars, and two cross-country skiers eventually met me back at my car, but the creak of soaring cedars and icicles thawing kept me close to the lodge and to Lake McDonald, itself. I took a walk around, listened to timeless echoes of children playing among the now empty cabins, jumping off the dock into a lake that was currently hidden by snow and watched over by me and a lone, tilting, wordless snowman. I forced myself to breathe, to take it in, to revel in my new tentative and unfamiliar moments of freedom.  And silence.

Safely behind the wheel again, I drove to Whitefish, and enjoyed a delectable sushi dinner at Wasabi, where a beautifully framed review Laura wrote, watches over their entrance like a proud momma.  She should be proud.  Whitefish is a wonderful, throwback little town.  It’s people are warm, Huckleberries are everything they’re preported to be, and it’s home to warm gluten-free buckwheat crepes, at the crêperies, where I enjoyed them stuffed with smoked salmon and dill havarti, not once, but twice.  The second time a deserved bonus and a hearty, protein rich meal when my train was delayed from its morning departure.  I wouldn’t know until much later how fortunate I was to have enjoyed it. 

Despite the delay, which was ruled by a less than perfect $#!+storm of Montana's version of "blizzard,” 40-car freighter derailment and an avalanche in Glacier National Park all of which botched up all manner of travel from points west to Seattle, I made it home. Despite feeling more like livestock than passenger on an Empire Builder that had already traversed the frozen miles of tundra between Chicago and Shelby, Montana, where laden buses met from all points west to finally board--meaning things like the barely tolerable hygiene (sorta like camping clean, only worse) of a train on the way out crumbled to filth, empty soap dispensers, and insufficient food stores--I crept closer to Chicago, where my bleary-eyed son and coffee-fueled husband would collect me at 4:30 am, instead of 4 pm the day before, I am here.  

My two lunches in the dining car provided a chance to sit and talk with other passengers without guilt, without feeling like I was *supposed* to be writing on this train--a task which proved more difficult on the ride back. The combined lurching and noise induced a rare motion headache despite adopting earplugs as part of my permanent ensemble by around Fargo.

Even so, because of every bit of it, I am perhaps more here than I've ever been in my life. I couldn't wait to sleep in my own bed. I couldn't wait to make love to my husband. I couldn't wait to hug my son again and again, to talk to my daughters on the phone. 

My husband's prolific home cooking greeted me, leftover and spilling from the fridge.  He made crock-pot(?!) chicken into soup, pork BBQ, another grilled chicken and then turkey meatloaf upon my return.  Although I'm sure they didn't eat as many vegetables as I did, thanks to Emma Love, and as suspected they both had mild colds when I got home, they too survived and grew even closer. And I am reassured that one thing they wouldn’t do if left to their own devices for too long again (like when I'm on a book tour someday) is starve. It all tasted so much better than cardboard gluten-free crackers and tinned emergency meat made into chicken salad from mayonnaise, mustard and relish packets on a grimy, insufficiently stocked train. But even that tasted good at the time.

The sun, when it manages to shine this spring, is brighter. The day is new.  

Thank you, Amtrak, for bringing me home. I am better for having made this trek. Though if I am brave enough to revisit your mode in the future, or brave enough to apply for a do-over via #AmtrakResidency (they would’t be interested in my small potatoes—they’re looking for much bigger fish), which I still believe has legs, a sleeper car will be involved. I will not miss not sleeping among the roughnecks. Nor will I miss trying to find a non-existent soft spot for my hips, over a bar my coat can't possibly cushion between two coach seats. This warrior MommaWriter is too damn seasoned, now too worldly a "business traveler" for that nonsense, ever again.

What about you? Always dreamed of writing on a train? Did you? Would you apply for an #AmtrakResidency??  Do tell me about it in the comments!


Yours in Wellness Always,
--Kim Jorgensen Gane, (c) 2014, all rights reserved


I'm participating in a Blog Hop with Laura next week with a new post, but couldn't let another moment pass without acknowledging everything the experience with her in Montana has meant to me. So many brave, beautiful hearts!

Happy Back-to-School with the #JudyBlumeProject!  This started with a special surprise, even to my partner, Dana @thekitchwitch, of a four-part series that began last Monday with installment one, and continued last Thursday with installment two.  Monday's post represented installment three, and today marks our final installment with part four!  It has been delightful to see this story evolve and grow, and I hope you've been reading it with your upper elementary and middle graders.

I am thrilled to present this amazing guest post in four parts by author, Jim Denney, of the Timebenders series.  I became friends with Jim on Twitter, my son has read (LOVED!) the first book in his series, Battle Before Time, and Jim thinks the world of Judy Blume, and our little #JudyBlumeProject (GAH!).  As a MG author himself, he thinks so much of Judy Blume, that among his many projects, he took time out to write and share this riveting story, Martian Girl, with US!  GRATEFUL!

I'm certain you'll enjoy this ode to seemingly everyone's favorite, Judy's Margaret.  Check out our Facebook page, we now have a PROJECT PAGE, and you'll see that nearly every post to date includes AYTGIMM among the most meaningful and life-affirming of Judy Blume's prolific works for generations of tween girls during the angst-ridden onset of puberty.  And rightly so.  I hope this shows that any manner of respect you'd like to pay to Judy will be considered, and I hope this will inspire more men (young or young at heart) to contribute their thoughts and memories to our wonderful little project that one day hopes to be published as an anthology to honor our Judy.  

Without further ado, I'm thrilled to present...drum roll....

        Something's wrong, God.

        I woke up and heard alarms going off. I don't know what's happening, but Dad left our cabin to find out. I'm huddled under my covers, talking to you on my Amulet. I wish they'd turn off those horrible alarms.

        All kinds of thoughts go through my head. Is there a fire? Did something go wrong with the Ares? Are we losing power? Are we leaking air? Are we going to die here in space?

        Wait--

        Dad just came in.

        I'll see what he found out.

                                                                                    #

        Oh no.  Oh no.

        Please, God, no.

        Don't let it be--

        Dad came back and said that something happened to one of the passenger sections. He called it "explosive decompression." A whole passenger section just split open and all the air blew out. It might have been a meteor strike. Or maybe the hull just failed. They think everybody inside was killed—two hundred people.

        Mom said, "Oh, how awful!"

        I asked Dad what settlement the people were going to.

        He said, "Why do you ask?"

        "I just want to know."

        He said, "They were going to the Pacifica settlement. What's wrong? What are you crying about? You didn't know any of those people."

        I said, "I'm going to the library." And I ran out.

        Oh no, oh no, oh God, please don't let it be Salvino.

        The whole time I was running to the library, I tried to call him on my Amulet. He didn't answer.

        Now I'm sitting here in the library all by myself.

        Please, God, let Salvino walk through that door. Please, let me see him again.

        Please, God, let him be okay.

        Please, please, please.

                                                                                #

        I don't know what to say, God.

        I don't know what to think.

        I don't know what to feel.

        I made one friend on this trip, and now he's gone.

        His name is on the list of the "missing." It's been two waking periods and a sleep period, and he hasn't called me. I know he's not "missing," God. I know he's gone.

        I keep looking at the picture of him, the one I took after I hugged him. I look at his grin and his dark, smiling eyes. I want him to be alive again. I want to read to him again, and I want him to read to me.

        Why did you let it happen, God?

        I believed in you.

                                                                                #

        Hello, God.

        I'm sorry, but I've decided I don't believe in you anymore.

        Here's the thing: If I believe in you, then I have to be mad at you for letting Salvino die. I'd rather not believe in you than be mad at you.

        Dad's right. I have to quit talking to you. I'll miss talking to you, God, but I just can't do this anymore. I thought you were my friend, but you let me down. And you let Salvino down, because he believed in you, too.

        Please don't think I'm mad at you, God. Really, I'm not mad. I'm just very disappointed. So I've decided you don't exist.

        If I'm wrong and you really do exist, I hope you won't be mad at me. Try to understand it from my point of view. Try to understand how much it hurts when someone you really, really care about dies.

        I have to go now.

        Goodbye, God.

                                                                                  #

        Hello, God, it's me, Zandria. Remember me?

        I wouldn't blame you if you forgot who I am. It's been a long time since I talked to you. More than a hundred days, I think. And last time I talked to you, I said goodbye forever. And I meant it.

        But I've been wondering about something. I keep thinking about what Salvino's mother told him before she died: "A soul that loves God is never lost."

        I want to believe it, but I'm not sure if it's true or not.

        I wish I could feel your voice in my heart, the way Salvino felt his mother's voice. Sometimes, I think maybe I do, but I'm not sure. Sometimes I think I feel a voice that tells me everything is going to be okay. Is that your voice?

        Is it true, God, that a soul that loves you is never lost? If it's true, God, could you help me to feel it? Could you help me know it?

                                                                                    #


        Hello, God. It's me, Zandria—the loneliest girl in the universe.

        It's been a week since I talked to you last. I haven't felt like talking to you.

        Some days I'm mad at you. Some days I'm sad because I miss Salvino. I never have days where I'm just normal and happy. Mad, sad, mad, sad—ugh! I'm sick of those feelings!

        We're getting close to Mars, God. Dad says the next two weeks will be very busy. We have to go through some sort of training for when they drop us down to the surface. I may not have much time to talk to you until we're down on Mars.

        If anything goes wrong, and I die on the way down, would you do me a favor? Would you please take care of my soul? Would you let me see Salvino again? There's a lot I never got to say to him.

        One more thing, God--

        I mostly believe in you again, if that helps any.


                                                                                      #

        Well, God, I made it to Mars.

        That's right, it's me, Zandria—Martian girl. I'm talking to you from a tunnel deep under the surface of the Red Planet.

        The trip down from orbit was even scarier than they said it would be. It was noisy and the landing capsule seemed like it would shake itself to pieces and burn up. I really thought I was going to die this time.

        We landed hard, but we all survived.

        Mom and Dad and I are in the Utopia settlement. Everything's crowded and cramped compared to Earth, but very roomy compared to our tiny cabin on the Ares.

        I have chores to do, helping take care of the hydroponics garden. And I have schoolwork to keep me busy.

        This is my home now. I'm a Martian, just like Salvino said.

        Oh, no. I'm starting to cry again. Sorry. Just saying his name makes me miss him. I still don't know why you let him die, God, but I've decided that what his mom said is true: A soul that loves you is never lost.

        So I've decided to love you, even though at times it's not easy.

        Today, in the garden, I was humming that song Salvino taught me. It helps me feel close to him--

        The water is wide, I can't cross over.
        And neither have I wings to fly.
        Give me a boat that can carry two,
        And both shall row, my love and I.

        Well, that's all for now, God. Talk to you soon.

        Love, Zandria.

__________________________     The End ... or is it ... just the beginning ...?   ____________________________

Happy Back-to-School with the #JudyBlumeProject!  This started with a special surprise, even to my partner, Dana @thekitchwitch, of a four-part series that began last Monday with installment one, and continued last Thursday with installment two.  Today's post is installment three, and I will post our final installment four on Thursday.

I am thrilled to present this amazing guest post in four parts by author, Jim Denney, of the Timebenders series.  I became friends with Jim on Twitter, my son has read (LOVED!) the first book in his series, Battle Before Time, and Jim thinks the world of Judy Blume, and our little #JudyBlumeProject (GAH!).  As a MG author himself, he thinks so much of Judy Blume, that among his many projects, he took time out to write and share this riveting story, Martian Girl, with US!  GRATEFUL!

I'm certain you'll enjoy this ode to seemingly everyone's favorite, Judy's Margaret.  Check out our Facebook page, we now have a PROJECT PAGE, and you'll see that nearly every post to date includes AYTGIMM among the most meaningful and life-affirming of Judy Blume's prolific works for generations of tween girls during the angst-ridden onset of puberty.  And rightly so.  I hope this shows that any manner of respect you'd like to pay to Judy will be considered, and I hope this will inspire more men (young or young at heart) to contribute their thoughts and memories to our wonderful little project that one day hopes to be published as an anthology to honor our Judy.  

Without further ado, I'm thrilled to present...drum roll....

        He came into the library again, God.

        I was all by myself, reading Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret, and I was right at the embarrassing part near the end, where Margaret and her friend were in the drugstore, buying some . . . well, you know. That's when the door opened and he walked in—long black hair and dark eyes and chocolate skin.

        Well, I had already decided what I'd do if I saw him again. I sat up, looked him in the eye, and said, "Hi, my name is Zandria. What's yours?"

        He mumbled something and sat down on the couch farthest from mine.

        I said, "I'm sorry, I didn't hear that. What was your name again?"

        "Salvino. My name is Salvino."

        He didn't even look at me when he said it. He just started tapping on the keypad.

        I said, "Well, that's just rude."

        He looked at me with his mouth open. "Huh?"

        So I mocked him. "Huh?"

        "Are you mocking me?" he said.

        "Are you mocking me?" I said.

        "What are you so mad at?"

        "You."

        "What did I do?"

        "You were rude."

        "I wasn't rude. I told you my name, didn't I?"

        "You mumbled and didn't look at me. That's very rude, in case you didn't know."

        "I didn't mean to be rude."

        "Well you were."

        "Well, I didn't mean to be."

        "Well, you were anyway."

        "Well, I'm sorry."

        "Well, okay. Since you're sorry, I guess we can be friends."

        I think that surprised him. He blinked a couple of times, then he said, "You want to be friends with me?"

        "I do if you do."

        He shrugged. "Okay. I guess I do. What did you say your name was?"

        Boys are so dumb! I just told him my name. Wasn't he listening?

        I said, "Zandria. My name is Zandria."

        "That's a weird name."

        "It's no weirder than Salvino. I was named after a library."

        "There's a library named Zandria?"

        "My name is short for Alexandria. A long time ago, there was a famous library in Alexandria, Egypt. It had scrolls of knowledge from all around the world. But the library burned down, and all the knowledge was lost."

        "I guess you come to the library because you were named after one."

        "No, I come to the library because I like books. You like the library, don't you?"

        "Sure."

        "How come I hardly ever saw you before?"

        He shrugged. "I used to come during period three—that was my first waking period before they changed our schedule."

        "Oh, that makes sense," I said. "Period three is our sleep period."

        "Now our section sleeps during third period. So I guess I'll see you every day."

        "I guess so," I said. "What book are you reading?"

        "The Gods of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs."

        "I've never heard of it. It's about Mars, huh?"

        "Not the real Mars. When he wrote it, nobody knew what Mars is really like."

        "Read some to me."

        "Okay."

        He read a chapter to me. It's about an Earthman named John Carter who goes to Mars and rescues a Martian slave-girl named Thuvia. I didn't think I would like it, but I did. It was . . . romantic.

        Salvino stopped at the end of the chapter and said, "What are you reading?"

        "It's called Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret."

        "Read some to me."

        I felt my face turn hot. I was at the most embarrassing part of the book! How could I read it out loud? And to a boy? But I couldn't very well say no. So I read him the part where Margaret and her friend are in the drugstore buying . . . well, you know. 

        I read the whole chapter. Then I held my breath, hoping Salvino wouldn't ask any embarrassing questions. He didn't. He just sat and thought about it.

        Then he said, "I like The Gods of Mars better."

        "That's because you're a boy."

        "I guess so. I'm tired of reading. You want to talk?"

        "Okay."

        "Where are you from?"

        "San Pedro, California. Where are you from?"

        "Cebu City."

        "Where is that?"

        He shrugged. "It really doesn't matter where Cebu City is. Or San Pedro. Those places are millions of miles away, and we're never going back. From now on, we're going to be Martians. If anyone asks where we're from, we should say, 'We're from Mars.'"

        I said, "I never thought of it that way, but it's true. We're going to be Martians."

        "We're not going to be Martians. We are Martians. The moment we left Earth, we left the old life behind. We have to think like Martians."

        "What do you mean, 'think like Martians'? Are you saying I should stop reading books by Judy Blume and only read books about Mars?"

        "No," he said. "We'll need the old Earth books until we start writing new books—Martian books. I'm going to be a writer someday. I'll be the first Martian author."

        My Amulet chirped. I looked and read a text from Mom. Time for dinner.

        "I've got to go, Salvino," I said. "I'm glad we're friends."

        "Yeah. Me, too."

        "Meet me here tomorrow?"

        "Okay."

        So now I have a friend, God. His name is Salvino and he likes books. He even wants to write books. How cool is that?

        Was it your idea for Salvino and me to meet? If it was, thanks.

                                                                               #

        Hello, God. It's me, Zandria—and I'm not so lonely anymore.

        Salvino and I spent the whole day in the library. He sat on the reading couch next to mine.

        We each read our own books silently for a while. He read The Warlord of Mars and I read Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself. Even when we weren't talking, I liked having a friend to share the quiet with.

        It's funny. When Salvino was a stranger, it felt weird and awkward being in the same room with him and not talking. Now that we're friends, we can be together and not say a word and it's really nice.

        After a while, Salvino asked if we could read a book together.

        I said, "How would we do that?"

        "You read a few pages to me, then I read a few pages to you."

        "Okay."

        I let Salvino pick the book. He wanted to read The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury. I didn't think I'd like it, but it's really good. The Mars in that book is a strange world with ghost towns made of crystal and a dying race of Martians who sail ships across the sand. It's beautiful and sad. I wish the Mars we're going to was like that. We read almost half the book together before it was time for dinner.

        I haven't told Mom and Dad about Salvino. But Mom is curious. She keeps asking, "Why are you spending so much time at the library?" And, "Who are you talking to on your Amulet all the time?"

        It's not that I'm hiding anything. I just don't want Mom to get the wrong idea about Salvino. I don't want her to think he's my--

        Oops, sorry, God. Have to go. My Amulet's chirping. It's Salvino.

                                                                                  #

        Hello, God. Yep, me again—Zandria.

        In the library today, I asked Salvino about his family. He said, "It's just me and my dad." Then he was quiet.

        What do you say to something like that? I wanted to ask, What happened to your mom? Did she run off and leave you? Did she die? But that would be rude. So I just waited and didn't say anything.

        After a while, he said, "My mother died."

        I said, "Oh."

        I felt awkward, like I should have said more.

        Finally, I said, "I'm sorry about your mom."

        "Thanks."

        "It hurts a lot, doesn't it?"

        "Yeah."

        I said, "Do you believe in God?"

        "Yeah."

        "Do you ever wonder—" I stopped. Maybe I shouldn't ask.

        He said, "Do I ever wonder what?"

        "Do you ever wonder why God let your mom die?"

        He was quiet for a long time.

        "Yeah, I wondered," he said. "But before she died, she told me to always believe in God. She said, 'I'll see you again. A soul that loves God is never lost.' Sometimes I still hear her saying that."

        "You hear your mother talking to you in a voice?"

        "No. It's more of a feeling." He tapped his chest. "I feel her talking to me in here." His eyes were wet.

        I said, "Do you want to read some more?"

        He said, "Yeah."

        So we read to each other.

        I've been thinking about what Salvino's mother told him—"A soul that loves God is never lost."

        Is that true, God?

                                                                              #

        Hello, God. It's me, Zandria—remember me?

        I'm sorry it's been such a long time since I talked to you. How long has it been? Weeks, probably. I lose track of time because we don't have days and weeks in space, just waking periods and sleeping periods.

        I've been spending a lot of waking periods in the library with Salvino. When he and I aren't in the library, we like to call or text each other on our Amulets.

        Don't get the wrong idea, God. It's not that I have a crush on Salvino. I don't. And he doesn't have a crush on me. We're just friends, and we're going to keep it that way. We even talked about it. I told Salvino that I'm not ready to have a crush on a boy.

        Besides, when we get to Mars, he'll be living in the Pacifica settlement in Tharsus, and I'll be in the Utopia settlement, half a planet away. Once we leave the Ares, Salvino and I will probably never see each other again. It's sad. I try not to think about it.

        We read to each other again today. Then Salvino came over to my couch and sat next to me and taught me a song. It goes like this:

        The water is wide, I can't cross over.

        And neither have I wings to fly.

        Give me a boat that can carry two,

        And both shall row, my love and I.

        While he sang me that song, I imagined a wide ocean of empty space between the planets. I imagined that the library was our little boat that we were rowing to Mars.

        I said, "That's a beautiful song. Where did you learn it?"

        He said, "From my mother. She told me it's an old, old song. There are other verses, but I only remember the first verse."

        Then he touched my hand.

        I moved my hand away and pretended I didn't notice.

        He stood up and acted like nothing happened. He said, "Well, I probably ought to be going."

        I stood up and said, "Yeah, me too."

        He started to walk to the door, but I said his name and he looked at me. And I gave him a hug. He grinned—a big, wide grin that lit up his whole face.

        Without thinking, I picked up the Amulet that hung from my neck and pointed it at Salvino and snapped his picture.

        I think he was kind of embarrassed. He shook his head and grinned again. Then he walked out.

        It's a good picture. In the Amulet's 3-D display, he looks so real, I could reach out and hug him all over again.

        I have to admit, God, I felt tingly inside when he touched my hand.

        I'm glad I decided not to have a crush on Salvino, or I'd be a real mess right now.

                                                                                  #

To be concluded on Thursday in "Part Four: Mad, Sad, Mad, Sad"

Happy Back-to-School with the #JudyBlumeProject!  This started with a special surprise, even to my partner, Dana @thekitchwitch, of a four-part series that began Monday with installment one.  Today's post is installment two, and I will post installments three andfour next week, again on Monday and Thursday.

I am thrilled to present this amazing guest post in four parts by author, Jim Denney, of the Timebenders series.  I became friends with Jim on Twitter, my son has read (LOVED!) the first book in his series, Battle Before Time, and Jim thinks the world of Judy Blume, and our little #JudyBlumeProject (GAH!).  As a MG author himself, he thinks so much of Judy Blume, that among his many projects, he took time out to write and share this riveting story, Martian Girl, with US!  GRATEFUL!

I'm certain you'll enjoy this ode to seemingly everyone's favorite, Judy's Margaret.  Check out our Facebook page, we now have a PROJECT PAGE, and you'll see that nearly every post to date includes AYTGIMM among the most meaningful and life-affirming of Judy Blume's prolific works for generations of tween girls during the angst-ridden onset of puberty.  And rightly so.  I hope this shows that any manner of respect you'd like to pay to Judy will be considered, and I hope this will inspire more men (young or young at heart) to contribute their thoughts and memories to our wonderful little project that one day hopes to be published as an anthology to honor our Judy.  

Without further ado, I'm thrilled to present...drum roll....

        

        
        Hi, God, it's me, Zandria, again.

        I'm sorry I had to stop recording right at the scariest part. I just couldn't keep talking. I hid my face in my arms in case everything exploded.

        I know that sounds dumb. But I was so scared. I thought that if I covered my eyes, maybe the explosion wouldn't hurt so bad.

        I hope you didn't think I died when I stopped recording. I really thought the ship was going to rattle apart. The noise and shaking got worse and worse for a few minutes--

        Then it got quiet. Everybody stopped screaming, even me.

        Dad says we're in space now, about three hundred kilometers above the Earth. In ten hours, we'll dock with the Ares, the big ship that runs between Earth and Mars. Twenty other transport ships from Earth will dock with the Ares around the same time, ships from all over the world. The transports will attach themselves to the Ares, making one big mega-ship that will take more than four thousand settlers to Mars.

        So we're really going to Mars.

        Part of me feels like crying, but mostly, I'm just sleepy. Being shaken around like a rat in a dog's mouth is really tiring.  

        Oh, and Mom just woke up. She wanted to know how soon till we launch. Dad and I laughed and laughed.

        Talk to you later, God. So tired. Gonna nap now . . .

                                                                                       #

        Hello again, God. Well, that was some nap! I slept for ten hours.

        A loud clanking noise woke me up. Dad said it was the sound of our transport docking with the Ares. About half the transports from Earth have docked already.

        If only there were windows so I could have one last look at Earth!

        I wish I had walked around the neighborhood before we left, just taking everything in, what San Pedro looked like and sounded like and smelled like, so I could remember my home town years from now. I'm afraid that when I'm on Mars, living in those tunnels and domes, I'll forget the life I had back on Earth.

        The flight attendant said we're "in freefall" now. That means we're weightless and we'd float around like balloons if we weren't strapped in. They won't let any of us passengers out of our seats. They don't want us floating around and crashing into each other.  

        Oh, I did get out of my seat once, but just to go to the bathroom. A flight attendant had to go with me to make sure I didn't bump into anybody. The bathroom is a tiny little closet that smells awful, like chemicals and poo. The toilet on a spaceship is really complicated to use and the instructions are hard to understand.

        There are fifteen steps to using the toilet if you're a boy, sixteen if you're a girl (not fair!). There's one really disgusting thing you have to do if you're going number two—I don't even want to talk about that.

        We have to use these tiny, awful bathrooms all the way to Mars—more than two hundred days!

        I can't let myself think about it.

                                                                                 #

        It's me again, God—Zandria the reluctant space-girl.

        Last time, I told you we were weightless. Well, not anymore.

        After all the transports had docked, they started spinning the Ares, like rolling a log on the river. The spinning motion makes artificial gravity.

        I wish we could just float around weightless in our spaceship, bouncing around like ping-pong balls. That would be so much fun. But Dad told me the artificial gravity is for my own good. It keeps my bones, muscles, and heart from getting weak.

        I've been wondering how spinning the spaceship makes artificial gravity, and I think I figured out how it works. I remember one time in the backyard, I filled a plastic bucket half-full of water and I swung it around and around. Even when the bucket was upside-down, the water didn't fall out of the bucket. Swinging the bucket in a circle presses the water against the bottom of the bucket so it can't spill out.

        I think spinning the spaceship works the same way. When the spaceship spins, the motion pushes all the people toward the outer hull, like water pushing against the bottom of the bucket. Instead of floating around weightless, we have artificial gravity to keep our bodies from getting weak and mushy.

        The artificial gravity on the Ares isn't as strong as Earth's gravity. Dad says it's about one-third of Earth's gravity—the same as we'll have on Mars. So I feel lighter than I did on Earth, but I can't float around.

        That's too bad. I was hoping I could float all the way to Mars.

        Oh, wait, there's an announcement--

        The Ares is about to leave Earth orbit and head out for Mars. We're supposed to turn off our electronic devices. I guess that includes my Amulet.

        I'll talk to you later, God.

                                                                                     #

        Hello, God. Zandria here.

        How long has it been since I talked to you? We don't have days and nights on this spaceship, just "waking periods" and "sleeping periods," so I forget how much time has passed. Last time I talked to you, we were leaving orbit around the Earth and setting off for Mars.

        They put us in a tiny little cabin that's barely big enough for one person, let alone three. My parents and I can hardly turn around without bumping knees and elbows. And as for privacy—forget it!

        I have to take these little white pills every day to protect myself against cosmic rays. I'm not sure what cosmic rays are, but I think they're some kind of invisible death rays. They're all over outer space, and they can go right through spaceship walls, through our organs and bones, and they can make us sick. These white pills protect my body cells from the invisible death rays.

        When I was taking my pill this morning, I said, "At least we won't have to take these when we get to Mars."

        Dad said, "I'm afraid we will. Mars doesn't have a thick atmosphere and a magnetic field to protect us from cosmic rays like Earth does. We'll have to take these pills for the rest of our lives."

        That's just great! What else haven't they told me? The more I find out about Mars, the less I like it.

        I try to spend as little time as possible in our tiny cabin. Sometimes I wander around the corridors and explore, but most of the doors are marked "Unauthorized Personnel Keep Out." I've never felt more "unauthorized" in my life.

        Talking about this stuff is making me sad. I don't want to talk anymore, God. Maybe later.

                                                                                       #

        It's me again, God. Zandria.

        I just found out they have a library on the Ares. Can you believe it? There must be about a zillion books in the computer system. You just order a book from the menu, then lie down on a reading couch and the book appears in the visual display above you. The computer scans your eyes and knows exactly when to turn the page. It's so much easier than reading books on my Amulet.

        The library has three reading couches, but no one else has ever come to the library while I've been here. I guess people don't read very much anymore.

        I found a new author I really like. Her name is Judy Blume. Well, she's not new, exactly. She wrote most of her books way back in the twentieth century. But she's new to me. Her books make me laugh and cry, and the girls in her stories remind me of me, even if they have weird names like Deenie and Davey.

        I'll talk to you later, God. I want to read some more before dinner.

                                                                                        #

        I met a boy today, God.

        I was all by myself in the library, reading another book by Judy Blume. You'd like this book, God—it has your name in the title. It's called Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. It's about a girl like me who has to move to a new place, and sometimes she talks to God.

        Well, I was reading the first chapter when the door opened and a boy came in. I had never seen him before. He's about my age, and he has long black hair and dark eyes and skin the color of hot chocolate. He looked at me and I looked at him, then we both looked away without saying a word.

        Awkward!

        He sat down on the reading couch farthest from mine. He tapped on the keypad and picked out a book from the menu. Without being obvious about it, I tried to see what he was reading, but I couldn't read his display from my couch.

        So I sat back and tried to read my Judy Blume book—but I couldn't concentrate! I felt so uncomfortable with him right there. At times, I thought he was looking at me—but when I glanced over at him, he was just reading.

        Maybe it was my imagination—or maybe he looked away real fast when I glanced at him. I'm not sure. But just having him there was a terrible distraction!

        I spent most of the time reading the same sentence over and over again. I'll have to read that whole chapter again tomorrow, because I didn't get anything out of it today.

        After an hour or so, the boy got up and walked out of the library. He didn't say a word, he didn't even glance in my direction. It was like I didn't exist.

        Is he shy—or just rude?

        If I see him again, God, I'm going to ask him his name.

                                                                                         #

To be continued next Monday in "Part Three: A Boat That Can Carry Two"