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GANE Insight: Kim Jorgensen Gane's Blog

I'm no longer directionally challenged--I have a clear vision to celebrate #MOREin2014 via GANEPossible.com. Preempting my novel in progress, Bluebirds, I'm very close to releasing my first GANE Possible publication (prescriptive "Dr. Mom" nonfiction), Beating the Statistics: A Mother's Quest to Reclaim Fertility, Halt Autism & Help Her Child Grow From Behavior Failure to Behavior Success. I'm also working on completing my memoir, My Grandfather's Table: Learning to Forgive Myself First.

It took a lifetime to get here. This blog documents my quest to self-fulfillment through my writing, and ultimately to shifting my focus to Beating the Statistics & My Grandfather's Table and speaking about them. They are the wellness and the memoir parts of my journey that had to be told, so that Bluebirds can one day be the meaningful, but fictional *story* it aspires to be.

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Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil, Make No Progress: The Marginalized Need to Take a Lesson From the Right, or We're Screwed

11/6/2014

1 Comment

 
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.
Picture
By Rob Young from United Kingdom (American Flags @ Rockefeller Plaza) [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
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:

#RealMenWait4Yes, Because They Know They Are Worthy of It

          by Kim Jorgensen Gane

 

Rape is when a woman’s right to refuse sex is taken away from her.

Rape is when a woman must pay for her survival with her body.

Rape is when sex is taken whether or not a woman is physically or mentally capable of giving her consent.

Rape is when intimidation is used to compel a woman to engage in sex when she would refuse if she were in an environment where she could do so safely.

We have the right not to feel like it, not to feel like it with you, not to feel like it right now, but maybe later, and we have the right not to feel like it whether or not we’re married to you.

Our bodies are ours alone.

They don’t belong to the boy we laughed at, they don’t belong to the boy who bought us dinner, they don’t belong to a bunch of guys at a party because we’re too drunk to defend ourselves or to articulate no, they don’t belong to our husbands, and they sure as hell don’t belong to our employers.

Men are afraid women will laugh at them[?] Women are afraid men will kill them.

–Margaret  Atwood

It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing. It shouldn’t matter where she is, whether she’s alone, whether it’s dark, whether it’s day, whether it’s night, whether the wind blows.

Men are afraid women will swallow them whole and spit them out like yesterday’s wine. Women are afraid men will beat them, batter them, rape and abuse them and then leave them for dead under the black sky of a cornfield.

Men are afraid of women’s power of want over them. Women are afraid of a man’s physical power and mental capacity to justify taking what he wants and crushing her.

Women are afraid to hurt someone’s feelings, we’re afraid to be impolite, we’re afraid to be called a bitch for saying no politely, and we’re afraid of being followed back to our apartments and attacked by that guy we tried to politely say no thank you to at the bar, but who just couldn’t walk away and take a polite no for an answer.

Men are afraid of being rejected in front of their boys.

Women are afraid of the guy who can’t walk away, who takes what he wants, who just because he gets an erection, feels it’s a woman’s responsibility to help him take care of it.

Men are afraid to be laughed at? Women are afraid to die.

#RealMenWait4Yes, but many, many boys aren’t taught, aren’t nurtured, aren’t loved by real fathers and real mothers into real men.

Real men respect women’s bodies and they respect women’s minds, and they respect a woman’s ability, liberty and right to choose whether or not to allow a man inside of her. And they respect themselves enough to wait, to earn, to deserve it.

#RealMenWait4Yes because they are worth it and they stand in respect and protection of women until they give themselves—breathless, wanton, with or without love, but they give.

The giving is a gift. And a real man believes he’s worthy and she’s worthy of knowing, of wooing, of waiting for the giving.

Real men walk away if she laughs, because they know it’s a reflection on her, not them, and a real man knows he deserves better.

A real man deserves the gift of the real woman who is ready to willingly give herself to him.

Because the giving is so much sweeter than taking.

(source: http://www.blogher.com/realmenwait4yes-because-they-know-they-are-worthy-it)

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. 

1 Comment

Why Write? Because You Should Always 'Listen to Your Mother'

5/12/2014

3 Comments

 
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).

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Scott R. Gane Photography
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.

I'd like to thank Laura Munson for being an invaluable source of support and encouragement in my writing journey and for inviting me along on this Blog Hop. Laura has pursued writing as a career for years, and is New York Times best selling author of This Is Not The Story You Think It Is. She doesn't believe you can be successful without doing the work. Her disciplined methods are far more helpful (check out her post here) than my haphazard ones, but here are my answers to the questions about our writing we were tasked with answering as part of this Blog Hop originally:
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. --->
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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.   

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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. 

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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.


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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.


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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

3 Comments

Writing Retreat By Train: A Story of Contrasts, In Case You've Been Wondering

5/5/2014

3 Comments

 
PictureObservation car best place to write.
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." 

After the tires of my nearly new and nicely appointed Dollar Rent-a-Car Toyota Carolla crunched out of the snow-covered library parking lot, I met the mostly clear, open pavement of highway. 

I'd reassured Laura, amid her prolific and welcomed Facebook messages that kept me company throughout the lurching train ride--they contined when she busted me on Facebook with a, "Get thee to Glacier National Park, this sunshine doesn't welcome just anyone,"--that this southwest Michigander was a highly competent winter driver. As I suspected, dry Montana mountain snow has nothing on our heaviest Great Lakes effect. The post-midnight drive to Kalispell was peaceful and beautiful. Grateful to once again be in control of my own destiny, I calmed under the rhythm of street lights that, with Siri's familiar help, guided me. 

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.

PictureStanding guard over the silence.
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.  

There were moments of brilliance aboard the Empire Builder, both on the trip out and back. Almost all the good memories are about the people and faces that peppered my journey, which were beautifully described by poor Jen Fitzgerald of VIDA, whose travels home by train and other modes from AWFP in Seattle, all the way to New York, were far more painful. Whether or not you're in a sleeper, I recommend time in the observation car, where sunrise (so that’s what that looks like) brushed the snow of Somewhere, North Dakota, with a pink glow to match the open sky above. I also recommend taking at least one meal in the dining car. It is perhaps the one place my train experience felt timeless. 
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Observation car: You try taking a straight photo on a train!
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!
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REINVENT YOURSELF AS YOUR OWN BEST FRIEND

9/23/2013

9 Comments

 
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My writers studio is my space to define myself.
My husband and I are in the thick of dual midlife crises, so Reinvention seems to be a constant state these days.  It’s also the theme for my first foray into a Generation Fabulous Blog Hop, so I find myself dissecting once again.
I began my freshman year of high school as a girl from a seemingly solid Midwestern family who regularly sang in church, and ended it as a girl whose parents were divorced, who no longer attended church, or believed in anything.  I was instantly re-imagined from protestant good girl to hapless promiscuous girl.  So it came as no surprise when I was barely out of teenagerhood, and I suddenly had to reinvent myself as a single mom.  Later on, I met the man who would become my husband and my daughter’s daddy, and then I had to learn to co-parent, and to be a step-mom.  Some years later, my husband wanted to open a restaurant, and I became a restaurateur, and too soon a solo-restaurateur, when he accepted a job offer in his field that took him on the road for much of most weeks.

Then a new reinvention came after we closed our restaurant and I became a somewhat (OK, maybe radically) possessed researcher of holistic healing which helped me to overcome my infertility and finally have the baby I’d longed six years for.  That success brought about another reinvention when I had to learn how to parent teenagers and a high needs infant at the same time.  All my thinking had to shift when I had to parent that infant in very different ways than I’d parented my girls.

Reinvention isn’t anything new in my life, though its process never occurred to me until recently with the ultimate reinvention:  Midlife Crisis.

Many of those previous reinventions occurred as reactions to the actions of others or to situations.  They didn’t happen from a place of self-discovery, and they weren’t in the least motivated by any sense of seeking, or of finding myself.

Looking inward began when we moved across the entire country from both of our daughters, and from any of the female support system I’d enjoyed and relied upon for much of my adult life.  Moving from Michigan to California wasn’t anything I ever imagined I’d do, and it wasn’t anything I wanted to do.  I pouted and I wallowed that first year away.  I was so desperately alone, and because transition of any kind isn’t easy for me, my brain got confused and I forgot how to function.  My son got sick, and I couldn’t remember what to do to make him well.  I couldn’t grasp the brands of my favorite supplements, foods, any semblance of an action plan wherein I could see myself ever feeling normal again. 
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I was completely mired in this dull, marine layer version of my life.  

I had no confidence, I knew no one, and no one seemed to care to get to know me.  I couldn’t fathom what I might tell anyone about myself anyway, because I lacked any identity there, or frankly anywhere.

My marriage was at its most difficult point ever, I disliked myself and my husband, and I was barely worthwhile as a mother to my son, let alone as a human being in the world.  When I couldn’t stand myself any longer, I began to think about reinvention from within.

No one knew me in California.  This was my chance to become anything I wanted to become.  There were no labels, there was no family history to define me, and there certainly were no expectations, never mind the fact that absolutely no one cared or gave me a thought anyway—they were too mired in their own version of survival, too stuck in their own traffic.  
Here’s a secret of the Universe:  BECAUSE WE HAVE FREE WILL, at any moment, anywhere we can conceive it, we have the opportunity to reinvent ourselves.  We are the only ones that stop us from fulfilling our purpose, from becoming who we want to become.   --Kim Jorgensen Gane

So, what could I do if I wasn’t so afraid all the time?  

How did I want to be remembered, and how did I want to impact the future for my children beyond their day-to-day care and feeding?  I could no longer survive as that person who put herself down and put herself last and who disbelieved in herself, and my deepest fear was that my husband and I wouldn’t survive at all. 

I wanted to go back to Michigan, but I didn’t want to do it without him.  I didn’t have a choice.  I had to make a life for myself in California.  I didn’t have many friends, so I needed to be my friend, and I hoped that would allow me to once again be my husband’s.  

For me, the answer was and remains writing. 

When your soul is that of a writer who isn’t writing, the stories are swimming in your head, whether you write them down or not.  You feel like a crazy person.  You talk to yourself, you talk to your dogs; you can’t get your bearing.  Even if the lake or the ocean is always west, you get off on the wrong exit on the freeway because your mind is cluttered with all the stories--you forget to pick up your kid, or you forget to clean dog puke off the carpet.   

I seem to have lost my funny from when I first began blogging, in part because a dual midlife crisis while raising a young boy is hard, but also because I’m not as afflicted with self-diagnosed ADD anymore, so I simply don’t screw up as much.  I’m focused and I’m driven.  I have a purpose and I have goals.  The stories don’t fester in my head as much, because they’re alive and breathing on my computer screen.  I wish my sense of humor wasn’t the thing I had to give up…but perhaps when life gets a bit easier, I’ll find it again.  And even though life still isn't easy, I feel more fulfilled and more content within myself than ever before.
For once, instead of reacting to the actions and choices of those around me, I sought myself in California.  I looked inward, I asked myself what I wanted to do and who I wanted to be.  And yes, where I hoped to do it.  My heart was healing, maybe it was even being born, but I knew if I didn’t leave San Diego when we did, I wouldn’t want to.  We came home after two years, because so far away from our girls and our foundation, all of our hearts were broken.   

The lesson is that I can be my own best friend here in Michigan or anywhere.  And I can choose to do it next to my beloved lake, where I belong.  
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Tell me in the comments, where are you on your path to being your own best friend?
9 Comments

BACK TO SCHOOL WITH A TWIST, or MIDLIFE WITH A SIDECAR

8/20/2013

6 Comments

 
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I heard Sheryl Sandberg, CEO of Facebook and author of, Lean In, speak at BlogHer ’13 last month, and I must admit to being surprised at how much I identified with her message.  The question the Lean In campaign asks each of us is,  “What could you do if you weren’t afraid?”  I’ve lived my life afraid for as long as I can remember, and I’d venture to say my husband has, too.  He’s run and relocated to the next corporate job because he was afraid of losing the last one.  I’ve written my whole life, but fear of failure as well as fear of success prevented me from sharing anything I’d written until I began blogging just over two years ago.

“They” say the definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior over and over and expecting different results.  I guess my husband and I have been a little insane for going on the last twenty-one years.  When the inevitable challenge has presented us with the same obvious choices, we’ve gone with our usual response, until now.  This would be easier to grin and bear if we weren’t both at the same time attempting to make a midlife change to our knee-jerk response to life’s struggles, all while providing for a young child still at home.  
Every time I find myself not able to breathe or with a screaming headache, I try to understand and accept that it is taking all my husband has not to chase the easy money--for his American male, fifty-something work ethic not to risk another likely corporate disappointment, running on that hamster wheel.  We’re former Joneses in witness protection, only there’s no per diem. For my strapping 6’2” former firefighter/paramedic/police officer not to do what he’s always done--compromise his own happiness to feed us--but instead to marinate in this place where for the first time the actual possibility of failing to provide a roof over our heads does, too, is akin to taking a hot poker to his nether regions, something Corporate America has done enough.  Instead he’s limping along with his heart not quite in consulting as he builds a photography business on the side and dreams of having a food truck.  Things I want for him perhaps more than he wants them for himself.

Every fiber of my old self wants to run out and wait tables, tend bar, go back to being a miserable administrative assistant, or to throw together a hasty garage sale, even though everything I’ve done over the last two years has told me to keep writing, that I’m on the right path, that this me I’ve finally come back to is the me I was meant to be all along.  So instead, I’m composing this post from my new writers studio in a hip, lofty old factory turned (thankfully ridiculously cheap) artists’ Mecca, where I’ll focus on finishing my novel, and take the earnest leap to query and submit my writing for paid publication.

Our 500 thread-count sheets no longer possess the elastic wherewithal to remain tucked, and almost neither do I.  I try to be comforted knowing we still have friends with a big basement and even bigger hearts, and that we’re in this together.  We’ve been back home in Michigan where we belong for a year now, and where we have much easier access to our aging parents and married daughters.  This has been one of the longest summers in our history, but the ability to conduct our midlife crises nearer the support of friends and family has to be the only thing that truly counts right now.  

We will get through this, and come out the other side, hopefully having been rewarded and having taught our children to make choices that lead them to fulfilling lives much earlier than we did, even if today I wonder whether Ramen™ is available yet gluten free.

Maybe our son will always remember 5th grade as the year he had no new school clothes and carried a recycled backpack (hey, it’s a Jansport™, those things are guaranteed for life, right?), but hopefully he will also remember it as the year his parents eventually got it right.  This is the year we embraced the thrill ride of finding out who each of us is, instead of caving-in to what the Joneses would have done, even if neither of us has any fingernails left.  I’m calling it, 
Midlife with a Sidecar, where we’re all three taking the turns and holding on for dear life.  
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#JudyBlumeProject Update -- SEEKING SUBMISSIONS -- Still Open

8/11/2013

2 Comments

 
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UPDATE 09/25/13:
LOOKING FOR
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES?!
THE #JudyBlumeProject
NOW HAS A PAGE!!!
READ THE CONTRIBUTIONS
TO DATE AND
JOIN THEM!!!
My e-mail icon is at the tippy top of this page.
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I'm in a Mind-Still-Blown Haze Post BlogHer'13--If I Have to Tell Me Again...!

7/30/2013

14 Comments

 
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It’s back to work, and I find myself still reeling, hung over, really, but not in an alcohol-induced haze, more in a mind-still-blown haze from my weekend spent with almost 5000 other remarkable women, and a few men, at #BlogHer13 in Chicago.

I say other, because one of the most remarkable discoveries, reminders, I got this weekend was that I, too, am a remarkable woman.  This is something I tell myself sometimes, but don’t really believe.

I go through the laundry list:  You had a child alone at the age of twenty, whom you raised alone for the first 7 years of her life, you owned and operated a restaurant as a white woman whose husband was only home on the weekends, in a 98% black, severely socioeconomically depressed city for three years, you usually successfully managed a blended family and raised two beautiful, loving, remarkable women, you healed your own infertility and successfully added a beautiful baby boy to the then teen his&hers daughters you already had, recovered him from and prevented further vaccine damage, and you survived a two-year stint an entire country away from said daughters, and used (half of) that time to grow and discover yourself and you didn’t (quite) manage to kill your husband (not my story to tell, yet).   

And then there’s the professional stuff that’s happened in the last two years:  you were featured on BlogHer 3.5 times, you submitted an essay which was accepted for inclusion in a book that’ll be out later this year, and the theme for that essay earned you a Voices of the Year Honoree nod from BlogHer.  You wrote and taught Creative Writing for Fourth Graders to your son’s class over three sessions, and spoke before the local Depression and Bipolar Alliance about the connection between gluten intolerance and depression, anxiety, bipolar, and neurodegenerative disease.  You have so much more in you, just busting to get out, and all the while, you’re working again on your novel about a woman dealing with infertility.  Almost forgot, you taught yourself and built two complete websites all on your own.

It’s everything, it’s so much, and yet it’s nothing compared to some women.  This struck me over and over again, particularly as I listened to the other Voices of the Year Honorees who read their beautiful pieces to us on a stage, emceed by none other than The Queen, Latifah, herself.

As I commented on Feminista Jones’ post about Queen Latifah emceeing the #BlogHer13 Voices of the Year Reception: 

“I have adored Queen Latifah ever since ‘Bringing Down the House,’ and probably well before.  For her heart, strength, humor, obvious intelligence, talent on SO many levels, and her spectacular beauty that is the antithesis of petite, she is a role model who tells me to be myself even when a huge part of me wants to hide because I'm not the size zero I once was.  My family placed far too much importance on looks.  It's been a battle to find the midlife value in my own heart and my own intelligence and my own voice.  In a moment of false clarity, my weight can wash away all I’ve gained.  I'm five feet tall.  It isn't difficult to simply look over me; to not see me at all, [or to not see myself]. 

This is my brain shit, not yours, and you probably have enough of your own shit and don't even think to look past.  When I write, when I blog, I perceive that people recognize my intelligence and hear my voice first and, I pray, accept me for my heart before they see my size.  Writing, posting is bliss because for the moment *I* can forget.  I thought I was growing past it.  But even among all of [the women of all kinds, races, shapes and sizes], even attending as a #BlogHer13 Voices of the Year Honoree, at times it was insurmountable to introduce myself.” 

Why do we discount ourselves?  Why is it that I can sit in a room full to the brim of other midlife bloggers, recognize myself in them, yet feel too self-conscious to reach out to them as they have reached out to me after BlogHer?  Many of the Generation Fabulous women have since generously put out their arms and welcomed me into their fold.  How is it that I didn’t know before I attended that panel discussion that there are so many midlife women bloggers out there? 

How is it that we are still so underrepresented in every facet of life: corporate boards, politics, sponsorship, etc., etc.??  How is it that we so often don’t even recognize it?  We are 51% of the population (hence the book, 51%: Women and the Future of Politics), and yet we represent less than 19% of congress?  It seems we are largely complacent with being slotted into the role of teachers and school board members, raising the children, building the foundation of our future—all vitally important stuff that many of us probably don’t want to leave to the men.  But the fact that we are not nurtured to do otherwise isn’t good enough.  The fact that many of us don’t even think to seek otherwise isn’t good enough. 

And woe to those of us who didn’t attend college.   Whether or not it’s truth, the lack of a college education, time spent staying home with our children and the consequential holes in our resumes, can paralyze many of us with fear.  It halted me.  I allowed my lack of a college education to stop me from becoming something more, from finishing my book, from seeking and touching more of me.  

Until I left my hometown in Michigan, hit San Diego and was forced to take a hard look at myself, I existed, I loved, I enjoyed life to a degree…I wanted more, but I was holding my breath. 

I’m no slouch.  Two college level creative writing courses in San Diego, a modicum of encouragement from my professors, and I haven’t looked back…but what if…?

Well, as Kelly Wickham of Mocha Momma said in her Voices of the Year reading about being a single mom that resonated with me so deeply, “that is unacceptable.”  Kelly also wrote in “Untold Stories are Sometimes Secrets,” about,” feeling invisible as a person of color at times.”  I want her to know that I often felt invisible as a very short woman before I was heavy, and only more so now as a short heavy woman.  Perhaps we all put on our own invisibility cloaks for any number of reasons…acne, too large breasts, bad teeth…the list of things we can’t magically change about ourselves goes on.

Before #BlogHer14, here’s something I can change:  I will endeavor to stand proud, to embrace all that I am, inside and out, to *believe* myself to be your peer, just as Queen Latifah tells me. 

Before #BlogHer14, I will reach out to other women.  I will return the embrace of Generation Fabulous, and follow in their well-forged steps.  I.  Will.  Finish.  Bluebirds.  I will seek more speaking opportunities, I will query publications.  I will get paid for my writing.  And as of tonight, I am going to submit my book to a publisher! 

And come #BlogHer14, I will extend my hand to you no matter what I weigh, and I will help wake up the next generation of fabulous women to all they already are, even if they don’t get to witness people like Sheryl Sandberg and Rita Arens and Kelly Wickham and the almost 5000 strong of us amazing, powerful, diverse women for themselves.

What halts you in your tracks?  Or how have you managed to overcome your own personal invisibility cloak?
If you heard about the #JudyBlumeProject at #BlogHer13, SUBMISSIONS ARE STILL OPEN!! 


14 Comments

Flexing My FUN:  New Passion for Flash Fiction

7/15/2013

8 Comments

 
PictureUrban sky. Photo courtesy of David Mark, Pixabay, via Flash! Friday
I’ve developed a new passion, and it’s one that doesn’t threaten my hubby in the least.  Whew! 

I’ve discovered I have a passion and somewhat of a knack for Flash Fiction, and I wanted to share some of my stories with you here.

There are several opportunities I’ve come across via Twitter, and in fact Twitter itself is a good exercise for tightening up your writing, let me tell you!  I’ve never been someone with a shortage of words (probably why my hubs is more the strong, silent type), and you really discover what’s necessary and what isn’t in 140 characters! 

Same is true of Flash Fiction.  The requirements are varied depending on the contest holder’s prompt or not and set word count, but therein lays the fun.  To discover whether you can tell a complete story with rich, sympathetic characters in a finite number of words is great practice even for longer novel writing, and maybe particularly for longer novel writing.

My creative writing professor, Don Matson, PhD, of the University of California San Diego, tasked us to read many Flash Fiction pieces such as Ernest Hemmingway’s, “Hills Like White Elephants,” Raymond Carver’s, “One More Thing,” and Robert Parker’s, “The Professional.”  Of course we wrote some of our own, though it was a process I didn’t appreciate or enjoy very much until recently, when I began to see more of it done by women. 

According to Wikipedia’s description, Flash Fiction seems to have been a craft made most notable by men.  O. Henry, Bradbury, Kafka, Vonnegut, and other greats share a reference with short, short fiction, so perhaps you can understand my hesitation to attempt to join their ranks.  Thanks to social media and outlets like those I’ll share below, however, many women are quite successfully trying their hands at the art of less is more.  I’ve found it a great way to get your feet wet, to practice restraint, and to exorcise those little bits and pieces that swim around in your brain, or that might prove to be sprouts of bigger stories one day.   

It’s a process I’m delighted to participate in whenever the moment inspires, and I find it’s usually a knee-jerk reaction or image that pops into my mind, based on the topic or prompt.  It’s like something comes over me, and that is perhaps the best lesson of all.  It’s absolutely delectable to follow those little seeds wherever they take me, especially as a mental break yet mental exercise from working on my Novel In Progress, Bluebirds.  I find that each little success I have makes me feel only more validated to call myself a writer, which is in itself a gift beyond measure.

PictureCapbreton. Photo courtesy of Makunin, @ Pixabay via Flash! Friday
If you are a writer in your deepest of hearts, and wish to take a crack at some Flash Fiction yourself, I encourage you to start reading it first, and to give it a try through one of the many outlets available today.  Win or not, I’m always delighted with my results, and the pace of the contests often frees me from procrastination and the compulsive and usual need to rehash, review, tweak and perfect each little word.  It’s kind of a skinny-dipping-under-a-full-moon approach that I find deliciously freeing (cause Lord knows I don’t do THAT anymore…if I ever did….  I’m not telling!!)!


Flash Fiction is often dark, but it doesn’t have to be, as you can see from my first win with @99fiction, Never Dreamed:

[Posted here as ever so slightly edited, still 99(!) words or less]
Never Dreamed

She stands before them, the backs of her knees sweat, fingertips tingle.  A crisp long red velvet skirt, handmade with matching hair bow, love and pom pon fringe, her only conscious thought. 

Small at five upon vast planks, the Christmas congregation ponders what will come.

The introduction plays.  Words are trapped in a cupboard, too high.  She takes a deep breath and opens wide as a sparrow.  If speaking was required, she would have failed, but with music comes words, with words come smiles. 

A few bars have set her fate.  An attention seeker is born.

--Kim Jorgensen Gane ©2013, all rights reserved

My second win was with Mary Papas for, The Dinner Date, I believe we had to be between 300 and 500 words, this is 409, and I hope you’ll give Mary’s books of flash fiction a read:

[Posted here as since slightly edited]

The Dinner Date

She applied her scarlet lipstick, following the delicate shape of her flume with care.  She leaned close to the mirror to remove an errant speck of mascara from her lid with a perfectly matched and manicured fingernail. 

Step back; assess.  Her smooth black dress was perfectly pressed; cinching at the waist and crossing in the front to reveal just a hint of her décolleté. 

Not bad for this birthday marking her mid-fortieth.  She wished her husband was home to celebrate, but alas, international business and money and substance called more noisily.  She hoped her fiftieth would hold enough importance for him to stay home, or that he might invite her along.  Though she’d grown weary years ago of accompanying him on such demanding business trips. 

In the meantime, she admired the blaze of diamonds at her ears and wrist; consolation gifts of his absence from other important occasions--guilt appeasers, loneliness absolvers; pretty, but accusing.

She would not be dining alone this evening, however, and she thought deliciously of what her date might wear.  He was probably brushing his teeth and carefully gelling his hair just now.  Perhaps he was selecting a tie in her favorite color; some shade of lavender or Icelandic blue, to match his roguish eyes.

Evenings out were rare for them:  stolen moments amid the pace of reality; of responsibility; of all at once drudgery and chaos.

She donned her glittering shawl, slipped her slender, red-tipped toes into her most delicious and precarious red pumps, and carefully made her way down the curving stairs to where he waited patiently at the bottom.

He gazed up at her with a smile that reflected her beauty; that said she was the only woman in the world, and always would be.  She paused midway, reveling in it; knowing it was fleeting.

At last she neared the bottom.  She grasped the confident outstretched hand he offered to help her meet the gleaming marble.

He wrapped his arms lovingly around her small waist, and she warmly returned his embrace.

She kissed the top of his head, as only her red heels allowed her once again to do; not caring whether her lips left a mark there.  In fact, she hoped they would leave an indelible impression right down onto his heart.  He’d promised her they would when she’d delivered him to kindergarten, clutching her kiss in his palm, trembling and holding back tears, five all-too-short years before.

--Kim Jorgensen Gane ©2013, all rights reserved

And I’m deeply honored to have received an Honorable Mention for Retribution, in the most recent Flash! Friday Contest that occurs weekly, amid some very tough competition (I love that Rebekah works so hard to find us great photo prompts like the two above, and that our micro fiction is entered as comments under the prompt to be enjoyed and commented on by all).  It is 272 words:

[Posted here as ever so slightly edited, same word count]

Retribution

It had been years since she’d seen anything more than this small slice of sky…years since she’d seen a flower bloom, dipped her toe into a cool stream, or dug in and turned the dirt, or picked a tomato off a vine she’d cultivated from seed or sprout. It had been years since she’d bit into its flesh, still warm from the sun, letting its juices drip down off her elbow in a scarlet river.

The last time she’d dug in the dirt is what landed her here.

The Brighton Women’s Correctional Facility, smack in the heart of her hometown’s downtown, was supposed to be a place for rehabilitation and learning. But what really happened beneath that small slice of sky, through which seldom a bird or plane passed, was neither rehabilitation nor learning. She supposed you could call it “learning” to survive in one of the roughest, most rank women’s prisons on the planet. Learning how to get fed from one meal to the next, by bargaining or stealing or unsavory favors. Learning how not to get shanked for looking cross-eyed at no one. Learning which ball-busting guards to avoid or befriend, and learning precisely what it would cost you.

She could still smell the loamy spring soil, and feel it’s coolness in her hands. She remembered waiting for the perfect moment to do what needed doing, however much she didn’t want to, and however much she did.

Once he’d touched her baby sister, Daddy had to die.

Every day under that small slice of sky was worth it.

--Kim Jorgensen Gane ©2013, all rights reserved

Last but not least, it didn’t win or earn a mention, but just because I loved it, here’s another 209-word example of one of my Flash! Friday entries, Impasse:

Impasse

Persephone’s eyes blinked at the searing bright light. Her ears welcomed the waves and the ocean breeze that caressed them, and her skin eagerly drank in the moist air. If only it wasn’t sea water as far as her troubled eyes could see, her parched lips and tongue and gullet and very cells would drink it in, too.

Her fingernails were bloodied and torn by her attempts to scale the pitched wall left broken and crumbling in the wake of Zeus’s anger.

It was her only hope of escape.

Hermes’ deal that granted her a mere six months above, just wasn’t enough. This latest squabble between Zeus and Hades, felt like the perfect opening; pomegranate seeds, be-damned!

Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the sunlight, but it felt hot on her desiccated skin. She knew the salt water would cause her wounds to sting mercilessly, but she couldn’t get herself into the water fast enough. She hoped she could resist the temptation to drink it, to lap it up like an eager puppy. Her thirst was so great.

It was a long way down.

She looked back the way she’d come.

She looked at the azure water, crashing below.

She would have cried.

But she had no tears.

--Kim Jorgensen Gane ©2013, all rights reserved

Oh yes!  I’ve enjoyed another amazing success!  I’m attending BlogHer ’13 in Chicago at the end of July, because I’ve recently learned that out of the hundreds of thousands(!) of blogs posted to BlogHer in the last year, I’m a top 100 VOICES OF THE YEAR HONOREE for my second featured post, “The Enlightened Middle Majority and Why the Sides Are Alienating Us.”  Enlightened Middle Majority is the same post that has been adapted for inclusion in the book, 51%: Women and the Future of Politics, that’s due out sometime in 2013.

I hope my stories will convince you to try Flash Fiction yourself, because you just never know where it might lead...and what the hell...why don't you enter a little below in the comments!! 

I'd love to read 200 OR FEWER WORDS OF FLASH FICTION OF YOURS about FOLLOWING A DREAM--any sort of dream!  If you have a Twitter handle, please include it and your word count.

No contest, no deadline...just challenge yourself, ENJOY and be inspired! 

Yours truly, WRITER, and author:

--Kim Jorgensen Gane

8 Comments

Guest Post by Heather Greenwood Davis, aka Globe Trotting Mama, aka Sheila the Great: Long Lost Letter to Judy Blume

7/11/2013

1 Comment

 
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Dear Judy,

In Grade 4, I was Sheila the Great.

I’m not kidding.

Despite my fuzzy hair and brown skin, I was convinced you had me in mind when you wrote the novel.

I was also Margaret and Tony and Peter.

I started a newspaper at my school in grade 4 because of your books.  I dreamed of being a writer because of your books.

And because at first I wasn’t sure how to do that, some of my earliest writings are letters to my grandmother that were copied almost verbatim from various pages of your novels.

Yes, I plagiarized you at the age of 10.

I apologize.

But I’m not sorry because those letters were never sent and 30 years later, my mother delivered them to me along with a host of other childhood silliness and the joy and tears that resulted from reading my words – your words- are worth any sanctions you may have to take.

What you gave me was a gift; an outlet.

I was a first generation Canadian kid with Jamaican parents trying to find my way through the school system. I didn’t understand cliques or bras. I didn’t know what questions to ask until you came along.

You gave me a guideline to being normally abnormal that has guided the rest of my life.

When my mother bought me “Letters to Judy: What your kids wish they could tell you.” I was insanely jealous of the fact that these kids had written to you and that you were responding.

I was far too in awe to have thought of sending my thoughts as well.

So now that I have the chance here’s what I’d like to thank you for:

Are you There God It’s me Margaret : It led to an awkward conversation between a father and daughter when I snuck up behind him to ask what a “period” was and “how I could get one.”  Good times.

Forever: The sneaky way you didn’t announce that this book wasn’t like the others, allowing me a full fifteen minutes of jaw-on-the-ground reading heaven before my mother came bounding up the stairs after getting a tip off from another parent. I’d also like to thank my mom for always hiding the “not until you’re older” book  in the same spot allowing me to continue my reading on the sly.

Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing:  For giving me insight into the world of a boy, giving me something great I can share with my sons so they can get to know you too and siding with me in the acknowledgment that baby brothers were put on this earth to test your sanity.

Thank you for Iggie’s House that had a character that looked like me, and for Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great, Blubber, Then Again Maybe I won’t, Tiger Eyes and all the others that kept me up way past my bedtime, flashlight in hand.

All those years ago when I thought there was no one who understood me, you popped in with characters that have stayed with me my entire life.

I’m so glad to have the chance to finally write the letter I couldn’t all those years ago.

Your pal,

Heather

aka Sheila the Great


Heather Greenwood Davis is an award-winning feature writer with more than 20 years of journalism experience.  Her stories have appeared in numerous publications including most recently the June issue of "O" The Oprah Winfrey Magazine.  A yearlong trip around the world last year with her husband and two sons (ages 6 and 8) led to the family being named National Geographic Traveler Magazine "Travelers of the Year."  Stories of their travels and lessons learned also appear online at www.globetrottingmama.com.

Heather thanked US for the chance to purge her soul, but we couldn't be more grateful to her for sharing her memories of growing up with Judy Blume.  I couldn't be more grateful that she permitted me to share it with you as a guest post on my blog, and it ain't over, folks!  We welcome you to do the same or to participate via your own blog!  UPDATE:  Find out everything you need to know to participate ON THE #JudyBlumeProject PAGE!!

Copyright © 2013 Heather Greenwood Davis.  All rights reserved.  Reprinted with permission from the author.


1 Comment

It Can Happen on a Tuesday...Leaning In

3/12/2013

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[UPDATE: NOW ACCEPTING SUBMISSIONS THROUGH ..... 2013 ... ?  KEEP writing!]

On a Tuesday, I stumbled upon something remarkable.  Accident.  Unexpected. Innocent.  Exactly one week ago today, I posted to @HeatheroftheEO’s Extraordinary Ordinary #JustWrite weekly writing exercise, and met my new partner, Dana Talusani of The Kitchen Witch blog, who did the same thing.

Dana’s post?  An ode to Judy Blume, in which she lamented the absence of new MG/YA fiction from Judy Blume for her own budding adolescent, and wondered from where the next Judy Blume would come. 
Some of Dana’s readers said SHE should be the next Judy Blume.  I agreed, and suggested she create an anthology in Judy Blume’s honor.  Because of that brief exchange, Dana and I are collaborating on this crazy, beautiful Judy Blume Project (#JudyBlumeProject), for which, I have a feeling, we will forevermore be grateful.

Judy Blume
:  prolific and iconic author, surrogate mother, surrogate best friend and confidant to women and men in the most difficult of their growing up years, through many of life’s most tumultuous situations.  Who knows what the real Judy is like, but between her pages, she offers a soft breast to rest your troubled head upon, like the grandmother you miss so desperately.  She offers a kick in the pants like the best friend who always tells you the truth; honesty, always honesty, without restraint or judgment.  And most importantly, Judy always lets you know that you’re perfect and normal, and perfectly normal, just the way you are.  The same stuff your mom always told you, but you didn’t believe because she had to love you, she was your mom; and no one else ever would.

No one’s likely to tap you on the shoulder to tell you flat out that this is the magic you’ve been waiting for.  When it comes, you’d better believe in it; believe in yourself and believe in the possibility that it could happen to you, on a regular old Tuesday.  This could be your Tuesday…your moment.

If you’re lucky, you know when you come upon your destiny—you know when someone is meant to come into your life, and that something beautiful will happen as a result. I don’t know whether there will ever come a penny from this project upon which we’re embarking, but I do know that it will be life-changing in ways that transcend the concrete.  I can’t thank Heather enough for being her Extraordinary Ordinary self and providing a platform for something like this to happen.  And I can’t thank Dana enough for taking me along in this dust-kicking convertible that could totally be headed off a cliff.

What a ride it’s sure to be.  I’m leaning in.  With everything I have, I’m leaning in.


Follow along to see what happens on The Judy Bloom Project Facebook Page.


Guidelines to SUBMIT YOUR OWN PIECE can be found on the #JudyBlumeProject WEBPAGE!


...This could be YOUR Tuesday.

Please tell me in the comments what Judy Blume meant to you, and consider throwing in your proverbial hat.
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    Write2TheEnd | 

    Kim Jorgensen Gane

    Author|Award-Winning Essayist|Freelance CommercialWriter|GANE
    Empowered Wellness Advocate, Facilitator, Speaker

    Kim is a freelance writer, living and working on Michigan’s sunset coast with her husband, youngest son, a standard poodle and a gecko. She’s been every-mom, raising two generations of kids over twenty-seven years. Kim writes on a variety of topics including parenting  through midlife crisis, infertility, health and wellness, personal empowerment, politics, and about anything else that interests her, including flash fiction and her novel in progress, Bluebirds.  Oh, and this happened!

    Kim was selected as a BlogHer '13 Voices of the Year Honoree in the Op Ed category for this post, an excerpt of which has been adapted for inclusion in the book, 51%: Women and the Future of Politics, to be released late 2014.  Visit her Wordpress About page to see her CV.
    View my profile on LinkedIn
    BlogHer '13 Voices of the Year Community Keynote Honoree
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*GANEPossible.com is an anecdotal website and in no way intends to diagnose, treat, prevent or otherwise influence the medical decisions of its readers. I am not a doctor, I do not recommend going off prescribed medications without the advice and approval of a qualified practitioner, and I do not recommend changing your diet or your exercise routine without first consulting your doctor. These are merely my life experiences, and what has and hasn't worked for me and my family. You must be your own best medical advocate and that of your children, and seek to find the practitioner with whom you have the best rapport and in whose advice and care you can entrust your health and medical decisions.

I Blog with Integrity, please treat my content with integrity: Copyright © 2024, Kimberly Jorgensen Gane, This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License..