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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If politics remains a taboo topic in polite conversation, then racism in politics represents the equivalent of suppression, of something whispered behind closed doors in the dim light of one flickering candle.

I must believe an overwhelming majority exists today versus the brave few who, more than one hundred years ago, risked their lives to hide slaves under their floors.  If I didn’t, I couldn't live in this America, amid an undercurrent I can’t escape.  I think about it daily, and only more so during the last several weeks of looming and actual government shutdown.  Grateful for our momentary reprieve, I'm keenly aware that if we allow it, our country will soon be held hostage by insipid and racially motivated bipartisanship all over again.

We’ve come too far to watch our neighbors get away with not-so-thinly-veiled racism that has occupied the news over the last several years, certainly that which cloaked the recent government shutdown.  It isn’t acceptable in polite society, or in any society.  We are all human beings who must coexist on this planet.  I guess this is where Enlightened Middle Mom falls to the liberal side of things.  I don’t care what consensual adults do with one another in their bedrooms.  I want everyone who inhabits this earth to feel like they have as much right as I do to be here, certainly the same opportunity to be a school teacher, police officer or even president.  The hardworking middle deserves to be rewarded every bit as much as the entitled few.

My fear is that we haven’t seen anything yet.  If we continue to rubber-stamp this attitude, I fear a woman president will be subject to even more hatred and division than we’ve seen over President Obama’s terms thus far.  I saw hate delivered to the beautiful and deserving Nina Davuluri, as she was crowned Miss America.  I saw loathing and rape threats thrust at Lindy West, recipient of the Women’s Media Center’s Social Media Award in New York this month, because:

Freedom of speech extends to everyone, even those in possession of phones with higher IQs than their own.  The freedom to write about what we feel, to start and contribute to important conversations is an American constitution on which I place tremendous value.  And it’s more accessible than ever to anyone and everyone with a computer or a phone.  But allowing discrimination and hatred toward blacks, toward homosexuals, toward women of all kinds to pass without calling it out, is deeply troubling.  It’s no different than bullying that goes unchecked on the no-man’s-land of playgrounds and social media screens across America.  Just as we must encourage our children to stand up for victims when they witness bullying, to prompt the vast majority of others who find themselves ambivalent in that middle place to tug on a shirtsleeve and say, “Hey, not cool, man.  Let’s go,” we must set an example that calls out those who speak racism and hate, even when they do so in code or in microblog.  

Racism is something we all must check within ourselves.  Depending upon our upbringing or on the region in which we’re raised, conquering our fear and inherent tendencies toward racism or hatred might be nonexistent or it might take great effort.  It is an endeavor worthy of our sincerest efforts, more than perhaps any other.  

Not talking about what we’ve witnessed over the last several years won't get us anywhere.  Our silence won't help the future of minorities and women in politics.  Platitudes won’t tell the Tea Party that their thinly veiled propaganda absolutely will not be tolerated come the next round of budget votes.  We’ve bought a paltry few weeks before we once again endure the same threat to our economy and our place in the world.  

Those of us in the Enlightened Middle Majority might not be perfect, we might be works in progress where our own attitudes and mores are concerned, but we need to trust our inner voices and rumble a lot louder if we hope to further progress.  We can't keep holding our breaths waiting for the next guy to stop the ruckus.  Together with the likes of Senator John McCain, the “Sister Senators” and the rest of the bipartisan coalition that banded together in the interest of ever elusive progress, it will be up to the moderates, our voices and our midterm votes to prevent future economic catastrophes like the recent shutdown we witnessed.  I don’t know about your family, but mine can’t take much more irrepressible division.  

We have it on good authority there are more of us who have had enough than there are of them. 

I was working in our restaurant when a customer burst through the door and asked if we had a TV.  We did not, so he ran to his shop and brought us a little black and white one, the kind with the old rabbit ears.

It was the quietest that restaurant had ever been, the most food ever left on plates, and the tips were sparse.  The only hollow sounds were those of burners clicking, ventilation blowing.  Even the newscasters left many silent spaces between their attempts to speculate and explain.

There was no explanation.  Nothing could make sense of anything we were seeing.

The laughter and the joy and the community camaraderie you could always find at our restaurant were gone in an instant.  Like a giant vacuum had come in and sucked it all away, and it never did get its life back.  I’m sure there are others that were much more closely impacted that still feel like they’ve never gotten their lives back.

The restaurant industry was hit particularly hard, however, when (what felt like, and in some ways probably was) the world decided they wanted to hold on to whatever hadn’t been lost, eat at home, be with their children, gather close around the family table again.

Our restaurant was too young and couldn’t bear the sudden downturn in business that shut off the summer season so soon and so finitely.  Sadly, we had to close the following April, almost exactly three years after we’d opened.  We should have closed the previous November, and to this day we feel the financial ramifications of not doing so.  But we were worried about our employees through the winter, and it was so hard to let go of the dreams, the intentions, the maybes, the what-ifs.

Had we not closed when we did, I believe with every piece of my soul that my son would not be here.

Infertility was a battle I fought every day we owned that restaurant.  I had a miscarriage on a morning that no one was coming in to open and cook and be ready for customers at 6 a.m., but me.  I was bleeding.  I knew it was happening.  But I couldn’t leave.  We’d been trying four years at that point.

The month after we closed though, after my pH was suddenly, magically in balance absent the daily stress of operating the restaurant, which has an adverse chemical impact on the body, I saw my bluebirds, and I was given hope.

We traveled to England for my husband’s work.  That’s what the UK was called when I was a little girl, and it was the homeland of both of my maternal grandparents—there was no question, I was going.  Even amid all the money troubles we had like so many other restaurant owners across the country, I felt such a connection to my heritage and like my personal healing had truly begun.

Just a few short months later, after six long years—72 some months of disappointment—I had reason to take a pregnancy test again, and it was positive.  Even though we lived in a world that was broken and crazy, for us the Universe had finally aligned, and I knew it was meant to be.

Because I believed so deeply in the omen of those bluebirds sent by my Gramps.

Because tragedy and struggle happen, but life is for the living, and it goes on.

And every day that we wake up.  And we throw off our covers.  And we set our feet on the floor.  Has the potential to be beautiful.

God bless this one.