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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

        Something's wrong, God.

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

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

        Wait--

        Dad just came in.

        I'll see what he found out.

                                                                                    #

        Oh no.  Oh no.

        Please, God, no.

        Don't let it be--

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

        Mom said, "Oh, how awful!"

        I asked Dad what settlement the people were going to.

        He said, "Why do you ask?"

        "I just want to know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Please, God, let him be okay.

        Please, please, please.

                                                                                #

        I don't know what to say, God.

        I don't know what to think.

        I don't know what to feel.

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

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

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

        Why did you let it happen, God?

        I believed in you.

                                                                                #

        Hello, God.

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

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

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

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

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

        I have to go now.

        Goodbye, God.

                                                                                  #

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                                    #


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

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

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

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

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

        One more thing, God--

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


                                                                                      #

        Well, God, I made it to Mars.

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

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

        We landed hard, but we all survived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Love, Zandria.

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

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

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

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

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

        He came into the library again, God.

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

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

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

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

        "Salvino. My name is Salvino."

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

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

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

        So I mocked him. "Huh?"

        "Are you mocking me?" he said.

        "Are you mocking me?" I said.

        "What are you so mad at?"

        "You."

        "What did I do?"

        "You were rude."

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

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

        "I didn't mean to be rude."

        "Well you were."

        "Well, I didn't mean to be."

        "Well, you were anyway."

        "Well, I'm sorry."

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

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

        "I do if you do."

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

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

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

        "That's a weird name."

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

        "There's a library named Zandria?"

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

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

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

        "Sure."

        "How come I hardly ever saw you before?"

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

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

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

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

        "The Gods of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs."

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

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

        "Read some to me."

        "Okay."

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

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

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

        "Read some to me."

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

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

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

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

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

        "Okay."

        "Where are you from?"

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

        "Cebu City."

        "Where is that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        "Yeah. Me, too."

        "Meet me here tomorrow?"

        "Okay."

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

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

                                                                               #

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

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

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

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

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

        I said, "How would we do that?"

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

        "Okay."

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

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

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

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

                                                                                  #

        Hello, God. Yep, me again—Zandria.

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

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

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

        I said, "Oh."

        I felt awkward, like I should have said more.

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

        "Thanks."

        "It hurts a lot, doesn't it?"

        "Yeah."

        I said, "Do you believe in God?"

        "Yeah."

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

        He said, "Do I ever wonder what?"

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

        He was quiet for a long time.

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

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

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

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

        He said, "Yeah."

        So we read to each other.

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

        Is that true, God?

                                                                              #

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        And neither have I wings to fly.

        Give me a boat that can carry two,

        And both shall row, my love and I.

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

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

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

        Then he touched my hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                                  #

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

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

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

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

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

        

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

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

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

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

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

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

        So we're really going to Mars.

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

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

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

                                                                                       #

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        I can't let myself think about it.

                                                                                 #

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Oh, wait, there's an announcement--

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

        I'll talk to you later, God.

                                                                                     #

        Hello, God. Zandria here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                                       #

        It's me again, God. Zandria.

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

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

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

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

                                                                                        #

        I met a boy today, God.

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

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

        Awkward!

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

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

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

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

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

        Is he shy—or just rude?

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

                                                                                         #

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

Happy Back-to-School with the #JudyBlumeProject!  I have a very special surprise, even to my partner, Dana @thekitchwitch, with a four-part series that begins today with installment one.  On Thursday, I will post installment two, with installments three and four posting next week, again on Monday and Thursday.

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

I'm certain you'll enjoy this ode to seemingly everyone's favorite, Judy's Margaret.  Check out our Facebook page, we now have a PROJECT PAGE, and you'll see that nearly every post to date includes AYTGIMM among the most meaningful and life-affirming of Judy Blume's prolific works for generations of tween girls during the angst-ridden onset of puberty.  And rightly so.  I hope this shows that any manner of respect you'd like to pay to Judy will be considered, and I hope this will inspire more men (young or young at heart) to contribute their thoughts and memories to our wonderful little project that one day hopes to be published as an anthology to honor our Judy.  
 (Love ya, Dana!  Hope this brightens your back-to-school!  Read this to the Minxes--maybe it'll make them think twice about peeving off my momma-friend!  "Straight to Mars, I tell ya!")  JK, kinda.

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

        


        Tomorrow's my last day on Earth.

        My dad says, "Zandria, you always over-dramatize things." But I'm not over-dramatizing this. I'm leaving Earth tomorrow.

        So God, if you're out there somewhere, please do something. I don't want to go to Mars!

        I'm talking to you on my Amulet, God, because Mom told me I should pray every day and I should keep a diary. She said, "You always have your Amulet on a chain around your neck—you should use it to record your thoughts and feelings."

        But I have to be honest with you, God—I'm really not sure I believe in you. Mom wants me to talk to you every day, but Dad says you don't exist. So when I'm around Mom, I'm religious. When I'm around Dad, I don't mention your name. And when I'm by myself, I'm confused.

        I have to be careful that no one else is listening when I talk to you. So let's just keep this between you and me. I mean, if you're there.

        I'm really sad we're leaving San Pedro. I like it here. I like going to the beach. I like my friends. San Pedro may be old and dirty, but it's my home. I'm thirteen years old, and I've never been farther away from home than the Santa Monica Pier.

        Dad always promised that someday, when he had enough money saved up, we'd go to Disneyland. But he never saved up the money, and now I'll never get to go. And I'll never get to see Yosemite or the Grand Canyon or New York either.

        Why do we have to move to Mars? Horrible, cold, dreary Mars! I have to stop thinking about it or I'll cry.

        They won't let us take many of our belongings, so we held a big yard sale and sold almost everything we own. I had to sell all my dresses. Mom said they don't wear dresses on Mars. Everybody wears baggy white jumpsuits. Yuck.

        The few things we still own are loaded on the rented van in our driveway. We have to sleep on the bare floors of our poor little empty house tonight. It's so sad!

        Early tomorrow morning, we'll drive to the Spaceport and take off for Mars. Even though I hate leaving San Pedro, I don't blame Dad. It's not his fault he lost his job at the factory.

        Stupid bad economy! Dad says there are too many people, not enough jobs, and not enough money to go around. I don't know why the government doesn't just print more money and give it to us. I mean, doesn't that make sense, God? But no! The government can't help my dad have a job here on Earth, but it can pay us to move to Mars!

        I think the government is stupid.

        I don't know very much about Mars, God, but it must be a really awful place if the government has to pay people to move there. Dad says it won't be so bad. I asked him if I'll get to ride a bicycle or take walks on Mars. He said no, it's too cold outside and there's no air pressure, and my blood would boil, then turn to ice. I'll have to live in a tunnel under the ground for the rest of my life!

        See? It's going to be just awful.

        Mom cries all the time over nothing at all. Today I tried to help her feel better about moving away. I said, "Well, at least I won't miss the hole in my bedroom wall where the rain water drips in."

        Mom burst out crying and said, "Oh, we never fixed that leak! Our poor little house! We'll never see it again."

        Really, who cries about a stupid little leak in the wall?

        But it makes me sad to leave our house. It's tiny and kind of run-down, but it's the only house I've ever lived in. It sits on top of the hill, and I can see the ocean from my bedroom window.

        When I was packing my things this morning, I heard Mom and Dad talking real quiet in the next room. I know it's wrong to eavesdrop, but I stopped packing and I went to the door and listened.

        Mom said, "Jasen, I'm so scared. I can't help it. I keep picturing our transport blowing up in mid-air. We'll all die—just like those two hundred people on the Aurora."

        Dad said, "Hannah, the Aurora was an old ship—one of those rusty converted freighters. I booked us on a brand-new passenger ship, the Nebula—safest ship in the fleet. Nothing's going to happen to us."

        "I know it's silly to worry, but I can't help—wait! Listen!"

        "Listen to what? I don't hear anything?"

        "I know. It's too quiet. You don't think Zandria overheard—"

        "How could she hear us whispering from the next room?"

        Well, whispers really do echo in an empty house. I heard every word they said. But I didn't want Mom and Dad to catch me listening, so I crept away from the doorway and pretended I'd been working the whole time.

        Dad poked his head through the doorway and said, "How's it coming, Zan?"

        I said, "Fine," and kept packing.

        Do you think the transport might blow up, God? I don't think so. I think Mom worries too much. But that's what moms do. Dad says the Nebula is a safe ship, so I'm not worried. I just wish we didn't have to go to Mars.

        So, God, if you're out there, if there's anything you can do, could you fix it so we don't have to go? I guess I'm asking for a miracle. Do you still do miracles?

        I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but here's an idea: Maybe the factory where Dad worked could call him and offer to give him his job back. Then we wouldn't have to go.

        If you have a better idea, God, that's fine with me. But you'd better hurry up because there isn't much time. We're leaving tomorrow morning.

                                                                                   #

        Hello, God. It's me, Zandria, again.

        I guess you couldn't make a miracle happen, because here we are at the Spaceport, getting ready to go to Mars.  

        It was awful leaving our little house for the last time. Mom cried, I cried, and Dad kept muttering and swearing. Mom bawled all the way to the Spaceport. After about half an hour, Dad yelled at her, "Hannah, just stop this! There's no sense crying. We have to go to Mars and that's all there is to it."

        Mom stopped crying, and she looked at Dad—and then she said the worst word I've ever heard my mother say. I didn't even know she knew that word. She hardly ever says anything bad—but oh, what she said! Then she put her hand over her mouth—and started bawling all over again.

        When we arrived at the Spaceport, we saw two transport ships on the launch ramps. One was the shiny new Nebula, the transport we have tickets for. The other is an ugly old ship with black re-entry burns all over the hull. It was so scorched and grimy, I could hardly make out the name of the ship: Titan.

        "I'm sure glad we're booked on the Nebula," Dad said. "I pity the people who have to fly in that other hunk of junk."

        So we went into the Spaceport and that's where we are right now. It's super crowded and super noisy. There are zillions of people all around, and they're all going to Mars with us. I can look out through the big windows and see the Spaceport crews unloading the crates from our van and putting them into the belly of the transport. Problem is, they're loading our stuff into the wrong transport. They're loading it aboard the Titan.

        For ten minutes, Dad's been at the Mars-Line Company desk, yelling and pounding his fist. The Mars-Line people keep telling him to calm down or they'll call Security. But they don't know my dad!

        He waved our tickets around and said, "These tickets say we have a reserved cabin aboard the Transport Nebula!"

        The man at the desk just smiled and said, "I'm sorry sir, but we had to switch you and your family to the Titan." He pointed to the burned-out old freight-hauler on the launch ramp.  

        "The Titan?" Dad shouted. "You ought to call that thing the Titanic! It's a disaster waiting to happen! We're not getting aboard that death-trap. It's even older and more broken-down than that transport that exploded last week—the Aurora."

        The man stopped smiling when Dad mentioned the Aurora. "Please lower your voice, sir," he said—and he didn't sound polite anymore. "If you'll look closely at your ticket, you'll see that the company reserves the right to substitute a different transport. I assure you, sir, that the Titan is every bit as safe and spaceworthy as the Nebula."

        Well, the man was obviously lying. The Nebula was shiny and new. The Titan was burned up, patched up, and ready to fall apart if anyone sneezed at it. And when I heard Dad call it a "death-trap," I got scared.

        Mom's sitting next to me, crying and moaning, "I knew it. We're going to blow up in a big fireball, just like the Aurora." Is she right, God? What if that old transport really does blow up—with us on it? 

        Dad's still arguing with the man at the desk. He just said, "I demand you put my family on the Nebula, just like the ticket says. If you don't, I'll sue this company for fraud!"

        "Sir," the man said, "please read the fine print on the back of your ticket. The Company reserves the right to make substitutions."

        They're arguing and Dad is swearing--

        Uh-oh. Here come the Security officers. They're talking to Dad and making him sit down and be quiet.

        It looks like we'll be leaving on the Titan. Or the Titanic, as Dad calls it. So we're going to Mars—if we don't blow up first.

        I was really counting on you for a miracle, God. I was hoping you'd think of something. But we're going to Mars on the Titanic. I hope you won't get mad at me for saying this, God, but I'm kind of disappointed in you.

                                                                                      #

        Well, God, this is just about the worst day of my life.

        They put us on a tram and took us out to the Titan. The closer we got, the more we could see all the dents and pits and patches in the hull.

        The tram pulled up at the boarding ramp, and we got off. Dad looked the Transport Titan up and down and said, "They should have junked this relic years ago."

        That set Mom off again. "We're going to die," she said. "I just know it."

        A man in uniform by the boarding ramp said, "Have a pleasant voyage."

        Dad called him a nasty name.

        We went up the boarding ramp and found our section.

        The inside of the ship is even more run-down than the outside. The seats are patched and stained. The floors are sticky. There's a funny smell.

        Dad said, "This ship is a garbage scow!"

        Mom turned around and tried to get off, but the flight attendants made us all sit down. Then they strapped us into our acceleration couches. One of the flight attendants stuck a patch on Mom's arm when she wasn't looking. In two seconds, Mom went to sleep with a smile on her face.

        Now we're getting ready for launch. I can talk to you on my Amulet because Mom's asleep and Dad's on the other side of Mom—he can't hear what I'm saying.

        They're counting down for the launch right now. Thirty seconds to go.

        Please, God, don't let us blow up like the Aurora.  

        Twenty seconds.

        I wish they'd put one of those patches on my arm. If we're going to blow up, I'd rather be sleeping like Mom when it happens.

        Ten seconds.

        Dad just leaned forward and gave me a wink, as if to say, Everything's going to be okay. I hope he's right. God, please let him be right.

        Oh! It's happening. The engine noise is so loud! It's like an explosion that goes on and on. Everything's shaking. My teeth are rattling.

        We're moving. The ship is climbing the ramp. I wish there were windows so I could see the world going by.

        I think we just shot off the end of the launch ramp. It feels like we're shooting up into the sky.

        Why is the transport shaking so much? Is that normal?

        Oh! Did you hear that loud bang, God? Something must be wrong.

        The whole ship is making horrible groaning noises. Is it coming apart? People are screaming all around me.

        Oh! There it goes again—a horrible bang! What was that noise? Did something break off the ship?

        What are those popping sounds?

        There's another bang! Oh, God, please hold our ship together. Don't let it blow up or fall apart.

        Look at Mom, will you? Still asleep!

        Oh, my stomach! The whole ship lurched.

        All around me, people are crying.

        I looked at Dad to see if he's scared, but he won't look back. He's staring straight ahead and his hands are gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles are white.

        God, when will it end? I'm so scared. When will it--

                                                                                       #

To be continued on Thursday in "Part Two: A Terrible Distraction"

My e-mail icon is at the tippy top of this page.

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!! 

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.

Enjoy this moment in time #JudyBlumeProject piece by Denise DiFulco, writer/editor/author, at denisedifulco.com.


It’s the period book. Everyone calls it that. They never say its awkward, seven-word title. But also, that’s what it is: the period book. The one where the girl gets her period. And a bra.

I am 11 years old. I have neither my period, nor a bra. But I want to read the period book. Everyone is reading the period book. All they talk about is the period book. If I don’t read the period book, they certainly will talk about me.

Mom hasn’t yet pulled me into the basement, as she one day will, to talk about “it.” Not the just small “it”—the period “it”—but the big “it.” After a conversation where I declare I know what “it” is, she won’t say we need to talk about “it.” Instead she’ll tell me, “We need to talk about the birds and the bees.”

I know nothing about birds and bees and what they have to do with “it.” What I do know, I’ve learned from the other book. “The Book.” The one about the big “it.”

Finding “The Book,” the big “it” book, isn’t so easy. It’s not in the school library. It never would be in the school library. There are two copies at the public library.

This I know.

They sit atop a revolving rack—steps away from the librarian’s desk—some corner of their covers shorn away, spines bowed into an arch. On the front, a picture of a locket, suggesting the secrets within. I spin the rack, inspect the book about the fat girl, glance toward the desk. She’s looking down. Another turn. The locket reappears. A second check to be sure, only this time she smiles. I walk away.

Weeks pass and the girls at school are whispering and giggling in the halls. I, too, want to trade in whispers and giggles. I want to know what they know.

One day as I arrive at my fifth-grade desk, a friend shoves her hand into my knapsack. “Here,” she says. “Don’t tell anyone.”

I peer inside. It is “The Book.” The book about the big “it.”

The locket is half torn from the cover, but the contents are intact. I tuck it inside my desk to read the first page, then the second, then the third. Class has begun. I draw my loose-leaf binder over the lip of the table, the bottom edge of “The Book” resting on my thighs. The teacher is speaking, and the class learning something, I am sure. I am learning, too.

Next day I re-establish my cover: Binder pulled out, book beneath, resting on the edge of the tray. Its spine is so well-worn pages seem to unfold themselves. I am opening with them— following the words into another room—so when the teacher calls on me, I don’t answer. She walks around my desk, and as I realize this, I allow the binder to slip over my lap. She does not see.

Yes, I am learning.

Next time I’m more careful. I raise my hand. Answer questions. Look down thoughtfully. Continue my education.

By the time the bell rings, I, too, can whisper and giggle, trade in information so precious and rare no one dares speak its name. Somehow I am changed, though real change is far away. Many questions answered and so much yet to know. Like the noises. What are the noises?

I know they are important. There is no one to ask.

Denise DiFulco is a freelance writer and editor whose work has appeared in The New York Times, Washington Post, Ladies’ Home Journal, Martha Stewart Living and numerous print and online publications. She currently is working on her first novel—loosely based on family history—which chronicles the life of a Jewish man who leaves Nazi Germany and renounces his identity only to find he can’t escape his past. Denise is blogging about her fiction writing at her recently launched blog, Setting Anchor, Setting Sail: A Writer’s Journey.

I'm SO very grateful to Denise for allowing me to share her story here! 

Copyright © 2013 Denise DiFulco.  All rights reserved.  Reprinted with permission from the author.

You know you're tired when you scroll down to see how long a post is before you decide whether you'll read it.

You know you're tired when you can hear your eyes blink.

You know you're tired when you look in the mirror and see yourself yawn and it makes you yawn again.

You know you're tired when the dust bunnies are so big, the dog thinks they're new toys.

You know you're tired when you can still fall asleep immediately after your second cup of coffee.


You know you're tired when you fall asleep at your desk, sitting up, with your fingers poised over your keyboard.

You know you're tired when your eyes burn so bad, you can't read more than a paragraph without falling asleep.

You know you're tired when you find your keys in the fridge and the cheese in your purse.

You know you're tired when you can't retain a thought long enough to write a complete sentence, let alone a paragraph.

You know you're tired when the only thing you seem to be able to write is a ridiculous post about how tired you are.

Though Kristen Lamb, guru, incredible WANAMama to all things WANACon (online writers conference of her creation), says here that Being Tired Can Make You a Better Writer...I may have gone beyond that point, and am looking forward to a coaching conference in San Francisco this weekend to re-energize me and help to recharge my batteries. 

My point?  The Judy Blume Project is far too big for two moms from Colorado and Michigan to do justice to in a mere month (without child protective services being alerted, and husbands complaining loudly about there being no clean underwear), and Judy deserves SO much better than sleep-deprived zombies for partners.

Dana and I are delighted to report that we've gotten so much terrific feedback, we feel compelled to expand the project and extend the deadline.  We are STILL ACCEPTING SUBMISSIONS!! ...Maybe it even remains a living, breathing thing...who knows? 

So visit your local library.  Re-read your favorite Judy Blume books, enjoy the memories they spark, and let us know what a wonderful and necessary contribution she made to your pre-adolescent and adolescent survival. 

For many of us, Blume's characters and their life events allowed us to experience scary things without actually having to suffer the consequences.  She helped us to feel normal, to understand things we couldn't speak to our parents about, and to understand that we were perfectly acceptable amid a persistent fog of zit-infused angst and uncertainty.

You can review our submission guidelines here, as well as check out all the other fabulous pieces to date.  WE HOPE YOU'LL JOIN THEM.  Established or not, young or old, student or teacher, mother or daughter or father or son; all the above, or none of the above--this means YOU. Let us know you're getting to work on your Judy Blume Project Anthology submission, thanking and honoring the fine lady for her amazing contribution to MG/YA fiction.