I wrote an end of the year wrap up post similar to the one I wrote last year, but it didn't feel honest, sincere or meaningful.  It actually felt a lot like recycling, so I didn't publish it.  

What is honest?  FEAR:  I’m scared $#!+less, every stinking day.

So when, thanks to blogging buddy, Blogger Idol 2013, THE Lois Alter Mark, whom I intend to meet IRL in 2014, I discovered the book, “Some Nerve: Lessons Learned While Becoming Brave,”  

The stakes were so, so very high, that I became so, so very careful.  Afraid to fail, but just as afraid to succeed.  Certainly afraid to put myself out there to be judged, and yet I yearned for the accolades again.  I yearned not to be ignored and stigmatized as a single mom.  I didn't feel welcome in the church I'd grown up singing in.  In fact I was stricken from the membership rolls because I wasn't tithing.  Tithing?!  I had to return bottles and cans from my dad's office for the deposit to buy bread and milk and eggs to feed my child!  One heaping paper bagful was $4, give or take ten cents.

Life was hard.  Life was a state of constant fear.  And I began to believe that would be my reality forever.  Even after I married, it still proved our reality, because together we seemed to suck the joy out of everything.  Life was so hard as we worked to recover from our respective single parenting and divorce, we knew only hard and we kept living it.  I see it in our daughters still sometimes, which is what makes me ache to prove to them, to prove to my husband that life can be joy-filled.  Not easy necessarily, but that a time will come when we can relax and ENJOY all our hard work.  Maybe just a little?

That's been our story:  Hard.  Work.  Plodding.  It's what has defined us.  But it hasn't served us, and it sure as hell hasn't made us rich--the harder we work, the more we seem to struggle.  Whatever we've each "done wrong" which determined that we don't deserve joy and happiness is what we've allowed to define us.  That's been our story.  Single mother, divorced father, job losers, failed restaurateurs....  ENOUGH!  I think this is the year that we will choose how we define ourselves.  At least I intend to!

Patty has a chapter in her book about surfing the Great Lakes.  I don't think it's an accident that it was my hometown, St. Joseph, where she took such a plunge.  In winter!  She says, "Michigan folks must be made of heartier stuff than New Yorkers."  While I don't know about that, I do know we are hearty, indeed.  We take a lickin' and keep on tickin'.  We're right smack in the middle of one of the longest, coldest winters in decades.  If I could see that lake through the blizzard we’re currently weathering, I wouldn’t be able to imagine for a moment surfing it.  But as Erica said from Third Coast Surf Shop, where Patty & Patrick rented their surfboard, "I'm from here, I can surf in the summer."  

Patty asked me on Facebook whether I really live in St. Joseph.  I proudly display a picture by Mark Parren of our little red-roofed light house as one of my cover photos.  But Patty probably didn't recognize it because it was likely encased in a feet-, not inches-, thick sarcophagus of glacial ice at that time of year.  So, yeah.  I've been on a quest to overcome my fear of success as well as my fear of failure over the last two years, but I don't feel the need to surf Lake Michigan in winter to prove it.  I sure as hell, however, want to meet the woman who did and lived to write about it!

Patty quotes her surfing coach, Patrick, as saying, “Strength and courage has always been there, you're just uncovering it in different ways."

I think strength and courage can hide behind hard work.  Taking a licking and perseverance doesn't equate to happiness and fulfillment.  And in 2013 it barely equated to food on the table.  I make an effort to regularly be positive, or I keep my fingers to myself.  There’s enough negativity among social media outlets.  But that’s the truth.  As wonderful as it was in many ways for me personally, 2013 was our scariest year yet financially.

I have to admit #SomeNerve has made me feel a little feisty, a little defensive perhaps about my choices over the last two years.  Patty describes Barry's near-death experience on a plane.  This makes me think of our near death financially, which has spurred in me an "ef-it" attitude about what I choose to do to contribute to my family.  I simply can't abide the idea of waiting tables or tending bar or being someone's administrative assistant.  Been there, done all those things.  

Maybe some would say I've had a responsibility to do those things to bring in cash--that I should have done whatever it took to pay the bills, but my husband was already doing that.  We can't both be miserable and unfulfilled and disbelieving, what then would that do to our son?  And maybe I can have an influence on his actions and desire toward living a fulfilled life rather than just plodding through—he has taken up photography, and I think I might have inspired that just a little.  And I've felt a deep calling to do something very different from what I’ve done that didn’t fulfill me in the past.  

Fear of death is a big one for many people, but I have longevity in my genes with a grandpa who lived to be 100 years old.  Patty’s book has inspired me to want to work harder not to screw that up.  And if I have half my life left to look forward to, I want to make the most of it, and I want to help influence the happiness of others.  The saying, Life is Too Short...not to grab every moment.  Yet, while we're raising kids, we spend many of those years in a kind of standby mode.  We hover and we put all our energy into our children, and often very little into ourselves. 

When I look back on my life, much like someone having a near death experience might, I can see that all the pieces have come together in this moment.  I can pull together all my life experience to have an impact on others, and that's what I want to do with the second half of my life.  That's the beauty of growing older:  Perspective.  Hindsight.  That's what I hope to take advantage of, and what I’ve been diligently self-teaching over the last two years.  

I said to Patty the other night as we were Facebook chatting, that overcoming fear is the path I've been on for the last two years, and her book articulates it so beautifully. Wouldn't it be wonderful to help people to be brave well before they reach midlife? Why does it take so many of us so long? I haven't answered that question yet. But I keep trying. We allow so many other things to define us, I suppose, maybe this is when we finally begin to seek to define ourselves. But why the hell can't we be nurtured and encouraged to do that all our lives?  Why isn't happiness and fulfillment always reason enough to do or to choose something?

Maybe it's because I've already been a mom for 27 years by the end of this month, but I've stood by long enough.  Now I wish to put as much energy into raising myself and others up as I have and will continue to spend, raising my kids.  And just as my husband continues to plod and to work, I will continue to seek that summit.  Which of us will get there first?  I hope it's me, so I can show him the light.

Previously West Coast Posse was largely directed at women.  You’ll note that I’m kind of in the middle of an overhaul here, and I've seen so many men, my own husband included, defeated and in pain over the last several years of economic uncertainty and job loss, that I feel compelled to bring everyone with me along on this glorious ride of self-discovery & fulfillment.  And I believe deeply that my grandfather's influence, his way of embracing people and life and food and gathering and celebrating every moment, can be key in seeing that to fruition.  I hope you’ll see evidence of that as my “GANE Empowered Wellness: GANE Possible” section develops.  That will be my #SomeNerve Challenge, by the way:  finishing that book (don’t worry, Bluebirds is still developing its wings), living it, promoting it, speaking about it, fully embracing the philosophy of MORE, doing cooking demonstrations (some together!) and teaching others to embrace MORE in 2014.  And I don’t think it’s an accident that my husband loved feeding people when we owned our restaurant—loved feeding the guys in the firehouse—or that we’ve since learned to do it in ways that help us maintain wellness, despite the stress we’ve been under.

The world needs MORE of us to feel happy and fulfilled--and you matter!  Yes, I'm talking to you!  If my path, if our path to get there can influence yours in a positive way, even when it’s bumpy, even when it’s scary, even when a positive attitude is at its most difficult to reach, I hope you'll hold on tight and come along for the ride.  

This time next year, when I’m creeping up on 49, I know the hindsight will be worth it!


This is posted as part of a Blog Hop over at Midlife Boulevard.  Our topic was: There's Nothing Wrong with Aging.

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"

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

I’ve developed a new passion, and it’s one that doesn’t threaten my hubby in the least.  Whew! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Posted here as ever so slightly edited, still 99(!) words or less]

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

[Posted here as since slightly edited]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours truly, WRITER, and author:

--Kim Jorgensen Gane

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.

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. 

Some of Dana’s readers said SHE should be the next Judy Blume.  I agreed, and suggested she create an anthology in Judy Blume’s honor.  Because of that brief exchange, Dana and I are collaborating on this crazy, beautiful Judy Blume Project (#JudyBlumeProject), for which, I have a feeling, we will forevermore be grateful.

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

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

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

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


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


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


...This could be YOUR Tuesday.

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

[UPDATE: !!NOW -- ACCEPTING SUBMISSIONS -- NOW!!]

Magic can materialize in a breath...you're going about your day, you happen upon something that might be remarkable, make an innocent comment and wheels start to turn on a regular old Tuesday, if you're open to it.

Magic is exactly what happened yesterday between The Kitchen Witch and I, when I linked my Beauty of a Woman post about The Beauty of Women Friends to the Extraordinary Ordinary's weekly Just Write exercise.  My moment, trying to write while waiting for my dear friend to come through her surgery to remove a cancerous breast, totally fit with the spirit of the exercise...write from the heart, "from a free heart-gut place," says Heather, and don't stop, Just Write.  So you post your moment, and others post their moments, you read each other's blogs, maybe laugh, maybe cry, but above all, you appreciate the craft of real writing that comes from the heart.  Soon you find it changes the way you write for the better.  You come to seek out moments to write about; beautiful moments, poignant moments, moments to appreciate, to savor or just to mark.

I was reading some of the other blogger's posts, and The Kitchen Witch's was about Judy Blume (please take a moment to pop over and read it), bemoaning the absence of new MG/YA fiction for her daughter's generation from Blume, and acknowledging how the author's works had impacted her own life.  She wondered where the next Judy Blume would come from, which clearly struck a nerve with several of the commenters.  So today, she writes:

What We Want to Say, March 6, 2013

Hi, you lovely, big-hearted Readers,

I was Gobsmacked at the volume of personal emails I recieved from you, telling me how much Judy Blume has meant to you, and how pivotal she has been to your (and so many of our) growing-up years. So often she’s been a steady, reassuring voice whispering in the dark.

A friend of mine, Kim and I were talking yesterday about Judy Blume, and we thought it would be so interesting and beautiful to hear the stories/memories/musings about Judy’s work and what it meant to you, as a young woman navigating that twisting and hard road between girl and womanhood.

Our ultimate goal is to compile an anthology in her honor, full of colorful, vibrant voices. A book chock-full of writing by women (or men!) who have heartfelt and honest things to say.

If you’d like to submit a piece for consideration, [PLEASE VISIT OUR #JudyBlumeProject WEBPAGE]. It [may one day] be a belated Valentine to our Judy, but one that is long overdue.

So, Dana and I started hashing it out.  She's taking it on through her channels, and I'm taking it on through my channels, and we're going to put our heads together, pick through the many inspiring and heart-felt submissions we're sure to get, and come up with something brilliant to honor Judy and her many inspiring works for young readers.

So dig in.  Dig deep.  Send in your submission by the end of [June], and maybe you could find yourself a published author (newly or again) in the near future!  We all have a story to tell, if Judy has inspired the landscape of your life in any way, maybe this is a beautiful place for you to begin telling yours. 

FIND EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW INCLUDING SUBMISSION GUIDELINES & CONTRIBUTORS RIGHT HERE!!!

At the start of one of the last couple sessions of my Creative Writing class, one of the few men in attendance asked me to sit next to him.  I didn’t want to offend him—because I was raised that way; to be polite at all costs—I said, OK. 

“Wait, are you single?”

I showed him my ring, “Nope, sorry.  I’m married.”

“Oh, well leave that seat open then.”

K.  Thanks.  EVER so.

He then went on to ask whether another female in class was single, and lament how he just wanted to meet a nice woman who wasn’t crazy. 

Er, reap what you sow, much? 

And then his writing was really genuinely funny and entertaining, so I had to forgive him, and even like him just a little bit.

Fast forward a few weeks to the first meeting of our invitation-only writers’ group…and there he is.  And my project, that I will have to read aloud, is smut-filled.  ***Warning, warning, Will Robinson!  You may want to stop reading now, daughters & nieces.****  It isn’t really.  But by way of introduction to the characters, it’s kind of right there in your face in the first two chapters.  Sex is a part of life; an important part of life.   Do I relish the idea of reading it aloud to a mixed group?  Nope.  Not one bit. 

In this age of tablets—which have changed EVERYTHING about the Publishing Industry, including a rapid growth in women’s erotica, because no one knows what you’re reading or downloading—and Fifty Shades, however, I want to write a better version of the sexy novel.  I want to tell a great story, with dynamic characters who engage in believable dialog and who appropriately engage in consensual, grown-up sex.  I don’t wish to glorify the sex, or gratuitously slather it all over every chapter, but it’s an important part of all our stories. 

It’s how we all got here, whether we like to think it of our parents or not. 

Sex is how partners connect and remember they love one another, even when life gets all other kinds of messy and sometimes ugly, in between.  Americans don’t easily acknowledge sex and its appropriate place in our collective rites of passage growing up, and they don’t like to talk about it much.  Even grownups snicker and laugh about it behind their hands, and we’re too often mortified at the idea of discussing it with our kids. 

While I don’t see myself reading the Fifty Shades series, due to the many reviews that suggest it may be poorly written and filled with too much purple prose, the fact that I just don’t enjoy the S&M (nope, not taking any chances linking to that!) idea myself and I don’t really want to read what I’ve heard referred to as “wall-to-wall sex,” I must allow that perhaps it’s had an important place in modern literature if it’s gotten people to talk and read about sex more freely, and thus created more opportunities for its consensual enjoyment.  I’m all for that.

I still find myself mortified, however, at the idea of reading aloud in [a mixed] ‘Group’ next week—and I will likely request an all female escort to my vehicle at the end of it.    

I’ll let you know how it goes. 

If I don’t die of embarrassment, that is.