tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37589731401644225772024-03-13T05:11:21.201-07:00The Adventures of a Creative Pessimistic Procrastinator J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-56100321453509954782016-12-26T22:27:00.001-08:002016-12-26T22:27:43.964-08:00Merry Christmas, Or Whatever<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
I'm going to tell you a story. No, you read that wrong. I know it's Christmastime, so it's an understandable mistake. Take out any image you had of a storybook and an armchair by a yule log. This is more of a Liam-Neeson-as-Santa type story, so read it in that headspace: I'm going to tell you a story. It's the story of Christmas 2016 for The Wahl family.<br />
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First of all, we've been fighting a bed bug infestation for a while now. For you to appreciate the instant horror I felt two weeks ago when we saw yet another bed bug lurking on a pillow: our little home has undergone two professional bed bug treatments, averaging $1500 each, over the last two years, and both have failed. Every time we see one of their nasty faces we have to make a choice about every item we own: treat or toss? </div>
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And this time 'round, we were merciless. We culled our possessions by half, easily. Half our store of kid's clothing sizes yet to come. Half our current clothing and spare bedding. Half our stuffed animals, half our toys. ALL MY BOOKS, Y'ALL. ( #NeverNotCrying ) Basically, we cut down until each room in our home could be treated (and by treated I mean emptying the contents into the dryer and then spraying liberally around furniture and baseboards with alcohol before promptly evacuating) in about half an hour. This gets us in a place where we can treat the whole house in a weekend. I figure we'll just do this once a month until the end of time. They'll observe me in the insane asylum, perfectly normal for three weeks and then tearing everything in sight to pieces on the fourth with a manic tick and a murderous gleam in my eye. So, two weeks out from Christmas, we have thrown away half our belongings. But it's okay. We're all together and we're all alive.</div>
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A week from Christmas, I see a bug. Treatment mode goes live. I do all our laundry again. The 'fold' pile covers the dining room table and reaches to the chandelier, but we somehow manage to get it all processed. The trouble is, we can't treat the Christmas tree. So, much to the dismay of four little faces (especially my Jack Attack, who has just had his Christmas-themed birthday party and who generally thinks Christmas is just for him), we open presents early and we toss out the tree. But it's okay. We have a Christmas Eve planned at Great Granny's. It'll still be festive. We're alive and we're together.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do you love anything as much as he loves Christmas? I don't love anything a 'demon possession' amount....</td></tr>
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Tuesday before Christmas, the baby gets a fever. In my mamaheart I felt the ominous foreboding of an impending stomach storm. And indeed, early Tuesday morning, we are awoken by our lovely Penelope, standing in our doorway with hot red cheeks and a sour expression. An expression which, once she was all snuggled in our bed next to her Daddy, turns into lots and lots of vomit. An impressive amount of vomit. Like, more than should have fit in her body. It was not science. Rug, pillows, comforter, pajamas. Into the washer. But it's okay. We've got a little time. Surely she'll be better by Christmas Eve. Of course I knew better. Any mother of four who watches her children share cups and fists and tickles and burps who thinks only one will get sick is deluding herself. And I was. I was deluding myself so hard. They next day, another child fell victim to the bug. I cleaned more pillows and blankets and pouty faces. My favorite *psychotic laugh* is when the puke trails down their little chests and pours into their diapers. Penny got pale and was throwing up the tiniest sips of water, so I took her to the ER for fluids. Her chest x ray looked good, her tests came back fine, and her little body was somewhat cooled, so they sent us home. I thanked baby Jesus repeatedly that she did not vomit in the van. <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/blessed?source=feed_text&story_id=10158196581760727" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #4267b2; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm">blessed</span></span></a> David joins in on the puke party on Thursday, and John and I are starting to slide each other dreadful side-eyes. We're not going to make it to Great Granny's Christmas Eve thing. Christmas is literally cancelled. But it's okay. We're all alive and we're all together.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zippy kept waking up and checking on her. #squee</td></tr>
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Christmas Eve was a beautiful day. The children had rallied to a status of playing almost normally, with occasional trips to the toilet for pukes. 70% actually made it to the porcelain destination. Many naps were had. We went outside so our pale and lifeless bodies could feel the sun. Then John and I, after getting them all tucked into bed, decided to watch a movie. Something to cheer. John hadn't seen 'Love Actually' so we netflixed it up. Y'all it was so much fun. A lovely date in the war zone of bodily fluids that is our home under siege of illness. I felt calm the next morning, if sleep deprived. Maybe I won't need to be committed after all. John and I declared a 'No Grump Pact', and I decided to give my hard-working husband the very best Christmas gift: a nap. I figured he and Charlie could get in a good one while I tried to get some of the neglected cleaning done, and then when he got up I could get some rest. Alas, it was not meant to be. When he woke up, the virus woke up with him. All my bright shiny new inner peace vanished in a puff of smoke. You see, I've done the math. It'll take him all of Monday (which he has off of work) and maybe part of Tuesday to get well. Which puts me...all alone in the week when I'll get it, with the post-sick, can't-wait-to-do-all-the-things children. *throws pity party* But it's okay. We're all still alive. We're all still together. Deep breath.</div>
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Christmas dinner! I can at least make something resembling a comforting meal. We got chicken fingers and potatoes, and I've been plotting to make buttery delicious mashed potatoes. As fate would have it, we were newly out of milk. WHO WAS DRINKING IT WHILE SICK??? mmmmmmkkkkkkkk *deeper breath* We're all alive. We're in this together. It's okay. I make sweet potato fries instead, which is a favorite. It's warm. It's comforting. It's on the table. We sit. Penny runs to the bathroom. I don't think I'll ever forget the long, almost pornographically wistful side-eye I gave my untouched plate as I followed her to the toilet. Goodbye, warm food. *whispers* I'll miss you. She makes it. Victory! She wipes herself...and drops the toilet paper on her leg. If you don't know, this incites a panic that PEOPLE WHO ARE ACTUALLY ON FIRE DO NOT EXHIBIT, and causes immediate hearing loss to all adjacent players, whether friend or foe. *even deeper breaths* I move her to the living room, where more wipes are. I kneel down to clean her bottom. My knees are immediately soaked in liquid. David has been sicknapping and hasn't walked the dog, which becomes apparent with the look of intense guilt Zippy is giving me. I get her clean. I change pants. I return in time for Charlie to need "MOE FOO! MOE FOO!" I cut him up more chicken and refill his fries. I sit down. My food doesn't even has residual heat. I might as well have taken it out of the refrigerator. But it's okay. We have food. We're all together. We're alive.</div>
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Bedtime comes. Charlie requires extra snuggles, but they're all in bed. They're all asleep. I sit down at my desk and listen, in case the vomit fountains activate. I just sit there, staring into the darkness. I've got nothing left. For the love of all things good and holy, if they'll just stay asleep, I'll be okay. Half an hour passes. I think it's safe. I tell John goodnight and retreat to the sofa, because I could have reheated my dinner off his aura of fever heat. My restless mind starts to let go. My eyes close. It'll be alright. We made it through the day alive and together.<br />
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THUD. I'm up! Which one is it? It's the last survivor: Jack. But he's not throwing up. That's too mainstream. The thud was the sound of his nighttime pull-up (still occasionally wets at night) hitting the floor in his doorway. There is poop, a steady trail of poop, from the pool on his mattress, across his room, into the hall, and all the way to the bathroom. WHAT WOULD POSSES HIM TO TAKE IT OFF THERE? I assure him I'm not mad. I get him into the shower. I proceed to the clean-up deed, which must be achieved in silence because, thanks to the bed bugs eating the boys' bunk bed, Charlie sleeps on his little mattress two feet from him. Now, I thought I fed him sweet potato fries and a little chicken. But apparently not. I can only assume he has consumed large quantities of superglue steeped in polyjuice potion, because this stuff is STUCK to the floor and smells like a rodent died inside Jack and liquefied in his stomach acid. Aiming very, very carefully around the general splatter, I get on my knees to scrub. Progress is being made when I KID YOU NOT, the dog strolls up behind me and pees on the floor. And pees and pees and pees. It's running toward the rug. I jump up to throw a towel on it, and I step right into a wayward pool of poop. Barefoot, man. Just cold foot skin right on slippery gray butt product. I mop, with hot water, mercifully strong-smelling soap and my own tears. I hear the shower turn off and wrap my boy in a towel, both out of love and desperation for him to warm before he shivers up any vomit. But there's an...aroma. THE BOY DID NOT USE SOAP. It's fine. He's newly seven. It's two in the morning. Understandable? I send him back and throw that towel in the washer with the sewer blanket load. The sofa is readied, the boy is dried and re-diapered. I even managed a little tiny cup of water and a forehead kiss.</div>
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Because it's okay. We're all here. We're all together. We're okay.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my kids, but apt.</td></tr>
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And now I'm sitting here in the dark, listening. Listening for the sounds of upchuck and listening to my own stomach gurgle ominously. And y'all, I USED THE LAST OF THE COFFEE YESTERDAY.</div>
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<span class="_5afx" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; text-decoration: none;"><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/burninhellchristmas2016?source=feed_text&story_id=10158196581760727" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #4267b2; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm">BurnInHellChristmas2016</span></a> #JumpInTheDumpsterWithTheRestOfTheYear </span></div>
J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-23945983297170670262016-10-27T14:52:00.001-07:002016-10-27T14:52:10.384-07:00Wrangling my Right Brain into Something Resembling Submission I've always been teased for how right-brained I am. My report cards could be split into two columns: A's in the arts and F's in math and science. I still have nightmares about algebra 1 (which I failed three times, I think), and I still have eternal gratitude for the chemistry teacher who I'm pretty sure fudged that roll for me so I could graduate. On my worst creative-minded days I can't properly write a list. I have to draw the bag of carrots instead of writing 'carrots', just so I can focus all the way through grocery shopping. It's that bad. And while this is charmingly endearing in theory, it's a super pain in the butt in a lot of practical ways. For example:<br />
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Today, I found a note that I wrote myself about five years ago. It was a "eureka!" note regarding a plot snafu I'd been having trouble with in book one. Half the notebook page, which I found folded into a triangle in between the pages of 'The prisoner of Azkaban', had drawings of unicorns on it. I didn't find it in time, because my notes for book one are written in seven thousand different notebooks and on a dozen napkins and bookmarks and coloring book pages. Inspiration is a delightfully unpredictable mistress. <br />
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So, as I was saying, I didn't find that note and write accordingly. And it pertained to the single biggest plot problem I had. I spent THREE YEARS feeling like I was forgetting something. There was some piece of the puzzle that I KNEW I had solved but just couldn't remember. In my defense, I have four children and, I strongly suspect, undiagnosed ADHD. Eventually I did figure out the solution, but I sure did waste a lot of time letting my right brain run amok with my precious writing time. <br />
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Friends, book two will be different. I give you, the Right Brained Writer's Binder:<br />
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It's a half inch binder full of sheet protectors and a zipper pouch for pens and pencils. Thought of something while washing dishes and wrote it down on the paper towel roll? Slide it in a sleeve! Realized an amazing plot twist while changing the baby's diaper and forced your eight-year-old into the scribe trade? Tear it off his nature journal page and stick it with the rest! This is the best thing ever.<br />
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You're welcome. <br />
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Roll for initiative,<br />
Jamie Wahl<br />
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You can buy the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Good-Dead-Worst-Vampire-Ever/dp/1537731459/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1477605076&sr=8-1&keywords=good+and+dead">product</a> of my right brain's many hours of toil on amazon! ;)J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-32402677447853136472016-09-23T08:59:00.001-07:002016-09-23T09:00:31.058-07:00Setting Fires on Ann Street<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes, when I take my four adorable children shopping, they function as a chubby little happiness ministry. There's a whole bunch of people that smile when they side-eye us, and even more that stop to say hello or flirt with the baby. The grandparents are drawn to our cart like moths to a flame. Especially the lonely ones, whose babies are either grown or too far away too snuggle. I've come to recognize the look of the lonely grand, and I try to make time for a conversation if I can. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre-wrap;">One such time, a very elderly white man sidled over, and we paused our hunt for good bananas so he could talk. His clothes were a bit raggedy and rumpled, and there was a drip of watery snot trembling at the end of his nose as he spoke. I got the feeling that he, more than most, had no one to talk to at all. Within three minutes I knew where all his children lived and what they did for a living, how long he had been a widower, and in which division of the armed forces he had proudly served. The children were mostly cute and only a little impatient, so I stood there as long as I could before the wild look in my five-year-old's eyes told me we were running out of time. As I was attempting to wrap things up, however, another lonely grand gave me the signal. She was not as old as he, and dressed very well. Makeup in place and a big, bright smile. She was also black. And as she walked over and remarked upon the delightful nature of my "juicy baby", the old man's face changed. Gone was the smile and the good-natured chuckling. He glared at that woman like she'd just slapped him in the face. After the exchange of pleasantries, she thanked me for letting her squish the baby's fat, fat, thigh (he's ticklish and he loves it) and went on her way. As soon as she was out of earshot, I was given a sound lecture.
I live in Montgomery, Alabama, but I'm not from here-- I'm from Minnesota, so it is still quite shocking to me when I run into real live racism. I'm glad it's shocking. I hope it always is. This man thought it was indecent for me to let a black woman touch my baby. He scolded me for the example I was setting for my children. He detailed how "they" had ruined his neighborhood, how "they" had ruined the school system, and how "they" were everywhere now, and you couldn't even be safe in your own grocery store. It was all terrible. But the part that got me was his parting sentiment: "They think we owe them. You don't owe them anything!"</span><br />
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By this time, my oldest has noticed something is off, and he's staring at the guy like he has six eyeballs. I wish I had the courage to verbally fight him. I wish I hadn't been too stunned to say anything. I'm not sure where I would've even started. But, as I stood there mouthing like a fish, a pretty little black girl walked by. She was about four, and not at all shy. My five-year-old, who has a pronounced preference for the darker females and has since he was a baby (he once tried to grab the derriere of the mercifully good-natured black woman in front of us in the checkout line when he was two), was in full "flirt mode" within ten seconds. The little girl's mother caught up to her, and we laughed as they held hands next to the potatoes. I told her the "baby wants booty" story, and we had a good laugh. When they left, I simply turned to the white man, who looked like he might faint, and just said: "You have a nice day!" and ran away, abandoning the produce section completely.
I do owe black people something. It's the exact same thing I owe white people or any other color of people. As a Christian, who views every single person on the planet as a child of God, and therefore an automatic brother or sister, and therefore a person to whom it is my duty and my joy to care for, I owe them love. And patience. And empathy. And mercy. And grace. And respect. And the benefit of the doubt. And a million other things that I try to show to everyone as best I can. (Though I often fail.) </span><br />
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The whole world could implode any minute, or at least that's how it feels. So now, MORE THAN EVER, we must love one another. You have a right to your opinion, even if you think black people (or Mexican people, or Korean people) ruined your neighborhood or your school or your state. Even if you think black people are somehow less worthy of what makes humanity great: our ability to love. Just be careful: as you classify one race as worthless, you may just be rendering yourself less human in the process. How much is your humanity worth? How much is theirs? If your immediate, heartfelt answer isn't "the same", you ARE part of the problem.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Be careful the fire you set. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Roll for initiative,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jamie Wahl</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-35597715707541588602016-06-28T23:38:00.001-07:002016-06-28T23:45:57.238-07:00Parenting On The Bread Aisle<div class="MsoNormal">
I have four children.
I have four wonderful children. I
have four wonderful children under the age of seven. And I brought these four children to WalMart
the other day, to do our grocery shopping for the week. The working theory for this adventure goes
something like this: the two oldest boys keep one hand on either side of the
cart, the three-year-old girl sits still in the back of the cart, and the baby
coos and giggles from the seat by momma.
We discuss what kind of snacks they want as we take a leisurely stroll
down the chip aisle. We laugh at the hilarious
faces the children make at each other as I select a carton of perfect
eggs. Sunlight streams in through the
windows. A unicorn prances by. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I said “theory”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What really happens is my oldest walks calmly next to me,
one hand on the cart as he was supposed to.
My youngest cries and tries his best to put his hands down my shirt from
his buckled perched (because nipples).
My girl wants to hold the eggs.
And my second born son constantly lets go of the cart to TOUCH ALL THE
THINGS, tickle all the passing babies, pick up anything shiny (usually glass), ask
why people are fat or black or smell funny at the top of his voice, and run
through the wide aisles as if he were Julie Andrews running across those
musical hills on acid. I reign him in repeatedly. I warn him of the dire consequences that
await him at home. I inform him that he
will not be receiving his portion of the snack.
I constantly watch him and apologize to annoyed shoppers when he
airplane-arms them in the crotch. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Imagine this guy comin' atcha.</td></tr>
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An elderly gentleman passes us, smiles at the cart, points
at my wild Jack and nudges me with his elbow: “Consistency is the key.”</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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*I AM SO CONSISTENT I COULD CURSE, SIR, BUT THANK YOU FOR
YOUR TWO CENTS* “Yes, I’m trying” I said with a thumbs-up. “Please excuse my circus.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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That line is good for neutralizing most rubberneckers. It conveys that I’m at least aware of what’s occurring
and that I’m trying to be courteous. I
use it a lot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So I push through it.
Twenty-nine items out of thirty.
Close enough. Time to blow this
popsicle stand! <o:p></o:p></div>
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But then, of course, three of them need to pee.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Did you know that the grocery store is one of the number one
places to host a kidnapping? I did. But I’ve got a cart full of cold food items
on top of my purse and a baby who has, of course, fallen asleep with his face
in my hand on the way to the bathroom.
So I park myself as close to the bathroom door as I can without blocking
traffic, and I send them in. I see the
twinkle in Jack’s eye as he bounds across the threshold, so I pull him aside
and ask him where he’s keeping his self-control today. In his “BUTT!”, apparently. I remind him to use it. He looks me in the eye and says “yes ma’am”. I cross my fingers so hard one of my knuckles
pops. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And I listen as the baby drools into my hand. I hear…normal bathroom sounds. The toilets flush, the sinks turn on, the
paper towels rustle…and only two come out.
I smile nervously at a woman who side-steps my children on her way in to
the bathroom. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Jack!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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No answer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then the woman’s face reappears. “Ma’am,” she says, her lip curled, “Your
child is crawling under all the stalls and locking them from the inside. You need to get him, because people need to
use the bathroom.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, red-faced and muttering a symphony of apologies so loud
I think I actually threw my voice, I woke up the baby, unearthed my purse from
the cart, and brought everyone with me to collect my 6-year-old son.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At my command, he slithers under each metal wall and unlocks
the doors. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He walked out the last one laughing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And I lost it. I told
that kid what was up. The morning’s
frustrations, and the frustrations from the day before, and the week before,
and the month before, rolled over me like a thundercloud and I rained down on
him hard. There in the urine-soaked Walmart
bathroom, with the baby scream-crying his interrupted nap and the three-year
old trying to pull the eggs out of the cart while my attention was on Jack, I
lost my momchill. He got it all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then, to my horror, the door to the handicapped stall
opened. Out sauntered a lady in her
fifties, with wispy salt-and-pepper hair, a slouchy knit bag over shoulder and
a simpering smile that could put Professor Umbridge to shame. She washed her hands, smiling at my kids
sympathetically in the mirror. She
toweled them dry and waved to the baby as if he wasn’t screaming his head
off. I calmed my breathing as best I
could and, like I do in serious/dark/all situations, made a joke.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Please excuse my circus.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Honey….” She smiled
and put her damp, wrinkled hand on mine.
“Children are a <i>blessing</i>. I never had children. We tried for years, but I never could,” she
said. “Enjoy them, mama.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And she was gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn’t say a word to anyone from there to the checkout to
the car. By the time we rolled into our
driveway the only one not screaming was the oldest, who bolted out of the van
faster than an acme rocket launching Wile E. Coyote across the Grand Canyon. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I know that children are a blessing. I wouldn’t have had four if I didn’t believe
that. But, like every
good/great/wonderful thing I know of, children are also extremely
difficult. You don’t write a book without
gut-wrenching, exhausting struggle. You
don’t rise up in a company without back-breaking labor. You don’t build a
strong marriage without tough talks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I refuse to ignore the fact that parenting is hard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I know that children are a blessing. I wouldn’t stay consistent with discipline or
count to three in my head forty-five thousand times a day to hold in my first
reaction to a screaming fit if I didn’t know that. I know you can't see it at Walmart, but besides being disobedient and unruly and stubborn as can be, my Jack is also the sweetest, most joyful thing on the planet, and I'm lucky to be his mother, no matter what the walmart looky-loos say. And he's worth all the trial. I won't ever think he's not worth it. </div>
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I will never doubt that it’ll be worth it, but I refuse to delude myself into thinking tomorrow will be
easy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I know children are a blessing. I do not take our intense fertility
lightly. I thank God daily for our
children here and our two angel babies in heaven. I don’t know why God gives some people
children and doesn’t give them to others.
I KNOW I’M BLESSED. But that
knowledge doesn’t make it any less hard in the day-to-day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I refuse to feel guilty for hating the sucky parts of
parenting. If you’re laughing gaily when your baby’s amoxicillin poops
are splattered up to your elbow, you’re certifiable. If you’re wiping tears of hilarity from your
eye when your kid disobeys you for the tenth time in an hour, you need
medicine. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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This phase is hard, y’all.
There’s no debating it. And no
amount of simpering, carefree perspective-dropping is going to make it less
hard. “Oh! They’re a blessing?!? Well, that changes everything! I suddenly feel the weight of a thousand
concrete blocks lifting from my shoulders!
I’ve been blessed!” No.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I refuse to feel guilty for knowing I’m in a fight. </div>
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Will this phase be over quickly? Yes.
But that doesn’t mean this phase isn’t hard as can be. And it doesn’t mean that I have to enjoy
every single second of every single day to be a good parent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack may never learn to reign in his impulses on the bread
aisle, but I learned something from Carefree McJudgyPants and every other side-eye-giver and shade-thrower at the supermarket. I’m done apologizing. I'm done feeling guilty. I’m done feeling bad that I’m not elated
every time I sit down to write out another shopping list, or send my son to
time out for the thirtieth time in a morning.
And I’m especially done apologizing for my circus. It’s MY circus, not yours. So you people can take your judgmental
glances and shove them. From now on, I
parent for my family only. Because I
knew I’d done everything I could! I knew
that ADHD had just won this one. I let
myself get embarrassed- and it wasn’t about him or his behavior- it was about
me. My worth as a mother was on the line
and he was gonna take the heat for it!
Never again. </div>
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I’m a good mom. I’m a good mom to my four children. I’m a good mom to my four children because I’m
trying my hardest. And I intend to keep
doing just that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And I’ll be blessed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-26200770063437907542016-02-25T10:54:00.002-08:002016-02-25T11:03:51.957-08:00What I Don't Know<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="590tj-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="590tj-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="590tj-0-0">I think about Adolf Hitler a lot lately. I think about how he came to power. I know that the history books aren't always accurate and their delivery from teacher to student isn't always comprehensive, but the thing that my history teachers talked about again and again was that he was a great public speaker. An entertaining speaker. He captivated the audience. He played to their hopes-but mostly to their fears. He stirred them up. He got them to act. Many of you think you know where I'm going with this, this being the year that we might be about to elect another such enigmatic speaker to the oval office, but I'll let the fact that your brain went there without me having to say the name stand for itself. I wonder if there were people who saw the coming madness. Were there common, everyday folks who would have posted their opposition to social media if they'd had the chance and the freedom? Were there grandmothers who shook their heads at the men who stood outside the ghettos with guns? Did children tug on their mother's skirts and ask 'why'? Did the divide between 'them' and 'us' tear families apart? Did the wedge between 'have' and 'have not' get hammered in by hate or fear? Did the path the people took to avoid their fate seal it? </span></div>
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<a href="https://birkbeckhistoryphddotorg.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/resizer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://birkbeckhistoryphddotorg.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/resizer.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="590tj-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="590tj-0-0">I don't know what's going to happen to this country. I don't know who's going to win this election- I don't even know who 'should' win. I can't decide if I'm more afraid of the current options for President or the system that brought them before us. I don't know if this election is the hammer-fell of the beginning of the end or if it fell a long time ago, behind closed doors and away from cameras, wielded by wealthy people we surely only elected to power with our money. I don't know if the system is breaking the people or the people have long since broken the system. </span><br />
<span data-offset-key="590tj-0-0"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="780n1-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="780n1-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="780n1-0-0">I don't know what's going to happen.</span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="agkbi-0-0">I know I can cast a vote. But it just doesn't seem like that's going to make much of a difference, does it? I'm just a Mom and a Christian and a woman living in Alabama, trying to make sense of this madness- one of a large and mostly ignored group of people who see what's coming and have no clue how to stop it. </span>I'm writing this from my sofa, sitting next to my sleeping one-year-old. His fat cheeks are flushed pink and his little puckered lips are twitching into a smile as he dreams. He doesn't know what's going to happen either. What questions will come to his mind as he grows up under the next President of the United States? As he experiences life walking down the streets of the America we, the adults, are crafting for him today? Will he see peace as a child? War as a young man? Will the things that divide us continue to shine and glimmer in the spotlight of the media? Will he grow up with a black boy afraid to walk down the street with his friends? A Mexican boy shunned by the rest of the class? A Muslim boy with a number tattooed to his arm?</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SOg_9WVItMU/Ua9KfC3DkEI/AAAAAAAAAHY/gJ3POxi692Q/s1600/Be+THIS+Guy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SOg_9WVItMU/Ua9KfC3DkEI/AAAAAAAAAHY/gJ3POxi692Q/s1600/Be+THIS+Guy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="4dk34-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="4dk34-0-0">Yes, I know that I can vote. But more importantly, I know that I can reject the things that divide us. I can feel the fear of this massive unknown future and choose to craft my decisions from love instead of hate, and common sense instead of fear. I can teach my son to treat strangers with respect instead of condemnation and offer help instead of judgment. Before Hitler there was another speaker who captivated the world. His ideas brought people together who'd been separate before. He loved on the people who'd been least loved on, he motivated the people to move and </span>he calmed storms<span data-offset-key="4dk34-0-0">. His words have been carried through generations- used to fuel peace and misused to start horrible crusades. If you look at all the red text in your Bible, you'll find a man who spoke passionately for love and violently against pride and pomp. Vocally for the underdog and loudly against the oppressors of the time. I don't know that I see that attitude in any of our current candidates. I don't know if I should stop looking for it in the President and start looking for it in myself. I know that I'm going to stop living in fear of what's coming next. I know that I'm going to pray for God's will to be done in my life before I pray for it in my country. I know that I can look to the words of truth to guide my steps much more clearly than to guide my vote. </span>I know I can help the people God puts in my path. I know I can look on the poor and the rejected and the damaged people of this world with the same love Jesus showed them. I know I can ignore the naysayers and stick to the truth that has never steered me wrong before. I know that God loves us. I know that. I know that nothing short of reflecting that love, in our lives more than in our votes, is going to heal America. Truthfully, if we'd been showing it all this time there may not be such a mess to wonder about. </div>
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<span data-offset-key="4dk34-0-0"><br /></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4dk34-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="4dk34-0-0">I don't know who's going to run this country. But I know who's going to run my life. </span></div>
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J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-81590202172017132202016-01-03T14:03:00.001-08:002016-01-03T14:33:30.745-08:00The Last of the Littles<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #373e4d; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">My husband's family lives in
Tuscaloosa so we make the drive there and back quite often (John makes the
drive—I don’t “interstate”--thank you love!).
Charlie loves to sleep in the van with the sunlight streaming in on his
chubby little cheeks. But this last trip
was taken at night, with the headlights from faster traffic lighting up the
inside of the van and the occasional street light dazzling his eyes. As it turns out, Charlie is terrified of
nighttime driving. </span><br />
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<span style="background: white; color: #373e4d; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">So I spent at least
half of the two-hour drive twisted around in my seat so he could hold my hand
and hear my lullabies. As he tried to
calm down, he would grab my hand and hold it as close to his chest as he could,
one plump hand around my thumb and the other around my pinky. When he got too tired for that, he let one
hand fall into his lap and squeezed my index finger with all the tiny might of
his right hand. Then even this was too
hard, and when his grip relaxed he screamed anew until he found my hand and
pressed it hard to his chest again.
Three or four cycles into this, my spine is basically on fire. Normally I might have settled for letting him
cry himself to sleep, and maybe I should have, as I walk with a slight limp
today, but I just couldn’t let go of his hand—truly, I didn’t want to. I’ve been sad lately. I know how blessed we are to have four
healthy children. Amazingly
blessed. And I no longer yearn to be
pregnant. I do feel done. But as Charlie approaches his first birthday,
I approach a whole new phase of my life.
I’ll soon be saying goodbye to diapers and hello to multiplication. Goodbye to simple rhyming stories and hello
to teaching another “big kid” to read.
And goodbye, even, to the almost indescribable feeling of having those
two pudgy hands hold onto mine for dear life.
My last infant. And as I sat
there, with Charlie’s scared heartbeat slowing to calm under the steady
drumming of my fingers against his round belly, I said goodbye to being a mom
of littles. Soon he’ll walk, and talk,
and just keep growing. And I will love
the toddler he grows into, and the child he will become, and the young man I
pray he will be. Everything is beautiful
in its time. I have never heard that as
I hear it now. I cannot keep them. God has plans for them. Truly, they were never mine. And I’m thanking God today for the renewed
strength to be a better mother this year than I ever have before. And I thank God for that hour-long, vertebrae-straining,
baby-soothing snuggle. When they are
grown and gone, I can recall this memory, unwrap it like a treasured gift, and
feel again, as I have never felt before, what it is to be a mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #373e4d; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">p.s.</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #373e4d; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Dear readers of "Good & Dead",</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #373e4d; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">This is yet another blog post that is not on topic. I'm sorry for who I am as a person. Never fear, though, book two is underway! ;)</span><br />
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<span style="background: white; color: #373e4d; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Here's the link if you haven't gotten book one yet. Again, I never actually posted a link on my blog, or even made a post regarding its publication. #WorstAuthor</span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #373e4d; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 14.98px;">http://www.amazon.com/Good-Dead-Book-English-Edition-ebook/dp/B01731FXLO</span></div>
J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-85168647360137898022015-10-13T19:52:00.000-07:002015-10-13T20:11:06.795-07:00I'm a little ugly.I believe that everyone is beautiful. I do. It's just that some people...aren't particularly beautiful on the outside. Some people are just ugly. <br />
<br />
I'm sorry if that's shocking. <br />
<br />
I am one of them, by the way. I'm not the queen of the ugly folk, but I think, objectively, I'm not a stunner. My eyes are kind of buggy. I have thin lips, a weak chin, and I swear my hair isn't a real color. It's not blonde exactly; nor is it brown. Sometimes it looks red. I've got a hook-nose thing goin' on. And that's just my face! I've given birth to four humans, y'all. My middle is basically made of string cheese. I've also breastfed four humans. Breast is best, but not for the aesthetics of the chest. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: x-large;"><b>"Breast is best, but not for the aesthetics of the chest." -Jamie Wahl</b></span><br />
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On a related note, I rarely find time to shave my legs (it's okay, my leg hair is blonde; I just avoid side-light when I'm in shorts). Also, I'm pretty sure I don't use my calf muscles for anything, because I can gain forty pounds and they are still shapeless sticks of skin and bone, struggling through life under my top-heavy girth. <br />
<br />
I'm a little ugly.<br />
<br />
If you were playing along this far waiting for the actual meaning of the title, I'm afraid I may have disappointed you. You can judge that book by its cover.<br />
<br />
Yes, I look like a female Michael Cera with mange most mornings, but it doesn't matter. <br />
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Because I can think. And I can have empathy for people. And I can write. And sing. And paint. And take care of my family. And a million other things that girls these days grow up thinking they can only do if they are pretty enough. I wasted a lot of time getting discouraged by the weird-looking lady I saw in the mirror. Somehow, that googly-eyed dork reflected back at me made me feel "not enough" for my dreams, or even my day-to-day life! What can she do? She's pretty plain. Pretty normal. Pretty "meh". She's silly even to try. Nothing extraordinary going on here, folks. </div>
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Except that there is! I wrote a book! In eight years, I've had four children and written a whole, cohesive, fairly good book. And I bet you've got the equivalent of a novel going on in your life. A seemingly insurmountable struggle that you're stepping over LIKE A BOSS. My little vampire comedy is not Dickens, but it's a lot of fun, and I wrote it. And I was ugly the whole time! </div>
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My self-esteem should not be dependent on my beauty. Nor should yours. </div>
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Our eldest child was a beautiful newborn. Prefect little round head with wisps of copper hair. Alert, curious blue eyes. He was gorgeous. Our second child was...a baby. My husband and I got so tickled observing the difference in people's reactions when they came to visit us in the hospital. With David, they "ooh"ed and "ah"ed and sang his praises. But with Jack it was a reigned-in look of surprise and then, basically, "You had a baby!" *jazz hands* It's okay, people! We can see he looks like a purple skin potato; we still love him! Why is it so very easy to see that a child's worth is not based in their appearance, but almost impossible when we are judging ourselves? </div>
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Just from a quick poll of my friends, I'm not the only gal to feel pressured to be as beautiful as possible. I'm not the only woman to feel "not enough". But what's so easy to see when I look at them, besides the beauty that they do possess, is that their beauty, whether abundant or restricted to their eyes only, is COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT. The shape of my face has absolutely no effect on my ability to reason. The dark purple circles under my eyes (which I think are now permanent) don't have a single thing to do with my talents. </div>
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And they have even less to do with my worth.</div>
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I've been stressing over the looming publication date. Not because I don't have confidence in my work; I am proud of my book, and the hours upon hours that went into it. I've been freaking out because there's a party. With a signing. In person. And I'm basically Jennifer Lawrence without the whole face-like-Helen-of-Troy thing. The awkwardness isn't as endearing when you only pass for female with copious amounts of mascara. So, I'm confident in my work and ready for it to face the ravages of the internet, even the reviews section on amazon, but I don't feel "enough" because I don't belong on a runway? How RIDICULOUSLY ILLOGICAL is that? Am I a woman of reason, or not? (Don't answer that, closest friends.)</div>
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I am good enough even though I'm a little ugly. I believe you are as well. I'm talented even though I'm a little ugly. I suspect you are, too, even if it's a totally different skill set than the one God gave me. I can make good art and still be a little ugly. Did someone apply a yard stick to DaVinci's face to check for ideal symmetricality before heralding his work as brilliant? Of course not, because he was busy making ALL THE THINGS! </div>
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To clarify, I'm a fan of the "real beauty" campaign. I routinely give a "thumbs up" to the hashtag #effyourbeautystandards. I'm all for making sure girls of every size and color and shape and ability or disability feel beautiful (or at the very least don't feel the need to starve themselves). I just think, as an even uglier adolescent, I would've liked to hear someone refrain from insisting I was beautiful despite my visage of acne, and tell me I was <i>valuable</i> instead. Somehow, the definition of those two words has merged. Beautiful is nice. But valuable? Worthy? Capable? So much more important. And not at all the same. </div>
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So, fellow ugly friend who may be feeling "not enough", don't let the flaxen-haired, angel-eyed, perky-chested muggles get you down. You can do great things even while you're a little ugly.</div>
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I certainly don't intend to waste any more time bemoaning my resemblance to a slow loris; I've got a sequel to write!</div>
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p.s.</div>
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Jack turned out great, btw. </div>
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J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-80943875541360786092015-08-22T18:53:00.000-07:002015-08-22T18:53:03.341-07:00Of Demons and Strugglebusses<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px;">“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px;">—George Orwell</span><br />
<br />
Yeah, that's about right.<br />
<br />
Now that I have finished my first book, I'd thought I'd take a minute to write down what I've learned. This is not for you, dear reader. This is for me. Because I am going to forget all of it the minute the demon knocks on my door again, and I'll need this list for reference. You can use it, too, if you like. ;)<br />
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1. I don't know what I'm doing.<br />
I have never sat down to write and thought to myself "Ah, yes. I have a plan. I can tell what is about to transpire and it is going to be TOTALLY DOPE." Not even once. I've had an inkling. A general idea of what needs to happen. But the clearer the mental image at the outset of the writing session, the more disobedient my characters became. You're going to use this character to reveal the nature of the as-yet-unknown enemy? Nope. Another character totally just killed him. You're going to get your MC from point A to point B? Nope. He wanted an ice cream cone. Rude. Take away: DO NOT PROCRASTINATE UNTIL "YOU FEEL READY." YOU ARE NEVER GOING TO FEEL IN CONTROL. SIT DOWN AND WRITE.<br />
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2. Gandalf is my friend.<br />
Throughout this journey, whenever that mysterious villain we call "writer's block" would jump up in my path, there was a concrete reason for it to be changing my course. A better way to tell this particular part of the story was lurking in my subconscious, and the frustrating gatekeeper would not let the crap be written instead. Writer's block, when seen as nothing more than a road sign to better writing, is my friend. Therefore, from now on, I will refer to Writer's block as Gandalf. The real enemy is the Balrog of Bad Writing.<br />
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Take away: TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS, YOU DINGBAT. STOP WASTING TIME WALLOWING IN SELF LOATHING. SIT DOWN AND WRITE.<br />
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3. Writing is like doing the dishes.<br />
There is a mounting pile of dirty dishes surrounding my sink. I could clean them, but it is just so tedious. I'll keep hemming and/or hawing, whilst giving the growing pile the side-eye, for another day or two. Then I'll remember that I'm in charge of the cleaning, and that if I don't do it, it just won't get done. I'll probably give this battle one last tired feminist rant, then shuffle into the kitchen resentfully. And I'll pick up the sponge. And it won't be that bad! And when I'm done, and the counter is sparkling, I'll be happy. Writing is the same. Push through to rough draft. It's so much easier after that. You'll be happy you did.<br />
Take away: YOU ACTUALLY LIKE WRITING, SO SIT DOWN AND WRITE.<br />
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4. You have four children.<br />
Go on. Count them. <i>There are four of them</i>. You're holding one right now, and he'd really prefer he had your full attention. Life just isn't going to march to the beat of your pretty little drum, and that's okay. You won't get to write every night. You might not even get to write every week. You know the children come first because YOU made the choice to put them first. Forgive yourself for being slow. Life is not a race. That's why you're self-publishing. Drive your Strugglebus in the slow lane; at least you're still moving forward. <br />
Take away: YOU ARE ONLY ONE PERSON, SO LEAVE THE PERFECTIONISM BEHIND AND SIT DOWN AND WRITE!<br />
<br />
So yeah. Remember all that for book two.<br />
<br />
Roll for initiative,<br />
Jamie WahlJ. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-85418743741957598452015-07-13T08:51:00.000-07:002015-07-13T08:54:06.865-07:00Potted Cabbage in Galvanized Buckets<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. All the normal Mom things plus this almost-an-author
thing, throw in some changes at my husband’s work and a couple (that’s
generous; about a hundred) unfinished projects, and I’m in full SHUT DOWN AND
DO NOTHING mode. Which usually brings me
to Pinterest where I DUN DUN DUN see about a thousand things that I want to
do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am a thoroughly ridiculous creature.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I find myself in this place a lot: infinitely motivated but
eternally lazy. My wheels spin for a
while. I might even get a lot done. Then I remember all the things I DIDN’T get
done and all of a sudden it’s time once again to throw up my hands and melt
into a facebook-induced coma. I think
facebook is a mom’s version of being a besotted drunkard. Life is too much but you have children to
watch? Leave the bottle and open up that
web browser! All your problems will melt
away!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, this morning, I found myself about fifteen minutes in to
a Pinterest Pity Binge. I passed a bunch
of mural inspirations that I pinned last night, three or four delicious looking
recipes, a dozen tutorials for small home repair, umpteen homeschool-improving
plans of sheer brilliance….ETCETERA, when my eye fell on this gem: Potted
Cabbage in Galvanized Buckets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Potted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cabbage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Galvanized.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Buckets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cabbage in a bucket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In a <i>galvanized</i>
bucket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I just started laughing my fool head off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">WHAT ARE WE EVEN DOING, LADIES? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have four gorgeous, funny, crazy, messy, busy
children. And I have a finite number of
years to enjoy them. An extremely
measurable amount of time. It’s math so
simple even I can do it! So, here’s what
I’m gonna do. I’m gonna take out my
to-do list, get a great big PERMANENT MARKER, and cross off all the things that
serve my ego- all the things that are there simply to make me feel like I’m
doing a MEASURABLY good job, and I’m going to cross them off. FOEVAH.
Because, as lovely as those purply cabbages looked in their highly
specific metal containers, I DON’T EVEN CARE.
If I genuinely enjoyed all these polished, put together extra
curriculars, that’d be different. But I
don’t! And I’m not going to sacrifice my
intensely brief time as a mother on the altar of being a “super mom”. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ladies, I aim to mediocrely behave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Because my four gorgeous, funny, crazy, messy, busy children
are not going to remember what my cabbages were planted in. They’re not going to remember how beautifully
decorated their cookies were (mostly because they already ate them). They’re not going to care if I slaved over a
three course Italian supper. I need to
leave my perfectionism where it belongs (approximately: hell), and put my energy
into spending time with them while they’re here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So supper will be simple.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cookies will be eaten warm, right off the pan.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cabbages will be in dirt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I’ll be sane.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I think we’ll all be better for it.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Roll for initiative,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">J. Wahl</span></div>
J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-12556234160362969362014-11-12T07:54:00.001-08:002014-11-13T18:55:17.389-08:00Blessed: A Perspective From a "Poor" Mother<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 20px;">
When I was growing up I was poor and I knew it. I knew it from listening to my parents worry over the tiny amount of money left over for groceries after the bills were paid. I knew it from watching the kids at school get to participate in extra-curricular activities after school that I couldn't afford to be a part of. I knew it every time I slid into a frayed pair of jeans two sizes too small. But more than any other reason, I knew it because of the looks. </div>
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Looks of curiosity from my classmates when my stomach growled loud enough for the whole room to hear. Looks of pity from adults. Looks of anger and suspicion directed toward my parents when we stood outside in the cold without winter coats. I understood the pity- understood it with every ounce of scrawny my twelve-year-old body. I was to-be-pitied. Nothing was expected of me. I understood the curiosity; surely someone must have made a grievous and unforgivable error for our family to be hungry in The United States of America. But I never could understand the anger. </div>
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My Father has a debilitating form of arthritis that causes him severe, chronic pain. That man wanted to work; he begged people to hire him- and sometimes they did. But it wasn't too long before the pain and exhaustion were too much, even for his epic amount of stubbornness. Eventually he ended up on disability. It ravaged his self-esteem. But nobody made a mistake. Nobody was spending the mortgage payment on drugs or beer. Nobody frittered the paycheck away by gambling. There simply wasn't enough money to meet our needs. It took me a long time to put this puzzle of anger together, but I think I have it figured out. It is a whole lot easier to blame the poor for being poor than it is to accept the fact that it could happen to anyone. </div>
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At no fault of your own, you could be bankrupt. Some of the smartest money men in the country posit that most Americans are one major negative financial event from bankruptcy. One car accident. One cancer diagnosis. One house fire. There is a possibility that it could happen to you, and most people do not like that feeling. So that bristling when they saw our situation was their own fear, or the avoidance of it. Much easier to assign blame than accept the unknowable quality of the future. Much easier to refer to the forty-something behind the register as a “burger flipper” and decry her for not having gone to college than to attempt to fathom that she has a learning disability and would rather work anywhere than to go on disability. </div>
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I didn’t choose to be born into a poor family any more than Joe McIvyleague chose to be born into a wealthy one. I can’t blame him for his frame of reference- it’s the only one he has! And he didn’t choose his perspective any more than I chose mine.</div>
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This week, I will have a phone interview to apply for SNAP (my generation’s version of food stamps) for the first time as an adult and a parent. I am not looking forward to it. I am not going to enjoy swiping that EBT card. But I am going to enjoy preparing healthy food for our three children, and I’ll count it as a blessing as I put it on the supper table, and I’ll count myself among the blessed. </div>
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I can choose to feel pitied. I certainly remember how. I recall with total clarity the very vastness of my own insignificance. But the fact that my financial situation is inferior does not make me inferior. I am not less simply because I have less. My children are not worthless just because the ending balance has veered dangerously toward zero these last few months.</div>
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If the cashier looks at me with pity, I plan to smile at my children and tell her I am blessed. If the cashier looks at me with judgment, I plan to smile at my children and tell her I am blessed. Maybe this is just a season (my husband and I are working hard to make it so), but maybe it’s not. If it is not- if this barely-making-it thing lasts a childhood, my children will know that they are blessed. They will see it on the dinner table every night. They will see it in their parents' hard work. They will see it, more than anywhere, in their parents' attitude. Because we know we are blessed. When John and I smile at each other over our daughter’s curly-headed mischief, or when our oldest tackles a new school subject with intense curiosity, we know we are blessed. When our youngest son aggressively cuddles us in the morning, we know we are blessed. When we still like kissing each other after eight years, we know we are blessed. And you know I wouldn't trade these blessings for the monetary kind in a million years, and not for a million dollars.</div>
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So when I get into that checkout line at the grocery store, and my palms start to sweat just a little when an older, well-dressed lady gets in line behind me, I will not feel less. I will not feel inferior,or insignificant. And when we thank God for the meal, we’ll really mean it. And we’ll know we are blessed. And maybe someday I’ll be the well-dressed elderly lady in line behind the cart full of kids whose matron is apologizing for how long it takes to ring up a WIC ticket. If that day comes, I hope I remember this season. I hope, when I look at that woman ahead of me in line, I will recall how much strength it took to believe things could change. I hope I buy her a box of diapers. But I know I won’t pity her. She is a beautiful, blessed, brilliantly loved child of God.<br />
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Roll for initiative,<br />
J. Wahl<br />
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p.s.<br />
Edits on my book are HALF DONE! *dance party*</div>
J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-44117924451977864492014-09-23T20:12:00.000-07:002014-09-23T20:12:07.868-07:00Sorry, not sorrySorry for the long chasm of time with no posts. I'd really mean that if I hadn't been using that time to FINISH MY BOOK!<br />
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I think that says it all.</div>
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Roll for initiative,</div>
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J. Wahl</div>
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<br />J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-41219772274383768662013-12-31T16:21:00.000-08:002014-11-08T16:39:46.894-08:00Fishes, Bicycles, and the UterusI went to High School long after Roe Vs Wade. Long after women fought for equal rights in the workplace. Long after Gloria Steinem talked about fishes and bicycles. By the time my body was able to bear children, I had received a message loud and clear: children are an anchor, a curse, a foolish choice. Children keep you from rising above minimum wage. Children end your future. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unless you have a baby.</td></tr>
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I was told I could do anything- pushed on, propelled forward, and encouraged in every way. The pressure to fly high was so intense that sometimes teachers would insinuate (unknowingly) that my Mother had somehow failed at life because she worked at McDonald's. "Go to college; you don't want to wind up flipping burgers when you're 40!"<br />
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So when I found out I was pregnant (surprise!) at 20 (having been married almost a year), I was TERRIFIED. There were moments of excitement, but I mostly felt that I was hurtling forward into an adventure I had not chosen. My stomach was a ticking time bomb of doom. When we announced our news, I got weepy messages of support as though I'd let the world know I'd been diagnosed with a terminal illness. I got condolences instead of congratulations.<br />
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The first year was a kicker. LOL It's been five years (and two babies) since then. My husband and I are the proud parents of three adorable, frustrating, sometimes slimy, children. They are wonderful. And I don't feel done. When I discuss the fact that I don't feel done, I get a wide variety of reactions- but everyone thinks I'm crazy. Just the other day I told a good friend that we were saving up for a van "just in case" and she replied "God forbid!" When did we get so supportive of a woman's right to choose that we stopped supporting a woman's right to choose children? Because nearly all my friends are Christians (the liberal to conservative pendulum swings wildly, but we all love Jesus here). And they nearly all agree I'm crazy. <br />
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I remember how I thought of children before I had my own. What would I say to young Jamie (the Jamie who had perky boobs and free time ;) )? They are worth it. Every Mother will tell you that, so I won't go into detail, but they truly are. And the experience is worth it. Not because of the sweet moments, or the parental victories ("Jack, would you like to come into our room and play with me?" "Yes, please!"), but because of the <i>sacrifices</i>. No other experience has ever revealed so many weaknesses, or brought to light so many strengths. <br />
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"The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new." -Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh</h1>
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They left that part out when they were telling me I could do anything. I don't know what my point is here, this may just be a rant that lays dusty in a neglected pocket of the internet, but I just wish I could tell young Jamie this. That this is the main event of my life. Will I finish my book? I certainly hope so. Will it be the end of the world if I don't? No. Because this, this mothering thing, is the story of my life. There may be a time when I do feel done. When I can take up the charge to greatness and make something else, but I'm done declaring that I'm "more than 'just' a Mother". I'm done trying to parent while stuffing down feelings of guilt that I'm not doing something "more" with my life. I'm not going to pay dues to the goddesses of feminism in return for a miserable existence. My life is little. It's messy. And the budget is kinda squeaky. But I'd be an absolute fool to trade this for a dream in which it's all about me. Because the more I sacrifice for the life we're living now, the happier I am. And maybe that's what the naysayers fear, really. Not the snot or poop or sleep deprivation. The sacrifice. <br />
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I did not choose this adventure, but God did. And he knew what I needed. The more I listen to him, and the more I trust in him, the happier I am. Right now my prayers and my questions are being answered with 'you're not done'. So I'm not done. (I tried to be 'done'. We scheduled a vasectomy and everything. It felt awful and it was incredibly depressing for both of us.) <br />
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None of this comes with judgment towards women who don't feel led to reproduce. This is just me, thinking things through. I know it's not for everyone, but I also know it is for me. And it's just that simple. You know what my biggest fear is? It's not having four to watch, it's not the tight budget, or the late nights or the fear of another fussy baby (though that does sit in second place!). I'm afraid that we won't have any friends. I'm scared that in spite of the Bible touting the blessings of children, and in spite of all the verses about going where he leads, my Christian friends will not see past our culture. If they can't, if they think I've gone off the deep end, I'll miss them. It'll hurt. But it certainly won't be worse than ignoring what I really feel God is telling me. So, folks, I'm excited. I'm excited to be blessed with fertility (we're scary fertile, yo). I'm also scared. But I'm tired of feeling like I can't share this big thing with brothers and sisters in the Church without getting judgment like crazy. <br />
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So, goodbye feminism. Hello, minivan. It'll be fun! :)<br />
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Roll for initiative,<br />
J. WahlJ. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-89230957684602387002013-10-22T17:17:00.000-07:002013-10-22T17:17:11.985-07:00The Turtle of TortureOnce upon a time, (in our galaxy) I was able to consistently write every day. The scenes unfolded at a not-so-fast, but tolerable pace. I was trucking along. And then, something changed. I didn't know what it was for sure (there is at least one blog post about it). Something was off. Progress became slower, and each writing session was more torturous than the last. I dreaded sitting down at my computer. The pace came to a near-stop. A turtle pace. The turtle of torture.<div>
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My good friend Joe tried to help by working out the details of my plot with me. And it did help. I could see it better, but something was missing or in the wrong place. I was dissapointed that I couldn't push past whatever this was. I took everyone's advice and put the whole thing away for a while. The idea was my brain would come back to it on it's own. So I busied myself with other things (I got a lot more cleaning done). I learned how to cook vegetarian cuisine. I had a baby. I started a mural business. And as the time passed, I grew anxious that my brain would never circle back around to the book. The dreams I had of finishing it, and of publishing it, faded into memory. <div>
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Then, Saturday night, I was watching a movie and sending emails when the answer just popped into my head. It had been nearly a year. A. Year. It had been months since my book had even crossed my mind (besides the occasional ten-second bought of intense guilt). "Surprise, Jamie! Here's that thing you'd been looking for!" I like my brain's surprises (much better than the surprises you get while attempting to work on a computer running windows 8). </div>
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And just in time for National Novel Writing Month! </div>
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So I will now read through my notes, read through my 160 pages in Word, get excited, and WRITE 50,000 in one month LIKE A BOSS!</div>
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I hope all your projects are free and easy!</div>
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J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-30567579014496556922013-05-17T13:20:00.001-07:002013-05-17T13:20:22.411-07:00The Thing I Can't ProcrastinateWell, lovelies, she's here! The one thing that I never have found a way to procrastinate doing (giving birth): Penelope Jane was born fat and happy. She will be two months old tomorrow and life has pretty much settled down; we seem to have found a sort of rhythm. The transition to three was MUCH smoother than the transition to two. Her birth has given me renewed motivation not only in regards to writing, but to how I live my life. No one likes everything about themselves, and I want to point out that this is not coming from a place of perfectionism, but I don't want her to grow up a gloomy gus. So Imma haf to stop being a gloomy gus. Because children watch. And they mimic.<br />
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Therefore, my focus has shifted away from writing and to the very heart of the problem: I declare war on procrastination. The first battle is a list: a list of all the still-pertinent tasks that I have been procrastinating (because if I went back and included every unfinished task and project from my whole life the list would be longer than Santa's). Some are small, some are tiny, some are gargantuan, and many of them are already done. Checked off the list! Completed! Destroyed! Man. It feels good. Think of a cheesy cliche about weights being lifted and/or feeling lighter. Got one in mind? It applies here. <br />
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Imagine how great it'll feel when it's my book that's checked off the list! To that end: I solemnly swear to write every night from 7:30 - 10:00. Not plot. Not dream. NOT SURF THE WEB. Write. Imma does it. Imma does it good.<br />
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And when the writing is done I'll edit from 7:30-10:00. And when that's done I'l edit again. After that I'll do some re-rewrites, followed by more editing. I will accept that this is going to take a long time. I will persist or stop complaining. Or, as my Father would say: "Crap or get off the toilet."<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZiUQ_RrIwXM/UZaQZKFeGoI/AAAAAAAAAEc/rK-eemMSYUM/s1600/cpp+cat+on+a+toilet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZiUQ_RrIwXM/UZaQZKFeGoI/AAAAAAAAAEc/rK-eemMSYUM/s1600/cpp+cat+on+a+toilet.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">decisions, decisions....</td></tr>
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"Children do what feels good. Adults devise a plan and follow it." -Dave Ramsey (AKA the putrescent fellow who won't let me remodel my bathroom)<br />
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Yeah. Imma does it.<br />
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I hope your creative endeavors are going swimmingly!<br />
<br />
Roll for initiative,<br />
J. WahlJ. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-65256814568903376202013-03-05T14:23:00.005-08:002013-03-05T14:26:25.159-08:00Introducing....My book!<br />
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No. It's not completed. ;) But here are some visualizations that I've done to help motivate myself. I have been working hard at turning my boxes of notes (written on note cards, napkins and crumpled notebook pages) into one notebook of thoughts on the subject. I had forgotten how much I liked my characters and how hard I've worked on the plot! I had even forgotten about these sketches! I'm smert not stoopid. <br />
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I have a fantastically talented graphic design friend who has generously offered to do a better job (I don't like how my name is so huge, but balance-wise it was my only solution- and it needs color: his sneakers, for example, should be green), but here is my simple visualization of my book cover:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-82eigrAJxYY/UTZqgyqB4ZI/AAAAAAAAADk/h6Wwq7SgTsQ/s1600/book+one+cover+darker+title+plus+book+one.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-82eigrAJxYY/UTZqgyqB4ZI/AAAAAAAAADk/h6Wwq7SgTsQ/s640/book+one+cover+darker+title+plus+book+one.tif" width="457" /></a></div>
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And here is a sketch of the lovely and tricksy vampire, Bell:</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vMYfNK0tqqw/UTZrxNcGsPI/AAAAAAAAAD0/ZWw2RtlmWYs/s1600/bell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vMYfNK0tqqw/UTZrxNcGsPI/AAAAAAAAAD0/ZWw2RtlmWYs/s400/bell.jpg" width="347" /></a></div>
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And Michael's dream girl, Charlotte:</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KDovG6oKpfE/UTZrXXLzABI/AAAAAAAAADs/vtuoeyMSsoc/s1600/Charlotte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KDovG6oKpfE/UTZrXXLzABI/AAAAAAAAADs/vtuoeyMSsoc/s400/Charlotte.jpg" width="347" /></a></div>
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I am terrible with the technologies and couldn't get the scanner to work for either of these two leading ladies, so I must apologize for the picture quality. My bad. I'm still excited, though!</div>
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I am actually going to write a scene tonight! It's going to happen. Unless I go into labor. That's slightly more important. But even so, it's going to happen soon!</div>
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I'm legitimately excited about this project for the first time in nearly a year. Woohoooo! I hope your creative endeavors are going swimmingly!</div>
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Roll for initiative,</div>
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J. Wahl</div>
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p.s.</div>
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If you haven't yet, please 'like' me on facebook! I always read requests for likes or follows in Bill Murray's voice: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/goodanddead?ref=hl"><span style="color: orange;">"Gimme, gimme, I need, I need, I need!"</span></a> Oh well.</div>
J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-71028547491849138012013-01-27T12:37:00.001-08:002014-11-12T11:56:32.093-08:00Mine! <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A5gUrelMR3c/UQVh4CA1ToI/AAAAAAAAADQ/MkLNz4pxB6I/s1600/courage+ocean+shore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A5gUrelMR3c/UQVh4CA1ToI/AAAAAAAAADQ/MkLNz4pxB6I/s1600/courage+ocean+shore.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Lately when I sit down to write-- who am I kidding? I don't even get that far-- lately when I think about sitting down to write, a very anxious feeling sets in almost immediately. That is a super big bummer. But I think I have figured out why it is happening. I have written all the scenes that are clearly formed in my mind. I am proud of the half-novel's worth of scenes that I have completed, but the half remaining- the unwritten ones- are kind of a gray area of only half-formed ideas without endings. So when I sit down to write now it feels...out of control. That's not a feeling I like. I am, apparently, not willing to lose sight of the shore. I've lost the bravery required to forge ahead in this particular endeavor. The following picture sums up how I feel about sailing into uncharted waters (AKA losing control of the project and letting something spontaneous and wonderful happen):</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--gRXJXd8u-Y/UQVhxJJeHII/AAAAAAAAADI/gh5a1c_QdLY/s1600/letting+go+meine+wassermelone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--gRXJXd8u-Y/UQVhxJJeHII/AAAAAAAAADI/gh5a1c_QdLY/s320/letting+go+meine+wassermelone.jpg" height="291" width="320" /></a></div>
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Incidentally, that is also a visual approximation of how I look when I force my pregnant self out of bed in the morning. </div>
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I hope a day comes when I just get so mad about feeling scared to venture forth into the unknown that I stop being scared. Because it really seems as though it should be that simple. Maybe it isn't (or ever will be) but that's how it feels right now. I have started to be randomly inspired and sent off on a mental tangent of character development again (which is how nearly all of the plot and characters formed previously). One thing is for sure, writer friends, I am NOT a pantster! No writing by the seat of the pants for me. No. I need clear and defined scenes with everything but the dialogue ready to go.</div>
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I must share (as I have decided I should do since this is 'real time progress of a writer who cannot finish anything') that since my last post, I have written three pages. *cue the infamous 'wawawa'* Three pages in a month. At this rate I'll be done...well after my expected life span.</div>
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I hope your projects, whether writing related or not, are going swimmingly. If any of you lovely folks have any tips on letting your brain function in a way that allows for the organic, innovative, and superbly fun growth of a project, please let me know. ;)</div>
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Roll for initiative,</div>
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J. Wahl</div>
J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-92035351709336323402012-12-26T07:09:00.000-08:002012-12-27T14:01:12.568-08:00life and death and the groceries in betweenYou ever read a quote that just gets to you? I like it when it's a good 'get to you'- like this one:<br />
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<span style="color: blue;">"Never give up on a dream because of the time it will take to accomplish it. The time will pass anyway." -Earl Nightingale</span><br />
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Oooooooh burn. Given the title of my blog. ;) But then there are the times that a quote gets to you in a bad way.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_zh39TEi8dY/UM0um0antFI/AAAAAAAAACk/pzgQLE816_Y/s1600/lifeliedeathtruth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_zh39TEi8dY/UM0um0antFI/AAAAAAAAACk/pzgQLE816_Y/s320/lifeliedeathtruth.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">"Life asked death 'why do people love me but hate you'? Death replied 'because you are a beautiful lie and I am a painful truth'."</span><br />
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Well, no. Life and death are both realities. Life is what we are currently experiencing. Death is something we will all experience once at some point in the future. It's gonna happen. But the fact that it is going to happen does not, in any way, negate the reality of life. The question is: what are we meant to do between now and the end?<br />
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*tiny fit of exhaustion from overworking of brain*<br />
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There are times when I feel motivated by my imminent demise. I want to write this thing before I go! I'm gonna do it! Yeah! Then there are all the other times...the times when I'm playing with my children (who are still quite small), or the times when I'm involved with helping others. Add the times that I see other people spending all (ALL) their time helping others and I can feel my ambition deflate. What does it matter? It's not as though the world needs my vampire comedy. It's not as though I need success/fortune. I am already so incredibly blessed. Is it merely vanity? <br />
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But there is a very practical aspect to wanting to be successful. I really, really want to help people. Like...really. I spent my childhood being the family that needed help. We are doing better now, but 'better' to me just means that we can afford our own bills. But if anything major were to go wrong? It wouldn't be pretty. I'm tired of being the family that might need help. I want to be the family that helps. <br />
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I was in line at WalMart the other day and this woman was ahead of me checking out. She was obviously a mother (she didn't have kids with her, but she looked exhausted and she had a huge purse and untamed hair)- and she was paying with gift cards. She ran out of cards before she ran out of groceries, so she had to make decisions. So, while listening to the cashier disrespect her and the folks in line sighing, she removed all the produce from the conveyor. She only needed $29. She was tearing up when she walked away. I cried the whole drive home. $29. I want to be the person in line who is able to hand her the $29 so her kids have healthy food.<br />
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Maybe if I can remember the look of defeat on her face as she walked away I can manage to write mah book. Now this, of course, only works if I really believe that my book will one day equal money. Which I don't. Because confidence feels like egotism to me. But we'll talk about that later. ;) Now I have to go. Jack Jack just handed me a bubble wand and did his butt-wiggling "pweeeeeeeeese?"<br />
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Roll for initiative,<br />
J. WahlJ. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-932244753982878532012-12-19T08:31:00.000-08:002012-12-19T08:31:53.833-08:00Sneaky Satan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ycge56wTCX4/UNHfHtM1qpI/AAAAAAAAAC0/Ebv3P-DtGBI/s1600/satan+dinner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ycge56wTCX4/UNHfHtM1qpI/AAAAAAAAAC0/Ebv3P-DtGBI/s320/satan+dinner.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
Well, when you put it like that! Okay. I know that there is nothing inherently wrong with having creative ambitions. If someone presented this idea to me accusatorily (I'm aware that's not a real word) I would be incredibly offended and probably laugh in their face/write a novella of reasons why they are wrong. But I fear one of my biggest personal logical fouls is that I'm kind of saying this to myself.<br />
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I don't think it would be as bad if I wasn't a mother. Motherhood is a wonderful journey that I wouldn't trade for anything. But it is also a special hell of unending chores and snotty noses (not to mention diapers that surely hold the contents of the bog of eternal stench). It is the unending nature of motherhood- particularly stay-at-home-motherhood- that gets to me. I tell myself that even the most joyous of tasks would grind your brain to dust if you did it all day every day, but still...I fell guilty. Guilty for wanting to accomplish more. And wondering why I feel this need to create. When the kids are asleep for the night and the house is clean (this doesn't happen with a huge amount of frequency) I head to bed feeling that I've done a good job, but by the time I lay my head down there is always a nasty little voice whispering: "Okay, but you didn't write anything today."<br />
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I mean, really- piss off little voice of guilt. I worked hard! What do you want? I'm not getting up to write. I have to do that all again tomorrow! I need mah sleeps!<br />
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And the result of this routine for the last four and half years is that I'm starting to hate my creative self. Wouldn't this be easier if you just went away, voice of creativity? Don't you know the tasks God has given me with these handsome boys? I sent Jack to school today in a black shirt that said: 'eligible bachelor' paired with a silky pinstriped vest. He took it off in the parking lot and swung it around Magic Mike style. CLASSIC. Anyway- there are millions of Moms out there who go to bed feeling they are doing a good job because they cook and clean and supervise all day. That's enough for them. But I have this whole other (incredibly time consuming) need to create. Does anyone know of a magic pill or cream that will get rid of this need to create? Because I feel that would greatly simplify my life. Design-Be-Gone: rub on affected area every night for eradication of all creative thoughts. Yes. That's what I need.<br />
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But it's not Satan distracting me. God assembled all my parts and that includes my brain- which includes all my artist self. *sigh* This is the real reason that I can't walk away from this project. It'd be so much easier (in a lot of practical ways) if I could just mother without this extra stuff hanging around. But I need to stop pretending to be someone I'm not. So here is a confession:<br />
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I intend to pursue my dreams and goals <i>and</i> make dinner. It might not be as elaborate, as tasty, or as memorable, but the children will have supper. I intend to pursue my dreams and goals <i>and</i> clean the house. There may (will) be toys under the sofa and dishes in the sink, but the place will be livable. The children will learn that there is more to mommy than cleaning and cooking. My boys will learn to expect that from their future spouses and this baby I'm growing (which is a girl!) will learn that it's okay to pursue the things God has put in your heart to do. I may have to work my tookus off, but it's worth it.<br />
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There. I talked myself out of my illogical behavior. Now if only I could remember this....<br />
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Roll for initiative,<br />
J. Wahl<br />
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J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758973140164422577.post-32278386495463515342012-12-12T13:04:00.000-08:002012-12-12T14:01:50.823-08:00Right Now<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7lRobQNFhmg/UMjtpEUXJQI/AAAAAAAAACU/JcaGZikct8k/s1600/cloud9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7lRobQNFhmg/UMjtpEUXJQI/AAAAAAAAACU/JcaGZikct8k/s320/cloud9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We all have a ‘right now’. There are people on cloud nine; they’re happy,
at peace, they have good days. And there
are others who are cursing up at that cloud from rock bottom. But most of us are somewhere in between. And the cloud in question represents
different things to different people.
For me, that cloud is success at any creative endeavor.
This may or may not be healthy. I’m
not at all sure. But my ‘right now’ is
being a fairly talented person who is incapable of finishing anything. It’s too big, and too scary. Finishing a project has been such a long time
coming that I would now have to redefine myself to clinch a victory.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Be miserable. Or
motivate yourself. Whatever has to be
done, it’s your choice.” –Wayne Dyer</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m really tired of this.
So here I am in my ‘right now’- a creative pessimistic
procrastinator. I’m full of doubts and
plagued by guilt monkeys. I've spent far
too long declaring what I’m going to do and then letting
my fears get the better of me. I've started so many brilliant projects. I've finished precious few. There are half-completed
paintings, barely-started poems, a notebook full of dress designs, even a
sketch for a board game that is a zombie invasion of a Walmart supercenter. But the towering glory of
this pile of projects is my novel. Half
done. HALF DONE. A novel.
How can a person have such a clear vision for a work and have put in
countless hours plotting and stewing and countless more writing only to stall half
way through? I've committed a year to
this thing. I am at a crossroads. Continue or abandon? Learn to finish or settle for my status
quo? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Meh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That’s how motivated I feel right now. Meh.
So in lieu of stating what I intend to do, which seems to be part of my
own system of procrastination, I’m just going to admit right now: I have no
freaking clue whether or not I’ll be able to finish this book. Even though I have a plot mapped out to the
smallest detail, and even though I have blocks of time scheduled for working on
it. No idea. It’s a toss up. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“A ship in a harbor is safe, but that’s not what ships are
built for.” –No one is sure who said it first</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The one thing I will declare is that I am, at least, a
ship. Not a dinghy or a life raft. A blasted ship. I have too many ideas and promising starts to
be anything but. If
I could just act like a ship- a real one- that has everything it needs to
traverse oceans of uncertainty and storms of self-loathing. I've told myself I’m a lifeboat for far too
long (not even a lifeboat- more like a canoe with only one paddle that's shot full of holes). It’s gotten me nowhere. I think I'm ready to aim for a different 'right now'. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lJOaHY9logc/UMjsFXx-u7I/AAAAAAAAACM/JJE5QIW3m-U/s1600/shipmeansbusiness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lJOaHY9logc/UMjsFXx-u7I/AAAAAAAAACM/JJE5QIW3m-U/s320/shipmeansbusiness.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like this ship. This ship means business.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest
fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness
that most frightens us.' We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>not</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> to be? You are a child of God. Your
playing small does not serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about
shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant
to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that
is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone and as we let our
own light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the same. As we
are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.</span>”
–Marianne Williamson <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So there it is. No
clue what’s going to happen. Admitting
to my own potential. If there is any
chance you have a similar position in relation to that darn cloud, read along. Fail or succeed, something will be learned. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Roll for initiative,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">J. Wahl</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">p.s.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear trolls:</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is a stream of consciousness blog. I do not have time to finish my book and agonize over every line of these posts. I have two kids and I'm pregnant. I just don't have time to stress over grammar and sentence structure. Just want to get that out there so that when I inevitably make a mistake or glaringly obvious typo we can all shake off the irony of a writer without any apparent skill at grammar. Kthnxbai. </span></span></div>
J. Wahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189338810146932830noreply@blogger.com5