Logic dictates that writing should be a natural act, a function of a well-operating human body, along the lines of speaking and walking and breathing.  We should be able to tap into the constant narrative flow our minds provide, the roaring river of words filling up our heads, and direct it out into a neat stream of organized thoughts so that other people can read it.  Look at what we already have going for us: some level of education, which has given us control of written and spoken language; the ability to use a computer or a pencil; and an imagination that naturally turns the events of our lives into stories that are both true and false.  We all have ideas, sometimes good ones, not to mention the gift of emotional turmoil that every childhood provides.  In short, the story is in us, and all we have to do is sit there and write it down.  

But it's right about there, right about when we sit down to write that story, that things fall apart.  I've had conversations with a friend before in which he outlined the stories of both his parents' lives, and wished for me to translate those for him into a book.  I had to decline, however, because at that time in my life I simply was not at the point that I felt I would be able to do his stories justice, and instead I felt as though it would be a task presumed to be barely above the level of transcription.  Like those random Internet letters that begin with Dear Sir or Dear Madam and tell of the countless millions that will be left to me, This is my lucky day.  

If a person has never given writing a try, they assume that a brilliant idea is hard to come by.  But really, even if it takes some digging, ideas are out there.  Just open your eyes and look at the world.  Writing the ideas down, it turns out, is the real trick, a point that was best illustrated to me on one of the more boring afternoons of my life.  One fall Saturday during my freshman year in college, I was invited to attend a reunion by my roommate, Verena.  I only went because I had nothing better to do and figured I should venture out since I was so cordially invited.  We were going to a Cornelsen reunion in Rose Hill, Kansas, a dot on the map about thirty minutes from Wichita.  It was not a family reunion, but rather a reuinion of people in the Bible Belt named Cornelsen, many of whom had never met before.  The event was held in a low, square Masonic Lodge built of cinder blocks on a concrete slab that was so flush with the ground there was not even a hint of a step to go inside.  All we could see was a field and, beyond that, a forest of sturdy silver leaf maples.  Because we were basically just outside the city and had no curfew that evening, we were planning to stay for awhile.  It was in the third or fourth hour of this event that one of the few Cornelsens I had not already engaged said that Verena had told her I liked to write.  Regrettably, I admitted this was the case.  That was when she told me everyone had at least one great novel in them. 

I have learned the hard way not to tell strangers what I like to do in my spare time. They usually become too pensive and concerned, a level of intimacy I didn't feel appropriate given it was the first time meeting, and within the first few seconds, no less!  Ordinarily, in a circumstance like this one, in the Masonic Lodge in Rose Hill, Kansas, I would have just agreed with this woman and sidled off (One great novel, yes, of course, absolutely everyone), but I was tired and bored and there was nowhere to sidle to except the field.  We happened to be standing next to the Side Dish table, which is always my favorite place at any gathering.  On that table was an assortment of shoepeg corn dip, homemade macaroni and cheese, 3-bean salad, cucumbers and onions and celery seed immersed in vinegar, pickled beets, cottage cheese, macaroni salad, potato salads (Amish, mustard, AND loaded!).  "Does everyone have one great potato salad recipe in them?" I asked her.  

"No," she said.  

I remember that her gray hair was thick and cropped short and that she looked at me directly, not glancing over at the rainbow of carbohydrates on the table to her left.  

"One algebraic proof?" 

She shook her head.  

"One five-minute mile?  One Hail Mary pass?"  

"One great novel," she said.

"But why a novel?" I asked, having lost for the moment the good sense to let it go.  "Why a great one?"  

"Because we each have the story of our life to tell," she said.  It was her trump card, her indisputable piece of evidence.  She took my silence as a confirmation of victory and so I was able to excuse myself.  I found my friend and begged her to get me out of there.  Why, we had driven there in her small truck!  

But I couldn't stop thinking about this woman, not later that same day, not five years later.  Was it possible that, in everybody's lymph system, a budding novel is knocking around?  A few errant cells that, if given the proper encouragement, cigarettes and wine, the requisite number of bad relationships, could turn into something serious?  Living a life is not the same as writing a book, and it got me thinking about the relationship between what we know and what we can put on paper.  For me it's like this: I make up a story in my head.  This is the happiest time in the arc of my writing process.  This book is my invisible friend, omnipresent, evolving, thrilling.  During the weeks (or months) it takes me to put my ideas together, I don't take notes or make outlines; I'm figuring things out, and all the while the story makes a breeze around my head like an oversized butterfly whose wings were cut from the rose window in Notre Dame.  This book I have not yet written one word of is a thing of indescribable beauty, unpredictable in its patterns, piercing in its color, so wild and loyal in its nature that my love for this book, and my faith in it as I track its lazy flight, is the single perfect joy in my life at the time I am creating it.  It is the greatest novel in the history of literature, and I have thought it all up, and all I have to do is put it down on paper and then everyone can see this beauty that I see.  

And so I do.  When I can't think of another stall, when putting it off has actually become more painful than doing it, I reach up and pluck the butterfly from the air.  I take it from the region of my head and I press it down against my desk, and there, with my own hand, I kill it.  It's not that I want to kill it, but it's the only way I can get something that is so three-dimensional onto the flat page.  Just to make sure the job is done I stick it into place with a pin.  Imagine running over a butterfly with an SUV.  Everything that was beautiful about this living thing -- all the color, the light and movement -- is gone.  What I'm left with is the dry husk of my friend, the broken body chipped, dismantled, and poorly reassembled.  Dead.  That's my book.  

I am sure that if I were to tell someone this straight from my heart and out of my mouth, they would probably laugh.  People would probably think I'm being charmingly self-deprecating, when really it is the closest thing to the truth about my writing process that I know.  The journey from the head to hand is perilous and lined with bodies.  It is the road on which nearly everyone who wants to write--and many of the people who do write--get lost.  So maybe that bushy-headed woman in the Rose Hill, Kansas, Masonic Lodge was right; maybe everyone does have a novel in them, perhaps even a great one.  I don't believe it, but for the purposes of this argument right here let's say it is so.  Only a few of us are going to be willing to break our own hearts by trading in the living beauty of imagination for the stark disappointment of words.  This is why we type a line or two and then hit the delete button or crumple-up the page.  Certainly that was not what I meant to say!  That does not represent what I see.  Maybe I should try again another time.  Maybe the muse has stepped out back for a smoke.  Maybe I have writer's block.  Maybe I'm delusional and was never meant to write at all, and yet when I have so much inside of me and I am ready to spontaneously combust, I must get it out.  I have stitched together the pieces of my emotional puzzle and it seems that when I do not express my thoughts through writing I become overwhelmed with with the kids, with my relationship, and with my energy to get things accomplished.  

For me, writing this blog and picking songs to match my mood or the circumstances, the details of the story, are fulfilling in its own right.  Even if I never get a book deal...even if I never see my work in true book form, I have this inherent knowledge that I was born to write, even if only in random blips, in passages of thought, right here where we are now, this blog.  And, I am honored to be so privileged.  <3 

Show of hands: Who has watched the classic Jamie Lee Curtis movie, “Freaky Friday”?  If not, then maybe the remake with the Lindsay Lohan -obsessed tweeners?  If I’m really dating myself, there was also a Judge Reinhold film called “Vice Versa".  The premise was simple...a classic…two people wish they could switch places with each other.  The next day when they wake up…

You guessed it…

It actually happens.  They live in each other’s bodies. Deal with each other’s crises (be it at work or school).  Sample each other’s relationships.  There are ups and downs… but, in the end…

Spoiler alert!

They preferred their own lives and worked tirelessly to get them back.  In various instances in my life, I speak from experience when I apply here the old adage that the grass is not always greener on the other side.  And sometimes, many times, people put on airs...masking their true feelings.  

Think about the executive in your office with a fancy sports car…He may have an estranged relationship with his daughter because he works too many hours each week, missing all of her “big” moments.

Then there is the mother of infant twins who left her job to stay home with them all day…She is depressed about her haggard appearance and misses uninterrupted visits with her friends over dinner and a night of dancing.  She has nobody to talk to these days and feels incredibly lonely.

Or how about the model who travels all over the world for photoshoots?  Her looks are flawless, but she has an eating disorder she can’t tell anyone about.  Or maybe she feels enormous pressure to maintain outward "perfection" defined by cultural norms in our media-fueled society, but can't fathom letting go of her lifestyle long enough to enjoy just being.  

These past two years, I feel as though I have spent some time learning how to love myself.  And sometimes when I look back on exactly how much different my life is now, there it is, the pang of a joyful jump-up in my heart, serving to remind me of just how far I have come.  And...then there are times when I feel nervous, shaky, unsteady in my emotional footing of just where to go next.  Putting my finger on EXACTLY what is causing me to feel like this from time to time is still a mystery to me. I chalk it up to severe anxiety, but the truth is I am still figuring myself out after years of sending my own needs, thoughts, desires, and dreams to the back of the line.  I am reminded of a standalone filing cabinet, papers and mementos and newspaper cut-outs stuck haphazardly into bland off-white folders with those cheap, graduated plastic labels that never can seem to hold the handwritten inserts unless you either use Scotch tape or got lucky and the moon and stars are aligned perfectly, take your pick.  The exterior is solid enough, sure, but is quite deceiving as to what is actually inside.  Really just very disorganized and pulling open the drawer is enough to incite feelings of dread and confusion and feelings of 'where do I even begin?'.  

Please don't misunderstand... I do not think of myself as a martyr.  Rather, when I am able to take deep breaths and reassess, it takes me a day or so but I tend to lean into these times and try and encourage myself to refocus my thoughts and attention and intentions.  What is important to ME?  How do certain events affect ME?  What do I need?  What can I personally do to make the situation better and still continue to grow myself and my relationships so that I don't stay stuck in these anxiety-afflicted ruts? 

At one point or another, I have pictured myself switching places with someone I perceived as having a better life than what I thought I had.  At some point or another, I have wanted to be somebody else, anybody other than myself.  But, I slowly came to realize that waking up and feeling the feelings of gratitude and love that I DO have in my heart (and trust me, sometimes it's extremely challenging for me to do this) and choosing to focus on the truly good things and people in my life is preemptive to feeling better.  I must say, learning to love myself has been quite the journey, one that's been laden with feelings of forgiveness, inspiration, setting my true intentions, raw honesty, looking heavenward rather than down at the ground, unconditional love, boundaries, trust, guilt, sadness, jealousy, anxiety, and disbelief alike.  It's felt very much like taking a big gulp of what you expect to be a good fountain Dr. Pepper and tasting spoiled milk instead.  It's felt very much like being on smooth autopilot and then suddenly losing altitude, only to feel my stomach rise quickly and then explode in my head. A Pandora's box of tranquil, pleasant rainfall at night that induces a perfect calm...only to give way to torrential, savage, raging storms that cause sewers and gutters to swell uncomfortably beyond capacity.  

And, just like Pandora's box, I still have Hope in these times.  I still hold on and do my best to look UP, to remain grateful, to look for the good in the situation, whatever it may be.  Some probably see this as an extreme weakness, but I pray I never lose this ability, and I want to encourage this in my children.  For me, anyway, sometimes this is all that has kept me going, this kind of hope, and I am sincerely thankful I have a few people in my life who help me remember all of this when I need it.  Deep breaths...Let go of that which is out of my control...and repeat until I am on the other side of that storm.  

​The temperature is s'posed to plummet to 71 tonight.  You know what would be perfect?  Pitching a tent and throwing in a bazillion blankets and pillows and just sleeping outside.  No music, no talking.  Instead, just the peaceful, steady backdrop of the crickets and tree frogs that make midsummer Oklahoma nights so unforgettable.  <3 <3 <3 

Honestly, I'm not a jewelry person. But, if you know me at all, you know I wear a necklace 24/7...When I choose one, I never take it off. I'll wear it for months. Months! I'll sleep in it, I'll bathe in it, I'll swim in it, I'll eat good food in it, I'll reach for it whenever I feel insecure or afraid. It's almost like it becomes a part of me.  And, there it always is, a complete, secure circle rounding my neck. Well...sometime between yesterday and about 6:00 tonight, I lost my necklace. I'm sick about it, too. This was a necklace the kids' dad had given me at some point after Molly was born, but before the twins came along. I don't just wear ANY piece of jewelry, either. I mean, I have a pretty low-key taste compared to some of my friends. I don't appreciate the carat amount or the glam factor...I appreciate the sentiment behind it. I fully believe Todd gave me that necklace with all the love that he had in his heart for me right then, and I never wanted to wear it for fear I'd lose it...and now that I've lost it...yes, my heart aches, ...

...but I also feel like maybe it's a sign for me to try and form NEW bonds...for me to try and and find NEW styles or NEW links to the present-day! No, of course I'm not happy I lost my diamond cascade necklace, but if you know me at all, you know I try and look for the silver lining in EVERY bleak one...and this time it's no different. I have the good fortune of knowing a man in the most intimate way I could know him for as many years as I could, and I have the blessing of having my children with me...and I'M ALIVE! I DO THINGS, other than subsist on a man's approval. I love my family, I love my career, I love who I've become...faults and ALL. I love the people who've appeared in my life like Guest Stars on 'The Love Boat', and those who've hung in there with us this entire time, almost 3 years! I will soon find another necklace to wear 'round my neck! I don't take things like this lightly, though. The first necklace I wore for over a year and a half, and I paid a mere $5 for it. It read, quite simply, "LOVE". I wore it around my neck and I never gave it a second thought. I never even CONSIDERED how I'd feel if I were to lose it!  Then I put on Todd's cascade necklace, mainly to keep close to my heart the feeling we both felt about our life together when he GAVE it to me, you know? And now, it's....gone. I was really upset when I first discovered it, but I'm okay with it now. Sure, it's a material thing, but I've never been about material things. The fact that he even thought enough of me to give me that necklace all those many years ago, that's enough for me to dwell on the rest of my life. I'm weird like that, though.  It really, really does not take a lot to make me happy.  ... Maybe I'll go necklace-less for the next few weeks until I can find something that fits my life RIGHT NOW. And, you know what? I'm completely okay with that. Everything happens for a reason. Until then, I will shine bright like a diamond, even if I'm only cubic zirconia.  The point is, I'm trying, and I am FINE.  My family is healthy and we are all FINE.  <3 <3 <3 We are learning to let others love us in the ways that they are good at.  My kids and I are finally coming to terms with the fact that sometimes people love without an agenda, and it doesn't always have to be US.  <3