Confession Time: Why I'm Not Doing NaNoWriMo

   I am the opposite of consistent. Always have been. Won't always be, but unfortunately, currently I still am. This is why I am not participating in NaNoWriMo. Because a life time of bad habits and inconsistency has made it far more difficult that it should be to create positive new habits. And I am not saying that to take away from anyone else's struggle in creating good habits because I am fully aware it is difficult for all of us. It goes against the natural flow of things. The old adage being true that when we are not pushing forward we are inevitably falling backwards, there is no such thing as true stagnation when it comes to the human state of being. So all that to say, I'm not there yet. I have barely solidified my basic writing habit, and knowing myself I am acutely aware that I am very easily demotivated by increasing my self expectations to steeply and suddenly.

   So no to NaNoWriMo (which for my non-writer readers stands for National Novel Writing Month) for me this time around, BUT! I am using the inspiration provided by the gallant strivings of my fellow writers to increase my daily word count requirements. Why am I telling you this? I mean other than that this mostly vacant blog you happen to be reading is vaguely constructed to be about me and my life... which, thank you by the way to anyone who keeps checking back through this dry period, you rock! ...well I'm telling you in order to gain some leverage on myself. A bit of external accountability.

   The goal? 1,000 words per day 5 days a week. Or 20,000 new words, added to my novel in progress between November 1st and 11:59pm on November 30th. For a little bit of perspective and brutal honesty about my progress so far, I started my novel in late June on the beginners, snails pace, first draft in a year plan of 350 words a day 5 days a week and I started November with 45,000 words. The goal is to have 65,000 by month end. That's big. Not NaNoWriMo 50,000 words in a month big, but it's huge for me. So I am crowd sourcing support. And also offering up some of my own. 

   If you're like me and can only focus on one endeavor at a time and constantly find everything else in your life falling apart when you consciously decide to put in the effort to improve one specific area, then lets band together. Tell me in the comments what area of your life you're trying to accomplish something in this month. Where you want to be by November 30th at 11:59pm and also what other areas of your life you are unwilling to drop in the name of this goal. Do you want to get on track with a family meal plan but don't want to get so caught up in it that dinner is perfect but you're so tired at the end of the meal that bedtime routines with the kids get pushed aside and everyone falls asleep in the living room watching TV afterwords? Do you want to get consistent with fitness and not derail your important personal relationships during holiday eating season? Lets cheer each other on.

   Where do we start? Here's something invaluable that was recommended to me that I'd like to pass along. Get fanatical if you have to, but schedule it. Schedule your priorities in 30 min increments. It sounds rigid but it's actually really freeing, even for, if not especially for, us creative types.

   Here's a free handout geared towards students that is actually good for any and all of us.

    I'm starting mine this week and would love to have some other people along for the ride to troubleshoot with. Let's see where we can get together by month end?

You in? Thought so.

Ready, Set.... GO!

---

Subtle Sexism in the World of Storytelling

   So here's the thing, I've been steering clear of this topic for a little while for the sake of maintaining my newly recovered state of mental health. It was one of the bigger, more easily identifiable, triggers that helped to initiate the plummet in my serotonin levels or what have you that happened several months back. It was fire that I just couldn't seem to stop playing with. Rape culture, oppression, misogyny it all felt so urgent and pressing... and honestly more than anything it felt noble. I felt like I was on a one woman crusade to make the world a better place and instead I just wound up rubbing my nose in all the most vile tendencies that we as human beings are capable of playing out in this real world of ours. I did that  long enough that my anger burned all the way out, bringing almost all of my other functional emotional states and capacities with it.

   The good news is that I'm mostly better now. The bad news is that in the meantime the problem didn't conveniently go away, nor did my desire to speak out on the problem(s). So, while I need to exert caution in the level to which I engage in these discussions, I also need to practice living in a world that isn't all or nothing. My propensity for obsession won't go away simply by avoiding any and every topic or trigger that could lead to such extreme mental preoccupation. Besides a new one will always come along to fill the void.

   So what's the point I'm getting at here? Well, all of the above being the case I have decided that I am re-opening my "series" on this wide-ranging, broad topic that can't be summed up in one word. BUT! I am doing this as less of a new direction for the blog itself as originally intended and definitely not as a restrictive, scheduled and structured thing. More of a this ish is important so I'll write about it when and where I can type of thing, being careful to keep in mind the crazy, wild wormholes that are present in this world of societal call-it-out commentary blogging.

Today's Topic at hand? The privilege of  dismissal.
Or something like that...

   Basically there's a nuance at play in this big picture that's been on my mind a lot lately that I haven't seen a lot of coverage on, though I haven't gone digging for it either, so I'm sure somebody somewhere already has... hopefully a lot of somebodies. This notion crystallized in my mind yesterday when I clicked a link in a tweet to a blog that linked to another blog so on and so forth until I was reading this amazing article from May of 2012 by Greg Rucka, writer of comics and novels, titled "Why I Write Strong Female Characters". If you haven't had the pleasure of reading it, stop what you're doing and go there. Now. Seriously, he hits so many great points and does it intelligently and articulately in a way I can only hope to come close to myself in the rest of this already too-long post of mine.

Done?
Okay, good. Back to the point. Which is this:

   Our world is currently set up in such a way that it is considered a given that women are, on almost every level, expected to attempt to understand and relate to men, where they are at, without question. It is so much the norm that male characters, male attributes, male desires are assumed to be the standard. Women are all but forced to understand Men but men are allowed a pass from even attempting to understand women in a lot of ways. Yes, women are complicated. But guess what, that's because of our humanity not necessarily because of our gender. There may be some areas in which the female make-up tends more towards extra layers that seem hard to comprehend on a surface level, but it is way more often than not used as a flippant excuse to not try. To write it off. To write US off. To dismiss thoughts, feelings, desires and needs that lean toward the feminine end of the spectrum.

The part of Rucka's post that reminded me of this issue I've been wanting to address was this quote in particular:

There's a second part to the question. The unspoken part.

It's the part where I'm being asked and not, say, Laura Lippman. Because Laura is a woman, and it's presumed therefore that she knows how to write about women, what with having been one her entire adult life. By the same token, Laura Lippman is not asked how it is she can write such convincing, strong male characters. Implicit in her job as a crafter of fiction is the demand that she must. No question need be asked.

   In general it seems that women are made to seem mystical and mysterious or are dismissed as silly and insubstantial. Both extremes have the same effect, giving men an out from the task of attempting to understand and relate to women in ways that are more meaningful than temporary surface efforts to pacify women. It's ok for men to dismiss storytelling about women under the guise that it's only for women. It's considered normal for men to classify anything with a strong female lead, or feminine tone as a "chick flick" or any storyline with a love story that focuses on the female character's perspective or desires as "romance" (and understand I don't mean disrespect to these genres... quite the opposite in fact), as an easy excuse to opt out.

   Maybe we're all missing something in this whole male / female brain-wiring gender gap thing. Maybe most men who inadvertently play in this dismissal of femininity and opt out of the responsibility to understand their fellow earth-mates that is expected of women is actually something else all together. Maybe men are more complicated than they want to let on too... my theory is not fully formulated yet, but I think it's something worth considering that maybe just maybe the cliche' that "women don't know what they want" (so we don't have to either) is true of men as well. Maybe just maybe they dismiss feminine things because they assume we really do want those things all to ourselves. To have an all girls club in some areas. It would explain why so many men get so defensive when women are interested in things they once thought to be exclusively masculine, all the while hoping to have their chosen significant other share their interests.

   The thing is however, that even if this were the case, it's still no excuse. So let me say from my perspective as one lone woman, that I don't. Sure I like having some things to myself... that one box of chocolates that nobody else is allowed to touch, that show I want to watch when nobody else is around because, no, I don't want to hear anybody elses opinion on it. But when it comes to the female experience I absolutely do want you to try your damnedest to understand. To be systematically and personally dismissed doesn't make me feel like I have a fun little secret with my female counterparts. It only ever feels like men just don't care enough to try to relate. So far as I can tell one thing that is present in most women is the desire to be known and loved. The attitude that men can't, and worse, shouldn't have to relate to us is at the very least hurtful... but more important it's extremely damaging. To women, to girls and to our culture on the whole. Which side note, means it's damaging to men too.

---

On Character, Desire and Actions

   There are seasons in our lives when we repeatedly have our noses rubbed in the horrors that lie in our own hearts, and it aches us to know that we can feel and think such disturbingly selfish things. It's easy during these times to discount our efforts to make the right decisions and act in honorable ways because we know that our in our heart we really, REALLY don't want to... and the fact that we don't want to hurts almost as much as the painful circumstances that call us to act in the first place.

   I put together this quote/image thing for all of you going through such times right now, and for those who have in the past or will in the future. I want to remind everyone in such a situation first and foremost that you are a good person for even caring about the state of your heart. For desperately wanting your motivations to come from absolute kindness and not obligation. That is worth a mirror high five in and off itself.

   Now, take a deep breath and do the thing you already know in that conflicted heart of yours to be right. The corresponding feelings will come along when they are good and ready. Sometimes all it takes for your emotions to change is an inciting action, and sometimes it takes being able to look back knowing you did the right thing anyway. Either way? You've got this!

---

20,000 Words

Photo edit by Jason Frega

 
   About a month ago something magical happened... and I have held off writing about it specifically, and in a lot of cases even talking about it, because truth be told I am superstitious and suspicious and  fearful that by nature things don't tend to last. Most things don't, but there are plenty of things that do. Important things. Good things. Being fearful that acknowledging good changes in our lives will somehow change their status as a permanent thing, or speed the process bringing about an almost immediate departure time if those things were meant to be temporary, doesn't really do much in the way of allowing us the freedom to enjoy those things whatever they may be.

   So here's my good thing: writing healed the brokenness in my mind. Not all my problems and not just any kind of writing... but another big shift took place, this time in a really good direction, and I am damn grateful for it. If you were here back in April you most likely read my post in which I admitted that I had fallen back into a state of depression. I sought help like I said I would, I am still seeing a therapist (although less frequently now) and I am still experiencing anxiety attacks (something I actually didn't mention in that post) from time to time, but... BUT! Things are so much better lately. So. Much. Better.

    So, how did writing "heal my head problems"? Well, I received a very helpful recommendation that at the time felt akin to being backed into a corner, but when I responded in trust and stepped in a direction I thought to be backwards, on faith, I found a freedom I haven't known for a long, long time. I was told to funnel my writing efforts in a different direction. A direction that didn't involve direct self introspection or digging into seriously triggering topics anymore, at least for a time. Those things weren't bringing the joy and release that writing had always been for me. Sure it helped me work out my thoughts and crystallize my beliefs on many different topics. But it ceased helping me process my emotions. And that felt like a great big gaping loss.

   In the discussion which this recommendation stemmed from the word fiction was mentioned, and it scared me. It scared me because I had always held fiction up on a pedestal. I didn't trust my mind to formulate ideas worthy of weaving into a story. I had spent years adding more and more constraints to my writing, newer higher standards (that didn't fit my purpose) and ultimately I tried to force my idea of what I would do with this gift that I cherish, into a box that it didn't belong in. A box that allowed me very little room to breathe.

   I did the same thing in many other areas of my life as well, and together all those pieces, those misplaced principles, thoughts and beliefs, built a wall that when fully formed began to cut off my air supply. The good news is that the wall has come down and although a little damage was done in the process it made rebuilding a possibility.

   I am reading fiction again after a long self-imposed, guilt-ridden hiatus. I am also writing fiction for the first time since maybe Middle School. In fact if you follow me on Twitter or are a fan of my Facebook page then you may have already seen the news that I have officially broken the 20,000 word mark on my very first fiction novel. Will it be worthy of publishing when it's done? When I've done all the editing, re-writes, more editing, revisions, and even more editing necessary to turn a draft into an actual book? I don't know for sure. But I'm finally doing the right work. The work that I feel like I was always meant to be doing. I am writing 5 days a week, a minimum of 350 words a day, usually quite a lot more. Eventually that will all add up to a finished first draft, which I know to be only the beginning of a long journey. A journey that I am now officially on. That knowledge alone is enough for me in this moment.

---

The Inner Editor and the Art of Selective Hearing

Sometimes Much of the time I hear voices.

Not audible voices that are indistinguishable from the ones emanating from real people in my life. Nor do they come from animals or inanimate objects. So from the mental health perspective I'd have to say I'm safe. Or at least the most quantifiable pieces and parts that collectively add up to what one would call my sanity is. Safe. From these voices.

Mostly.

But there is a part of me that is not safe if something isn't done to keep said voices in check. That part is the writer in me. Which now that we're talking about it, is a part that is pretty deeply interwoven with all the other vitals that keep me ticking. Neglect the part for long enough and it's implosion, explosion or what have you tends to take the whole down with it. Perhaps not completely. Maybe not all at once. But enough to cause some serious impairments.

So lets talk about how to avoid that shall we?

Being that I happen to be in the metaphorical repair shop (therapy) myself as I type this, dealing with some of the fallout that can happen when you let the voices dictate the volume control for too long, I can at least speak to what doesn't work.

Your inner editor.

The problem with it is that it is both incredibly valuable and incredibly dangerous. Necessary, but like a whiny toddler who made a Mom out of a woman with dormant motherly instincts, if allowed to run the show it will grind all productivity and progress to a halt. It leaves you overwhelmed with the knowledge of responsibility and utterly exhausted despite your love for the gift of the role. After that toddler has been given an inch and taken twenty miles over the course of a day 6:00pm rolls around and you feel like you're preparing dinner in a straight jacket. Absolutely no room to breathe or think straight... or do anything normal of a sane person. You give in more because the results of all the previous giving in has left you wanting to cry in a corner wondering how any parent has ever made it out alive ever. In all of history. Or you snap and become angry mom.

That is what happens when you let your inner editor run loose on content you haven't written yet. It shuts you down at every pass, stalls you up and creates a self-fulfilling writers block the likes of which couldn't be overcome with 50 typewritters and a kitchen full of coffee and wine.

Or it turns you into a critic... but I won't go too far in that direction except to say that you know you're heading down that dead end path when you start wanting to rampage through your closest Barnes & Noble knocking books off the shelves left and right laughing maniacally as you do because "They're all filth! Garbage!" and "Aren't there any real writers left? ARGH!"

Here's the thing. You can't be good until you let yourself suck for a while first.

Give yourself a pass.

Give yourself a chance.

You can't measure up to the great writers of all time right now, as you are, and that's okay. I know you want to. I do too. But holding your unedited first paragraph of an unwritten first draft up against the standard of a completed work done by someone who probably wrote more a day that you've written this year isn't going to inspire you to do better. it's going to shut you right down. Or at least that's what it does to me, and I'm guessing you're not too far off.

Editing as you go has it's place, and I'm not even going to begin to pretend that I won't continue to do it to some small extent moving forward. BUT! Rereading what you just typed after every sentence or two? That's for social media comment sections and perhaps short to medium length blog posts. Twitter? please, please do. Since you've only got 140 characters you don't have much to sit on. But speaking as a blogger who has only ever written essay-styled pieces and poetry until recently, because she let her inner editor control the volume knob for most of her adult life, write fiction with the editor just barely off mute.

How?

Throw away all those little inspirational quotes you've got floating around in your head like "If you don't have time to do it right the first time when will you have time to fix it" and other such well meaning bravado. It. Doesn't. Apply.

Not here. Not for what you're doing. Because what your doing is the thing that actually makes you a writer. You're writing.

And here's a secret. First Drafts always suck.

When the editor in your brain says "not good enough", "cliché"  or "who do you think you are, calling yourself a writer? You're the the Queen of bad grammar and run-on sentences!" tell it "I'll fix it later"

Seriously. Four little words. I'll fix it later.

Because here's the greatest part. You can. No one has to see your process if you don't want them to. You don't have to show your work to anybody until you're sure you've puttied all the holes and painted over all the scuff marks. Heck you don't have to show anybody at all ever, if it really winds up sucking as bad as you think it does.

If you worry about what Grandma or your grown up children will think while you're trying to write, your work will be disjointed and inhibited if it amounts to anything at all.

If you worry about the impact the quality of this book will have on the marketplace reception of every future book you may ever write, someday, in the distant future, while you're writing this one? Good luck carrying the weight of that pack on your back my friend.

Do yourself a favor and put that straight jacket on your inner editor where it belongs until your finished draft has sat on your desk at least long enough for you to have one very well deserved celebratory drink.

I will see you at that finish line.

---

Caution: Detour Ahead

   To me she seemed mostly like her same old self, even as she kept talking about how different she had become. Pointing back to some switch that flipped. If it had, I couldn't tell. At least not until a moment when unimaginable hurt appeared out of nowhere on her face where patience and a slightly unamused smirk would have normally sat.

   What the hell was happening? 

   She was just talking about some characters she was working on and suddenly her face shattered as her arms flew up and came back down, hands in fists. Her knees popped up as her feet pushed off the floor. All  of it seemingly in one motion. In one moment... it's as if she forgot she was buckled into the seat of our car and instead thought she was slamming her elbows down on a dining table, for emphasis while violently standing up to storm away after a heated argument.

   In the very next breath she was sobbing and blubbering incessant apologies for having yelled... Then insisting through tears that she was fine, please keep driving. Telling me to calm down.

   Where did my wife go? Maybe she really was as crazy as she claimed.

---

Slut Shaming: What Happens When Women Judge Each Other

   I get it. I understand the distinction you are trying to make. But what you don't get, when you sit there slamming another womans choices, is that it doesn't help us on the whole. It doesn't make the world respect us any more to hear you talk about her lack of respect for herself. Your slut shaming hate speak may feel morally informed and dignified and it may garner you the accolades and temporary praise from the men in your life. But what you don't understand is, she isn't harming the image of women. You are. You have no way of knowing by looking at her whether her mode of dress feels degrading or empowering inside that precious head of hers. You may get a vibe, and as a woman with instincts about such things it could often times prove to be right... but how do you know if that gut reaction isn't resonating from a different place in your mind? From programmed beliefs about the way a woman is supposed to behave... or maybe from latent desires or fears. From memories of times when the world lashed out at you for the very same offense. On whatever scale.

   The most important point you're missing though is that you're inadvertently making yourself a point of reference. The men who overhear your comments, many times without even realizing it or intending to do it, file that information away and pull it out as precedence... license to judge the intentions of women by the way they look and dress. Do you see the difference? When we women judge other women by the length of their skirts we do so with an intrinsic knowledge most men don't come equipped with. We are judging their decisions. You are judging someone who had the same or similar options laid out before her along with the same or similar consequences and she chose differently than you. That's what you are judging. But men don't get the privilege of hearing that subconscious internal dialogue. And they aren't generally presented with those same options... even if they were, the consequences are so greatly different that it's impossible to infer our female experience from a single set of similar circumstances from time to time.

   Men see the external result of your internal experience that lead you to verbalize something negative about another woman's appearance, and they think that makes it okay for them to judge women on this level too. Both are bad. It's wrong to think this way of someone else regardless of your gender... but the judgement you're helping to perpetuate in men through your hateful talk isn't the same brand as your own. Men are (generally speaking) judging intentions not decisions. They can only assume what went into that decision, unlike us women who know, at least in part the different factors at play. And we all know assuming is dangerous.

   When we say "that's so attention seeking" guys interpret that through the male lens. It must be a certain type of attention she's seeking... You can see where I'm going with this...

    So by all means teach modesty to your daughters. Carefully so as not to imply undue guilt, or disproportionate levels of responsibility on her if she doesn't follow your teaching to the letter... as most children growing into adults are prone to do...  or heaven forbid she chooses a different path altogether. But please make sure you're not inadvertently teaching misogyny to your sons and brothers and husbands.

   Women may not have power in many areas, inequality is everywhere... but don't for a second underestimate the power of our words. We move mountains with our tongues. Let's do our best to stop shooting ourselves in the foot under the guise that it's about her and not about us.

---

Brief Life Update

   I haven't been posting much lately... and really, my posting frequency has gone down steadily over this past year despite every intention for it to be the opposite of that (although at least from my own self-assessment I do believe the quality of the content has improved). I've given a few reasons here and there. They were honest, but they weren't the whole story. The whole story is that I have a predisposition toward a commonly misunderstood mental illness called depression. You've all heard of it, and I'm sure some of my readers have experienced it. It is different for each person in the way that it manifests. For me, this decade since my first major depressive episode have been spent being constantly on guard against the natural slant of my own mind.

   Recently, it would seem that I let my guard down a tad too much... It's back. And I am seeking treatment. No need to worry. But, I am still finding it incredibly difficult to engage in the activities that normally bring me joy and fulfillment. This includes my writing. For that I am sorry.

  I will push through. And I will write when and where I can. This topic in particular is near and dear to my heart and I long to share this experience I'm going through with the world around me, because it's important. Not because it's me, but because it's so, so many other people too. People who on top of their internal suffering, fear an unnecessary negative stigma that may increase their already existing paralysis enough to prevent them from getting help. Or from admitting, even to themselves, that they need, it.

   So I'll do my best to be painfully honest through this ordeal. I'll do my best to resist the overwhelming urge to sit in silence. Because depression is a disease that feeds itself with it's self-created desire to stay sick. And I'm not going to give it that fuel.

Much love to you all,

Cat

---

How Rape Culture Affects My Writing

    I've been making notes to myself on the different directions I want to delve into on the topic of my last post. That topic of course being rape culture. There are so many tangents and components and underlying issues, some that even seem entirely unrelated, that all need tackling. And it seems as though I've overwhelmed myself by starting/promising a series without first drafting an outline of any kind. So, while I do plan to continue on in writing up well thought out posts on the subject that go a little deeper into many of the individual yet not easily untangled aspects, right now I am simply going to write a bit off the cuff... about why I haven't written anything since that post.

   There are of course the seemingly important daily life reasons. Distractions. Laundry piled Every. Where. Seriously everywhere. Boxes that still need unpacking. Meals that need to be made. The kid and I getting sick. My parents having to put their cat, whom I lived with for many years, to sleep. Easter and the production I was a part of for our church service (that I got to learn and perform a bit of sign language for). And of course the crazy day before any holiday craziness in which I decide last minute that it is absolutely necessary to learn a brand new (and always time consuming) baking skill. This time it was decorating cookies using homemade royal icing. Unfortunately I didn't get any good pictures before they were devoured.

   Then there are the more sincere reasons. The fact that my last post was fueled by a level of anger the likes of which cannot be safely maintained for any length of time without some kind of major fallout. There's my general lack of motivation I've been battling for several months... and then there's my fear. The fear of the potential backlash a woman speaking out on these topics can and does all too often receive. A big part of the fury that resulted in my last post was as a direct result of the horrible things people were saying to and about women on the internet in response to the Steubenville case and others like it. The lengths to which some people will go to intimidate and belittle women for any number of "offenses".

   It's a scary world to live in as a woman. And I can't even imagine what it must be like for the millions of women who have it so much worse than me... Women who live in parts of the world where the threat against them is much more urgent and pressing. Being a moment to moment issue rather than a day to day thing in which my biggest concerns are being hyper aware of my surroundings when walking to my car that I own through a mostly deserted parking garage, some extremely uncomfortable leering and the occasional worry that if I hit that publish button on that blog I wrote on my laptop in the comfort of my home, it just might be the day that something I wrote goes viral... only instead of accolades and a widened reader base I will have an inbox filled with death and rape threats from men hiding behind the anonymity of the internet. As so many female bloggers have had happen to them. This is one of those things that I believe escapes the understanding or acknowledgement of even some of the best men out there... the fact that while they may fear criticism when sharing an opinion they almost never have to worry about someone dismissing everything they say as invalid solely on how they dress or the mere existence of whatever gender specific body parts they happen to have.

   So, there you have it. I'm overwhelmed and afraid. But I also feel deeply called to this task... and however long it may take, I will write about this. But I will also write about other things as well, as the desire or inspirations hit me... 

---

On Rape Culture; A Message to the Good Guys

I

Am

Furious

I have been trying to find the words to meld together and organize into comprehensible sentences. Thoughts. A message. But I am mostly just overwhelmed by the one thing I feel so compelled to write about. I avoid it in general, when and where I can because I don't want to feel like I'm contributing to a culture of victim thinking... which is a whole problem all it's own that desperately needs to be dealt with. A pervasive issue that is affecting everything from interpersonal relationships to big scale government corruption. I also know the crippling nature of anger in our lives and how focusing too much on the injustices around us causes us to internalize a severe amount of hurt and fear and rage. How that is a poison that if we allow it, can ruin everything good we experience. It undermines our ability to process humor and connection and joy. But...

But.

I need to write about rape culture. I can't avoid it anymore. Because it's own brand of poison has already taken root in my life and refusing the antidote because if its negative side effects is no longer an option. I need to talk about it because simply acknowledging the good guys out there and focusing on them isn't enough to balance out the prevailing attitudes that are so dangerous to women. It's the good guys that I need to speak to about this. Because while I am furious at CNN (and other media outlets) for sympathizing with the Steubenville rapists, it is true that the were good students with promising futures and talent in the athletic arena. And that info, while delivered with the entirely wrong slant, is important to know. Because most rapists have good qualities in addition to the bad. They are people. Not creatures waiting in an alleyway at night only existing in the moment of their crime.

The reason I want to talk to the good guys is because while they know what consent means, they are interacting daily with other males who do not, and it's easy to assume that they do. It's easy to write off things that their friends and co-workers and family members say as being a joke rather than something indicative of a thinking problem. It's easy as human beings to live our lives under the assumption that the people we are surrounded with, for the most part, know what we know. At a base level believe what we believe.

It's also easy to assume of ourselves that because we would never intentionally disregard someone else's physical boundaries and act on our urges against their will, that our attitudes and our talk to and about other human beings are innocent and respectful. It's too easy to fall back on "normal" and not question ourselves.Or where that brand of thinking came from. But my point that I am trying to get to, is that by the time we are in a court room debating what  does and does not constitute consent we have already long since failed. The fact that someone who was otherwise a "good person" (whatever that means... we're all capable of evil) was able to act in a way that is so ridiculously far off of the correct path is proof that somewhere along the way we as a society, whether that be a small HS football town, a family or the whole country, began taking little steps in the wrong direction.

Please. Do not confuse what I've said to mean that I actually think there was ever a point in time where things were 100% on the right track in this regard. I don't. But I do Think that there are many men who've got it as close to right as a human can get when it comes to their attitude toward women. Now and throughout our history. But... it's not being taught for the most part. The closest I feel we're getting outside of a few communities that go out of their way to focus on it, is trial, error, backlash and a lot of people left feeling like they're mangled and/or walking on eggshells.


To be honest I feel both of those things. Right now.

And while there is so much more to say I have to leave you with a cliffhanger. Because from here there are multiple different components of the problem that each deserve their own post... and they will get them....

To be Continued...

---

Creating Characters in a World Worth Saving

   Sometimes I think that it's necessary to live with a certain amount of sadness in order to be a creator. Other times I get indignant over that line of thought asserting loudly within the confines of my own mind that it's a fallacy that one must be tortured to be an artist. Things being mutually exclusive is actually quite rare if you think about it. You can hear thunder and not see lightning but if you are close enough to lighting to see it, you will hear the resulting thunder at some point however faint it may be. Unless of course you are deaf.

   Or something like that anyways... I am no expert on weather. In fact I am far less intelligent that I'd like to think that I am... and have others think that I am. But I am also far more intelligent than I feel many people give me credit for. And this is where much of my sadness comes in. It comes in regards to peoples perception of me and my abilities. It comes in the dissonance between what I know lies within me and what I gather of peoples impression of me... because of my lack of action. They don't know because I don't share. They don't see because I don't do. I just think. Think far too much, and spill far to little.  And due to my lack of practice in the making external what is internal, when I do, it isn't eloquent enough to be fully comprehended. Not like when I write. Although that could use some work too... but this thing called talking, it is my biggest downfall... if we're not counting connecting, because I'm far worse at that. At least I think I am...

   And so there it is. All still about what I think versus what others perceive. Too much time spent analyzing my own introspection. Too much thought focused on myself.

   I'm feeling pushed again, as a writer to go a new direction. At the same time as traveling the original one that I did not stick closely enough to, I confess... I need to get out of my head and write about others for a bit. Create characters. Maybe explore the people in my story that aren't me. Because while mine is the story I'm telling, it's really for the benefit of the supporting characters. Isn't that what life is about? What fun is being the hero of your story if you don't develop the characters that make up the world you are supposed to save?

   The time in my life finally came when I felt honest in identifying myself as a writer. But now it is time to shift from a journalist (in the sense of a personal journal or diary) to a novelist. Someone who sees others as stories as well. Not just herself. This worldview I've been looking through is feeling a bit narrow. And as it turns out the hand restricting my air supply is my own.

---

Sing Me Something That I Know...

   As far back as I can remember I have been plagued by this feeling that I just don't quite fit in with my peers. In some ways this has been a great blessing and in others it has felt like a curse. It has fueled some really poor decision making, especially during my teen years. But who can't say they've experienced that to some extent? We all feel like the odd man out at least every once in a while. The problem is how we respond to that feeling when it becomes a looming overtone in our lives. For me I went through various stages of trying to fit in and then trying to rebel in my pre-adulthood years. Looking back what is most funny to me is how much more I "fit in" when I was trying my hardest not to. The way in which all of us high school rebels rebelled in such similar fashion that we wound up just being another group of separate sameness. We all bought our "uncool" clothes at the same stores, listened to the same too-heavy-for-mainstream bands (that were for the most part pretty widely accepted among the mainstream) and smoked the same cigarettes on the same corner every morning before school.

   Don't get me wrong, I actually liked the aesthetic (still do... sorry) and some of the music. But in trying to be different and proud I wound up eschewing the things which actually made me different. I narrowed my focus and my tastes to only those things that were cool within the uncool crowd. If anyone hinted that they knew of my secret love of mellow music with tight harmonies, or my preference of tense thriller movies over the gruesome shock factor movies everyone seemed to be boasting, I would swear up and down that it wasn't true. I was scared that my interest in or love of some things would negate the validity of my status in others. That I would get the dreadful label of "poser" if I didn't preemptively inform everyone that "No, really, I was wearing my Dad's ties before Avril did it in that cheesy video" (that I secretly loved). And even though it was true I stopped wearing them when she started because she was making a mockery of our subculture with her badly written lyrics and bubblegum infused style. I didn't want to be associated with it... at least not publicly.

   I also wouldn't admit to knowing all the lyrics to my parents Simon & Garfunkel albums, or the songs on the country radio station we always had playing in the family home and cars... If you asked whether I enjoyed playing board games or putting together puzzles with my parents I would definitively tell you no. Mission trips and family vacations? I did those because I had to! Totally sucked. I basically didn't like anything... liking things, being enthusiastic wasn't cool, unless of course it was stuff that creeped "normal" people out. In fact I went so far as to pretend I liked spiders for something like two years... in which I actually picked them up with my bare hands to carry them outside and save them from being squished, all while my stomach was tying itself in knots and I was desperately attempting to not hurl the thing at the nearest hard surface and run the other way! All to prove what a bad ass I was. Seriously. What could be more lame?

   Things started to change as I began to heal from some of the bad decisions alluded to earlier... in the midst of the healing process, while I was just vulnerable enough to be open to it, I was introduced to a band I would likely never have listened to during my rebel stage. To this day I am not one to loudly endorse a particular musical group, mostly out of fear that they won't stand the test of time and I will look back on my enthusiastic writings about them and feel the same way I do when I crack open one of my high school diaries. Embarrassed. Because I really don't know that much about music, except for the way it makes me feel and the impact it has on my life as a result.... but Bleed American by Jimmy Eat World was a saving grace to me at that time in my life. I think most people found themselves uplifted and comforted by the single The Middle. I was no exception. And I still feel that way when it comes on, but I hadn't yet heard that song (if I remember correctly) when the album made it's way into my hands and then made it's home in my car stereo, where it for the most part stayed on repeat for years. It was energetic and mellow, challenging and comforting. Something about it felt like home. I could listen for hours, days, weeks on end without growing tired. I would change the CD only because I felt like at some point I should, only to return to it shortly thereafter. It was cathartic. I fell for it. And for once I wasn't afraid of what the rest of the rebels might say. They were already talking about me in much worse ways so what did I have to loose? I wore Jimmy Eat World Tshirts to school and sang along at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled down regardless of who I might pull up next to at the next stop light. I cried through Hear You Me more times than I can count. And I resolved over and over to not spend my life wondering, standing in the back just looking around...

   A Praise Chorus is what I think of immediately when I think of that album, that band, but most importantly that time in my life. A time when I freed myself up to like what I like because I liked it, and that's it. A time when I decided to re-inhabit my own body and do everything I could to be the person that I wanted to be. It's no surprise it felt like home... the chorus of it with things, snippets, of songs I didn't even know that I knew. A reminder of a childhood spent listening to and learning things about other people's lifetimes... not just mine. Not just my high school bubble of black clothing ripped apart and put back together with safety pins while Korn songs played in the background as I snuck another cigarette hanging out my parents bathroom window. It subtly reminded me that I was more than the stage I was in. I was a whole person, not just an image of one.

   And so all that being said, I did something I've always been a little leery of... something that felt like giving too much importance to a fleeting thing. A lyric. I tattooed a lyric on my skin.... well technically I didn't do it, a very talented artist did ... but still. I got a lyric tattooed on me in permanent ink. But if there was ever any lyric it was this one... because it is the opposite of fleeting. It has already lasted the test of time. And while it reminds me of the feeling a particular album gives me first and foremost, it also reminds me that there is more to me than one genre. I can and do love Tommy James and the Shondells, Joan Jett and Jimmy Eat World. And that is more than ok in my book.

Over and over... and over... and...

---

Real Time Writing: My Reaction To Senseless Violence

   This has traditionally not been a place for content aggregation. I have lines and dividers in my head as to what I have designated each of my social media outlets for and have been mostly very strict with my blog. Other places I have allowed my own lines to blur quite a bit to suite specific situations and circumstances, but I have tried to remain very ridged in keeping this blog a place for personal creation. My own content. But, while some of the content I will be aggregating in this post is my own, some is not, because I feel it is important enough to warrant a "more serious" platform than a retweet or facebook share.  And frankly, I don't have many more words left on the subject than those I bled out yesterday in the events immediate wake. I still to this moment feel very drained of my biggest natural resource, words. Cohesive thoughts even.

    So here to start are the words I could form, that in haste made their way to Facebook before I could fully fathom the thought of piecing together a full post over here... but now, in hindsight I realize that they were more than enough, if only for the reason that they are, still, all that I have:

   I don't have much to add to that, from my own well of thoughts, feelings, wisdom, etc. But I do have a link or two I would like to share with you from other people and sources that I find to be of value in this overwhelming wake.

   The first is from Kim over at Momma by the Bay in regards to media, children and the dangers of how media coverage efforts negatively effect survivors, specifically children survivors. Her account of her own personal experience with school violence and prodding reporters is absolutely chilling and blood boiling at the same time. To The Media, Regarding Newtown

   The second is this heart wrenching article written by Liza Long over at Gawker with the telling title I Am Adam Lanza's Mother. This particular message hit so incredibly close to home as I spent a decent amount of time myself in and out of mental health facilities as a teenager, observing first hand a wide spectrum of the effect that mental illness can have on a person as well as the endless miles of red tape and paperwork and hoops set ablaze for frightened and bewildered family members to navigate. It's a scary place. Our culture is quick to diagnose and prescribe, but still so incredibly unwilling to acknowledge the extremes of mental illness. The reality of it.... just, read the article, it's so, so very important.

  I thought there was more.... but I seem to have lost track of the "good" stuff I read since yesterday... and I just don't have the heart to be searching for more information on this tragedy. A friend did share this link that, while not directly related, is so very, very related in an indescribable way. For when there is tragedy, somewhere else, in that moment, someone is doing an incredible good on behalf of another human being. Kindness still exists. Let's amplify it: 26 Moments That Restored Our Faith in Humanity.

   I apologize for the lack of editing. On this and other recent posts, while I'm at it. I'm finally beginning to realize that this is what blogging is really about. Real time writing. Not perfection.

---

Hands That Feel Like Home

This is a love letter.

But not to a person... only a part of a person. A part of this person. The part of this person that physically embodies all of the qualities that the owner loves as a whole. Her hands.

My hands.

These hands.

Only now am I realizing how much more they mean to mean than even my eyes which I guard fervently as if made of precious gemstones. These hands instead are scarred and yet still sacred. Neglected and yet the most loved body part of all. The only really, for which I have not at one point or another given myself grief. They have never felt inadequate. I have never looked at them and thought that they were too big, too small, too fleshy or round or otherwise wrong.

These hands have never betrayed me. They've always done what's asked of them even when that very thing was self-destructive in nature. Even when I used them to hurt myself... they were still, in those moments, tentative, apologetic... even unexpectedly gentle. I have used them to do bad things that is sure but though they obeyed they always had in them a bit of beautiful defiance.

They have also been responsible, to a point, for everything I've done of which I am proud. They are the vessel that transfers these words from my my mind into readable text... on paper, on a screen. With a keyboard or with a pen. They at times make music... and at others they caress. They paint detailed intricate designs on faces of women who long to feel beautiful... including the one to which they are by association attached. They change diapers, stroke toddler curls and sometimes with a tinge of reluctance and love they spank. These hands they love the dirt... almost as much as they love running water. One on of these hands is a finger and on that finger resides the most important piece of jewelery I will ever own. The other is connected directly through bone and skin and blood to a stretch of embedded ink that reminds me who I am and to whom I belong. Sometimes these hands are well nourished and aptly decorated... but mostly they are slightly dry and sporting cracked nail polish.

But in spite of what the world may see. In spite of the things they are and are not capable of. I have never seen them as anything less than perfect. And anything less than mine. I may chew my hangnails and I may rip torn fingernails away with my teeth... but there is no part of my body that has ever felt more me.

---

How I Revive

   I am an introvert. I can fake otherwise when needed, but really, it's in my bones. In some ways to an extreme. I know I've written on this before, but one of those ways is my core need for alone time. Completely alone. Not just "we'll give you some space" but all the way alone. What I do doesn't change for the most part, during that time, but what a lot of people don't understand is the basic level of mental and emotional work involved for an introvert that comes with knowing that there's a slight chance someone might hear what your listening to or walk through the room your in to get to the bathroom. It is really ridiculous in some ways  but I've found it to be true. The best example I can think of for this is my varying degrees of comfort and rest during my child's nap time. When he is actually all the way in a deep sleep (quick moment of thanks for video monitors), we're at home just the two of us I can do just about anything I feel like doing aside from blasting loud music or movies, but listening/watching is an option. Reading. A relaxing bath. Working out. A lot of great things are options. But I still feel trapped and worried. And let me just say that going up to get him after his nap is one of the best parts of my day, so it's not a bad trapped... just, still ever so slightly draining. If he's restless or taking a long time to fall asleep then my stress level surges almost past the point when we're both awake in the same room together... because, darn it, he's supposed to be sleeping and I can't focus on anything until I know for sure that he is. Save for a few rare exceptions, the only time I feel like I can truly charge my batteries is when I am completely alone.

   In that respect, this has already been the best day I've had in ages. I know I get to go be social, in a way that I am excited about, later.... but this morning? Pure alone fuel. I can blast my music, and I have been, but if I just don't feel like it then I don't feel bad because there's no one here that I feel I have to answer to as to why the option matters if I'm not going to exercise it! And again, 99% of the time I could do the same things I've been doing this morning with no questions, and in fact with the blessing of those people whom I share my life with (and love doing so). But it's just not. the. same. Logical or not.

 Photo by Lindsay Grace Designs - March 2012

   And speaking of exercising options... God, does it feel good to really get into exercising, specifically hooping, again after a semi extended hiatus. As I mentioned in my previous post, I kind of lost motivation for some of my healthy habits when I purged an unhealthy one that had crept up. I didn't trust the actions because my motivations are so capable of, and prone to morphing... into something bad. So I walked on the treadmill here and there, which felt pretty good, but strangely enough I gave up the physical activities that brought the highest level of fun into my  fitness life. I missed my hoop. Today for the first time in months I really let go and got into a rhythm. And it felt like a windows down car ride and great conversation with an old friend in the crispness of early fall... with a spice latte in hand. It was so invigorating and cozy at the same time. I am on a high and can't stop smiling right now. I am so impressed by the marvels of muscle memory... the fact that after spending so much time trying to master a trick going in the opposite direction that comes naturally to me, all it took was a break and a renewed excitement for the activity, the fun of it not the mechanics... and I got it mostly down in under 40 minutes!

   Sorry for gushing. That's not normally me.... but that's what I've got right now. What is fueling you these days? What is your go-to recharge activity? When was the last time you did it?

---

Confessions of an Addictive Personality

   I have a confession to make. A pretty serious one that I wasn't really planning on making public via my blog any time in the near future for many reasons. Several of those reasons being a possible hit to my level of credibility to those I don't personally know, potential worry in the hearts and minds of people I do know closely (whom I care about deeply), and the early release of some personal information that could take away some of the mystery and intrigue that might drive people to want to read my book... someday, when it's finished being written... But, as a result of some inspiring discussion during Adult Sunday School at church these past few weeks, I feel compelled to share something about myself with the world that I think could help provide some validation and comfort to people out there with similar struggles. People who have overcome an addiction only to find themselves a period of time later heading down a similar path only with a different vice. So there it is, I don't have an addiction (right now), but I do have an addictive personality.

   Before you roll your eyes and think to yourself "who doesn't?" or "that's not even a real thing" let me tell you what I mean... share a little bit of my story, however silly it may seem on the outside. Those reading this that knew me when I was high-school aged will not be surprised by this but others may be... I dealt with some rather serious substance abuse and self injury issues. Went through both inpatient and outpatient treatment at a behavioral health center, meet with multiple counselors and therapists, and spent several years attending NA (Narcotics Anonymous) meetings. With the help of my family and several key professionals I was able to really turn things around. Save for one relapse in each of those separate, but simultaneous, addictions I stopped using drugs and cutting myself. That was a LOT of work and at the time it felt like more than enough... and so I continued to smoke (cigarettes) for several years afterwards until I "quit". Quit being in parenthesis because what I really did was go from smoking nearly a pack a day (sometimes more, sometimes less) at my peak, to smoking a cigarette here or there on special occasions when I was out with friends or was extremely stressed. That did lead to a increase in use for a short span of a few months in the midst of wedding planning back in 2008 in which I even began buying full packs on my own again and stashing them in the glove box of my car to save for the next night out, but inevitably giving in much more frequently than intended.

   Many people wouldn't see the above as being enough to make a case for an addictive personality with smoking being such a widespread habit in our society and something that is physically difficult for just about anybody to quit once they've started... but the thing is this, outside of one particular vice that crept up more recently, everything that has seeped its way in since my extreme days of drug use and slicing my skin open, has been relatively tame. Outwardly and inwardly difficult to detect. Some of it downright ridiculous.. like this next one that I'm going to share with you. So please bear with me, and if possible try to keep the chuckles to a minimum. ....I got hung up on pizza. No, seriously. Not just overeating, but a specific emotional dependency on this one food above all others. I know... but, really, I ate pizza almost daily, and many times multiple times a day. If an uncomfortable emotion reared its ugly head so did an insatiable craving for the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle food of choice. I gained weight, had to have my wedding dress let out (then taken back in when I stupidly decided to balance my pizza habit with gross Lean Cuisine frozen meals to lose what I had gained in such a short time frame), and wound up having to take prescription medication for acne that seemed to show up out of nowhere (go figure). None of these things was I able to put together until after the 'phase' had run its course. This particular addiction ended naturally when I got pregnant and lost my insane obsession with the food. I still like it but am in no way the fanatic that I was.

   The next one in line began sort of in the middle of the last one, that one being the internet. And this is my first time saying anything about it to anyone, ever, because it's still going on (strong) and there are just too many things that the internet provides that I am not willing to give up, mainly this blog. My writing is one of the healthiest habits I have... but the truth is the rest of the internet is usually what is getting in the way of it. When I go weeks without posting it's generally not because I'm out doing interesting things living an interesting life that I can in turn write about... it's because I'm caught up compulsively refreshing my Facebook, Tumblr and Pinterest feeds. Seeking the instant gratification that they provide all the while digging the hole that is my need for validation deeper and deeper by the minute. Hours pass every day while I sit staring at a screen, be it the desktop, laptop or phone (usually phone) comparing myself to the entirety of the internet, but contributing little to nothing. This problem, I know, is far more widespread than people with an addictive personality, but I consider it a valid chapter in my book of addictions because of the risks I have willingly taken to spend just one more minute browsing... risks like, at the time, losing my job. It never came to that of course. But people were getting in trouble for it every day. My backlog of emails got bigger and bigger and still, every time eyes weren't on me I un-minimized the tiny, almost unreadable window I had tucked away behind my inbox. And I REALLY hate admitting this now so publicly, knowing that the people on my team who I let down by doing this could read it someday. I am SO sorry. Truly.

   I typed that last sentence then checked my Facebook despite my best intentions to finish this. Get it ALL said...

    Back on a more linear timeline (forgive me, things tend to bleed together and overlap quite a lot) next up I discovered that what pregnancy cured in terms of unhealthy eating habits, my post pregnancy body pushed in the opposite direction. It started off fine and good. Really good actually. Healthier and happier than I had ever been. Healthier, happier and smaller. I began working out religiously and became completely obsessive about what I would and would not allow into my body. When I wasn't reading labels I was reading weight loss articles on any number of topics from the dangers of sugar to the proper balance between cardio and weight training and the best time of day to work out. If I wasn't doing either of those I was spending hours on Tumblr looking at pictures of incredibly tiny, fit, and many times underweight people, watching instructional workout videos to learn proper technique and reading "fitspirational" quotes. Workout done for the day? Doesn't matter I'm getting up and down from that chair anyways might as well do 10 more squats... while I'm at it 25 more crunches.... Surprisingly I managed to keep a relatively healthy attitude as well until I came nearer and nearer to reaching my goal weight. It was then that the voice inside my head wanting to see "just one less pound" on the scale got so loud I couldn't ignore it. I knew that despite my mouth telling everyone including myself that I would stop once I hit that goal ("which [is] technically within the healthy weight range for my height by the way"), it wasn't what I really intended to do. Thankfully around this time enough people took notice, and after confessing my unhealthy thought process about my weight loss to a few key people, the obsession faded and wilted away. Unfortunately so did a lot of my motivation to be healthy, because honestly I just didn't trust it.

   That last one was one of the more intense ones, especially having known some people who have struggled with eating disorders and the severe repercussions they can have mentally as well as physically. But this last one I have to share with you is the hardest and most embarrassing of all to admit because of what it means. Or what I fear it means. A higher admission of failure than all the rest. Because really what it is... what I'm admitting here means that some of the success I have claimed since that time of origin back in high school when my addictions began, isn't real. Wasn't real. Not a full victory anyways. A big one yes, that can't be taken away from me, but not a complete victory.

   ...so, here it is. I still self injure. Not with blades or pins or scratches of my fingernails... and well over 90% of the time with no blood. I do it with tweezers. I pick. When I get stressed or bored... or empty... I attack any stray hair on my body that resides below my collarbones. That's why the neat little white lines on my legs have darker tiny circles surrounding them. That's why sometimes I wince when putting my arms down to my sides after raising them. I feel so very gross admitting this... but it needs to be done. I almost never shave my armpits because there is rarely enough left to shave after my often daily tweezing sessions. And if I do it hurts like crazy so when it gets bad I just don't go sleeveless that day, even if it's 98º outside. I even got lazer hair removal at one point last year, not to make my life easier by saving time in the shower, but so that there wouldn't be hair for me to pick... it didn't work. Sorry for any uncomfortable visuals I'm causing here. I wish I weren't... but hopefully at least some of you understand, I need to. I need to not brush it off or minimize it. I must expose this part of myself for what it is if I ever hope to heal from it.

   Also, caffeine....

   (Had, to break up all that seriousness)

   So, the thing is, I don't have a final statement here. A wrap up paragraph with an uplifting message of how I'm getting better now, or advice to share for those who have similar struggles. I got nothing. Nothing but this confession and a bit of a shift of weight from my shoulders to the pit of my stomach over the prospect of hitting the publish button. I can say I'll keep trying. Keep analyzing... keep my guard up against all of these things and the ones just chomping at the bit to take their place. But I have to say that I'm damn tired. Exhausted if I'm baring it all...

   ...and I am.

---

How (Not) to Talk to a Woman Trying To Conceive

   So here's the thing. The thing that I have been avoiding writing about. Talking about. Even thinking about when possible, because if I don't it entirely takes over my mind for days, weeks... months. I haven't shared it with most people because, well, it's awkward. Or at least it is to me. But the fact of the matter is that we, my husband and I, are trying to get pregnant with a second child. I didn't want to announce it because I knew there would be interest, questions, inquiries as to "how it's going" and I really didn't think I could bear it. I still am not quite sure... but I do know that as a writer it is best to write what you know, and all my heart and mind know right now revolves around the raw emotions, hopes and fears relating to trying to conceive. Or TTC if you frequently Google possible pregnancy symptoms, which I do. On the regular.

   This whole endeavor is a wild rollercoaster ride of elation, nervousness, longing and despondency. Add to that the prospect of parents, in-laws and acquaintances asking innocent, well-meaning, but still somehow prodding personal questions about what ultimately is your sex life, and you can understand why the whole thing makes me want to vomit. Which in turn makes me wonder if my nausea could in fact be a symptom... a sign, that maybe, just maybe this is our month. All this melodrama is a bit much for me to take. And so I kept it as quiet as I could for as long as I could, but the thing is, these are the things I love to read about. People transparently opening up their hearts for others to read. Things that you know were painful to write. That and at this point it's about time I reached out for support. Step out of lurkerdom and joined the ranks of TTC women on the internet sharing their stories. Being a part of the community instead of just observing it from the sidelines. Use my keyboard for more than incessant search engine inquiries. 

   Where we're at is this; we spent three months "not trying not to" get pregnant. The first month I was disappointed when my most unwelcome monthly visitor (AF) knocked on my proverbial door, but mostly it was because the two week wait makes you crazy and I didn't look forward to another one. The next month same deal but this time my motivations shifted slightly more in favor of actually wanting a pregnancy for the sake of you know, having a child (not that I hadn't the month before, we were both just a tad gun-shy with the whole toddler tearing our house apart thing going on) but my main gripe was just hating the "Am I or Aren't I?" head trip. The third month I was tired of feeling like a lunatic for two weeks but I had finally come around to wholehearted excitement over the notion of a positive pregnancy test. No more trepidation, no more feeling like it was still a bit soon, just outright desire for the little pink plus sign (or BFP as it's referred to in this 'circle' which of course stands for Big Fat Positive... Duh). After all of that back and forth we had a discussion and agreed that we were on the same page. It was time to actually, you know, try.

   All signs were pointing to a positive until this morning when a new "symptom" appeared.... one that historically has always been an indicator that Aunt Flow's train had departed the station and would be at the arrival gate within a few days... so, ya, TMI I am sure, but how many euphemisms can I use before I start to get graphic here? Anyway... I had a good cry, one very large cup of hot chocolate, which if you follow me on Twitter unfortunately is not quite as good for you as water, yet, despite my deepest desires. Then I took the two year old up to bed for his nap, sat my butt down and began to type this. This appeal for understanding, grace and possibly even some prayers on our behalf if you would be so kind.

 Photo (from my 1st pregnancy) by A.J. Olson

   So if I refuse the coffee you offer  me or don't take you up on that really tasty looking beer please think back to this post and feel free to give me your best knowing look, even a gentle nudge, shoulder grab or hug if you feel so inclined... but if you can, kindly bite your tongue when those pesky questions inevitably try to make their way up your throat... because you just might have a mini recap of this morning's cryfest on your hands if you don't.

NOTE: I'm not always an emotional mess so if you're a fan of jumping through hoops for a little conversation or are just that curious you are welcome to ask if you can ask... I know tedious, but I am only recommending it for your own good. Promise.

---

Once More on Writing...

   I haven't been writing much lately, not here and really not anywhere. I can't tell whether my self imposed daily writing requirement burned me out or if it was actually helping. Either way I'm sure my attitude going in to each days writing (most days of which could be more accurately described as merely typing) did more to harm my spirit than the practice itself. The results of this exercise remind me of the saying I've heard countless times "Practice doesn't make perfect, only perfect practice makes perfect". Meaning doing the same thing over and over again, making the same mistakes, going into the activity with the wrong motivations only builds a form of mental muscle memory that propels you to further repeat your mistakes. The wrongness (behaviors or thought patterns) become quickly ingrained. Doing something right 3 times, even if it takes longer, does more towards perfecting (or at least mastering) your craft than doing it wrong 30 times.

   With writing this is hard to gauge since how do you know, being a writer and not an editor (and oh God am I not an editor), what exactly you are doing wrong. And what constitutes as perfection or mastery? While I don't have those answers figured out in their entirety I do know that mentally viewing writing as a chore has done nothing to improve my output or the quality of it. This does not mean that the exercise was a wastes however, in fact, it was the opposite. I learned something about myself. While inspiration does most often "find me working" (come when I am actively writing in spite of a lack of inspiration), if I am going through the motions begrudgingly... if I don't get my head right in advance of touching my fingers to the keyboard or my pen to paper, then I am warding off inspiration even more effectively than if I were not writing at all.

   So here's to an attitude shift. A renewed resolution to view my writing as a gift. A responsibility rather than an obligation... the distinction of which makes all the difference.

---

Participation (not) Required

   So here's the deal, I am not one for self-promotion or shameless advertising, and as such I have shied away from contests, giveaways and anything else that could come off as a ploy to boost my number of followers without actually earning them through quality content. But, while I do have a decent number of readers who I've gained slowly over time (that I am truly grateful for), my fear of self-promotion has not seemed to do anything helpful in terms of gaining a lively and interested group of readers... a community. Because, as you see, not many people know that I'm here, since I don't... you know... tell them.

   That being the case, I am going to attempt to be a little more straightfoward and try this whole speaking-what-I-want-into-existence thing... I've heard it really works. So ultimately what I'm looking for is a growing readership of people who are interested in jumping in and discussing a wide variety of topics. I would like for my words to make it out to a wide audience, and hopefully to make a positive impact in doing so. I would be lying if I said that the lack of interaction this whole blogging thing has attained thus far isn't discouraging. I have let it get to me and my motivation to create new content has been wavering for a few months now... so I'm putting this out to you guys, the wonderful, amazing. loyal followers that I do have... what makes you want to keep coming back. What type of self-advertising is appealing to you? What does a blogger do that reminds you that you want to read their content without turning you off by making you feel like they are begging for attention?

....

   I would love to get your feedback! And while we're on this topic I would like to ask you a vaguely related favor.... I am in a contest that requires some serious self-promotion to win, and since I don't have your feedback yet on the best way to go about asking for participation I will simply share this:

 
   My Pinterst board was chosen by Victorias Secret model Candice Swanepoel as one of 6 finalists in this contest that runs through August 20th. IF you like my board, I would greatly appreciate you bookmarking the link (click the photo above) and voting once a day between now and then. As some of you know I have recently lost a good deal of weight, and as others may also know, we plan to have more children in the future, this means a lot of body size fluctuations and so my wardrobe is having a very difficult time keeping up. Also, if I win (depending on what is obtained as a result of the grand prize) it may just mean more new Schizophrenic Style posts for you! Win / Win! For the win! So, please take a moment and let me know what you think, vote, share... however you choose to help is greatly appreciated!

---

On Immodesty (a response)

   Today I read an article written by a female Author that I greatly respect and admire, Shaunti Feldhahn. I was about teenage girls and immodesty. A topic that gets under my skin for a multitude of reasons. From the cringe inducing feeling I get nearly every time I leave my house and see over sexualised and suggestive clothing on incredibly young girls, to the defensive feeling I get when I remember being that confused 12 year old girl grappling with my new identity as a young woman with a sexual element to my being... to the pure anger I feel whenever these topics are handled in such a way as to let the entirety of the male gender off the hook, perpetuating a dangerous mindset and attitude towards women's and girl's bodies.

 {Image C/O D Sharon Pruitt}

   Let me start by saying that Shaunti is the first female Author whose book (For Women Only) on how to better relate to and understand men not only didn't offend me at all, but actually succeeded in handling the modesty topic in such a bold yet careful way as to make the case for modesty without inferring anything negative regarding women's bodies. Or their responsibility for mens thoughts about heir bodies. See, the thing for me is that, much like my stance on music artists with explicit content and parents of young, impressionable children, it is important in these conversations to always go out of our way to state outwardly that both genders have responsibilities. Yes, this should be a given, but in our modern world it is not.

   I agree with the principle Shaunti is getting at, which is that the majority of teenage girls honestly genuinely do not think through what images are elicited in the minds of teenaged boys (and grown men alike) as a result of the way they dress. And that the majority of teenage boys wholeheartedly believe that girls know exactly what their "outfits" make guys think... and that they choose their clothes knowing this. That it is intentional. They must want this reaction. But see here is where I get uneasy. It's true that due to the inherit differences in the way that the male and female brains are wired, these assumptions may seem rational and natural... but they also contain scary undertones about the messages that our society teaches children and adults alike about the female body. Assumptions about the correlation between the way a female dresses and what she wants as a result of it.

   So yes, I feel it's absolutely necessary to make this young generation of girls aware of the extent of the influence their clothing choices has on the thoughts of the opposite sex. Not just that it elicits attraction... but full on visual pictures in the male mind of things that they likely would only want thought about them by certain someones, intentionally not accidentally, and accompanied by genuine feelings of desire for a more complete companionship (more than just a physical encounter). We need to combat the message of our ever present media which romanticizes the idea of being "fantasized" about. They need to know that the reality is far from romantic and is not something to encourage, much less strive for (because lets face it, a lot of these girls aren't entirely innocent in their motives, though most are at least a little misguided). BUT! And that is a big but on purpose... we also need to be careful of two other extremely important aspects of this conundrum when passing this message along to girls. The first being that we need to make sure that they know that there is nothing wrong with their bodies. There is nothing wrong with them wanting to be attractive and dress in ways that make them feel attractive. It is far too easy in these difficult conversations to insinuate that the female body, especially the sexual components of it, are something to be ashamed or even scared of. That message can result in countless negative side effects and I am sure is responsible for a lot of the inappropriate dress to begin with!

   The other thing we need to be incredibly cautious about is ensuring that we make it completely clear that no matter how sensitive we as females choose to be regarding the struggles that come with possessing a male brain, ultimately, always... someone else's reaction to her body is their own responsibility. Yes, I 100% agree that it is the right thing to do, as females, to be conscientious of how our clothing choices affect males and when possible (without stifling her self expression or assigning an undue amount of mental/emotional effort on it) choosing things that wont add to the pre-existing struggle of our cohorts. But we absolutely must teach boys that the girls and women they encounter do not think the way that they do and as such they don't fully grasp the effect that their appearance has. Teach our boys to give grace on this matter. To assume the best intentions of every female they encounter. To assume that they simply want to feel beautiful and not that they are asking for their impure thoughts (or worse actions) and to treat them with respect regardless of how covered or uncovered they are. Teach them that their thoughts, while normal, are their responsibility and that they need to do the work of shutting them down and learn to respond to them appropriately.

   How about this... male or female, let's all just stop assuming that we know the motives behind someone elses choice in clothing and self expression. Let's give each other grace wherever possible. It's hard to be a woman and I am sure from what I've heard and read that it is hard to be a man. Let's cut each other a break in whatever way we can. For us ladies that may mean putting more thought into our wardrobe and for the guys it likely means treating woman as beautiful regardless of what they wear, respect them even if they're scantily clad and treat them as beautiful even if she's dressed sloppily to help her avoid the insecurities that often lead to the desire to dress in overly revealing ways.

---