I worry about driving off a mountain cliff and crashing into the ravine below.
I worry about working in the gardens and being attacked by one of the large predators that wander through our yard.
I worry about dying slow and painful instead of dying fast and easy.
I worry about not seeing my siblings when my mom is gone.
I worry about my boys never finding a girl who’ll make them happy or finding one that makes them unhappy.
I worry about my tender new plants getting hit by Jack Frost.
I worry about getting old, gaining weight, going gray, and losing my eyebrows.
I worry I may never finish THIS BOOK or any more after.
I worry about the icy winter roads and the people driving on them.
I worry about the farmers getting too much rain during their spring planting and then again, during their fall harvest.
I worry about the planes passing overhead crashing into my backyard.
I worry about the crickets and frogs in the pond finding their way into my house and <shudder> into my bed.
I worry about leaving behind my computer and iPad and iPhone, and not being connected to the world.
I worry endlessly, needlessly, about all things big and small.
Why am I not crazy yet or is that still to come? Or are writers naturally worrisome people?
What do you worry about and how do you keep the craziness at bay?
I’ve always adored a good journal. I’m drawn to displays of them, plain and colorful, hard-bound and paperback, whatever. I’m prone to buying them. There’s something about the feel of the things in my hands, and the promise of all those empty pages.
You’d think that, since I’m a writer, I’d be more successful and consistent with my journaling efforts. That of all the dozens I’ve started over the years, I’d have kept up with entries in a timely fashion, seen the topics therein through, come to some phase of completion, but I’m so sporadic about writing in them. My follow-through is piddly.
Anyway, a few nights ago I pulled out a violet-toned, butterfly-embossed journal I’d begun soon after my divorce. It was bittersweet to read through the passages. Bitter because they were full of my then-struggles. It’s not my favorite thing to relive some of that stuff. But sweet because what was just as clear on those pages was my optimism, and faith in better days. It made me proud of that gal, looking back on those steadfast times… and realizing, when compared with today, just how far I’ve come. It was fortifying.
And so it makes me think, that’s what journaling is about. It doesn’t have to be a regular commitment, and it’s certainly not the kind of thing that requires order or theme, like so many kinds of writing. It’s about recording passing moments, emotion, the process of living. It’s about revisiting those same records sometime later to gain perspective, and assurance of a path gone down.
Maybe my methods aren’t too shabby after all. And maybe that means I can keep buying journals.
Do you keep a diary of some sort?
Last week, the flu invaded the Seabrook house, and slayed my son and me. My husband has miraculously avoided the germ — or perhaps he’s just successfully avoided us — and he remains healthy and wise.
I, on the other hand, seem to have lost a few more brain cells. And now it feels like I’m stepping back into my book as though it’s a brand new story. The ideas are all waiting there in the deep dark recesses of my brain, tempting and taunting me with the brilliance. But as they spill onto the page, they turn into the mess that resembles a mind-map gone insane.
So this morning, my post is just a simple “HELLO” to the world. I raise my cup of coffee to you and wish you all a healthy, happy and productive week.
This weekend I attended the funeral of my best friend’s mother; I was simply another one of her children. She was the sweetest lady, the most wonderful mother and one of the best examples of faith, community and love. Among her many accomplishments, she was noted for starting the organization of community watchdogs, better known as crime watch. A burglary occurred in her neighborhood and she decided something needed to be done to keep the homes and families safe. It was that simple in her eyes. She took the time to care. She took the time to make a difference. It’s a reminder for us all, on so many levels.
Later, she turned her attention to writing. She wanted to write the story of her life. She had an editor, a publisher lined up and ready to go. And then she received her diagnosis. She had Alzheimer’s. For those of us who knew her best, it wasn’t a complete surprise.
I cannot tell you how heartbreaking this diagnosis is, for not only the patient, but the entire family. Not surprisingly, upon initial diagnosis she was frightened . Who wouldn’t be? It was the most normal reaction. But what she did next is part of what made her extraordinary. She read a book that advised humor in the face of challenge. Forgot where you left your keys? Have fun with it. Crack a joke, laugh at yourself. She told the family this was the way she wanted to go forward.
True to her wishes, my girlfriend and her family—husband and three kids—had fun with “Me-Mom” at every opportunity. For ten years she lived with them, safe and secure under their watchful eye. But two months ago, the disease had progressed to the point where they were unable to care for her, even with in-home help. She was moved to a nursing home and now, she has moved again, to a better place.
Betty Ann Good was one of the most beautiful people I know, and continues to be in spirit. She may be gone in body, but her inspiration shines bright in all who knew her. She served her community, she lived her passion, she made a difference in the world around her. Doing the same with my own life is the greatest respect I can pay her.
September 28, 1932 ~ October 3, 2012
wearing my feather boa and eating bonbons in the throes of mid-book rewrites this week, I decided to share this interesting infographic from copyblogger.com on creativity. Except the layout of the Women Unplugged blog wouldn’t allow the full graphic to show. So I’m sending you over to my site today. My apologies for the inconvenience.
My favorite part of How To Break Out Of A Creative Rut? Separating work and play.
Come. Take a peek.