Writing | The Misadventures of Mrs. B

Who Do You Write For?

Jul 252012

An open letter to all of my blogging and writing friends out there…

Courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons

Who do you write for?

The great question. One which every blogger asks him/herself from time to time, I’m sure.

If you’re fortunate enough to have an audience who loves your voice enough that it doesn’t matter what you say, you’ve hit paydirt and good for you.

Otherwise? Who are you really writing for?

As I told you in the past, I’ve been spending less time here because I’m working on a book. I’m also lucky enough to be working on a freelance job which takes up quite a bit of my time.

Because I need to write.

Be it here or in a Word document or as a ghostwriter talking about all sorts of random nonsense I would never have known anything about otherwise.

I might not always be saying what I want to say, but the stuff I have to write keeps me sharp for the stuff I want to write. Either way, I know I’m blessed to be writing at all.

And even if I never get paid to do it again, I’ll still write. Because it’s one of the few constant compulsions which has spanned the breadth of my life. It wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t supposed to be there.

Same goes for you.

The guiding force in our universe didn’t give you a way with words, my beautiful friend, if you weren’t intended to use that gift.

And it’s likely that you feel the need to use this talent. Because it’s inside you, wanting to get out. That’s the whole point. Your job on this planet is to express this gift for the good of others.

And there are others. No matter your message, no matter your story, if there is one other person who can relate…your job is done.

But you’re never finished. Because there are more stories inside you – a whole wealth of them, waiting to float gracefully or perhaps struggle to the surface.

And there will be other people out there, waiting to hear your voice even if neither of you knows it yet.

And if no one ever reads it but your family and friends, you’ll still be the winner in the end. Because one more person in the world made use of their talents instead of keeping them hidden away, and that kind of energy heals the world in time.

So do the world a favor. Write. Be it on your blog, in a bestselling book, in a journal.

Share your beautiful self, even if it’s not all beautiful. Because even though we’re all so different, at heart we’re fundamentally the same. We all get scared, we all feel ashamed of ourselves sometimes, we all feel goofy or horrible or funny or clever.

Let it out, and remind someone else that they’re not alone after all.

Get it all out there. Let writing be your therapy. Let it heal you.

Let it fire you up and give you a reason to bounce out of bed in the morning and a reason to smile with self-satisfaction when your head hits the pillow. So many people never get the chance to feel that way – don’t let your chance pass you by.

Just write. For you. Because you need to.

I’m sharing this with the lovely Shell at Things I Can’t Say – because don’t we all need to pour our hearts out from time to time?

You May Have Noticed…

Writing 18 Responses »

May 032012

Photo via Creative Commons

You may have noticed that I haven’t been around much lately, either here or on your blogs.

I’m sorry, I really am. It’s not that I don’t love you (I do!) or that I don’t care what’s going on with you (I super do!). I’d love to be out there, giving you support or laughing at your hilariousness. I really would.

I even have a few posts in draft form and just need to actually, ya know, post them. I still want to share my experiences without sugar/starch, and how I prepare my “staple” foods. Coming soon, I promise.

So where have I been?

Unlike in my past, uh, hiatuses, this isn’t because I’m sick or because of any drama or trauma. I actually feel freaking fantastic right now. I believe that my diet is already helping me, along with meditation and other techniques I’m learning about and working on.

Here’s the truth: I’m birthing a baby of sorts right now. No, not a human one. A book one.

Yes! I’m writing a book!

All I want to say about it right now is that it’s non-fiction, based on helping others to get through issues which I’ve been working on for my entire life.

I’ve been so lucky in the past two months. Thanks to the beautiful Erin, I was led to Amy Oscar and her Soul Caller Circle. This Circle has inspired me and led me to work on so many things in my life – and the best part is, the more I learn, the more I’m led to new teachers and their wisdom.

I’m finally understanding how I can use my talents and experiences to help people, which is what all I’ve wanted to do for my entire life.

I have literally never felt so inspired and driven. I am all about this right now.

I spend a little time every day telling myself it can’t be done – I’m not a professional, I have no credentials – but I know that’s just fear talking and I push it away. I know there’s a way I can make this happen, because the end result is a desire to help people who are struggling with the same issues I’ve struggled with.

Not to be rich or famous. Just to help people.

But rich and famous wouldn’t hurt. #justsayin

By the end of the day I’m completely wrung out but I feel like I’m doing something special. Even when I’m physically exhausted I feel mentally energized and positive, looking forward to another day of learning and writing. Actually looking forward to tomorrow – something I can admit I haven’t done in a long time.

Except on Christmas Eve. Duh.

Does this even sound like me? I’m sitting here laughing at myself because I’ve never felt like this or sounded like this before – at least, I may have talked about being jazzed over a project or new idea, but I’ve never had such conviction that the universe was fully behind me.

What did Oprah call this? An “A-Ha” moment?

FYI, I snickered when I typed that. Rest assured, I haven’t changed so much after all.

So that’s that. I’m writing, and trying to check in on y’all on the Twitter when I can, and reading & commenting whenever I get a chance.

I’ll be posting whenever I can, though maybe not more than once or twice a week for now. But who knows, maybe I’ll feel a burst of inspiration here, too.

And I love you guys. #thatisall

Finding My Writing Bliss

Thoughts, Writing 34 Responses »

Feb 272012

I’m so mad at myself right now.

See, I was at Blissdom this past weekend. In case you forgot or something.

In a word, it was amazing. Inspiring, life-affirming, heart-expanding, and generally awesome all around.

However.

I didn’t take a single picture of any of the people I was there with.

There’s a photo of me and Frelle. And I posed with several gorgeous ladies against a brick wall on Thursday night.

That’s…it.

I hate myself.

But that’s not the point of this post. Not entirely, anyway.

See, while I attended some wonderful and informative sessions, there was one which really stuck out for me. The session was led by Jeff Goins.

Now, Jeff, I’m gonna level with you here and I hope you don’t think less of me for it. I took one look at you and thought “This kid is leading a session?”. Because you’ve been blessed with a youthful countenance and, well, I don’t always associate youth with wisdom.

As is often the case, I was wrong. Because you rocked my world. In a “we made no physical contact whatsoever so my husband can stop thinking bad thoughts right this very minute” sort of way.

See, my friends, something happens when your heart hears the words it’s been whispering to you for so long coming out of someone else’s mouth.

Of course, much like everything in life, what I heard and later read on the worksheet was colored by my own experience.

For two years I’ve been wanting to write about my feelings surrounding the title “caregiver”. I’ve started and stopped more posts than I can count. I wrote the first chapter of a book. I even started up a whole new anonymous blog about a year ago, in an attempt to share some of the mess that lives in my head.

It’s more than that, though. More than getting it out of my head and onto the internet or into a Word doc.

It’s the nagging suspicion that our story could help somebody else. After all, it’s rare that two newlyweds in their early 30′s are called upon to drastically change their lives because a parent becomes ill.

Or is it so rare? See, how do we know until someone shares with us?

But there was the other nagging question of whether people would still like me or want to continue reading my blog if they knew how much I don’t even like myself sometimes. The bitterness I sometimes feel, the sadness and resentment that rises to the surface.

It ain’t pretty.

So after I burst into tears at a table full of strangers (who were beyond sweet and understanding, and I am so grateful), I struggled to get my emotions in check. Just as I stopped crying, the girl to my right touched my arm.

Hers is not my story to tell, but suffice it to say that her story is similar to mine. She told me that by sharing my experience, I helped her realize something about herself.

Whoa. Hold the phone, kids.

That cemented it. It was a done deal from that moment on.

I need to share this, even if it’s not always pretty and smiley and made of chocolate like so many things on my blog are.

I need to open up. It might help someone else do the same.

This situation could be turned into a blessing, an opportunity to reach out and connect with other people in our shoes. We might not be so unique after all.

There could be someone out there, wondering what it would have been like to shop for her own home, missing the days of alone time and last-minute plans. Someone just like me.

But one of us has to get the ball rolling if we’re ever going to find each other.

So thanks, Jeff, for proving me wrong. You rock, by the way.

Have you ever wanted to write about something but felt like you needed to censor yourself? What’s the worst you think could happen if you opened up?

I Need To Believe

Writing 41 Responses »

Sep 162011

I used to believe that Santa Claus was real. One night out of every year I’d lay in bed, struggling to stay awake, waiting with bated breath to hear those hooves on my roof. I must have fallen asleep too early, I’d reason the next morning.

I used to believe in the Tooth Fairy. I imagined her looking like the Guardian Angel in a picture hanging on my bedroom wall – bathed in a soft glow which turned her blonde hair nearly white, robes billowing softly around her as she moved noiselessly toward my sleeping form. No matter that her hands were clumsy and probably belonged to my Mom. I was fully committed to this image.

I used to believe there was a bad guy under my bed, a monster in the closet and that dead people would break out of their graves at night. Yeah. I was only slightly disturbed.

And I believed that my parents were invincible. All-wise, all-knowing and in possession of super powers. Don’t we all believe that to some extent when we’re children?

Of course I grew up and a lot of those old beliefs were outgrown, like so many pairs of sneakers. Some were easy to let go, some struck a death-blow to my innocence.

But it’s taken the longest to let go of the one about my parents. No matter that I know they were younger when I was born than I am today (I was such an idiot when I was 22!), I need to believe that they had it all together and were truly as wise as I perceived them. I want to believe that they’ll always be here for me, though in my grown-up heart I know all too well the truth of their mortality.

Lately I’ve had that reality driven home for me. I stood there last night in my Dad’s hospital room as his nurses tended to him. A coughing fit left him nearly choking and he needed the tube that went down his throat suctioned, along with the inside of his mouth.

It must have hurt. Tears spilled onto his sunken, unshaved cheeks. I turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears on my own face. I knew that seeing his pain reflected there wouldn’t help him.

My gaze fell on a series of photos on the wall. There’s one of him sitting in his uniform with other cops and administrative personnel from his office. He looks so healthy there, robust, with that mile-wide smile that runs in his family.

This man who served in the Naval Reserve for 31 years and was retired a Master Chief. Who served in the Middle East post-9/11. Who fulfilled his dream of becoming a cop at the age of 36 and still ran circles around men little more than half his age during physical tests. He beat them all.

Then there was the man whose reflection I could see in the glass covering that picture. The man being adjusted in bed by nurses, tears now gone, staring straight ahead. So thin, with a pallor to his skin that 8 weeks in a hospital will give a person.

I would say I wish I knew what he was thinking, but I already know.

And it kills me inside.

And I can’t help him.

The man who comes running to my side at the slightest hint of trouble. With whom a phone conversation can’t go by without him asking if I’m okay and if I need anything.

I know that if I were in that position, his presence would comfort me because I’d still have that childish belief in the deepest corner of my heart that he’d make things better.

Just like I know that once he’s extubated and can speak again, one of his first questions for me will be about my writing.

And I will tell him that yes, I’ve been writing. Though whether I’ll tell him he’s the subject is still up for debate.

What’s not up for debate is that he’ll pull through this illness, will battle his way through rehab faster than anyone ever has, and will go right back to living.

I have to believe that. Even though I no longer believe he’s invincible, I have to believe that.

Tweeting a Story

Writing 83 Responses »

Aug 262011

It’s been a while since I’ve linked up with the lovely ladies of Write on Edge – so long, in fact, that they went through a name change during my hiatus!

I couldn’t pass up today’s prompt. Being the Twitter-holic I am, the idea of telling an entire story in 140 characters was too fun to resist. So here we go – and as always, concrit is welcome.

She packs quickly in the dark, careful not to wake him. One last look around then out the door for good. He lets her think he’s sleeping.

It’s The Great Pumpkin, Mrs. B!

Writing 37 Responses »

Aug 242011

Photo Credit

I know it’s not exactly the right time of year to share this story with you, but with my Dad being sick I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood, and the book I’ve been promising to write about him. Here’s just one memory of many.

Growing up, we celebrated the same holidays and milestones as other kids. We were visited annually by Santa and Peter Cottontail. The Tooth Fairy came to call repeatedly as well. She may have “forgotten” or “gotten lost” once or twice but hey – she’s a busy lady.

I’m sure your Tooth Fairy has gone through this before. Right?

Anyway, we were lucky kids. We may not have been wealthy in the traditional sense – we didn’t even have a car til I was 5 or so – but my Dad was a very creative guy and “brought it” in so many other ways. He made due with what he had at hand.

As a result, there was one more guy who paid us a yearly call, one who you may not have met outside a cartoon: The Great Pumpkin.

One special evening in late October the doorbell would ring at dinnertime, while we were sitting around the table. Mom and Dad would encourage one of us kids to answer the door, of course. And there would be an envelope waiting for us. We’d tear it open and probably squeal or something and maybe jump up and down a bit.

Inside the envelope was a letter from none other than the gourd himself. And along with that letter was a hand-drawn map of our backyard, leading us to the big prize.

Mind you, our backyard wasn’t big. It was actually really small. But The Great Pumpkin always found a way to confuse and mystify us with his intricate map and instructions.

Or maybe we were just really dumb kids, now that I think about it.

Finally, after counting paces in one direction and then another, spinning 3 times and clapping our hands, we’d arrive at the end of the map. And under a bucket or a large bush would be our very own pumpkin.

More squealing, more jumping up and down. It was so special. I can’t imagine what the neighbors must have thought, but we sure didn’t notice at the time.

Later that evening we’d spread out newspapers and prep for surgery. Soon we’d be elbow-deep in goop and seeds. Mom would clean, then roast the seeds in the oven, while Dad would carve a grin for us while trying not to carve a piece of himself.

Soon we’d have a jack-o-lantern and probably some candy, too – GP was a pretty generous guy. Oh, yeah. I call him GP. We’ve been friends for years, after all.

I’ve told Rob about this tradition and about how I would love to share it with our kids one day. The sheer magic of the situation is something I want to pass on. I’ve carried it with me for the rest of my life – clearly, it made a huge impression.

As far as I’m concerned, one of the most important things you can do for a child is to help them create their own world and let them inhabit it. A world full of possibilities and magic and astonishment. Dad did that for us by planning out those Great Pumpkin visits. It was one of the greatest gifts he could have given to his children.

When I do it, though, I’ll probably type out the letter so the kids won’t recognize my handwriting as they got older.

I still wonder who rang the doorbell…

Do you have any special holiday traditions with your kids?

TRDC: Glass Slippers

Writing 37 Responses »

Jul 152011

If it’s Friday, it must be time for Red Writing Hood! This week, the lovely Kir chose our prompt. She’s what you’d call a shoe enthusiast (*cough* understatement *cough*) so it was no surprise to me that she asked us to write a story involving them. Concrit is always welcome.

Photo Credit

She didn’t have her dream job – in fact, she had no idea how to chase her dreams or even which ones deserved chasing.

She didn’t have a boyfriend. She’d been on a small handful of dates in her 25 years.

She didn’t have a driver’s license or a fabulous apartment or self-confidence.

What she did have were shoes. Over 50 pairs of shoes.

Lined up in two rows along the bedroom wall. The first thing she saw when she entered. The one thing friends were sure to comment on when they stopped by.

There were black peep-toe T-straps with a tapered heel – her favorite pair. Pink pumps with brown trim. Baby blue tweed with a 4-inch heel. Mint green with rhinstones. Sky-high stilettos with long, delicate straps that criss-crossed up her calves – one pair in silver, one in gold.

On and on. In every color of the rainbow but purple. Some were suitable for work, but for the most part they sat unused until Friday and Saturday night. That was their time to shine.

After much deliberation the perfect pair would be chosen. She would carefully teeter down two flights of stairs from her apartment to the throbbing energy of the street below. Sometimes there’d be a whistle or a “Look at those shoes!”. She’d strut past, struggling to affect an air of self-assuredness while praying for an empty cab to appear before she stumbled and broke the spell. And possibly an ankle.

Those shoes were her power. Her something special in a life chock-full of nothing fancy. They transformed her from a plain, quiet, lonely girl to a girl full of life and energy and maybe even a bit of mystery. The girl she wanted to be but had no idea how to conjure for more than one brief evening at a time.

Like Cinderella and her glass slippers.

Over the years, “she” became “me”. And with that change came a shift in attitude, a sense of self-worth and a lessened dependence on those shoes. I still own most of them, only now they live in bins which are stacked somewhere in the attic. Each pair has a story and a special place in my heart. I can’t seem to part with them even though I no longer have an excuse to wear them. When watering one’s garden, gold stilettos with straps going up one’s legs are hardly apropos.

But that’s okay. I no longer need to wear them, either.

Red Writing Hood: Food Hangover

Writing 10 Responses »

May 132011

This week’s Red Dress Club prompt involves writing about gluttony. This is a vague memory of a meal we shared a few years back – one which I found myself wishing I hadn’t enjoyed quite so much…

Ugh.

Rolling over in bed. Groggy. Heavy-headed. Mildly nauseous.

What happened last night? you ask yourself. You search your memory for some clue as to why you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck. You glance over at the other side of the bed but he’s still snoring away. No help there.

Is it the flu or a bug? The only time you feel this way is when you’ve had too much to drink, but you didn’t drink last night. So why this fragile, half-dead feeling then?

You went to dinner to celebrate…something. What was it? Oh. The fact that it was Friday. Right.

You remember sharing the appetizers. Closing your eyes in ecstasy over the seafood ravioli piled high with lump crab meat, swimming in cream sauce. Laughing as you clashed forks with him while fighting for every last bit of meat left on the plate. Sinking your teeth into slice after slice of bruschetta, the tomatoes so heartbreakingly fresh and the bread so crusty and moist you just couldn’t stop yourself from clearing the tray.

Then time for the entrees. He had ordered chicken parmagiana and was presented with a plate covered in cheesy chicken – easily enough for two or even three people. You got the gnocchi which you noticed the people at the next table eating, and your eyes widened when the bowl full of delicate little pillows was placed in front of you. Pink sauce and more of those gorgeous tomatoes, covered in shaved cheese. Exquisite – and plenty of bread to mop it up with, because why let something so good go to waste?

Oh, and then there was dessert. Cheesecake, of course. At least you shared it, but at that point it’s all a blur. You focused on the buttery crust since it’s your favorite part, while savoring a cappucino. That much you remember.

You both stumbled drunkenly to the car, though you’d had nothing stronger than soda all night. Your senses were dulled nonetheless. You groaned as you sank into the seat and unbuttoned your uncomfortably tight jeans which seemed to fit so well before dinner.

And now here you are. Feeling like a bag of mush with a pulse.

Burp! Oh, the acid. Those tomatoes aren’t nearly so delicious the morning after. That nauseous feeling comes back and you consider looking around for some Tums.

You close your eyes instead, hoping to sleep off this food hangover.

But it was so worth it, you think with a smile as you drift back off to sleep.

Red Writing Hood: Jealousy

Writing 28 Responses »

May 062011

This week’s Red Writing Hood prompt was to write about jealousy. This is fiction, and concrit is welcome as always!

She sat staring at the blank email form. Hot blood raced through her veins as her pulse pounded. She knew that if she went through with it and he found out, she’d lose Ryan forever. She pictured his face in her mind and saw confusion and hurt fill his eyes. “Jill…” he’d say, shaking his head in confusion, his brow furrowed. Disappointment would turn to comprehension. Followed by disgust.

But that was nothing compared to having to hold herself back, day after day, loving him the way she did but never being able to show it. Plastering the same fake smile on her face, a smile which never reached her eyes, while it felt as though a giant hand was squeezing her stomach. She would drag that smile out of storage every time he told her how happy he was. Every time Jill saw her. Even though it hurt like hell, she’d smile.

Kelly.

Before Ryan and Kelly had met, everyone thought of him and Jill as a couple. “Where’s your hubby?” friends would joke whenever Jill would show up at a party or at the bar without him. She would smirk and laugh it off, careful not to show the happiness spreading through her.

She knew they were just friends, but it felt like more. They had the foundation – communication, trust, knowledge of each other’s lives and thoughts and dreams. They had even tried at one time to take things further, but Ryan decided it would be better if they stayed friends. “I couldn’t live without you as my best friend,” he told her, “and I would be so afraid of things ending badly”. At the time Jill didn’t care – as long as they were together, somehow.

But things had changed. Ryan wasn’t single now. He didn’t have time for her as he used to. He didn’t even hug her the same way anymore.

When Jill was with the two of them she spent much of the time observing Kelly and asking Ryan questions inside her head. Why not me? What’s wrong with me? Don’t you see how much I love you? What’s so special about her? What does she have that I don’t have? I already keep your dreams in my heart, I know every line of your face with my eyes closed. I love you. Why didn’t you pick me?

“It shows how much more important you are to him than Kelly is, that he’s so careful with your friendship,” her mother told her. Yeah, right. She was so important that he couldn’t bear the thought of kissing her, of holding her the way she saw him hold Kelly.

The cursor blinked…blinked…blinked. A fake email address, set up on one of the library’s computers. Jill took a deep breath and asked herself once more if she could actually go through with this. Her fingers were poised over the keys. Finally they started to move.

I’m writing this as a friend. You need to know the truth about Kelly before you get hurt.

She took pains to make sure he wouldn’t recognize her way of speaking.

She’s been playing you the whole time you’ve been with her.

Keep it simple.

I saw her all over another guy last Friday nite.

Kelly had plead illness that night and told Ryan she was going to bed early.

She’s a lying whore. Get rid of her before things get worse.

Shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and self-loathing, Jill grabbed the mouse and pointed at the “Send” button.

“I love you, Ryan” she whispered.

Click.

RemembeRED: Girl Singer

Writing 17 Responses »

May 032011

Okay. I know I joked yesterday about sharing secrets (in case you didn’t read it, the secret was that I love pasta. Yeah. Some secret!) but today I’m actually going to share one with you all. Nothing embarassing. And it’s really hard for me to be honest about the pride I took in this. But anything for The Red Dress Club, right?

It happened every weekend. Either Friday or Saturday night. Sometimes both.

I would look forward to it every single day, all week long. It may not have been in the forefront of my mind, but it was there in my heart.

Our preparation was ritualistic and could take hours. We were very serious about looking good – I was laced into a corset on more than one occasion, and the shoes I wore were just ridiculous. How I managed to not break an ankle I’ll never know. Eventually, though, my roommate and I would head out to the gay bar.

But not just any gay bar. Oh no. This was one of the biggest places in the city if you wanted a really great piano bar experience. It’s still extremely popular.

The piano player was a very talented and knowledgable guy – he could play just about anything you requested, and if he didn’t know it he’d fake his way through a passable rendition. As soon as we elbowed our way into the packed room, one or both of us would catch his eye and wave so he knew we were there, just as one of the bartenders pulled down two glasses and got our drinks started. A cross between Norm in “Cheers” and Tony in “Saturday Night Fever”.

This was where I could live out my lifelong dream of being a singer in front of devoted fans. Everyone knew who I was. Everyone knew what they’d hear from me, since the pianist and I had sort of developed a repetoire together. He would start playing the opening to a song and I’d slowly make my way to the piano through the crowd. Carly Simon. Lots of Karen Carpenter. A show tune here and there. And my signature: “The Rose”.

Everyone would clap and sing along and cheer. A whole room full of people would cheer. For me. They’d congratulate and hug me when I returned the microphone. Drinks would be bought for me, appreciation for singing a favorite old song would be expressed.

During the week I was an office drone. On the weekend I was lauded and applauded, and it felt so good.

See, singing was my favorite thing to do in the whole world. I remember singing “Tomorrow” for our neighbors when I was little – that’s how early the performance bug bit me. There was nothing like the feeling opening my mouth and just letting a big sound come out.

And you know what? I was good. I was really, really good. I can admit that now, though at the time I’d blush and toss off a self-deprecating comment. Even though I knew it in my heart.

I was afraid of failure…or afraid of success. Afraid to claim what was mine. I never pursued it, though I had a remote chance to do so when that piano player brought up the idea of building a cabaret act around me. But I was hesitant, and the chance passed me by.

I don’t sing in public anymore, and I don’t think anyone in my day-to-day life knows about my singing except for old friends and family and Rob.

No one I work with would believe that there was a time I stood in front of a crowd while wearing 4 inch heels and a corset and sang my heart out.

But I remember. I remember being a star, if only then.

Older Entries

Who Do You Write For?

Courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons

You May Have Noticed…

Photo via Creative Commons

Finding My Writing Bliss

I Need To Believe

Tweeting a Story

It’s The Great Pumpkin, Mrs. B!

Photo Credit

TRDC: Glass Slippers

Photo Credit

Red Writing Hood: Food Hangover

Red Writing Hood: Jealousy

RemembeRED: Girl Singer

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