My friend Jolain told me that when she started her clothing line years ago, her goal was simply to make beautiful clothes. She said that wasn’t enough.
“A business has to solve a problem,” Jolain said.
When Kelly and I launched our new biz, we figured offering first-class writing workshops at non-luxury prices would answer a writer’s problem.
A writer’s challenge includes the need to:
be a part of a community
get published
find a sanctuary for dangerous writing
make time for writing
nurture creativity and beauty in a society that overlooks the arts.
Our biz does all that.
We use Field Notes to keep score when we play cards.
This morning I listened to a podcast about traveling salesmen (at Field Notes Brand, a company my brother co-founded). Ron Solberg praises the tenacity and brilliance of the early traveling salespeople who often sold books. And the customers appreciated how the salesmen delivered news, as well as products. They liked the free samples.
“The trick really was volume, the number of stops you make,” Solberg said.
And more winning advice: “Take advantage of the moment.”
In a sense, when I started the biz, I wanted to make and nurture beautiful writing the same way Jolain wanted to make beautiful clothing. But I am learning to sell as well as to create.
As a small business owner, I need to sustain my biz, so I must do both sales and art. And for both, I need to value beauty, tenacity, hard work, and being in the moment.
Everything is fine. But I am having a slightly depressing day. I don’t want to go into any of the details, but suffice it to say, I have been here before. (My Kids Can Be Mean to Me.)
There are legit reasons why I feel unhappy and unsatisfied in my home life. I remind myself that I am feeling this way today, not every day. Just today.
I think that when I worked full time, I could submerge my difficulties at home into successes at work. I got good at compartmentalizing. That was one of my keys to success.
And, in a way, I’ve had part-time work this week — going to the movies. I have seen three movies and one play in five days. Last night, at the Public, I saw Sorry by Richard Nelson. The story was about four adult siblings on Election Day putting their demented uncle in a home. Really good.
Today, I saw Cloud Atlas. It was a trip. Set in six different time periods, the characters return as descendants from an earlier time or, maybe, as reincarnated souls. They are marked with a shooting star tattoo.
Cloud Atlas, based on the book by David Mitchell, reminded me that our lives are interwoven, past hurts are revisited. The people in power corrupt and exploit those in their care. When consumerism and greed is the value upon which a society is based, take heed. Yet kindness in the extreme can heal the wounded souls and societies.
So going to the movies this week has left me with lofty thoughts. I put my grievances aside. For today. Just today.
I probably should go to therapy instead of the movies. Yet I find my way of coping entertaining.
My niece Isabelle made this heart in the sand at the beach on Lake Champlain.
People often ask me how my husband is. I hesitate to answer. I try to gauge why they are asking.
Are they worried about him? Are they wondering how I am coping with his Parkinson’s Disease? Are they being polite and maybe don’t really want to know? If I stay too long on my answer, will I be perceived as whining or ungrateful? If I answer the question flippantly, am I in denial?
There are many gifts of love that our relationship has bestowed: mainly, the three awesome kids. And also people ask, How are the kids managing? To answer that, I usually say, “They’re great. They should probably be in counseling (as should we all), but we are all overscheduled and actually, we’re fine.”
Is it okay for me, a spouse of member with a chronic illness to say, “Fine?” I don’t know how much to open up. I mostly express gratitude for my husband’s positive attitude. I am grateful that he works out through the JCC Parkinson’s Program several times a week. He also goes to the chiropractor several times a week. He leans to one side a lot. He has other physical limitations. The disease bestows pscyho-social consequences which can be difficult for our family. He falls asleep a lot. There are other behavioral aspects, tied to the medication or disease or odd sleep habits.
The question is valid: how is he? My answer is also valid: I don’t know.
My husband has a progressive illness. His disease is progressing. He was diagnosed nine years ago. He is still amazingly capable of many daily tasks of living. And yet, there are many tasks that have fallen by the wayside.
I don’t always want to talk or write about it. I want to say (and people may want to hear), “Fine. He is fine. We are fine. Now, how are you? How’s your family?”
The truth is, if you answer me that you are not fine, that you have struggles too, and that life’s not always easy or what you bargained for, it’s okay with me. It’s okay if you are not always grateful.
In fact, admitting the struggle, and aiming for a semblance of resilience, somehow makes me feel better and makes me feel less alone. Because by asking me, How’s he doing? I think you know for our family, the disease is not always fine, easy, or inspiring. But it’s fine, one day at a time. It’s fine.
While we’re in Chicago for Thanksgiving, the kids and I have signed up, along with cousins and aunts and uncles, for a TurkeyDay-5K. A couple of years ago, we ran the Coogan’s Salsa, Blues and Shamrocks Run for another holiday, St. Patrick’s Day.
That was fun. That March morning was freezing, and no one wanted to get out of bed. But we ran any way. I was damned if I was going to go it alone. I was so proud of myself, because I ran (didn’t walk) the whole way. I aimed for a 13-minute mile.
I run slowly enough to snap pictures as I go. On today’s run, this sidewalk art made me smile. Big Bird Lives!
That’s right. I run in the slow lane. Every one passes me, 89-year olds and toddlers alike. I don’t care. As they say, I’m lapping every one who’s still sitting home on the couch.
Besides, I’m fixing to have a big dinner Thanksgiving night, which includes dessert. And I’m going to be eating my meal slowly too.
Family meals and family fitness should be savored.
When I work out the day before, of, or after a holiday, I feel I can eat or drink anything I want. Guilt-free and happy! That’s what I run for.
During yesterday’s long lunch with Hal, he mentioned casually, “You should be making about $2,500 a week freelancing.” Gulp. I reminded him that unemployment pays $405 a week. Next to my computer sits a book from my sister a few Christmases ago: Secrets of a Freelance Writer: How to Make $85,000 a Year by Robert W. Bly.
Since that 2nd edition, the third edition’s out. A potential freelancer’s pay’s shot up to $100,000 a year. Okay, great, let me get going.
I cracked open the book, looking to get on that $2,500/per week thing. Here are some tips (based on Bly’s book):
manage time well
be concise
get to the point
keep the client satisfied
All good. And here are some of my tips:
let go of the guilt for asking for any pay at all
make your promotional material pretty (like website, biz cards)
turn it on time
network well
give clients more than they asked for
I added that first bullet point, because I realize I have guilt for making money and guilt for not making money. (In yesterday’s post, I admitted to feelings of guilt for indulging in any activities that please myself only and do not please others.) Thus, I have to let go of all guilt, even about gilt!
I am letting go of my excuses for not pursuing the almighty dollar. Yes, yes, I was born a girl, raised Catholic, worked for a Christian group. I have believed (even unconsciously) that money was the father’s job. That the pursuit of money made me selfish or materialistic. That other people had greater need than me so let the poor suckers have my money. That I am artist so I must suffer and live in poverty.
Be direct and unemotional. This book advises you not to make the same mistakes she did. I love and relate to her honesty.
None of this is true. And I felt affirmed in my quest for asking for top dollar after reading Mika Brzezinski’s book, Knowing Your Value: Women, Money, and Getting What You’re Worth. Mika faced and overcame the same problems I have with money. Her advice is:
be yourself
sponsor or mentor one another
stay matter of fact (don’t get emotional, apologetic)
I should have told Hal what I really think about making money. Money is just energy. To make more of it, just insert yourself into the energy’s flow. I buy that.
And I will get on it, right after I finish reading another book. And blogging.
Anti-government people, you must remember that government is by the people and for the people. So if you’re anti-government, you’re anti-people.
Democracy is a beautiful and messy thing. But it is our best mess, way better than a crappy monarchy. (I really can’t stand how infatuated the world is with the spoiled and inbred English monarchy. People, that’s why we revolted! In the U.S., no one is born superior or more royal. We are a country of equals.)
Waiting in line to vote.
Yesterday I stood in line for two hours and fifteen minutes to vote in a part of the country that pundits and politicians are quick to write off. I wasn’t alone. Millions voted. It was our right. And we made a difference.
What talking heads say on the perpetual news channels matters not one iota, compared to how simply and elegantly my single vote matters. Your vote matters. Every vote matters.
Tight quarters as we waited to vote in NYC, but the people in line with me were even-tempered.
Many voters in line with me were old and in wheelchairs. Many carried books. Some carried dogs or babies. One guy talked to another about Bikram yoga. I talked to the science teacher ahead of me about teaching middle school kids.
Another voter complimented our over-worked poll worker’s equanimity. Yes, there were some crabby people too, but they were a minority. And negative people, overall, lost to optimistic people last night.
In an age of increasing distrust and cynicism over big and traditional institutions, like banks, universities, political parties, religions, we have to return to trust and optimism in the value and ideals upon which this country is based, our simple, elegant, democratic truth: that all are created equal.
And as we treat one another equally and make a positive difference close to home, our small actions ripple to impact this vast country.
This election reminded me to love my neighbors, even the crabby ones, and to love my community and my country (and your country) − this messy and beautiful democracy.
the shining city upon a hill.
Remember Abraham Lincoln’s conclusion to the Gettysburg Address:
…that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
Part of my problem with sorting socks is that my kids don’t mind wearing non-matching or nearly-matching socks. I wish wearing mismatched socks was a trend when I was a kid.
I know it’s Election Day. I woke up feeling confident that I would win. Er, I mean, my man Obama would win. So while I’d like to blog about the 2012 election, I thought I’d post about finding happiness a little closer to home.
Yesterday, I was super excited to declutter. Crazy, right? I sorted more than 50 pairs of socks and it took me hours! These socks had hung around the bottom of the laundry basket for several years, years when my kids’ sock sizes grew from child to adult-sized.
At the bottom of the basket, I found toddler socks. Yes, it’s been a while since I dug down that deep.
My kids are teenagers. So after a momentary fling with nostalgia over those cute little toddler-sized socks, I tossed them away.
I’ve never enjoyed sorting socks. People say, “Do it while sitting in front of the TV at night.” But I don’t watch TV.
I found inspiration for this boring activity from this blog post, 29 Ways to Declutter. It seems Deb Smouse is saying that there’s a spiritual side to decluttering. I like that. Her post begins with this quote:
Clutter is a physical manifestation of fear that cripples our ability to grow. – H.G. Chissell.
When I left my job six weeks ago, I thought, “Great, now I’ll have time to do all those things I’ve always wanted to do, like sort those damn socks in the bottom of the basket.”
Yup, I’m finding satisfaction in getting to the bottom of the barrel and finding my kids’ childhood.
Incidentally, I’m renaming this blog, To Pursue Happiness and I’ve rolled all my blogs home here.
With starting up Boot Camp For Writers and kick starting my freelance blogging career, I just don’t have the time or energy to post on all four of my blogs, so find me here! For the month of November, I’m posting every day.
I was in Portland with my work for United Methodist Women. I was early to my meeting. I rented a car and drove to visit another friend named Kelly in Eugene.
Since I was early I could meander. (Note to self: be early!). On the side of the highway, I spotted a sign that said Old West Museum in Brownsville. I took that country road.
I knew it was sort of crazy to leave the direct path laid out for me by the GPS. But I thought, “Heck, I’m so rarely someone who can meander.” Besides, I was in a great western state where, almost two hundred years ago, people traveled the Oregon Trail.
A detour in Oregon.
The museum was closed but I snapped a couple of pictures, posting them to Twitter and Instagram. Kelly @kellythewriter1 replied back, “Brownsville! You are in the boonies.”
I vaguely knew Kelly as a writer. I looked up her writing. I saw a section of her amazing memoir, The Trial.
We exchanged some Twitter messages and agreed to meet a few days later in Portland to talk about writing.
After my day at Powell’s bookstore, we met in a hip neighborhood, the Southeast part of Portland. (Isn’t it all hip?).
We sat at a cafe then walked around.
Kelly asked me if I remembered how I knew her, “Um, no,” I admitted.
“We were at the IWGG weekend together last year,” Kelly said. Kelly always gets the acronym wrong and that cracks me up.
“Oh, right!” I laughed. “The International Women’s Writing Guild.” (the IWWG!) We’d met at their fall workshop and luncheon at the National Arts Club.
Kelly and I gossiped about the changes that the guild was going through.
We agreed it would be fun to start our own writing guild. We’d gear it towards helping writers get published. We’d help writers get serious about and value their work. And we are!
Although our writing workshops are intended to get writers focused, our business started because, less than four months ago, I intentionally lost my way. I took the path less traveled. And by posting the story of my journey on social media (and here on my blog), I am finding my way.
Me and my date (thanks to MidgetMomma for this pic)
I know I have complained on this blog, “My kids are mean to me.” But my kids are also incredibly generous to me. Here’s one example. Last night, with only a few hours’ notice, my 15-year old, Hayden, agreed to go on a date with me.
We started with a juggling workshop from one of the amazing teaching artists at the New Vic. Hayden was about four feet taller than most of the other juggling students.
Beyond his height advantage, he came with the advantage of knowing how to juggle (thanks Ben Dziuba for teaching Hayden a few summers ago with the promise: “Hey man, juggling’s a great way to impress the chicks.”)
With the teaching artist, we had to choreograph our own juggling routine with scarves. Hayden really enjoyed trying to teach me a new skill. He also delighted in whispering to me, “See that other mom? She’s so much better at juggling than you!”
Then we sampled some of Dave and Buster’s family-friendly meals and some of the alien-unfriendly arcade games. Fun! We wanted to play a trivia game in the arcade, but had to dash across the street to the New Vic for Urban, a street circus from Colombia.
Everyone loves a circus, like the Big Apple Circus. But Urban does it better. Urban has heart. It has more thumpin’, bumpin’ hip hop music, gritty subtexts, and clouds of dry ice. It has more circus flips, dips, trapeze, tightrope, swings.
Those are skills of athleticism and music, but this troupe also has skills of the heart. They have resilience and grit. The young Urban circus group seems to have known some tough times together and found their way to survive through their artistry – through their music and dance. They seem to genuinely love and admire and need each other. (I’m seeing a metaphor emerge for families! Stick together! I’ll catch you when you leap from that high platform!)
When the performers tell their stories, just briefly, sometimes in Spanish with English captions, you get a feeling that performing on the stage right now is a highlight of their lives. New Yorkers can be jaded and sarcastic. So can 15-year olds. So can circus performers. But not last night.
Last night, everyone was in great form, impressing, sharing, laughing, gasping. There were a few times when the stunts were almost too much to bear and my son and I huddled together, afraid to look.
Kind of like parenting. You see stuff going down and you’re not sure you or your kid’s going to make it. But they do and they did. And you do and you did.
Thanks to Mama Drama for giving me a chance to see my son as a good date last night!
One of the other mommy bloggers, MidgetMomma with her adorable Kenzie at Dave and Buster’s! (Fun to share a table with her and the militaryfamilyof8 dad!)
“Pssst, here’s the office dish: we’re in a charming play set in the 1950s,” whispers Alicia Sable (April Morrison) to Sas Goldberg (Brenda Kapinski). (photo courtesy of The Best of Everything)
Friday night I was downtown at Here to see The Best of Everything.
The space at Here means a lot to me because 20 years ago my comedy partner, Jay, and I spotted a Ferris wheel in the middle of a cobblestone street. We had stumbled upon an art opening for this performance space at Here.
That night, we shot funny interviews on Hi-8 with downtown artists and called the 30-minute documentary The Big Apple Jam. It aired several times on Manhattan Neighborhood Network.
So there I was the other night at Here. Again I happened upon something magical.
New York City lends itself to synchronicity. You can wander downtown streets and happen upon a gem of a play like The Best of Everything.
I learned about the show from a tweet or email sent by Holly Rosen Fink who’d auditioned me for the Listen to Your Mother Mother’s Day performance (which I didn’t get). Fink was the associate producer of the play, based on the novel with the same name by Rona Jaffe, written by Julie Kramer and directed by Amy Wilson, who also plays my favorite character, Miss Farrow.
The play’s about the twisting fates of secretaries for a publishing house in the 1950s. Each of the secretaries could have a whole sitcom created for her. So funny. I laughed a lot but then I cried a little too.
And why I cried surprised me. It wasn’t the tragic outcome of one of the secretary’s obsession with a no-good man. I kind of saw that coming. Or another character’s discussion of her necessary abortion at this time of illegal abortions.
I cried when the only woman editor, Miss Farrow, played by Amy Wilson, quit her job to get married. She gave her stable of authors to Caroline, played by Sarah Wilson, a smart new secretary working her way up. The other secretaries marveled at and subtly insulted Caroline for her belief that life was about more than marriage. (!)
I got choked up because I love authors and I love editors and I love that the editor cared about her authors. In some screwed-up way, the older woman, Miss Farrow, wanted to mentor the younger woman. Deep down, the women all wanted each other to succeed. Beneath Miss Farrow’s bitchiness seemed to be her genuine affection for her mentee.
I have felt that too: while women can be competitive and enemies in the workplace, they can also be one another’s sponsors and help each other move ahead. Beneath Caroline’s insecurity was her quiet confidence; she asked Miss Farrow to help her achieve decent pay. I like that.
The play left me thinking, beyond the colliding worlds of wives at home and women in the office, how can women be sexual human beings? The men who philander land on bar stools while the women fall down stairs or require back-alley abortions.
It’d be fun to discuss how women’s sexuality and society’s moralizing drove behavior in the 1950s workplace and how that compares with today.
In any case, the show moves at a clip. The costumes and the music are delicious. When I walked out of the theater into the downtown scene, I thought, Thank God I wasn’t a working gal in the 1950s.
Although, some things never change, like the magic of Off Off Broadway. And that happens Here.
100 Days of Poems and Pics 