What am I worth?

I have changed my tactics to writing, blogging, and book selling, in large part because I am not where I want to be. Obviously, if you're not where you want to be, you need to do something differently. As part of that, I've been reading a lot. I've joined a thousand and one groups, forums, mailing lists - you name it. I've reached out to who knows how many different blogs, writers, publicity gurus etc.

About 75% of the time these people write back, in some way. Usually it is a helpful way.

In one particular instance, it was a situation where the person was making the age old case that you have to spend money to make money.

Now between the two of us, my husband and I have a little under $40k of student debt. My husband works in an industry that does not support its employees, in fact, they kind of shit all over them and then stomp on them, no matter how well trained they are. Of course, he makes too much money for us to qualify for government assistance. Our parents happen to live in one of the most expensive housing markets in the country, which means we have to live with them in order to have a place to stay and food to eat. My son has health care because of the ACA. Because of where we live, we have to commute to jobs, and because of a lack of childcare, it doesn't really make sense for me to work at this point.

This is the stress I carry on my shoulders every day.

I have tried a thousand and one tactics already to get my books into readers hands, and here is this person saying the only way I can be successful is by spending money. Money. Something I don't have right now - haven't had for a few years.

I wrote the guy and he actually wrote back, and said nothing I didn't already know. I was grateful he actually responded, but the response did something to me that was unexpected. He wasn't mean, in fact, he was very professional. But it was the fact that he told me things I already knew - things I felt like I couldn't do anything about.

I broke. I just broke. Here was this guy who was supposed to be a guru and he was telling me things I already knew. I felt so defeated.

Here I was, putting every last bit of soul and effort into this - and I still wasn't financially successful. I wasn't getting reviews. I wasn't getting people to buy my books. Granted, people love the books when they read them. Any time I talk to people about them they end up buying a copy. And loving it. Seriously. But I wasn't connecting to enough readers. People weren't coming across my books and buying them. I had a steady trickle of purchases, but nothing to write home about.

I felt like a failure. I was ready to jump off a bridge. The thought actually entered my mind. I cried the rest of the day.

Slowly reason seeped into my consciousness.

The voice (in this case my father's) said: You might not be able to buy another domain, but you could change the landing page to allow for multiple brands.
Me: Okay, I can do that. Next week on update day I can do that.
The voice: Stop 'asking' for reviews. Call in all your chips. Tell anyone and everyone who you know has read your books - I need reviews.
Me: Okay. I can do that. I'll do that.

I started doing that. I felt a little better.

The voice came back (in this case my husband's): You already knew the things this guy told you. Keep working at this. Keep tweaking things. Write a blog post about this. You have more.

I did. I felt even better.

The voice came back a third time (in this case the one in my head): There are more things I haven't done. Try them. See this through. I have a purpose. I am enough.

So here I am. I have a purpose to my writing. I want to educate empathy - specifically compassion. I want everyone to know what is possible in books, with characters, with life. I want to be a catalyst for social change. I want to leave a legacy for my son. This is my purpose.

When there is a purpose, things happen. I believe that. I have everything I need to realize my purpose. I believe I will encounter those driven to work with me. There are no accidents. No coincidences. There is will, and therefore way.

I am sharing all this because I know I'm not alone. My situation is one that has played out many times before over the centuries. I know every modern author isn't in quite as dire of straits as I am. A lot of writers have day jobs, or spouses who essentially sponsor them. I know a lot of people do not need their writing to work for them. And it is nice to have that. There is comfort in that.

I am not comfortable which is why I need you to understand exactly what is at stake for me - for people like me. I need you to know me. To understand my drive. To understand why I struggle every day to do and be more.

When you read my books, understand that through everything, I am baring myself. I am giving you a piece of me to carry with you. When you read my books, you are participating in my life through the lives of my characters. That is the gift I am giving you.

Now tell me, what is it worth?

THRIVE Guest Post: Insatiable Hunger

I am so excited to share this guest post by Amy Oestreicher. She is an amazing human being who embodies a superhero spirit. She THRIVES despite everything she has experienced. I hope you find her as inspiring as I do.

"Follow Your Bliss" by Amy Oestreicher

I am, and have always been hungry. When I was a child, I was audaciously, passionately hungry for life, and theatre was my nourishment. I had one goal: Broadway or bust. As a performer, I was hungry to make a difference in the world. What attracted me to the stage initially was the ability to give to the audience, to offer something of myself, to make an impact on people. I was hungry to matter, to make my mark. My days were spent making hammy home movies, begging my parents for an agent as soon as I found out what one was, and dragging them to the city for countless auditions. I was hungry for my future – I strived for the best possible grades I could, applied to too many colleges, and really believed in the endless possibilities that my life could hold for me. I was raised believing that if I set clear goals for myself, with a bit of hard work and strategy, they were achievable. – I could experience life to the fullest and reap what it had to offer me with a bit of perseverance.

I experienced 18 years of this ravenous, insatiable hunger. But weeks before graduation, I was confronted with a new, unfamiliar, frightening type of hunger. Having woken from my coma, I have a fuzzy memory of a doctor standing above me, telling me I had no stomach anymore, I could not eat or drink now, and he had no clue if or when I’d ever be able to again. And suddenly my hunger ran deep – a helplessness in a world of uncertainty where childhood dreams and goals were replaced with the drive to simply survive. I was hungry for control of my life again, hungry for answers.

There was no “road map” to recovery for me, just the monotony and angst of passing each day wondering when I’d ever be able to eat or even swallow a single ice cube. Because I had no control or crystal ball, this was merely a wish rather than a goal. Life became scary, surreal – I could pick up food, smell it, feel it warm in my hands, but was forbidden to put it in my mouth, knowing that this old, familiar friend was now poison to my now-alien body, covered in bags, tubes, and adhesives. I felt stuck in a routine that was out of my control, a pawn in a dangerous game. My new goal: getting through.

I then made a promise to myself – as long as I was going to be hungry, I wanted to keep my old hunger alive too by setting tiny goals for myself – like trying to laugh once a day. These various mini-goals I set under a larger umbrella of the bigger goal I’d manifest each day, more like a desire that with enough dedication and faith would eventually come true: To thrive rather than just survive. I refused to feel like a sick hospital patient tied up with tubes, plugged in like a lamp, bags and drains leaking everywhere. Even though this was my physical reality, I fought against the feeling that I was weak or was less than person who could walk, live, and eat freely. Not being able to sing, or leap across a stage made me feel like I wasn’t myself anymore. So I did anything I could to reclaim my identity. Hungry for myself and for life, which once held endless wonders for me, I set a goal for myself to make a daily gratitude list, even in the bleakest of circumstances.

With an intense desire to let the world know that I was still eager to make that imprint on the world, I couldn’t allow myself to listen to doctors who thought I was too weak to do anything but lie in bed. A month after being discharged from the ICU, I landed the lead role in the musical OLIVER! – tubes, bags, starving, and parched. I was so hungry for my strength back that I put myself through my own physical therapy every day, and ended up leaping across the stage in CATS. I still wanted to make an impact on my community by teaching nursery school, learning karate, and working on a cabaret act.

With a new goal of fearlessness, I didn’t let my new restrictions extinguish my passions. Rather than avoid food, I became obsessed with it and learned how to cook, starting a food blog and making Thanksgiving dinner for 30 guests, still not able to eat a morsel. I played with my hunger by creating a chocolate company, entertaining myself for hours making edible creations for the business I had set up out of sheer starvation.

Eventually, I picked up a paintbrush…and my world changed. I found a way to express things that were too complicated, painful and overwhelming to put into words. The next year, I put hundreds of mixed media and acrylic creations in an art show, displaying work that expressed everything I’ve been through throughout these seven years. I didn’t expect a turnout, but was surprised by hundreds of guests who came to see what I had done all of these years, to know that I hadn’t just got lost in the woodwork. I was still alive, still vital.

I was unexpectedly betrayed by my own body, tested, dehumanized, and put back together, but differently, like a mosaic. Throughout the struggles, I have always kept that spark of hope in the back of my throat, that I’d be able to share my story, that I have survived this trauma for a reason: to reach out to the world, like I once did as a performer for something more than entertainment. After this detour, I still just want to give to the world, and now I can in a deeper sense. Now I know that my role in life is still to be that same passionate performer I once aspired to as a child, but now with the even greater gift of a story to tell.

At 28, I still hunger to my mark on the world, perform, finish college, and not let nine years of medical complications and frustrations separate me from my dream of education, connection, and spiritual fulfillment. I will still get there, perhaps by different means, and even a different end. Now with satisfaction in my body, real nourishment flowing through me, and true appreciation of little daily blessings, anything is possible. Hunger has taught me so much and will always be my intimate companion as I continue to crave inspiration, my mark on the world, and everything life can offer me. Life has taught me that goals aren’t always accomplished…which can be a blessing in disguise. Thank you hunger, thank you life, for giving the opportunity to discover new goals I didn’t realize I could achieve or even had wanted in the first place. You have given my life unexpected meaning by breaking the bonds of expectation.

********************************

Amy Oestreicher is a 28 year old actress, musician, teacher, composer, dancer, writer, artist, yogi, foodie, and general lover of life.  Surviving and thriving through a coma, 27 surgeries and other trauma has inspired Amy to share her story with the world through her passionate desire to create and help others.  Piecing her life together after her initial dreams of performing musical theatre took on a beautiful detour into broader horizons.  Amy has written, directed and starred in a one woman musical about her life, Gutless & Grateful, has flourished as a mixed media and acrylic artist, with her art in multiple galleries and mounting dozens of solo art shows, and continues to share her story through her art, music, theatre and writings. 

More information on her unique story, as well as her creative ventures can be found at amyoes.com, and visit her blog http://www.allspiceandacrylics.blogspot.com/ for her newest art, music and inspirational musings.  You can also visit her Etsy shop at https://www.etsy.com/shop/AllspiceandAcrylics?ref=hdr_shop_menu

BE MY PATRON!

If you love my blogging, my books, or just love supporting creatives, I strongly urge you to become my patron on Patreon.

What is Patreon?

Patreon is a site that lets fans connect with makers of any and all stripes.

How does it work?

You sign up as a subscriber and BAM! You're a patron! You get access to an exclusive community of fans, special rewards, personal interaction, and exclusive work before ANYONE ELSE. Any time I put up a piece of writing in a given month for patronage, your account is charged your pledge. BUT you are only charged up to the limit of your budget. SO if you pledge $3 and your budget is $6, you would only get charged twice, even if I put up 3 paid pieces. It is a win-win for both of us! You get to control how much you pledge, get access to awesome stuff before anyone else, AND support this indie author.

What do you have in store for patrons?

Not gonna lie. There are some AWESOME things heading the way of my patron page. In fact, I am working on a serial story, EXCLUSIVELY for patrons. That's right. IT WILL ONLY BE ACCESSIBLE TO PATRONS.

Once a month I intend to upload one episode/chapter of the story to the patron page. As the story develops, those patrons with access to the suggestion thread are able to comment on story direction for the next chapter. While I have a general plan as to where the story is going, it is meant to be an interactive experience with my patrons.

The premise? It is admittedly in its early stages at this point, but I am committed to the main character. I'll say more after the first episode/chapter is complete.

In addition to the serial story, I have some stand-alone shorts that will be accessible FIRST on Patreon. Also artwork inspired by different novels will be available to patrons. And maybe some of that artwork will be based on fan models! Hmm. I like that idea.

So, all this is to say, patronizing your sweet indie author is awesome. You get cool stuff and help a girl out. Become my patron today!

Don't Be a Writer

Note: This was written to advise those thinking about pursuing, or contemplating a more professional trajectory into writing. Because, you need to know, if you didn't already, what it is really like.

The early days of a starving artist...

My dear aspiring writer, don't. Don't be a writer. This is not a job you should choose. If there is anything else you would enjoy doing, do that. This is especially true if you have remotely thin skin because you will have to defend your choice at every turn. You will have to defend your craft and your creation. This is because from the very earliest part of a writing career, you are constantly attacked.

First, everyone will tell you it is impossible. They will say it a thousand times. They will say only the superstars make it. No one, however, knows what makes a superstar, and when you ask these people how superstars become superstars, they will name someone who already made it in another field with a ghostwritten book about said field. The other true writing stars? They paid whatever dues all writers must pay and that process remains a mystery to everyone, even the stars.

Everyone will say no one knows what makes a successful book. In fact, this is one thing everyone agrees on. Family and friends don't know how writing can be successful. Agents and writers don't know what books will be successful. No one in publishing understands people's tastes. Shitty writers can make millions of sales while pure genius prose can be used as drink coasters for Big Gulps. So if you can't handle that level of unknown, just don't bother writing.

If you're impatient, you really shouldn't write. The submission process involves a painful amount of waiting. You have to submit to a thousand agents to get a read through if you are anything like the other millions of people doing the same thing. And these agents will send you letters, time and again, saying it isn't quite right. They aren't interested in repping a book they aren't totally passionate about, and your book just doesn't do it for them. They send these notes anywhere from a week after receiving your query, to never. You might never get a response at all and will have to infer that your writing just wasn't good enough for them to be your advocate.

Some people will say you should get a few stories published and that will help your chances. Maybe having a few published pieces will convince agents it is worth taking a chance on you. But you have to find the right home for your stories. You might read a bunch of magazines and think you found the right one, but your opinion doesn't matter. It's the editor's opinion that matters. And so you get rejected. Again.

Others will say, write some articles! And the process repeats with the addition of some head banging against either a table top, a wall, or both.

Finally someone will say, why don't you self-publish? But of course, self-publishing is looked down upon by pretty much everyone. You can't be writing good work if you self-publish, even though a lot of “superstars” go on to self-publish, and a lot of self-published authors go on to be picked up by traditional publishers (only after they have sold thousands upon thousands of copies under their own steam). And so many other people have self-published and have nothing to show for it. Your chances are slim, even if you follow every book marketing guru's instructions for success. After all, they have no idea what makes for a successful book.

Determined, you read more writing blogs. You read about the successes and failures of your superstars. You try to fit into the molds of different agents and publishing houses. You try to fit into the molds of the market. You make a thousand mistakes. You try again. You make more mistakes. You try again. You open a bottle of whiskey and chug half of it. You write. You lay awake at night with terrible heartburn wishing you knew what to do, that someone would mentor you to success. You rewrite. You think if you could just figure out the magical formula that mixes lead and snake oil you could get gold.

You write every day for months on end. You blog. You comment on other writers' work. You read. You drink the other half of the whiskey bottle mixed with Ethiopian coffee brewed in your French press, because this is what you have in your kitchen to eat. You have become the epitome of the starving artist. It happened some time between the first set of agent queries and one of the rounds of rejections from literary zines. You lose weight. You wear thrift shop clothes that make Macklemore proud. You only buy generic food from the grocery store, and at some point you will finally break down and go to the food pantry when your last bit of pride is stripped away.

But then, you get an email back. It is unexpected. It is a single website where you thought your work would fit in perfectly. They want to print it. SUCCESS! You got an article posted on a website besides your free blog! You're going somewhere! You're a real writer!

That iota of affirmation is all you needed to get through another series of grueling rejections of another piece of your creative soul.

The dream isn't dead. It just got a fresh shock back to life. But never fear, you'll feel this again. And again. Always just on the brink of death, you'll get jolted, pulled back in by that horrible temptress hope.

So don't be a writer. It promises a lifetime of psychological masochism. Be an accountant, or a paralegal. Be a mid-level manager in a large corporation. You'll have a regular salary and so much less psychic pain.

But if there is nothing else that you can do – if it is impossible for you to stop writing – then you must write. You can never be happy doing anything else. You will never be fulfilled. You will never have solace. You will carry the burden of creation within you and without the pen and paper, the keys and screen, you will explode. Or worse, you will rot, the stories inside their womb, dead, festering, spreading their necrosis across your spirit. It will affect every relationship. It will affect every interaction. It will mark every second of your life – with that horrible longing ache that comes when words must be written, when ideas crave expression.

No one will think worse of you publicly for becoming a writer. They will praise your courage and bravery – your commitment to the craft. They will tell you time and again how they always wanted to write a book but never had the time, the energy, or a single coherent idea. If you have completed manuscripts they will fawn over you. If you have published anything, even independently, they will gush over you, amazed they met someone, anyone, with enough discipline and courage to not only finish, but share their vulnerable creation with the world. They will marvel at you, that despite all the reasons not to be a writer, you chose it, and continue to, not because you are a masochist, but the very opposite; because you hate pain.

Because if you are a writer by birth, and do not write, your existence is sheer agony. In this case, it is much better to write, much better to subject yourself to that Promethean submission process. Then at least, there is some chance of relief. This is the curse of the writer, the burden you must bear if you are a writer. If there is no choice.

But, if you can choose, by all means, choose something else. This vocation is not for the weak of heart.

Help Me: Alexis and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Weekend

What I can't lose

It started on Friday. Christian woke up with hives and swelling everywhere. His hands were swollen. His ankles were swollen. His eyes were practically shut. I called urgent care. They wanted to know about his breathing.

"It's fine."
"Okay, well then come in here."

We went, and through the course of check in, I find out our insurance has lapsed through one thing or another (auto-debit never went through...they never contacted us...whatever the case). Then it becomes clear, despite Christian's job (or because of it?), we can't actually afford our insurance premiums. This, thanks to our collected loans, and other responsibilities (which are small compared to most households, but that's all we can manage).

I have a melt down in the waiting room.

It ends up being okay. Only just. Christian takes meds. The swelling goes down more and more. The hives abate, for the most part.

I feel like something needs to change, but I can't seem to get any interviews for jobs I do apply for, that would make childcare possible. I can't sleep well, ransacking my mind for ways that I might actually be able to support us - paths that we could pursue that would actually make a difference for our family.

Fast forward to Sunday.

My son sticks a piece of a toy in his mouth and it gets stuck. It's awkward. It's hard to remove. He's freaking out. He's coughing. His face is turning purple. My mommy sense kicks in and I reach into his mouth and yank it out myself. He is shocked. He is horrified. He cries. He wants to nurse. There is no good place. My shirt is not really the best kind for this sort of thing. We're in the middle of the restaurant, completely exposed. Christian takes him for a walk. He comes back. He wants to stay cradled in my lap. He eats half a sweet potato fry.

He cries. He grabs at me, clearly wanting to nurse. I don't finish my lunch. Christian gets everything except our child, who I am carrying in my arms, across a huge parking lot. He's over 25 pounds, wriggling, kicking, crying, and all the while grabbing at my chest to nurse. I am just trying to keep him in the middle of my body so I don't throw my alignment off worse than it is.

We get to the car. It is hot. It is small. We cram into the back seat and miraculously he's able to latch. He gets distracted and starts playing with things. We relatch. He gets distracted. We relatch. I'm  sweaty and cranky and still in shock from lunch. He gets distracted again, and I make an executive decision and put him into his car seat.

Christian declares he can't drive because of his meds. Fine. I get in the driver's seat. I'm not totally aware of how I'm still upset, but I do what I have to do. This is what I do everyday. I make it work. I check everything, I back up. The car directly behind me is backing up too. I stop. She keeps backing up, but there is no way she can move her car enough. I honk my horn. She bumps me.

I put the car in neutral and the brake on. I get out of the car and look at our bumper. Our car is over 10 years old. Hers is too. There are no dents. There are no scrapes. I see no marks on her car whatsoever, though ours has some old ones from something I can't recall.

"It was just one of those things. I looked left and you looked right," the woman says. I look at the cars again and nod. I'm upset, but no harm no foul.

There's a loud honk from behind me. I look over and there is a car. i stare the driver down. She motions as though she wants to get through - between the two cars who just had an accident. She doesn't smile at me. She doesn't wave or anything. I get into my car and this driver has the gall to drive right between our cars, before either one of us has time to move out of the way. I had visions of chasing her down, of beating her window, of taking my teenage carkeys along her freshly washed California Prius and giving her a nice cursive message to immortalize the occasion.

"Thanks you fucking bitch!" These are the words I thought because she didn't know everything I'd been through this weekend. She didn't realize I had visions of losing not only my husband and best friend, but also the fragile financial security I have. She didn't realize that I had visions of losing my son to a piece of irregularly shaped plastic just moments before. She didn't realize that I had just carried this upset, frightened little boy, wriggling, and crying, at over 25 pounds, the distance of several city blocks. She didn't realize that I had just crammed into my back seat, so that same frightened little boy, could feel an ounce of comfort before being strapped down so he could be transported safely away. She didn't realize all those things, but she did see my car bumper get tapped.

I don't know what that Prius driver had going on in her own life, but I think she could have managed a few seconds wait time to allow a young mother a little less stress to an already stressful event.

So when I did finally get my car going, and make my way out of the parking lot and on to surface street, it was amidst utterly raw weeping. Christian offered to take the wheel, but I refused. I refused in part because I did not want to move from that spot. I did not want to get out of the car. I could not take my hands from the wheel, so instead, I wept. I sobbed until my throat hurt - until the sound was impossible, until it refused to claw from my throat. The tears continued to flow from my swollen eyes. I would sniff. I would take a few gasping breaths, and this was enough to allow that wracking sound from my throat again.

I cried so hard, so long, I started to cough. I started to choke. I calmed enough to breathe. I wept some more. I wept the entire drive to my in-laws' house.

"If anyone makes any kind of comment to me, I cannot be held responsible for what I will say back. I cannot!" I said as I turned down their street. Christian nodded.

"Okay. I understand. Just go straight to the guest room. It's fine."

I parked the car. I wiped salt from my cheeks - just salt tracks because of the drought. I got out, not looking back, not thinking. I went straight to the guest room where our son takes his nap. Christian laid him down beside me, whimpering and half asleep from the car ride.

As I lay there, nursing my sleepy toddler, I breathed deeply, my limbs trembling.

I can't handle anything else. I can't. I need a break - I need to catch a break. I don't have anything left. No patience. No resources. No stamina. I am running on empty. I am bare. I am raw. I don't know what I will do if something else happens. I don't know what else I can do besides what I am doing.

So I write this, raising my hands up, empty and asking...help me.

Self-determination

Success! Sort of... yay?

Last week I fell into a moment of weakness, which spurred a moment of motivation, which brought on waiting, and then...replies.

Magical...wonderful...feel good...don't give up you crazy starving artist writer replies!

I got personalized responses from a few editors about my submissions. This has been a rarity for me. Honestly it happened once, two years ago. Ever. Before now.

In fact, as I write this I wonder if the very act of writing about it may jinx me into the trash bin, but I can't help it. I'm excited. I feel affirmed, if only by receiving constructive criticism...which means I got a got a genuine read through, which is better than before. This means I'm on the right track, and with a little doctoring, may finally land that success I've been craving, striving for, in my writing life.

And while this is a limited glimmer of hope when compared to my former non responses and form letter rejections, it serves to spur me forward. Rather than slowing down, I feel the need to continue...to submit...to re-evaluate... to dream...to push harder.

Since I've finished my writing goal for the day and my email replies, I think it's time to submit a few more stories. Yes. I think that's a new weekly goal - until everything unpublished has been submitted and is under consideration I will submit several stories each week. And when there is nothing left, I'll start writing new ones (or I'll write something specifically for the sites I want to contribute to.).

With every rejection, I'll continue to polish. I'll rework. I'll reconsider. I'll perfect until I get yes. That is my path forward. Those are my next writing steps. I am a writer and I am determined.

Rejection, Grief, and the Search for Direction

I am in a place where the eye does not see.

That line from Avatar keeps floating around my head. It keeps floating because it feels like I have been abandoned, by dreams and hope. It feels like I've been abandoned by light itself.

On Friday I got an email from one of the doctoral programs saying I was rejected. To be fair, it was kindly done. It was as compassionate as such an email can be. They had only so many spots. It was very competitive. I had a very strong essay. They were very sorry and looked forward to watching my contributions to the field from afar.

After I read it I was in shock. I couldn't hear my son asking for me. I couldn't think. I didn't know what I was seeing. I put on Sesame Street and sat down. I needed to talk it out - figure out how I felt about this.

"I can't believe it." That was my first thought.

"What am I going to do?" That was the second.

"They're going to regret this later." The third.

"Who can I call?"

But it was the middle of the afternoon. No one was around. People were working. I was alone with my son and my heart was breaking. I was barely functional. I didn't want to scare him. I couldn't let myself feel. I couldn't yell. I couldn't scream. I wouldn't allow myself to cry. And I wanted all that. I wanted to pour out every inch of my heart to get rid of that awful, horrible, poisonous feeling inside.

Because it wasn't just about the school. It wasn't just about rejection. It was about what the hell I am supposed to do next fall. 

I can't keep living at my parents' house in a tiny bedroom in one of the most expensive counties in the country. I can't keep subsisting - just making loan payments, and just writing my reclusive heart into ones and zeros. I have to do something. I have to be someone. I have to live up to some standard of myself that has remained out of reach for approaching a decade. I have to make the world a better place. I have to charge down the path of legacy, making my mark with more than sand or ink. I need to ossify that shit so it is impossible to remove - so it is carved into the bigger psyche of America. So I know I am more than shouting in the dark. It is so time.

Eight years is too long to put yourself on hold. It is too long to pretend everything is okay. It is just too long to maintain a lie, a lie that became my glass cage, letting me look out watching as others, my equals in socialization and education, mastered their own successes and left me behind.

If I was lucky they would look past me, forgetting my existence, just a figment of their past life. "I wonder what happened to Alexis?" "Oh, I don't know. She's probably changing the world or something. You know how she is." And then they would move on with their day, satisfied they solved their question. 

If I was unlucky, they would look down and see my glass box, see me struggling against uncontrollable forces and bounded choices that kept me contained. They would frown, ask me how I was doing, how they could help, all the while congratulating themselves for not being in my place.

"How lucky I am! I never took out that many loans!"

"How good it was that I could live in X city where the labor market was good when I needed a job!"

"How wonderful it is that I happened to study this while in school, and met such and such person, who put me on the fast track to upper middle class comfort!"

Everyone doesn't think this way. Some, I know from their big hugs and flowing tears, genuinely grieved at my rejection, at the closing of a door we thought was the right one. They thought, like I did, this would be a way for my family - a cold, harsh change, but at least a path to success.

Many remind me that I have other options still yet to get back to me. And if I'm honest with myself, I still have at least three books intended for publication this year. I have a bunch of articles I intend to pitch to various online magazines about various things. It isn't really the end. I know that. My mind knows that. But my heart? My heart is still in total freak out mode.

I still haven't answered that fundamental question, "What am I going to do?"

And the reality is, I can't. I don't know what I will do because it isn't clear. The path hasn't been determined because all the pieces are not yet moved. All the tactics are not tested. Everything hasn't been tried. There are things that just haven't come full circle yet.

So even as I freak out, and grieve, and rage, and wallow, I am digging in my heels. I am reading. I am thinking. I am researching. I am trying and testing and moving. This is all I can do, now that the shock is gone and my tears have dried. I grope my way through the darkness, hoping to be seen, hoping to see, always seeking more light.

Throw That Book: Celebrate Freedom

Freedom. Glorious freedom.
Liberation.
Independence.

Tis a gift to be free. Yes...or is it?

I'm not talking about the holiday coming up. I'm talking about the liberation of books.

FREE OUR BOOKS! BOOK LIBERATION!

A tweep of mine recently had her books show up on a piracy site and as many would be, was upset by this.

The first thing I thought?

I wish one of my books had enough attention to be on a pirate site.

Yes, I would probably lose some money on that book...but...I might gain some fans.

There is a tension between possession of a creative product and accessibility. I think of Louis C.K. who put up a special, DRM free, and had a tip jar situation. He made a bunch of money even though he didn't require payment. Was it a question of demographics? Celebrity? Product itself? Or was it simply the fact that he ventured to trust people enough with his craft they were so moved to support him despite its free price tag?

I have in the past made books free as well as had give aways. I have also given free chapters and of course, my ZEPHYRS short story has always been free. I don't have a tip jar, though I wouldn't mind listing a book on NOISETRADE (can I please?). All my books on Smashwords are DRM free. I did that because I want to trust people and encourage them to support art because it is good, brings them joy, and they want more of it.

On the one hand, if I was on a pirate site, I can see getting mad. On the other, would I be doing my job if my books weren't free somewhere...somehow? Probably not.

So while I don't require payment, I do expect some kind of compensation. PR will do nicely. Money would be good too. :-)

Bootstrappers, A La Carts, and Whole Hogs

I hate the word "independent" because I feel like it's false advertising. Writers should come with labels just like vegetarians:

I'm a pesca-ova-lactarian.
I eat cheese, and chicken, but no beef.
I'm a cheese and veggie kind of girl.
No, I don't even eat honey.

Now, to be honest, I think anyone who eats any kind of animal flesh cannot call themselves vegetarian. When it comes to animal products, I think there are really three categories of food consumers: vegans (purists), vegetarians (digestively challenged?), and everyone else (see-foodists).

That's kind of how I feel about writing, but maybe there's a few additional categories.

There's the traditional writers (whole hogs), or those who went with publishers (big 6 or otherwise). Then there are the hybrid writers, which are kind of like those pesca-ova-lacta-poultry-bullshit vegetarians - trying to reap the rewards of both labels (many of them doing an excellent job, it should be noted!).

Then of course, there are the a la carts. These are people who pay someone else to do various writing services. Now, I'm not saying it isn't a good idea to involve other people, or that we don't need help...but...call a spade a spade. A. LA. CART.

And finally, there's the bootstrappers. The purists. The people who are so committed to the idea of indie, it's embarrassing. I have pictures of these people in my head - you know, that crazy straight-edge punk in your freshman dorm who wrote "straight-edge" in his own blood and then listened to the Misfits all day? Yeah. Those people. Totally bonkers. I mean, why - why - would anyone in their right mind choose to go completely DIY?!

Ahem.

*waves frantically with both hands while jumping up and down and grinning maniacally*

HIIiiiiii! That'd be me.

I'm a bootstrapper. I hate when someone who is only sort of independent claims this word. It's my word. It belongs to people like me. I'm the epitome of independent. I do everything myself. I'm responsible for my complete success or failure. I'm responsible for the flowery words, the typos, the turns of phrase, and the paragraph going off on someone's delicious sandwich (food centered today apparently). Me. Only me. I'm the American myth - the American legend. I am the American dream. I'm completely, beautifully, gloriously independent. Those other guys are posers! Pretenders! They say you need to have an editor. You need to go to conferences. You need to have a cover designer. But that's bullshit. I don't need these things. I can do it myself.

Be precise with your language people! I mean, we're frickin' writers here!

I imagine this is what being vegan must feel like.

Sort of.

Except, the thing is, help is nice. I don't actually begrudge people for paying for services. I just hate feeling like everyone has a sugardaddy footing their service bill. I mean, those conference tickets are expensive. Hundreds of dollars could pay my monthly loan payment (one of them anyway). As my starving artist indie self, I really can't purchase entry to a writer's conference. I can't justify spending hundreds of dollars on editing services when I need to buy clothes for my baby and tools so my husband can do his job.

I'm not in the same league as these other "indie" authors. We're not in the same league because we have different levels of support. Living on one income, while being a stay at home mom, and writing...it's not easy. Granted, I was forced to develop a bunch of skills. I was forced to research things on my own. I was forced to do things that if I'd been in a comfy big 6 situation, I would never have done. You know, like figuring out how to make beet burgers, kale chips, or baking with agave nectar.

There's a reason why bootstrappers are so tough. It might take us a while to get where we're aiming, but we'll get there. We stumble and we trip, and we take detours. But we do our own course correction. We figure it out on our own. I mean seriously, how much more American can you get.

Hate Your Life - It's Good For You!

There are about a thousand things going through my head right now, but I'll try to keep to one or two because, well...that's usually a good idea when you're writing (even if you're writing in a casual setting like a blog).

To be completely honest, I had a total breakdown earlier this week. There was sobbing, statements made that I'd rather never repeat, and admissions that at another time in life may have only brought me down. I have long suffered the curse of self-doubt, self-deprecation, and many other wretched things.

I'm done. Well, at least for the foreseeable future.

I've been reinvigorated.

How, you're asking? Maybe you're thinking, I too have suffered these awful things and worse - much worse. My first world problems are the worst of anyone I know! Yes yes. I understand, and I am happy to share my secret. It came with a confession - the ultimate confession.

Currently, I hate my life.

I'll give you the rundown, not to make this into a pity party, but rather to be entirely factual and clear about where I'm coming from.

• I live with my parents - an increasingly common situation these days.
• I stay at home with my baby - granted he's a sweetheart, but I'm not exactly the stay at home type.
• I have very few friends (if I can say any) outside my family in my current location.
• I struggle to complete my writing goals, and compared to many, have a long way to go.
• I am not currently, nor have I ever worked in my field of study.
• Between my husband and I, we have a mountain of student loan debt.
• My husband works in an industry that does not pay well, despite the high level of expertise and responsibility required of him.
• I am not anywhere near the level of success I envisioned for myself as a younger person.

I hate that. All of that. I could let that hate consume me and make me wallow and take my situation into all new spectacular lows, and indeed, when I had this mini-meltdown, I thought it would.

To my great pleasure, it had the opposite effect.

Rather than dragging me down, it spurred me forward. It was a bit like living in that wretched apartment in Phoenix complete with termites, roaches, no working fridge or AC. I did that for 6 months. You see, I hated that apartment so much, I bought a house. Granted there were other issues with that, but I got the house I wanted and I loved that house while living the remainder of my time in Phoenix.

And that experience illustrates something else; high pressure wretchedness motivates me. It makes me want things - want things so badly I'll do anything to get what I want. So I will.

That's the key to all those crazy self-development books. Nothing else really matters. When you want something bad enough, you will do anything and everything to get it. When you do anything and everything, you will get it. That's what happens. The question is, do you want it badly enough? There is no half-assing at this level. You have to want it. Really. I mean...REALLY.

Fortunately, I do. I really, really do. Now if everyone around me could get on board with things (I'm thinking of the crying baby in the next room), we could get things moving towards some kind of wonderful.

When have you been spurred to change your situation? What was the moment of action for you? Leave a comment below!

Impossible Failure: Extreme Effort Yields Extreme Success

Recently my life has been a bit crazy. We have 2 weddings coming up, a few trips (my husband's going a bachelor weekend and I'm taking the baby back East),  and at least one baby shower. I published 2 books in one week. I've been working out like crazy AND the baby's teething (like the whole mouth...it's crazypants!). Plus it was crazy hot...

Oh, and I'm trying to finish FRIEND OR FOE (working title for Khloe Book #4). I'm 70k into it....so I'll probably need at least 30k more - possibly as much as 60k depending on how loose ends tie up.

I'm working so hard to keep things moving and going. It's a struggle to get anything out, let alone make sure my formatting doesn't suck the big one... and then I see another email congratulating someone else for being a bestseller or whatever.

I want to break something.

I'm working so hard and often it feels like I'm getting little or nothing in return. I know this is a long game and slow and steady wins the race, but things could go a little faster. I look at my Smashwords profile page and see the collection of books I've written and know I'm on the right track...but couldn't that track have a little more tangible success?

Then again, what is success?

For an indie author among thousands upon thousands (millions?) it's hard to say. What is enough? What makes it a hobby? What is reckless abandon or ambition? How many readers are enough? When do you stop writing?

For me, I'm still pretty far from my end goal (my end goal being a ridiculous amount of readers). My annual writing goal is half way complete (3 books published and a fourth half way done). Every subsequent year I want to publish another 7 books. Even if I have another kid. Even if I have TWO. I will keep writing. I will keep publishing.

So while I find it discouraging when a week goes by without much writing (like this past one) or I read an email celebrating the same 5 successful "indie" authors who have a leg up from their past lives of traditional publication, I won't give up. I'll never quit. It's like working out - consistency wins. I see my arms and legs transforming. Slowly everything else transforms before me. There's no other thing to do. If you put so much effort into something, it's impossible to fail.

I believe that.

Impossible.

Repeal Obamacare?! Republican Candidates Must Be Daft

If I see one more ad for Republican running for congress I may shoot myself. The thing I hate the most? "I'm on the side of the taxpayers. I'm going to repeal Obamacare."

Yeah. On the side of which taxpayers exactly?

Sorry but Obamacare is a good thing for most people. All the problems are basically because Republicans stymied the idea of a single payer system (all the complications would be erased if there was a single payer system).

Obamacare saved our health care (too bad it doesn't include adult dental! Hint hint!). We were paying 1500$ a month for Cobra after Christian lost his job. Read: we had NO consistent income. Unemployment (which has been cut by the Feds - so thanks for that!) didn't pay for it ...and while our baby may have been eligible for Medi-Cal, Christian wouldn't have been. Now we have health care for a fraction of the cost (Off the top of my head I want to say we pay around $100 monthly for the two of us!) and our baby is fully covered under Medi-Cal.
We're just one example, but there are thousands and millions of people like us who can and do benefit from this legislation.

But...if the Republicans DO repeal Obamacare...they could kill their party and we may end up with single payer after all. Considering how completely horrid they've become (thank you Kochs!), I can't say I would mourn the loss.

The Indie Author Shake-down

Did you know that "Indie Author Services" are like the biggest shake-downs ever? Well, besides King's Candy Crush of course (p.s. I'm exceptionally lazy and NOT linking to that goofy game because my internet is being slow, so sue me!). I mean, even the social media sites that have popped up EVERYWHERE and the membership organization sites that are ALL OVER are just INSANE.

It makes me want to slap someone.

I keep picturing people with greasy slicked back hair, gold chains, and too much chest hair poking out of their button shirts.

Gross!

I do not understand how people are able to pay for all these services, and think they are even worth the money. No one KNOWS if they're actually worth the money. No one knows what works at selling books and what doesn't.

Surprise! There is no magic formula. Let me repeat myself - there is no magic formula.

And just in case you didn't know what that means - it means, don't waste your money on jerk-offs trying to charge you to join their websites. And what about the other thing indie authors have in abundance? Yeah, don't waste your time if it seems like there aren't enough people USING the site or it doesn't offer you tons of things you actually will use and need.

I know there are a ton of people like me out there or even worse (In fact, I would say I'm concerned more about people who are just starting out.). All those people may want to publish books, and they could, if they had the right support at an affordable price. Sorry, but $300 is not affordable for most indies. It's crazypants.

CRAZYPANTS I TELL YOU!

How about free? I'm just saying that your best bet as an indie is to find another indie with the skill set you need and to trade services. You edit for him, and he designs a cover for you. True indies wear many hats. It's like working at a non-profit (and believe me, most indies are familiar with non-profit! Badumcha!). You will find someone with the skills you need who wants the skills you have. I'm positive.

This business might be a business, but it's not about making money. It's about sharing passion. I think a lot of indies forgot that along the way.

Self-publishing Cons - The Price of Indie

These days much of my writing work involves reading, primarily articles by other indie authors on various aspects of the self-publishing business. And this is often frustrating for me.

I feel, as one of the poorest indie authors you'll meet (at the moment) disgust, hopelessness, and frustration because of the general nature of self-publishing and the advice so frequently given. Why?

Disgust comes from the observation that everyone is out to fleece and make a buck on the backs of indie authors. This comes from swearing up and down authors have to have a given service. It includes paid subscriptions to social media sites developed by unsuccessful authors that are largely useless (from everything I can see). It includes graphics designers that develop by the box cover design that makes me want to puke. It includes promotional companies that tell authors they need to work just as hard as the PR company in such a way one wonders if they're even worth the hundreds of dollars spent.

Hopelessness develops after I've read yet another article stating "you need this...only $300!" Even if carrion eating scum do provide a service that actually converts to book sales, it is completely out of my reach. Despite having spent the last several years of my life devoted to writing and publishing 6 books, I don't have a dime to even pay for a printed proof at this point, let alone a crazy service that may or may not actually help me sell books. Hell, I'm pining over the fact that I don't have money for reading fees to submit my short stories to contests. And I know they're good...but it's hard to part with $15 when that could have been bread and milk for my family for one week. Yeah...so $300...forget it.

It's obvious then where the frustration comes from. I wish I could spend money on editing. I wish I could hire a PR person who is actually worth his or her salt. I watch peers have good blog tours and enjoy good editing in my rags at the window. I lick my lips and look pitifully in, completely ignored. I can do nothing other than what I'm already doing...writing. Blogging. Trying to maintain an online presence on social media sites that require more time than a mother can really give.

This is why traditional publishing is attractive to me...not many up front costs and the ability to focus on writing while the other bits get done by experts. It's probably why I've come back to the idea several times even though in *theory* it's not as lucrative.

Thankfully these articles I read about the need to pay for this or that are matched in number (or at least fervor) by indies maintaining one truth - the only thing authors should do is write. Ultimately that is the author's job, to write. By producing a regular stream of material, the indie author increases visibility and readership. All of the other stuff is fluff, or so say such writers.

My super lean starving artist self reads those things and turns away from the window with a deep determined breath. This is my path. I need to stick with it. It is arduous and hardly the cushy restaurant/hotel type experience of these indies with big bank accounts and 6 figure day jobs. I hold Amanda Hocking's experience in my sight as a model and a message - I can be broke now and be stupidly successful and widely read later. It may take a little longer and is by no means easy, but it does mean I get to do the thing I do best.

I just write.

Encouragement for the Frustrated Indie Writer

The past few days have been a brief respite in a stormy sea. The result was I hadn't blogged as regularly as I might have. Sorry about that, except...well...I needed it.

I didn't do much related to writing either.

What I did do, reading popular YA novels and listening to feedback from my brother, was really reassuring and more helpful than I expected.

I'm not very good about consistently reading my fellow writers' works. It's not that I wouldn't, it's just that I usually don't have access to them. I might need to check out Wattpad not only to provide excerpts of my own work, but also to check out some of my neighborhood indie writers.

In any case, I had some much needed relaxation time, so I read.

I realized a few things. This author in particular (who shall remain nameless) really wrote more or less the same trilogy a second time...and they still became best sellers. What she changed was storyline stuff that I hate (oh well) and adding more sexy time (hot and heavy romance for YA that made me think was just short of bodice ripping...bleh). Several of the digital copies had significant errors...yet this woman is a national (and possibly international?) bestseller.

I feel a bit better about myself.

The second bit that was helpful the past few days was hearing from my brother. He hadn't read my books and then just...well...devoured them. He loved them. He reread JAMES like 3 times! Then he bought JEREMIAH and kept asking me for hints about what would happen in the story. He raced through THE BROTHERS and then bought LOVERS AND RIVALS. He also told me he thought my books would make great movies.

Yes, it is true he's my brother...but he doesn't mess around with books. If you can't hook my brother, he won't get hooked. He just won't finish the book. But this was more than just getting hooked - this was literary love. This was addiction where he can't wait to read the next book.

Having this knowledge, along with the few people who have given me feedback about my books (of which there are very few) really made me feel better about life in general. And I really, really needed it.

I was starting to think maybe I was wasting my time...again.

This is because it is so easy to get discouraged and feel like writing is a worthless exercise when there are thousands of people competing making it next to impossible to be found by readers. When I don't get feedback, it's easy to think I must not be any good.

It is so easy to feel like I should give up when I have been forced into such difficult times financially. I feel guilty for writing (and judged) even though whenever I have looked consistently for fulltime work, I haven't gotten a single interview. The only thing I can seem to get is part time...and so I feel judged, as though my financial situation was my fault for writing.

The irony is, if I had gotten fulltime work early on, I never would have started writing in the first place. Fulltime work would also make it difficult to continue writing.

So despite everything, I feel a little better about my vocation because of these two "small" things happening in the past few days. I say this even though my heartburn came back in less than an hour from being home (seems it is strictly stress related, eased on by pregnancy hormones - thanks pregnancy!). Clearly I'm in an uncomfortable place (to say the least) but I do have hope. I will not give up - not completely.

My books are good reads (ha!). This is no time to white flag it.

When You Lose It All

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you already know I asked for positive thoughts and prayers in the last day or so. If you've been keeping up with my various blogs, you know we've had a few hurdles this summer, except none of them was as big as the one that appeared this morning.

Christian lost his job.

I'm taking a deep breath now, so I can let that sink in again. It doesn't seem completely real. If I stop to think about it, I begin wondering about the logistics we face in the next month.

There are the bills we have to pay. There is the food we need in order to live. There is the fact that rent in the Bay is exorbitant and now, even with our loans on forbearance we don't have the income to support the measly loft where we currently reside. There's the fact that we have a baby on the way and I'm not sure what our insurance situation is going to look like, or if we will have to move out of the area and look for a new care provider in the last few weeks of my pregnancy. Oh, did I mention we don't have any baby gear AT ALL right now? There is no car seat, no diapers (cloth or otherwise), and no place for kiddo to sleep.

We are, more than ever before, at a crossroads. We have nothing. There is no emergency fund. There is no job waiting in the wings. We have fallen as low as we've ever fallen and there is no net (Thanks America for not believing social democracy is a thing worth pursuing! You've made this possible!).

We have three main things we can do (and I'm not even sure if they're doable):

1. Christian can file for unemployment.
2. Christian can apply for jobs.
3.  We can try to start our own business.

These could all happen at the same time. They're not mutually exclusive, and frankly, I think they're all worth pursuing at this point. As such, my writing and publishing goals are going to be put on hold while I help Christian get things going. Being able to eat, having a place to sleep, and taking care of the baby are my top priorities. I don't think I'll completely stop working on book stuff, but I doubt that I'll be able to be nearly as aggressive as I wanted to be. If I can get 3 or 4 books published this summer, considering the craziness surrounding our living situation, I'll be amazed and incredibly proud of myself.

Granted, if I still pulled off publishing 7 books I would call that something near miraculous.

Whatever the case, print versions of the books are going to be put on hold until I have money to spend on purchasing proofs (you have to order a proof of each book to check for errors, formatting etc). The cost of the proofs varies depending on the type of book (binding and size), as well as the number of pages, and whether it is in color or black and white. I'm disappointed by this, but I don't have a choice at the moment.

I can't submit stories to magazines with reading fees.

The reality of my present situation is starting to set in, especially as how this will impact my personal goals.

And it hurts.

Even though I know practically what will happen on Monday (we'll put our loans on forbearance or deferment, start the unemployment papers, apply for jobs, and begin developing a business plan) I don't know what will happen to us after that. So much hangs in the balance. This is such a big change and it is incredibly scary and painful. I have to believe there is a reason for all this. I have to believe this was a way to clear the slate, to allow for something bigger and better. After all, I have been feeling like this year was going to be a big year. Maybe this had to happen to allow for the really good stuff to come into our lives. I hope so. I don't know that I'll be able to handle a lower fall.

The Stress of Feeling Inferior During Pregnancy

I'm lying here wide awake and incapable of sleeping right now. Maybe it's just hormones or maybe it's the fact that I can't stop thinking about writing. Maybe it's the fact that I'm freaking out about what will happen in three weeks time when I no longer have a steady paycheck and I have yet to buy any baby things (no point until after the baby shower) or fully pay the midwives.

I'm a little stressed.

It's supposed to be bad for the baby.

When people tell me that, I can't help but think, "Yeah, so give me a way to destroy those stressors and I'll be able to sleep at night!"

I would love to not have to think about such things as how I'll pay for food, baby gear, or continue to make payments towards my stupidly sized educational debt, but I can't help it. It keeps coming back to me like a plague and there's no known cure. I don't know what to do except keep doing what I'm doing in an effort to hopefully overcome my situation.

I have these moments of crazy - literally - that involve breaking down everything to the most awful conclusion. They involve highlighting negative feelings and faults in those around me and my life generally.  These are horrible times, usually when I'm tired, and I feel like I haven't done enough.

I don't know if it's the nesting thing or if it's my life expectations combined with hormones, but I look at pictures of people from my pregnancy forums and Facebook and strangers in magazines and I feel inferior. I feel like I have somehow failed because I live in a loft which I rent. I live too near a freeway in a concrete jungle. I have a car that needs about a thousand things replaced to look even remotely decent and not make odd noises when I drive it. I have fat upper arms and cellulite on my thighs that makes me doubt my attractiveness every time I see a picture or video of an unpregnant woman. I paid too much money for two degrees that I haven't used and continue to cause me financial hardship. I haven't lived up to my professional potential. A night out on the town right now involves going to a chain restaurant and shopping at Target.

And when I look at things in this way, I am disguested and ashamed and utterly embarrassed. I was supposed to be that amazing person that everyone wanted to be able to say, "I knew her when..." I was supposed to be the person who made something of herself - who was spectacular and did things that other people only fantasized about doing in their wildest dreams.

So I'm left wondering what I've been doing with my time and feeling like I have failed myself and all those people who had such high hopes for me. I feel like I may as well have been flipping burgers or stocking shelves all this time.

That's how I feel in those moments when I take stock of my life and compare it to the huge dreams and expectations I have for myself.

And I want to wallow in it. I really do. I want to wallow and whine and complain and have a full on pity party in the most teenage whiney way possible. I actually do.

Except I hate people like that and I am disgusted by people who won't help themselves. Thankfully this is a strong part of who I am - big enough to counteract all the ridiculous bitching and moaning with some reason.

I haven't been wasting my time. I've learned a lot. Things went weird, some were unexpected, and I had some bad luck. That is for sure. However, life isn't over. Things change in a moment. I'm spending a lot of time on a dream I just can't shake, and that's more than a lot of people do in their whole lives. If it wasn't hard, it wouldn't be worth doing. My success wouldn't be nearly so satisfying. The achievement of publishing 7 or 8 books from my writing challenge in a matter of months wouldn't mean nearly as much. The fact that I'm doing it in my second and third trimesters just makes it that much more awesome. I'm not a failure. I'm fricking amazing.

So yes, I can't buy things I want right now. I have to sacrifice a little comfort for a dream. Yes I have to be a little creative and forgo some things that if I had any extra money at all I would buy (like a shiny steering wheel or new shocks or more importantly, a house big enough to grow into). But just like this on again off again pregnancy anxiety I'm feeling, this situation is temporary. It's not forever. A person doesn't publish 7 or 8 books at once without getting a little attention (or at least a little more name recognition).

The moral of this is, hang in there. This uncomfortable time doesn't last long. And when it's over, you're going to be so amazed at what you were able to do, and probably others will too.

WAHM - O! The Perilous Options of Staying at Home

I am continuing to investigate ways of staying home.

The first way is the obvious. I stop working and make no effort to gain any kind of income. The result is probably loans on deferment (ouch!) and perhaps losing some services that would frankly make writing, blogging, and entertainment less than ideal. We would be strapped to meal plans and frenzied discount grocery shopping. Likely we would have to save up pittances in order to purchase things like shoes and cover unexpected maintenance costs.

It's not a pretty picture.

It's one that gives me heartburn (and I already get enough of that) and a horrible sinking feeling in my gut that I have had for the few months when I've been jobless after every move in the last 5 years.

Frankly Kemo Sabe, thinking about this potential situation makes me scared shitless.

The second option is to continue trying to get a remote job. There are a lot of options here actually, but not many that I really want to do or am excited about doing. I would prefer to do something related to a university or school because education is exciting to me, but it seems there are limits to the positions for which I'm qualified. Then there are things like virtual assistantships and customer service gigs that involve using the phone (ick!). I've done the assistant thing and I suck at it. I've done the call center gig and it stresses me out to no end. That's one of the reasons why I worked to become a manager at the last call center gig I had... so I wouldn't have to talk to as many customers (and the ones I did have to talk to, were challenges that sang my praises to the sky when I fixed their lives for them).

Another remote job option is to do editing, proofing, and or writing. There are a bunch of jobs like this out there, but there are just as many aspiring writers hoping to get them. Even though I have a ton of experience teaching writing and I write every day several times a day, I don't really have SEO knowledge, nor do I have any real web language expertise. I fricking break technology - literally. I have broken all kinds of things just by touching them. Even if I got through some kind of online training module about SEO or whatever, I'm not sure if it would work for me or make me want to jump off a cliff. This is probably is a big no-no for a lot of potential employers because everyone wants to optimize their search terms blah, blah, blah.

I'd rather write or edit for someone who actually has something to say as opposed to some bullshit article just to try to lure people to a lame-o site. Ugh. The idea is vomit inducing.

The third option is one that I am just now beginning to really bring to boil. It might be just as scary and crazy as the option of doing nothing at all, but at least I'd feel better trying something. That is, I could actually work at my own business of sorts.

I've been thinking a lot about this and reading a lot about product lines, ecommerce, and all kinds of business sites. As I sifted through the endless waves of business buzz words and advertisements for private label companies, a few things spoke to me.

1. I've done a lot of stuff in my 30 years.
2. I've written how-to manuals for companies and not gotten one cent beyond my hourly even though I'm sure those have been in continual use since (even though at least one company had them reworked).
3. I like writing manuals and guide books.
4. I know a lot of random stuff...
5. I could write a bunch of how-to books based on my experience, knowledge, and skills.
6. How-to books make money.

Hmm.

One of the things that wages war with this business idea is the fact that I have to do things with purpose. I can't do just anything. It has to make the world a better place than if I had done nothing at all. Yes, I want to make enough money to support myself and my family, but I want to do it ethically and with a servant's heart.

I also don't want to abandon my creative writing. I like writing stories and novels, but they're just not making money fast enough for me. I need, as a mommy-to-be, to have a secure revenue source to take care of my kid. Christian thinks I should keep working at it and put my whole heart into it, but how can I when I'm worried about being able to buy basic necessities in the very near future?

The fear I feel about not having enough money is a real one. And just as I'm afraid I won't have enough money, I'm afraid my fear of not having enough will set up a situation where it will become impossible for my dreams to ever be realized.

I have been getting more of what I want when I want in the past 5 months than I have in the past 3 years. And that's good. But I'm restless. I want more. I want some success now. I want feedback now. I need some little ray of sunshine to keep me on track or I know self-doubt is here to stay. I need just enough to keep me afloat so I can spend all that heart energy on things that I love and that matter to me (even if it turns out to be a few how-to manuals mixed in with the stories and novels).

So what do you do to keep the self-doubt at bay? If you work at home, what do you do and how did you land your gig? Did you set up a business and why? or are you steadily pushing away at a dream that you refuse to give up on? Tell me your thoughts. I'm looking for inspiration.

Loki Says "Hi!" - Zen Lessons in Attachment

I'm not Job. I'm not. I haven't lost everything. I'm not lying in a ditch somewhere. I'm not disfigured or dismembered. But... it feels like I keep getting kicked while I'm down. Sometimes it feels as though I haven't gotten up at all. Last night was one of those times.

This is the third time in 4 years that my car has been broken into. It was the only time my car wasn't at my residence. Still, this was the worst and the best.

You see, the other 2 times, the thieves were experts. Minimal damages and they took specific things in good condition - relatively speaking. This time I was robbed by morons.

These people went through my entire car leaving tissues and paper napkins everywhere. They broke the radio bezel off. They broke the stereo they took (I know this because they left behind a crucial piece of the radio). They took the manual for the stereo but not the remote. The radio requires a code, but the wrong code is written in the manual.

Yeah. Morons.

This comes right after moving quickly and all the associated expenses (need I mention we're eating too much pasta?). And of course there are our student loans and all our other monthly bills on top of it.

I'm not Job, but still...

Many say the universe doesn't give you anything you can't handle. I know from experience however, we are cocreators of reality. I make choices. External factors change the situation, I make new choices. So the universe might not give me something I can't handle, but I might.

This sabotage feels like a Trickster - like Loki or Anansi. Perhaps it's the handicap required for someone who might move too far too fast. Perhaps it's a honing process - forcing me to become the perfect tool or weapon. I'd like to think this.

It's particularly poignant now because I'm exploring zen. You see, this time I wasn't as angry. Yes there was the initial reaction, but I slept it off and woke up relatively calm. I know I'm not attached to objects. Objects come and go. They do not matter. I will miss music for a while, but I can listen to the sounds of the city instead. It is a small snag in the vast fabric of life. I will be fine.

This new perspective is something I have begun developing in an effort to master my fate and captain my soul. Loki may be out there trying to rub my face in it, but it doesn't matter. This too shall pass away.

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Zen and The Art of Anxiety

I have a tendency towards anxiety. In the OCEAN personality test, I score high in neurotic. Yep, I'm a high maintence person who can see the worst in a situation. I can mull over a given situation for hours, days, or even weeks until I have pulled it apart from every angle imaginable.

But I don't just do that to situations. I do that to myself as well. I know you're probably imagining how I hold a self-berating fest for every issue, mistake etc, and yes, I do that sometimes. What is worse however, is the way I deal with stress.

Because I'm such an anxious person, my shoulders are permanently and intricately knotted. I've been working on it, however the only way I've found to release the tension is through consistent massage. Needless to say, health insurance doesn't cover it so I can't get it.

But my stress doesn't stop at my shoulders. If I'm really stressed, I can get heartburn for weeks. I can become so fatigued I can't do anything. I can have trouble eating. I can have dizzy spells. Yes, I do all these things to myself. More than that, I pick. Any imperfection in my skin or hair is something to be rooted out and removed, sometimes with bloody results.

I know that picking at anything doesn't make it better. Inevitably it makes things worse. Still, it used to be that I couldn't stop myself. A bump, a pimple, a scab, a patch of dry skin...even the infrequent mole would drive me to pick. Uneven nails or a dry puckered cuticle was enough.

What made it worse was I didn't recognize it as related to stress. I've always picked at my imperfections. I can't remember a time I didn't. So then how was I able to make the connection now?

It got worse. I moved, have no money, no job, and so it got worse. The results were inflamed and bloody. I finally saw what I was doing to my skin and I wanted to stop. But of course, I can't take the stressors out of my life. I can't change the fact that we just unsettled ourselves again. I can't change the fact that for now,  we're eating a lot of pasta. I can however, change how I react to these things.

I don't want to be anxious or neurotic or what have you. I want to be relaxed - enjoy the cheerful sounds of birds or the warmth from a new dawn. I want to concentrate on what is in the present and not freak out about things I cannot control.

Recently my husband and I have been watching the show Life. The main character has experienced worse things in his life than I have, and struggles to deal with it. He does that through zen. Before I watched the show, I meditated a few times in the zen way. Strangely, the show is getting me interested in more than just zen meditation.

Zen is a philosophy of living. It is something a person can incorporate into every aspect of life. And I want that. I want the peace and light that such a philosophy offers. So, I've stopped picking and started meditating. I'm trying to focus on the beauty of what is. I am working on being fully present. I'm struggling to see how all things pass away - all things change.

Hopefully I see improvements everywhere. I'll keep you posted.

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