On giving up the ghost

Two years.

Over twenty books written. All under gagged contracts.

This week, I gave up ghostwriting.

The weight off my shoulders…it’s beyond belief. All my creative energy these past two years has been sucked up by work that wasn’t my own, that I often despised even as I wrote it.

Today I stepped outside and wrote my own words for the first time in years. Here are those words:

In a Parisian style cafe, nestled in the heart of a New England town, a woman perched on the brown sofa in the corner, pulled out a green-inked pen and reached for the only parchment she could find-a pile of recycled napkins.

The drink she had chosen stung like cough syrup on her tongue, the promise of antioxidants ringing hollow in the foul taste.

In this moment, she was free.

No longer burdened with the endless task of writing for someone else’s profit, the woman did something rare and beautiful. She took a moment for herself and she wrote her own words for the first time in years.

How beautiful it felt! How easily her breath flowed without the choking collar of work one doesn’t believe in-freed from the shackles to say exactly what she wanted, as she pleased.

In spite of herself, the woman dreamed. She believed that she could be so much more than she was. She believed in a world where miracles happened and hard work paid off and that little touch of luck that came with it was somewhere close by, waiting to blossom all around her and bestow bountiful rewards after years of suffering.

The tiny ball of hope that had been pushed deep down in favor of more practical things, like paying the bills and being a good mother, a good wife, a good daughter, sister, friend…so many roles to fill, so little time.

She lost herself, and with that loss hope was stored safely away until her mind could awaken once again.

These are the first words of that woman, who strives and falls short and keeps on anyway because hope is not yet gone. Luck is not yet gone.

There are still rooms filled with dreams and my legs work just fine. If they don’t, I will claw forward until I find my peace.

Welcome back, me.

The LGBTQ Character No One Knows About

As we continue to parade our way through Pride month, it occurs to me that there is a character in Past Lives that many of you may not know about. You might not know about her because I’m terrible at marketing my own books, so you haven’t read it yet. You might not know about her because you took one look at the cover and thought, “Really? Looks like a trashy romance novel.”

You might want to look past that, if you were thinking it. I’ve been told that enough times. Past Lives is the story of a girl who reincarnates over several centuries. Her story is one of growth, love, and loss. There’s a character who is always by her side, though, and I think she is the most important character I have written so far.

Giselle represents the disenfranchised-the object of hate society chooses and holds down with the might of elitist control. In her first life, circa 1790, she is poor, frowned upon because she was born as what was viewed to be a lower class. When you are poor, you can be abused within an inch of your life, and no one will care. You are to blame.

In round two, she is a black slave on a southern plantation. Her status as a person doesn’t even exist, because white men tell her that she is less than a human as a result of the pigmentation of her skin. When you are black, you can be abused within an inch of your life, and no one will care. You are to blame.

Round three, Giselle is Jewish in Austria, 1938. Jews can be tortured, murdered, destroyed, wiped out, because according to those at the top they are somehow a pestilence on the earth. When you are Jewish, you can be abused within an inch of your life, and no one will care. You are to blame.

Finally, the last section of the book takes place in modern day America, where Giselle is a lesbian at a small town high school. She is seen as unnatural, bullied for a choice she did not make. When you are LGBTQ, you can be abused within an inch of your life, and no one will care. You are to blame.

Now you’re thinking, but people do care! We’re rising up! We’re fighting for change! And this is good. It’s important to have open dialogue about what’s going on in this country. The truth is, while Giselle was a member of the oppressed in the past, those groups continue to face the same discrimination and treatment today.

The messages of Past Lives are diverse. How to behave in life towards others, how society finds ways to stay the same even as we slowly, painstakingly progress. My purpose in writing it was to bring the concept of kindness to the world in the form of karmic experiences. Someday I hope that the message will resonate, and humanity will reach its full potential for good. Sometimes fiction can make a difference.

Until then, well. Here we are.

Life lives here

My floor is clean. 

Ok, it’s mostly clean. Leave me alone, I’ve got a lot going on. 

Between working full time, writing, consulting, moming and wifing, sometimes I forget to sit down and be excited that I have life in my house. 

My fridge is smothered with wedding announcements and appointment cards and my daughter’s toddler art. Somewhere beneath all that is a lovely stainless steel fridge we don’t bother to look at anymore. 

My living room is a parking lot for my daughter’s toys, books scattered haphazardly on a shelf I got tired of sorting. I used to alphabetize my DVDs for fun when I lived alone. 

I took the trash out tonight after it rained, and I breathed in the earthy smell of wet ground. I used to walk through the city, dreaming about that smell, hoping someday I’d find it again. Knowing I would. 

My life is busy now. I’m always tired. I’m always pushing my limits, and when I get time to rest, I don’t know how. I am twelve places at once at all times, and I’m messy. 

I am life, now. 

Life isn’t neatly organized. It’s messy. So, so messy. It makes room for more mess, and the mess blends together into something vaguely cohesive-a story-and then before we know it, it’s done. 

I’m tired because I’m living my life. I’m dreaming and hoping and working toward a goal every day, letting balls drop and picking them up again when I can. 

Perhaps a little mess is good, every once in a while. Perhaps a little exhaustion isn’t such a bad thing, is it? After all, this moment, right now, you and I are life. 

Are you living it, or have you forgotten to notice, like I so often do?

To My Daughter, On the Event of Her Second Birthday

Hi Baby Girl,

Today we’re going to enjoy your birthday. We’re going to eat a cupcake, which you will love. We’re going to do anything you want. Maybe a trip to the farm to celebrate with your favorite animal friends, followed by the playground and more fun. I’m going to smile, and I’m going to love you, and I’m going to try and forget about your birthday.

I’ll always wish to be one of those mothers who could tell you that your birthday was the best day of my life. It wasn’t. In fact, your birthday still stands as the single most terrible day of my life so far, and likely will stay that way for years to come.

Two years ago I was lying in a hospital bed, hallucinating from drugs and pain, vomiting from the agony before the epidural was administered. Two years ago from today I’d had a nurse’s hand digging into by body all day, only to be told that no progress had been made, or very little. I sat all day long hoping that my worst fear, being awake while being cut open on an operating table, would not be realized.

At eight o’clock at night the doctor came in to tell me that would in fact be my fate, and my hands shook. I was shifted to another bed, wheeled into a cold operating room, where a sheet was draped over my middle so I wouldn’t have to see my own guts while they cut you out of me. A doctor appeared, telling me that your lungs were filled with fluid, and not to be concerned if you didn’t cry. I held your father’s hand as I felt them slice into me, and I begged for more drugs as the pain seared along my right hand side. They pulled you from my body at 8:28PM, told me you had beautiful eyelashes, and then I lost consciousness.

When I woke, the nurses came in to tell me that the NICU couldn’t cater to your needs, and an ambulance would come to take you away. The first time I met you, you were wheeled into the room in a black box, surrounded by medical personnel. They all watched us during the intensely personal moment when I held you for the first time, your little chest heaving with the effort to breathe without my help. The first thing I ever told you was to be strong, and that I would see you soon.

Then you were gone. So much for skin to skin contact.

I remember the look on your father’s face; pale and scared. He had to choose in that moment between staying by his wife’s side or the daughter he had just met, at another hospital across town. I told him to go with you, and he did. He was your source of comfort, and I’m grateful for that.

I remember lying, propped in a medical bed, strapped into tubes and wires, hearing the sounds of other babies in other rooms who had gotten to stay with their parents, while I stared into space, vacant and alone. I asked them if an ambulance could be sent to bring me with you. I asked them more than once, even when I woke up. They told me that my insurance didn’t cover it, and, in my muddled state, I believed I couldn’t afford the trip to get to you. No one thought to mention that we had far and away hit our deductible, and that wouldn’t have mattered.

Your birthday was the day I learned that hospitals don’t advocate for their patients, but rather take action based solely on what gets them the most insurance money. It is a lesson I will never, ever forget.

I stared out the window at city brick, thinking about you across town. You didn’t deserve to spend your first days on earth alone and cold in a crib, surrounded by strangers. I didn’t deserve to sit alone, torn in half, listening to other families start their journey while ours had been put on hold. I remember the first time I hobbled to the bathroom and urinated blood. Somehow I found the strength to walk. Somehow you found the will to grow stronger every day.

Four days later I got to hold you again. We had a quick twenty minute tutorial on breastfeeding while you still had an IV in your head, because all your other veins had been used up, so we didn’t get very far, but I tried. We were lucky that our story could then begin, when that is not the case for so many others, but now you might see why your birthday is a day I wish I could forget.

However, with all tales of struggle, this one is coated with silver. That silver is you. From the moment you stood, and walked, and spoke, you have been strong and stubborn and difficult and wonderful and kind and loving and curious–you are life itself.

The sad truth is, I will never celebrate your birthday. But I will celebrate you. And no matter what, every year I try to forget, only to be reminded of that terrible day, I’ll still wish you a happy birthday, and try to find joy in what is, rather than what was.

Happy Birthday, Evelyn.

PS

Thank your Grandma and Auntie Krista today. Without them, we would have been truly lost.

The Manifestation Myth

Hi Internet.

Today I’m going to talk about one of my favorite subjects: manifestation.

You could call me Agent Mulder when it comes to this concept. I want to believe. I really, really want to believe. In fact, I have believed, for many years, in this concept.

But, like my X-Files compatriot, I also have a brain. A brain that likes logic, and truth, and concrete answers–and I’m even willing to accept answers that defy the laws we know.

Even now, as I type this, the little voice in my head that wants to believe is yelling at me.

That’s just your ego talking! If you don’t believe, you won’t receive! 

And I listened to that voice for a long time. I’ve listened to that voice for several years now, in fact. Now let me tell you what I believe my life is.

I’m a bestselling writer, living in a comfortable country home. I can afford to have another child, and I enjoy watching my children play from my home library, where I write all my books. Success is a constant in my life, and I am gifted with amazing opportunities to travel and see the world while touring for my next novel. I see my family often, even though they live far away. We can handle any kind of crisis, because money is not an issue. In fact, I am able to help others, because I am in a position of wealth, and it’s the right thing to do. Hooray for me!

Now doesn’t that sound nice? It’s been my mantra for years now, since before I landed a book deal (obviously I made that happen with positive thinking, right? Just took ten years). Now let’s take a look at what my life has been like outside of that magical thinking, shall we?

I’ve been stuck in a dead end job for years, with a Masters degree and a tiny salary that is putting us deeper in the hole every day. My husband has been chewing on one side of his mouth for two years because we can’t afford the dental surgery he needs, even with insurance. In fact, said insurance would cost thousands of dollars to even consider having another child, so that’s out. I haven’t seen my nieces in three years, because flying costs time and money, neither of which I have. While my book was published, it’s currently number 2,601,387 on the Amazon bestseller list, because when I told the universe that Paulo Coehlo would retweet it for a little dish of instant overnight success, the message never got through. No one seems to want to hire me as a full time writer because I don’t have a degree in communications, and I can’t afford to go back and get one now. So here we are.

Now, if you’re an LOA person, you’re going to tell me that I just don’t believe enough, and that’s why my dream life hasn’t arrived. When I don’t buy that, you’ll tell me its divine timing. But those two concepts are mutually exclusive. One cannot exist if the other exists. You can’t tell me that I can make anything happen by believing and feeling and in the same breath tell me it didn’t happen because it just wasn’t the right time. According to the manifestation theory, the right time is when I say it is, because I believe it and that’s what’s up.

So are we allowed to compare this new spirituality to religion yet, in that it is our opiate? We want so badly to believe we have some control over our lives; that we have a say in how we’ll escape the meaningless rat race struggle. And then there’s the kicker: You Don’t. That millionaire who tells you he manifested his wealth through positive intentions and believing? That’s a lie. He got where he is through hard work and luck. Being in the right place at the right time. Meeting the right person. Being seen in the right light. All of these are outside factors that influenced that person’s success, but now he believes that he has control over his life because he thought about what he wanted and it actually happened. How many people have put in the same amount of work, have the same intelligence level and belief, that are struggling to get by because they didn’t get that lucky break?

By now you’re probably saying, oh look at this bitter old lady ranting about her first world problems like a big old millennial baby. I succeeded at life, so obviously everyone can, and I made it happen. 

To that I reply, good for you buddy. You made it. I hope to be where you are someday. If I do, it will be because somehow this entry got picked up by the right person and went viral, which is it’s own fun internet lottery full of gifts and curses. When that happens, I will not believe that me thinking it into existence was the reason. I’m too tired to believe that anymore. If you want to think positively, that’s fine. That’s good. I’m so on board with the power of positivity to get people to achieve their goals. Let’s just stop encouraging this magical thinking and play pretend world that gives false hope to the populace at large. We are not all going to be millionaires. We are not all going to win the lottery, no matter how much we believe and feel it. How about, instead…

Believe in yourself. You might make it, or you might not. If you don’t, don’t beat yourself for not believing enough. That’s stupid. Just keep trying. There’s hope in that, too. If you give up, there’s nothing to hope for. The day that I think my dream life into existence, I will come back to reevaluate being the rich person who convinces everyone this concept works.

Until then, here we are–the unmanifested. Hear us roar, in frustration, because we bought into a concept that isn’t actually true. And waking from the dream really, really sucks.

Have Faith