As I sit down to write my words tonight (still can’t get with that morning thing), I’ll take some wise words from some wise people to heart. I read a post by Gretchen Rubin on LinkedIn today and she included two quotes that piqued my interest and inspired me to share them here.
I found, that, in light of my pursuit of developing a daily writing habit, these quotes strongly resonated with me. These were the right quotes at the right time.
Serendipity, or something like it.
“Either once only, or every day. If you do something once it’s exciting, and if you do it every day it’s exciting. But if you do it, say, twice or just almost every day, it’s not good any more.” ~ Andy Warhol
“Anything one does every day is important and imposing and anywhere one lives is interesting and beautiful.” ~ Gertrude Stein
What do you do every day? What excites you every day?
What would you like to make a habit of? Do you have a quote that helps you to show up every day?
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A million years ago (that’s about 10 years ago in non-melodrama time), I started reading a book called The Artist’s Way. I started reading it again a few weeks ago–haven’t gotten a whole lot further than I think I did the first time. But I’ve started doing one of the practices that the author, Julia Cameron, prescribes: the “morning pages.” Ideally, morning pages are done (surprise!) in the morning (I’ve yet to accomplish this–not necessarily a morning person). It’s a way to just get whatever happens to be in your head out onto a page. Maybe something comes of it, maybe it’s garbage. Doesn’t matter. She recommends it even if your art isn’t writing. As I delve further into the book, I think I’ll share more of what I learn along the way.
I spent the last post sounding a little pouty and self-punishing, though that was not my intent. Quite the opposite, actually. But that was yesterday, right? Today, after spending a day and a half with my mom and my kids in Frankenmuth (a small town in mid-Michigan that has Bavarian-themed attractions–see the Google) and receiving some wise advice from a smart lady, I’ve decided to let my art take that journey. I want to let my craft find its way from my heart to the page.
There’s a website called 750 words. It’s based on the idea of the morning pages (Cameron suggests 3 pages each morning–a page being roughly 250 words.). That same smart lady that gave me some great advice introduced me to the site, and I was going to hit it every day last month. Well, I didn’t, so I’ll do my best hit it every day this month instead. No dwelling, no self-flagellation, no punishment. So far, I’ve managed to get something in there for three days straight, so I’ve yet to miss a day in December.
Yesterday’s entry ended up here, but there’s no way all of them will–today’s for instance, is not for public consumption But, what I found it did was open the floodgates for this here post. I’m thinking there’s something to Ms. Cameron’s wisdom, and I can’t wait to learn more, write more and share more.
I have a tendency to be cautious about anything, because, let’s face it, I’ve been disappointed a lot in the last few years. But, I have to remember the times I’ve also been pleasantly surprised, too. So, I go into this endeavor with as positive an attitude as I can muster and know that I can’t just hope that it will happen. I have to do the work. And as I blathered into my December 2nd 750words entry, I know that it wasn’t only work, but that as I do this, as I release words onto the page, I am nurturing a vital part of me.
Self-care at its finest.
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It’s hard to write about failure without making anIy piece feel like a sob session and a ploy for sympathy. But the fact of the matter is that, this month, I failed. You may have heard of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I didn’t commit to NaNoWriMo, which is a pledge to write 50,000 words by the end of November. There’s a similar, less intense endeavor called Contentpalooza that I was invited to participate in. Contentpalooza is a commitment to create 30,000 words worth of content or 30 images (a picture being worth a thousand words–right?).
I accepted the invitation and joined the Facebook page and posted about a few times this month that I cranked out some content and was happy about it. I was gung ho, ready to work, ready to put fingers to keyboard. And then I let life get in the way again. I failed to reach 30,000 words. I barely reached 5,000. I failed.
I’m not going to abdicate responsibility.
I let it happen. I allowed other things in my life to take up my time. My father has a saying: “You can’t make time, you can only take it.” In short, it’s all about priorities. And something that I was so excited about, so initially committed to, I dropped off my priority list. I was busy. I had things to do. Things that I chose to allow to take up my time.
But these are excuses. More accurately, these are the things that I use as excuses. Because when I wasn’t tending to these obligations, I wasn’t really doing anything.
Not writing or exercising or reading books or knitting or crocheting or baking.
I wasn’t making anything outside of rehearsal.
I was Facebooking, Words With Friendsing, Scramble With Friendsing, playing Solitaire, watching TV.
I’ll even confess that I was barely even doing anything around the house.
I’m happiest when I’m making something. This is a cardinal truth. It is natural law. I am a creative. And one of the things that is the most rewarding for me as a creative is writing. I have this gift, this talent. I am mostly squandering it by not doing the work. But why?
I’m tired. The last three years have been a long, hard slog through the quagmire that has been my life. I finally am emotionally coming out of some hard things: deaths, disease, bad doctoring, surgery, grieving kids. And while that might seem like a cry for pity or sympathy or empathy, it isn’t. It’s a big part of the reason why I don’t want to do the work even though I am called to–even though there is some beacon burrowing itself into my synapses telling me that to be content, to be fulfilled, I must write.
The call right now is to tell our story. To tell Colin’s story. I’ve told it to people in person what seems like hundreds of times. I’ve told it partially in some blog posts. I’ve shared it in bits and pieces on Facebook. I laid it bare in a gut-wrenching interview for Transforming Loss: A Documentary. It’s a story that I want and need to tell.
But I haven’t. Not because the desire isn’t there, but because the will isn’t. I’ve been working hard, mostly at putting my psychic house in order. Making it through a day without falling apart. Still grieving, but not mourning. I’ve gotten in the habit of babying myself a bit. Not demanding too much emotionally, physically or mentally of myself. Oh, sure, I’ll overschedule myself on a regular basis, but it’s usually a choice. And it sometimes seems to me that this overscheduling is a sort of subconscious subterfuge. A way to keep myself from doing the work I need to do by distracting myself with all of these other things I love to do.
But here I am. Writing SOMETHING. Working myself up to get back on the horse with our story. I wrote about 1500 words of it and walked away. I hesitate to go back to them because I may just need to chuck them, and while editing and “killing your darlings” is part of the work, it’s not fun. It’s like getting 10 rows into knitting a shawl and realizing that you should have changed stitches on rows 4, 5, and 6. So you rip it out (knitters affectionately call this “frogging”, because you “rip it, rip it”) and start all over again.
Maybe that will happen, or maybe I’ll love what I wrote in the first week of November.
Regardless, I’ve accepted November’s failure, and know that the best way to recover from it is to do December’s work.
And look, here I am, on November 30th, getting a jump start.
Won’t you follow me? Click the “Follow” button in the top right. You’ll get the freshest posts. I’ll be updating on the memoir’s progress and musing on other topics on a regular basis. If you follow me via e-mail, you’ll be the first to know.
Since October, I have been working with this awesome group of ladies led by Debra Smouse (a coach and general de-tangler of things, goals and ideas). I’m setting goals. First time I’ve formally done any real goal setting. So, one of my goals is to get a big chunk of what I hope will be a memoir written. But more importantly, the goal was to really get a regular writing practice going. Part of this was to actually put something on this blog of mine that only sees spurts of activity from time to time–I haven’t even been reblogging my own posts on Still Standing–really, how hard is that?
One of the other intermediate goals was to read The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. So I did. And I see what all my writer friends have been talking about. I knew all about Resistance. Or so I thought. I started to feel a little like Lori Lieberman watching Don McLean sing “Empty Chairs”:
I don’t mean for this to be a book review by any stretch of the imagination, but this book just spoke to me (someone must have known that!). To the writer me. This part of me longing to write all the time, almost never ceasing. The one that is trapped, pinned, reigned in by Resistance (that bitch!).
So here’s what this book imbued in me: Resistance will no longer get me down. I will squelch her with work. It’s no different than getting up and going to work today–which, honestly, I didn’t want to do. And that was the revelation that I had when I was reading this book. I have two jobs now, whether I like it or not (well, three if you count being a mom–actually that may mean that I have four jobs, since I think mom counts as two). It’s just that I only get paid for one of them, for the time being. My lofty goal, most writers’ lofty goal, is to make a living with their art. I know I’m not ready to make any leaps from where I am perched at the moment, but I can still work. Every day, until I can make that leap.
So expect to see something from me on a regular basis. That’s another goal–several times a month, at least, you will find something new on this blog.
Please understand that much of my hesitation, my paralysis with regard to this space has been the question of what to put in it. After a discussion with Deb, it was clear that the best thing to put in it was whatever I wanted.
I don’t want to pigeonhole myself. I don’t want to just blog about CHDs or baby loss or writing. However, I want to make clear that there are many blogs just like what I described that I ADORE and that I find to be exceedingly well done. It’s a choice that I know just isn’t for me. And I don’t want to try to manage more than one online space to accommodate everything I’d like to write about.
I like yoga and cooking and hooping and reading and family and yes, advocating on behalf of CHDs and writing about baby loss and writing about writing. But I know what you’ll most want to read is what is in my heart to write. So maybe it’ll be navel-gazing blather like this, or maybe I’ll bake something and take pretty pictures of it and tell you how good it was and how to make it. Or maybe I’ll share what I’m reading, or some new writing advice or technique I’ve learned about–some revelation I’ve had. Or maybe it will be about how hard the months between October and February now are and how much I miss my son. Or maybe it’ll be some observation of something wonderful I saw or experienced during the week. Or the shawl I just knitted. Or an amazing writer I think you should meet. Or maybe a snippet of my fiction (or my memoir as it takes shape).
What I know is that I’m pretty certain that whatever you’ll find here when you see a new post will be good and readable. You will be happy you lighted upon my digital world. And geez, if you aren’t, please don’t leave me hanging–give me feedback!
Look forward to something sooner than later.
This short story was written in Andi Cumbo’s online Short Story class. You can find information about all her classes here. I am publishing this on my blog because I made a commitment to an online writers’ group brought to life by Jim Woods (#WritersUnite) that in the month of October I would write something I want to write, not something I have to write, and share it. I have never publicly shared my fiction before, ever. I welcome feedback. Peace.
I pull up to the garage entrance in my blue Ford Focus and swipe my badge in the reader. The yellow arm flips up to let my car in. It’s about 6:30 pm and the sun is close to setting on this winter night. The clouds hang low and the sky is gold behind the dark red brick buildings of the hospital campus. It’s so easy to forget that we’re in downtown Detroit with the old brick and the rolling green of the courtyard between the buildings—it feels a bit like we’re in Ann Arbor, on the leafy campus of the University of Michigan. But, there are housing projects a stone’s throw from here. On my break, when it’s warmer, I go down to the courtyard and sit on one of the benches in the garden close to my hospital.
Once I maneuver my car into a spot in the employee level, I park. I pull down the visor mirror and look at my face. I don’t see anything particularly special, but my boyfriend Jorge always embarrasses me and tells people that my skin is like dulce de leche and my eyes are like pools of honey (ridiculous!) I reach into my purse to reapply my lip gloss and give my shiny forehead one last dab of powder from the compact. I adjust my headband and give my curly, black ponytail a tug. The headband keeps my bangs out of my face while I’m working. I step out after popping the hatch. Hace frío! Brrr! Quickly, I sling my backpack over my right shoulder and flip the hatch door down until it latches. “Beep-beep!” The horn honks while the blinkers flash, indicating the alarm is set.
I head toward the stairs and hurry down the steps. Even though I’m plenty early for my shift, I always move quickly.
“Carlita, always on the move,” Jorge always says to me. “Don’t you ever sit still?”
“Nope, I’m a ball of energy. Can’t help it!” is always my reply. I don’t have a fancy job here at Children’s Hospital, but it’s an important job. I’m a cleaner, or custodian, or janitor, or whatever you want to call it. I keep my floor clean while I’m there. I think through the tasks that I have to do as I head to the elevator for the 4th floor. When I exit the lobby, I peek into the family waiting room as I pass. It’s decorated in the colors of a garden: several different greens, blues, purples and yellows. There are window clings of butterflies and flowers and bees on the curtained windows of the offices that flank the waiting room on either side. I’ll be in here later, but I need to go get changed.
I reach the break room and open my locker. I keep several uniforms here—scrubs—along with a hoodie. Sometimes it’s chilly in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit—the PICU. The NICU is usually a little bit warmer—all those preemies, those bebitos—need to keep ’em warm!
I pick a cheerful top—with a Santa and Christmas tree print on it. I grab a pair of red pants and go into the ladies’ bathroom to change. Emerging from the bathroom, I pass a few of the nurses coming on shift.
All of them smile and wave, but Renee stops—she’s one of my favorites. “Hi, Carlita! How are you tonight?”
“Terrific, as always, how are you?” I pat her on the shoulder and she leans in a little bit.
“Can’t wait to get this shift over with,” she rolls her eyes and puts her head on my shoulder, pretending to yawn.
“Aw, you don’t mean that. You love it here!” I laugh, shrugging my shoulder the slightest bit. She pops her head off my shoulder and grins.
“You’re right. I do. Christmas time is just hard around here, ya know?”
“I do, ‘Nee, I do.” It was December 21st.
“I wish the hospital was empty between the 24th and New Year’s Day,” she sighs.
“I wish it was empty ALL the time.”
She smiles. “It would be nice to be out of a job because of that, wouldn’t it?”
“You’d just be taking care of old people instead, sister.”
“True that. See you for dinner tonight?”
“Yeah, sure.” I smile and she goes into the ladies’ to get changed. I know I won’t probably see her for dinner. She’ll get caught up with her patient and she’ll stuff her face full of all of the holiday treats that make their way into the break room, creating an impromptu smorgasbord. She won’t eat a real meal until she gets home at 8am, assuming she gets to go home by then. Around the holidays, babies and children tend to misbehave a little bit—code blues, pressure drops, seizures—the gamut of the sad and disturbing that happen in a PICU anywhere. The patients want to make sure that someone is paying attention, it seems. I pay attention, babies, and my girls do, too. For some reason, I feel very maternal toward the nurses, even though we’re mostly close to the same age. Taking care of the rooms is taking care of them, too, I guess. I wouldn’t want to work in a dirty room, and I’m sure they don’t either.
Carlita, stop daydreaming and get to work! Shaking off my reverie, I go to the custodian’s closet and grab my cart, stocking it up for the night: garbage bags, cleaner, wipes, polyethylene gloves (no latex because of allergies) and a couple of bottles of water that I slipped into my hoodie pockets. If I stock the water, I don’t have to step away to get a drink, and I can keep working, keep busy. Reaching into the plastic canvas garbage collection bag, I pull the last few items that my predecessor, who shall remain nameless, left behind. She is so lazy—perezosa. I always have to clean up after her before I even start my shift. Annoying as it is, I don’t have the heart to report her to our supervisor. She’s a single mom and I know she’s tired and worried about her kids. She lives in one of the projects close by, and while they are much safer than Detroit’s surrounding neighborhoods, she’s told me that she dreams of getting them into the suburbs, where the schools are better. So, if I have to make sure that the bag is empty or the cart’s fully stocked, I don’t really mind. Plus, I haven’t said anything to her, anyway.
Maybe it’s high time you did, Carlita. You’re just enabling her.
Oh, shush! That’s not very Christian of you!
Ay, these conversations I have with myself. Easy to get lost in when I’m working. Stay focused! Time to work!
My night always starts on the east end of the PICU—this is usually where the sickest patients are. It’s not as cheerful as the waiting room. The walls are grey, the floors are grey. The only color comes from mobiles hanging from cribs and isolettes and the blankets and comforters that the hospital gives them, or that they bring from home. Lots of the kids have stuffed animals surrounding them or pictures and cards taped to their walls and doors and mylar balloons tied to their beds. Some of the kids have signs with their names on it that the nurses draw with markers borrowed from the Child Life Specialist taped to the cribs or above their beds on the walls, if they’re bigger kids. While the color brightens up the floor, it also is a little sad, because it means they’ve been here long enough to collect so many things. Most of the rooms are single occupancy. One nurse might work two rooms, if the patients aren’t too sick, or if one of them is close to being moved to the floor—out of ICU and into the step-down unit. A few of the rooms at this end are empty tonight, so I cross myself and kiss my crucifix. Grácias, Señor! I stop by the desk and talk to the intensivist (the ICU resident).
“Are these rooms empty for good reasons, Dr. Elson?”
“What?” He doesn’t even look up to talk to me. He’s intently reading a chart, and I’ve interrupted him.
“451 and 453—are they in step-down?”
“Oh, Carlita, sorry. Yes. They are.”
Thank you, Jesus! “Good, I’m so happy for them. They had been here long enough—both of them.”
“Yes, they had. Success stories are a good way to ease into the holidays, yes?” he pushes his wire-framed glasses up his nose with his index finger. He looks up at me, finally, and runs his hands through his sandy blonde hair and locks his hands together as he leans back in his chair. He smiles at me.
“Yes, they are.” I smile back and go to room 455. The nurse is out of the room. The patient is a baby who seems to have an infection, but they’re not sure what—waiting for cultures. The mom is snoozing in her chair. I don’t say anything and try to sneak in and out. The nurse will wake her up when she comes back—parents aren’t supposed to sleep in the rooms. The room is for the child—not the parent. Except the two are inseparable—silly administrators. There are lots of things around here that are done against all common sense, it seems. As I’m emptying the waste basket, the mom stirs, but doesn’t wake completely. Whew. I back up out of the room and move on to the next room.
There are interns and specialists in for rounds, talking away while the exhausted parents sit with their heads in their hands, so I skip it and make a note on the sticky pad I put on the cart at the beginning of my shift. I don’t want to forget anyone, and I never have. Some of the other cleaners will skip and forget a room and a nurse with an overflowing garbage can, dirty countertop or floor littered with wrappers and little blue IV caps will give the charge nurse a piece of her mind. That will then reach my supervisor and the cleaner on shift will get an earful. Shit slides downhill, as they say. I don’t want to ever be on the receiving end of that shitstorm, so I am diligent.
I slide into the next room and it looks like Grandpa has come in to sit the night shift. He is tall and barrel-chested, balding with a band of snow-white hair cropped close around his head. His brown suede jacket is draped over the chair and he’s wearing a plaid button down, khakis and a pair of New Balance tennis shoes. The baby’s parents work opposite shifts and Mom has to be at home with the kids at night. I’m not sure exactly what is wrong with this baby; I think she has pulmonary issues, maybe something like cystic fibrosis. But really, it’s none of my business. Grandpa looks up at me and smiles.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening to you. How are you tonight?”
I smile, my heart warming to this man who takes the time to talk to me. I start sweeping up the few pieces of debris on the floor. “I’m well, thank you.”
“Do you have your Christmas shopping done?”
“Not quite, but almost. I have a few more things to get for my nieces and nephews.”
“They’re lucky kids,” he laughs.
“To have an aunt like you.”
“What do you know about me—Oh. I’m sorry. That was rude,” I feel like climbing into the big garbage collection bag.
“No, it wasn’t. It was a perfectly valid question. After all, how would I know what kind of aunt you are?” he is still smiling. His eyes have softened, and even seem to be watering.
“I’m curious as to why you would feel like you know what kind of aunt I am, yes?”
“It’s not just because you’re buying them presents—everyone has to do that, right?”
“Right…” I said, trailing off. Where is he going with this?
“I sit here with Alicia,” he gestures toward the baby’s isolette. She is a beautiful baby, with a single golden curl swirling up out of the top of her head. She’s a little blue, because of the lung issues. I’m not sure what color her eyes are—I imagine they are a steely blue, like her mother’s.
“I know. I pray for her every night,” I admit, bowing my head a little bit.
“See! That’s why I know.”
“I’m still confused.”
“You care about everyone, don’t you? You love everyone, don’t you?”
“Isn’t that what Jesus tells us to do?”
“I don’t know about Jesus. But I know that you have a heart full of love. I see it when you glide in and out of rooms so as not to disturb sleeping parents. You’ve slipped in and out of here more than once when I’ve nodded off during my vigils. You are always, and I mean always, smiling. You are full of joy and it just oozes out of you.”
Am I really so transparent? I try to mind my own business, to fly below the radar, especially with the parents. I am to be seen and not heard, mostly.
“Really? You see all of this.” I am stunned by his observations.
“I do. There’s not much to do around here these nights. The nurses are in and out and most of them are nice. A few are even quite friendly with me—especially Renee—what a doll. But it’s just me and Alicia, and if she’s sleeping, I just sit back and observe. And I see you. What is your name? I feel bad—I’ve never bothered to ask.”
“Oh, please, it’s Chuck. No formality. Don’t remind me of how old I am.”
“Carlita! No more apologizing. You keep our room nice and tidy. I come in here every evening and whoever cleans before you is a total failure. I’m always picking things up off the floor.”
That’s it! I’m having a talk with her. Kids or no kids, rough life or no, she will not make these families’ lives even a little bit more difficult. I’m sure I can reason with her.
“What? Oh, I’m sorry. I have a tendency to daydream.”
“And apologize, even though you don’t need to.”
“OK, Chuck. I get it.” He smiles broadly.
“Good. I just wanted you to know that what you do around here is noticed and appreciated. And I have to assume that since you care so much for people you don’t even know, you must take really good care of your family.” He lifts an eyebrow, like he’s asking me a question.
“I think I do, Chuck. But here, I’m just doing my job.”
“No, you’re not.” Wow.
“I don’t know what to say.” I was almost on the verge of tears. Never had anyone expressed gratitude like this to me. It was mostly in passing, a half-hearted “Thank you” to my back as I pushed my cart out of the room.
“You don’t need to say anything. Just keep being you.” He smiles at me and reaches into his shirt pocket. He pulls out a small box and puts it in my hand, curling my fingers over it.
“Sir—Chuck, I can’t–“
“Yes, you can, and you will. Please. It’s from Alicia,” he winks and nods.
“Ok, I just don’t know what to say.”
“Just say thank you.”
“Thank you sir—I mean, Chuck,” I blush, and I slide the box into the pocket of my hoodie.
“You’re welcome, Carlita,” he says. Renee walks into the room right as I pocket the box.
“What’s that?” Renee says.
“I’ll tell you later,” I reply, feeling a little bit self-conscious. “Are we still on for lunch?”
“So far, so good!”
I finally grab the garbage can and empty it in to the bag on my cart. Immediately, I take a deep breath, exhale and walk out of the room. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, I collect myself and move on to the next few rooms. As I’m coming out of 463, the PA system squawks to life: “Code Blue. Code Blue. ICU room 457.”
I finally hear the alarm bells going off and see white coats running down the hall. I see them stop at Alicia’s room and go in. I see Renee run toward the supply room with a look of panic on her face. I plaster myself against the wall and try to hold in the burning tears. I start to pray the Our Father but can’t bring myself to say it out loud, so I say it in my head and I am so upset I can’t even remember the English version.
Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo…I reach into my pocket and pull out the box. I lift the top and see a small silver medallion with the words “Guardian Angel” inscribed on it with a winged, robed angel in the center of the medallion. I grasp it in my palm and pray harder than I’ve ever prayed for what seems like eternity and cry. The alarm bells stop. I look up, with one eye open and see Renee, smiling. I breathe a sigh of relief, grab my cart and push on to the next room.
These shots in the back.
Grief sneak attacks. Suddenly something or someone reminds you.
So you cry, you weep, you gnash teeth, you wring hands. You pull out your pad and pen and you write it out of you, for that moment, for that blink of an eye.
But it will come again. It will attack.
You will hurt and cry and rage. You will tell yourself how unfair it all is, and then you will close the notebook, cap the pen and send an email or respond to a meeting notice.
And the extraordinary moments when the pain of the loss of the little one is so purely felt–again–pass, and it all becomes workaday and mundane.
After thinking about it, you realize: in some small way, you welcome the sucker punch, because you’re reminded of just how much you love him.
I am very proud to have been asked to guest post on my writing teacher’s blog. I talk about finding my joy again, and what makes me joyful and why.
The last few years have been so dark, for so many reasons. It is very nice to be letting light into my life again.
I hope you’ll take a minute to read my post. And please consider following my blog, too. I have a few posts lined up to post in the next couple of days, stay informed by following me.
Please read my latest post on Still Standing. Follow Still Standing on Facebook. Follow me here on my blog. Follow me on Twitter @rjkain.
And if you know someone who could benefit from this article, please pass it on!
aNOTHER Still Standing article by moi! http://stillstandingmag.com/2012/06/self-care-meditation/
Check it out. Even if you aren’t a grieving parent, you probably would benefit from reading it.
My cousin read it and promptly went out on her back porch and meditated for the very first time. And she LOVED it!
Here’s a guest post I wrote for my amazing writer friend, Becca. I am so happy that she gave me this opportunity. This is one of her two blogs that my post is on. The other one is here: http://beccasbyline.wordpress.com/2012/06/20/rediscovering-the-writer-inside-a-guest-post/
You should check them both out. She’s a terrific writer, and I’m lucky to know her.
A few weeks ago, I asked my friend Rachel if she would write a guest post for my blog this summer. Rachel is one of a select few writer friends I know in the “real” world as well as in the online world, and I really treasure her for that connection we have with words. Like a lot of us writer-mama’s, Rachel’s love of the written word has taken a back seat to school and family and working and all the stuff that goes into ordinary life.
But in 2010 something happened in Rachel’s life that helped her not only re-discover the writer inside, but embrace it. Here, I’ll let her tell you in her own beautiful words…
I wrote my first book when I was 5. It was called “R is for Rachel.” I became a writer in that moment, but I ran from my writerhood my whole life…
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