First Friday in weeks that I have been home. First Friday in weeks, I haven’t been sick although truthfully, I am not completely well yet.
My first thoughts on this evening entailed going to bed early and rising in the morning with intent. Instead, I played some Fallout Shelter, practiced my Spanish and tried to see what dog I would be on Facebook. The results of that particular quiz will not be shared.
There is writing to be done. Writing and editing that has been on my to do list for over a month. Writing, I want to do, but somehow whenever I sit to do it, something else always pulls me away.
My favorite pair of boots died, today. The soles are coming falling off. Some glue may fix them. There is money to replace them. Funds that my brain says should go else where. My mind was considering all the sensible options when the phrase “Fuck my life” popped into my head. I’ve heard it more than a dozen times something goes wrong and suddenly everything goes. My shoes aren’t a big deal. The deal comes in the fact that I just played off a credit card, this is the second pair of boots that have suffered damage this week that will be need to be replaced, along wit some other expenses another new set of boots would drip the budget in red ink. Combine those thoughts with the ones where I am no good at my job, a fraud who is about to be found out and dozen more demons poking around in my noodle. It would have been easy to say “Fuck my life”.
Not justified, but easy.
Easy to think that everything is crap, because life has a way of doing that just like my cold turning nasty and spending that couple of weeks sick.
Life is still pretty good. Actually, it is damn good. While I am not where I want to be and far from accomplishing my goals and dreams, I am a good place. A place, where I can write on a Friday night undisturbed. A place where I can make mistakes and work way back to where I want to be from where I am.
How does one deal with being so lost that they have finally gotten tired of throwing their hands up in the air? Of starting all over once more. Of staring at the end and knowing how much work it is going to take to make it a beginning. If one is a writer, you write. You talk about it with people and then you write some more.
This is me doing just that.
This is me working it out.
Today, I crossed off 11 of the 14th things on my to-do list off.
I did good, today.
All and all, it was pretty spectacular for someone who has been sleeping through much the last month of her life one of two sofas. My living room is a mixture of items I have been given over the last five years. There are only a couple of items in the room that I purchased. A lamp shade I purchased with an ex-boyfriend from Ikea that looked vaguely like one of the chocolate oranges you see around the winter holidays. It is absolutely hideous. And fits perfectly. It works in the space. It adds something to it The rugs and one of the bookcases as well as the TV make up the rest of the items that I purchased. Well, beyond the books which even some of those were passed on by the dearly departed.
There are a lot of things in my home that came from death. The death of a friend or love one has filled my living room with furniture. My favorite lawyer bookcases and the desk where my TV sets all came from a friend’s parents. They gave me these things after her death because I needed to furnish my new home and they were moving. It was too much for them to stay where she had died. So much of the last two years of her life were spent with them watching her.
I wear a set of rings they gave me everyday. These belonged to my friend. It is my way of remembering her. Of honoring her. I feel naked without them. If I forget these things then I will dash back into the house.
Death and the past are constant companions. Maybe that is why I have such a hard time mapping out my future direction. So much of the home I cherish has come from the past. When you walk in my house, it is clearly that I have an affliction for darker things. I stopped repacking the entirety of the Halloween decorations years ago.. My living room, the first room, that you see has seven skulls in it. One witch, two bats and a couple of dragons. The only room without a skull or something Halloween in it is my bathroom.
Then there are the books. Lots and lots of them. A great deal of them are histories from around the world. Scattered among these are the skulls and various nick-nacks.
My house sometimes scares my landlord. I have been a good tenant for the last five years which combined with being a writer as well as teacher has ensured the good will of the landlord. Thus he has learned to humor me. I may be odd, but I pay my rent on time and don’t cause trouble.
Drapped in death and the slightly macabre my home gives most visitors a sense of peace. What is more peaceful than death? The long sleep. The goal for me in decorating has been to create a place that is inviting. So far, it seems to be just that. I have worried in the past that my collections and love of skulls would turn people off, but as far as I know I haven’t scared anyone away. And if I have then I have no problem with it since they didn’t tell me they were uncomfortable. I can’t fix what I don’t know is a problem.
The map I am trying to layout currently is going to take me away from this place sooner or later. This is the second place that has been totally mine in adulthood. I have lived here longer than anywhere else since I graduated college. Before that I lived with my birth father after my mother and I lost our home. I would spend the next three years living like a guest in his house. My picture rarely made the wall of family photos and when it did, it was only for a short time. If you walked into my father’s home, you would never know that I was his child. There is no evidence of me there at all.
The house I live in now is home. I love the idea of the life that I have built for myself. I am proud of how far I have some in the last couple of years. And then there is the shame I feel for not having gotten farther. Why don’t I own a home? Why do I live so close to the edge? Truth be total, my family won’t allow me to fall too far. They have always been there to save me from rock bottom.
Another truth be told, I have been coasting for the last couple of years. I am smart. This isn’t a bragging. It took me a long time to realize that I am in fact intelligent. My mother and sister are genius so being an intelligent woman runs in my family. I am not a Mensan like them. I haven’t bothered with the test or like my mother has suggested on more than one occasion when I as in therapy had a psychologist sign off on the paperwork. She believes in me. She has always seen the intelligence that has been bouncing around in my head. Years of being talked down to by my birth father, grandparents and the rest of my siblings taught me that if I wasn’t as smart as my sister and mother I wasn’t smart at all. So I never pushed myself academically. It was either sink or swim. I am good at floating.
My mindset was that I only had so much intelligence. There was no way I could be as smart as other people. Talent was something I lacked and could not develop. Psychologist Carol Dweck calls this a fixed mindset. I didn’t really see that I was coasting a great deal of the time just below success. I honestly thought that if I was meant to be successful it would just happen. I never quite got there but I am never far off from it,
Don’t get me wrong, I do work hard. Sometimes I work too much. But that is mostly to make up from having coasted. Or when things really need to get done. Or when I get the energy. Lack of energy has been the theme of the last couple of years. Truth be told, I believe that I burnt out before I ever became a teacher. Ironically, teaching is where I finally began to believe in my own intelligence.
I have been working since I was 12 years old. Given the nature of the employment, I worked long days and made little money (75 to 100 a week), which at twelve was big money since I didn’t have any money. I saved pretty much every penny I yearned for either school clothes or my college fund. I made it through college and went where life and opportunity lead me. I didn’t explore much. Kept waiting for a sign or something. The course catalog was the sign I missed.
Kept waiting dreaming of that door to open. Kept dreaming of it. Didn’t know how to manifest it. People kept telling me I could do this or that. I didn’t believe them. Seriously, I thought because of my learning disablity (dysgraphia) that I would never be a writer. Mmm, who was an Amazon Best Selling Author? And who is going to continue to write no matter what? Me.
I follow some very talented people online. Some of whom I am friends with and the thing about their talent. The secret to that talent is that they work at it. They keep working on it, made mistakes and kept working on it. They do the work. (Thank you, Lisa from Halfmoon Creative Works for reminding of this. )
I wrote Blood Child in a heart beat. I did the best I could. I got help from professionals and friends to make and after months of hard work, there were mistakes. There are always mistakes. No matter how hard you work there will always be typos and things you can do better. You have to learn to do them better fix them the next time around.
The next book is coming slowly, but it is coming. It is going to take more energy and way more work. It is time for me to take the skill I have and begin to refine it. I just need to shake things up and make a new map for myself. One where I am growing. Get out of the comfort zone and back to my happy. My happy often comes from learning new things, traveling and having conversations. Things that my depression and anxiety nearly robbed me of. Things I can’t always do from where my life is right now. From where I have directed my life.
Happy isn’t easy. Happy doesn’t always mean that you feel well happy. There isn’t a glow to it always. My happy maybe more of a flow. When I am flowing, I am growing I moving with my life and better able to see opportunity when it presents itself. I think though for me it is a little bit like the lamp in my living, not always pretty by itself but given a chance a thing of beauty. The trick of manifesting that thing of beauty is seeing the potential, not listening to doubt and doing what is necessary to make it shine. The lamp shade, didn’t natural fit the lamp. The lamp itself had to be taken apart and reassembled. It is still a little wobbly when bumped.
My new map is going to be made day by day. Word by word.
So after weeks of sending out resumes and expecting it to take weeks, I finally got a response from two principals in my district. Ten years at the same school. Ten years knowing the boundaries and pushing them. It is time to push new boundaries and serve new students. Two interviews, two chances. Two opportunities to venture down new pathways.
Or in my case, new characters.
Keep pushing for your dreams, Keep pushing for something that fits better and as always ….
My last post about my current work situation, which is still pretty messed up, but it wasn’t really focused on the ups and downs of being a writer and the need of a day job. There is a myth that if you only had enough time you would be able to get your next book done and that book will bring an end the day job.
It is a myth. Not sure a dream.
The idea of being a writer who is able to rely on their works as your only source of income is both a fantasy and a nightmare. A fantasy because many of us firmly believe that if we just had more time to write then we would be able to accomplish our goals. John Green, the author of Fault in Our Stars and Paper Towns, found that more time he had the less productive he was at first. Eventually, he found a community of people who helped provide him with the interactions he needed.
To make money as a writer, you have to write. Write, edit, publish repeat. It is easy and nearly impossible all at the same time. Yet, people do it. Just not as many as you may think do it without a day job.
Writers have to hustle to make a living. They don’t just spend their days on their next great novel. They are writing articles, critiquing movies and play and generally doing whatever they need to keep a roof over their heads. Most don’t write full time at least not in the way we like to think they do.
They bust their fingers day and night to make things happened for themselves and their families. They write for magazines, blogs and any outlet that they can. They do talks, pick up gigs here and there and I am sure more than a few can be found behind the wheel driving for Uber. They update their Patreon page and communicate with readers. (Engaged readers are more likely to become fans. Fans buy your books and tell their friends.) They create their stories late at night and in the moments in between whatever they have to do to put food on the table.
In the next couple of weeks or months depending on how it goes, I will be looking for a new day job. I can’t live without it. I need insurance and having rent money is a necessity as well. I will dream of not going back to work after the summer. Dream of spending my days at my writing desk and three hour workouts. Although, truthfully when I have a lot of time to myself I don’t get much writing done. I am, however, willing to try and see what happens provided I win the lottery or my book gets a mega movie deal.
In the meantime, I am going to work harder at making the time I do have count and use my day job as inspiration for my writing. There are numerous characters rambling around my school everyday begging to find their way on to the pages of my next book.
A day job doesn’t need to be a hindrance. Use it as a source for your next work. Write what you know. Take inspiration from all around you.
Last week I had some out-patient surgery. (No worries, I am fine and back at work.) The same day, it was announced that the BETA Center would be closing its doors in June. I have been a teacher there since 2009.
My day job for the last ten years as been as a teacher of exceptional students in Orlando. No, I don’t teach at the gifted program. My first assignment was at a mental health facility. I was there for ten years. And my students, all young woman, were there as a result of trauma. I loved them and they loved me. They learned and so did I, but it wasn’t until BETA that I really began to develop as a teacher and a writer.
BETA, my current assignment,is part of a private public partnership that provides for the needs of teen mothers. There is a day care on site run by the agency (BETA). They also provide counselors for the students and help with everything from diapers and food to career counseling. BETA also houses a residential program.
Combined with the school, we have one of the highest graduation rates in the county.
My students aren’t statistics. They are real human beings who are working for a better future for themselves and their children. They don’t need to “close their legs” as one commentor to the Orlando Sentinel article on the closing responded. They need compassion and the one and one attention that BETA gives them. They need to be seen a real whole people not “breeders”.
My first year there one of my students was a victim of abuse. She was nineteen. A mom working her way to graduation. When she was eighteen, she came home to find her apartment vacant. Her parents had left her and her baby. They moved without telling her. She didn’t let that stop her. She continued to come to school.
The next year she had moved in with her boyfriend trying to finish school when things turned violent. He didn’t care if the bruises showed or not. He didn’t care. She was his and he could do anything he wanted with her and to her. BETA helped her get out. She is alive today because of BETA. She wants more for her life because of BETA.
Her daughter is in the second grade because of BETA.
She wasn’t the first and she wasn’t the last teen mom to face emotional and physical abused. Every year students come into my classroom having faced horrors that no teen should ever have to face. It isn’t just bullying that these young woman face. Any parent can tell you how hard being a new parent is. No image being a teen mom without the ability to provide the basics for your child. Many of the students work and go to school at night. One young woman, I taught for two years was worked until two in the morning at cleaning service. She came to school and fought everyday to stay awake. She didn’t graduate with honors, but she did graduate.
BETA helped make that happen. My day job does this. Helps young woman find their voice and direction and beat the odds. It is more than just a job. More than a career. It is part of what makes me a good writer. My students aren’t one dimensional people. They are amazing. They inspire me. And they all have stories.
Yes, there are other places that can serve the needs of the community but none of them are like BETA. BETA is a place that saves lives and gives hope. I have had students who have survived domestic violence and homelessness. The BETA serves as an emergency shelter and is currently the only local shelter that can provide shelter to a minor with a child. My heart breaks for my students and their children. It is also breaking for the community as well.
There are efforts underway to try and keep the doors open. If you can, I encourage you to donate by following the link. Every bit helps. It really does.
P.S. BETA also helped make me the writer that I am today. It was working with my students that pushed me from just talking about writing to actually writing. My students overcome so much just to get to school some days to reach their goals, how could I complain that I didn’t have enough time to write? So I did and I keep doing it.
The work is hard, but I do it. I try to complain less and listen more. I try to do my best.
I try and do my best.
But, lately the work of my life seems to be bring me down. One of my students confided in me today that she just wanted her struggles to be over. I didn’t want to tell her that they were only beginning.
She is about to graduate from high school. Things are about to get real for her.
My students love me. I know this to be true. They may not always like me. Once or twice a year, a student will come in to the classroom and announce that we are no longer friends. That’s ok, I respond. I am good with being their teacher.
The one thing that bugs me. The one thing that keeps coming back to me is that they don’t see their teachers as a success.
All the complaints made by teachers (including myself) and the media about teacher pay have led them to believe that teaching isn’t a good career choice. The thing is even with a budget I am struggling to make ends meat. There are no summers off for me. I have to find work or go deeper into debt. Most of the time both things happen.
In the meantime between lesson planning and general life maintenance, I write. Lately the maintenance has been taking more and more of my time. The cold, I wrote about over a month ago never really went away. It is now a sinus infection.
My body pleads for sleep and my mind denies it.
The work has gotten muddled for me in politics. The politics of having male bosses with a mostly female workforce. Being denied a promotion because the principal likes people he can talk to. Not even granting me an interview for the position I worked so hard for.
Everything has gotten lost in my inability to find a way to make all the things work. Maybe I need to get a roommate again and give up the office that I took so long to create for myself. The office whose door is still undone.
Maybe it is time to give up writing and worrying about making it a career. I have my book. It has been moderately successful.
Maybe it is time to retired to an ordinary life. Not the one I attempt to live.
Maybe, but let’s be honest. I have never taken the easy road. I have been back down from a challenge without a plan to regroup.
This is where I am now.
Here in the muck.
And that is ok.
Writing is hard. Really hard. But it is always something that fills me with joy when I am not indulging the fraud police (thank you, Amanda Palmer for that and so much more). As does teaching.
Ignorance has I tell my students is not cute. You will learn things in this class whether you like to or not. It is a lot like life. You are going to learn something whether you intended to do so or not.
Good night all. Good luck in your work what ever it is.
Writing was slow this weekend. Not because Captain A returned, but thanks to a lovely winter cold.
I spent most of Saturday in a hazy followed by a nap. Then another nap. I did make it in to the land of the cognizant for a couple of hours to watch Deadpool with a friend. (Great movie, but please don’t take your kids. Seriously, don’t do it!) I thought about writing, even opened the notebook to begin writing. It was a fail. I ended up crawling into bed and staying there.
Sunday wasn’t much better. Although I did watch two more movies while I was at my sister’s house enjoying some homemade treats and doing pretty much nothing. (Thanks, Zee-Mama) I came home and went straight to bed.
This writer has been laying in bed all morning trying to summon the energy to get into gear. And you know what it isn’t happening.
The dishes aren’t going to get done. The laundry will stay slightly stinky and I will spend most of the day drifting in and out of napping.
And that’s alright. It is ok, to take care of myself and not to push myself. It is ok to let my house get a little messy.
It isn’t a permanent state.
What I can do right now is get some rest and take care of myself. Burning the candle at both ends won’t help the next book get written or grade the student papers. All it will help do is give my cold a lease to stay longer.
Taking care of yourself isn’t a waste of time. It is necessary.
So, it is back to bed for me.
Love and Sneezes,
P.S. Check out my book, Blood Child, on Amazon. It is only .99 cents for the month of February.