Once, Twice, or Fifty Times Upon a Time

I recently got a new mattress which alleviated my previous situation. I had been sleeping on a too soft, too shallow mattress on the floor which robbed me of any meaningful rest.

On one hand, all I want to do is sleep on the blessed thing--I didn't know how exhausted I had truly been until the first night I slept well. On the other hand, I realize how grouchy I'd been the last couple of months.

One thing that I really regret is any night (that it wasn't deplorably past bedtime) I didn't read to or with my kids. Now that they're in separate rooms, I can enter multiple universes in the same day. With my daughter, we enjoyed The Dollhouse Murders while I read Whiskers, the Lonely Kitten with my son.

It's incredible because my daughter is at the age where she reads independently all of the time, so when we read, I nearly always get to read to her. She can pay attention long enough to listen to the story, absorbing each detail as the story takes shape. This is the first time we've read a murder mystery together and I'm ecstatic that she has the same momentum that I always have as a reader. With both of us begging for one more chapter, it's a good thing there are other people to stop us--I've always been the type to push to finish my own reading in one night. Of all of the personality traits she could have inherited from me, obsessive reader is probably the best flaw she could've kept in her genes.

My son, on the other hand, wants to read to me independently until he's too tired to read anymore. He's just started non-beginner chapter books and reading out loud gives him the opportunity to grow. He likes picking the harder books and he doesn't always want help. It's very strange to watch him grow. Every step he takes feels like a trust exercise. Reading to me is his way of saying that he trusts me. I love our time reading and can't wait for the next installment.

I am secretly hoping that he wants to join my daughter and I for her next choice The Land of Stories series. I'm going to offer to have him read to me before so that there's time for both. I have some time to make up for. If you're a parent reading this--never give up story time. Read them once, twice, and fifty times upon a time.

I also have hundreds of my own neglected books. I enjoy reading and writing far more than I do television, but I do frequently sit with others in front of the device. I need to find better balance...I'm happier in the world of books and creativity. I need to get lost in my own thoughts and imagination instead of someone else's poorly written screenplay set to half-rehearsed images. What is the phrase? The first step is admitting you have a problem...something that we've all certainly heard fifty-plus times upon a time.

Creativity Edited & Luster Lost

I've always deleted portions of my fictional stories when they lean toward the macabre. I thought that telling darker tales was inappropriate. I've recently tried to examine why I feel that way.

There's a strong undercurrent in my self-critical process that examines what I expect of myself instead of who I am.

Some if it's elementary - nice girls don't write dark things. Nice girls...nice girl...I think I need to stop trying to compare myself to a lie I've told myself for a long time. I do my best to be decent and do right by others, but there are times to be nice, times to be honest, and time to put on the big girl panties and tell another person off. If I can't allow myself to tell a terrific tale because it may be dark or offensive or lewd, I may as well turn in my geek card.

I don't deserve the right of expression if I'm constantly editing myself and diminishing my vision as an author because of what another person may think.

I've struggled more with this lately than I think I did before. I let the gory and the raw shine brightly in my drafts and when I edit them out, there's nothing original left. I'm not an inspiration or a storyteller because I suffer from the fear of objection, fear of criticism, fear of internal extrapolation.

What do I have to be afraid of?

My life has not been sugar and spice, crumpets and tea...so why do I expect myself to be some kind of America's sweetheart? I have no desire to be a farce-spinning impostor so where does this completely ridiculous expectation come from?

Do I have some kind of phobia that cripples my creative process? I doubt it, but in answering that question, I did find some phobias that I may not actually have, but a few of these fears definitely contribute to my anxiety:

Agateophobia - fear of insanity or becoming insane
Agoraphobia - fear of public places and open spaces
Athazagoraphobia - fear of being ignored or forgotten
Decidophobia - fear of making decisions
Enochlophobia - fear of crowds
Doxophobia - fear of expressing opinions
Metathesiophobia - fear of changes
Paralipophobia - fear of neglecting duty and/or responsibility
Scopophobia - fear of being stared at
Scriptophobia - fear of writing in public
Sociophobia - fear of society or fear of people in general

I'm amazed how many phobias there are out there. I can't imagine what you'd do with a terror of tunnels or the color blue. 

Read to Write

I had a mentor who taught me that my fascination with books, not only opened my imagination, but also my creative side. I'm trying to work back toward those roots, but it's been difficult because time in the day is limited.

Everyday, the goal of achieving balance between the necessary and the nearly necessary doesn't lend much for the frivolous nor the extravagant.

I think deep down, I have potential that I haven't begun to riddle out or explore. It's going to be difficult to determine which of my ideas are worth exploring further and which need to be crumpled up arcing into the wastepaper basket.

I'm lacking focus right now. I'm reading mostly historical fiction and nonfiction about history, but I'm finding inspiration for multiple types of work, not only writing.

I have short story, poem, and novel ideas ranging from the fantastical to the macabre. I see steam punk crafts everywhere I go, as well as pop-culture geek crafts and canvases, and they're trapped in my head.

How do I put anything in order to release? How do I focus my cascading mind into a productive outlet?

I've looked through many of my old journals and although I only ever trusted that I could write, it seems I've never quite known what to do about it.

I really think it's time I figure it out.

A Little Less Stress, A Little More Action Please

It's no secret that mothers, working or non-working, have a to-do list outstretching the limits of the mind and capability of the body.

I'm finding it very difficult to juggle the demands.

Modern parents have to make choices between yearbook meetings, Girl Scout cookie sales, getting kids into sports, taking kids to church, making sure the pantry is stocked, cleaning the home, as well as the million adult demands in filing taxes, balancing budgets, and solving the current new crisis or family emergency.

The truth is, I don't know how anyone does it. Things fall through the cracks. Whether it's missing a doctor's appointment, forgetting to mail a thank you note, or thinking it's the wrong day and skipping an alarm, the stress levels are high when the plate gets too full.

That's where I am currently--spread thin and trying to keep my head on straight.

I don't think I'd do as well without my planner--it allows me to make lists of important large things I need to do, small things that are important, small things that can wait, and a reminder list of things I've been meaning to get to.

By prioritizing the times of my to-do list, less falls through the cracks. It's not a perfect system (especially if some of the to-do items depend on the actions of others), but it at least gives me a small way to organize my chaos.

I try to remember that rest and exercise are the most important things I can do to resist falling apart under the pressure, but it's hard to take personal time when there isn't any time to take. My biggest recent hurdle is reminding myself that taking care of myself isn't selfish, it's a means to the end result of being the best me I can for my family.

It's hard advice to take. I'm not there yet, but I'm striving to find a balance so that I can accept what I can and cannot complete in a given day, week, or month. Nothing is as damaging as unhealthy expectations.

The Ancient, The Forgotten, The Taboo

Until recently, my book collection lacked non-fiction titles. The only books I had were either on writing, were from a class I had taken, or had been given to me. That's quickly changing.

Although I'd done small bits of research for pieces I'd written in the past; I'm finding that I have a new fascination with learning about things that aren't common knowledge, about places that no longer exist, and about practices that are either no longer the norm or were even taboo in ancient times.

I'm unsure if this new fascination was sparked because I've decided to accept my own past as it is, or if I finally understand what it means to become a good reader to improve my skills as a writer.

I don't think I'm looking to find what was lost, but acknowledge that things are lost. Throughout history, people, places, and customs have fallen away. Although many people have written about them over the years, it's not a societal value to discover knowledge that isn't listed on wikipedia or becomes part of a special on HBO.

We live in a world of self-proclaimed experts and I rarely see people fascinated anymore. If I could challenge anyone to do anything this week, it would be to find something rare and learn everything you can about it. If more people wold learn for the sake of their own curiosity than to impress others, maybe we'd live in a society that could accept itself. I don't feel the need to justify my desire to learn about the bizarre or the ancient, using my imagination to speculate on the possibilities of yesterday.

I don't want to be an expert in anything--if you're an expert, you've been labelled and placed in a box of specific knowledge. I want to be a creative explorer--to take off on cerebral adventures, sharing the best ideas with others from time to time.

For Ten of My Dears

Dear Dragon,

It's been awhile.

Thank you for keeping me safe, even when I didn't know I was in trouble.

I still owe you a drink.

Dear Princess,

Someday, I will forgive myself for not being angry with you.

I'm excited to plan a trip to visit your new castle and new life.

I love you and will always be here for you, no matter the distance.

Dear Batman,

You've taken my name, but I won't call you a thief.

You're small, and I will always love you.

Let's grow together and stop expecting the worst from people.

Dear Angel,

 I hope that I can repair your wings.

I wish you could see the beauty and intelligence that I see in you.

We will get through this together; you are so much stronger than you realize.

Dear Charming,

Sorry for my impatience, adapting is difficult for me.

I'm so sick of waiting for the little things to work out, but I'm glad we're partners.

We're in love, and failing or succeeding, at least we're in this together.

Dear Leveller,

I still trust you--one of my oldest and dearest friends.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could invent extra time,

And actually have a chance to catch up?

Dear Dice-Master,

You're so hot and cold lately--I thought we were friends?

I'm still here, and I care about you

(Even if you insist on being more temperamental than Colorado's weather). 

Dear Cookie Monster,

I want to care about our history, but I don't remember it.

You're not part of my life right now.

I'm willing to work to repair our friendship if you are.

Dear Frostbite,

You have it rough because you depend too heavily on others.

I'm not sorry for keeping a stiff upper lip.

I'm done being a doormat for anyone--grow up or get out.

Dear Flouncy,

You'd probably never expect a message from me, but here it is:

Stop blaming your past and claiming transformations whenever the chips are down.

Making a good decision doesn't mean you get to pretend you've never made bad ones.

A Fresh Start

The truth is, I've avoided writing much publicly because it's been hard for me to come to grips with my reality or admit that I have changed.

On September 11th, 2013, I was in a car accident. A plastic hair-clip initiated trauma to my head, causing memory loss and according to those closest to me, also a noticeable change in my personality.

I've spent the last year and a half trying to sort out the truth from nightmares and falsehoods, but I've decided that my obsession with the truth of my past is an alienating uphill battle that relies on piecing together half-memories and emotional responses with information from possibly unreliable sources. It's futile and time consuming, so I'm going to take my doctor's advice. I'm not going to worry about it anymore.

There are only a few key people in my life who have really known what I've been going through over the last year and they've made all of the difference. I realized that much of my past was spent worrying about how other people saw me and how they saw those I cared about. In some respects, I believe I may have looked for the good in people and made excuses for their actions without ever really questioning my motivation or looking in the mirror at what i had become.

In some ways, the accident was a blessing--a reset button on my brain that allows me to acknowledge I have a past, but also brought me out of the dark, helping me realize that I am not an unchangeable automaton of the universe made up only of those things that have happened to and around me.

This new blog is my fresh chapter--not necessarily a means of finding or defining myself, but more about evolving, like Galatea, from a hardened piece of art into a living, breathing sculpture.

I'm going to be honest--if you knew me before the accident, I have changed. I believe it's been for the better. This blog is for me and my journey, but I do hope that it is also enjoyed.

A final thought for this evening:

“On, there are so many lives. How we wish we could live them concurrently instead of one by one by one. We could select the best pieces of each, stringing them together like a strand of pearls. But that's not how it works. A human life is a beautiful mess.”
― Gabrielle Zevin, Elsewhere