Being Lost

Sometimes I forget what's important to me. I think it's something we all do from time to time. It is so easy to get caught up in what's happening immediately in front of you and lose sight of what mattered for so long before that.

I love my job. I love the creativity, I love the challenge, I love making a difference.

But I don't love that I have lost so much of myself. It is a simple excuse to tell yourself that you'll get to it later. I'll have time later. I can do that later. But when you put off what you love, something that makes you uniquely you, you're only sacrificing yourself. But what's worse than being the one to sacrifice yourself, is that you are now depriving the world of your talents and abilities. Think of people you respect, admire, and love. Now think of what would happen if they didn't give their full potential to the word every day. Think of how much beauty would be missing from the world if Shakespeare hadn't written; if da Vinci hadn't painted; if Sinatra hadn't sung? They all had talent. And none of them ignored it.

Last night when I was asked if I had any resolutions or goals for the new year, I struggled to think of any. But I was wrong, I do have one very important goal. To stop being lost. To stop hiding behind excuses and one million reasons why I should put things off. To start being true to the things I love to do that I've stopped doing.

There's always reasons not to. In 2012 I will find reasons to.

A Little Girl's Dream

I wrote this ten years ago today, after the 9/11 attacks. I was 15 and in the 10th grade, and I haven't edited it at all. It is a little less polished than I normally would post, but I wanted to keep the integrity of what I was feeling in the immediate aftermath. I thought this was a good time to share it. May we remember the fallen, honor the heroes and never forget.

"Ever since kindergarten we’ve been told of our country’s greatness. The United States is unstoppable, unbreakable, and unbeatable. No one can penetrate our defenses and get to our hearts, kill our civilians. We are too great to have war declared on us. We are the best. Since I was six year old, I believed that. I was a little girl and America was my hero. But September 11, 2001, changed all that. America became susceptible to the whims of cowardly terrorists.

When I first heard the news I was with my mom. I asked her who would do this to our great, wonderful, hero of a country. She looked at me and I saw something in her eyes not usually there. I don’t know what it was, maybe fear, or the realization that her little girl was scared and she couldn’t do anything about it. She looked away from me without an answer and I knew that this was going to be much worse than I had originally thought.

Circumstances continued to worsen and I couldn’t believe my country was being attacked. It couldn’t be happening. But it was, and we couldn’t fight back because we didn’t know who to fight with. When I saw my dad he had a new look in his eyes too. Unlike my mom though, his eyes were easy to read. He showed anger and frustration. Upon being asked the same question I asked my mom, I received a very different answer.

“I don’t know who did this but they won’t get away with it, and they will go down,” he said. He showed no regret for not knowing what to tell me. Only anger that he had to, and frustration that his little girl might be put through a war.

As I watched the news, I was heartbroken. I thought about all the little girls out there asking their Mommy and Daddy what was happening and why. It was then that I realized I still was that little girl. More than ever I needed my mommy to tell me everything would be all right. But I began thinking of my American Dream. The little girl’s dream I thought would last forever. That dream had been replaced with heartbreak, destruction, and terror. I couldn’t find my dream of America the Hero.

On September 11, 2001, my little girl was forced to grow up, never to come back. She is too haunted by the memory of catastrophe. I always thought that God would give me the strength to forgive anyone. But now, that dream is shattered too. I don’t know if I can ever truly forgive the people who took my little girl from me."

Devastating Impact

On my way home today I heard a report about the impending landfall of Hurricane Irene. The quote that really stuck out for me was that Irene was scheduled to make landfall on the Northeast coast with "devastating impact."

Devastate- to lay waste, render desolate, to overwhelm

Impact- the striking of one thing against another, forceful contact, collision

Being the Florida girl I am, I cannot count the times when I was threatened with a similar "devastating impact". In fact, one of my earliest memories is of playing in the puddles left behind by the outer bands of Hurricane Andrew. To me, "devastating impact" is almost a joke. A threat that is made but never followed through on; an excuse to take the day off; a shattering instant for some much to close.

I have been desensitized to hurricanes, because really- they have never been real, they've always only been a concept.

Throughout all my hurricane memories one thing is consistent: I was not afraid. In fact, much like that first memory of Hurricane Andrew, I can remember playing in the rain through Hurricanes Jeanne, Dennis, Ivan, Georges.. The list goes on and on.

Even though the orange and red cone was laying directly over my state, my city, my HOME, I was never scared or worried a storm would hit. Though I hate to admit it, I might even say I wanted one to hit. I don't know what would have caused me to feel this way, or really even that I understood what I was feeling. The idea of that devastating impact was so close, I think I just wanted to feel it for myself.

In 2004, Hurricane Charley made landfall twenty-seven miles from my house. We watched the weather channel as the projected path, just moments from being true, forecasted that the category 4 storm was going to hit us. We watched as the storm jutted into the harbor. We watched as we were spared by centimeters on that little green map, all the while thanking God for protecting us, and inadvertently being grateful for the catastrophe that was effecting others.

Those "others" who had once been people who I almost connected with were suddenly people I knew. People I worked with and saw on an almost daily basis were thoroughly destroyed by something that I nearly wished on myself; on my friends and on my family. Devastating Impact was no longer a concept; it was a real and true force, something I had experienced.

I drove around and saw the damage, awestruck by the power of the storm. I volunteered and handed out supplies to victims, saddened for their loss and moved by their courage. I beat myself up, horrified that I could have, even at my young and inexperienced age, wished for something like that to happen to me.

2004 was a terrifying year to be a Floridian as four major storms affected the state. I spent that fall wondering how I would ever be able to reconcile my emotions with my past thoughts; sure that I was a terrible person, and wondering if somehow I was responsible. But with time (and age) we grow and mature. We begin to see things more clearly, to understand them better. I was able to see my curiosity about something so deeply connected to my life was not the same as wishing it on myself or others. I began to reconcile those images of splashing puddles and splintered houses, finally able to fall back into a reverent respect for Mother Nature's power, balanced with a dose of fear and a dash of unconcern.

As Hurricane Irene prepares to make her devastating impact on the United States, as our country once again prepares to have part of it's shores battered and bruised by wind and rain, I am as always reminded of my yellow raincoat and the way the rain drops bounced off of it as I hopped around in the drizzle. But the haunting image of the snapped tree trunks hasn't escaped me either.

As the Northeast coast begins to prepare for the arrival of Irene my thoughts and prayers are with them.

Rejection

It's a difficult word to swallow, but one we all have to deal with from time to time.

And there's several different kinds.

There's romantic rejection- when you get dumped or get turned down. We dread this because it's embarrassing; humiliating even. In a relationship you are at your most vulnerable, when you let your guard down completely, put your trust in someone else and to have them break that trust is gut wrenching. It is probably the most lingering of the rejections, stinging long after the blow is delivered, fading only enough to simmer below the surface and creep up again when you are least expecting it.

There's rejection from family- when your loved ones disapprove of choices you've made. You feel judged, sometimes even persecuted as people who are supposed to love you unconditionally sit silently by and cast sneers and scowls at you. The worst part about this rejection is that these people are a part of you forever. And even after the resolution has been reached, and the conflict has been "resolved" you still feel it. You feel it any time they cast a sideways glance your way or the chatter stops when you come in a room. Because even though they're your family, you'll always remember the ill things they've said about you.

Rejection from friends- to be cast out of a group. This doesn't happen as often when you're off the playground, but we still all have the underlying tendencies to reject, to inflict hurt, well into our adult years. I see it all the time at recess- "I hate you." "I don't want to be your friend anymore." "You can't play with me." "You can't play with us because you have ugly shoes." Kids can be mean, vindictive, and downright hateful. And most of the time, it's the heat of the moment, when they are feeling slighted, or put down themselves it helps to make another person feel worse. But the thing about being a kid is you're resilient. They bounce back and most of the time are playing with the very child that shouted angrily at them the next day. As adults, we don't have the luxury of brushing our mistakes off on being a kid. We know better than to say mean and hateful things. And sometimes this is enough to make us bite our tongues, to hold it in. But not always. And because of that, we will always have the fear of being rejected by our friends, by those people we choose to put close to us. Because we know we may falter and reject, we worry someone may do it to us.

Professional rejection- when you are turned down for a job, fired, told you aren't good enough. This is the whole reason I wrote this post. Because recently I have experienced professional rejection. I have submitted my novel to a contest and sent two query letters and was rejected by all three. Did it sting? Of course. Was I happy? Not exactly. But was it a step? Sure. I have now started "shopping" my manuscript. Of course, 2 literary agents and 1 contest are not nearly enough of a step to imply that I have been making a diligent effort to get my book sold. But, writing queries doesn't pay the bills, so unfortunately I have to prioritize at this point. But it doesn't change the fact that people read my work and rejected me. But this is because there is something better waiting. Those weren't the right options for me, because if they were- it would have worked out. In life, we land exactly where we are supposed to. We have to know that God has a plan, and that we are put where we belong when the time is right, and not a moment before. Professional rejection is a blow, a swift kick right where it hurts. When you think you're right for something and someone tells you you're not.

But the beauty of all rejection is that it helps us grow. We can take the hurt and find purpose. We can learn. We can remember our pain next time we feel the urge to reject another. We can become more compassionate and empathetic human beings. And at the end of the day, shouldn't that be everyone's goal?

Something Borrowed- What it really means to have a sister

Every now and then we've all had to be reminded to share. But no one as much as two sisters.

It went from toys, to clothes, to shoes, to makeup, but as a sister with a sister you have always had to share. Everything.

I can remember being so angry to come home and find that something had been taken with out permission. Seeing it on the floor of her room, not being able to find it when you want it, or, even worse, seeing her in the throes of using it! More than anything you wanted her to stay out of your stuff.There were times when it felt like nothing was sacred, like nothing was really just YOURS. Some days it didn't feel like sharing, it felt like stealing. And such blatant thievery should be punished, shouldn't it? But mom's response was always just a sigh and a shrug with a reminder that she was your sister and to "try to get along better."

As you get older, and you move out and grow apart, you begin to learn that all that stealing wasn't really all that bad.. After all, you took stuff from her too, right? In recent years I began to remember that stealing as less of a punishable offense and began to see it for exactly what it was: sister sharing.

Sharing between sisters is different because it never ends. I have gone to my sister's house and borrowed her clothes, she has come back home and borrowed my clothes. And moreover, we still didn't ask each other.

Now that my sister and I are both co-habitating that same place I have found that her tendencies to help herself to whatever she likes in my closet has not changed. I find her wearing my clothes... often... but it doesn't upset me now like it used to. Possibly because I know that I borrow her makeup and never ask for that either, but more likely it's because I have realized the value of having a sister. Because over and over she has proven to be the one person who is always going to be there for me.

And really, what's a dress or a little eyeshadow between sisters?

Wednesday

Thought I would go ahead and share a short story I wrote for a USF class. Hope you enjoy!

"Buzz!-Buzz!-Buzz!-Buzz! The angry sound of my alarm clock was suddenly permeating my inactive brain. I struggled to push my mind through the fog between sleep and consciousness. Fighting the urge to slip back into the dream world I had created I began to sift through the thoughts in my head, trying to determine what day it was, hoping against all hope that it was Saturday and the irate shouts still blaring from my alarm clock were somehow a mistake. One word came into focus- a sense of dread looming over me as I slowly read the word: Wednesday. Realizing that I was unable to put off the inevitable any longer and finally reaching my breaking point with the alarm I opened my eyes and settled in on the clock.

The red numbers stared back at me, mocking me even as the number changed. 6:31. I leapt out of bed and frantically began to search for something to wear in the darkness. Nine minutes. I had nine minutes to get dressed and ready to go. Nine minutes to wash my face and brush my teeth. Nine minutes to tame my hair and apply my makeup. Nine minutes. Fumbling with my belt buckle I turned back to the glaring red numbers wondering how I could have listened to that pulsing buzz for forty five minutes before finally succumbing to the waking world. 6:34. Three minutes? It had taken me three minutes to settle on jeans and a shirt whose color I was still unsure of?

Tripping over my sneakers I made my way to the bathroom and winced as I flipped on the harsh lights, simultaneously cursing their brightness and thanking them for the jolt they gave my system. While I brushed my teeth one thought repeated through my racing mind. Six minutes, six minutes, six minutes. Even as I said six minutes I knew it was no longer true. I knew I was down to five, possibly even four minutes. I ran a brush through my hair and resigned myself to the idea that eyeliner and mascara would be enough makeup for the day. I began the process of tying my wavy hair into a ponytail as I walked back into the bedroom, my eyes immediately finding those haunting red numbers.

6:42. I began to race around the room gathering my books, car keys and cell phone knowing I was past the point of being out of time. I carelessly shoved my belongings into the bag on the counter, my eyes scanning the kitchen in the hopes that my mom had somehow seen this coming and packed my lunch for me. Having found no brown bag my eyes settled on the green numbers glowing from the microwave. 6:45. How could this have happened? I opened the fridge and grabbed the chocolate breakfast drink knowing that my only chance of eating lunch was firmly attached to the five dollar bill I had been hording in my wallet. On my way out the door I glanced at the green 6:47 thinking that seven minutes can’t be that bad. It can’t mean the difference between on time and late.

I drove to the first of my freeloading friends houses to pick him up for school. Pulling into the driveway I gave a light tap on my horn before resting my eyes on the gleaming 6:52, comforting myself with the thought that the five minute drive had indeed only taken five minutes. Absentmindedly I picked up my can of breakfast and gave it a quick shake before opening it up. Hurriedly I put it in the cupholder so I could make room in the front seat for David. After three precious minutes passed on the clock my irritation level began to rise. He had already had my seven minutes, he really needed three more? In an effort to release some tension I picked up the breakfast drink and gave it a hard and fast shake. But wait- didn’t I…

My question didn’t even have time to fully form in my mind before the chocolate liquid splished and sploshed and splattered all over what I had now identified as a pink shirt. Lost in a cloud of fury I began to search the glove box for old napkins I had saved. Mopping up the chocolate mess I saw the dark stains settle on my clothes and I began to realize the theme of the day. It was 6:59 and Wednesday was clearly playing a cruel joke on me.

The passenger door swung open and my apologetic friend gave me a sheepish smile as I tried to take some deep cleansing breaths. Furiously I drove to my second friend’s house while David tried to make small talk but was instead met with my cold stare. I gravely explained the events of my short morning to him culminating with the news that we were now running fourteen minutes late. I turned off the main road on to the side street that led to Jenn’s house, our last stop before heading to school. Still reeling from the chocolate incident I glanced down and looked at the brown speckles covering my jeans. When I looked up terror filled my heart. Staring back at me from the road was a tiny pair of beady black eyes. His bushy tail bobbed and his front paws rustled in front of his mouth. I tried to swerve but it was too late.

The ba-bump that came from my tires as I ran over the little squirrel echoed in my heart while the guilt and grief was sweeping over me. I pulled into the driveway and put my head in my hands as my bubbly friend piled into the backseat. Making my way back to the main road I made a rookie mistake. I took the same route back that we had just come, instead of the shorter one, to make sure the squirrel, who my mind had named Charlie and convinced me that he was out gathering breakfast for his squirrel wife and his three little squirrel babies, was really dead.

He was. My eyes found the flattened squirrel on the road and I began to get an even sicker feeling in my gut. I remained quiet on the remainder of the drive listening to bits of conversation between my friends and thinking about Charlie’s hungry squirrel babies, Mabel, Carlos and Percy.

At 7:15 we pulled into the community center where I had to park my car- of course sophomores could not park in one of the three parking lots on campus. There were ten minutes left before the bell rang. Only ten minutes to walk from the community center, visit my locker and cross the sprawling campus to get to first period on time. As we sprinted toward the school I loathed my two friends who had English first period- the first building as you enter the school grounds. Their heads disappeared into the 700 building while I was making my third attempt to get my locker open. I blindly pulled my books for my first two classes and began to once again sprint as I headed to the math building.

The chimes of the first period bell began to sound as I closed in on the door. Grateful to have made it almost on time I sunk into my seat hoping for one of Mr. B’s easy review days. The quiet chatter of my neighbors alerted me that something was off. I kept hearing words like “studied”, “conic sections” and -–gulp-- “test”. My eyes fell on the weekly schedule and those four letters may as well have been in flashing neon lights.

I pondered the consequences of making a run for it but Mr. B had already begun to hand out the three page exam which I was sure to do poorly on. Armed with my graphing calculator and my number two pencil I set to work feverishly calculating and surmising, hoping that somehow I would remember the correct formulas.

I handed in my eraser worn paper and slowly made the trek to psychology. Surely my favorite teacher this semester would have all kinds of fun events lined up to enlighten me as to the human psyche. As he requested our homework from the night before I flipped open my pink binder and shuffled through the papers trying to locate the worksheet in question. But words like “cellular division”, “photosynthesis” and “single cell organism” kept flashing before my eyes. I slammed the binder shut and looked at its innocent pink cover. “Pink for biology,” my calm and logical brain told me, “you need the blue one for psychology.” It was not the ten points I was going to lose on the homework assignment that were upsetting me. No, it was Wednesday and all of its harsh practical jokes that I was upset about. As I silently sat through the discussion I pleaded with God to give me the strength I needed to finish out this day to end all days.

I meandered slowly to biology knowing I wouldn’t need to stop at my locker since I had already mistakenly taken my supplies with me for class. I settled in for a long boring lecture but was pleasantly surprised when I found out we were working on identification instead. I smiled, thankful that my luck finally seemed to be turning around. My lab partner and I began the tedious task of sorting through the twenty five types of fish. The boldfaced words stared up at me from the word bank. I slowly read and reread the word third from the bottom in the last column.

The letters came together forming the word “squirrelfish” bringing the memories of the morning whooshing back into the forefront of my mind. Suddenly I was back in the woods with Charlie’s hungry family and the guilt revisited me all over again. Halfheartedly I finished the worksheet, saving Charlie’s aquatic relative for last, longing for the release lunch would soon bring.

I roamed through the cafeteria already nostalgic for the five dollars which would soon be missing from my wallet. Settling in at the picnic table I ate my chicken sandwich, resenting every bite for stealing the last remnants of my birthday money. I thought that the best plan of action was to pack up early and make my way to my last class of the day. I slid my water bottle off the edge of the table knocking into something on my way. My eyes darted to the table to see what I had undoubtedly knocked over. When I saw that little yellow cup tilted on its side I knew that only one thing could have been inside it. I looked downward seeing the blue slush, already feeling the sticky residue it would leave on my foot. Wednesday had struck again. The bitter chicken sandwich and the blue icy had not given me the time I had hoped to have to decompress and regroup.

In a trance I made my way across campus. I could visualize the imaginary black rain cloud hovering over my head, threatening to erupt and drench me at any moment. I passed the threshold into my creative writing class and instantly I could see the black rain cloud that was ruining Mrs. Stevenson’s Wednesday. When we had our one on one conference about my latest short story I could feel the full force of her bad day land squarely on me. My grammar was imperfect, my details lacking detail, and my characters unbelievable. If I had been having a better day I probably would have responded better. Instead of having a mature reaction I childishly pushed my chair back from her desk and felt the hot tears streaming down my face. Back at my desk I sat quietly with tears still dripping off my cheeks, ignoring the inquiries from my concerned classmates. I packed up my bag and sat in a silent protest, my inner two year old giving Mrs. Stevenson a steely eyed glare whenever she dared to look at me.

I stalked from the campus, thankful that the school day had finally come to an end. I drove to the doctor's office I worked at thinking that the worst of the day should be behind me. I walked into the back entrance of the office and could tell it had been the same kind of Wednesday there. Dr. J had been running behind and it had caused the mostly geriatric clientele to become cranky and cantankerous. I spent the afternoon finding the charts for the next day’s appointments doing my best to avoid the grouchy patients. When I finished collecting the brown file folders I stacked them in time order and began to put them under the counter at the front desk. Crawling backward slowly I began to stand up realizing too late that I wasn’t far enough out from underneath. My head banged on the hard undersurface and I heard a loud crack, immediately falling onto my knees again. I continued my journey from under the counter but I was too dizzy to stand up. My concerned coworkers flitted around me offering me water and a place to sit as I got my bearings back. The rest of my work day passed in a blur as I was relegated to answering the incessantly ringing phones.

The last stop of this horrible Wednesday was at my tap class. I hustled into dressing room and began the process of changing into my dance clothes. From my big black bag I removed my blue leotard and black pants. I dug out the thick white socks I had packed so that I wouldn’t get blisters from the shoes rubbing on my heels. I began sifting through the bag of shoes, looking for those silver taps that distinguished them from the others.

Frantically I tossed aside ballet slippers, hip hop sneakers, and toe shoes. I sifted through three pairs of jazz shoes and reached the bottom of the bag. I realized that there were no tap shoes in the abyss and immediately looked for the obvious solution. If you forget your jazz shoes, you wear your ballet shoes. If you forget your hip hop shoes, you wear your jazz shoes. But tap shoes have no obvious solution. Unless you are also a clogger. I am not a clogger. I pulled the thick socks over my feet and walked down the endless hallway to the studio door.

From the doorway I looked at the slick, shiny hardwood floor and instantly knew that it would be slippery in my white socks. I spent the next hour slipping and sliding across the hardwood, trying unsuccessfully to manage new steps and combinations. At the end of the hour I fled the room that I usually had to force myself to leave. Driving home was almost like a dream to me. I went through the motions without really registering what I was doing. Looking to my right I saw my street pass as my car continued to zoom forward. Making the u-turn in disbelief I recounted the day’s events in my mind, ending in what seemed to be the most unlikely of all of the events. Wednesday had me so distracted with all of its hijinks that I had passed by the road I turn down at the end of every day.

The frustration that had been brewing inside of me finally forced its way to the surface. I heard the scream before I realized that it was coming from me. I pulled into my driveway feeling battered and beaten. Leaving all my bags in the car I approached the front door of my house, looked to the sky and said, “You win Wednesday, you win. But tell Thursday to look out- I am ready for a fight.”

PS: This is a true story from a particularly tough day in my sophomore year in high school. Our assignment was to take an inanimate object and give it life. I chose Wednesday as my "object" and tried to write a story of a day that I will surely always remember. Though I do not know for sure that it was a Wednesday, that detail has seemed to escape me ; )

Emily Giffin

I want to tell you about one of my favorite things. You're probably a smidge disappointed that my name isn't Oprah Winfrey and that I won't be showering you with thousands upon thousands of dollars of merchandise, but you win some you lose some, ya know? And even without the gifts you're going to come out a winner on this one.

My favorite author, Emily Giffin, has reminded me, with each one of her books, of life lessons that I had started to lose along the way. I think that the most fair thing to do for you here is to give you brief reasons why each book meant something special to me, and to tell you how, with her carefully crafted stories, Emily was able to help me come back to the most basic of principles we are supposed to cling to in life.

When I read Something Borrowed, on the recommendation of a friend, I was reminded that even the girl who is incredibly unlucky in love gets her prince one day.

With her tale of best friends, Rachel and Darcy, Emily reminded me that nothing in life is ever perfect. You cannot always get what you want. There are consequences to every action, and because of that we must remember to be careful what we wish for. Rachel's anguish and guilt throughout the story, so easily avoidable if she had just spoken up earlier, reminded me to take a chance-- that I would never get what I wanted if just sat idly by, watching things happen around me.

But did I read this story and side with "right"?

I couldn't have. Because in this well-told story, Emily made it clear that we can never really know what is right or wrong. Based on your perspective, your definition of right could be very different from mine. Perspective often makes all the difference in our thoughts and opinions. If we saw something just a little bit differently, it might completely change our reactions or choices in life.

The things that happen to us everyday are a direct relation to the way we handle them. Your reaction to an unexpected catalyst could completely change the course of your life and the lives of those around you. In this story, Rachel's reaction to Dex in law school sent her life on a course that was never quite what she wanted. But her reaction to an unexpected kiss on the night of her birthday party sent it in the completely opposite direction, causing a chain of events that she could never have fully been prepared for.

But it wasn't just Rachel's life that began to spin out of control. Her choices began to effect so many people around her. Rachel didn't want to cause upheaval and grief to so many people she loved, but sometimes that's what happens. We have to accept that with our happiness we can sometimes negatively impact people around us. People we love. People who matter.

Emily Giffin created a world in which right isn't so right and wrong is just plain awful. Life is not black and white. Choices are not clear cut. Actions do not always have equal reactions. We cannot always count on doing the right thing. Because my right could very well be your wrong.

If you have not read Emily Giffin yet, you should. And you should start here, with her first book. I promise you will not be disappointed.

And this fabulous book will be a movie, coming in May, so you should read it before then, so you can see the movie.

http://trailers.apple.com/trailers/wb/somethingborrowed/

Matt and Jess

When my cousin/best friend got married last week I set out to write up a little blog post dedicated to he and his new wife that I would post here to let them know how happy I was for them and how much I loved them! Anyhow-- the blog post turned into more of a toast which I delivered at their reception, but since it started out as a blog post I wanted to go ahead and post it.

"Once upon a time there was a little boy named Matt, and he was kind of a pain.

Now, fast forward to present day- there is a man named Matt…and he’s still kind of a pain.

But I’m not going to stand up here and tell you about how he used to fall on the basketball when the opposing team tried to steal it from him. And I won’t tell you about the way he’d scream and cry anytime anything didn’t go his way. And I won’t even tell you about the time he lied to our senior English class and told them we were twins.

What I will tell you about is how he always stood up for who and what he believed in, no matter what anyone said about him.

I’ll tell you about the times he would make a special effort to take our cousins out to do something fun, just because he thought they would like it.

I’ll tell you about the times he’d hold my hand, be a shoulder to cry on, and just listen, no matter how unreasonable I was being.

And I’ll tell you about how much he loves Jess, and what she means to him.

I can remember the first time Matt told me about the mystery girl from Rhode Island that he met online, of all things, playing World of Warcraft. He was unsure of what was going to happen, but he knew one thing: she was unlike any girl he had ever met before.

Boy was he right. Jess is fun, helpful, caring, and most of all, the best kind of friend to have. She’s selfless and giving, and she wants to be sure everyone has everything they need. She’s exactly the person I would have chosen for Matt, had anyone asked what I thought… I have been so fortunate to witness their love evolve, to sit by and watch as something really special unfolded between them.

It is so magical when two people who love one another are joined together in marriage because, as Elizabeth Barrett Browning told us, “love, after all, doesn’t make the world go around, love is what makes the ride worthwhile.”

Jess, allow me to be the first to officially welcome you to the family. Let’s be honest, we welcomed you a long time ago, but again, now it’s official!

We ask that along with taking Matt you take us too, because now, for better or worse you’re one of us. So please take us as we are: chipper, melancholy, optimistic, realistic, zany, stoic, open, guarded, loud, soft spoken, gentle, firm, sweet, and reserved because it takes all these different types of people to make a family.

Now if any of this scares you, let me remind you- It’s too late. You’re one of us, now! But the good news is we’re all in it together, bound by blood and marriage and strengthened by love and friendship. As our family continues to grow and change through joyful additions like this one, we hope that you truly feel like one of us, because today, you are a Johnson!

This occasion reminds of something Emily Dickinson said: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” Matt and Jess, your souls are the same. Together, you will take the world (of warcraft) by storm and do great things. I look forward to watching as you write the rest of your story, and seeing your love grow, blossom, expand, and flourish.

Please raise your glasses with me in an Irish toast:

May the roof above your heads never fall in, and may you never fall out from under it.

May the flame of love burn brightest at the darkest hours, and may it never flicker in the winds of trial.

May “for better or worse” always be far better than worse.

To Matt and Jess, to happily ever after, and to true love."

I did it!

I submitted my entry into Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award!

Last night at midnight as my sister sat by answering all my silly questions I uploaded my novel as an official entrant into the contest.

I have since edited the submitted manuscript twice, which is ok because I am able to make changes to my entry until 5,000 entrants are received. But I think the story is on a good place, and I've fixed anything that was lingering in my mind, so now we just wait and see! The round two entrants are announced on February 24th, so that is the next big date lurking in my mind. (Other than February 11th when Matt and Jess get married, yay!)

So now, while I'm waiting, what to do, what to do?? I am going to begin working on a book proposal, which includes a query, pitch, an outline, and what seems like 100 other little things. So I will begin to fill my free time with that so that I have a complete "proposal" to send to literary agents to see if they are willing to represent me.

Once I get the proposal done I will start sending it out to agents, regardless of what the status of the Amazon contest is.

I feel good and productive and so ready for things to start happening! Hopefully things will be looking up soon!

Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award

I am biting the bullet and entering a contest. Not that I have ever thought there was anything wrong with entering contests, it is just kind of intimidating to think about entering one for myself.

So this week I am beginning the process of making sure that I have all my ducks in a row for contest submission and hoping for some good feedback.

As it is called the "Breakthrough" novel award I want to make it clear that I am not entering this because I think I have written a very deep novel that will change the world, etc. But I do think it has some merit, and I am hoping to make it to the quarterfinals where the book where will be reviewed by Publisher's Weekly.

So, what am I doing to get ready?

I am reviewing the manuscript to edit out mistakes just to make sure it is as polished as it can be. This is a harder task than you might think. I had to print out the book because when I was editing it on the computer I found that I wanted to change more than just errors. It kind of became more of a full-on overhaul rather than just editing for mistakes.

I have to figure out my 3,000-5,000 word excerpt. It says it should be the first words, which makes sense, so I am trying to determine how far into the book the excerpt will go.

The "pitch," which I have shared with you here before. It is a 300 word cover letter/summary of the book.

So, those are the 3 easy steps to contest submission. It's a little bit of a daunting task to think about getting that much done, ready, and polished before submitting the work to professionals to review. But I am doing it.

Wish me luck and I'll let you know how it goes!

Because friends are friends forever...

Or are they?

Here's the thing about friendships: very few of them are lasting.

And in saying this it is not my intention to imply that we will ever 100% lose people who truly mattered in our pasts. I mean, we have Facebook... In truth we will never lose anyone... even those we want to misplace. (Thanks for that, Zuckerberg.)

But with friends, it is the very rare friendship that starts in childhood and ends in old age with the same bubbly conversations, laugh till you cry story telling, and soul baring heart to hearts that our friendships often start out with.

Looking back on my life, I can label many "best friends" whom I have had. And, what's interesting to me is that I can honestly remember thinking that these people would be my "best friends forever". But what's even more interesting, is that I can't even remember when these friendships faded. Not that I do not still count these people as friends, and hold them dear to my heart, but our friendships do not still maintain that same intensity that they once had. And for relationships that were so important to me, for people who meant so much, shouldn't I at least remember the moment when we began falling out of one another's lives?

The truth is as easy as: people change. Everyone is guilty of it. There's nothing wrong with it. It's a part of the growing process and it needs to happen in order for us to grow up.

There is no one person to "blame" when a friendship melts. And I say melts, because that's really what it is like. The solid form of your friendship that was once there is gone, but the components are still there, puddling around.

In thinking this way about friendships, and who I once was, where I came from and where I am going, it has made me take stock of the friendships which I currently have, and what sets them up to be my "best friends forever".

The answer is simple: I found them when I was finding myself.

And knowing yourself makes all the difference.

Lemons, Lemonade and Everything in Between

I figure there's been enough chatting about my book, with no follow through. I thought it was time to post a description here and see what everyone thinks! Apparently, you have to have something called a "pitch" in order to be taken seriously in the publishing world. 300 words or less describing your book- basically what you would find a on a book jacket. So, without further adieu, here is the "pitch" for my book Lemons, Lemonade, and Everything In Between.

Charleston socialite Emma Palmer has an aversion to lemonade.

Growing up her mother was constantly reminding her that whatever life handed her, she had the ability to turn it into something good. Emma was expected to turn her lemons into lemonade.

About to become a college graduate, Emma has it all- a job waiting for her in the family business, a boyfriend who loves her, and a bright future about to unfold right in front of her.

So why does she throw it all away?

She breaks up with Charlie, the boy who has loved her for too long. She turns down her parents’ job offer, wanting to make her own way in life. She gives up on lemonade and starts drowning in lemons.

When Emma meets Noah Gray, her world starts to change. Noah reminds Emma that life is about making the choices that are right for you, not about someone else. As Emma begins to fall in love with Noah, she has to also start contemplating the rest of her life and finally determine what comes next.

But as she takes this journey, she begins to wonder what if? What if she was on the right path all along?

Emma has to start weighing her lemons as they are, and not hiding behind an empty lemonade glass. Will she move on with Noah and a new life? Or will she realize that her life with Charlie was what she really needed all along?

In her story of life, love and lemons, Emma will take you along for the ride while sharing all of her ups and downs along the way. Only Emma has the answers she needs in life, she just has to find them inside herself before letting the world see her shine.

Inspiration

Inspiration is a funny thing. It comes to you whenever it so pleases, whether you are ready for it or not.

I was hit with such inspiration on Tuesday at 2am. Not a fabulous time, but not the worst-- unless you have to work a twelve hour day shortly after that...

When the Inspiration Fairy struck I thought it best not to ignore her, so I pulled out my notebook and wrote for an hour straight, filling four pages (front AND back, mind you, Ross Gellar fans..) with notes and ideas and spinning more of a story than I thought I could in a sleep deprived funk.

What was so great (or maybe not so great) about this particular bout of inspiration was that I couldn't turn it off. After I had put the notebook away, stepped away from the pen, and turned out the light my mind was still reeling, as I tried and tried, to no avail, to shut it off and get some sleep. I've never been so full of ideas that I actually could not fall asleep. I have never been so anything that I could not fall asleep. I really like sleep... But my next two books are basically outlined, so at least that is something..

Anyway, has anyone else been hit by inspiration at an inconvenient time? (Or at a convenient time... I will not discriminate against inspirations..) I'd love to hear about your stories and about what you were inspired about and where you were when the Inspiration Fairy visited you!

Hello, 2011!

Happy New Year friends!

I hope that everyone has had a safe and happy holiday season and all are rested and refreshed and ready for Monday morning!

This morning at church they showed a video encouraging people to make 2011 a year to be a better you. Set 3 attainable goals and work to make yourself a better person... that kind of thing.

What is it about the "New Year" that encourages us to make resolutions and changes to the life we have been living? Not that I am any exception to that rule, I make and break New Year's resolutions with the rest of America. I even fall into that trap where you say, "I'm not making a resolution, I'm just going to better myself." But by February I am mostly back to my same old behavior.

Did that stop me from making a resolution this year? Well, not really. But I am (once again) doing it under the guise of just "bettering" myself.

But here's the thing about 2011-- it's the first year that I am living free from the confines of school and earning my education. In a way, I feel like this is the first time I am living for me. Not that I wasn't earning that degree for myself, because obviously I was. But there is a difference, at least to me, between what I was doing then and what I am doing now. It's the first year I get to spend doing things I want to do. Well, and working. Doing things I want to do and working.

So, what are my pseudo-resolutions/the things I want to do?

1. Live Healthier- I know, that sounds just like the resolution 67% of America made. But it's a little different. I am not attaching to it a weight loss goal or something lofty like that. I am just trying to feel healthier. I spent the majority of 2008 and the bulk of 2009 being one of those people who exercised everyday and who was able to say no to junk food. I was not one of those people in 2010. And I feel worse for it. I want to spend 2011, not crash dieting or sporadically exercising, but changing my lifestyle to that of a healthy person. I don't have lots of distractions lined up in 2011 the way I did in 2010. (No internships, no graduations, no cruises. There are some pesky weddings and a trip to Vegas hanging in front of me, but with the right mindset, those are surmountable.. right?)

2. Be less stressed. Because we all wouldn't do that if we had the opportunity, right? But this year, I do. With no projects, or observations, or deadlines looming ahead all I need to do is set myself up for success. I'm going to get up earlier, go to bed earlier. Rather than rushing to get out the door so I'm only 20 minutes late, rather than my usual 30, I'm going to get allow myself more time, rather than scheduling things too close together. I'm going to make it my mission to be less worried about time and more worried about enjoyment.

3. Get my book published. For those of you who do not know, I wrote a book, so the next logical step is to try to get it published. The thing is, with all the research I've done, it seems like a lot of work to get it published. Not really what I was aiming for. So, I am going to wait until the end of January to see how a few connections I have pan out, but after that I am going to actively pursue the challenge of publishing my book. I'm not looking forward to it, but- I'm going to do it. With great ambition comes great reward, right?

And there are my three "attainable" goals for 2011. Perhaps not the three easiest things I have set out to achieve, but there they are nonetheless.

Here's to 2011, which I am dubbing the Year of Me. Also, probably the year of Madison, since my sweet little niece will be born in May and I'm already spoiling her. So, the Year of Me and the Year of Madison (and Emmett, and Nichole... Mothers, you know who are and what you've done to my bank account.)

Hopefully you are able to make 2011 the Year of You, too.