October 25, 2012

KICK balls…don’t run from them!

So, color me hypocrite.

I blow a lot of hot air about how I’m gonna kick life in the ass and go after some balls, or grow some balls, or Chopper–sick balls, yet…it seems to me all that’s happening here is a sad replay of any given day in eighth grade gym class: me whining like a little sissy girl and running like a cartoon character in every direction possible away from the ball.

Balls can be dangerous. Balls can hurt. Balls can hit you in the head, nose, tummy or left boob. Right?

Or.

Or.

Balls can deflate.

Balls can be delicate.

Balls can be…blue.

It’s time to man up and grow a pair. And not delicate, blue, deflatable ones.

I was thinking about how there are so many areas of my life that I want to take to a new, more organized, and successful place. I start making lists and thinking about all the things I need to do. The problem is, there are so many things I want and need to change, that once I start making those lists, I become desperately overwhelmed. I know that I need to prioritize and fix one small thing at a time, but impatience is a nasty bitch.

Let’s talk writing.

Slowly, over the last couple of years, I stopped putting essays up regularly. My reasoning was that I wanted to publish them traditionally. When I stopped putting essays up at a regular(ish) rate on Flibbertigibbet, my online social activities also came to a halt. That’s not to say I wouldn’t pop up here and there from time to time or have one of my essays syndicated somewhere, but let’s just say that my visibility was far less last year than it was in 2008. They don’t lie when they say if you stop writing, readers stop coming. Once upon a time I had a great readership, now when I post, I hear crickets. I have a butt-load of followers on Twitter, yet it’s an echo chamber. I’m not complaining, I did it to myself. It’s disheartening though. It’s literally like starting over. I just don’t think I can put the same amount of time into building an audience and online presence as I did four years ago. Sadly, I enjoyed what popularity I once had online. True, publishing “traditionally” has always been my end goal, but publishing online was also fulfilling in its own right. I was just so confused by what I should be doing as a writer.

I don’t know. Let’s be honest here. Maybe I just crave the instant gratification.

I hope that doesn’t make me a complete and total blowhard.

Also, it’s hard watching others who came up from behind soar to new heights as the blogging world has evolved. It’s equally difficult watching those who started at the same time I did land their first book deals. I’m so happy and proud for them, yet it makes me kick myself harder for not being…more. It’s hard not to compare, and that just feels icky.

Well, as far as the writing goes…I’m doing my best to slowly start breaking in some so-called balls. This time around I won’t put all my eggs in one basket. The online and offline efforts will equally complement each other.

Some writing updates…

  • Deciding if I’m going to participate in NaNoWriMo this year. Only have a week to decide. I’ve been wanting to do it for years…just seems like every single November for the past few years I’ve either had another work type event I was busy with or was traveling. It’s a lot of dedication for one month, especially with a baby on hand, but it might just be the push I need in terms of those “offline” efforts I talked about above.
  • I continue to fiddle with some of my old stories as far as assembling them into a book. I’m still struggling with the process. I think it comes down to being bored with the old and wanting to work with new material. I’m having a hard time making the decision to either jump ship or forge ahead, which is keeping me from making any real progress in any direction. If I participate in NaNoWriMo, it will be with all new material, so that might give me a little perspective. I don’t know.

About kicking balls rather than running from them, and regarding all the aspects of my life I want to get in order, I’ve decided the first step I need to make is waking up in the morning. Waking up. Brushing my hair. Getting dressed. Putting on makeup. Going for a walk with the baby. And just get moving. If I can start with this first step, I think it will make the next step to being productive in other areas much easier. Doesn’t seem like much, and it’s a bit obvious, but it feels right. Waking up has been a struggle, and I’ve been fighting it.

Being bad ass always require that first little step. Being bad ass also requires being awake.

Posted by on October 25, 2012 in Writing.

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October 8, 2012

I’m a Rock Star and I Have My Babies to Thank.

Yeah, I had the baby three months ago but I’m wearing yoga(ish) pants, maternity shirt, and have the weight on me still. I like to think of it as “eat your heart out J.Lo!”

I had forgotten.

The plumber comes today. He needs to install the new crapper that sits oh-so-redneck on my dirty kitchen ass floor. Because the plumber is coming, I am cleaning the house. That’s what we do, yo.

My daughter Avery is now eleven weeks old, which means she smiles at any old dumb thing mom does. There is nothing better for the ego of an aged decrepit actress of yore (yes, on a bad day (good day?), I throw a towel on my head and descend the stairs doing my best Gloria Swanson. Who the hell doesn’t, I ask? Who doesn’t?). I wrote a couple of essays for Flibbertigibbet that mentioned my past life as a young ingenue. In truth, I am an actress and shall always be an actress. Acting — not writing — was my first calling, and I’m confident that one day I will return to the stage without all the silly mind blockage that ruined my raw ability in my 20s. Sure, I’m destined for all the old, crazy granny roles–but I’ll take ‘em. Heck, it would fulfill a dream to portray Madame Thénardier in Les Mis. Perhaps one day I’ll get my chance.

Plan B, I spit you in the face!

Bills, responsibilities, baby havin’ — that’s why I gave up the stage. Plus, it wreaked havoc on my personal life. Writing is most certainly a passion and calling of mine. However, acting…acting I was married to. For me, I was unable to balance my passion for the theatre with being in a relationship. I’d like to think, however, that in my old age (ahem), I’ve learned and I’ve matured, and I would be able to balance both with my eyes blind-folded. Of course, there is that need to pay the bills and raise the kids as a single mom thing. So I have a few years to go I guess. Unless I create my own type of thing, which I’ve thought about from time to time, but we’ll see. Anyway. Long winded way of saying that I was a hard core, sassy-assed, self-centered theatre geek diva — whether I deserved to be or not. And I loved every freakin’ minute of it. It defined me. And for years…well, maybe for always…I was unable to come to terms with what my identity was when I was no longer on the stage. I dunno. Maybe that’s why I still struggle. For over a third of my life, all Kristi (that’s me) was, was…actress.

That’s a long intro.

So what is it that I forgot?

That a baby makes you a rock star.

(Did I mention my rock star fantasy?) (Oh, come on, we all have it.)

As I started cleaning and sweeping for the plumber’s visit (because obviously just living here isn’t reason enough to sweep the damn floor), Pat Benetar came on the radio. I’m sorry. Pat Benetar? Like, one of my heroes. I love, love, love, love Pat Benetar. And I love all angry, bitter she-rock. Yes I do. And the performer in me…well, as I indicated above…she has not died. She’s just…muffled. But I had an audience, see. There baby Avery sat…in her bouncer on the table, watching me sweep and sing. And I broke into routine. Mind you, I was an actress…not a dancer. But I broke into routine anyway. I did the Mick Jagger chicken dance thing. I did cheerleading jumps. I did the Bangles Egyptian thing. I was a Rockette until I blew a gasket. And she laughed and smiled and loved it all.

I had forgotten!

I did the same thing for my son when he was a baby. I try it now for him, but I just get the giant eye-roll and sigh. To a ten-year-old, I’m super amazingly geeky and wrong.

But for the little one…I rocked it.

Baby Vree — she loved it. She looked at me like I was the best performer in the world. And that’s exactly the kind of attention an insecure wayward artist like me needs!!

If you ever wanted to truly feel like the most amazing rock star in the world with a captive audience…dudes, have a baby and rock your heart out when they are about three months old.

You will own it!

Posted by on October 8, 2012 in Motherhood, Parenting and tagged , , , .

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September 21, 2012

The Insecure Writer.

A writer’s inspiration is cyclical. At least mine is.  As you find your voice and attempt to refine your discipline, you become aware of your own cycle; hopefully, you adapt. Or at least try to. The never-ending story of a creative artist, isn’t it?

I am a writer.

When asked who I am and what I do, I respond unequivocally, “I am a writer.” And I naturally dread the follow-up question, which is usually an unintentionally snide, “And what have you written?” or “Anything I’ve seen?”

To be honest, I think if (and when) (hey, a girl has to remain positive) I am a reputed author, those questions will still give me diarrhea. It’s who we are. It’s what makes us writers. We are insecure messes at heart who write because we love to write. And deep down, there is a geek inside of us who longs to prove, and will always long to prove, who we are—no matter how successful we become. Them’s the facts, and that’s all there is to it.

I sometimes think I’m different than most. Most other writers, that is. But that’s really just a defense mechanism. Because I’m even afraid of failure in front of the eyes of my peers. Which is a sad thing, really. I’m quick to say, “I’m left out” or “I’m isolated” when I’m the one leaving myself out, isolating myself; I’m here floating on my island with headphones on, listening to Barry Manilow as loudly as I can and crying on the inside. Smiling and posing on the outside. I’m okay. I’m all right. I’m a strong girl, yo. I don’t need anybody. I’m okay on my own. I know what I’m doing.

No, I don’t. No, I’m not. What a crock of shit.

What keeps us going? Motivated? Moving? Able to move blindly in a sea of darkness? Encouragement. Friendship. Acceptance of an outreached hand. All of which I’ve had in spades. Yet, for messed up reasons only that therapist from a long time ago and I probably know, I have to think aren’t there. I guess that’s a symptom of fear. A defense mechanism. It’s easier to fail when you don’t give it your all, or accept the path in front of you, isn’t it? So why the fear? Why am I afraid? Why in every aspect of my life do I fight? Why do I let fear take over me? Why, in every aspect of my life, do I let it freeze me? I’m not twenty-five years old anymore. My life is over half over. Well, over half over. And I cower in fear. Not just in my writing and creative aspirations, but in everything. Have I allowed others to do this to me? Did I do this to myself a long time ago? Why am I so scared? Why am I afraid of success? Why am I afraid of happiness? Why do I think I’m not deserving?

I can count on my cycle of creativity as soundly as I can the cycle of my entire frame of mind. Year after year it’s always the same. And entering the end of summer, it’s always the same. I get the spark. I feel creative, I feel the need to express, to write, to share. It’s those few months until my black period. When the depression really rears its ugly head in the dawn of winter. And all is gone. All is lost. But I guess that’s an excuse as well. Saying that, am I too hard on myself? Do I punish myself? I surely can’t be the only one.

So, in this upswing of creativity, the ideas have been swirling. So many thoughts, so many ideas, so many places I want to visit, to write about. Almost too many. So many that I become overwhelmed. And worse, when inspired to write, I begin to feel guilty for wanting to write. I feel guilty because as a single mother who is in debt and barely able to make ends meet — no, make that not able to make ends meet, with other responsibilities just to put food on the table, and other responsibilities promised to others, writing seems to be selfish. Is writing selfish? Is it a selfish folly that I’ll never see through, never finish? Should leave behind? I am torn. I am torn because I am a writer. I am torn because it’s all I’ve ever wanted, and all I’ve ever wanted others to help me with my focus to be, and what I’ve dreamed of for decades. But what kind of mother am I for not being able to put a meal consistently on the table for doing it? Is it just a hobby? Is it just something I think I’m good at doing? Is it something I want, but will never be able to find the discipline to truly make a living with?

I do make a somewhat living with writing. Just not the kind that I dream of. I write press releases. Marketing stuff. Copy for businesses. But it isn’t what I want. It isn’t what I need to make me happy. It doesn’t complete me. But I don’t feel free. I don’t feel that I’m worthy enough or free enough to be able to do what I want. I don’t feel deserving. And I certainly don’t feel secure.

I spent the better part of my day writing an essay for a contest. Silly, but true. I made the mistake—or perhaps the wise decision—of going back and reading through the words of past winners of said contest. Words…that I cannot even express how deeply they moved me. Serious, true, deep, raw words that moved me to tears. Not just tears. But sobs. And I feel it important to express, that I am not a crier. I do not cry. I do not tell people that what they wrote made me cry, or blah blah blah. I don’t cry easily at sad movies, I’m the freaking ice queen. I read two stories tonight. And cried. I cried like a baby. And immediately thought, I can’t submit anything in comparison. Despite the pain I think I’ve felt, I haven’t felt pain like that. Despite any problems I have now, or have had throughout my life, nothing compares to the problems they’ve had. I am a fucking baby. I have felt sorry for myself at points in my life, I have wallowed in depression, and I have no right. I have no right. I have no right to even write about it.

I sometimes write with a humorous lilt. Most times, I write nostalgic memoirs—touching on many emotions. And there have been times when I’ve opened myself and my fears with serious reflections. Specifically in terms of being a single mother. Recently, I’ve been bouncing between memoir, fiction, and young adult fiction—trying to determine the place in which I truly want to publish. A lofty goal, I know. But it’s always been my goal. For I am a writer. I will never give up on that statement, even if it means having to explain well into my older years that I’m still trying.

I just wish I felt deserving enough to do this.

__________________________

[I've been slowly going through some of my writing that has been sitting around--trying to get organized, if you will--and I came across this essay I wrote last August. I never published it. Not much changes, however, and insecurities always lurk...waiting to pounce. Just thought I would share.]

Posted by on September 21, 2012 in Creativity, Writing and tagged , , , .

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September 17, 2012

Motherhood: It Ain’t My Bod Anymore!

“You’re not fat. You’re just mildly fat.”

Bless his little heart, that boy of mine.

If I wasn’t only eight weeks postpartum, this statement might have made me poop my pants a little, which is an attractive (albeit colorful) way to put it, I know. Granted, it did make me do a Magoo right into the wall, but…whatever. Comes with the territory. Kids say the darndest things and all that crap.

For those keeping track at home, and I just know my legions of fans are, out of the thirty pounds I gained during my pregnancy, I have lost twenty-three. I’m not fretting about it too much considering I haven’t even started any kind of exercise regimen. I think it’s more of a patience thing. We hand our bodies over to the Goddess of Pregnancy for nine months, so once that sweet little babe has made his or her way into the world, we are ready to lay claim to the control of our bodies once more.

Can I get a what-what?!

Like I said, I’m not fretting about the weight. When I discovered (read: was surprised off my ass) that I was pregnant, I wasn’t exactly at my most self-accepting size. For the most part, I was at the chunkier end of my personal weight yo-yo, so in my quest to lose the baby pounds, I have a bit more than the seven pounds left to go to be where I’d like to be. The thing about new motherhood, and one thing that I had quite forgotten from my first time around with a newborn ten years ago, is that even after birth–(oftentimes) your body still does not belong to you.

I breastfeed. My body most certainly does not belong to me.

A few weeks after she was born, Avery started exhibiting a certain brand of fussiness. Honestly, it was hard to tell if it was normal newborn fussiness, growth spurt behavior, or something more in line with colic or reflux. I tend not to be an overly nervous or smothering parenting type, and even at two months I still question whether this is just a normal thing that will pass. I should probably note that her fussiness is nowhere nearly as bad as some that I’ve read about in online forums and whatnot. And when she is happy and content, boy, is she ever a good baby. It was just enough that with some spit-up issues, I thought maybe I should check with the doctor about it at her one month checkup.

His deduction did not make me too happy. He felt that she was having a sensitivity to dairy. His diagnosis differed from mine (what with me being an honorary Doctor of Squat and all) in that I felt she was having a sensitivity to caffeine. (Yes, I had started drinking coffee again after she arrived. Sue me.) He smiled like I was a four year old and said that maybe my caffeine intake made her gassy, but he doubted that was the problem and it sounded like dairy to him. Either way, he told me to cut dairy out of my diet, and why not try cutting the caffeine out as well. He gave me an additional list of foods to also start eliminating if those didn’t do the trick.

Coincidentally, dairy and caffeine: pretty much all I eat.

So, here we go again. I had gestational diabetes when I was pregnant. So I couldn’t really indulge in carbs or the like. Now, post-pregnancy, I figure all I can eat are carbs and the like. So much for promising weight loss progress. It took me about a week of migraines to cut the caffeine back out. I’m now clear of my drug of choice. (Sadly.) It actually wasn’t that hard. I had only been drinking coffee again for a few weeks. The dairy, however…well, the dairy has been a bitch to send packing.

Have you ever craved cheese like a crack whore on a cocaine farm?

(I have no idea what that means.)

I would kill for cheese. Seriously. I don’t drink milk other than to soak up my Fruity Pebbles, but cheese — cheese is my boo! I didn’t really know what I was doing. I first cut down a bit. After a couple of weeks, it didn’t seem to be doing anything. When I called the doctor, I pretty much was lectured for not eliminating it completely and to try doing that first. So I did. Cold(ish) turkey. And it got a little better, but there were still off days. Then I did a little internet reading and realized that it was milk protein that was the offender and in so much more than just cheese and yogurt. Like, Cheetos, yo. (Who knew?) Every little thing seemed to have milk protein. So I’ve been more careful. And day by day, my happy, smiley baby is less and less fussy in the afternoons. Until the other day when I had tofu for lunch (here we go again!). Come to find out, apparently a sensitivity to soy is extremely common in babies who are sensitive to cow dairy. Still, I miss my boo.

I just ate a vat of pasta. And by vat, I mean a family-of-six serving. (Dudes, I’m starving!) But I’m still learning, and we’ll get this down to a science. The good thing is, it doesn’t seem bad enough to be an allergy, and from everything I’ve read, as the months go on, I’ll be able to start introducing these things back into my diet. And then maybe we can do something about my “mild fatness.”

Until then, I’ll just thank my lucky stars for the cooing little girl relaxing in the swing next to me.

Posted by on September 17, 2012 in Diet, Motherhood, Pregnancy and tagged , , , , , , .

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September 3, 2012

Losing Balance.

Boy, do I ever have a big mouth.

As quickly as I boast about my new-found inspiration and being back and all that crazy ass jazz, I lose my footing.

See, I’m my own worst enemy. I have this horrible tendency to put an enormous amount of unnecessary pressure on myself when taking on projects. Well, projects that aren’t my own anyway. My own projects usually fall by the wayside. And why? Do I value my own projects and aspirations less than the work and dreams that belong to others? Do I value myself less? Or is it fear? Is it an inability to draw boundaries, say no, or a deep rooted need to make other people happy? Or perhaps…laziness on my part?

I wish I had the answer to that.

Maybe it’s simply the fate of the creative.

And maybe that’s just the mother of all excuses.

Although I admit to feeling a bit unsure and uneasy right now, I do know–from experience–that this too shall pass, and in a week or so, I’ll be forging ahead, cocky as ever. But today I question.

Last week was just…difficult. Not really in a negative way. I am still feeling happier than I have in a long time. I’m a bit overtired (with good reason), I admit. And that could be part of the problem. I think maybe I’ve pressured myself to do too much too soon. Although my daughter is still newborn, for some reason, I have this mental need to “get things on a schedule,” get back to work, do as much as I can and get back to business as usual. In my defense, it isn’t about wanting to work, it’s about needing to work. I have a family to take care of, and I have bills to pay, and I have a mighty rut ahead just taunting me to climb out of it already. There are some days that it works smoothly. And there are other days–like today-when I’m lucky to even get a shower let alone brush my teeth, make something to eat, or breathe. Forget working or writing. Last week we did a lot of running around to doctor appointments and work and errands and back to school activities for my older son. And these events coincided with my five-week-old going through a bit of a fussy spell. Whether the fussy spell has to do with reflux, sensitivity to foods I’m eating, or simply a normal five to six week growth spurt (or, hell, just simply being newborn!) still has yet to be determined. It wasn’t the easiest–I felt a lot of guilt about having her out and about like that through her tears. She just wanted to be at home and comforted by mommy. Like I said, some days are super smooth. Some days aren’t. And that’s normal, completely normal. I don’t know why I’m so hard on myself then.

What brings me down is it makes me think in the back of my head that maybe it’s time to revisit Plan C again. I don’t like it. I never wanted mediocrity for myself or as an example to my children. I had great goals for my life and a raw creative spirit that I knew needed to be nurtured–but what the hell am I doing? I believe in myself as a writer, I do. I know that if I put the time in, and truly dedicate myself to my path, that I can sustain a living doing what I love. But is sustaining a living enough? And then there’s getting there. I mean, I need to take care of myself and my family in the present. That means putting my time into the jobs I have that pay the bills. And perhaps that Plan C. The notion feels a little bit like I’m giving up on myself though. And perhaps this is ALL just my whacked out hormones talking. Being responsible doesn’t leave time for much else, like my writing or other projects I have simmering. I have a baby and a preteen to take care of, and let’s not even get into what a dump the house is. I guess Superwoman I’m not.

I hate these moments of feeling off-balance. I don’t like when I go through a week like last week feeling the stress bubbling inside of me. I’d like to rewind a few weeks to the euphoria I was feeling and the peace of mind I had knowing that everything was falling into place.

I think it still is.

I know it still is.

It’s just so easy to feel impatient when things start revving up. I also have to remember that my problem with balance is not new and is the one thing I’ve known for several years now that I need to get a hold of in order to move ahead and grow further. It is not a bad thing to juggle several things at a time. And it does take time to get adjusted to major changes in your life such as adapting to life and responsibilities with a baby. I don’t want to crumble when feeling pulled in several different directions or like I need to adhere to the expectations of others.

It’s time to pave my own path.That includes learning how to balance better. Suggestions are welcome.

Have I done any writing lately? No. And that’s quite okay. I’m still enjoying life as a new mom again, and paying some much needed attention to my personal life. What’s important is my family and my children. I do need to make a decent living to be able to provide for them as much as I can, so that’s important to think about too. And I also want to be happy. I know I need to be careful about not making choices that will completely break my spirit. I’d rather be poor and happy than rich and absolutely miserable. (I’ll take rich and happy any day though, with a side of sassy.)

Time to take a deep breath.

Posted by on September 3, 2012 in Creativity, Motherhood, Writing and tagged , , , .

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August 20, 2012

Screw niche.

My Nana — screwing niche.

Screw niche. And other stories.

*Sigh*

Also…I still don’t know where to start!

See, this is the problem with trying to get organized. It causes a backlash of over thinking the process. Last week I wrote about my new found creative streak and some of the challenges I’ve had over the past year, peppered with a good burst of “I’m gonna do this, gosh darn it” gusto.

Irony called and gave me a good tongue lashing. Here I boasted about my right to stray away from my niche and what happened? Every time I sat down to write, a story–a memoir–wanted to come out. And what did I do? I resisted it. I turned it away. I spat in its face.

I mean…why?!

Fine if I want to use this space to document getting my writing back on track and to talk about other things like the beautiful baby lying by my side right now and my new-mother-given-right to bitch about the twenty pounds I want to lose. But why turn my niche away when I’m feeling it!? I previously alluded to feeling lucky that I had found my niche. I just didn’t want to feel boxed in by it. Suddenly, now, I feel boxed in by wanting to stray. Now I’m fighting it. How the hell does that make sense? Instead of fighting it, and ultimately slapping the cover of my Mac down time after time, why didn’t I embrace the momentum? Why didn’t I embrace the need to write? Just because I started this space does not mean the Internet cops are going to arrest me if I don’t post something. If my goal is to write, to publish, to finish that damn essay book so I can move on to other projects–why didn’t I add to my book? Why didn’t I just write? What do I have to prove? Is it fear? Am I afraid of losing balance again?

I look at my new baby.

For the most part, I’d rather play with her and catch some sleep when I can–and also not miss opportunities to watch kitschy old movies with my ten-year-old son. Joy. Stripping everything back this year opened my eyes to the raw things in life that bring me joy. Funny, I learned that my joy has a lot less to do with my creativity, writing, career, and desire to get my womanly figure back than simply the people in my life.

I feel like my perception about a lot of things has changed over the course of nine months. As a forty(ish) something middle-aged lady, I have come to the rather late realization that all the stuff that muddles our minds, spirits, and bodies really is not what marks our lives in the end. My family back home, my boyfriend, my dear friends, and my children–they are what make my life…mine. It’s my people–not me–who bring me joy. My hobbies, my creative interests, my additional stuff…those are the adornments. The jewelry. The accessories. My writing, my performing, my knack for marketing, my new foray into jewelry making, my love of kickboxing (when I’m doing it)…yeah, they contribute to who I am, and make me a more complete person. But they are not joy. They aren’t my people. I can still be a whole, complete person if I had to give up any of my adornments (which I have from time to time, like anyone)…but I would not be complete without my family and friends.

Now let’s turn this on its side. My family and friends inspire me to tell my stories. I’m guessing the smart thing to do would be to allow that to drive me. Somewhere. Like the Adirondack countryside.

I’m fighting the urge to go in the direction my gut instinct is telling me to travel, all because I’m over thinking the need to “organize my efforts.” In theory, I don’t think that’s a bad thing, technically speaking. So, where do I find balance in that?

Here is what I know about myself. Over thinking causes me to stress. Stress causes me to become overwhelmed and frustrated. Frustration makes me difficult to be around. My being difficult to be around seeps into my personal life, which is where my true joy exists. Now I know I can’t allow that to happen. My joy is too precious to me. Therefore, I think I am going to adopt my writing. It’s now a family member that I can’t control. It already has its own shape and personality, and I need to embrace her for who she is and what she can be in this life. I cannot over think her just as I can’t over think my daughter, son, or significant other. I need to cherish her in her present state and just be.

Screw niche, screw technicality, screw process. My writing can be joy too.

Daughter sleeping by my side, I think about how I want to show her and my son what a strong woman their mother is. I want to be successful, fulfilled, and independent. I want to show them the strength of love and the wisdom in self-awareness. Most of all, I want to exemplify joy to them.

In the end, I don’t want people to say that I was a good woman but dedicated to my career, somewhat stressed, often moody, maybe a little too isolated. I want them to say that I was the essence of happiness, laughter, creativity, family, loyalty, love…and joy.

Posted by on August 20, 2012 in Creativity, Writing and tagged , , , , .

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August 13, 2012

Picking up the pieces after a writing hiatus.

I am a writer; I write.

This also makes me as vulnerable as the next Joe McWriter who comes to a point when they need to step back and reboot. We all do, it’s the nature of the beast and other fun clichés. (Now at a bookstore near you!)

That said, writer’s block was not my undoing. I had personal matters that tipped the balance, so to speak, and it became a necessity for me to stop in my tracks and peel everything away–everything–in order to restart, rebuild, and see things again without a haze of bitterness getting in the way of all that had value to me…my family, relationship, career aspirations, creativity, and simply…me. So, a creative block did not rear its ugly head at me. Instead, I have a hoarder’s wet dream back load of ideas just waiting for me to quit making excuses for myself already and get them out there. Now that my mind and spirit have healed and I’m ready to put some of my attention back into my career, I find myself left with one burning question.

Where the hell do I start?

I have a day job. Well, my “pay the bills” work is vague really, because I have a couple of things that I work on as a freelance contractor. In addition to marketing consultation, I have steady work as an editor and writing coach. I have worked with one particular author for a couple of years now, and we have had numerous conversations regarding keeping focused on writing projects. I talk a pretty good game. I coach my little ass off, give great advice, and one of my strengths is keeping others organized and motivated. It’s so typical, isn’t it? Why is it so hard to practice what we preach? I can give my colleagues great direction, but when it comes to figuring out my own plan, I falter.

Here are my current challenges:

1.     Visibility. Nearly two years ago, I decided it was time to focus less on the blogging platform and start putting my efforts into publishing my essays through a more “traditional” means. I had a good readership with my blog, was finding a specific niche in the memoir landscape, and it was time to take my career to the next level. I started to assemble my essays into a book. However, I noticed that because my focus had waned on my blog, my visibility online literally died. Like, dead and buried. Coming from a marketing background, and being fairly on top of where publishing is at and where it is headed, I know that having a presence online is vital. I knew I had to return to blogging in some form–but a lot of work goes into my essays, and I shy away from publishing them first online now as my intent still remains to publish them in a book. Hence, this new blog. Now, to get a readership base again. At this point, even when I do publish an occasional memoir essay on Flibbertigibbet, no one other than my friends and family check it out anymore. I even stopped being active on Twitter, and it shows. Now that I’m back, if I post anything, all that comes back at me is a big fat echo! Talk about feeling unpopular. That could make a broad feel mighty insecure if she let it! My challenge in this case is marketing myself, blogging here on Ballsy Broad and finding an internet presence for myself again. If I want to succeed as an author, it’s important to nurture these relationships, get my work out there consistently, and network (not my greatest strength!). This isn’t a horrible challenge, but I’ve been online with Flibbertigibbet for nearly five years. It took time, passion and dedication to grow my little space. It just feels like a raw deal to have to start over, but that just goes to prove a little marketing 101 lesson — the public is fickle and they have short-term memories. It’s all about visibility, baby. Whether you are a writer or entrepreneur or jewelry artisan, it’s important to stay out there and stay present if you seek growth.

2.     Finding a Niche. I didn’t find memoir writing–it found me. And when it found me, there wasn’t a whole heck of a lot of it out there. Now, I see it everywhere. It is what it is, I guess. Like most others five years ago, when I started my blog, I had no idea what my voice was yet. I called myself “snarky” and wrote a few blog posts filled with expressive naughty language, mostly making fun of people who annoyed me before taking a right turn into self-deprecationville, which was a natural segue to my trademark memoir essays. On one hand, I was really lucky to find my niche so quickly. On the other, at times I felt a little boxed in. Suddenly, it felt like the only stories expected from me were either about my youth or something humor-laden. Which is great. I love both humor-inspired writing and sharing hometown memories–but I’m filled with ideas, and not all of them fit into those neat little boxes. There is a lot of information and insight out there about being true to who you are as a writer and embracing your niche when you find it. While I agree wholeheartedly with this sentiment, I don’t like following rules. I think it’s important to always be true to who you are, and recognize and embrace your niche, but not be afraid to color outside the lines every once in a while. For me, boxing myself in took a little bit of the dangerous joy out of writing for me. I like to be adventurous in my writing. So if that means I take a risk every once in a while, then that’s what I have to do. Who died and said that I had to write only memoirs after all?

3. Getting Organized. Like other wacky creative types, I am so disorganized it isn’t funny. I have so many ideas, and absolutely no clue where to start. And before y’all start shouting “make lists” at me…I am also the list queen. I have hundreds of lists hidden all over the place. I have more stories started than I’d like to count. More little paragraphs with ideas than I’d care to admit. And I also have a bad habit of getting excited about the projects of other people (friends and family) who come to me and I readily offer my help, out of a sincere desire to–you know–help. Unfortunately, all this leaves me with is an inane amount of unfinished projects. What would I tell someone I’m coaching? I would tell them to get it together by finishing one thing first. Prioritize the projects, and just slam through them one at a time. It sounds so freaking easy. I think I may try this though. I’m going to finish that damn essay book. I haven’t decided which larger project to start on next. But I do have a few short stories to also submit places in the meantime, both on- and offline.

Taking a writing break wasn’t the end of the world. Not having a creative outlet for a while contributed a little bit to feeling muddled, but once I let go of it all and allowed myself to breathe, I was able to come back fresh. Having been around the block before helps. Getting to the next step takes confidence. Consistency with my efforts will help nurture that confidence.

So. Where the hell do I start?

The simple answer: Just jump into the damn pool. Don’t think about it. Don’t test the water with your toe. Just jump in.

Have you ever taken a break from your creative aspirations? How did you pick the pieces back up?

Posted by on August 13, 2012 in Writing and tagged .

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August 12, 2012

I was lost…but now I’m found.

A funny thing happened on the way to the forum…

KiKi–aka Flibbertigibbet–disappeared off the face of the planet for what ended up being a good year it seems. In terms of my writing, the last thing I really did was a stint in the 2011 Los Angeles cast of “Listen to Your Mother” and as a 2011 BlogHer Voice of the Year in humor. And then *poof* — after over four years of an Internet presence, a hiatus beckoned.

For several reasons.

My intent with my memoir essays has never been for them to exist solely within the online landscape. I wanted to publish them, and Flibbertigibbet was my way of feeling things out and sharpening my skills, so to speak. I decided that I needed to stop and reassess if I wanted to see my goal of publishing my essays through a more traditional means to fruition. I started to organize my essays, write new ones, and assemble them into a book. Unfortunately, and to be completely honest, somewhere in course of this change of direction, I truly lost track of myself and my ambitions…resulting in a need to step away from my writing. And everything else in life. I either needed a good swift kick in the ass or a serious reboot. Or both.

Let’s just say that balancing work, life, love, home, and my creative ambitions blew up in my face for awhile.

Without going much into the story at this moment, London Bridges came a-fallin’ down when I discovered I was pregnant at Thanksgiving. A reboot was very much needed, indeed. And now, in addition to my ten-year-old boy who was needing my love and attention during a difficult time, I had a baby to think of. I had a life to sort out. At first, I had all sorts of plans for blogging about my pregnancy or writing a book about it, but writing ended up not falling into a very high place on the tower of importance when it came down to the step by step process of taking care of my mind, spirit, and body. I knew when the time was right, I would get to that step. But from the beginning of 2012 until her birth on the 23rd of July, my focus was on making sure I was healthy, my son was happy, and my baby girl would be born into a positive and loving environment.

Priorities, priorities…my top priorities remain my children and my little family–focusing on some much needed attention to make us as solid, happy and healthy as can be for our present and our future.

Avery Kristianna, born July 23, 2012

When Avery Kristianna was born, my whole world changed. My entire outlook shifted, my soul lightened. So many things that I had been over-thinking, suddenly clear. Having suffered from depression on and off my whole life gave my doctors a reason to be on heightened alert regarding the possibility of post-postpartum depression. Luckily for me, I have been swinging on the up side of the bi-pole, because I haven’t felt this clear, this calm, this happy, this secure and confident in a wicked long-ass time. This little girl has brought me a joy and purpose I didn’t expect to ever find again. She has brought a joy and purpose to her older brother, and a joy and purpose to her father. Storm clouds have parted and like a death-eater fleeing the scene, any bitterness that I had been possessed with flitted away through the sky. My writing has meaning again. My health is important to me. My relationships I hold dearer than ever before. I have a desire to work, to create, to laugh, to embrace. How is it possible that one tiny little seven pound child could bring such a gift of re-birth to my life? I have had no sleep. And I cherish every stinking, waking moment of it.

I was lost, but now I’m found.

So, here I am. Flibbertigibbet is still somewhat on hiatus. That’s not to say that I won’t post an occasional story or two, but seeing as I have some kick ass writing ideas that I really want to get moving on, and I mentally can’t do it until I finish my essay book, that’s where it’s at. Still, it helps me to have a space where I can write about other things. I can’t promise how Ballsy Broad will evolve, or how long I’ll keep it up. I am starting it to organize my thoughts, to get myself writing with a little accountability, and just get my big broadish balls out there again. I have quite a few goals in terms of my writing, and I’m dedicated to finally getting my shit together and making things work.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Posted by on August 12, 2012 in Motherhood, Writing.

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September 22, 2011

Here comes that ballsy broad…

Ballsy Broad.

I love that term. I have always had a thing for saying “[INSERT] Broad.” It never mattered really what adjective was used, anything with “broad” in it is just too damn funny to me. And when I’m feeling up, and I’m feeling good, that’s exactly what I become. Wonder Woman arm cuffs and all, I transform into a ballsy broad. I like that dame. I want her back.

So, here I am at a crossroads. I’ve had a lot of thoughts I just wanted to sort out in a blog format, but my memoir blog Flibbertigibbet just doesn’t feel like it’s the right forum–I’d kind of like to reserve Flibbertigibbet for my occasional memoirs.

I need to create change. I need change before I implode, really. I have so much going on that have lost sight of everything; I’ve determined it’s time to get it back. My life is in limbo. My relationship lives in limbo, my residence is in limbo, my never-ending divorce is in limbo, my creativity is in limbo, and my finances are in limbo. Limbo should really just kiss my ass at this point.

I had a more traditional blog that I wrote for Twolia a couple of years back. I called it “I’m Not Kidding.” Looking back, I’d say my focus was more pop-culture and hodge-podge. I was confused about how to balance writing INK and Flibbertigibbet at the same time; this was before Flibbertigibbet truly found its own voice. I’ve been doing this for nearly four years. It’s time to use my space to grow and learn.

My main goal and priority–in terms of my creativity–is to focus on writing my book projects and getting those off the ground. I need to figure out how to be better disciplined.

It’s time to exist.

Posted by on September 22, 2011 in Lifestyle.

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