I Want To Be A Dandelion

Today, I began the ever-exciting task of pulling the countless dandelions in my yard before their pretty, little yellow flowers turn into a plethora of evil, uncontainable seeds that will scatter effortlessly and destroy what remains of the grass in my yard. Some were obvious contrasted again the black mulch in the flower beds. The big ones with the ginormous flower were also easy-pickins. But many of them camflouged themselves. Their tentacles reaching out to the neighboring, healthy grass. Lying low with the budding flower tucked into itself. But I scoured each section of the yard with my dandelion picker firmly in my grasp, relentlessly pulling them out without mercy.

So as I'm working on this arduous task, which is mind-numbingly boring, a thought pops into my head. I want to be a dandelion. More accurately, I want my writing to be like a dandelion. They pop up then morph their flowers into fuzzy seeds before we have time to attack them. When I was a kid, I loved to pick them, purse my lips, and blow. Watching the little white pieces fly everywhere. My neighbors must've hated me. But dandelions don't need precocious children to multiply. A gentle wind is all it takes to strip the weed bear of its seeds. Each weed has so many seeds. Kind of like readers. If you read a book and love it, you tell your friends. You pass around your worn copy. I even released my beloved Hunger Games trilogy because I wanted its recipient to fall into the world I did.

I want those who read and like my work, who find value in it as either an escape or an idea that provokes reflection, to share it--to pluck the dandelion and blow. Because to be a successful writer doesn't simply require good writing. It requires people who are willing to share it. To support the writer on the journey to publish what we've put heart, pain, and much love into. One of the traits of a successful writer--self-promotion--goes against my nature. Against my Southern upbringing of humility and focus on others. But to reach people, writers must ask that their words be picked. That readers blow the white puff.

One last trait I gleaned from my battle with the weeds today is that dandelions are stubborn. Unlike most weeds that you can simply reach down and pluck, I'm required to use a special tool--my dandelion picker--because the roots are deep and will not yield without a fight. As I sit here, I can already feel a slight ache in my lower back from having to lean my weight into the picker and shove it deep into the ground. Until I reached the end of the long, anchoring root. And heaved.

I want to be a dandelion. My words easily scattered. My roots so deep and stubborn that it causes an ache in those who try to yank me from where I sit in this journey.

"The House That Built Me"

Living in Pennsylvania, having grown up in Alabama, people often assume I like country music. Truthfully, not so much. I can listen to Rascal Flatts because the lead singer has a unique and amazing voice, but that's about it. "Red Solo Cup?" Catchy, but really?

But in flipping through the radio the other day, I stumbled on Miranda Lambert's, "The House That Built Me." It stopped me in my tracks and made me cry. The simple guitar, the haunting and honest lyrics, her honeysuckle voice. So now I have one song in my country genre in my iTunes. In listening to the song a few more times, I realized that it wasn't just the trifecta that touched me. The song articulates everything I feel when I go home to Alabama to visit. Although my parents don't live in the house I grew up in anymore, just being home changes me.

I left Alabama in 1991, over twenty years ago, to pursue the world. I moved to Atlanta and got a law degree, then moved to South Florida and became a litigation attorney. I lived on South Beach and spent my weekends sipping Cuban coffee in cafes. I met celebrities while living there. I learned how to live on my own in a big city. I read literature and had discussions over dinner about politics, social issues, and changing the world. I lived my twenties in a place completely disconnected from the one I grew up in. I think part of this was purposeful. I wanted to define myself in my own way. Part of it was likely rebellious, having grown up in a small, conservative town in rural Alabama. But mostly, I just longed to see the world. To experience different cultures, people, and food. If you've never had a Cuban coffee, you are missing Nirvana. Every afternoon at three, some angel in our law firm would go into the kitchen and brew some.

Since meeting and marrying my pilot husband, we've traveled the country and the world. I love the chocolate croissants and cafe au lait in Paris. The gnocchi in northern Italy is heaven in your mouth. The views of London from the Eye are breathtaking. The Irish landscape is green beyond any green I've ever seen. The chowder in a sourdough bowl in San Francisco is amazing. The beach in Monterey juxtaposes mountain with sea. The exhibits in the Smithsonian Museums in Washington D.C. teach me something new every time I visit.

But when I step off that plane in Montgomery. When I embrace my Daddy. When I have a hot fudge cake at Shoney's, I rediscover a part of me. A part that has lain dormant for twenty years. I become a daughter again. The wide-eyed innocent that grew up in Prattville, Alabama. The girl who believed anything was possible and nothing could hurt me. Yes, life proved that to be naive and untrue. But when I return to Alabama, to "the house that built me," I close my eyes. I push aside twenty years and seek that girl who'd never felt heart break. Who hadn't lost a child. Who hadn't left everything behind and created a new life--not once or twice but three times.

In listening to Ms. Lambert's song, it occurred to me that this excavation is necessary. I've compartmentalized my life, even though I know that we're the sum of our experiences. Our lives aren't an anthology of separate events, but rather one story told in chapters. Each building on the next, depending on the prior. In writing a novel, its evolution depends on the fluidity of the story. Creating a new chapter by incorporating the nuances and lessons of the former.

For some of us, we have to remind ourselves. Sit in the past. Visit that house that built us.

Squeaky Wheels and Squeaky Snow

This week, my family and I are in beautiful Beaver Creek, Colorado. Words can't accurately describe it, so enjoy the photo.

When we stepped out to go to dinner last night, the wind tunneled up the walkway and took our breath away. As we carefully walked out the back door of the place we're staying and headed down the last bit of the mountain toward Beaver Creek Village, we heard the snow squeaking beneath our feet. Normally, you hear the soft squish of snow. If it's deep enough, you silently step into it up to your knees. But last night, it was so cold that the top layer of snow froze. So as we traversed it, it squeaked.

Of course I couldn't simply overlook this phenomenon without finding out why snow sometimes squeaks. What I learned is that squeaking depends on pressure and temperature. Normally, our body weight presses on the snow and causes it to melt underneath our feet. The snow crystals slide quietly by each other. But when it's colder outside, the pressure applied by our footstep isn't enough to cause the snow to melt. Instead, the snow crystals break and crash into each other. They squeak.

In the ever-changing publishing industry, the spots available to new writers at a traditional publishing house grow smaller. The climate is colder than ever before. With the number of printed books purchased shrinking as the number of ebooks purchased grows, publishers are understandably more conservative about putting two years and lots of money behind an unknown. Resources are scarce. They won't risk what a publishing contract requires in the hopes that the reader stepping through the snow of available books will create a crevasse that leaves an imprint showcasing many. In the current climate, the snow doesn't melt when the reader steps into the field of available books, opening up many options the reader will consider. Instead, the reader's exploration of available printed books isn't pressure enough to open up the field. Instead, there is merely a squeak and only the ones at the very top are seen.

Unless the interest in printed books warms up again, unknown but talented authors will lay under the ice never to be seen in print because of the squeak created by the already known, lucrative authors sitting on top of the pile. Yes, we love our e-readers, but let's not forget the smell of ink. The crack of the spine the first time you open a book. The feel of the paper on your fingers. The sight of a book at the side of your bed, begging you to open it. The soft squish of powder snow.

Star Wars, Riding Bikes, and the Magic of Focus

My son loves Star Wars. So on Saturday, I took him to see "Episode I: The Phantom Menace" in 3D. Only seven-years-old, he babbled through the first ten minutes, despite my constant shushing, because of his excitement. As we sat there, it struck me that the first Star Wars movie came out in 1977--when I was just seven years old. George Lucas is a genius to create a franchise that lives on in a new generation. And it isn't just the movies. My son has the light sabers. He's been a Star Wars figure for Halloween. And we own two of the three movies in the recent prequel. Cha-ching, George.

I watched the movie with my son and found myself cheering for little Anakin in his pod racer. Of course, most of the movie depends on special effects over the quality of the dialogue. The freaky alien creatures, the space ships, the strange planets, and the Jedi's ability to harness "The Force" and move things. But as I sat there, a line from the movie struck me as oddly profound. Obi Wan's Mentor utters: "Your focus becomes your reality." Yes, Master Qui-Gon Jinn, it does.

Lately, I've found myself bumping along the rutted road of everyday life just going through the motions. Tending to my responsibilities, but in a passionless fog. I've focused on the monotony of each day rather than its beauty and the potential it possesses. Losing my focus on the opportunities around me and the incredible spirits inside the people I've surrounded myself with has left me cranky, unmotivated, and pretty crappy company.

As writers, we all go through lulls in our confidence. The struggle to get published seems to often be a sisyphean task. I build up the confidence and energy to send out query letters. I blog into the ethereal thing called the internet in the hopes of sharing my words. I read, read, and read more about the industry. Even since I began the quest of having "The Beauty of Grace" published, the industry has changed immensely. While before I knew the formula: query, query, and keep querying. Persistence will pay off. Now, e-readers have opened up a chasm that not only provides an alternative to traditional publishing, but also increases the number of authors out there. I see this as both a good and a bad thing. Such competition forces writers to polish their work until they can see their reflection, but it also can push good writing to the bottom of the fish net because the author sucks at self-promotion and marketing.

But today I decided to heed the words of Master Qui-Gon Jinn and shift my focus not from the size of the mountain before me, but to its peak. To focus on my goal rather than the struggle to reach it. To look up and keep climbing. Or, to the heed the words of another great man (my Daddy) that were uttered thirty years ago: "Baby, wherever you look, the bike's gonna go. Don't look down. Look to where you're headed."

We Are More Than We Know

In finishing "Looking for Alaska" by John Green, I came across another epiphanous quote: "We are more than the sum of our parts." It reminded me of the lyrics in one of my favorite songs: "You are more than the sum of your past mistakes. You are more than the problems you create. You are more than the choices that you make." We are complex creatures. We have physical, emotional, and spiritual aspects that define us, influence our decisions, and create the indelible mark we each leave. No one leaves this world without making a difference. Some make great positive differences: Martin Luther King, Jr., Albert Einstein, Jesus. Some make great differences that scar our world: Adolph Hitler, Josef Mengele, Pol Pot. Some make small, but lasting, differences. We all leave a mark. Even the homeless man who shuffles through the drive through at our Starbucks each day for the free coffee they give him has a past. A story. Whether good or bad, his life left some mark.

Many aspects of our lives are within our control: what we go to college for, who we marry, where we live, the job we take. Some aren't: where we were born, who we were born to, illness, death. We can't choose to be born in Prattville, Alabama or Sierra Leone. We can't choose if we're born with mental illness, a birth defect, or something else that puts us a little behind the starting blocks. We can't choose if we're born into wealth, with gifted intelligence, beautiful, or with a musical talent. These aren't our choices. What we do with these things--with whatever we've been blessed with in life--is our choice. And our mandate.

Just as importantly, we must remember that we are more than the sum of these things. Our lives aren't defined by social status + education + talents and gifts. Instead, our lives are defined by something indefinable. The passion and drive inside of us that propels us to succeed, to give, to share, to love. To be more than the sum of our parts.

A truly good book isn't good because the plot is propelling, the characters are engaging, and the dialogue is realistic. A remarkable book doesn't leave its mark because the grammar was impeccable, the story arch clear, or the chapters consistent and relevant. The book that you read more than once. That you pass along to friends. That you talk about long after you read it. That you blog about. A great book transcends what appears in its pages. Reaches you beyond its words and characters. Touches you in a place you didn't know about or had forgotten about and brings you enlightenment in some way. I can only hope my writing comes close to this.

Is the Chase Worth the Pain?

After finishing the fabulous "The Fault in our Stars" by John Green, I tackled another of his Young Adult novels, "Looking for Alaska." I admire his ability to intertwine deep philosophical ideas into his work by simply using a phrase, a snippet of dialogue, or a quote. There is no agenda. No proselytizing. No abuse of his platform. Instead, the little bits add depth to both his characters and the story, in addition to making you stop and think.

While reading "Alaska," I read this quote: "The Buddha said that suffering was caused by desire...and that the cessation of desire meant the cessation of suffering." Obviously he's referring to self-imposed suffering, and not that which occurs due to circumstance, natural disaster, or illness. There is no escape from that type of suffering. I believe he's referring to the type of suffering we often impose on ourselves. It can be financial suffering that didn't result from the loss of a job, but from consumption beyond our means. Bigger homes, nicer cars, expensive clothes. Wii's, Kindles, iPods, iPhones...the list is long.

We experience other types of self-imposed suffering, rooted mainly in our desire for love and acceptance. My father and I suffer as a result of our desire to have a relationship with my mom. Her disease has robbed us of her words, her smile, her wisdom, and her mean, Southern home-cooking. When we're with her, our hearts ache because we want her with us. Not even death will dissolve the suffering because we'll continue to miss her. Of course, this suffering was imposed by her illness, but only in the absence of a desire for a relationship with her would we find freedom from that pain.

Others suffer from broken relationships, broken dreams, and broken checking accounts. Freedom from that suffering could only be found in letting go of that love, that friend, that aspiration. Letting go to simply sit in a place of empty contentment. But is this living? We sometimes need to let go of certain desires. But the ones that cause the greatest (again, self-imposed) suffering stem from relationship and the pursuit of a dream. If we let go of those things, our suffering might ease. But so will our quality of life. We should seek to mend broken relationships and continue to pursue a better future for ourselves and our children. Happiness and pain are two sides of the same coin. We can't know happiness without knowing sadness. And we can't appreciate the light without having been in the dark.

So I will continue in my desire to have "The Beauty of Grace" published, either traditionally or as an ebook, despite the frustration that inevitably accompanies this pursuit. Because the desire exceeds that frustration. The Pain is worth the Gain.

I will also never stop missing my mom. Even though it splits my heart in two.

Read. Read it Again. Read it Again.

Sitting on my couch at 7pm on Sunday night, I'm exhausted. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. I'm home from a 48-hour retreat with seventh and eighth graders. I've spent the last two nights on a mattress on the floor in a cabin in north east Maryland with 10 eighth-grade girls at a Winter retreat for LCBC. Forty-eight hours sharing thoughts with 10 amazing young women. I'm a 41-year-old mother of two. I'm a writer and inactive lawyer. I've been to Italy, France, England, Ireland...California, New York, Washington D.C., Colorado, and, of course, Alabama (born and raised). I've lived through illness. I've lived through childbirth. I've lived through heartache. I've lived in a 10 by 10 room on Miami Beach scraping to get by and pay enormous student loans.

So I leave for this retreat hoping to reach these girls. Have them open up about what's going on in their lives so we can help them. Let them know that someone's listening. Someone loves them and cares. To be an unjudgemental ear to whatever they need to say. And while I knew I'd enjoy my time with them, I didn't expect them to affect me the way they did. They shared things that made me laugh. They showed strength and beauty and grace in ways that made me literally cry. They reminded me that although they are young, they have wisdom to share.

In referring to the story of Adam and Eve, one of my girls said, "I find it interesting that the Bible says Eve came out of Adam's rib. Because it means we're all connected. And I'll never be alone because I'll always be connected to someone."

Growing up in a Southern Baptist home, I've heard and read the story of Adam and Eve literally hundreds of times. I've heard it used to explain why we bury the dead: "Dust to dust." I've heard it used to describe the terms "man" and woman." I've, sadly, heard it used to justify the subservience of women to men. But I've never heard it used as a metaphor to describe how people are connected. And by a sleepy, eighth-grader.

After I'd finished "The Beauty of Grace," I put it aside for a few months before picking it up to edit it (for the fourth time). In reading through it again, I stumbled on mistakes, but I also stumbled on pieces to expound upon. Although I've read and re-read it a hundred times in the editing process, I still sometimes find something new to fix or work with. Just as when you read a novel a second time, you see things you missed the first time because of the immense layers. There's always something new to discover even when you think you've exhausted it.

And sometimes it isn't you who sees the nuance, but someone unexpected. Sometimes even a child. If we open our hearts and minds, our view of something we thought we'd examined exhaustively can be renewed. Deepened. Bettered.