Jedi Writer

Let’s see if I can name off all the stupid things I did today instead of write. First off, I tried my hair up three different ways: a twist, a side braid, and a low ponytail—none of which was the least bit captivating (I’m having a midlife hair crisis, for which I think the only cure might be the royal blue Bake Sale Betty bob I’ve been fantasizing about for some time now). What else? Oh, I bought several attractive, succulent plants at The Home Depot. Upon returning home, I ate a shameful number of Peppermint Patties – seven, maybe eight (I know what you’re thinking, but they were the mini ones). Also, I chewed way, way, way too much gum – like thirteen pieces (and there’s my first, public confession of the shameful gum addiction). And never mind that I have TMJ and shouldn’t chew gum. Not to mention, I’ve recently taken it up a notch, since I started wrapping Altoids inside pieces of gum and then chewing it all up together in one glorious, crunchy, juicy, flavor-packed mass. Let’s see…what else did I do? Oh, less exciting, and only slightly less shameful, was me on the sofa folding laundry in fake slow motion (also Grey’s Anatomy happened to be on the giant flat screen). Later, I ate leftover green beans and chicken, then made a cappuccino, then emptied the dishwasher, then crunched some more Altoids. I did try some earthy, green paint samples on the external body of the writer’s shack – does that count? But in the end, I did everything but write. And my head is hung quite low, good friends, quite low.

Somewhere around four in the afternoon, when I was on my ninth peppermint patty, the following thought came to me: I am a woman who says she wants a writing career; a woman, who, in fact, wants nothing more than to be a fully blossoming writer, with her creative petals facing to the sun…publishing articles, books, giving interviews with Oprah…but what am I really doing about it? And why, in the name of all that’s holy, am I feeling so stagnant now that I’ve finally cleared some space in my schedule for the pined-after writing life?

Maybe because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

Some weeks back, some friends inquired with furrowed brows about why I wouldn’t be teaching art at school this year. I explained I’d cleared room in my schedule to become a more serious writer. Oh, wow. Freelance? How do you do that? They wanted to know. And that’s when I said to myself: Holy Shanny! I don’t think I even know how we do that. I mean, I’m fairly confident in my writing skills, but entering the writer’s market…that’s a foreign endeavor altogether. Bringing home some bacon with my words…how do I even make my first penny? The truth is, I’ve been mothering so long, I don’t know the first thing about freelancing. It’s daunting. It’s new, and overwhelming. So instead, I eat Peppermint Patties.

To illustrate the awkwardness of the transitional phase I’m in, here is a conversation I had with my child’s teacher yesterday:

Me: I’m sorry, Mrs. G, but I decided not to be a weekly volunteer for the time being because I’m trying to work part time.

Mrs. G: Oh, what do you do?

Me: I’m trying to write for a living.

First of all, do you know how lame that sounds? And second of all, what is this business of trying? As our wise friend, Master Yoda says: Do, or do not; there is no try. But Yoda! I think Yoda would have no tolerance for my whiny, gum-chewing ways. He’d slice me up forwards and back with his giant, green lightsaber. Much of my time is wasted wondering why my career goals or passions can’t be more straightforward. Like, why don’t I want to fight fires or cure the sick? I confess to envying those with well-defined occupations, like my R.N. husband. Lately, I even envy my friends with work schedules, regardless of the nature of their jobs. I picture them in the still-dark morning, drinking their Joe, listening to NPR’s morning edition, then crossing the dewy grass to their cars in a pair of polished little work shoes, and speeding away to their work lives, where they have desks, coworkers and appointed tasks waiting just for them. They clock in; they clock out. It all seems like a much neater package than mine at the moment. I know what you’re saying: The grass, dewy or not, is always greener, Shanny. And you’re right. But I’m just trying to figure out which damn patch of grass I belong on.

I suppose everyone has changes they’d like to make in their lives, risks they need to take…big ones, small ones... But I’m curious – how long are we willing to stay miserable before we choose to make a change? How long do we feel sorry for ourselves instead? How long do we fantasize about who we want to be or what it is we want to accomplish? I mean, really – how many Peppermint Patties do we have to eat before we’re ready to get to work? I don’t know how long it takes to get a butt like mine in motion, but I have to thank you for listening, because I must say – all of this speculation about how long it’s going to be before I get myself going makes me want to do my hair up Princess-Leia-style and get out there and make Master Yoda proud (which, incidentally, might also solve the current hair crisis).

Sweet Sweet Progress

Well, C has torn up the rotting section of the floor and hauled home the fresh wood for the new floor. We're on our way.

The Shanny Shack is Back

Well my sweet and savory friends, I’ve decided it’s high time we get the writer’s shack in motion. Remember the writer’s shack – from my very first post, back in June 2009? The 10 x 10 backyard cottage, the “room of her own?” Well, talk of the longed-for land shack is back. For a little over a year now, this cyber shack at Parallel Light has served as a rather satisfying (albeit virtual) “room of one’s own.” But a lot has changed since that post in ‘99. I’m ready for more! Among other things, we bought our first home, and it came with, shall we say – the skeleton – of a writer’s shack, right out in the back yard. I can still hear my realtor when she stepped into the backyard, and called into the house, Oh, look, here’s Shannon’s writer’s shack! For five months now, I have stared longingly out the sliding glass door at this 9 x 8 dilapidated structure, fantasizing about its eventual colors and carpet…its possible skylights and windows and jasmine vines trailing over the frame…But it’s time to stop staring out the window, already! And it’s time to put my fantasies to rest and face the music that Nate Berkus is mostly likely not going to feature me on his show and send his construction crew out to the Shanny Shack (though I did submit photos of the shack and plead my case at nateberkus.com)! So, I have said to myself, Shanny Girl, let’s get this show on the road!

Maybe it was having a fellow thirty-six year old friend die unexpectedly over the summer that cause me to reexamine every minute of how I spend my time; to connect more seriously with my dreams. Maybe it was my friend’s mother, a fresh voice, pushing me not just to write, but to sell my work, to get somewhere with it – which, of course, has long been an aspiration of mine. Or maybe it’s just time for the next step in realizing the dream. Whatever the case, inspiration has struck and changes are being made to pave the way toward a real writing career. Already, I have advocated for scaling back on our commitments as a family. We are going to slow down so there is room for what’s important. Not only are C and I erring on the side of more sanity and downtime for our family in general, but it’s no secret that my career goals have been easily lost in family life, in extra-curricular activities, in volunteer work, various committees, and in Chad’s crazy twelve-hour work days. It’s a tricky balancing act, as you well know.

My first major decision was to take a sabbatical from granola. Bottom line: my passions do not lie with oats, but with words, and since neither one is very lucrative, I choose words. Next, we made a unanimous family decision to eliminate Boy Scouts from our schedule; something in the extracurricular department had to give. Finally, the most difficult decision of all was the one not to teach in the volunteer art program at school this year. I am temporarily suffering from the “guilties,” over not volunteering for the first time this year, and I keep asking, why can’t we have thirty-four hours in a day so I can do it all? But reality is undeniable and life has proven otherwise these past few years, and it’s time to live according to what’s real. As my friend J says, There is always a cost to the decisions we make. If something is added, chances are, something must also be subtracted to make the equation of our lives work. The changes above feel bold to a people-pleasing, do-it-all gal like me; but I am making them nonetheless. I make them in faith.

So, you’ll love this. This morning, I went out to the skeleton of a shack, and started tossing the miscellaneous crap we had stored inside (from our move back in April) right out the shack’s two double doors. There were chandeliers landing in the vegetable beds (woops), shelves slamming against the bricks, and cans of spray paint rolling down the steps. I think I looked a bit like a madwoman, slinging items carelessly into the yard (my two year old thought so – he stood there in his diaper, big furrowed brow, Mommy!? What-a-da-doin, Mommy?). Man, was he perplexed! But I had the fever! And I LOVE it when I have the fever, because I so often don’t.

Strange how the soul works, isn’t it? The way inspiration strikes…out of the blue and with no regard for things like circumstance – at least one of the three children has been throwing up at all given times since Friday, not to mention my husband is lying flat in his bed (when he’s not violently retching behind closed doors). And here I am, converting our backyard into a landfill, delving head first into this insanely large project… Furthermore, it’s – what is it – 95 degrees outside today? 100? Normally I detest such extreme heat; normally I turn positively bitchy in such heat…wilting, melting and all the rest. But this morning, I was governed by a force that overpowered all of my aversions to heat, and headed straight to the backyard right after a bacon and shredded apple sandwich to power me up (oh, you so need to make this breakfast sandwich –

http://www.oprah.com/food/Almond-Butter-and-Bacon-Sandwich). Anyhow, so I put on my special grubbies, slapped on my orange baseball cap, and charged out the sliding glass door with a bottle of ice water.

At first, I was discouraged, what with the ten thousand rat turds and spider webs, the unidentifiable insects, as well as something of a bizarre species of white mold growing in one corner of the shack; there is also a buckling floor and some water-damaged walls. But as I started tossing items out – baskets, buckets, brooms, shovels, shin guards and shelves…I started feeling empowered. Swabbing sweat from my forehead with my t-shirt every few minutes became a rather self-congratulatory ritual. Damn, Shanny, you're working hard! I said to myself. And I kept going until the shack was totally empty. And by the way, if you ever feel like you're not accomplishing anything, or getting anywhere with your goals, I recommend emptying something completely in 100 degree weather: it's utterly satisfying.

I have found that when something is vacant, a vision for it comes more easily – the shack, my schedule…I have found that space creates possibility. For the first time ever, the writer’s shack fantasy born early in my twenties seems possible. Staring through the open doors, I imagined all the possibilities of the shack’s identity: do I want a sassy shack, with purple walls, hot-pink shelving and a fancy gemstone chandelier? Or do I want to go with an earthy shack: sage-colored walls, cork board and jute rugs? The shack lovingly calls to me from its dusty, cob-webbed corners; it asks me if I am ready to furnish this place and move in with my writer’s ambitions. And I wonder…am I? Am I ready to fill the empty space I have created with the hard work that dreams are made of?