What's Your Point?

In my defense (always great to start on the defense) while my blog has seemed silent, my "pencil" hasn't. Over the last 3 weeks, I have stayed true to my challenge of April 12th's blog. I have edited a personal narrative written back in 2002 and have submitted it to a collection of stories. I have contacted a PR firm in Evanston seeking a PT Writer (10 hr. a week from home) and submitted samples. Just last night I completed yet another personal narrative about Harper's birth (minor edits aside) and will be sending it off to a company seeking stories for a collection geared towards new mothers.

And as I wonder if I too have a bit of ADHD in me, I laid awake last night composing a story called Fringe. After being knocked flat with a sinus infection this week, I hadn't the energy to get up and jot down notes, but I do believe if I were to just start typing today, without self-editing, I could retrace my mental steps.

So, only 3 weeks after stating my "dream" (ugh, there goes that word again. I just can't seem to state that word without a bit of a cringe. It's a problem with my perception of the word, rather than the word itself), I have indeed been writing.

George has been running.

Harper joined a softball team (not soccer, but so much better suited for her).

And Zane has successfully taken out 3 vampires.

Look at us!

So, last night, I did a reading of my new story, "Flood", for everyone at dinner. Harper was flattered that I would write about my birth experience with her (I didn't use her name in the piece) and listened very intently. She was impressed.
She came downstairs later that night when she was supposed to be sleeping. As if knowing I would chastise her for being up, she announced, "Wait! I need to read you my story!" as she descended the stairs. Indeed, she had been up in bed WRITING A STORY.

I love mom beczus of her story. I can not bulev she put me in her story. I love her varey much. I can not beleve she is raiting storys. It is like so cool. I like the sect [second] story the best becus it has me in it. the End.

This comes a few days after receiving the following:

Dear Mom, thack you for bing the best mom in the wde wrod! I like having a mom like you. I like your crazy hiae doo. Love, Harper.

So do our actions rub off on others? Does our personal inspiration inspire others?

Seems that way.

If you know me, then you know that I have a great love of popcorn. It is one of the foods that I refuse to share. Don't even ask. I will make you your own bag, but don't touch mine. Popcorn and Buffalo Wings are my selfish foods. Get your own. Last night I was popping a bag of corn when Harper came down to read to me . . . I was so distracted by her sentiment that the microwave popcorn bag burned so badly that even this morning the house still reeks.

My little writer disappeared upstairs after her reading and we thought she was off to bed. Nope. About 20 minutes later we hear crying, "Mommy!" She is crying, whining, really, and is terrified. Apparently, while writing, she had stuck the pencil UP HER NOSE (I know, HELLO!) and the tip had broken off inside her nose. She couldn't get it dislodged. She was freaked out.

George ran for a flashlight.

I tried to keep her calm and told her to try and blow out although being nervous and crying, she kept sucking IN!

Finally, I closed off one nostril with my thumb and yelled "BLOW!"

Out came the sharpened point of her colored pencil drenched in snot.

We all stared down at it and broke into laughter.

Seriously, you can't make this stuff up.

That's my point. I'm writing from my life experience. These are my truthful daily musings. They are real and they are mine. I share them as I would share myself when on stage. On stage, you are fully out there, body and soul, for all to watch. As cheesy as it sounds, the paper is my stage now. I think I'm more honest and real on paper than I ever was on stage. For on stage, I second guessed myself, I edited, I censored, I questioned my choices. Writing is much more freeing for me. I'm certainly not as self conscious on paper as I was on stage (except for when I played Lucy from You're a Good Man Charlie Brown . . . she is the only character I really believed I completely conquered, both times I played her). I may have come across confidently on stage, but there was an element of fake out. There is no faking it here.

I love playing myself now . . . through writing.

I'll try to keep the pencil out of my nose.

On Second Thought

Quotable moments.

We have many in our home.

Today's best dialogue exchange?

Joline: What would you think about putting Harper into some sort of science and nature thingee?

George: What, like a biosphere?

I was thinking more like a summer camp or class at the Ecology center or Emily Oaks Nature Center, but perhaps sending her off to Arizona for the summer isn't something I should dismiss so quickly.

6 Weeks!

No, I'm not 6 weeks pregnant. Ha! Made you look!

Get over it. God would have to be really skilled with knots for that to happen.

No, we don't only have 6 weeks left in the school year.

I don't even have the summer schedule figured out yet.

No, 6 weeks isn't the amount of time before we take a really cool trip.

We don't even plan on vacationing until August, unless you count the possibility that I may, MAY, head to Dallas in July along with thousands of other women who drink pink kool-aid and like it.

Inspired by the television show Made, on MTV, (which apparently George watches with the kids while I am away . . .hmmm.) we have decided to give each family member 6 weeks to personally attempt something which we find scary.

Me? I'll be submitting stories to competitions and queries to a few magazines.

Harper? She first said swimming (swimming itself not being the fear, but rather not knowing other children in the class), but then mentioned soccer.

(Cause in my mind, THAT's less intimidating. Yes, that was sarcasm. I'm proud of her for even voicing it, and yet, we'll be seeing how this pans out. Maybe a few games with friends at the park as opposed to doing a league again, where a clump of kids all stampede after the ball at the same time.)

George? He's planning on getting in the running game again.

(A birthday gift of running shoes from his parents, who always seem to get hit up for shoes when they come to town, would be greatly appreciated. Wink.)

And what of Zane's fears?

He shared that he is scared of band fires.

Band fires?

Like when the stage catches on fire during a concert?

Band fires?

Like pyrotechnics and special stage effects?

And just what concert were you planning on attending?

Oh, wait.

Not band fires!

VAMPIRES!

Well, now I feel much better. A little garlic (check), a cross (got 'em a'plenty), and a wooden stake (nothing Daddy can't whittle for you) and you are all set.

Go get 'em Zane.

Gotta Sport the Right Gear

I need one of these!

Proceed With Caution!

For those of you who have not yet read my prior post, you may want to turn the car around and and double back in order to get your bearings before continuing on into this construction zone.

Caution!

Joline is currently under construction.

Work will commence today, April 10, 2008 with the groundbreaking of a new road. Expect delays. Road work will include sharp curves, detours, wrong turns, roadblocks, equipment failures, potholes, and the unavoidable fallen tree branch or two. Reader should proceed with caution as this road will not be smooth, or straight, or mapped, for that matter. Readers should also be warned that this road work has no exact course, no defined direction, and no concrete destination. Completion date at this work zone is undetermined.

Reader will also experience the open road, vast valley's, insurmountable mountains, dark forests, sunrises, sunsets, fields, big sky, streams, storms, scenic overlooks, and plenty of surprises along the way.

Reader is responsible for their own coffee and snacks.

Stops at rest areas will be plenty.

This is not my first journey down this road. In 2001, I had a writing binge. I had two articles published, one for One City, a publication for the Chicago Council on Urban Affairs, and for Access, a publication of the American Dental Hygienists' Association. One of my personal stories made it to the top 10 in a competition to be included in A Cup of Comfort for Teachers, and my favorite piece, written soon after Harper was born describing my struggle to juggle the world of motherhood and acting, has not yet found a home.

Why didn't I continue writing?

Fear, that I should be doing something that is steady and reliable. (Motivated by money.)

Fear, that I should be acting. I mean, after all, I was an actress, so shouldn't I be acting, rather than writing? (One must live according one's label, right?)

Fear, that I wouldn't know how to get other writing gigs. (So why even try?)

Fear, that I wasn't truly a good writer. (Starting with self doubt. Good plan.)

Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear.

So, I stopped the car and turned back around.

This time, I have a solid purpose behind me. I have the desire to use my creativity, not merely for benefit of self, but also for the benefit of my family. Prior to this, I was just dabbling. I was playing. Now, I see that I can truly make this a concentrated effort, and that this effort can serve as an inspiration to both my personal growth, AND add to the quality of our family's life together.

This CAN be a reality.

I think I need a hard hat.

Do they come in pink?

Untitled Novel

"Tearful Dinner"
"Dreaming Isn't Hokey"
"I Love You So Much It Hurts"
"From Merely Sustaining and Maintaining to Soaring"
"Where Do I Go From Here When God Plants Ideas In My Head"

All worthy titles to describe what I experienced today. All of them swirling around my head at the same time, bumping into each other and becoming intertwined.

Yeah. No kidding. That's a lot to process.
And believe it or not, I'm not the one in the family with ADHD.

What happened today to precipitate this post?

The knowledge and relief and excitement that after several years of feeling as if I've been merely hanging on, making every desperate attempt to maintain daily life, (while keeping up the appearance of wellness, with the occasional complete meltdown witnessed only by a few) it is now time for me to explore some personal dreams that I have.

My least favorite speech at Mary Kay's Career Conference was by the number 1 Sales Director in Illinois, Jeanie Martin. She spoke about the importance of allowing ourselves to dream, acknowledging our dreams, visualizing our dreams, and going after our dreams. She even held a "Dream Book" in her arms while speaking. Come on! Throughout her speech I kept a strong, emotionless face. No notes were taken. I gave her no non-verbal head nods of agreement. I even left before she was done to go to the bathroom. What a waste of my time.

Dribble. Fluff. Sap.

My personal reaction to Jeanie has gnawed away at me every day since hearing her speak last Saturday.

I have been consumed with telling others how disinterested I was with what she had to say.

I recall another time in my life where I was consumed with telling others how disinterested I was with something. Or someone.

About 18 years ago, I told my friends, my family, anyone who would ask, and even people who didn't ask, how very disinterested I was in dating a man named George Atkins. I told them this hourly and daily. I told them this when we weren't even on the subject. I told them this out of the blue. My mom put it best, "For not liking someone, you sure do talk about him alot."

Good thing I ended up not believing my own lie. Right?

Today, I realized that the reason I was so very turned off by Jeanie's speech was because I haven't had any dreams for quite some time.

Well, that's not exactly true. Actually I have had dreams, but they've been a buried underneath the mountains of fear and insecurity. Sure, I've had to make some sacrifices and put some personal desires on hold over the last few years and even more so over the past year for the sake of my family, but even that "sacrifice" has a tiny bit of excuse included in the clever "Supermom" wrapping.

Today, I realized that I do indeed have dreams. Today, I allowed myself to voice them at the dinner table. Dreams that I tearfully told my family I didn't think I could possibly accomplish. Dreams that seem completely unattainable. Dreams that sound ridiculous when actually verbalized out loud. Dreams that I "joke" about, when inside, I really do want them to be. Dreams that recently someone reading my blog for the first time hinted that I should pray about developing.

Let me set the table here: I cooked two new recipes tonight. While I cooked Harper read to Zane. It was the most precious, gentle, serene evening. We sat down to eat. Zane reminded us to pray. Harper asked to open the prayer. They ate EVERYTHING. That's a dream come true. But, that's not the one I'm talking about. Who writes an entire post about the fact that their kids ate dinner and now all is right with her spirit? Anyway . . . Harper told me that the two recipes were keepers. Zane actually ate beans. Nope, that wasn't the dream either.

Wait for it.

It was if God was setting the perfect scene on my behalf to serve as the catalyst to get me to crack (in a good way). And I didn't see it coming. Caught up in the beauty and comfort and trust I felt for my family sitting around that table I suddenly found myself blurting out, "Do you think having dreams is silly?" George said "No". Emphatically.

So, out it came. Quickly, with no thought, no preparation, no control. "I think I have a new dream. If I could do anything, I think I would be a Writer and Mary Kay Consultant."

There, I'd said it.

Then, I started crying. Not the heavy, lead filled tears of these past two year, but more like pure water. Light. Refreshing. Why? Because George said, "Jo, you could totally do that. You've done so many things over the years, most of which have been to help sustain this family, but it's been a while [since my acting days] since you've really done anything [in terms of a profession] to further yourself."

It's not that I don't like teaching children's music, and yet my heart yearns to take guitar lessons in order to play with the worship band, perhaps to even learn how to jot down the songs that come to my head. The one's that end up disappearing because I don't know how to make them reality.

It's not that I don't like coaching, and yet I've lost the "fire" I once had for preparing someone for a role, feeling almost as if I give away a little piece of my creativity every time I do so.

One might think I would want to return to performing, and yet, I haven't the desire to be away from my family for the amount of time performing takes. Writing, however, takes the creative rush I feel inside and releases it, all the while fueling me with the same fulfillment I used to feel from being on stage, only now, I'm home, with those who are my true inspiration.

Writing has become a joy, a habit, a desire, a need, a have to, a want to, a must do, an offering, a gesture, a release, a passion, a relief, a discipline. But, a . . . dream? How could I possibly make that a reality? It just seems too big. Bigger than me. Who am I to think I could actually be a Writer?

Through tears, I asked George if I could really do it. Write, for actual paychecks, and continuing my new found love for my Mary Kay business by moving upward within the company.

Zane answered the question before George did.

"Yes, Mommy" he said looking me right in the eye, "You can do that. Be happy. Don't cry."

I tried to tell him that I wasn't sad - just the opposite, and that I was actually feeling such an enormous amount of happiness due to my ability to admit that I have a dream and because the love I felt around the dinner table at that moment was so very overwhelming, but he's three.

Harper tried to explain that sometimes when grown ups are happy they cry.
Then she shared that she had a dream to become a better reader. And to become a Veterinarian.

Zane shared that he had a dream to play with toys.

George just sat and watched the scene with a contented look that conveyed that right there, at that moment, he was living his dream. He gave me quite the pep talk. He can see it. I love that.

There was a group hug, initiated by Harper, talk of a plan (perhaps phasing out the music classes once Zane "graduates" SLC), a lot of kissing, and a flood of excitement over a new sense of purpose.

I'm sure this isn't the end of this post. Well, it may be the end in a literal sense, as I'm about to stop typing, but not so in terms of my processing and exploring ways to move in the direction of my . . . it's still so hard to say . . . Dream.

My Dream is to work at home. My Dream is to be a Writer and, at this point in time, a Team Leader in Mary Kay. My Dream is to wake in the morning, get everyone off to where ever they need to be and to then get to work on writing projects for which I have been hired to complete. My Dream is to write, hold Mary Kay appointments and train new consultants on my team. My Dream is to be available for my family. To work while they are in school. To be present when they are home. To cook meals with them. To gather around the dinner table and recount the day. Yes, to sacrifice for them, and yet, not at the expense of losing my ability to Dream for myself.

Yeah, I need to tighten that up a bit, but give me time.

And that's it. It's time to move forward.

My family has agreed to help me create a Dream/Vision poster to help encourage me. I'm rereading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott and investigating what I do next, 'cause I don't have a clue.

So, what would YOU title my new novel?

Literary Dinner

Tonight while George and I were preparing dinner:

"George, do you want garbanzo beans in your salad?"

"I don't like garbanzo beans."

Zane: "Well, I don't like green eggs and ham!"

And apparently, he won't eat them with sheep. Well, that's his version of the story anyway