Throw out 50 Thoughts #25 – But I’m going to suck at this…

runnersacrificeMy seventh grade Biology teacher also happened to be the cross-country coach. One day in class, he suggested that I join the team. When he did, my classmates laughed. You see, I was the least likely person one would take for a runner. I was heavy. I wore glasses. I was non-athletic. After class, he urged me to ignore my classmates and try. “I saw your sprint times,” he said. “You’re fast. All you need is stamina.”

This is not one of those stories where the protagonist is the fastest kid in the class. I did not leave my detractors in the dust while the soundtrack swelled. I’m not even sure my teacher ever saw my sprint times, because being fast wasn’t the point. I knew exactly what would happen if I came to practice, and I think my teacher knew exactly what would happen, too.  I’d run, fall behind, puke my guts out, cry in the shower and listen to people snicker about how idiotic the idea was in the first place. And the next day, I’d show up at practice and do the same thing all over again.

I said no. I wish I hadn’t.

Let’s face it, we don’t all get our Susan Boyle moment where we make the Simon Cowells of the world eat crow. We will try, and nine times out of ten we will fall short of our desired goals. I won’t call it failure, because failure sounds so final. Failure is only the beginning.

While it might have been nice to have my movie moment, I would have learned so much more through reality. My classmates were right. I would have sucked at cross-country. The next day, however, I would have sucked a little less, and a little less the day after that. I may never have won a race, but it didn’t matter. My victory wouldn’t have been showing people that I could run like the wind, it would have been showing people that they could not define who I was and who I was not.

My son, like many teens, draws himself with thick lines. It’s a wish, I suppose, that if he stays within the boundaries, he’s safe from ridicule. I tell him to embrace suckitude. It’s inevitable, and I say it not as a cynic, but as an optimist, because the point is, SO FREAKING WHAT.

If I’d run cross country, with the expected outcome, who would I have hurt? My suckitude would have been mine and mine alone to do with as I pleased. I could have wrapped it around me like a straightjacket, or I could crumple it into a ball and toss it into the circular file. Kids laugh at others because they are afraid for themselves. Over time, they learn to avoid things they fear rather than staring fear down and telling it to shut the heck up.

My teenage self would be shocked to hear that I run every day, Yes, it’s good exercise, it’s free (except for the shoes and the blister tape and the friction reducing socks), and I get that nice endorphin high at the end. I run because I like knowing that  I can will myself to put one foot in front of the other, again and again, and watch the miles fall behind me.  I run, I fall, I get up. Evaluating my success is up to me. And that’s what I think my teacher was trying to accomplish.

So Mr. Shoemacher, better late than never. And thanks.

Photograph : Marathon Sacrifice by David © 2007 Creative Commons/Flickr


Throw Out 50 Thoughts #24 – That was a waste of time

hourglassTime is a gift. Time is fleeting. That’s a half hour of my life I won’t get back. The tape loop cycles in my head.

Tape loop, will you please, please, shut the hell up?

When I was a management consultant, I kept track of my time in 15 minute increments. Time without a code was overhead, and overhead brought on the managerial grouchy-face, so was best avoided.  I never really lost the mindset. The habit of packing time like Tetris blocks is reinforced by our outcome-oriented society, and face it, a to-do list with lots of to-done items is satisfying.

I’m neck-deep in editing a novel in hopes of finding an agent. It’s painstaking, exhausting work. I want to finish, not just because it’s a painful process, but because it represents a milestone in my journey as a writer. Last weekend my husband was out of town. My son was supposed to be out for the evening. I was going to edit like no one has ever edited before.

It didn’t go well. I’d spent the better part of the day buried in words, and I was mentally exhausted. I was writing stuff just to write stuff.

My son came home early. Way early. And then he didn’t go back out. He camped on the sofa and watched the ballgame. I wandered out for some soda water, and never came back. I sat down next to the Dude, got a beer and popped some corn. After the game was over we watched a couple of hours of Modern Family. Like Law and Order, Modern Family is always on, all one has to do is find the right station. Soon it will have it’s own variants, Modern Family – the Minivan Chronicles, Modern Family – Live Poetry Readers.

The next day I was kicking myself. I was behind. Did I not care about my book?  I was a sloth, and a slacker, and way too old to be a Gen Xer (Most Gen Xers are way too old to be GenXers these days). I would never finish. Never.

I’ll admit. I don’t always align my choices with my values. But am I really honest with myself about what I value?

I treasured every moment of my evening with the Dude. I was happy, and before long, he’ll be in college and I won’t have the opportunity at all. Is there more virtue in sitting brain-dead in front of my computer, convincing myself that I’m actually getting something done when I’m not?

The time is only wasted if I’m not embracing what I’m doing, and the only person who can assess the value of my activity is me. If I spend an evening playing 2048, that’s okay, as long as I’m present and happy playing 2048, and my score is higher than everyone else in my family. I totally rule at 2048.

So, I can stop with the self-directed managerial grouchy face. I can’t see it anyway, and it gives me wrinkles. I will save it for the Dude, who should be studying, but is throwing a tennis ball against the wall outside my office. What a waste of time.

Photograph – “Time” by Alexander Boden © 2007 Creative Commons/Flick



Throw out 50 Thoughts #23 – It’ll never sell

1070845410_28ee7a7f69_zA few years ago, I wrote a novel. It resides on my hard drive. It’s drivel.

I took classes, learned a lot, but not enough. My second novel also resides on my hard drive.

I took more classes, read more books and wrote a third novel. I even let people read this one. They liked it. I thought maybe I’d try to publish this one. So, I trolled agent websites to understand what the market was looking for.

Everywhere I went, I heard the same thing. You’ve got to have a hook. You need your elevator speech, your concept, your logline. You need to explain your novel in one pithy sentence or an agent won’t take it. I realized that my book would never sell. It wasn’t unique enough. So I rewrote it…and rewrote it again…and again.

This is how I’m wired. I throw myself at challenges until I’m drinking Jack Daniels while crying in the bathtub. My husband first encountered the phenomenon when I was in business school. The phrase “net present value of electric cranberry dryers” still raises my blood pressure. Luckily I don’t hear it much.

The phrase “You gotta have a hook” elicits much the same reaction. I worked my novel until I couldn’t stand to look at it anymore, yet was still contemplating clean-sheeting the whole thing once again. I’d do it in a month, just like NaNoWriMo. To prepare, I went back to the original version–the one I let people read.

I got to a passage that gave me pause.


“I thought I knew what I wanted, but now, I’m not so sure.”

Leslie shrugged. “It’s not so hard, you know.”

Jess sighed. Even breathing seemed difficult at the moment. “What isn’t?”

“Knowing what you want.”

“Please, Leslie, tell me how, Because I can’t hear the sound of my own voice anymore.”

“Well that’s easy enough—stop listening to everyone else.”


This was the novel that I wrote for myself, not the market, and it’s a better book.

We all have endeavors that the market doesn’t value. Does it really matter? If I focused on what people wanted, I’d write a Medieval political thriller about meth-dealing Zombies who are into BDSM. (Maybe my next book – steal my idea and I’ll sue)  I wrote the story that I needed to tell, not because I wanted to be published, but because doing so made me happy.

This book may also live on my hard drive. It will have good company. Maybe I’ll find the hook, or maybe it will find me. There are some things in life we do for money, like cash flow analysis or determining the ROI on an electric cranberry dryer. There are some things we do for ourselves.

Off to work on that new novel. I’m thinking it needs a sociopath detective vampire artiste.


Photograph, “Shad Lures” by Carl Vizzone © 2007 Creative Commons/Flikr



Throw out 50 Thoughts #22 – I let my opportunity pass me by

3656751897_093f5abef2_bI’ve been working on a novel, like…forever. I’ve been through multiple iterations, restructuring, honing characters, doing everything in my power to get it right. It’s not even the elusive Great American Novel ©. Then I’d have cause for my lack of progress.

My goal was to finish it in February and get it out to beta readers. It would be eligible for a contest in May which would get it in front of a set of editors and agents. That isn’t going to happen. It’s April 7th, and I’m still working on the first 20,000 words.

I was really disappointed. This was my shot, and even if I work night and day until May 1st, it won’t be where I want it to be. On top of that, saying I’ll work night and day on anything is a recipe for disaster, since the only thing I get night and day are interruptions. Every time I hear “We need to,” my timeline slips another day.

True to form, I was working away on another set of edits when the Dude threw himself on the floor of my office. His test score wasn’t as strong as he wanted it to be. It would effect his semester grade, which would effect his final grade, which would effect where he went to college. All was lost.

I wanted to say, “in case you’re wondering, this is what work looks like when you’re a writer. I hit the keys and words come out.” Instead, I told him that one test score cannot determine the course of his entire life and offered to make some popcorn.

Face, meet palm.

The truth is who the heck knows?

Certainly I will miss an opportunity. I don’t think I’ve missed THE opportunity. Otherwise, I have to consider all of the opportunities I’ve missed that I didn’t even know about, thus ruining my life before I ever had a chance to ruin it.

I lived in Chicago for many years, and the one lesson I learned is that if I’m waiting for the LaSalle bus, at least two full ones will pass by without stopping, and sometimes three or four. The bus, however, does come. And sometimes it’s the State Street bus and that’s okay too. I’ll just get to Starbucks a little later, because let’s face it, there is always enough time for Starbucks.

So, I won’t kick myself over  something I can’t change. Instead, I will think about it this way. A fixed opportunity, like a contest, or a deadline, or a meeting, is like a concentration of hope. I can use it as a point on which to focus my energy and effort, to keep moving forward towards the eventual destination. But the point, the real point, is to keep moving.

If I finish by the deadline, good for me. If I don’t, I will not say “If I’d only.” I will bundle up my excess hope and find a new home for it somewhere in the future where I know we’ll meet again, and this time, I’ll be ready?

What thought are you throwing out today?

Photograph “Dang it… I missed my bus” by Nathan Rupert © 2009 Creative Commons License

Throw out 50 Thoughts #21 – Let me explain

coffee cupFor a woman who has her shit together, I’ve been doing a lot of explaining lately. I’m not talking about justification–where you know you’re probably not doing the right thing but you want to convince the world and yourself otherwise. I mean explaining as in, I know you don’t agree with my actions, but here’s why I can live with that.

When I say it that way, it sounds lovely. Empowering even. Why isn’t it?

Because it’s none of your business.

I know that sounds really harsh, and I don’t mean for it to, it’s just that I feel…oh wait, that’s another explanation.

I’m not talking about my husband, or my son, or my closest dearest friends. I’m referring to those who feel it’s their job to judge how the rest of us live. They are quick with the “If I were you’s” and the “Well I would never’s” and “You should really’s.”

I spent a considerable amount of time in a conversation this weekend that went around and around in circles. You know when someone gets a bee in their bonnet? That argument or statement that they just can’t let go of? It happens because someone doesn’t feel heard, so they say it again and again. I knew that’s what was happening, but I kept explaining rather than saying “I understand that would like me to feel x, but I don’t.” Instead, I tried to convince them, and they tried to convince me, and neither of us was willing to budge.

The reality was that neither of us needed to. What I did or didn’t feel about the situation had absolutely no impact on them whatsoever and visa versa.

A friend led me to a wonderful epiphany a couple of years ago. I was complaining about someone else’s actions, and she said “Is this your problem to solve?” The answer was no. Most of the time, the answer is no. My problem is my jealousy, or insecurity or my fear of judgement.

I’m doing the best that I can. I assume that you are as well. I’m sure from time to time, however, I look at your choices and think, “Wow, that’s really effed up.”

And it’s none of my business. Please don’t spend twenty minutes explaining why you’ve done what you’ve done, unless I’ve asked you for advice about my own situation. If I’m thinking “that’s really effed up,” I probably haven’t.

We come to our decisions and choices from a base of experience that is wholly our own. We can walk a mile in someone else’s shoes, but we can’t possibly experience it the same way unless we’ve walked the previous 1000 as well. Like most people, I strive for acceptance, and part of that is living within acceptable societal norms. The thing is, while I’m stressing over being judged, my family (myself included) is about as far outside the norm as the Cleavers. In fact, as families go, I’d say we’re a good, solid B+.

Instead, take the 20 minutes and tell me what’s been going on with you. Any cool projects you’re working on? Read a good book recently?  If you want to assuage your guilt, buy me coffee instead. In your case, better make it a grande.

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph : “Coffee Cup” by cuorhome © 2005 Creative Commons

Throw out 50 Thoughts #20 – If you can’t do it right, don’t do it at all

snowballToday is Day 11 of National Novel Writing Month. To be on pace for 50,000 words by the end of the November, I should be somewhere around 17,000 words. I crossed the 32K threshold last night.

It’s been a heady, liberating experience. My writer friends have asked me – What’s my secret? It’s simple. Don’t think. Write.

I generally work with careful deliberation. Every move considered, planned, and re-evaluated. I like to do things right the first time, or at least limit the amount of rework required. My biggest work complaint was the ready, fire, aim nature of the business I was in. The pace of our projects didn’t give me time to think, only act, which only created more work down the road as I had to fix what never should have been wrong in the first place.

Sitting down to write a novel in one month is a daunting task. Writing 2,000 words in a day is not. These posts are generally 500 words, and as much as I love you all for reading my work, I don’t spend four hours making sure my thoughts on every subject are crystal clear. On the other hand, I have a nearly finished novel. It’s taken me four years to get where I am, and it’s still not right. I’m still agonizing over bits of dialogue, and the ending that isn’t paying off the way it needs to, and moving the lens to focus on a different part of the story.

To succeed at NaNoWriMo, I had to let go of the idea of having it be right. It won’t be right. A first draft never is. I don’t even consider this to be a first draft. I see this as the primordial soup that I will draw from when the real work of creating a first draft begins. I have an outline. I know where the plot is going. I have the main characters in place. Each day, I target a list of scenes and let the words go. No editing. I repeat. No editing.

I know there are inconsistencies. I will fix them later. Some of the places need names. They will come to me later. I type asdf and move on. A scene is in the incorrect point of view. That character is speaking to me for a reason. Roll with it. Some scenes don’t move the plot forward. They inform the plot, however, and will make the first draft that much richer when I craft it.

I’m not growing a novel. I’m tilling the soil from which it will grow. Perfectionism has its place. I do not leave the house without directions to where I’m going. I’m learning, however, that while the devil is in the details, the joy is in the chaos, and I have to wonder how often getting it right has prevented me from just plain getting it.

So this week, I loosen the stranglehold of control I impose on my life, and in the wise words of Steve Winwood, just roll with it, baby. Like one of those little snowballs in the cartoons, when I reach the bottom of the hill, I might be big enough to take out the whole chalet. Look out, here I come.

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph, “Playmobile Snow Day,” by Scorpions and Centaurs © 2009 Creative Commons


Throw Out 50 Thoughts #19 – I’m tapped out

cliff diverA year ago, I was a very busy woman. My life was out of control. I had two blogs where I posted daily, and had started guest writing for another. I was editing a novel, had some short stories coming out, and was doing a live reading of one of my works at a local author’s event. I was taking violin lessons from a master teacher, playing in two orchestras, plus a chamber group, which meant practicing four hours a day. I spent two hours a day at the gym. I was physically exhausted.

At the same time, my imagination was supercharged. I loved the feeling of being lost in a story, drunk on words, having characters whispering in my ear. I had so much to say, I was afraid I would explode if I left the keyboard.

Still, I had a family life to tend to, so I cut back. I took a break from lessons and from chamber music, and dropped out of one orchestra. I moved this blog to three times a week. I decided that one hour at the gym each day would be sufficient, and I cut down on my social commitments. I had more time to write, some breathing space.

And the words disappeared.

I wasn’t too concerned. I had been so stressed, stretched like taffy over so many activities. I’d depleted my reserves. After a rest, surely my writing would snap back. One year later, I’m still writing, but it feels like work.

I was afraid that maybe, I was tapped out. I contemplated giving up.

My former boss and mentor used to ask me why I thought so small (my words, not his). I told him that working with him was like driving beyond my headlights. One day, I’d follow him right off the cliff face into the ocean. He didn’t say “that won’t happen” or “you can always stop in time.” He said, “Come with me. The water is warm.” The look on his face said, “Jeannine, this is life, and you’re missing it!” He’s a very successful man, but not infallible. If he crashes on the rocks, he gets back up and says “That was fun. Let’s do it again.”

Maybe I’m not tapped out. Maybe I’m trapped.

When a plant becomes root-bound, you have to put it in a bigger pot. Sometimes you have to break it apart, or score the roots to trigger them to grow.

I’m turning off the internal editor. I’m speaking through characters with world views opposite to my own. I want to scare myself a little by acknowledging the dark corners of my imagination. The beauty of writing is that I don’t have to actually do what I write, nor do I have to share those words with other people if I don’t want to. I can use language that would singe my vocal chords. I can bend reality. I can hug tigers and banish cars.

Not only do I feel energized, I feel…free. I’ve written 15,000 words this weekend, and my only enemy was the clock. And somewhere lurking within those words is the glimmer of my next novel. While I wouldn’t go back to the pace I was keeping last year, I know that if I sit in a box, I only hear the echoes of what I’ve already said.

They say do something every day that scares you. I think they have a point. Come on in. The water’s warm.

Photograph “Cliff Diver : Acapulco” by Alejandro de la Cruz © 2009 Creative Commons