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8 More. What Being an Author Taught Me About Life

Posted on March 15, 2016 by Heloise Jones
2

I am destined to move
at night on the secondary roads
of the American dream.
I took my first off ramp
after years of traveling
under someone else’s direction. . .

Stopping at magical places –
Singing the one Clearest note –

Cracking open an awareness
of things more beautiful
than was once thought possible –
A poetic life.

~ Author Unknown (Goose Creek Road)

Waterfall rainbow*

Blog #52 –  One Year anniversary of Getting to Wise. A Writer’s Life. A wonder, as I’d put it off for eight years. Re-designed by professionals, twice, then sitting. Design #3 I launched.

I’m a novelist. I love listening to the story, following the characters. I’m a poet. I love the beats of syllables, commas, and periods. Love the lyrical in language. I’m an editor. I love fitting the pieces together, finding the path to essence and necessity.

And every week for the past year my constant has been to show up here, tell the truth, publish by 10am Tuesday, no matter what. Usually as clueless about what I’ll say as that first morning I sat down to start.

One year. Today I could write about the crossroads I’m at. How I’m visited by an image of a lone person walking across a broad western plain. Not a sad or beaten soul, but one moving steady, with purpose. A person who didn’t choose to buy a horse. And she needs one now. And she knows the kind of horse she needs to get her where she’s headed. An educated decision. Instead, I’m sharing 8 more things being an author underscores for me. The ones that continue to carry me, no matter what.

*

1)  We’re WIP.

Our lives are glorious Works in Progress. Change is the only constant. We grow, evolve, learn, experience. Arrive at the end when we give up, shut down, or die. Like in any book or story.

2)  Sometimes we chose an experiment.

My husband’s fond of saying this when I’m angsting. Because, as we know, when the experiment or adventure’s going well, it’s great to be in it. When it’s not, everything feels serious. I can delete bad experiments when I write. In life, the best outcomes for bad ones are learning, growing, changing the story.

3)  Take a break, let it rest.

Once an author types <the end> on a WIP, we put it away for a while, hopefully at least three weeks, come back to edit with fresh eyes. The separation creates space inside that allows us to experience the work differently. Same with many things in life, including relationships or jobs.

4)  There’ll be good reviews, and bad reviews.

None of them true. They may affect outcomes, but only those we can use to better the story we’re writing of who we are and how we show up matter. The rest are with the audience.

5)  You don’t need to be an expert.

We don’t have to know everything, be an expert to know enough, move forward. I read 40 pages about guns and hunting rifles for two short descriptive references in my novel. I’m not an expert on guns, but I know those passages are correct. When I saw the same information recycle in the training materials for online business, found several examples of people successful doing what I wanted to do in a way I aligned with, I wasn’t an expert, but I knew enough to move forward intelligently.

6)  Find a way past Stuck.

Amazon has 100 pages of books on writer’s block. I don’t know if this includes the games or journals mentioned in the drop down menu. We look for the way past stuck. It’s no different in life.

7)  Pay attention to the Evidence Journal

The journal we’re often blind to. The one that notates our accomplishments. Mirrors our gifts, strengths, weaknesses, hot buttons. Shows us the disconnects between intent and expression, and connection. The one that tells us who’s paying attention, sees us. Shows us who others are. Everything we need to know is in the evidence journal. We just gotta look and listen, see and hear with an open heart and mind. And trust ourselves. That’s the tricky part.

8)  Trust permeable boundaries.

Creativity is not about control. We want control of our instruments and tools, but openness to unknown possibilities. To what may show up if we soften our gaze, see more than we’re believe we’re looking for. Hear more than we decided to hear, or think we hear. We step into the realm of allowing ourselves to be surprised, and be led to something new. This Life is our greatest creation. We’re all authors writing stories.

Author (from Merrium-Webster dictionary)
1. one that originates or creates
2. the writer of a literary work (as a book)

What story are you writing?  Tell me here, in the comments.

*
Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

A secret:  I believe a WIP is the best we can be.
A favorite: Writing this blog.

Photo: free share by Jared Erondu

*

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Taking Off My Clothes

Posted on March 8, 2016 by Heloise Jones
5

Jeff's teaI always say a birthday starts when you think about it, and ends
when you forget you have one. Can be a day, or a month.
Not having friends close in community here,
the moment I opened this b’day gift of honey was special.
*

Saturday was my birthday. I’m four years away from one of the Big 0 birthdays, and feeling the pinch to get on with things undone. To move into my Ideal Life. Because I changed as I’ve gotten older, and want to slow down, take life easier, let go of the go-go and guilt. The thing is I’ve been telling the story of my life for a long time a certain way. Fitting it to meet standards for outcomes or expectations. Face-to-face trusts. Business trusts. None a lie or fabricated, but I feel fractured. I’m an artist archetype. A natural empath, sensitive to energies, noise, and non-verbals. Everything else you see I taught myself or learned out of necessity. And now, when I want to choose the story I tell, I have this urge to tell you the stuff I don’t typically share. Say, I get it.

Last weekend I flew coast to coast for a three-day seminar experience about online business. My trip prompted by a strong intuitive hit as I watched yet another webinar. It made no sense if you balanced costs with what might be called realities. Right off the bat I stretched to show up. It called for business casual. I’m sitting in my jammies as I write this now! I let go, assembled outfits from my closet I liked, felt put together in. Found the perfect designer jacket with distinctive, artsy lines in the perfect color, exactly Me, at the consignment store. By the time I took off, I held my original intention of clarifying my niche and market lightly. A new one received the day before from my medium-psychic hair stylist (go figure, right?). Listen, he said, repeating the word twice more. Listen. And I did.

I did not volunteer for laser coaching tho I wanted it badly, or raise my hand when shares from the group were solicited. I went second when we pared off. Stepped to first only when four of us sat, others hesitating as the clock ticked. I listened to feedback, did what I do well, saw patterns. Style, my smile across the room, you belong with professionals. Asked why when I got a generic ‘you’re fun’ from someone I hadn’t met before. Understood I stood out, was seen, and it was okay. Realized I no longer want words like amazing, great, awesome, smart. Tell me how or why you think it. Give me something to hold on to. Saying my words speak to you counts. So does saying I’m a blessing.

I’ve been taking inventory since I returned. Two days ago I wondered what it would feel like to come out, tell you all the things I’ve experienced that make me a good writer. That prompted high-powered New York editor Marjorie Braman to say with her rejection that I have “a gift with character,” continue with it’s “something I’ve always thought took true talent because it’s not easily learned. I felt that I knew her characters and sympathized with them, even in their less sympathetic moments.” Because what I wish I could’ve told her is that it is learned. From life experience. From listening to your gut. Caring about why people who are different think and feel the way they do. From taking time to listen, see, accept stories without judging.

I’ve felt absolutely naked writing this blog since I started. I didn’t have a clue what I’d say when I sat down that first day last March, a year ago. Others actually told me what I was doing. Creating small journeys, sharing so others see how they might navigate life, too.

I long to take off the rest of my clothes, tell you more after you read this, which is all true. More, like I’ve experienced heartbreaking divorce, am married thirty years now and it’s not easy or perfect. I was a single parent for nine years, moved a lot as a child, was repeatedly abandoned by my mother. That I’ve cared for a younger sibling, and a husband who’d been run down by a car. I’ve been flat broke with no job more than once, and once accepted food stamps. Been cheated on and cheated, lied to and lied, done drugs and drank too much, had a season of promiscuity. I’ve been physically battered for years, carried myself calmly to the edge of suicide, been saved by a mystical experience with Jesus. I’ve had mystical experiences with Buddha and whales, too. I feel the world, see and hear colors, and things some would say are not there. I’ve had a boss from hell, been fired from jobs, disinvited from a group, and was once kicked out of a business I helped build & a partnership I loved. I’ve broken or sprained limbs 11 times, had 5 surgeries, barf everything but advil or tylenol, walk with an artificial joint. I’ve had my house catch on fire. Been stalked. Watched a home remodel go $150,000 over budget, landed us back on our feet afterwards. I walked away from an abusive relationship with no help or assistance, cured myself of an extreme phobia of spiders, faced fears that stole my breath and made my legs cramp for hours. I’ve stopped habits at will when they cost me what I wanted, and at times when I realized I no longer wanted them. I got my bachelor’s degree with a 3.99GPA on the 5th try, and created miracles others said were impossible. Found my passion while sitting two years in a writing group, facing mute response to my words, years after the half dozen psychics I’d seen ALL said I’d write. One seeing me at a golden desk with a golden pen. Another asking for my autograph.

In the end, I’m the heroine of my life. I sat with my father as he died. Held space for my sister when she lost her best friend of a husband. Have coached friends, family, and colleagues. That to the truth I’ve only begun traveling like I want, and could be judged, I believe we’ve probably experienced much the same, even with our different stories.

Now, will you have tea with me?

One day we will see everybody….

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

A secret:  It’s weird with no poem here, but it’s weird standing naked, too.
A favorite:  Birthdays

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Posted in art, events, life, spirit, writing | 5 Replies

Loving Yourself. How Hard Can It Be?

Posted on February 23, 2016 by Heloise Jones
4

The Goal of Yoga (No, it’s not the handstand)

The yoga pose is not the goal. Becoming flexible is not the goal. Standing on your hands is not the goal.

The goal is to create space where you were once stuck. To unveil the layers
of protection you’ve built around your heart. To appreciate your body and
become aware of the mind and the noise it creates. To make peace with who you are.
The goal is to love, well. . . You.

Come to your yoga mat to feel; not to accomplish. Shift your focus and your heart will grow.
~ Rachel Brathen

*
winter low tide2What’s usually underwater, now easy pickin’s.
*

When I read those words, I didn’t see the word yoga. I saw Life. I thought, there’s volumes written on each point – self-help, psychology, spiritual. I’ve read a lot about each of them. I never figured how the heck I love myself, though. I can look into my eyes in the mirror, say the words I love you, but I haven’t located the feeling inside. Not the way I feel love for the world or another person. I wonder, does Dalai Lama say he loves himself. Mother Theresa, did she? Muhammad? Jesus? Or is it implied in messages we see others as one with ourselves. I don’t know.

I don’t think either of my parents learned how to love themselves, either. My mother, a first generation Armenian-American, worked beside my traditional grandmother in the kitchen from the time she was three. Married an older man to escape when she was eighteen. But he was hard, sometimes abusive. She returned to her mothers’ home with her baby. When I was seven my grandmother moved next door. She was my mother’s best friend.

My father ran away from home when he was ten. By seventeen he’d sailed three times around the world, and joined the merchant marines. He taught himself to read, studied everything he needed or that interested him, including the siege of Leningrad. Somehow these two people who never experienced a childhood got together in their mid-thirties.

I remember John Travolta saying he knew he was lovable. His parents thought he hung the moon, he said. I walked across the room, they’d applaud, he said. I had lots of evidence my parents loved me, too. I believe they did. Thrilled when I was born, they felt proud of the smart, artistic, perfectionist child I became. Having my father’s curiosity and sense of wonder, I was his favorite. I had passion, emotion, strong will, but it never translated into me being lovable. Not until long after I left home at seventeen did I think about the days, weeks, sometimes months, I spent with relatives and friends. Only eighteen mos. old the first time mom sent me off. Sometimes my younger sister with me. I asked my sister once if she ever felt abandoned. No, she said. I always had you.

My first husband, a Viet Nam vet, was love at first sight. So smart, funny, and full of demons and issues long before war. Eventually he told me to shut up in front of his lifelong circle of friends. When one of them wanted a business partnership, ingratiating the wife was important. Surprised I wasn’t the mindless bitch he expected, he spread the word and the circle enfolded me. I attribute him with saving my life. Eventually my husband hit me, a lot, and stayed out all night. You didn’t talk about those things back then. At some point I started writing the weekly grocery check for $5 more, stashing the money. When I got a 25cent/hr. raise, I hid that, too. When I knew I was strong enough, I took my seven yr. old son, the $325 I saved and left with a set of dishes, a rocking chair, and a rug. Each night I stared into the dark, so scared I couldn’t breathe. It was a year before I decided my friends were either nuts for liking me, or I was. I taught myself to hear kind words by turning them all into glass figurines in my mind. At the end of the day, I set them on the table so I could see them, accept them. I trained myself to say Thank You. But I still didn’t get I was lovable.

It’s only now, lifetimes later, that I have an inkling what loving oneself is. After decades of reading, workshops, trainings to understand the world and human beings. Years of contemplation, working on myself. Learning to recognize what stuck feels like, what space inside feels like. What making choices, shifting focus, reframing means. After letting go earning my breath. Letting go apology for knowing what I want. Decades connecting to Spirit, the Universe, God. Letting my natural-born compassion seize my heart without fear, accept I may be weird, and that’s okay. I don’t know why some people get it young and I didn’t.

The other morning a thin misty fog hung in the air. The really wet kind. I almost didn’t head to the bay for sunrise. But the small voice said go, there’s something there for you, As I crossed the street to the park in the dark, a woman said hi as she passed. Heavy-set. African-American. I noticed her voice, how she answered with more than one word when I said ‘how are you.’ I circled along the wide promenade by the water, paused to take pictures, walked past the thick mangroves. There she was, on *my* bench. Rather than move on, I asked if she minded I sit. I always stop here, she said. I could go into our conversation. How I learned she’s a social worker, her thoughts after seeing so much. Her mama’s wisdom. How she kept saying the word choice as she talked about parenting and life. The main thing, tho, was we agreed the generation that frustrates us in so many ways is the one that will save us. That beautiful both-and of humanity. And we both felt we got a Blessing that morning. If you’d asked me then if I love myself, I would’ve paused for the feeling, said yes. Yes, I do.

How do you love yourself?

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
*

winter low tide1Low tide seemed to stretch halfway across the bay, the birds with it.
Winter low tide, they call it.
*

A secret: I never bought into the thought you have to love yourself before you can love others. I think love works any way it can.
A favorite: That time in the circle of Friends sharing music, books, discoveries, concerts, food, when I first learned how community feels.

Thank you, Susan, for that morning on the bench.

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Posted in events, family, life, spirit, strong offers | 4 Replies

Saved By a Word

Posted on February 16, 2016 by Heloise Jones
4

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self. . .
Sit. Feast on your life.
~ Derek Walcott (from Love after Love)

*
Ice flowers

Flowers waiting to thaw.

*

Friday Jim shared his railroad watch. A magnificent timepiece. It’d just come back from repair after a year, two jewelers, and a re-jeweled rare part. I guessed its large size with big numbers so to be easily seen on a rocking train. He told me how the four bold notches between each number marks a minute. You know what time it is, exactly, he said. Don’t hit another train. He showed me how you have to unscrew the rim around the face to change the time. So it won’t change on its own while in a pocket or dropped. So you don’t hit another train, he said again. He showed me the back screws off so you can blow away dust, or see why it quits. Everything built in to ensure you don’t hit another train, the whole reason it was designed. I’ve felt I’ve needed a watch like that for months now.

I didn’t realize I’d already started pulling the threads of my life together two days before. The weaving looks different when that happens, which is a good thing. But you don’t usually see the moment it starts. Now, I see it was when someone asked online how to get up in the morning. She continually goes back to sleep after the alarm sounds, she said. Even when it’s across the room. The answer so clear to me, I wrote one word. Decide.

But I made no connection for myself. Not even when later I gazed on the world like I used to, with awe and wonder. Lingered, watching sunlight shimmer through the mating plumage that fell from the shoulders of the snowy egrets, spread like gossamer wedding veils, the trains trailing in water. My eyes resting in the palest, softest pink they turned in those moments between sunrise and that point you call day. Or the luck I felt seeing six cormorants hard at work twisting and yanking small sprigs with leaves from the top branches of a live oak they then carried across the bayou to their nests on the big mangrove island. Or that I noticed for the first time, ever, bobbing ducks tuck their thick tails down a true 45 degrees, cantilever as they stretch their heads under water to feed. Their duck butts in the air. Or that I decided to take my camera out again, when I’d had no heart to capture this beautiful world. And later, when a brilliant 6-inch rainbow wand of light spread off the low window sill in my kitchen, and I felt the catch in my chest as there was no logic how it was there, I still didn’t put it all together. Not even when I wrote all day on the book I couldn’t write for weeks. I forgot all this when I sat with Jim, feeling lucky I had such an interesting friend. Didn’t see I was back in Wonderland.

Saturday I crashed and exploded. It was ugly, inside and out.

Sunday, Valentine’s Day, I read the comments about it being a commercial Hallmark holiday. The condolences for those alone feeling less-than or left out. I could only think No! Valentine’s Day is not about romance, unless that’s what you choose. It’s about Love. The child who gives cards to classmates, or his mother. Not about romance. Valentine gifts to friends. The dog treat, the extra greeting to a waitress. Not about romance. None of it commercial or cheap. Yes, some are left out, and it’s hard, and that’s life. Let’s cheer there’s a day we’re asked to pause, focus on love. Cheer there’s a call to splurge once a year, show our love. Cheer the romantics with chocolates and flowers. Cheer the small shops and florists their one day people swarm in, the extra money that makes up for the slow times. Obligation with a capital O is what we take on. Just let it be about love. And if there’s no one around, love yourself. Give yourself a chocolate cupcake with a heart on top.

We all have one word or thought that pushes, or jiggles, us out of Stuck, shows up again and again at each crossroads. This Valentine’s Day I finally saw mine – Decide – made it my gift to myself. I decided to fall back in love with Life. To look toward my Vision, not the seeming black water between my here and desired there. Find my Why for what I do, go forward. And it suddenly felt like stepping stones will appear. For I noticed.

How do you find your stepping stones?

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life

Tiny Typewriter

Amy Tingle’s mother got this tiny typewriter from her parents when she graduated from junior college with her secretarial degree. Amy played with the charm as a kid. And she gave it to Amy. A Valentine, a love song, a poem, Amy says. And when you read about Amy, you know it’s exactly that.

A secret:  I wrote the word Decide on a card, put it where I see it every day.
A favorite: The way ducks talk to each other, one quiet quack followed by a fellow quack.

Two days after I wrote this blog, in my inbox:
A decision is the ultimate success trigger.

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Posted in life, spirit | 4 Replies

11 Things Being an Author Taught Me About Life

Posted on February 9, 2016 by Heloise Jones
3

I like stories where women save themselves.
~ Neil Gaimen

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Writer

*

I remember the first time I learned fiction writers research. A surprise though I was writing a book set in mid-century Appalachia, a time and place very different from my experience. 2006. I was at the Taos Writing Salon, far from my home. There from an ad in a local magazine. I’d turned the page, but went back, gazed a long time at the ad before folding the page open to mark it. I’d written to prompts every week with a core group of eight women for four years. Attended three weeklong retreats with the same facilitator-teacher, members of the circle at all of them. New writers came and went, but I always sat safely in familiarity. In New Mexico I was on my own.

Once through the door, the excitement of a test and insecurity of new wings took over. Sharing raw work in response to exercises not my fear, but stepping out of the shadow of affirmation from people who knew me. Into a group that included men (so different!), and published authors. Three things occurred in Taos that changed my life forever.

Allegra Huston critiqued a short story of mine, the seed for my novel. An author from England asked if I wrote professionally, responded ‘why not, you oughta be’ when I said no. And an author I respect, whose style and skill I admire, said yes when I asked if she’d edit my book. I became a writer in my mind.

If you read blogs or articles on writing, listen to interviews, you hear writing is a small part of being an author. What surprised me is how being an author shores me through the rough patches in life. Not in the work-thru-it sense as in journaling, but in the ‘this is true’ guideposts sense. My guess, it’ll surprise you, too.

1. First draft is never the final draft.

I trained two years on systems therapy with the Satir Institute of the Southeast. The one thing I knew for sure at the end of that training is life’s not about how often we fall down, it’s about how fast we get up. But I’d also grown up a perfectionist. Writing and rewriting, editing and revising finally taught me to let go. Forgive mistakes. Move on. Practice and do it better next time.

2) Rejection happens. Cheer the triumphs.

The level of rejection authors experience would astonish most people. Sometimes (often) hundreds of rejections, sometimes year after year. Stephen King spiked his rejections on a nail over his desk for years until Carrie launched his career. You read about the big winners. Rarely do you read they are less than 1% of published authors. That the average sales for self-published books are 150-250 copies. That good writers are not immune to rejection. And the reasons for rejection often have nothing to do with the work. Publishing is a subjective business. Perseverance and adopting an attitude of inspiration from the triumphs of others, learning and moving on all key to success as a writer and in life.

3) You define success.

The word ‘success’ is everywhere. Media. Descriptors for individuals. Books are written about it. Blogs discuss the attributes of successful people. A writing teacher once described me as successful. She viewed my publications, my completed novel, my literary agent, my teaching, my long list of professional retreats and workshops attended as setting me apart. Her assessment was a shock, because I didn’t see myself as a successful author. Because my goals and intentions hadn’t been fully realized, yet. And the quality of my life didn’t spell success to me. In that moment I understood only we can define success for ourselves.

4) What you do can be great even if no one sees.

Thousands of fine sentences no one will read. Hundreds of kindnesses and actions no one knows. It all matters. Another’s eyes do not make it more or less than it is.

5) Connection is alchemical.

For a writer, it’s that space between the written words and reader. When words turn into something new in a reader’s mind. Same as between people, when relationship and impact grow from the place they meet. It starts with me, ends with us.

6) Comparison is deadly.

It can stunt a life. You’ll always find someone or something better or worse than where you are now. Use comparisons as benchmarks for where you stand today, and where you aspire to be or go. The present is the only place where you can start to move forward.

7) No new stories, only new ways of telling them.

Pay attention to the people in the stories and the ones telling the tales. They show us what it is to be human. Can teach, open our mind, broaden our perspectives.

8) Every person has a story we don’t know.

Thirty years ago I read a story by Stephen Covey. A man enters the subway with his out-of-control children bouncing off walls, bothering passengers, including Stephen. The man sits next to Stephen, apologizes for his kids. “We just left the hospital. Their mother just died,” he says. I never forgot that story. In moments when I’m irritated or hurt, it helps me gain perspective, not internalize what’s happening as only about me. I may not forgive or forget, but I can be more objective. As an author developing characters and story lines, I’m thrown back into this again and again.

9) Let go of dead-end distractions.

In writing it’s the sidebars, distracting ‘smoking gun’ exposition in a scene. It’s the subplots that don’t tie-in, the rambling. It’s the backstory that slogs down a story, what leaves a reader asking ‘so what?’ In life, it’s the things that take us away from what we believe we want. And the things we ignore that help us feel whole. So, if a neat clean home is important, find a way to have it without costing you time on your goal. If time with friends is important, schedule it. There are threads that guide our lives same as threads that guide a book.

10) Do what answers Yes.

I’ve shared I believe each of us has an abiding question at the heart of everything we do. Mine is Am I Okay? Not ‘safe’ okay, but the okay meaning acceptance as I am. Nothing puts me against my abiding question more than my writing does. It forces me to answer ‘Yes’ for myself so I can continue my craft, reach toward that immaculate creation of work and my best self I’ll never achieve. It’s the Yes that moves me forward.

11) You are the author.

Others can give feedback, state their opinion, give you educated advice. In the end, the author writes the story.

Author (from Merrium-Webster dictionary)
1. a :  one that originates or creates
    b : capitalized :  GOD
2. the writer of a literary work (as a book)

What story are you writing?  Tell me in the comments.

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

A favorite: All things writerly, which I didn’t know until I started writing.
A secret: All this dumped into my head in the kitchen the other day.

Photo: Free share by Joanna Kosinska

*

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Click here to subscribe

I work with people who have a vision & desire to write.
Sound like you?
Go Here.

Want to keep going to the last page?

Get. It. Here.

Posted in life, spirit, writers, writing | 3 Replies

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