Relax

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The robots are coming no matter what you do.

Christmas can make you crazy. Frantic. Maybe you buy a bunch of stuff you don’t need, spend too much money then freak out so much you can’t actually enjoy yourself. So, don’t do that. Maybe family makes you nuts but you travel across the country during the busiest travel time of the year anyway, only to have a panic attack at the dinner table on Christmas eve — try to avoid this. Perhaps you enjoy every minute, stress and all. Bless you if you do.

I’m middle of the road and leaning towards just enjoying all of it. Kids make it so fun. They love Christmas and all it has to offer. It’s tough not to smile when they come down and spaz out over what the magical old man from the North Pole has delivered.

It does get crazy with obligations and the amount of actual time one has in a day. Still, I won’t complain. Nope. Hopefully we get to play in the snow as well.

giphy-downsizedEnjoy the days off, if you have them. Watch the show unfold if you don’t. It comes once a year, and the robots are coming regardless.

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It’s disorienting.

I’m predisposed to having a scattered brain. Things seem like they are all over the floor every day and I have to pick them up and put them where they need to go. At the end of the day, most of the time, this works and the pieces fit. Sometimes they don’t and accepting that is learning how to be an adult.

The holidays make the mess seem bigger than it is. Holiday season knocks me off of a routine that I have cultivated, a routine that helps me with my scattered mind. I do embrace the holiday season, have fun and enjoy the moments. When the time off and the family time ebbs, the mess on the floor of my scattered brain looks bigger and more chaotic. My diet has gone off the rails — not a diet in the traditional sense, but my usual lifestyle of eating healthy — my weekly goals are blown out (some of you might have noticed that I didn’t post last week.) and inevitably something new is in the works. On top of that, the kids’ routine is shot, the family routine is shot and Monday hits with the momentum of a freight train that wasn’t planning to make a stop. As the adult and the parent, I have to get up, be even keeled and keep the ship tight and moving along.

My writing suffers too. During the holiday season, I find it difficult to work with steady vigilance because the money-making ventures and the accountability work gets done first. I don’t know why this is, but it is. I always end up figuring it out, we all do for the most part.

So, don’t let the holiday season get you down. Roll with it. If emotions are running high, let them. If chaos reigns supreme, let it. Stand back and watch the show. No one will get hurt, too badly. The dust will inevitably settle and life with course correct. ‘Tis the season.

Sometimes you are fighting you.

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I like to think we all strive to be better. I do. But there are days, weeks and even months where I’m stuck in a rut. Everyone gets stuck — if you say you don’t, go do 90 minutes of hot yoga. Your perseverance will be questioned in that class, and if you get through it, even with breaks and a lie-down or two, you have persevered.

 

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Muses of Greek Mythology

Writing a novel is a mind game for me, a hot yoga class of creativity and work. Negativity flutters around the room like little winged demons as I begin to write. Inspiration is the trickster, the coyote tempting me toward the dark path of YouTube videos, Facebook memes and true crime stories. The real work is in front of me, words waiting to be written, to come from my mind to the page. I sit and I begin — it’s that simple. I turn on music, sometimes, and zero in on the partially written scene that was left for me the day before. When I begin, the demons’ screams fade, the coyote runs away, and if all goes well the muse arrives. I have persevered.

I had another story rejected recently. It stings, but I don’t let it sting for long. It becomes a scar, another slice from a sword in a battle that I fight every day. Some battles I win and some I lose, but my focus, my through-line is the big picture — The Novel. I will persevere.

Happy writing.

 

 

 

 

Untitled designWith time, the seed of envy can grow into a weed. Maybe this metaphor is the impetus for the saying, “green with envy.” Not likely.

I used to get it bad. When I had to work and my friends would head to the mountain without me on a fresh powder day, or the waves were good and my buddies went for a surf and I had to work. I’m shallow, or maybe simple. But I’m not simple when that weed of envy grows into resentment and disdain for responsibility. I get complicated and grumpy, and regress into adolescence.seed

Not to mention Social media — the envy machine. It used to get me bad when I’d see videos of professional surfers and snowboarders flying through waist deep fresh snow or catching perfect waves in some far off tropical climate. It would hit me in the gut when my feed populated with friends and family having fun in Europe, Asia, Mexico, Nicaragua or Colorado. I’ve deleted Instagram, Facebook and Twitter from my phone about four times in the past two years. Then, at some point this year, I finally decided that I was being silly. I’m an adult and I need it for work. So, self-discipline. It’s tough. Some days are easier than others, but for the most part I can manage my social media time.

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Nowadays, I catch envy before those damn seeds take root. But It’s also important for me to recognize the social media monster for what it is. Not real.  In fact, a contrived reality. How many people stop fighting to pose in front of the perfect backdrop or pause an argument to take a selfie? How many professionals suffered through terrible conditions to get the one two-minute take to post on their feed? I don’t know. But I do know what I’m seeing on social media are moments in a day, a full day with a spectrum of situations and moments. I’m glad people can stop arguing for a smile at the camera. I respect the professionals who go out there and suck it up on terrible conditions for a solid shot so they can get a bit of a payday from their sponsor. It doesn’t always work, this positive spin, but I’m trying.

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I occasionally remind myself that I live in one of the few places in the world where I can go snowboarding in the summer and drive to the beach for a surf all in one day — if I want. I just need to make time to do it. So goes the dance.

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One must fail to succeed. I’ve been told this ad nauseum. It keeps me from quitting, because success hasn’t happened yet. I wouldn’t say I’ve failed necessarily, but the climb can be excruciating. I can’t help but to us the Mt. Everest or K2 metaphor, both difficult, if not seemingly impossible, mountains to climb where death is a real possibility. Clearly, death isn’t possible while sitting at a desk and making shit up, but the death of my soul when I get rejected or find a massive hole in my plot is real, and it hurts. What I’ve come to realize is that my ego is getting pummeled.

shutterstock_595617548Ego is the sense of self, self-importance, personal identity.  Well, mine is wrapped up in writing and succeeding at doing so. I’m 44. I have kids. They ask when I’m going to be done with my book. “About three more years or so,” I say. My ego cringes. They look at me like I’m nuts and my daughter says, “I’ll be thirteen?” I die a little inside and say, “Yep. That sounds about right.” She makes a sound of exasperation and gets on with her day while I try not to reel on the fact that when this book is finally done it will have taken me eight years — I don’t try to explain that I have finished the book twice but the rewrites are where the real magic happens. I didn’t start this endeavor with any notion that it would be easy, I started because on my death bed I didn’t want to regret not doing it; so, it’s a long game, a slow burn and hopefully people will like the what I write.

Okay. What If I finish this thing and its wildly successful? Hell if I know, but I’ve been told it’s a one-in-a-million chance and it’s no good for the ego because I’ll always be chasing the dragon of success. I wonder if maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, but in my heart of hearts I know it would most likely not be a good thing — at least that’s what I tell myself.

 

Beauty

Not a villain, but can insight villainous tendencies.

shutterstock_607375682I can’t define it. As I’ve been told, it’s up to the beholder to define what is beautiful. This makes sense, considering I find my beat up old truck an absolute specimen of perfection and beauty, whereas other people cringe at how dirty and used it is — it’s funny when they shake their heads at me for being so “blind.”

In many a story, beauty will cause someone to falter from a righteous path, a heroic journey or be lured down the low road. This is the villainous side of the coin, so to speak. There are so many stories of beauty; my favorite being the siren song where the sailors of yore are so intoxicated by a beautiful sound, they steer off toward the rocks or jump overboard to their deaths. Transfixed and transmuted by such a beautiful sound, by their need, their desire for beauty, they die. In this, beauty is a dark magic.

In stories both real and imagined, beauty has caused war, strife, death and acts of barbarism so profound it’s difficult to think that beauty was the impetus. Never was it beauty’s fault, but the fault of humankind and our susceptibility to the allure of wanting to own, control and ultimately consume what we perceive as beautiful.

11137821_369397949918145_644810801_nI see beauty in the joy of my children, the smile and laugh of my wife. I find it in philosophy and dissent.  Yes, dissent, especially now, is beautiful. I find it in waves, mountains covered in snow, a clear lake or a river where I know the fish will be.  Whereas the dark side of beauty, for me, is hardly dark — I simply shirk responsibilities for surf, snow or fishing. Hardly villainous, unless being “unproductive” is a mortal sin these days.

shutterstock_590422925I ponder beauty many times a day without even realizing it. Life is a beautiful thing, even when it does kick you in the teeth.