girl with cell phone, laptop and cup of coffee, vintage photo ef

The drums are beating again.

The anger has swelled and keyboards are being pounded in condemnation.

It’s a fury that’s been simmering for a while. The Huffington Post is under fire for not paying for content, for not paying the bloggers whose words beef up their site. And people are pissed. This time their hackles have been raised by the Editor of the UK Huffington Post, Stephen Hull. In an interview he commented on being “proud of not paying for content” and then went on to say some epically stupid stuff about the integrity of writing being corrupted by payment, or some kind of nonsensical bullshit that I still can’t wrap my brain around.

I get why people are angry. His words were insulting and his reasoning absurd. Hell, I’m angry. This man took the very thing that feeds the machine that pays his “authentic” salary and flicked it off the bottom of his shoe like something he stepped in.

Angry blog posts ensued. You could almost hear the zip and zing of paper being ripped out of typewriters as these denunciations were fired off. They rightly took Hull to task. They thrashed his reasoning and his gall and had me raising my fist in the air in solidarity. Calls for all out war were screamed through key strokes. (You can read those posts here and here and here)

But my fist slowly dropped to my side as I continued to read.

Boycott The Huffington Post. Don’t read it. Don’t share it. Don’t support fellow writers who publish their work there.

I love a good fight. I will always be on the side of the underdog, the down trodden.

I am all for raging against the machine, but I won’t be lacing up my combat boots for this one.

This is not me bowing out. Nor am I taking up the cause for the Huffington Post. I don’t do their bidding. But this is not a situation of the unsuspecting innocents being manhandled by the cruel machinations of a huge corporate conglomerate.

No one is under any illusions that they will make any money or make a living by posting on HuffPost. Unless you’re one of their 200+ unionized employees (who do, in fact, get paid to write/edit/promote/distribute) you are not pulling in a paycheck. But guess what? You’re also not under a contract. You don’t have to show up. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t like the HuffPost model? Don’t send them your content.

But the fact is, a lot of bloggers do like it. They like it so much they send their blog posts there. Often.

I  happen to be one of those people. It works for me. I don’t write original material for HuffPost. I use it to syndicate my work. I only send them previously published blog posts. And I have yet to meet any blogging or media entities that pay for syndicated material. If I’m going to write an original blog post for money I have a list of sites that I can submit to. Huffington Post is not on that list. They are on another list.

They are on the exposure and influence list.

Before you start telling me that exposure won’t pay the rent, a la Wil Wheaton, let me assure you that I know that. But I also don’t buy into the idea that exposure = selling out.

Exposure = marketing.

Let’s be real. If you’re writing beyond your own private diary, you need to be in the business of marketing. And marketing in all its forms is part of the deal. Let’s not play silly games pretending it’s not. Why else would we spend countless hours building our Twitter/FaceBook/Pinterest/GooglePlus/StumbleUpon followings? Because we’re all Social Media whores who are desperate for attention? Well, maybe. But mostly because we want people to read our words. None of us are here to shout into the abyss. We want views, clicks, comments, shares. We want exposure.

Yes. Exposure. It has value. Does it pay my bills? No. Maybe one day it will, but until then my bread is buttered elsewhere. I may not be filling my belly with that sought after exposure, but I am not starving because of it either.

Exposure. After a blog post of mine went viral, Huffington Post grabbed it and put it on their front page. Three months later I’m still getting steady traffic. And more eyes on a topic I care about.

Exposure was crucial for my friend who wrote about her daughters terminal illness. After being on HuffPost her FaceBook page swelled to over 10,000 likes. She was able to raise awareness and money for the devastating rare disease she and other families are fighting to fund a clinical trial for.

Exposure resulted in an invite for a fellow blogger to appear on The Jenny McCarthy Radio Show.

Exposure has resulted in bloggers being contacted by Agents and Publishers and regular paying writing jobs in some cases.

All of this was exposure from “free” non-paid writing that was published on Huffington Post.

But artists shouldn’t work for free, right? I’m not suggesting they should, unless they want to – and some people do art for the sake of art. Struggling artists all give their stuff away. It’s networking. It’s publicity.

An up and coming singer may do a free radio show. Clear Channel can probably afford to fork over some cash to the newcomer, but not too many wannabe pop stars are going to quibble over dollars if they can reach a massive audience in a one-off opportunity.

Photographers show their work in a gallery just to generate buzz.

Authors give away their books on Kindle for free to boost their Amazon rankings.

Hell. Sometimes bloggers pay for exposure. They “Boost” their post on FaceBook.

Bloggers do guest posts for exposure. All the time.

But…  you’re telling me that I shouldn’t do it on a site with 100 million readers because the corporate fat cats that run said site are fat? Because one of their editors spouted off some ridiculous dribble? I am not concerned one bit with their personalities or their wealth. I’m happy to take full advantage of the system. I’m grateful there’s a place that allows me to publish my posts with no concerns for whether it’s been published here, there or everywhere.

I’m looking at the long game. And for me that game involves writing for exposure, writing for money and ultimately building a strong portfolio that will get me to my ultimate goal of having my novel published. Or a steady writing gig with The Atlantic. Or both. I’m not picky.

You see, I have a plan. And I get a little testy when someone tries to tell me how to play it.

So these posts, these stormy words that are intended to galvanize us and demand our worth? I get it. I do. But syndicating a blog post to the largest digital platform in the world isn’t decreasing my stock value. And these people calling for a boycott? They are bad ass writers. They are the people that most of us look up to and learn from. And I know their aim is true and their passion fueled by camaraderie for the writing community as a whole. And I appreciate that. I have huge respect for them.

But don’t tell me what’s best for me.

Don’t tell me to forsake my place at the table, I don’t care how crowded it is. I worked to get to that table. I’m not giving up my seat just yet.

Don’t tell me that exposure is overrated when you have book deals. When you’ve made it in the publishing world. When you are a famous actor who’s fame garners you a heavy following. Don’t dismiss the value of a large platform when you’re yelling through a megaphone from your own lofty perch. You made it. I have immense respect for the ass busting it took to get where you are. But excuse me while I make my way.

Huffington Post may be using me by accepting my words on to their site. That’s fine by me. I’m using them too. There’s no sweat furrowing my brow. Not to copy and paste something I already toiled over.

And giving it away for free does not a harlot nor a victim make. I’m getting mine, getting it in SEO advantages, followers and readers.

All I’m saying to my fellow writers and bloggers, is you do you and I’ll do me. Your path to get to where you are wanting to go is yours to decide. I won’t judge you for it or try to tell you how to do it. I will applaud you, read you, support you. You see, I believe strongly in this community of writers. I have learned and grown from reading and in some cases knowing you. If you don’t want your words published on The Huffington Post, I respect that.

I’m just saying don’t try to burn down the house before you consider all those who are taking shelter.

And for those of you who are staring at a shelf of books with your name on them or drying the ink on your own book deal, those of you who’ve “made it”…  you guys are my heroes. You guys give me hope every day that I’ll one day deserve a seat at the cool table. And when I get there I’ll shake your hand and thank you for being an inspiration to a thirsty writer. When I get there, I’ll lend support to my fellow writers, both big and small.

Until then, I’ll be here. Pounding away on my own keyboard.

 

 

 

 

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No one tells you that blogging will become about more than just writing. It may start off as a way to find your voice, share your thoughts and exercise the writing muscle. But it becomes so much more.

You start meeting other writers. People who care about the same issues you care about. People who breathe through writing the same as you. People who blow you away with their talent and inspire you and make you want to be better at this thing you love.

A little over two years ago, I stumbled onto Samara’s blog through a mutual blog friend. I was a little curious to check out this person who left witty and intelligent comments on another blog. I was immediately sucked into her words. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the screen. Scrolling from one blog post to the next. Laughing. Then crying. Enthralled. Yes, her life has all the makings of a Scorsese movie. But that wasn’t what got to me. It was her writing. I fell in hard love with her writing.

I would scramble to her blog every time I got notification that she had posted something. Reading, but not commenting. I was intimidated and scared to comment. The comments section read better than some blog posts by other writers. One day I had to say something. She’d written a gut wrenching post. I was moved to tears and had to comment. Somehow my serious comment on her serious post turned into a conversation about music and eventually realized we both were huge Lenny Kravitz fans.

And from there we started to get to “know” each other in bloggy terms. We read each other’s writing and we commented and supported. And in the midst of that we became to know each other in more “real” terms. One day she reached out to me with an email to say something about a post I’d written. It was a hard day for me, a hard post to write. One that I was reeling from for hours after hitting “publish.” The things she said in that email healed a little part of me that was in so much pain that day. It gave me the push to keep writing, just as I was considering giving it up.

See, that’s what she does. She sees something in others and pushes them to be better. She listens to your dreams and tells you to go for it. Underneath the tough exterior that burns with fire is the soft soul of a person who deeply cares about others. She helped to create this amazing place that is a safe haven for writers to unleash their pain and write with blind fury. She is fiercely protective of the people who come there to lay their hearts on the line. She is the embodiment of Together, We Are Stronger.

I’m so grateful that in this huge infinite world of blogging that I connected with her. And though in some ways we couldn’t be more different, there are so many ways I relate to her. We are both fierce protective mothers who share similar parenting philosophies. We are sisters who will never let the memories of our brothers die. We are passionate about music. Music means as much to us as writing, it is intertwined with our words. It inspires us and saves us. We are writers. We live and breathe for our families but writing is what tears us apart and puts us back together. All of these things have connected me to this woman who I got to know through her words. And now I can say we are friends and SisterWives. 

Today is her birthday. I’m a big fan of birthdays. I think they are a glorious reason to celebrate a person. To show them that you are glad they are in this world. To let them know that they are awesome and amazing and special. Samara, Happy Birthday.

Happy Birthday to the passion, to the fire, to every word you bleed onto the paper. Happy Birthday to your soul that you open up and share with us every time you write. Happy Birthday to the fearlessness to Write Free. Happy Birthday to a beautiful person full of love and imperfections and intricacies.

For your birthday, I’d like to take you to a Lenny Kravitz concert. And I think we both agree we want to see Lenny circa 1990. So put on your platform shoes and your hip hugger pants. Mess up your hair and let’s jump and dance and scream. Cheers, my friend. Let’s rock.

*Write Free and Breathe Through Writing are two terms I learned from Samara. See? She’s so good with the words…*

To join the party and listen to Samara’s Birthday Mix Tape, go here.

-photo: Stephen Depolo via Flickr
-photo: Stephen Depolo via Flickr

 

“Staring at empty pages, Centered ’round the same ole plot”

-Traffic, Empty Pages

Earlier this summer one of my favorite bloggers nominated me to participate on The Writing Process Blog Tour. My first thought was process? You mean there should be a process? My second thought was me? You want to know how and why and what I write? I find how others write fascinating so I was excited to be included.

Gene’O is the brilliant mind behind Just Gene’O and Sourcerer Blog and  contributor at Part Time Monster. If you check out his blog and cruise around a little you’ll see why I’m a fan. Probably one of  the most versatile bloggers, he writes about music and comics and does photoblogging as well. And when he finds a cause or injustice he needs to write about, watch out. Needless to say I was flattered that he asked me to participate.

Now on to the questions about my writing (gulp) process….

Why do I write what I do?

Quite simply, I write about whatever is on my mind. Sometimes it’s lighthearted commentary or observations. Sometimes I write album reviews or profile songs I have “playing on repeat.” Literally. I get obsessed with new music. In college my roommates had to hide my new Phish cd from me. I occasionally write about my kids and parenting. Other times it’s about issues I’m passionate about. If someone says something really stupid and misogynistic I’ll probably write about it. Racism, feminism, poverty, injustice to marginalized people, these tend to be the things I feel the need to speak out about. I also enjoy the opportunity to exorcise some anger when writing about things that get me fired up. The thing I love about blogging is I make the rules and I can write about what I want when I want. Isn’t that we all love about it?

How does my writing process work?

Music.

The name of my blog is from “Across the Universe” (The Beatles). That song sums up everything I feel about writing, about life, about this blog.

I start every blog post with a lyric from a song. I do this for a few reasons. Music is my favorite medium. It has always been what inspires me. I don’t have any musical talent, but it’s been a part of my life since I can remember. At times a song lyric or song title inspires an idea for a blog post. Other times I finish a post and have to search for a lyric that seems representative or connected in some way to what I wrote. And I always listen to music when I write. Sometimes the mood of a song dictates what type of writing I do. I try to just go with it and let it guide me.

Which brings me to the second part of my process. I try to write by instinct or inspiration. If I start writing and I don’t feel something I stop. My dashboard is full of unfinished posts. Some of them I’ve revisited after months of languishing and finished them with a new thought or direction. The seed may have been planted but not ready to produce until much later. Others may never see the light of day. I try not to sweat it.

I prefer to write on my laptop but have notebooks full of writings and scribblings and notes. I use these when I need to write on the go. Carpool line has seen some scratchings. Swim practice has become a surprisingly fruitful place for writing. The white noise of swimmers rhythmically moving in sync through the water is quite calming. If I’m desperate and am caught without my laptop or a notebook I’ll reluctantly type notes in my phone.

And the editing. Dear lord, the editing. And by editing I mean cutting. I tend to be long-winded. I have rarely written something that didn’t need at least 500 words shaved off. This has been one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned from blogging. In every other aspect of life I live by “less is more”. Except for writing. And cheese. And wine. Anyways, editing takes me ridiculously long to accomplish. I’m hoping that as I enter my second year of blogging this part will come easier. (I mean, this whole paragraph was probably completely unnecessary but I’m leaving it in to make a point).

How does my work differ from others of it’s genre?

Unless you count random as a genre, I don’t know if I have one. And I’m not sure if what I do is any different from any other blogger who writes about issues and music and  any idea that pops in to their head. The difference is in simply that we all have different ways of processing the world around us. We all have different thoughts on any given subject. If I know I want to write about a particular subject I purposely avoid reading blogs or opinion pieces on that topic. I don’t want to be influenced and I don’t want to see that someone has already captured my thoughts. If I see someone expressing what I had intended to say, I’ll abandon the whole idea. I need to know that what I wrote came wholly from me and other than reading articles to gather information, I prefer to write in the dark so to speak. That being said, I am often inspired by what I read from other bloggers.

What Am I Working On At the Moment?

I would love to say I was working on a book. And I was a little, here and there, before I started this blog. It’s been years since I’ve written anything that would be read by another soul, so I have taken a break from working on the book while I hone my writing skills here. Writing for an audience and hitting publish definitely makes you critique and edit and learn. I hope to resume working on my book soon. I’m almost always thinking about it, playing out scenes and ideas in my mind. But right now, this blog is my focus. I’m hoping that I’ll be able to devote more time to it now that I don’t have a little one at home with me during the day.

So that’s it! A peek inside my lack of a process. Now I get to pass the tour on to three bloggers:

Lizzi of Considerings – Life in Silver Linings Lizzi is a generous soul who’s words will touch you. She doesn’t hold back and brings her heart along for the ride. She is one of my favorite bloggers and if you read her blog you’ll fall in love with her too.

Mandi of Cellulite Looks Better Tan Mandi writes with a voice that puts you there. You feel like you are walking along with her, living in her world. It’s an intangible thing and one of those things you wish you could learn but it’s probably innate. Funny, serious and everything in between.

Racheal of Rachealizations Lover of cheese and all things positive. Funny and contemplative and insightful. Check out her blog and see the hidden gems inside.

So get to it people! Share with us the secrets to your madness- I mean writing.

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“Then we’d go running on faith,

All of our dreams would come true,

And our world will be right

When love comes over me and you”

-Eric Clapton, Running On Faith

If I could sum up the way I live my life, I would say that I wing it. I feel my way. I kind of just go with it. I’m not a big planner. Never have been and probably never will be. It’s neither good nor bad. It just is.

Some times the universe conspires to plant seeds in my mind…

Last week, Aussa wrote a post about life planning and Diana wrote about planning and organizing her blog. I do neither. My life has no plan beyond next week. My kids will be out of school for the summer in a few weeks. No plan. I’ve been writing this blog for 7 months. I average a post a week, sometimes two. I have no idea what I’m going to write about this week. Or next week.

But Diana and Aussa got me thinking. Along with the chaos that sometimes is my life. The rushing around, the race to get things done. The screw ups when you get schedules confused. I tend to live in laid back mode until the last possible moment and then it’s a frantic rush to get the stuff done. Accomplished. Crossed off the list I didn’t actually make. I always get it done. Just not in an organized, sane manner.

So no, not a big planner. I didn’t plan to have a third child.  I didn’t plan on going on a first date with my (future) husband two days after breaking up a three year relationship. I didn’t plan on leaving Atlanta and moving back to my home town. I didn’t plan on starting a blog.

What if I had planned?

It’s real easy to plan to not have a child…

Popping a small pink pill would have been all the planning needed. But what if I had? This child, who made our family complete, who brings me laughter every single day for the last five years, I never would have known. My “plan” was to go to graduate school. I had started studying for my GRE. The older kids would both be in school full time and it was time for me to work on me. But I got pregnant. And I panicked for about a day. I stressed over a third pregnancy. I stupidly stressed over what it would do to my body. I stressed over having a baby need me night and day when I had just started to taste the freedom that comes with kids becoming self sufficient.

Stressing didn’t stop the inevitable. She came barreling into our lives, quite literally, not even waiting for the doctor to show up at the hospital. The last five years have been a beautiful crazy mess of a whirlwind. That first year, I would hold her every afternoon feeding her before her nap, her tiny hand reaching to grasp a piece of my hair to twirl through her fingers. As she would stare intently into my eyes, I would find myself overcome with emotions. I would hold off the tears until she shut her eyes. The tears of joy and relief. Silent prayers of thanks swirling through my mind as I studied her delicate face through the haze of tears. Intense gratitude that my “plans” had been ignored. That someone, something, knew better than I did what I needed.

I didn’t plan on falling in love…

I had just ended my relationship with my college boyfriend. I had a “plan.” I was going to move in with my friend, sleep on her floor until I saved up for my own place. I was going to experience young adulthood as a single woman for a while. I had been a serial monogamist, in a series of relationships through college. My friends called me “Never without a man Gretchen.” I felt like I really needed to take some time to just be me.

Joe asked me out two days after I left my boyfriend. I was torn. I had a plan. But I also really wanted to go out with him. I did what any rational woman would do. I said yes to that first date. And it was incredible. I knew there was no going back. Eighteen years later I wonder what would have happened if I would have said no to that date. If I would have insisted on being single for a while. Would we have found our way to each other eventually? Would I still be single? Would I not have these three children? I threw my plans and caution to the wind and have a marriage that has endured and weathered and strengthened and a life I never could have imagined.

I never thought I’d move back home…

I loved Atlanta. I wanted to live in a large city, a city of art and culture. Not the small southern city of my youth with it’s conservative bent and unofficial uniform of khaki pants and polo shirts.

But one weekend I went home for a visit and returned to Atlanta with the overwhelming urge to move back. Joe agreed to move with me. A few months later we were setting up house in our new apartment, ten minutes from my parents’ house. A year later my brother would be diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.

The prognosis was horrifying. The 18 months that he fought for his life were spent hanging out together, going to movies, going to concerts, having lunch. I can’t quantify the value of spending all of that time with him. I know that it would have killed me to live four hours away. My decision to move back home gave me the gift of time. Time to laugh and talk and soak up every second with my brother. Time that I look back on as treasured memories, the most precious of moments that reside in my heart. Time that I still cling to all these years later, time that was a gift.

I had no idea what I was doing…

A blog. I had flirted with the idea, but that’s about it. Then one day I read something that infuriated me and within minutes found my way to WordPress and set up a basic blog and started typing. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I didn’t plan to do it. I didn’t research the ins and outs. I just did it. I started typing and didn’t even edit before I hit publish. And seven months later I have found something I love, something I don’t think I can live without. Sleep, nights out with girlfriends, projects around my house- all things that I’ve sacrificed over the last few months for this blog. And I wouldn’t change a thing. Writing in this place has been huge for me. It has given me a voice I’d forgotten I had. It’s made me stretch and grow. It’s given me something… something all mine. And I love it.

So, what if I had planned?

What if I lived my life needing complete order and control. Following a carefully crafted blueprint? What if I agonized over every impulse and every unscripted action? It is completely possible, likely even, that I never would have had my daughter. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with my husband. I wouldn’t have lived near my family when they needed me most. When I needed to be here. I wouldn’t have started this blog. I don’t know where I would be or who I would be with. I don’t want to imagine. These things that were a consequence of lack of plans are some of the biggest blessings of my life. They are more than happy accidents. They are me, listening carefully. Following my inner voice. Listening to my gut. What works for me and how I go through life wouldn’t necessarily work for everyone. But for me, living life is not a race, not a straight shot for the goal… but more of a meandering. It’s what works for me. Planning would cloud my process. So I’ll take the chaos and the frenzy that comes with winging it. Because along with that craziness comes surprises, comes blessings, comes a beautifully unplanned life.

 

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“Welcome to the inner workings of my mind
So dark and foul I can’t disguise,
Can’t disguise.
Nights like this,
I become afraid
Of the darkness in my heart…
Hurricane”

-MS MR, Hurricane

This has been a crazy year. At the dawn of 2013 I declared that it would be “The Year of Not Learning.” The previous year had been kinda tough. There were revelations, there was a touch of drama, I learned a lot. So I decided that for 2013 I was going to just coast. I had done some work on myself and my relationships already, it was time to take a break and just “be.”

It’s funny how the Universe doesn’t always listen to me. Maybe it’s because I’m not a walking Chinese Calendar. But it’s such a reasonable request. A little blissful ignorance is all I was asking for. I guess starting therapy for the first time in my life probably didn’t help. Therapy makes you think. A lot. About stuff you really don’t want to think about. That’s why you pay someone else to make you do it. Like a trainer at the gym. You could go do 500 sit ups and 500 lunges on your own, but you won’t. Sure, I could sit and think about my life, think about my thoughts. Work through some issues. But I won’t. I’ll half ass it the same way I do at the gym. I won’t really dig deep and feel the burn.

So, therapy and all that. It makes you feel stuff. Stuff you purposely have avoided feeling. It makes you (if you’re doing it right) take the lid off of the stuff you had so carefully put in a box, buried in the back yard and placed a giant boulder on top of. That stuff.

Sometimes life calls you out.

I started this blog the same month I started therapy. Coincidence? Who knows. But the things you learn about yourself when you start sharing your thoughts and your writing with the world- it’s fascinating. The things I’ve learned from reading some talented writers on their blogs- some of those things have been moving. Profound. Touching. Some of these things have knocked me off of my feet.

I recently had a blogger respond to one of my blog posts. This is a writer I have a lot of respect for, so when she said she could relate to what I’d written, I was honored. I felt gratified, like maybe I’m doing something right. Maybe if my writing connects with at least one person then it’s not totally indulgent. When I started writing in response to what she’d shared with me, I started to feel like a fake. I felt like I had touched on some things I was feeling but I kept them on the surface. Because that’s what I do with the really hard stuff. I keep it on top where I can see it and keep an eye on it and control it. And this writer, she doesn’t do that. She’s hilariously funny, some even say she’s snarky. But when she’s real, she’s gut-wrenchingly real. She’s the kind of writer I aspire to be. And her comments to me were more real and had more depth than my 1000 plus word blog post. I felt like a fraud.

I don’t know if I would have realized this without therapy. It doesn’t really matter, but what does matter is I’m starting to feel. What I’m allowing myself to feel isn’t fun. It actually kind of sucks. But I know it’s healthier than keeping it buried and pretending like it doesn’t exist. There’s a lot of stuff buried in that box. It can be overwhelming at times. If this was an anonymous blog I’d write about it here. What I will say is that I have realized that anger and grief are the two emotions I don’t allow. These are the two emotions I have shoved away my entire life.

Grief.

Fourteen years after losing my brother, I’m realizing I never grieved. I’ve had sad moments, I’ve cried, I’ve missed him so much it hurts. But I haven’t grieved. I got married 10 days after he passed away. My new in-laws stayed at my house for two weeks after my wedding. Then a few months later I was pregnant with my son. I never had time. And the truth is, I didn’t want time. I wanted to dive back in to work. I wanted to stay busy and preoccupied. But over the last few weeks, I’ve felt it. The only time I truly fell apart was at my brother’s funeral, at the grave side service. I collapsed in tears and wept uncontrollably in front of everyone as we were walking to our cars. But I gave myself about 45 seconds of tears before I pulled myself together.

Last week was the very next time that I cried like that over my brother. I wept uncontrollably, I didn’t try to stop it. I let it happen and I felt it. I wrote through my sobbing. I could barely see the computer screen but I wrote. And it helped. I don’t know if I’ll ever post what I wrote, but it helped writing it. It felt like purging. I was pretty sad for the next few days and my husband knew something was up. I kept brushing off his questions. Then Saturday night as we were putting together the kids’ Easter baskets, I started crying uncontrollably again. I had to explain to him through my sobs why I was crying, what had happened a few days earlier. He got it. Thank god he got it. He held me and let me do what I had to do. I wish that was it, but I’m pretty sure it’s not. Two good cries aren’t going to get the job done. But I now know that I can allow it to happen. I will try to loosen my death grip I’ve had on all these feelings.

Anger.

This emotion baffles me. When I feel it, I don’t know what to do with it. I usually don’t even know why I feel angry. And then I decide that if I don’t know then it must be unfounded, so I squash it like an annoying little bug. But lately, I’ve been really feeling it. Not often. But for someone who doesn’t usually operate in anger, I have had some random fury building up inside of me. And I do mean random. I shouldn’t want to throw a plate across the room because one of my kids forgot to put it in the dishwasher. That’s not a normal response I would have to such an offense. I haven’t actually thrown a plate yet but it’s been real hard to resist. Like I’ve had to pry my hands off the plate and walk away. So obviously I have some work to do there.

I want to be real here. I am walking the line between writing about what moves me and what’s on my mind and keeping some things private and respecting the privacy of the people I love. Sometimes it blocks the flow. What I am yearning to write about I can’t. Then I have to try to get creative and pull something else out that still feels real. It’s an uneasy push and pull and I’m really hoping I don’t fall on the wrong side of that line. I’ll write through some tears I’m sure. And when I’m feeling angry I’ll find something, some issue, some place where someone’s being an ass. Someone that is putting people down, stifling progress or passing judgement. And I’ll write about it. I’ll exorcise some demons through words. I will transfer all that rage onto some unsuspecting prick and I’ll love every minute. Or I’ll throw a plate… damn you, feelings.