Dana Bowman Creative

On Harrison Ford. And writing.

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2023 Writer’s Retreat: Done.

The theme? Get a whole lot of writing accomplished in as little time as possible.

The reality? Find Harrison Ford.

Ok, let me explain.

I have been retreating to Wichita, Kansas for a few years now. The first time I did this, I had a book deadline, and my babies were young, and I was finding it difficult to make the deadline because babies mess with you. Now, I have a teenager and one on the way (he’s twelve), and they can feed themselves. I no longer have to leave a list for the husband with things like, “COULD YOU PLEASE NOT FORGET TO GET THEM LUNCH” on it.

In fact, this time? The only list I left was a reminder to leave out kibble for our cat, Bob, which shows you how priorities change as children grow, but my husband’s hatred of cats remains the same.

Twenty-four hours before I retreated, however, I found out some really important information:

Harrison Ford was in Wichita.

It seems that Harrison flies planes, because of course he does, and he comes through Wichita kind of regularly to have his plane serviced. I know I’m writing all calmly about this but what really needs to be made VERY clear is that HE WOULD BE WITHIN MY REACH.

In fact, the night before I left, I was lying in bed with the Secondary Husband (demoted recently because Harrison, which I think Brian was actually kind of ok with because marriage to me is a long road and when Han Solo is involved he is a gentleman and bows out). We were talking about Harrison Ford, which is what I had been talking about for some hours now, and I said, in wonderment, “Do you know? I am an hour away from Harrison Ford right now.”

Reader, I am writing this to you on the fourth and final day of my writer’s retreat.

And alas I did not find Harrison Ford.

A good writer would have built suspense here. Suspense if figurative language that builds stakes in your writing and makes it cool. But I am a bit broken hearted and really low on sleep, and sadness makes me forget to use that stuff.

However, what I did find instead:

  1. A really great tea house where they brought me multiple pots of Earl Grey with lots of lemon and gobs of honey and it was heavenly.
  2. Momentum.

I stayed in a tiny house with a tiny little bed because I’ve always wanted to stay in a tiny house. Incidentally, you know what I discovered about myself? I no longer want to stay in a tiny house. Tiny houses are FREAKING SMALL.

But I wrote. I wrote there, in my tiny little bed with Doc Martin playing in the background because Brits make great company. I wrote until very late at night. I woke up early, and thought about what I wrote and how to add to it. And what I should write next. Then, I would unwedge myself from my tiny dwelling, and I wrote at coffee houses and the Early Gray place. The Early Gray place also had macarons, a necessary writing supplement.

I made lists about writing things. I edited. I brainstormed on big yellow pads of paper. I stared off into space and then clattered away at my keyboard.

For three and a half days, uninterrupted except for one quick trip to a vintage clothing shop for necessities, I wrote my face off.

Ok, not literally. “Writing my face off” is hyperbole, which is figurative language that sadness never has yet been able to pry from my grip. Hyperbole and I are *crosses fingers* like this.

(We can talk about personification another time.)

Also: I found this coffee house dog who massively helped my mental state:

He is my muse.

And so, I found momentum and ideas and I finally, FINALLY queried three agents. I might have accidentally sent the first agent (Day 1: 12:57 am) the wrong draft of a sample chapter, so that ship has sailed, but I DID IT.

Nothing, very likely, will happen with any of these queries. But the momentum, and feeling a bit glorious about it all, is there. Which is what a writer’s retreat is all about.

I think Harrison would be proud.

Talent Show.

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This is a throwback post from February 7, 2020 on Momsieblog. I thought it made a lot of sense to re-publish today. I received a few snarky comments lately on social media and I have to admit, they stung.

But we creatives? We just keep on creating. The snarky audience might always be there (oh why are there so many folks out there who seem to really love tearing other folks down?), but so is your God-given talent. I wonder which one is more important?

——-

Things At Which I am Talented:

  1. Making sure prepositions don’t go at the end of sentences
  2. Writing really wonky sentences
  3. Understanding addiction
  4. Understanding relapse
  5. Understanding my own story is wonky but it’s the best one I’ve got
  6. Reading reviews that weren’t thrilled with my books and then obsessing
  7. Reading over my own writing and then thinking, “Hey, this is not that bad. Back off, people. Jeez.”
  8. Writing really really badly some of the time
  9. Writing some good stuff, some of the time
  10. Figuring out how to finally turn off the humidifier in our living room which refused to turn off after I pushed the Power button like fifteen times and it would NOT, I SWEAR turn off and decided it was kind of possessed but then I just googled it because isn’t that what everyone does now and I get it and feel a tiny private moment of triumph each and every time I turn off something and hey, I take triumph where I can get it. 
  11. Run on sentences. 
  12. Repeating my children’s names so often that it ends up sounding like I’m a rapper and therefore so very cool. Sorta.
  13. Pointedly ignoring parenting articles that tell you not to repeat your children’s names endlessly because it supposedly trains them to ignore and then you have horrible children. Pfft. My rapper name is Biggie Sighs, btw.
  14. Having faith in my parenting. It’s terrifically wonky and it’s all I have.
  15. Having faith in my God because without him all of it is wonky. All. Of. It.
  16. Having very little faith in anything else. SURRENDER, DOROTHY.
  17. Leftover night.
  18. Collecting boxes and then tossing them down in the basement where crickets go to die. I have a thing for boxes. Every time we get an amazon delivery, I caress the box and think, “Oooo. What a nice box. I should keep it,” and then down it goes. And now our basement looks like one of those hoarders episodes. But only the basement, so it’s ok. You never know when you’re gonna need a nice box.
  19. Tangents.
  20. Just plugging along. Acting as if. Doing the next right thing. All of that business. 

Recently, I made the silly mistake of reading negative reviews. I have written two books, and that in itself is a miracle. A straight-up gift from God. But sometimes… I like to torture myself and try to make all the people like me all of the time.

Also this: Did you know, snarky review writers, that there is a HUMAN behind the book that you didn’t like? Did you know that?

Sometimes my writing is solid. Sometimes it’s not. And that just really makes me nuts. I write about my own life, so when people don’t like it? It’s tough. It’s like standing in front of a crowd and having some people point and shrug. “Meh,” they say. “I quit half way through.” 

Yep. That was a tough one.

So, this morning, as I was praying in my laundry room (my prayer closet) I came to this conclusion: My talent (or lack thereof) is not my own. It started out as God’s and then he funneled it my way. Just poured it on me, and said, “Go write about getting sober and see if you can help.” And, like so many things about faith and following, sometimes I grip onto it and say, “Mine.“

Not mine. Not perfect. Not for everyone. Not easy. And not ever enough. 

Talent is tough. 

But so am I.

Migraines and other remedies for my brain.

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There are times when my brain tells me it’s time to head out.

It’s a stilted conversation because often I am in another room, picking socks up off the floor. Or there’s spawn asking me where the snacks are, and if we could just eat bacon for dinner (just… bacon. nothing else) and I tend to just crane my neck and make quick eye contact with my brain in that “I’ll get to you in a min” look. I use that look also for things like:

  1. People who call me instead of texting. I don’t understand.
  2. Small repairs in my house that would take literally like 4 minutes but won’t get done until we move.
  3. My husband. Always the husband. It’s a mutual understanding.
  4. Kale.

My brain, after a bit of this, tends to hunker down into a place of mild disassociation that is pleasant and yet also ominous but that’s how I like to live my life I guess.

And then finally… my brain shrugs and says, “Well. I think it’s time for a migraine” and whammo. I finally decide to listen.

Except now I can’t listen because when I have a migraine listening (or seeing. or talking) is not available to me. They are faraway skills that are packed up in a red haze that is migraining.

In third grade, we had terrariums of hermit crabs in our classroom and one time I was trying to bond with my hermit crab, and I picked it up in my palm and its response to this was to pinch down on the skin between my thumb and forefinger. It would not let go. It did not want to bond. It wanted to sever some arteries.

We poured water on it and tapped its shell and I stared at it with growing panic as I realized the hermit crab and I were now one. I was too freaked out to process anything except that it hurt and my friends finally gave up and I just sat down, attached, and terrified. That’s kinda how it feels when I migraine comes.

That’s kind of a lousy analogy because migraines hurt more than Hermie did.

There are times in my life (kinda all the time) where I get super busy, with all sorts of deadlines and to-do lists and lots of stuff going on, and for the most part I’m ok. But sometimes I forget one small fact: My brain has feelings too. I can pack it all full of information and responsibilities and not forgetting to buy creamer at the store, but once in a while it wants to talk about its feelings. I think it wants to sit outside with me on the back stoop and say things like,

“What if I can’t do all this stuff very well at all?”

“What if this is all there is? These lists? The creamer? Forgetting the creamer?”

“Is time always going to be an opponent now? And when did that happen? I don’t remember what it was like before.”

“What if… What if I’m not good enough?”

Ignoring these conversations results in me having to sleep with four pillows on my head. So, when I finally can come up for air, post-migraine, God says things like, “Perhaps you should take a few things off that list, Dana. And also, I think bacon, and only bacon, for dinner sounds delicious. Vegetables can wait. And if they get slimy it’s the circle of life.”

Will I learn from this? Probably not. It’s the circle of life. I’ll manage myself, do the healthy things, make sure to get a run in, and get proper rest and do creative things… and then I’ll forget all that and get too busy and my brain and I will grow apart. Maybe writing about it here will help set a place for this. Maybe.

But what I can do is what I managed the morning after the migraine where I walked, a bit wobbly, down the hall to get a drink of water and look in the mirror. Hair wisping out on all sides. Eyes squinty. My head felt like a glass ornament and I held it very carefully on my shoulders. I looked at my reflection, all wobbly and fragile, and I took a breath. And I thought (or God thought in me):

“You are enough.”

My Favorite Books from 2022

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Prescription for 2023: Read more.

I’m wondering if anyone else out there had a hard 2022? Things were… weird. I’m not in the mood for a recap, because I do that in nearly every other post I write. So, today? Today we are steely-jawed, eyes on the future, standing straight and tall, stepping out into our destiny that is 2023. Are you with me? *cue bagpipes* They might take our liiives but they canna take our freeedommmm!

(For those of you who are curious as to why I suddenly escalated my 2022 into a scene from Braveheart it’s because I am always trying to find a way to use Scottish dialect in my writing. It’s lovely.)

Instead of rehashing battle wounds, let’s talk books. I’m pretty sure William Wallace didn’t have much time for reading, but I did, and for that I’m grateful. Books make great weapons (ok, not literally, William). But also? They heal. They’re paradoxical and surprising and lethal and loving, and I must have all of them.

So, in no particular order (except for the last one) here are my favorite reads from 2022:

1.Keep Going: 10 Ways to Stay Creative in Good Times and Bad. Austin Kleon. I read Kleon’s book as a refresher for a college course I was teaching on creativity. Kleon’s writing is like a comic book for your brain. His ideas seem to come out of that jumbled craft drawer you had as a kid, where you could dig around and find all sorts of goodies for your diorama on the platypus. For my class (no dioramas, unfortunately, but it’s an idea for the next time I teach the class) I planned on suggesting it as a supplemental read, but I ended up buying each student a copy. It is that good, and necessary, for them to have.

2. Flow: They Psychology of Optimal Experience. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. This was also for my class, and we spent the entirety of the semester skirting around the issue that none of us could figure out how to pronounce Mihaly’s name. So, we just referred to him as Big C. This book was science and story, combined, which is the best possible combination (You know how I love story; I created a whole podcast around it). It’s very research-y, but it also gave me lesson ideas like writing a love letter to your younger self, and when the students read them aloud, I cried. This is optimal. Subsequently, I let my students out ten minutes early and forgot about the homework. Great job, Big C!

3. Remarkably Bright Creatures. Shelby Van Pelt. Uh, an octopus that communicates with an aging woman because they both feel a bit forgotten and lonely? And then they sorta become friends? And there’s an addiction and recovery side-story? Yep. It’s in there. Also, you will fall in love with the octopus, and now I want to go find a lonely octopus of my own *waves hands about* out there somewhere and befriend it. Yes, I live in Kansas, but books that give you big dreams? That’s the stuff right there.

4. The Artful Edit. Susan Bell. I’m reading this because I am enrolled in this course to become a certified book coach. Now, I have authored two books and have been a writing and English teacher since the dawn of time. I’ve had my share of editing experiences. This process can cause me much despondency and gnashing of teeth. One time while editing, I threw my pen across the room and it scared Bob, but she forgot to unhook her claws from her bed before she leapt about, so that ended well. Bell’s book is creative, full of story, and massively helpful. I’d put it up there with Bird by Bird and On Writing.

5. The Fox and I. Catherine Raven. I don’t really know what prompted me to take this one off the bookshelf at the library, but I’m glad I did. Now I want to go find a fox and befriend it too. This book is meditative and makes you feel like you’ve gone on a good long walk in the sun and wind when you read it. Also, last I checked, the author has no social media or platform. She still lives out there, somewhere, in a cabin, with her dreams and her writing. I like to think about that.

6. I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. Michelle McNamara. This book is harrowing and endlessly fascinating and all the while there’s a background thrumming that McNamara’s vision and work and focus will lead to tragedy. It’s heartbreaking. And it’s some of the best true crime literature I’ve ever read.

7. Creativity: A Short and Cheerful Guide. John Cleese. Can we just take a moment to appreciate the world treasure that is John Cleese? I read this in one sitting and I could HEAR him reading it to me. That is all you need to know.

And finally…. the best for last:

8. Fairy Tale. Stephen King. When I finished this book, my husband Brian was just coming up to bed. It was around midnight. I was just sitting there, clutching the book to my chest and when he settled under the covers, I started to tell him about it. I had to talk to someone about it. It’s a hero’s quest, a mythical journey, a recovery story, a coming of age tale, a dog’s life, and more than a bit terrifying. All in one. I begged for characters to stay alive and for the dad to stay sober. It was the complete book.

Oh! And here is an honorable mention. I found it because Stephen King recommended it on Twitter, and we should all do whatever Stephen King says. I went out that day and checked it out, and then created this, which the author RESPONDED to, so now we’re besties. As is the way.

So, there you go! I’m hoping you will message me with your favorite reads this year, so I can add to my list. There’s always more books in the sea, along with an octopus, out there, somewhere, waiting for me to transform its life.

If you would like some researched and curated quick tips on this topic and more creative hacks, join me for Pie and Coffee: 3 Habits, 2 Helps, and 1 bit ‘o Hope, free of charge. Sign up below!

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This is my attempt at a Christmas letter?

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This is not me. This is a stunt Christmas lady.

So. A quick update:

  1. We just got back from a visit to family. So, you know, laundry. You know the rule of travel, right? Leave with one small suitcase each. Return with fourteen loads of laundry and no socks.
  2. We don’t really have access to our laundry room right now because a guy whose name I have asked three times but still can’t remember, so I just say “Hiiiii!” very casual-like when I see him, which is ALL THE TIME – he is welding something in our kitchen. The kitchen leads to the laundry room because domesticity is strong in this house. So it’s very awkward AND semi-dangerous to go in there. #alliwantforchristmasissocks
  3. The Welding Guy is also accompanied by: Scott the contractor, two plumbers (unnamed variety but also very nice), loud noises, the dust of a million dusty things, dust that seeks revenge, dust that is like that one ex that just keeps showing years later with absolutely no clue how to read the room and stay away, dust that has paw-prints in it, a coffeepot that now makes coffee with dust, and a partridge in a pear tree.
  4. The Christmas Spirit is sort of dusty.
  5. I can’t find the: tape, scissors, my sanity, wrapping paper (it’s upstairs behind all the dusty things we moved upstairs from downstairs because kitchen), and the Christmas gifts I made SURE to buy early because I knew this would be stressful. I put them in a safe place. As is the way.
  6. I am still very grateful the remodel is happening. I promise. I am not looking a dusty gift horse in the mouth.
  7. I just seventeen dollars worth of Reese’s because stockings, and that is really all we need. Chocolate and the love of family. God bless us, everyone.

I hope your Christmas is merry and bright and full of love and chocolate also. I am so very grateful for you, my readers. We are blessed to have a warm home, a healthy family, and a roaring sense of humor. May you be blessed as well.

How I tried to fix my brain and my elbows and my neck, at the same time. Anatomy lessons with Dana.

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As Norah Ephron said: I feel bad about my neck.

I have always hated my neck. Even when I was in high school, and I was tiny and could get up from a chair without making a soft groaning sound with absolutely no real appreciation for it – I hated my neck. I have a soft little jawline. It is cute and soft, like a kitten, and if I weighed 80 pounds (not recommended) I would still have a kitten for a neck.

And now, as a woman of a certain age, it has become more like two kittens and perhaps a turkey under there. Because I am somewhat sad about this, I recently looked up “what to do about my neck” which offered a whole LOT of options, but mainly they all suggested sucking my neck out of my neck.

This seems a bit excessive.

Micro-needling seemed… less awful? I mean… it’s just a bunch of teeny tiny needles stuck in my neck. So, that’s fine. Totally fine. Evidently the whole premise of micro-needling besides being really pokey, is that it injures the skin, which causes it to heal… better?? I guess?

And THAT means.. if you break something, sometimes the healing process makes it STRONGER.

I have a hard time with this because, generally, my children break stuff in my life. And the broken stuff is valuable, lovely, fragile and usually highly sentimental. Children are good at targeting stuff like that. And fixing these items involves super glue. And THAT means I get glue all over my fingers and the final product looks like a second grade art project.* But I do feel, after the glue is thoroughly applied to my fingertips, that I could perhaps go rob a large bank and no one would be able to identify me because I don’t have fingerprints anymore. I’m a ghost.*waggles fingers in mysterious criminal way*

(Welcome to my brain, people.)

So: I am now going to swerve from minimally invasive facial procedures to writing. Because that is how the Dana do.

I have had, in the past few months, a lot of broken brain moments. I multi-task. I start something and then get up and walk around and start something else. Most of my writing moments have lasted about ten minutes and then I’m off trying to research microneedling. I sputter and idle and stop. I start, but with a lot of grinding of the gears first. I stare off into space with such blankness that I compete with cows.

My brain is tangled, ya’ll.

And as the decline into using cars and cow metaphors for my poor tired synapses increases, I just felt like I had no real choice in the matter. That “frazzled Dana” would be the New Dana and I just had to accept it.

Like New Coke, I was doomed.

I DON’T LIKE BEING DOOMED.

This blog post will be Part One of what I figure out to help my poor little brain get stronger. I’m not attempting a click-baity situation where at the end of the blog I’m just about to tell you something huge and I end it a major cliffhanger. We’re not Game of Thrones here. That would be interesting, wouldn’t it? If I threw in a lot of dragons and really dark scenery and icky “me too” moments all over the place. Weird.

Anyhow. The main takeaway today is that my brain, much like my body when I started running again, can get stronger. And here is the first thing I am trying to do to help it:

I’m going to break it a bit. To make it stronger. (If you are as thrilled as I am that I finally made my point here, I salute you.)

Ya’ll. This is hard. I am a mom, first of all. Multi-tasking is our survival skill. All moms know what it’s like to hold a baby and kick the washer door shut and press START with their elbow while getting a snack for the toddler with the other elbow and with a third elbow letting the dogs out. Multi-tasking really leans on the elbows of life, evidently. I am so glad I have them. Thank you, elbows.

But for now? I am going to let you go, elbows. For the sake of my brain. And this post really has some issues with basic anatomy.

I must admit I have really no idea how to do this. But as I walk through it, my newly-retired elbows and I will share more. I think it means I need to accept that this is going to be hard and it might involve some breaking. Some mess. But maybe picking up the pieces will mean a stronger Dana brain.

So, for now? Thank you for sticking with me. Single-tasking is not easy but at least it doesn’t involve needles?

*Second graders: YOUR art projects are always adorable and lovely. I have my son’s purple lopsided pottery dish that resembles roadkill turtle on my bedside table and I adore it. FYI. I’m just saying that as you get older, you kind of want to level up from roadkill turtle, ok? But I’m NOT saying your artwork is any less precious because… oh argh you know what I mean.

I think we’re safe. No second graders read my blog.

Before I go:

  1. There are all sorts of links in my blog posts now. These links help my blog to gain traction, and so if you are inclined, you might click on them. They mostly point back to my writing, some of which is pretty funny, and I also promise they are not going to be links to squirrels re-enacting scenes from Game of Thrones (Which, come to find out, is AWESOME). Geert Weggen, the creator of this squirrel amazing-ness, is found here, and you should really go check him out.)
https://geertweggen.com

2.If you would like some researched and curated quick tips on this topic and more creative hacks, join me for Pie and Coffee: 3 Habits, 2 Helps, and 1 bit ‘o Hope, free of charge. Sign up below!

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And as always: Eat dessert first. No elbows on the table.

Middle School Dances and Not Attempting the Lift

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I guess I should start by saying I did ask permission before I wrote this.

Back when my wee cherubs were wee babies, I did not ask permission before I wrote about them. Permission seemed fussy. Babies are wee and adorable. That’s in their contract. Asking them IF I could write about them seemed like an extra step, and I am not one for the *middle man. They did cute stuff. I wrote about it.

But now, we are into the teen years. And I must tread carefully. Therapy is not cheap.

A few weeks ago, I signed up to chaperone my sons’ first school dance of the year. I don’t really know why I say yes to stuff like this since I am:

  1. An elite introvert
  2. Anti-loud
  3. In love with my bed and being in it by 8 pm

But as is the way of the Dana, sometimes I think something sounds fun, and I sign up for it. “That sounds fun,” I thought, when I saw the email about the dance, asking for food and drink and, you guessed it, Adult Volunteers. “I think I’ll sign up for it.”

Reader, if anyone has ever introverted as hard as I introvert, you know what happens when we sign up for stuff. On the day of the event, the Ghost of Introverts Past barges in, all clangy, and says, “UM I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE.” But in this case I had a hack: Ask the husband to come too, so he can be your buffer. (Also I really wanted to go so I could spy on my children.)

Brian has buffered for me for a long time. He is absolutely unaware of this. Whenever we go to a social event I prep him like this: “Do NOT leave my side. Unless I have to go to the bathroom. Then I want you to stand right outside the door. Not weird at all. Also, look for my secret signal for when I’d like to leave. You might want to stay longer, but I will not be able to, so you have to bow to my will.” Then he chortles and asks “Is your secret signal when you take your shirt off and wave it around your head?” which, if you think about it, might be pretty effective. 99% of the time when I give him the signal he is “having a good time” and “not paying attention” or “eating little sausages” and I’m kinda adrift.

In the middle school dance situation, I could not signal to Brian to leave early, as we had chaperone duties, and one of those duties is to not leave early.

Also, the shirt thing would have been way problematic in this context.

So, we did arrive, and I helped kids with their entrance fees, while I cooed at them about their super-cute outfits, and the music thumped its way into my semi-circular canals.

The theme for this dance was Palpable Awkwardness.

So, the thing is, I seem to have a really good memory of my junior high dances (It was junior high back then, not middle school. I am team “junior high.” Middling at anything is annoying and just reminds us we’re itching to get beyond it. Being in the middle is only preferable when you’re at a football game and it’s 27° and there’s a blanket.)

I remember the dances. I remember the darkness and the thumpy music and the longing. Purple Rain was my first slow dance. An excellent choice. I was led to the dance floor by David Silverman, my first love, who turned to face me and extended his arms parallel to the floor, a la Frankenstein, and then placed them firmly on my shoulders like he was about to give me a pep talk. I did the same, and we then stepped side to side with absolutely no ability to: 1. Make eye contact 2. Actually enjoy this moment because we were freaked out.

When the song ended we just sort of lifted our hands up and wafted away, leaving a trail of Brut and weird in our wake. And I HAVE NEVER FORGOTTEN IT OMG IT WAS AMAZING.

And that’s when I looked up at Brian and it slowly dawned on me. Hey… Brian was taller than David Silverman. And I was suddenly emboldened to do something I had always wanted to do. I asked a boy to dance.

It also helps that The Time of My Life had just started playing, and you all know the truth of it:

NOBODY PUTS DANA IN A CORNER.

Reader. We danced. At some point Brian backed up a bit and said, “Come on, let’s do the lift!” which made me ask him if he had done some drugs before dance, but I assure you, he had not.

(Has anyone else noticed that this post mentions taking off clothes and drugs? That’s weird.)

We danced, and at some point I actually looked around and saw that one of my wee babies was dancing with a girl too. We locked eyes. The theme of the dance really came through strong in that moment. But that’s a blog for another day.

For the remainder of the time, I maintained No Contact with my boys. The dj did kind of ruin the mood when she started playing Whip Nae Nae as our song ended, and I had to go wash my eyeballs after watching a 7th grade boys gyrate to it. He looked like he was having a seizure. Then the dj played Taylor Swift’s Love Story, which was basically whipping them into a frenzy. Brian and I camped out at the cookie table. We finished out the evening with a lot of shriek-singing and I think my older son rolled his eyes so hard he hurt his face.

But memories were made. I did a slow dance with my husband.

And I did, in fact, have The Time of My Life.

Whip NO.

*I just now noticed that I talk later in this article about how I don’t like middles and oh my goodness this is amazing writing. #pulitzer

Want a bit of Pie and Coffee in your mailbox for a creative lift? You’ll get a Magic Morning freebie on the side! Click here. Eat dessert first, friends!! Get thee to the cookie table. 🙂

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Writer Mama

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Y’all. I planned to get caught up on my writing projects today.

(*UPDATE: WATCH This IS YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO THIS POST AND HOW IT MADE ME CRY. Click bait? Yes. True? Also yes.)

But… the best laid plans of mice and moms is that they often get sickie and need endless drinks and blankets and temp checks and toast with the crusts cut off and sprite with a straw… and so on.

My son got strep. And so did I. And so it goes.

I have found that a lot of times when I use phrases like, “And THIS week I’m going to get ALL my writing deadlines finished!” or “THIS time I’m REALLY going to WRITE ALL AFTERNOON!” that the universe snort-laughs. (**UPDATE: It did, in fact, snort-laugh).

But!! There is good news! In fact, there is a whole LIST of goodness. So here goes:

Dana’s List of Writing Life Goodness Even When I Am Stressed Out:

1. I love my writing and speaking life. It’s on my own schedule, with my own projects, and my own creative “push” in the directions I choose. I am grateful that I have the endless list of projects and deadlines and such. I am grateful that I can call this profession my very own. I need to remind myself, sometimes, that about ten years ago I would have NEVER visualized this life of mine, a Writing Life, being … me.

2. I have a sick kid and I can stay home and care for him.

3. I am sick and I can stay home and care for me.

4. Writing is something you can do in the prone position. *weakly mutters ‘yeaaaaa.’*

5. Nobody’s gonna die. I play the “nobody’s gonna die” game a lot. It a simple way to remind myself that my writing is not ever a catalyst for saving the world. Like, it COULD be one day, but not today. And for that, I am grateful. If I ever did, actually, have to write a blog post to save lives I want you to know, though, that I am ready for it. I am prepared. But today? No lives were lost. #writetoliveanotherday

You know what? I really like to hunker down in that place of stress – that whole “I’m so busy and there’s SO much to do and let’s run in a few circles first because I feel a bit more at home when I’m running around it full of stress and drama” vibe. Pretty much all day, in my head, my arms are waving about in the air in a “MAYDAY!! SOS!!! RUN AWAYYYY!” kind of zone. Only in my head, though. If I walked around and did that, people would be put off. I mean, you can’t just walk into the coffee shop and start shouting “ICEBERG STRAIGHT AHEAD!!!” Like I said, it’s off-putting.

So, I’m going to write this, and post it, and go about my day.

***(UPDATE. SO… SHE DID NOT POST AND SHE DID NOT GO ABOUT HER DAY. BWAA HA HAAAAA).

But, before I go, could I ask a favor? Would you consider sharing this post with a stressed out mom today? Would you share with a fellow creative that’s gotten lost in the weeds? Or, would you travel over to my newsletter and consider subscribing? My book proposal is still in the oh-so fun waiting zone, and one thing that would help is a bigger platform. This would be such a help.

Also, my newsletter is good! I like it, and I kinda hate newsletters! I am picky about them. In MY newsletter it you will get:
3 Helps: Links and sources to curated creative goodness, served à la carte.
2 Habits: Researched skills for optimizing creative productivity – in the workplace, at home, and with your own creative goals.
1 Hope: A quick dollop of humor and inspiration, free of charge.

ZERO CARBS, FOLKS.

As one who actually adores loves carbs and considers them a complete meal, I would still ask: Consider subscribing! Or passing the newsletter along to someone who would benefit from some productivity and creative inspo.

Click the button to receive Pie and Coffee! And thank you my sweet friends. You have no idea how grateful I am for you. You are the bees’ knees.

Yes I love pie. 🙂

And if you’d like to copy the link to send the signup along to a friend? Well, here you go: Pie and Coffee newsletter signup

I love you my sweet, sweet, SWEET readers. Until next time:

#eatdessertfirst

Dana

Why I don’t drink. Even at Christmas.

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TW: Possible trigger warning for the struggling drinker: I list some drinkies in this post that I used to love at Christmas time. Just skip it if you are struggling. But also know this: those drinkies are so not even on my radar anymore. It does get better.

Note: this image is not me.

Ok. Here’s the scoop. For this post, I could have done a really clickbaity title like:

TOP TEN REASONS WHY CHRISTMAS DOESN’T EQUAL VODKA!

But I abstained.

(You see what I did there, right? Right?)

The thing is, I used to drink. Like a lot. I was really really good at it. If there had been a prize for Best Drinking I would have at least been a runner up. Or I would have won the Spirit Award and the Spirit Stick would have been a bottle of YellowTail. You get the drift. (I was in drill team in middle school and NEVER won the spirit stick which is still bugging me, fyi.)

The thing is though, quitting drinking was really tough, and I did it right as we were about to head into the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

At that time, here is what Christmas meant to me:

*cough* Sorry Jesus.

Anyhow, you can imagine this mentality, if you can call it that, worked for a while. But it’s really impossible to lug around all that emotional baggage about The Most Wonderful Time of the Year before I snapped like a peppermint stick.

Solution? I give you… MULLED WINE!!!!

And… I also give you: Schnapps with hot cocoa! And that thick stuff that you put over ice cream but I skipped the ice cream!

But wait! There’s more! Wine in a box because who cares? And ok also bourbon because somebody’s gonna need that for an awful dessert aptly named bourbon balls! And oh heck let’s throw in some hot buttered rum because Clarence talks about it in It’s a Wonderful Life!

Etcetera.

But then, I got sober. I know. What a buzzkill.

But I did it. I actually DID it. There’s a lot of reasons why, and I don’t have time to into all of them here – if you want more details read my books, people. But I got sober. Yea! But in those early days, I realized, to my horror, that just a few months away I was going to have to do Christmas without alcohol.

Addiction does that btw – it gives you all sorts of reasons to NOT stop addicting yourself. It’s the best self-sustainer out there. It says, “But Christmas is coming…” Or, “Friday is coming…” Or, “You’re afraid of really facing the truth that there will always be something to put in the way of your total and tragic addiction to alcohol…” which is long-winded but in my case, very true.

My very first sober Most Wonderful Time of the Year was… tricky. At times it was effervescent. I was sober, and I was free. And it was so glorious. I felt so strong and kind of delighted with myself. I made new friends in recovery. I cried all the time, but mostly in the good way, due to the sheer relief of it all. I was THERE for it.

Unless I wasn’t, and I wanted to drink, which was also a lot of the time. What can I tell you? Early recovery is hard, ya’ll.

But I carried on. And here are a few reasons why:

  1. I would be drinking at Christmas. Like, drinking AT it. To calm it down. To keep it happy. To make it glowy. I did that a lot. I drank AT things. I never just drank. I drank to control.
  2. My children had noticed that mom had changed, and to change back to the previous version? I just couldn’t bear to think about how they would process that.
  3. I couldn’t bear to process that, either. There’s enough outside heartbreak in my life; I didn’t have to do stuff to heartbreak it all by myself.
  4. I knew that sustaining sober time, just one day at a time, would be the number one way I could get long-term sobriety. But also? I looked to the next Christmas as my anchor. I saw myself, a that next sober Christmas. She looked happy. And a lot stronger. And I was just so proud of her. So, I stayed in at one day at a time and I also looked ahead. It’s trippy but it worked.
  5. Because the words “happy, joyous, and free” had started to bubble up in me, and no amount of fancy drinkies were going to generate those real feelings. It’s true. For me, sobriety was the best buzz around. And I think that needs to be on a t-shirt.
  6. I just had to. I would die if I kept going. I knew it.

So, that’s my list.

And I’m sticking to it.

I love you, my friends.

If you would like a printable of the above list, maybe to just paste up on a kitchen cabinet to remind yourself… you can download it here.

Don’t worry – it’s not a “add your email to the list!” thing. It’s just because I put post-its all over my house in the first year to remind me why I was doing the sober thing, and they helped. Think of it as a small early Christmas present for yourself.

This is in fact me.

* And? I would like to just say? Mulled wine is gross, y’all. One should never add cinnamon to wine. But I found a loophole and just drank a truckload of wine before the cinnamon. As one does when one has a drinking problem.

When Writing is Hard

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Ok, so if you read my last post, you would see I’m going for a series here. This is not planned because I’m way too unorganized for that, but I’ve been doing a lot of writing in the small spaces lately, and it’s on my mind.

And also: for those of you who are reading this and are NOT writers, this will relate to you as well because really? It has to do with what makes us creatively content.

I was going to say “what makes us happy” but I’ve been thinking a lot about that too – and I’m not sure writing makes me… happy. Don’t worry, this isn’t one of those “writing is so hard and it makes my brain feel like sludgy and sullen cottage cheese and who wants sullen cottage cheese in their life?” posts. It DOES actually do that, by the way. Like, really really troubled cottage cheese, I tell you. But that’s STILL not what I mean.

Bet you’re not gonna want to eat cottage cheese again for a while now, huh.

What I mean is… writing is hard. It’s a hard surface. You have to chip away at it. It leaves you gritty and tired and often, a bit banged up.

I have been working on a novel. The first one I have ever written. (This makes it sound like there might be more than one? Hmmm.) It’s been a delight, to write about something that’s not my life but also leans into my life (my protagonist is an alcoholic mom who is falling apart, go figure). But it’s HARD, ya’ll. Here’s some reasons why:

  1. It’s new. I don’t know what I’m doing. I keep muttering things like “Just keep swimming.” I have taught character arcs to surly highschool teenagers for OVER TWENTY YEARS and I’m so sorry, kids. You whined about it. I get it now.
  2. It’s waiting. I mean, there is so much waiting. I have to wait for word back on whether I should even TRY to find an agent. Waiting for that feels kind of like I am fully dilated but I have to wait a few months before I have the baby and wow that analogy just really went there.
  3. It is sneaky. Meaning, if I don’t pay attention, this uncomfortable, hard, humbling thing could so very easily get filed away under “I just don’t have the time or heart or humility super-powers for this biznatch. I gotta feed and water kids and go to basketball games and remember to moisturize… I just don’t have time for this.”

I am still writing, ya’ll. But some days it’s hard. And if you’ve ever had something that made your heart feel at home, but it kept getting put at the bottom of the list because Momhood? I feel you. I really do.

Don’t give up.