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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Here you go: My Annual Top Ten Thankfuls!

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I don’t really remember how long this tradition goes back in my blog. I know I’ve been posting my thankfuls wayyyy back on Momsie (the blog that started it all). Here’s one that I wrote the PROVES BRIAN AND I ARE STILL MARRIED , which was an exciting read. Also, there’s lots of badly lit pictures of Steve on that post, so there you go. Biggie Meows ALWAYS was on my thankful list, and yes I still miss him.

And as one who really understands the concept of gratitude (being in recovery is an automatic pass into Land Of The Super Grateful because we can’t help ourselves. We’ve made it out alive, after all. Not everybody gets to be so lucky) I LOVE to post my Top Ten Thankfuls. It just makes me happy.

So away we go:

10. New opportunities. I am currently working on getting certified to become a book coach with these folks. The program is a LOT. Like, I think it will take me about six months if not longer to get there. There’s homework. My sons and I work together now, muttering and typing (why do muttering and typing always seem to go together?) But the program is exciting as it is rigorous, and as a writing instructor AND a writer, I think it will be a perfect fit.

9. Running. I’ve been running at least three times a week now. I started out walking every other block, and now I am able to run it all. 🙂 I’m proud of myself for this. Last year, I had pretty much decided running was no longer possible, but I really missed it. I missed the feeling of my feet on the pavement, and that glorious and painful sprint at the end. I missed the cold mornings. So, look at me, running again. It’s a flipping miracle. Also, on the days that my run feels like I’m jogging through peanut butter I’m going to go back and read this post to, uh, adjust my attitude. I think that should be a new hashtag, btw. #peanutbutterrun

8. Um… my health? I don’t know how to sum this up, but this past year health-wise has been, to say the least, challenging. Hearing issues have been a big problem. I have tinnitus, and so my ears are always doing this weird shrieky thing (Have you seen Dumb and Dumber? The most annoying sound in the world? Yea, that. (By the way, I have actually never seen Dumb and Dumber in its entirety. My husband, however, has seen it multiple times. This pretty much sums up our marriage.) And then there’s menopause, where your hormones attack you and make you feel crazy about it. At one point, about 8 months ago, I wondered if this was just it. If I was going to feel like crud forever. Guess what? I am indeed not going to feel like crud forever! I am crud-free about 75% of the time! It’s fabulous!

7. Steve. There, I said it again. I’m grateful for him, and how much I loved him, and that my eyes still tear up pretty much anytime I think about him. I am grateful I loved my big boi so much. He was my furry muse.

Biggy Paws

6. And so… Rey.

She’s trying very hard to come in between me and my laptop.

Rey has been a great comfort to me while I grieve for Sir Meows a Lot. She comes over and presses herself up against me, and then tries to crawl in my lap which is awkward because the girl can take up SPACE. I admire her confidence. I always imagine she’s just sort of softly muttering as she attempts the lap-sneak, all “Pardon me… say… I might sit… don’t mind me I’m just gonna.., yes, HERE we go… oopsie, ok, just gonna squeeze through while I… ” and voila! Really uncomfortable cuddles! Watch this vid to get a glimpse of it in action. It is a thing of beauty.

5. My husband.

Also, he’s tall.

His name is Brian and he is often mentioned here. I wrote pages and pages about him in both my books. He’s a never-ending fountain of somewhat annoying but well-loved material. When I did stand-up last summer, 99.8 % of my material was under the heading: WHY. HE KEEPS DOING THIS and it was a hit. The best part is he sat there during the set and laughed too. That’s because he is generous and loving and has a lot of patience, which come to find out is shockingly necessary when you’re married to me.

4. It seems rather like I should put my sons in here too. Right? Right.

My fourteen-year old is now as tall as I am, and he is learning to drive. While this is occuring (the driving not the height), and I have the misfortune of actually being in the car with him at the same time, I have learned to practice deep-breathing and what I like to call “Shrieky-whisper-prayer-driving.” Charlie is smart and focused and will probably run a large corporation one day because his absolute passion in life is telling other people what to do. So, go forth and boss people around, my son. I adore you.

My twelve-year old, Henry, smiles and winks at me about 67% of the time as he gets out of the car to go to school. He is also smart and driven and won’t ever run a large corporation because he doesn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. He dreams of making it into the Air Force and flying planes. Without hurting anyone’s feelings. He has the attention span of a a very nice squirrel toddler on crack, but I forgive him because also he really loves my cooking. I adore you.

3. Sayings like: It’s always darkest before the dawn.

What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.

We’re gonna keep on, keep on, keep on, keep on dancing all through the night.
We’re gonna keep on, keep on, keep on doing it right (Ok, I stole that from the Brady Bunch).

If this year had been a motivational poster, I’m the kitten.

I mean… I guess there are worse things.

Who else had this poster ?? My sister had it on her wall 🙂

Here’s the thing. It is actually pretty dark before the dawn. But then, WHAMMMO. Dawn happens. Like every day.

And, I am strong. I was doing a plank earlier and Rey came and laid ON me (Again with the “lemme just… pardon me… I’m just going to sit right on here… “) so I’m basically ready for an Ironman.

And there has been some grooving in my life lately. A lot in fact. I can’t help it. I just can’t help it.

2. Yellow Converse.

Through the magic of Tiktok (something I thought I would never hear myself say, tbh) I have found funky, colorful, creative women who thrift weird art and like to play around with clothes. Sometimes they even pair (*gasp) plaids with stripes. The whole #wearwhatyoulove thing is a hashtag I can get behind. It started when I had to get more headshots for speaking things, and I decided to bring two pairs of shoes: pointy serious ones or my yellow converse. My photographer asked me, “Which ones make you feel more like you?” Yellow converse it is. It seemed, at the time, an audacious move. But then I asked myself, “What Would Brene Do?” and I wore them. And from there, it’s been a joyride into color and texture and just loving the creativity of it all.


1. Faith. Both in God and in humanity. Perhaps this won’t make sense to some of you. Some might feel like faith is a cliche. Or a speck of something, insignificant or annoying. Some might thing also that humanity has been circling the Great Toilet Bowl of Life for a while now (social media really has a handle on that and I really do hope you saw what I did there). I completely agree. As one who has found my faith shooketh all over the place in the past year, which also, not so very coincidentally, cracked open my Pollyanna-ish views of people in high places… it’s been a lot. It’s been hard. I have been frustrated and overwhelmed and at one point, I just told God I was mad at him and I wanted to break up. I’d been duped. I didn’t sign up for this. I wanted my flannel-graph Jesus back.

But, Jesus persisted. In his most human and godlike form (no flannel unless hipster Jesus?), he sat with me through it all. And then he walked with me, read with me, prayed with me. He didn’t give up on me. I’m not going to give up on him.

Besides. He helped me get sober and for that I owe him my life. Just my life. Nothing more.

So, there you go! My Top Ten Thankfuls. I would like to add one more as a bonus. It’s my blog and I can do what I want:

You. I am grateful for you, my dear reader. You are such a blessing to me.

Have a very Happy Thanksgiving and remember:

#eatdessertfirst

Waddle on, my sober friends. I am grateful for you. You know who you are 🙂

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.

When Writing is Easy

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Have you ever written something, and it just sort of poured out, like cool water from a spigot? And when it was all done you were able to read it back and think, “Yes! This is exactly right? What fun this was!”?

No? Me neither.

But – I have had brief and very lovely writing experiences that were sort of spigoty. And sometimes they ended with an “Almost there!” and didn’t feel like I was trying to wring out my brain a bit tighter every time I tapped a letter on the keyboard. And, after I was done writing I felt happy, and proud, almost as if some editor somewhere was looking down at me fondly, saying:

“That’ll DO, Dana. That’ll do.”
(For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, it’s ok. I didn’t really plan on a Babe reference in this piece, and yes I do release I am the pig in this scenario. #goals).

I wrote something that flowed right out of me once, and it won an award. To be honest? The award was really nice, but the experience of writing that thing? Worth so much more.

There has to be, on this troublesome planet, some sort of synchronous moment in our work, our writing, that equals a big deep breath. We need those moments, and if we don’t get them, we wither. So once in a while, God says, “Thou shall go forth write and it shallent make your brain feel like cottage cheese after” or some such, and lo it was good.

The article was from months ago, folks. This is not a recent thing, or a big thing. I was just thinking of it tonight as I was washing the dishes and looking out my kitchen window and noticing all the dirt on the screen. Our kitchen window overlooks a weed ravaged bit of earth and the side of our neighbor’s house, and it’s always bugged me. As far as kitchen windows go, mine is a solid C- and as a total over-achiever and A+ kinda girl my whole life, a C- is really pretty ucky.

So, for some reason, as I was cleaning and staring, I started to think about that article. And then I thought, “I’d like to write about that – to remind us all that water spigot moments did happen, and they DO happen, and they will happen again. We all get them, even in the midst of grimy windows and endless adulting and life’s tricky ability to make us forget.

This is your daily #spigotreminder to not give up.

Also, what does your kitchen window look out on?

And yes, I did end that sentence with a preposition but it’s my blog and I can do what I want. It sounds really twatty to say “out on which you look” or some such, unless your name is Miranda and you’re gazing out the kitchen window out onto the moors and waiting for your husband, Phillip, to return from the war. Which sounds very nice, visually, for Miranda, but also tough on her mental health. In conclusion? Window views are a tradeoff.

This photo was taken on a trip I made in 2011 to Ireland. I took this in Adare which is a little village just west of Limerick on the west side on Ireland. It was a charming little place with many buildings with these thatched roofs.

Sister friends.

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Me and my awesome friend, Jess, on the week before our podcast launch. Happy days 🙂

So, happy Monday everybody. I spent most of the weekend feeling like congealed gravy. It was a a mixture of (deep breath): Allergies/menopause/overwhelm/parenting two boys who are tweens/AND also I finished a really good book and didn’t have a NEW book to replace it this weekend so I was adrift.

You know what I mean. Right?

But it’s MONDAY and I’m gonna just MONDAY the living daylights out of it. This morning, I got up before dawn and put on a hoodie (#nobraseason) and left for very early coffee on my friend’s front porch. Her porch makes me feel like I am on an Alpine vacation and since it’s very possible I will be spending a good part of my day later doing very un-vacationey things like cleaning and working, this little Alpine retreat was a great start to my day. One can always hold a tiny slice of 7 am Swiss Alps in our hearts to help tide us over when later we are trying to understand why teenagers leave trails of Slim Jim wrappers everywhere they go, like slugs with a thing for protein.

Four of us were there, surrounded by fuzzy blankets and a whole lot of pumpkin spice creamer, and at 7 am, before the sun, we proceeded to dive into: insecurities/overwork/children/fear/parenting/healing/perspective/aging/& how chobani pumpkins spice creamer are the best.

Again, this was all at seven am. We are like the Navy Seals of introspective self-healing folk.

All this mental communion then motivated me to go for a run. So basically I have turned a corner on the congealed gravy thing.

Look, I’ve been married for a while now, and my husband is my best friend. But. My girl friends? They are my sister-friends. I need them so desperately. To be honest I wasn’t always like this. It took turning fifty, menopause, and just a whole lot of life to really help me see and value and NEED these women in my life.

And, I’m thankful for early runs and Monday restarts and sun that slants on a crisp morning and makes you feel like anything in this life is possible. Oh and pumpkin spice creamer because I’m basic I guess?

And allergy meds. Oh thank you sweet Lord.

But today I am just mostly forever grateful for my girlfriends.

My sister friends.

Tiny Brave.

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Do you ever feel like you live a life squished down? A small life? A dusty one?

Ever feel like you don’t make a difference?

YEA ME NEITHER. I TOTALLY MAKE A DIFFERENCE. I AM AMAZING AND SO ARE YOU.

I’ve decided to stop questioning my contributions. I make a difference. And so do you. We get up each day, and we do the thing. And then we do some of it again, and again… We tweak some parts and mess up on others… And then we proceed to do it all over the next day. It is Sisyphus. It is numbing. It is monumental. And it is hard.

It is the bravest contribution ever: The Continued Doing of Life.

(Also: I kind of feel that as a fifty year old woman just existing in this world is Big Time Bravery).

I went on a run this morning and felt energized and exhausted, all at the same time. I felt invincible and Iron Womanish, and then headed to my coffee shop where I tripped over a non-existent something on the floor and totally wiped out. There, I started an article about my faith, and immediately felt imposter syndrome about my lack of faith.

It’s very likely I’ll eat something healthy and all green and crunchy for lunch, but then later I’ll scarf Reese’s because I know my husband bought some and HE HID THEM IN THE HOUSE. (Game on, husband).

Bravery is not one big long Hallelujah Chorus of awesome. At least, not in my case. I just can’t maintain it for that long. I can do bravery in short bursts and then breathe a lot after, inhaling and exhaling through the regular goofy and pain of Dana (also paired with fear, lack of confidence, comparison, sadness… all the icky stuff because human Dana).

Bravery works well on an instagram post. Or a tiktok. It’s cinematic and it’s sexy but it, like sex, it should REALLY NOT go on and on and ON. I mean… that would be… well you know what I mean.

So, take my word for it. We are brave every day. It might be tiny brave, but it counts. Tiny brave counts. It really does!

Finally, to really drive home the fickleness of bravery: Here is a pic of my new glasses. They were a brave choice. I love them, but the guy at Target said, “Cool glasses. You look like Jeffrey Dahmer.” So, you know. Truly, not really the vibe I was going for but #itiswhatitis

Grieving a Career

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So, just so you know, I still miss Steve.

But also? I have also been grieving my career lately, but that’s not nearly as tangible as missing a large, white, purring behemoth of love. However, I figured out, just this morning, that for me the two are kind of connected.

Let me explain.

Here is a quick recap of Dana’s writing life: It actually became a career and then also turned into a speaking thing, and then Covid changed everything, and I decided to leave my publisher, and now… I did stand-up and am occasionally writing articles AND I FINALLY FINISHED THE PROPOSAL, DESPITE MY BRAIN.

Which, in writer-speak means this:

So, none of this seems… grieve-y. Right? These are all good things! These are natural progressions of a writing life! It’s not a big deal!!

But there is some real sadness there too. It feels an awful lot grief. And fear. Mixed together.

So… grear?

You get the idea.

I know I tend to bring Steve into all the things these days, but it’s my blog and I can do what I want. Here’s the deal: I cannot, honestly, see a life without Steve. I realize that makes it sound like he was just my everything and more ‘wind beneath my wingsy’ stuff, but that’s not really what I mean (although it’s up for debate). What I mean is: He provided comfort. Routine. He was ever-present. He was just… with me. He was a comfort-cat. My family? Yes, they are my comfort people and I love them MORE than STEVE, ok? But they also come with needing things and questions and confrontation and talking (so much talking) and with Steve? There was no ask. Just furry being.

And an occasional catnip fix. He wasn’t purrfect.

Come to find out, I kind of regarded my writing success the same way. I had a publisher approach me for my books, for pete’s sake. No agent. Just total pot-o-gold rainbow writing stuff. And The TODAY show CAME TO MY HOUSE (this was not pot-o-gold really it was more like pot-o-anxiety but you know).

And now? I am sending my proposal forth, and starting a whole new blog, and doing STAND UP which is so NOT what I ever ever saw coming. Folks, I realllllly like to see things coming. I plan all the things. I make lists FOR my lists. When I die, Jesus and I are going to have a coffee-date at Kingdom Depot, mainly in the aisle with all the cute planners and washi tape. And yes, that means I am going to PLAN heaven. Don’t judge me.

Along with all the creative new things, there came this uneasy feeling of sadness. I should have expected it, I guess. My new stuff was not offering up the comfort and validation of what I knew before. I’m not even writing the same genre anymore. I’m attempting fiction instead of memoir, which, of course, has a huge learning curve. And this sadness glommed onto all sorts of looming questions: How am I going to manage this? What if it doesn’t work? What if nobody cares?

What if I fail?

That’s a lot of looming.

Because of this, I have mini meltdowns, and I just long for easy. Or to just quit and follow a career path in interpretive dance.

I grieve it.

What does one do with all this? Well, the next logical step for me was to yell at myself. This grief thing? It seems so ungrateful. And negative. And just dumb. Just CARRY ON, Dana.

Yea. Yelling at me to be less me doesn’t work either.

What does work? I lean into story and write a blog post about what I’m feeling. And then hope that it connects with someone. This process is called “Help I’m Sad and Maybe You Have Felt This Way Too-itiveness?” and it has an 97% success rate. I know enough from my 12 step meetings that when we share the grief (however big or small) it helps. So thanks for helping me grieve a bit today, and then hit “publish” and then… go off and do some new things and carry on.

Oh, and also? Did you notice that for me grieving sent me back to my old pattern of blogging? I hadn’t blogged for ages, (I see you, Momsie) and when all this new comfort-zone blasting occured, I thought: “Huh. Maybe I should blog again.” And it has helped. SO much. So, maybe grief is helped by leaning on past things to balance out the future things. Like, when my brother died and I took his old stand-mixer, and anytime I use it I think of him? That kinda thing.

Does this kind of career-grief make sense to you? Or life-change grief? I keep thinking this is sort of what it was like when I got married and moved across the state. It was wonderful. A whole new life with my sweet babboo.

But there was actually some grief there too for my old life, ya know?

Thanks for listening my friends. If you are inclined – share, share away. And keep a lookout for the Pie and Coffee newsletter, where I give specific tips on how to navigate career grief.

Also, would you please consider sharing my newsletter or blog with someone who might need to hear it? There’s all sorts of folks out there who are dealing with stucked-ness (again, super technical term) who might benefit from a creative reset. I would be forever grateful.

And now, keep calm and create on.

Wine and Writing Don’t Mix

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Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a writer. The story of me and a very large, clunky Remington typewriter is on my first blog, Momsie – the blog where I wrote about momhood, babies, husbands, and pets (Steve. I wrote about Steve). Click on the image below for a blog post from Momsie about Steve’s squeak-purr:

https://momsieblog.com/2017/02/17/weak/

I remember when I first started Momsie – I told my friend Christy that “everyone and their dog has a blog” – but she convinced me that dogs were not really my demographic and that I just needed to focus on Steve because he was a total cash cow.* Thus, Momsie was born.

It was a relief to write. It was easy. The stories were just so plentiful. My kids were great material; they were so cute**, and I could throw my words out there and offer up some laughter for the four or five folks who actually read me.

But also, Momsie was born out of a very real desperation (in my recovery circles some would call it the “gift of desperation”) to handle my new sobriety. I needed something to do. I needed someone to be. The blog saved me. It took my poor, mushy brain that was slowly starting to un-mush (medical terms are my thing) and it soothed it.

At camp, when you take the crumpled old t-shirt that your mom reminded you last minute to toss into the bottom of your backpack, and you rubberband the living daylights out of it and toss it in dye? That’s writing. (Notice how well I’m explaining this? #Pulitzer).

I mean – you have this rumpled, frayed thing, and then you twist it, fiddle with it, not really sure what you’re doing at all or where you’re going with it… And then the dye starts to seep in, slowly, all crazy and winding with rivulets and tributaries of saturation. And the end result? It’s a cacophony of color.

If you haven’t gathered, I totally have all my 70’s tie dye shirts still. They’re stretchy crop tops now, but that’s in style. #influencer

No, I’m not wearing the t-shirts/crop tops anymore. One did fit Steve, but he was so mortified that I forgot to take pictures and this is a tragedy so breathtaking I need to stop writing about it right here.

With Momsie, I wrote because the words just kinda came out of my fingers. My husband bought me a used laptop for my birthday, and then I had someplace mobile for the words to go. I could write at the park. I could write in bed. I could write while Red was trying to learn to use the potty and I had to sit outside the bathroom for hours until my butt fell asleep and I would end up eating all the bribery M and M’s. Pain is a great motivator for writing.

And Momsie was born, and grew and thrived. The rest was history.

Well, no. Actually, it’s not history – it’s my life right now. The words still have to come out of me pretty much every day or my brain goes all wonky. The colors must out, as it were.

There were a bunch of articles that came out in the early 2000’s about how alcohol was good for creativity. This was paired along with the whole “red wine is good for your heart” thing, which was soooooo my thing back when I was drinking. Lookit. I’m drinking four glasses of red wine! YOU KNOW, CUZ IT’S GOOD FOR MY HEART.

Yea. Turns out, the heart thing is not true.

And the whole, “artists need alcohol to create” thing? It’s total crapola.

Our muse is not a bottle. It’s in us.

My colors are completely Dana-Generated. I don’t use anything outside of myself and my own experiences for their saturation. This is what works best for me. Dana-generated colors cause a daily bloom of gratitude. It’s the ultimate “look what I made!” – every day.

Thanks for the listen, and, as always, I’m grateful for you, my dear readers.

Where are the colors in your life?


*cashcat

* *They are still cute.

This is marriage. Episode #228485

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Marriage, ya’ll. It’s a rush, right?

Brian and I have been married now for… a while. I always say we’ve been married for about ten years or so. Brian tells me it’s 16 because math wins, but to me, ten is a nice, round number that sticks with you.

Also, I tend to still think 1990 is like, ten, twelve? Ish? Years ago?? Right????

You get the idea.

This year, our wedding anniversary landed on the world’s hottest day because I am a teacher, and so we had to get married (16 years ago) in July. As all teachers do. And we celebrated it by me doing standup where I roasted Brian for my entire set, and he affably laughed throughout.

Here’s a wedding day picture (from 16 years ago). Brian was totally sunburnt because he went golfing the day prior with his friends while I was running around like crazy trying to make sure we had a wedding. As is the way.

Also I am really fixated on the ceiling?

Initially, for my stand up routine, I had written up a 20 minute set about Steve, the amazing recovery cat. Steve was always a solid source of material as he was a really, really solid cat. Literally. But, you know, Steve is happily lying in the sun somewhere up in heaven and don’t you dare email me about my theology. Cats go to heaven.

Or at least Steve did because he was divine.

Ok, I’ll stop with the puns about Biggie Meows. I really loved that cat though. You know that.

As it is Labor Day weekend, I have spent a large part of it laboring on our house (Laundry. Why is there so much laundry) and trying not to resent the family for it. I work from home which means I try to write and then do laundry in between. But this morning? I actually just made a long list of chores for the boys and left the house. I am currently sipping cold brew and, as always, working on the BIG BOOK PROPOSAL which I swear is almost done.

But the best thing? I gave the husband a kiss and had this conversation:

Me: The boys have a list. Can you make sure they get it done? And by done, like… they do it properly? I’m pretty sure Blonde’s version of mopping the kitchen doesn’t even involve water. Maybe he just hopes it clean, like a mop fairy. *claps hands a la Tinkerbell*

Brian: *totally misses Tinkerbell thing but oh well* Sure. You go write.

He might not be very adept at his Disney metaphors but he is supportive. I make very little cashola in the writing field, folks. I have, like, 7 followers. My “platform” is wobbly and I post funny things on the Tiktoks because they make ME laugh. So, in sum: I am not a big money-maker. Thankfully, I’m pretty sure this was not why Brian married me. As I was a high school English teacher when we met, Brian knew I wasn’t going to be raking in the dough.

But… sometimes this bothers me.

I don’t… contribute, you know? Or, at least I allow the bitchy accountant in my head to try to convince me of this, occasionally.

And then I remember that I am a mom and I contribute a whole heck of a lot to our family, to our lives, and I know that. I KNOW that. But it just is so very nice to have a supportive partner who says things like, “Sure. You go write” no matter what. He has told me that I am talented and funny and once when he was reading one of my articles he even chuckled under his breath which was the biggest compliment ever. If you are a writer, you know the total joy of hearing someone chuckle while they read your stuff. Unless, of course, you write just totally serious or sad stuff. I don’t know what to tell you then.

But I’m a funny lady and I write funny stuff. That chuckle kept me going for days. And I have used the word “stuff” way too many times here. #pulitzer.

BTW: Here is Brian dressed as Joseph-with-glasses for our Christmas church pageant thing. They asked him to be Joseph because he has a beard. But, when I think Joseph, I think Brian. He’s very spiritual.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that may you have a such a person in your life.

We all deserve a Brian.

Steve the Sobriety Cat

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So, Steve died three weeks ago.

And I’m not gonna say “he passed” or “we lost him” because, well, he died and it was just awful.

Is it fair to say that Steve was my soulmate? Perhaps. When I talk this way about him to my husband, Brian gets a bit blinky and tends to sort of clam up, but I think Brian’s OK with it. I have used other terms about Steve around Brian – words like, “he is my everything” and “he’s the wind beneath my wings” and so far Brian has been good about it. I mean, let’s face it, Brian has to be good about it right now because Steve just died, and arguing with me about my grief and affection for the Biggie Paws would a big fat marital no-no.

I miss my sweet Steve so much. I really do. I just have to say it.

I have written about Steve a lot. He has an entire chapter dedicated to him in my first book, Bottled – because Steve helped me get sober. YES he did and don’t argue. If you are in recovery, and you have a sobriety pet, THIS MAKES TOTAL SENSE.

In fact, if you look closely, this website has a whole page dedicated to the deliciousness that was Sir Meows A Lot.

My heart is still grieving and I think it will always. He was just that good of a cat. So, in the style of Judith Viorst (she’s one of my favorite authors ever) – here is:

The Tenth Good Thing About Steve

  1. Steve was a weighted blanket. Anxious? He’d clamber up on you, purring, and weigh you down with girth and love.
  2. Steve had a really big head. And body. All of him, actually. But petting his large, soft noggin was… substantial. Yes, there will be numerous points here that will mention his circumference.
  3. In the morning, when I would head downstairs to get my coffee, my two dogs and Steve would all thump downstairs too. I used to think of it as the “Running of the Pets.” It made a lot of noise and there was some jostling. But Steve always managed to be first. Watching his large white haunches hustle down those stairs always made me smile. Steve did love his brekkie.
  4. You could actually hear Steve jump down from a bed or a perch upstairs if someone was at the door. He was loud. He made himself known. And he needed to say hello.
  5. Steve had a deep love for anyone who had a cat allergy. He would lay on this person (or try to) and look up at him with adoration. “I will change you,” his eyes would say. “Shhhhhhhh, my love. Allergies, shmallergies.” I always kind of judged the ones who would manage to shoo him away (Steve was persistent – usually three attempts were made). Steve and I would make eye contact and I would give a tiny nod. That person was now dead to us.
  6. Steve did not give any f–cks. Ever. About anything.
  7. When Steve was sick a few years ago (he had surgery – it was a lot) I slept with him in the bathroom one night because I didn’t want him to be alone. At one point he reached out his paw and just set it on my face, and I knew he appreciated the company.
  8. Steve often would crawl up on Brian at night. Brian, a man who often has refereed to cats as *rats with more fur* would be hypnotized by Steve’s slow blinks and succumb to scritching him behind his ears for as long as Steve graced him with his presence. If Steve was a cult, then sign me up.
  9. If anyone was ever crying in our house, Steve would show up and slowly climb up on him (Or her. Me, ok? It was often me). His warmth made it better of course, but also his look of, “Brah, why you crying? I am here. It’s chill dude. Life is hard but I am soft.” He was, as I have referred to in my book, the Jeff Spicoli of cats.
I see a resemblance don’t you?

And 10. Steve was, as all pets are, generous with his love, his time, and his softness. All he wanted was food, cuddles, and a sunny spot to sleep, and I shall miss him every day.


*To clarify – my husband is not a monster. Also, rats actually make great pets.

Life is hard. Steve was soft. May we all have a Steve.

Who I was, what happened, and who I am now. With PICTURES!!

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Trying to be brave and posting bare-faced.

So, it’s kind of hard to sum up addiction. Why do some folks get addicted to things… and others don’t?

I have no idea. For many years, when I first got sober, I asked myself, “Why can’t I drink? Why ME?”

Um, because I’m an alcoholic.

Yes, I know it’s circular reasoning, which, if you are a writing teacher is kind of a big no-no. But in this case? I’ll take it. I take “circular reasoning” and I’ll raise you a “Genetics are a part but there’s so much more” and leave it at that.

In the wise words of the epic rock legend, Avril Lavigne, “Why’d you have to make things so complicated?”

Because life. Life tends to be tricky.

So… I decided to share my recovery story with you…

BUT WITH PICTURES!

  1. We begin at the beginning but more like my 20’s.
2. This was a thing with me, and I didn’t really know it was a thing until much later. But I’m pretty sure I had a real issue with depression and anxiety from early on. I just ignored it.
3. I never actually did the splits when depressed. I didn’t do the splits at other times either.
In my life, I don’t do the splits. I have learned that about myself.
4. That’s me on the right. I’m mopping the floor. Generally speaking? I had the cleanest dorm room in the four state area.

And so… I present to you… *(drum roll please)





And wine worked.

Until it didn’t.

Stay tuned for the rest of the story where I get sober. WITH PICTURES!

Safe places

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Welcome to my brain. It’s a little weird in here, but also very kitschy. It’s a New Girl episode where they’re all a lot older and less drinkie. I’d watch it.

Also, my brain today is back in a safe place, so it’s humming with ideas.

I long for spaces that match my insides. If you are a literal person, like my 13-year-old son (aka “the lawyer”), that kind of statement is followed by an “Ew, MOM.”

But I bet some of you understand. I long for spaces that allow me to take a deep breath in, and then out, and feel all *equally pressurized.

Here are some spaces that do NOT help me to feel all equally pressurized:

  1. The vet. More on this later, but I have had wayyyy too many visits to our local vet lately (they are wonderful and lovely and lovING, but still, no no, not my safe place).
  2. That one place in Walmart towards the back where that guy in the red button-down is trying to sell you new cell phone service and NO MATTER how much you focus your eyes straight ahead, he still manages to sidle up and you have to do that awkward slow-walk, but you’re also still moving to show him you have places to BE in the Walmart, and no you don’t need a new cell, but also you don’t want to be mean because he’s just trying to make a living? That place.
  3. Actually, all of Walmart, really.
  4. Any school supplies aisle right now. Even in Target, where the cool school supplies hang out.

Places that help me to feel safe? Well, here’s one of them:

Nice product placement, Dana. Shameless plug.

You might recognize this coffee house – I was here a few weeks ago for my solo writer’s retreat. I’m back just for a few hours of writing.

It’s safe here. My insides match my outsides here.

Other safe places:

  • My front porch
  • The dinner table unless there is a casserole involved. Casseroles are my nemesis.
  • My back stoop, especially if Rey the Good Dog is with me (She’s a leaner. Do any of you have doggos that like to lean on you? It’s very grounding).
  • A church pew
  • Cody, Wyoming (I visited there long ago and I rode a horse named Jumper which was apt. I’m coming back, Jumper. Wait for me).
  • Anyplace accompanied by a good book. I’m reading The Lioness right now and it’s so gooooooood.

These types of places allow me to actively rest. Then, about four minutes later I’ll have a little burst of ideas, which I’ll have to write down (I usually end up texting myself which can be super awkward if I accidentally text Darrel, my pastor. It’s kind of hard to explain a text that says: ANXIETY BIRDS to my pastor. But you know? I’m sure he aimed for understanding. He always does. Especially with me).

Oh, and here’s another safe space: Anywhere Rey naps. Need proof?

VOILA:

I mean, honestly.

Do you have spaces that help you breathe a little easier? Create a little more? Do they help you fill up, overflow, contribute?

I think space is crucial to creativity. And notice? I used this weird term *equally pressurized. I NEVER said my space helps me feel “balanced.” That’s just a term for gymnasts and 20 year olds.

Where are your safe places?

Would you like to get some ideas to help plan your own creative retreat? Click below:

Kittens and fudge and wifi.

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I’m writing this from the fourth coffeehouse in two days. Also there was boba tea in there at some point and a really good burger.

I’m on a writer’s retreat, ya’ll. Sustenance.

There has also been fudge. But only purchased, not consumed. Yet.

Oh and some frozen lemonade thing that really didn’t seem all that lemonadey. I need my lemonade to smack me in the mouth with its tartness. This one just sort of booped me in the nose. It’s ok, lemonade. You be you.

But Dana, you ask. When are you actually writing?

IN BETWEEN, SILLY.

On this retreat I have:

  1. Had a very serious talk with my Calendar. We got eye to eye and I said things like, “Ok, Calendar. Cut it out. I’m in charge. I AM. You’re not the boss of me.
  2. Added about 6 more things to Calendar.
  3. Wrote a blog post and a newsletter.
  4. Finally finished the book synopsis I talk about here.
  5. Worked on chapters 1 and 2. All the while there was a constant soundtrack in my head to the tune of: “What Do You Think You’re Doing, Dana, You Total Fakezoid.” It has a snazzy beat.

I want you to realize, dear reader, that imposter’s syndrome is very common. I think I could seriously win a Pulitzer and I would still be all “It was probably a fluke and someone out there by the name of Dana Bawman is really ticked off that I stole her Pulitzer.”

But here is what I learned while I was here:

  1. Coffeeshops regularly chose really interesting music. I am currently listening to showtunes in Japanese. Thanks Reverie Coffee for the culture. Also, you make a lemon cream croissant that is to die for.
yes my love.

2. If I listened to all the voices in my head I would be home making a blanket fort with my cats and as great as that sounds one cannot achieve your highest potential when that is ALL that you do. Don’t come at me, cats.

3. People are really nice. While here, I have had recommendations for food, walking paths, books, and the best burger. People are interested in what I’m writing and they are all about encouragement. People are just amazing.

4. I will never be as cool as a barista.

Don’t allow your inner voice to shut you down. If it keeps telling you all sorts of negative things? That’s not an inner voice. That’s an inner a$$hole. This sounds really weird and ew and like something from a David Cronenberg movie and I hate his movies.

David, if you’re reading my blog, I’m sorry.

(spoiler alert he’s not reading it)

I will have to say, though: if blanket forts with your cat are your thing? Do it. It does sound kinda cool.

In conclusion, I leave you with a whole heck of a lot of writing yet to do, but also this video of fudge. You’re welcome.

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/MtnRDPPGw-0

Stuckedness and Other Technical Terms

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Here are the symptoms of Stuckedness:

  1. Fatigue. A lot of napping. Or dreaming of napping. Drapping, if you will.
  2. Walking aimlessly from room to room.
  3. Clicking aimlessly from project to project.
  4. IG. Tiktok. Facebook for the old folks. Repeat.
  5. Doomscrolling on Twitter (JUST DON’T DO IT. IT NEVER WORKS OUT.)
  6. Feelings of inadequacy paired with constant self-absorption. Tricky.
  7. Masking. Super cheery, “I’m GREAT! How are YOU?” hellos to everyone. This is exhausting.
  8. Emotional eating. Or maybe that was just me?
  9. Persistent thoughts like, “Isn’t there more to life than this?” and “It’s never gonna change.”
  10. Distraction. Constant, annoying, loud, baffling distraction.

Stuckedness sounds an awful lot like depression, doesn’t it?

Stuckedness can affect your work, your relationships, your own mental health. It can tell you that you’re the worst mom, co-worker, friend, artist, *fill in the blank* ever. It is very good at what it does, because it tells you to NOT move and then it makes not moving very, very comfortable.

Feeling stuck sucks.

Remember that 80’s movie The Never Ending Story? Ok, don’t worry, I’m not going to show you ANY images of Artax, because if you know, you know. You simply cannot bear to look at poor Artax drowning in the Swamp of Sadness, and I can’t afford to put you into therapy, so we’re just gonna gently remember… But also know that ARTAX COMES BACK AT THE END.

If you have dealt with Stuckedness, you really understand Artax. So, my analogy stands, but let’s move on before you get any more trauma. (He comes BACK, ok? Remember that!!)

That’s Stuckedness. It surrounds and drowns and wants you to give up. And any sort of movement just seems so hard. I’d rather just wrap up in a blanket and watch Nailed It on Netflix for four years, thank you.

And I just about did. I mean, two years ago I settled IN to the Stuckedness, ya’ll. My couch had a permanent outline of me and my dog in it. Any spare moment alone? I was stuck. Usually with a bag of chips so you know. Carbs.

Why am I telling you all this? Because I want you to understand that this *waves hands around* whole website/newsletter thing is not another hustle. It’s not going to sell you stuff. I don’t foresee a baseball hat with “Stuckedness” on it in the future. Down the road, there might be workshops, or classes, because that’s what I do anyhow (I’m still a teacher. I have been for over twenty years. Currently I teach writing at the local college).

I have been there, and I got out, and I want to help.

Also, all this stuff about sharing my story? It’s purely selfish. This keeps me sober and it makes my heart happy, so really, it’s all about me. Ask my husband. Nothing lines up with my brand more than, “Really, it’s all about me.” Perhaps I should stick THAT on a t-shirt and sell it.

So, here’s one practical giveaway to fight the Stuck:

Music. I went over to the youtubes, and I searched “Waves, music, focus, happy” and about fourteen kajillion options came up. I clicked the first one. Also, I searched: “Birdsong” and another majillion options tweeted at me. So, between the beach and the birdies, I felt like my soul had a soundtrack. I can tell you all about binaural beats and the “happiness frequency” but I just started with birdies. I didn’t want lyrics or music that is current – even my beloved ELO was out. This stuff was simple, serene, and very very easy to work to without distraction. And it helped. Try it! Here’s one of my favorites:

Carry on, friends. And eat dessert first.

The woman in the picture

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My title sounds like a Netflix movie about someone who drinks a lot of red wine and sees a murder and then no one believes her for 50 minutes until she almost gets murdered and finally a man takes notice and saves her.

BUT NO.

It’s just me, folks.

After my last post I wanted to post a quick announcement, and also some rando pix of my latest thrift haul because it’s my blog and I can do what I want. But actually these two things (the pix and the blog) are connected, so continuity for the win!

Announcement: My website is about helping people get their creativity back. It’s about a creative “reset,” and especially aims at those who find themselves stuck in addiction or negative behavior patterns and coping skills. I like to term this very scientifically as: STUCKEDNESS.

But: (and this is huge): IT’S GOING TO HELP ME, TOO. I too am stuckedness.

Further proof that it really is all about me.

Stuckedness is a symptom of a lot of things, and for me, it came back in the form of low self worth, insecurities and anxieties about my writing, and big-time sad feelings. BTW: “Big time sad feelings” is not in the DSM, but it should be.

So, yesterday I took a break from my colossal to-do list (I like lists! I actually love them. They give me comfort and a locus of control. See exhibit A below where I actually have a main list (cute colors) and a whole different notebook that made a LIST of FUTURE lists.

Exhibit A: Yes, I know Wed. and Thur. look empty but it’s all a ruse. I had a whole separate stunt-woman list for them.

My break from writing consisted of dropping of dry cleaning and buying more food because I am an adult. But it also included a trip to my happy place: THE THRIFT STORE.

I do so love thrifting, for so many reasons. It’s about the thrill of the hunt, and finding really cool stuff that is colorful and different and a little bit weird. Like me. So yesterday, I hit the jackpot in dresses section – I’ll share my haul on IG later because it’s on my list – but I want to talk about this divine thing:

I mean. Honestly.

Handmade. From the seventies. All the color. It makes me so happy.

But then, as I was gazing at it on the rack at the Goodwills, there were other emotions that joined in, because happiness in my head always seems to come with annoying mosquito-ey suckers that say things like:

“This is never going to look good on you.”

“You are simply too old to try this amount of color. And the sleeves. Really Dana. Are you seventeen.

“People will not understand. It’s too much. You’re too much.”

And I faltered. I really did. But she’s home safe with me now. And I will wear her. I’ll be in the picture. I’ll not hide behind my age or my insecurities anymore because that doesn’t work for me. My inner critic can shut the hell up.

When you get to be fifty you can say stuff like that. But I highly recommend you try saying it at whatever age you are.

So, that’s kinda what Dana Bowman Creative will be about too. Brightness and whimsy and creative, funky choices that feed my soul, or yours. And we will learn how to be IN the picture, not on the sidelines or behind the camera. It’s uncomfortable a bit, and there might be some really floofy sleeves, but how else can we wear the color?

At some point I’ll thrift flip her a little. Update her, transform her into a skirt or something a bit more modern. Maybe.

But until then:

After Silence, better.

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One does not intend to disappear. But I did, for months.

There are a few reasons. And, if you are at all familiar with me (it’s been awhile, I know), you know I love lists. So…

A List of Reasons Why I Disappeared:

  1. Uh. Covid.
  2. Covid again.
  3. Depression. Probably b/c Covid.
  4. Menopause. ???
  5. Yea, no, I’m not going to put “???” with “Menopause” like it’s not a thing. It was a THING y’all, and it still is. Mix it liberally w/ #1-3 and it was craptastic.
  6. I left my original publisher, for other reasons that are just my own, and then promptly felt all adrift and lost and didn’t know what to do with myself.

Perhaps this list is similar to a creative list of your own. I mean… #6 might be a bit niche-y. But, have you felt stuck and small and adrift? Well THAT’S BEEN ME FOR A WHILE NOW.

But, in the incandescent words of my muse, Eminem: “Guess who’s back. Back again. Shady’s back. Tell a friend.”

Look. I’ve had a lot of time to sit and ponder. A good portion of my summer was me, literally, lying on my back and pondering the ceiling, as I was so sick that reading, writing, and even Netflix were impossible. It was like I was simply forced to just… be. And be very still. And at first I hated it, and then I hated it some more. And then? I noticed something.

I kept getting ideas.

The reason I am a writer is because I have all these ideas that keep floating up, and then I write about them. But while I was dealing with #1-6 above all my writing stopped. But the ideas? They quietly, flutteringly, floated up at me. They kept coming. And one evening, stuck in my sick room, just me and my ceiling, frustrated and sad about it all – I started to cry and as the tears slipped down my face (gravity) to pool into my ears (you know you’ve had this happen) and I had an idea: Tears are ways to stopper up sound. And sometimes silence is good. Total stops are good. Being STILL is good.

It was both an idea and medicine at the same time.

That idea and all the others that would gently float by me – they gave me hope. And I recorded some of them (I texted myself or wrote them down in on a notebook, as one does when one is a Writer) and I realized two things:

  1. I still have ideas and God kept them coming even in my darkest hour. Maybe even because of my darkest hour.
  2. In the incandescent words of my muse that old guy in Monty Python? I’M NOT DEAD YET.

Thanks for listening, folks. Keep listening, if you want, to hear more about creativity, our brains, and how we must value our creative selves if we want to survive this world.

I’m honored to have ye.

Oh! And actually? I did a bit of shopping while I was prone, and I bought this. It was a crucial purchase.

“You’re too old and too uncool” – and other lies we tell ourselves.

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(This post was shared with you from Momsieblog)

So… Are you done at 51?

This question, in all it’s poetic glory, surfaced in our newpodcast today. We were talking about what it’s like to be fifty. To feel a bit invisible. To wonder about whether our synapses can still accept new information.

SPOILER ALERT: HECK NO YOU ARE NOT DONE.

You are not done at 51 even if:

  1. You feel tired. Listen. We’re all tired. The entire world is tired. It’s ok.
  2. You feel invisible. As stated above, it’s a thing. You turn 50 and then you become non existent. You give up and start wearing skorts. But invisibility is a wonderful thing at times. Just ask Harry Potter.
  3. You are a weensy teensy bit menopausal. Ok, this one is just for me, but you know. If you are a uterus person and you are of a certain age, it’s gonna happen. There are pros and cons. I don’t have time to cover them all here but I will say this: Those cooling mattress pad thingies that cost crackamillion dollars on the amazons? BUY THEM. DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT. JUST GO.
  4. You are constantly reminded by your eleven year old spawn that you are: “The like oldest mom in my class! Even older than my teacher! By like a lot! We talked about it and made a chart and yep you are IT!”

All of these things are things that happen at 50. They especially tend to happen if you are:

  • female
  • silver-haired (which sounds weird but go here. You’ll see).
  • A bit late in the baby-birthing game so you are in that weird limbo of totally menopausal but also still stuck talking about minecraft all the time
  • any combination of the above but the female thing is kinda crucial

I’m not one to brag* but lately? I have started a podcast, figured out co-hosting, not completely made my co-host mad at me not even once, and also managed to keep my kids off screens 30% of the time for the first two weeks of summer.

CLEARLY I AM THE BOSS.

If you are feeling kinda… done? At 51? Or 21? or whenever-one?

You’re not. It’s just not a thing. I realize that mullets are a thing, and mom jeans are a thing now, and yes, Bennifer has become, yet again, a THING.

But: BEING DONE IS JUST NOT A THING.

So. Carry on, mommas.

PSA: Naps are a thing though. #priorities

*not exactly the truth.