Writing When You REALLY Don't Want To

The show must go on. Do people still say that? When you have a blog you write for every week and post to every single (insert day here), the show must go on. It doesn't matter what's going on in your life with your house or your spouse or your kids or your health. And so the show goes on. It might not be the best play you've seen. In fact, you might have a good laugh over drinks after the curtain goes down, but at least you sat in the theatre and watched the darn thing.

I've ruined my entire (long) weekend by hurting my back (again), and I'm painfully typing out a "show-must-go-on" post. It's silly. Yes, it really is. And I'm in pain so I'm not sure if any of this is making sense. What I'm pretty sure of is that it won't be terribly interesting. But they can't all be gems. 

As an aside, I find it fascinating that even though I did nothing to bring on another herniated disc, the word choice above is this: "I've ruined my...weekend by hurting my back..." Huh. Why am I turning the anger inward? Why do I blame myself for this? This is something else I love about writing. When you freewrite, as I am doing here, I discover my word choice reveals eensy weensy things hiding in dark corners hoping not to be noticed. Just something to chew on.  

Anyway. It's Monday. My show must go on. 

*takes bow* 

Ouch!

Women Awakening

I am honored to be included among the talented writers who shared their stories for the newly released I Am Subject: Women Awakening book. This anthology includes stories from 36 women. Each essay is different, each is beautiful. The variety of voices and experiences works well when brought together with the thread of claiming or reclaiming. It is a book about women coming to a realization about themselves and taking control of their lives. Separated into four parts: Family History, Body and Mind, Internal and External Roles, and Life Altering Moments, these many stories are combined into one beautiful collection.

Women Awakening
is a compilation of thought-provoking, powerful, and genuine stories.

Women Awakening (I Am Subject Stories) is available for purchase here and here. Edited by Diane DeBella and Anora McGaha, founder of Women Writers, Women's Books.

The Day I Decided To Dye

I am participating in Diane DeBella’s I Am Subject project. This project showcases women's stories about when or how they reclaimed their lives. There are many stories, many voices. Here is my #iamsubject story:

When I was young, I was blond. 

A pretty, little schoolgirl with pigtails and blue eyes. My grandmother’s “doll”, my mother’s only daughter, my teachers’ cute student, my ballet instructor’s graceful dancer. They loved to see me happy. So I smiled. 

I tried to be the girl they saw.

As I grew, my hair did, too. Long. Stick straight. Still bright blond. I was cast in the lead of the elementary school play, placed front row center in my class picture in a different color chair than all the other kids, thrown into spotlights when all I wanted was to hide in the shadows. I was confused and shy. People seemed to like me that way. So I stayed. 

I tucked my discomfort away.
 
As a teenager, the “dumb blond” stereotype brought some twisted form of admiration. It got me invited to the cool parties and landed me a job as a beer girl. I earned a great hourly wage laughing and handing out t-shirts, koozies, and blinking buttons to bar-hoppers. So I acted. 

I tanked my grades and found acceptance in stupidity.

In a moment of defiance, during which I realized my life was not mine, I dyed my hair brown—a tiny slice of time, a small act of defiance. I saw this as so much more. It was me rebelling against everything people thought I was and wanted me to be. 

I wasn't that girl anymore.

Reactions ranged from disbelief to disapproval. Family was shocked. Friends asked why I would get rid of my blond hair. People told me I used to be pretty. My soon-to-be-ex said it looked awful. 

I had never felt more beautiful.  

Then I met my perfect. He had everything I could have dreamed of plus a bit more. I became pregnant and stopped coloring my hair. I expected bizarre-looking roots to start showing. My blond growing in. I was going to be a pregnant skunk. I laughed at the thought. But I swore I would get rid of the blond the minute I got home from the hospital.  

I didn't have to.

My hair grew in a different shade—shiny, beautiful…brown. I had my son. A gorgeous boy with brown hair and blue eyes who looked exactly like his mother. As many new moms do, I spent countless hours staring at my new baby. He tugged at something deep within me. The child I never got to be. The mother I wasn’t sure I could be. 

I had watched women disappear into motherhood, losing themselves in the responsibility of raising a child.

The thing that might have taken away my sense of self broke me out of the shell I had lived in and gave me the self I wasn’t aware I was searching for. The baby, who forced me into the role of mother, helped me define who I was as a woman. Someone I didn’t know. Someone I liked. 

A smart, strong, sarcastic, loving brunette.