Work Hard and You Will Succeed?

The first part of my life was spent living in poverty. A single mother of three children who started procreating at age 15 and a mostly absent father who job hopped and avoided child support meant that the prescription for my formative years was written in permanent ink.

I still find it interesting that I didn't actually realize we were poor until later in life. Seemed to me like everyone around me was in pretty much the same economic condition. Plus, I had my family, which made me rich! A handsome brother and 4 sisters meant I was never alone, and never lonely.

Still, we grew up with Momma struggling to make ends meet. I remember shopping with her in the grocery store and "giving her permission" to buy a week's worth of chicken pot pies so she wouldn't have to write (another) hot check.

For a long time, in hopes of not perpetuating the poverty cycle, I was sold on the idea that if you worked hard, you'd succeed! It's pretty common fodder, even in today's elementary schools. We are fed it with our school lunches, and it's about as appetizing. The idea seem plausible, until I worked my first "real" job. Really hard. Long, hard hours with a horrible, mean boss making not very much money. And failing.

After a brief sojourn where I felt successful, but was bored with my work, I find myself back at that ubiquitous place, "failure." This time, of the unemployed. I may even be unemployable. I could write all day on why I'm a failure, but it seriously won't change anything because I am who I am. Inherently I'm a strong-willed opinionated woman who speaks her mind, often insults the wrong people (but never means to), and doesn't often understand the social conventions that are so obvious to others. So, I'm learning to redefine success-on my terms.

Success may be the check for royalties I got this afternoon. A whopping $44.65! And yes, I'm proud. I'll earn another $15 later in the week, for thoughts that I got down on paper that someone else thought were worth something. And I never dreamed how glorious "hard work" can feel.

Whining

Made it through the store this morning thank goodness. There were a couple of dicey moments and by the time I was finished, it was definitely time to go.

All the decorations are in place for a frightful time tomorrow night! One of our last writing prompts was to write a spooky story. I didn't make it to that meeting, so I thought I'd post it here. Happy Hauntings!

Bethany woke with a start. She peered around her, trying to see past the curtain that was midnight, straining her ears.

There. There it was again, the sound that woke her. A scratching was coming from underneath the house, or maybe the outside of the house? She reached across the bed and shook her husband.

“Andre, I hear it again,” she said in a low, calm voice. She knew what it was like to be suddenly woken from a sound sleep and didn’t wish that on anyone. When there was no response, she shook him again. “Andre!”

“What, Beth? I’m trying to sleep!” snapped Andre.

“I hear the noise again, Andre. Listen.”

Silence filled the dark room as the couple strained to hear.

“Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch” was definitely coming from outside their bedroom window. Or perhaps from underneath the house?

“Well? What do you think it is?” Beth whispered.

Andre rolled out of bed and stomped, hard, on the floor. The scratching stopped briefly, than started up again, quicker and more frantic than before.

“Don’t worry about it, just go to sleep,” said Andre, climbing back into bed and pulling the blankets up to his chin.

“It keeps waking me up!” said Bethany. “Can’t you do something? It’s probably a raccoon or something.”

Andre sighed. Although they were newly married, he already recognized a stubborn streak in his wife that told him she was not going to let this rest until he got up and went outside to see what all the ruckus was about.

He sat up on the side of the bed and pulled on his slippers, then reached for his robe. As he made his way through the house, Bethany could hear him rummaging in the kitchen cupboard for a flashlight.

“Thank you!” she called out, getting a grunt in response.

As the door slammed, Andre stomped around the house, collecting the ax from the woodpile as he went.

“Damn it all anyway, what the hell? This will stop!” he said and he walked into the night.

Beth slipped from the bed, and made her way to the bedroom window. Pulling the curtain back, she peered into the night blindly. She could hear the scratching, but couldn’t quite tell from where it was coming.

As she wandered throughout the house, looking out each window, she could hear Andre’s mumbling. She smiled to herself. Her big, strong man was taking care of her.

Suddenly, she heard Andre calling her. “Beth, could you come here please? Bethany? I need your help, can you come here?”

“I’m coming! Let me get slippers on!” said Bethany, wondering what Andre needed.

As she walked around the house, she realized Andre must have found something at the access panel under the house.

“Andre?” she asked, not seeing him. “Andre? Where are you?”

“Here,” answered Andre, “Over here Beth. Can you come here please?”

“Sure, what’s making the noise?” asked Beth, finally seeing Andre.

A sudden motion caught Beth’s attention and she turned to see an unbelievable site. A hand was reaching out from under the house.

She screamed and backed up, but it was too late.

Andre clamped her arm and drug her forward.

“I’ll teach you to wake me in the middle of the night,” he said, his voice that of a demented stranger.

“Andre? Andre, what’s happening? Andre!” she screamed, knowing her efforts were futile.

Andre grunted, dragging her forward, shoving her under the house, toward that arm. "Here! This should satisfy you so that I can get some damn sleep!"

Arm. An arm! Oh my God, was someone else under the house? Why wasn’t she screaming? Maybe they could overpower Andre!

“Help me!! Someone help me!!” she screamed.

The hand reached out to her, clawing in the dirt, stretching, trying to grab Andre’s leg.

Andre’s arm was around her neck, choking off the screams of Beth as he pushed and pulled her toward the hole.

Finally reaching his goal, Bethany was hopeful the hand would help. It was the only hope left to her in this crazy reality.

Tears streaming down her cheek, eyes glued to that hand, Bethany gathered her strength. When the hand grabbed Andre, she would kick with her last breath.

The hand reached out, Bethany reached back, ready to kick, claw, fight with whatever she had left, when suddenly, the arm grabbed not Andre, but her!

With an inhuman strength, the arm pulled her under the house. Beth clawed and scratched, digging her hands into the dirt, desperately trying not to lose this battle.

Just before the darkness enveloped her, she saw him. Andre was smiling down at her as he turned off the flashlight. The darkness enveloped her as she heard the access panel close and lock.

Andre brushed off his sleeve and walked back inside the house. Maybe now he could get some sleep.

Just Call Me Graceful

So, I fell down the stairs and broke my foot this morning, just in time for the Halloween party Saturday! While I was sitting on the couch icing it before I knew it was broken, all I could think was, "Well, that's one way to get me to sit down and write."

One of my friends posted to FB that there are two guys going around town robbing folks! Fantastic! I won't be able to run if they show up here, but maybe I can club them with a crutch...

The Tattoo of Books on the Soul

Last night I watched my dad hold my great-niece. The family connection is too extended to decipher, but it was a great moment for me, this passing of life from generation to generation.

When I was in library school, one of the things that intrigued me most was the thought that books imprint from our memories. If we are sad, or happy, or at a certain place when we are reading a story, the book is forever associated with that place, or time or emotion. Is it only us that's affected, or does the book carry our thought and emotion with it? Is it forever changed by our humanness?

We write down our stories so that generations and generations can learn from where we've been and what we've felt. And, if not for the places we are, would we feel those feelings?

And if books are forever changed, what changes do we affect on the other humans in our lives?

Monday, Funday as Christy always says! The sun is shining through a light fog, making the fall colors a gift to anyone looking close enough.

Spent the weekend in forgiveness, making it easier for someone with a guilty conscience to feel better about their decision. I let them off the hook in full awareness and complete unselfishness. Felt pretty good!

I woke up this morning knowing that I have choices and my future rests solely in my own hands. God help me.

Keep it real out there!

I missed the writer's retreat yesterday. :( Sometimes life just won't let you do exactly what you want to do. I am continuing work on the novel. I have no idea if it's good or not, but it seems the thing I should be doing, and so I write.

In the meantime, the search for gainful employment continues.

Self doubt, recrimination, these are all standard parts of my genetic makeup, born of years of feeling inadequate in the face of tremendous accomplishment.

Perhaps it's time to alter my self talk?

What We Want, Not Who We Are

What We Want, Not Who We Are

Mr. Alec Baldwin was interviewed in NYC at the site of the Wall Street protests yesterday. He appeared to be chastising the media for the view they’d taken of categorizing the protestors instead of listening for a common denominator. He wanted to know what “these people” wanted, instead of who they are, so he went down himself to find out. Thank you for asking, Mr. Baldwin.

What do the protestors want? Some of the same things the rest of the other 99% want.

We want the lies and corruption and pandering in our political system and economic system to stop. We are not ignorant, we are angry. There is a difference.

Our viewpoints are valid, though spawned from an experience vastly different than the 1%. Recognize that we contribute to the wealth of Corporate America. Businesses: Stop threatening to leave the United States if there is tax reform. Go ahead. Find a different country. If you don’t want to leave, SHUT THE HELL UP! You’re not helping, you’re hindering.

We want to be viewed as valuable instead of expendable. You may believe the world would be better off if a few more poor people were dead, but my children, my spouse, my parents, and my siblings have a different viewpoint.

I am the caregiver, the lover, the dependable rock in times of trouble. Are you willing to take my place? If not, consider affordable healthcare a human right, not a benefit of the rich. Many of our lives would change if we had the same health system that our public servants in Congress are afforded.

We want the American dream, or at least the opportunity to strive for the dream. Instead we are pushed down by inflation, inability to procure mortgages and loans, over-charged for gasoline and paid wages that put us below the poverty line.

The stereotyping needs to stop, Mr. Baldwin. We work, though we may qualify for entitlement programs. $10 and hour, more than minimum wage, equates to $1600 a month before taxes. Try living on that. Now add an unemployed spouse and a child.

A child we could afford 13 years ago. Now we can’t. Will you take care of our children Mr. Baldwin?

1% of our population has millions and billions of dollars setting in the bank, doing nothing. Waiting to be spent. Do you know how much money I would need to make a true difference in my life? $160,000. How many of the 1% earn that in a day? In an hour? In a minute? And not off wages, but off INTEREST and tax breaks that my wages help offset!

I do not speak for every woman and man, but I do speak for many. Our wants, our needs, our desires go no further than to ensure our families are well taken care of and our grandchildren have the same opportunities that you had.

Let us die in dignity, without foreclosure forcing us to a shack. Don’t make your fortune charging us interest on a car title loan that then steals our freedom. Call loan sharking what it is! In a time of spreading economic hardship, question why billion dollar companies are still making record profits and giving their management pay raises. Then do something about it.

Ensure that the least among us, the sick, the disabled, the elderly, the downtrodden, are taken care of, lest it someday be the able bodied in the same situation.

Learn integrity. Learn compassion. Care about the water we drink, the air we breath, the ground in which we grow our food. Value us as you value yourself.

That’s all we want, Mr. Baldwin.

Finding the Words

Once upon a time, on a bright sunny day, a middle aged woman was trying to be a writer.

She wrote and wrote, and read until her eyes bled (apparently a prerequisite of fine writers everywhere) attempting to rebirth herself from the ashes of her last career. Finally, she had one tiny morsel of success! She was paid a miniscule amount for a travel article.

Elated beyond all belief, she redoubled her efforts and got on with the business of writing, cranking out page after page of (as yet) unpublished but brilliant material.

She wandered from children's books to adult novels, from travel articles to political commentaries. Much like her previous career choices, settling on one genre was difficult. Each time she found a new writer friend to commiserate with, one of the first questions they asked was, "Do you have a blog?"

Initially reluctant to begin a new blog having learned from previous experience how difficult it is to keep a blog current, she finally succumed to the pressure, and so, this blog was born.

Finding a title for the creation was difficult, but not impossible. The writer chose a picture that demonstrated perfectly how she felt most the time. What a wonderful writer she would be if she could find words to convey thought so masterfully!

And so, she struggles to this day to find the words to first, transform feeling into words, and second, write something here worth reading. This is her journey. Enjoy the ride!