NaNoWriMo Eve or NaNoWeen

I started this blog on November 3rd, 2018 which was Day 3 of National Novel Writing Month. Held every November for the past 20 years, NaNoWriMo started when founder Chris Baty challenged a few of his Bay Area friends to write 50,000 words in a month. It’s become an annual tradition with writers around the world.

According to Wikipedia, 600 NaNoWriMo novels have been published through traditional and smaller publishers, or through self publishing. One of the most notable was Water for Elephants by Sarah Gruen.

I had no idea if I could actually write that many words in a month, but I had been wanting to write the memoir I wanted to read when I came out at 56. As a NaNo Rebel (meaning I was not writing fiction), I wrote a hot mess of a rough draft weighing in a 51,473 words. I’ve worked on my rough draft over the course of the year with the help of teachers and workshop participants. It’s still a work in progress.

For this year’s NaNoWriMo, I’m writing fiction. I’ve only written one short fictional vignette as an online assignment 20 years ago, and I was surprised by the character that showed up and what they said. I’m hoping for the same experience because during this NaNo prep month, I have neither outline nor character development, and I’ve changed my story four times. I’ll totally be flying by the seat of my pants, or in NaNoSpeak, “pantsing.”

Good luck to all the Wrimos out there, and Write. On!

And Now…the Rest of the Story

I had driven my Subaru Outback to DC for marathon weekend, but after covering nearly 32 miles on race day, I was in no shape to drive home. We had planned for that by throwing a mattress in the back of the Outback, just in case. After an Epsom salt bath and a hearty breakfast the next morning, we packed up and headed for home.

While Annie drove, I looked through the photos she had taken during the weekend and read Facebook congratulations from family and friends. I reflected on how her dreams of an arctic adventure had inspired me to reignite my dream of running the Marine Corps Marathon. I thought about all the miles Annie had covered on her bike during my long early morning training runs. While passing through Pennsylvania, I wrote this post on Facebook.

Yeah, I’m that person who proposed to her girl on social media. Then I read her the post. While she was driving.

Before she said yes, she asked whether I was still oxygen deprived or had low blood sugar. I assured her I had my wits about me and was quite serious…and a little over seven months later, we tied the knot.

A lot has happened in the four years since that epic marathon day: we got married, sold a house, bought a house, added another fur kid to the family, I received a promotion in my day job, learned to play the cello, and became a published author.

To the runners of the 44th Marine Corps Marathon being held tomorrow in Washington, DC, good luck and in the words of marathoner Bart Yasso, “Never limit where running can take you.”

Cherishing Every MCMiversary

Four years ago today, I ran the Marine Corps Marathon to celebrate my 60th birthday. I wasn’t sure I had it in me, but never underestimate the power of putting one foot in front of the other, listening to your instincts and trusting that regardless of the outcome, you’re better for having made the effort.

The night before race day, I laid out my marathon gear and debated whether I’d be able beat the bridge to actually cross the finish line. After all, I had bronchitis the month before which limited my training time, and I was still recovering from a huge blister on my heel. But I had made it to Washington, DC so I made up my mind to do my best.

The Blue Mile From meeting walk-run coach Jeff Galloway, listening to the inspiring Team Semper Fi warriors during the pasta pre-race dinner, seeing my Arctic Annie on the course in her official-looking bike gear, to savoring the serendipity of sharing 23 miles of the course with a runner named the same as my marathon guardian angel, the day was one I’ll never forget.

I’d like to think I have another half or full marathon in me, but if not, I’ll always have MCM15.

Happy Coming Out Day

img_3280-1 Eight years ago, after an amicable divorce, I came out quietly to a few close friends and family members. I was starting over and like Groundhog Day, had returned to my secretarial roots. I wasn’t sure what my life would look like, but the words stenciled above my bed in the basement bedroom of my daughter’s house reminded me every day I had made the right choice and finally faced a truth that I’d buried my entire life.

My daughter tucked me under her wing until I felt financially ready to get my own place. In the meantime, a therapist helped me navigate the changes in my life. During therapy one day, we talked a lot about coming out and she said because it’s a big deal, why shouldn’t people should have a party to celebrate, like a bat mitzvah or a quinceañera. So with my daughter and a few friends, I threw myself a coming out party on October 11, 2011. I wasn’t ready to announce it to the world, but it felt good to be seen for who I was.

Pride

A lot has changed in eight years. I’m fortunate to have been able to come out at a time when it’s socially acceptable and safe for me, unlike the Stonewall equality warriors of 50 years ago that generated a movement. With marriage equality, I now have the 1,138 rights and protections I enjoyed when I was married to a man. But we can’t take those rights for granted. We must remain vigilant and continue the fight for equality that began at that New York inn.

In the words of Barack Obama, “When all Americans are treated as equal, no matter who they are or whom they love, we are all more free.”

A Final Salute

My heart is in North Dakota today as they lay my Uncle Lester to rest at the Veteran’s Cemetary.

My mom’s youngest brother, his handsome military photo and those of his brothers in uniform graced a wall of honor at the home of my grandparents. It was that wall and their service that inspired me to join the military.

Rest in Peace Uncle Lester, and give Mom a hug from me. ❤️

Creatively Rebooted

A year ago today I traveled to Santa Fe, NM to attend Creative Reboot with my BFF Karil. We had cemented our friendship in 1992 by working through Julia Cameron’s new book “The Artist’s Way.” We worked our way through one chapter at a time separately, then we’d get together for lunch or a margarita dinner to discuss the chapter, what the exercises brought up for us, and our takeaways. Creative Reboot would be a wonderful opportunity to spend quality time together since we live in different states.

We both arrived in Santa Fe early to attend an intensive Friday session; I took Julia’s session and Karil chose an art session. It seemed surreal to be in Julia’s presence after all these years. She outlined what the session would cover and gave us this warning, “Sometime during this session, you’re going to think wow, this person really knows what she’s talking about it, and another time you’ll think this person doesn’t know what the heck she’s talking about.”

It was an intense day of exercises and sharing, but the one thing she kept hammering home was the need to do morning pages. I thought, “No way, I get up for work at 4:10 and no one’s got time for that!” Later when Karil and I shared notes from our respective sessions, I scoffed and said “Yeah I’m not really impressed anymore. Julia says morning pages are a necessity and there’s no way I can do them with my schedule. But since I’m on vacation, I’ll try doing them in the morning.”

Turns out she was right. I stuck with writing in the morning until it became a habit. I fast-drafted a memoir during National Novel Writing Month in November, I started this blog, my story Semper Fi, Sister was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Running for Good in June, and I’m continuing to make progress on my memoir.

This year’s event is called The Gathering of the Creatives and starts a week from today. I’m looking forward to thanking Julia Cameron for the kick in the pants, sharing a margarita dinner celebration with Karil, and seeing where this next year takes me. Cheers!

A Confession

I have a confession to make. I still haven’t cashed the $200 Chicken Soup for the Soul check I received for my Semper Fi Sister story that was published in their June 4th release of Running for Good. My coach Lauren Sapala says INFJs need to suffer to feel like they earn success. If it’s true, that’s messed up.

I’ve been holding on to the check for two months. Don’t get me wrong, I was excited to finally be published and paid for my writing, and I was especially grateful to receive the check. But there’s been something holding me back from cashing it that I can’t quite put my finger on. Every time I think about depositing it, every instinct I have pushes back like repelling magnets.

I think it may have something to do with my Marathon Guardian Angel Megan McClung because I feel the story is just as much hers as it is mine.

This morning I journaled about it, thinking of one reason after another. Finally I wrote, Megan what should I do with the check? And my fingers typed…You earned it, you did the hard work. Treat yourself and enjoy the fruits of your labor Marine.

Whether I was channeling Megan or just my inner wise self, tonight I signed and deposited the check and celebrated a milestone: being a paid author.

Land of the Hand

MI Palm Unless you’re from Michigan or know someone who is, it may not occur to you that Michigan is shaped like a mitten. I’d grown up in a boring rectangle state and lived for years in California, the long, misshappen left coast.

When my family moved to Michigan in 2000, we were mystified why people put their hands up to show me where they lived. I know, it seems so obvious now, but never in my 45 years had I seen anyone present a body part to describe geography.

At the time, my daughter was a high school sophomore. Having had enough of the hand, when asked where she lived before, she threw her left arm over her head, bent her elbow, and pointed to a spot about 2-3″ from her armpit on the outside of her arm. I love her quick wit and thought it was brilliant.

I’ve come to love my adopted state, but I’m still not comfortable using my hand for directions. My default is using directions and miles in relation to cities. Next year, I’ll celebrate two decades of being a transplanted Michigander…maybe then I’ll start using my hand.

The Mystery of Metaphors

It’s been a minute since I’ve written a post. I’ve been struggling with my writing and haven’t felt much like admitting it. I’m a butt in the chair, get it done kind of person so editing my memoir feels like a root canal. It’s hard to be motivated when writing feels like a chore.

This month, to shake things loose, I’m taking a memoir class with former Michigan State professor Lev Raphael. He assigned three memoir openings for our first assignment, we were to comment on them and reflect on our own.

White Oleander by Janet Fitch immediately caught my attention and I wanted to read more. I checked out the audiobook from the library and listened as Fitch wove her sad tale of mother drama. Her use of metaphor to bring home a point was masterful, and brought clearly into focus my woeful use of them. I’m still learning to write in the show, don’t tell manner and I struggle with metaphors. It’s much easier to cut to the chase and tell it like it is, but it’s not nearly as interesting to the reader.

This morning I read Marion Roach Smith’s essay on seeing metaphors all around us, then I took a mile-long hike around Trout Lake. I saw what she meant: use what we see to describe something in a different way so the reader can interpret their own meaning.

On my hike I saw an invasive plant species choking the shoreline and seemingly harmless tent caterpillars on tree limbs weaving webs of death, both illustrations of looking below the surface to see the struggle to survive. Even the hike that was easy just a year ago now left me breathless, a metaphor for my editing journey.

In hiking as in writing, the lessons are in the journey. I’ll keep putting one foot in front of the other and my butt in the seat, and let the destination take care of itself.

Trusting Your Journey

“Chicken Soup for the Soul: Running for Good” launched six weeks ago. It was a total fluke that I learned of the chance to submit my story so I was thrilled “Semper Fi, Sister” was included. The one hour Twitter virtual launch with the other authors and the publisher was like downing a triple espresso chased with Redbull.

Then came the let down.

I was now a published author, but I couldn’t coordinate a local launch to save my soul. I had filled out the publisher publicity paperwork, but no one seemed interested. Then I lost interest…and it didn’t seem like such a big deal after all.

But it is a big deal.

I’ve never been published. I work a challenging full-time job and write in stolen moments of time. It’s second nature for me to minimize my accomplishments. I compare myself to others then feel inadequate in their wake. But I have to remind myself that this is my journey alone.

Even if I never have another word published, the story of my magical Marathon journey will live on in the pages of Chicken Soup for the Soul. For that, I’m grateful.

What does the future hold? Who knows, but I’ll keep putting my butt in the chair, doing the work, and let the Universe handle the outcome.