Writing is Hard

"Let's start a blog challenge," we said.

"First one to skip a week buys lunch," we said.

"It'll be fun...
Wait...
I don't think we said that.

No. We definitely didn't say that. We knew it wouldn't be fun. We knew it would be hard. Because writing is hard. And because even though we both love it, we both avoid it. Because it's hard. And maybe even torturous.

So here I sit writing a blog entry at 10:15 on Sunday night because we set Sunday at midnight as the cutoff for the week. Writing may be hard, but apparently buying lunch is worse.

Topics I considered through the course of the week (but never actually wrote about):

• Writing (and why it is so hard)
• My next letter to Heaven
• Lent (and my plan of attack)
• Foster parenting
• Cheetos (someday I'm going to write an ode) 
• A Mema story 

There you have it. It's a good list, and none of them got written. Maybe next week. There's always next week.

For now...

Barbara Wells, this counts. Nighty night.

Letters to Heaven, continued

I'm not sure how to start this letter.

Dear Mrs. Andrews,

That's clearly too formal. I would have never called you that.

Dear Cleo,

No. I didn't even know your first name until I Googled it a few minutes ago. By the way, why did you switch your initials for your penname? Was that your decision or a publisher's? 

Dear V.C. Andrews,

That's all I've ever called you, but it seems strange in a salutation.

Dear author who I never met but who changed my life forever,

There. That will do.

You are the reason I am a reader. You are the reason dyslexia didn't win the battle. You are the reason that I persevered (and continue to do so) when I have to reread and slow down and reread again and move a tracker and sometimes a finger. You are the reason that even at its most frustrating I STILL love to read.

Well, I guess my mom deserves some of the credit. If she hadn't told me I wasn't allowed to read that filth, you wouldn't be the reason. And I may not have turned out a reader. So I guess it was teamwork on both your parts.

Now, don't be offended by her harsh words. As I got older she said some pretty harsh things about Stephen King too, but by then she had given up on trying to dictate the subject matter of my reading obsession. She told me once that I was going to turn into a psychopath if I didn't read something else, but I'm pretty sure she was just kidding. Pretty sure.

The day I left my book out on the coffee table and she read an excerpt from Flowers in the Attic, she threw it away. She didn't ask me where I got it or tell me to take it back. She just threw it away. And that was the end of that. At least she thought it was. OH NO! I didn't know which page she had read (I had just started the book), but I was damned sure going to find out. 

I dug that book out of the trash and read like I had never read before. I was fascinated by any story that could work my mother into such a frenzy, and I was quickly captivated by Cathy. I couldn't get enough. I read all five books as fast as I could get my hands on them. It was my first exposure to Gothic writing, and something inside me twisted and turned in response to such darkness. 

I read your other books as well, but it was Cathy Dollanganger who pulled me over to the dark side and taught me to lose myself in a book. For that, I will always be grateful. 

I still enjoy reading the dark and twisty. I've devoured my fair share of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Richard Matheson, and Jack Ketchum just to name a few of my favorites. Anne Rice introduced me to vampires, but I never took that love beyond her work. But you...you were my first. You were the first to use words to give me chills as I read by flashlight tucked under the covers safe in my bedroom. You gave me my love for a genre that even my mother has come to accept as perfectly harmless (now that I'm a grown woman...and probably not a psychopath). 

Thank you for dedicating your life to putting words together for others to enjoy. As a wannabe writer, I know that isn't easy. Thank you for giving us just enough of the forbidden and the taboo to make an 11 year-old girl dig through the trash and come out a reader. 

And thank you for Cory. And Carrie. And Cathy. And Chris. 

Sincerely,

Kristi, a grateful fan and lifelong reader

So Much More Than Beads

Hail Mary, full of grace...

When I'm scared, I pray the Rosary.
When I'm worried, I pray the Rosary.
When others ask me to pray for them, I pray the Rosary.

The Lord is with thee...

Holding the beads is comforting. Reciting the prayers is comforting. Today I sat in the backseat of a car. Silent. Praying the Rosary. Then sat in a hospital waiting room. Listening. Praying the Rosary.  Talking. Praying the Rosary. Hugging. Praying the Rosary.

Blessed art thou amongst women...

When I administered tests to my students, I roamed the room silently praying Rosaries, manipulating the beads in one hand (I've become quite the master of the one-handed Rosary hold).

And blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.

All those years, I thought I did this unnoticed. Until one year the ESL teacher asked me to come to her room to read an essay. This was not unusual, but this time it was different. The essay she wanted me to read was a copy of a college entrance essay. A copy she had made for me.

Holy Mary, mother of God...

The student wrote about the time he was taking a TAKS retest and his teacher walked around the room praying for him. He said that to him it meant I hadn't given up on him. And I hadn't. I don't remember his name, but I can picture his face. He wasn't my student, but he came to my classroom after school three days a week for tutorials.

Pray for us sinners...

Reading that essay, I remembered that he had caught me praying during that test. He stopped me as I walked by his desk and asked, "Miss, are you praying the Rosary?" I told him I was. He asked me how many I'd said. Two. His response? "You must be slow. My mom says them really fast."

Now and at the hour of our death.

He was right to feel that praying that Rosary meant I hadn't given up on him. I hadn't. The man I prayed it for today? I hadn't given up on him either. That's what the Rosary is about. Hope. That's why I pray it. Because when I'm scared, I want to hope. When I'm worried, I want to hope. When I'm sad, I want to hope. Mary helps me find my hope. Those beads help me find my hope.

Amen

A Year of At Leasts

I love New Year's resolutions. For many years now, I have made three resolutions every year. Most years I'm successful with one. It's a stellar year if I knock two out of the park.

In 2015 I made a gift-giving resolution and had the most fun keeping a resolution I've ever had. I still love giving random gifts. In 2012 I quit smoking. I still smoke on Halloween, but I'm calling that one a success.

In 2015 I resolved to do an unassisted pull-up by the end of the year. In 2016 I resolved to do an unassisted pull-up by the end of the year. I still can't do an unassisted pull-up.

This year, instead of a resolution I issued myself a challenge. Google defines resolution as a firm decision to do or not do something. Quit smoking...firm. Challenge is defined as a call to take part in a contest or competition. I suppose this competition is with myself. To be a better me.

I have dubbed 2017 "The Year of At Leasts." The challenge is simple.

Every day do AT LEAST one of the following:

1. Run at least one mile.
2. Pray at least one rosary.
3. Read at least one chapter.
4. Write at least one something. 

I've already failed on the every day part (good thing it's a challenge and not a resolution). But despite the fact that the previous sentence contains the word failed, I've done more of all four activities than I think I would have otherwise. Success.

January's Losses:

• I missed three days. I guess that's not horrible, but it would have been cool to have had a streak. Is just one month too much to ask?  Come on, Piper!
• Challenge within the challenge: Unbroken February streak
• I only wrote once. Just once. This one makes me sad.  

January's Wins: 

• I doubled up and completed two "at leasts" in one day 12 times.
• I completed three "at leasts" in one day once.  
• Challenge within the challenge: Two trifectas in February
• I ran 67.17 miles in January. I consider those 67 wins.
• I finished three books in January. To some of my reader friends, that won't seem like many. Trust me; it is a win. I love to read. I am a self-proclaimed memoir junkie, but it is a very slow process for me (that involves lots of frustration and rereading). 

The wins out-number the losses 2 to 1. That officially puts January in the win column. Yes, that's the rule. 

So far, February's streak is going strong. And I already have one trifecta! 

Other fun challenges for 2017:

• Barbara Wells and I have a blog challenge going. Write one entry every week (there's an implied at least). The first person to miss a week has to buy lunch.
• Gina Strebeck, Caprice Meador, and I have teamed up to run 2,017 miles in 2017. 
• I want to read/re-read Maya Angelou's memoirs in order. 
• And of course... Do an unassisted pull-up, damn it!