Spring is really struggling to break through around here. I could let it pull me down—the snowy, gray days. By now, I’m just sick of the gray, blah days more than anything and the cold. Worse are those days when it’s impossible to walk outside. This spring has actually been worse for that than the whole of this winter.

The snow is a relief, in a way, at least compared to those sunless days and this morning, it was accompanied with thunder and lightning. Now, that’s more like it. As long as we have to suffer the snow, let’s have a little drama. Snowdrops, after struggling mightily the last few years have multiplied and made their show a few weeks ago, but they’re hanging in there. Kind of like scouts for the crocus, just now trying to brave the snow and wind.

At the start of last week my tiny mini Japanese iris made their quiet appearance, and as luck would have it, I actually got to catch them at their best. They are the sweetest flower, but so fleeting. I love the dark purple with their dots of yellow. More often than not though, I miss them. They are so early in the year I’m not even walking around my yard looking for spring yet, but this year, I picked a few and they lasted in my office several days.

The garlic is up. I’ve worried over them all winter. We tried a different location this year, of course, and I wasn’t at all certain they’d like it. This will be the third year I’ve planted garlic. Last year was such a success and a hoot. I planted Elephant garlic, the bulbs as big as softballs, but so easy to use I really wanted to plant more, but I also planted two other varieties—54 bulbs, in all.

But it’s the pansies and violas that lift my heart and mood. They make me smile. All winter long if the snow melts off of the lilac or Japanese maple garden, they’re ready and willing. They thrive with adversity. All I have to do is pinch off the snow-burned leaves or blooms and they send out new, eager sun-facing blossoms.

Last fall I picked the simple violas I remember from my childhood to plant there. We called them Johnny Jump-ups when we were kids, those common little purple and yellow blossoms.

I’ve had at least a few Johnny Jump-ups in my backyard every year, for much the same reason as my mother. A friend of my youngest son brought me a two-inch plant many, many years ago on Mother’s Day. They were giving the plants to the mother’s at church, but I wasn’t there. He thought I ought to have one.

Though I’m usually compulsive about dead-heading, I make sure I never pinch back all the seed-pods on these. I’ve put chicken noodle soup in the crockpot and last fall, I decided nothing would bring a smile faster than seeing Johnnie-Jump-Ups blooming in the front gardens.

Today as I watch fat, lazy snowflakes fall, smell the aroma of chicken broth and thyme, I’m so glad I filled my garden with those brave, sturdy flowers. They set a great example. The chicken soup won’t hurt, either.

Life knocks a man down and he gits up and it knocks him down agin….

What’s he to do when he gits knocked down? Why, take it for his share and go on. —

The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, 1939

Nothing is Wasted

It’s easy, after all, not to be a writer.
Most people aren’t writers, and
very little harm comes to them.
-Julian Barnes

As you know, I’ve been editing. Not just my novel but my house. Particularly, my office. It’s been an enlightening, sad, frustrating work. Suffice to say, while I was working on getting better, a lot of things were forgotten, set aside, pushed aside, stuffed somewhere to deal with later and stacked.

As I mentioned before, in fact I’m afraid I’ve mentioned it ad nauseaum, one of the worst problems when my disease was raging was exhaustion, along with swollen, painful joints. I could barely tolerate food, which didn’t help my energy level, but does take off the weight. I don’t recommend that diet.

Getting dressed, taking care of my pets and plants (my babies) was as far as my energy went and because of the drugs I was on, my mind, once I was on the road to recovery, just didn’t track well. (You would not believe where I found what and some of my notes from that time…Yikes!)

Anyway, it’s taken two years to get to where I could—slowly—get through the tons of neglected papers and magazines. Then, there was all the short-circuited work I did before the illness. That was the tough part. To see work I had ready or almost ready to go out into the world is mentally discouraging. I know how hard it was to steal, squeeze, squirrel away the time to do the work and to see the plans I had ended prematurely, just felt like the last straw. Sometimes, it seemed such a waste.

But nothing is a waste. I truly believe that, but the purpose might have to change. It might end up being a learning piece of work, instead of a winning or earning thing, but my time will not be wasted. I will not let it. And it is up to me. First of all and most important, when I did the work I was doing something I love. That won’t change, no matter the outcome. Secondly, it may well still be used or turned into something else. That’s up to me, too.

That’s what happened with an essay I wrote before my illness. It was an essay very close to my heart, about an incident with my father. I submitted it to a few places with no success, but in my heart I knew it was meant for something, yet, my heart was so tied up in it. Still, I just felt it was good and needed to be out in the world, but I never got the chance to resubmit.

When I finally started writing again, the essay haunted me. I really needed to send it out, but just didn’t feel I could edit and improve it, yet. Then I started the poetry workshops. The subject of the essay was perfect for one of the assignments. I worked this new angle, with new perspective, new form, new frame of mine. Vintage Dust was written.

One could say, my goodness, it only got 15th place, but I say someone else related to it, took meaning from it. Who knows how many others tried and didn’t get 15th place. I imagine if my father knew (and I think he does) he’d be proud of me and proud to be a part of my tiny success, too.

Color me, Pink

I’ve spent the last 18 hours

doing the Snoopy dance.

First, I was able to work for a while in the yard. The sun, so warm I didn’t need my garden jacket. I feel much like a bear, coming out of the cave after a long hibernation.

And then, I was informed yesterday that I won 15th place in the 6th annual Writer’s Digest Poetry Awards for Vintage Dust. At first I thought, 15th? Then I got thinking that there were a lot of entries that didn’t win. I would be tickled, if not pink, purple, and not so much pat myself on the back but say to me, good job.

So I e-mailed a copy to Writer’s Digest, as they told me to do, so they could publish it in the Competition Collection, which is better than the letter, certificate and $50 in Writer Digest Books. When I checked back later to see if I sent it correctly, (I’m notorious at doing dumb things when I e-mail) there was another e-mail informing me, I also, won 4th place for Spider Silk.

Well, tickle me pink, all right. Fourth, almost in the running. A$25 dollar check, the Poet Market 2011 and another poem published. Even, my name in the July/Aug Writer’s Digest.

Be it jewel or toy,
Not the prize gives the joy,
But the striving to win the prize.
Pisistratus Caxton, The Boatman

My Day Job

Why I won’t/wouldn’t, can’t/couldn’t give up my day job. It is my life. My real life. It is not a nine to five. It is 24/7.

Sometimes it’s hard to take me seriously, as a writer—even for me. That becomes a huge problem. It is a huge problem. How can anyone else take you seriously if you don’t? Why should they?

I mean, take priorities—there is just no contest between getting mother’s medication snafu’s straightened out, ordered, delivered—last minute, because she failed to tell me she used her last blood pressure medicine and besides, it only takes one day to be delivered by mail order,(You don’t know you’ve stepped over that demarcation line, the one between care receiver to care giver, until it rises up and slaps you down.) and where to put that comma or get character worksheets down or plot points worked out.

Taking my writing seriously has always been a struggle anyway, with financial struggles, time crunches, and the unique life of a ‘railroad widow’ raising three boys. There were never two of us to drive three boys to soccer, T-ball, music lessons. There was me and in a real pinch, my mom. (I insert here that I called on her as little as possible because she had enough to do as a widow with a job and a yard to care for.)

Well, now there’s another little guilt stab, isn’t there? She helped me out, and though I don’t feel obligated, I do owe her. From the time I was eighteen, she stood in as my mom and my dad, plus, caregiver to her parents. She stepped up to the plate for her parents, without the support of a husband. (How blessed am I?)

Anyway, it took me forever to figure out how to carve time for my own dreams. I was a stay at home mom back in the day. I was busy trying to give my boys wings, as best I could. Besides it took me a long time (it wasn’t even mentioned back then for a housewife to dream dreams) to learn I needed to dream my dreams and follow them. To learn it was as much for my children and grandchildren as me. If I give my grandkids only that one thing—that it is never too late to follow dreams—that will be everything.

My day job means I am a part-time writer, with a full time guilt. Guilt follows you through raising your family, but it peaks when you’re doing caregiving. You see, the help you give is never enough and those needs keep growing. You end up fearing you’ll be sucked into the tsunami and you’ve seen those who were.

You feel like you’re just waiting for the next disaster, that next one thing that will put you under. You wait for the one thing that breaks the camel’s back—yours. You want to do all you can for your parent, but in the back of your mind, you think about the writing you are not doing and feel guilty about thinking about it. Every day there is a feeling of being torn. In addition, there is more than just caregiving that tears at you. You have your family, your husband. Sometimes to write you give up time with them and is that worth it? You may never reach your goal, but you have all these blessings. Don’t you owe them your time?

I’ve been a caregiver all my life, really. From the fluffy little black kitten with the white bib, I had at six, to pet store animals, babies, boys, husbands and now, my mom. It is something I know how to do. What I don’t know is if I can also write enough, well enough to publish a book.

But it isn’t as if I can quit either.

My day job is my life and my writing holds me up.

Be grateful

for every detail because

tenacity

will get you there and

gratitude

will not allow you

to be angry

when you’ve arrived. —Henry Winkler

I’m not always honest. Quite a few years ago, I did a sneaky thing with my local RWA group. I wrote inspirational essays every month. It looked a lot as if I was helping all the members of that group, cheering them on, giving those pep talks, but all the while, secretly, like a little evil sneak I was really helping myself. I should have been ashamed of myself. I wasn’t. I used them.

I use this blog the same way. I tell all who read my blog the story of my writing struggle. I give details about writer’s block, feeling low; I give pep talks and tell about things that work for me. I want to show, as do many writers, by the way. (There are a million writer blogs-amazing numbers of good ones, too)my journey. I don’t have a ton of followers, hardly any, in fact. Still, I make myself post regularly. All right, this too, is as much (more) for me as my readers. A terrible confession. Worse is, I have purposely left out, for the most part, the biggest challenge of my writing life.

I’ve left it out for good reason, for personal and family reason, but left it out, I have. I probably would keep leave it out, too, except, last week I went in search for blogs that might address the challenge. I didn’t want to feel so alone. I am caregiver to my 93 (almost 94) year-old mother and a writer. I question, often, if I can face all the pitfalls of publishing as I navigate this jungle of elderly care giving. I wonder if there are others in the same boat. I know there are and wanted to find a few, read how it goes with them, read about another like me.

I found a ton of blogs, but none with the same challenges and I wondered if I wasn’t leaving out one of the most important details of my writing life.

I do not want to spend too much time letting myself feel sorry for myself. I was afraid if I looked too hard at those challenges, I just might. I feel, sometimes, I’ve done that with my illness and think it is better, to just move on as much as possible, other than the history of it as it applies to my writing.

Since my internet search, I’ve thought that, maybe, I might say something that might help someone going through the same thing I am, with similar problems and challenges. I thought how nice it would be if there was a blog that talked honestly about trying to get published while caring for an elderly parent.

I’m trying to be a loving caregiver and every day is a challenge. There isn’t enough time, money, patience and always I must fight against being swamped by frustration, exhaustion and guilt. I have to find a way to take care of my mother with kindness, grace and a kind of Zen attitude.

Mostly, that is a whole lot like accepting my illness. A, it is what it is, acceptance. I have to say to myself, the same words I say when I submit a piece of writing. I did the best I could. It’s not perfect, and that’s all right.