I’m ready

I am ready for new possibilities.

I am ready for success.

I am ready for acceptance letters.

I am ready for the opportunity to become a successful writer.

I am ready to sell.

I am ready to write eight hours a day.

I am ready to edit and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite…

I am ready for long awaited opportunities.

I am ready.

Eternal expectations

I pondered the idea of expectations again today, wondering if I tend to expect too much or too little out of any given situation. A question arose from this that made me wonder if the idea of expectations is a woman thing. Or, more to the point, are women naturally programmed to want more?

A friend of mine suggested that our expectations have evolved from what they once were. Cavewomen, for example, probably didn’t expect much in the way of compliments from their mate. “Glow of torch makes hair look pretty. Grug likes.”

So the modern woman has evolved. Over time we have learned to accomplish our own hunting and gathering and we primarily need a mate for companionship. And overtime that companionship evolves and, ideally, each mate learns from the other. But what if that doesn’t happen? What if, no matter how much work we put into our relationship, we end up lowering our expectations?

It happens all the time; with our jobs, with friendships, with family relationships, etc.. It happens when you’re on the verge of divorce and your spouse remembers that one special “something” that keeps you hanging in there for another year. Because of that one shining moment, we’re willing to forget all the bad ones.

What I want to know is, are we programmed to simply expect less from a person simply because we want companionship? OR…is expecting less another way in which we’ve evolved?

Within the vortex

I really don’t know how it all started. But I feel like I’m in the center of a tornado and everything in my life is caught in the vortex, swirling faster and faster in the biting black wind around me. People are flying around me, my friends and loved ones, all of them screaming, wanting to be pulled to safety. But I am left chained. My wrists are shackled within the heavy iron chains that are buried beneath me. At my feet is my own foundation, crumbling. As the speed of the deafening tornado picks up and my hair whips around my face, the concrete splinters, cracking through the earth and turning into rubble. Bits of broken stone fly upward and slice into my flesh where I’m most vulnerable. I’m barely holding my own.

More than anything, I want everyone to fall safely to earth. I want the tornado to pass without any damage left behind. But in the midst of all this chaos, I know there will be casualties. What I don’t know is if I’m strong enough to survive the aftermath.

Writing is a hard life

It’s true. I’ve been writing since I was eleven-years-old and a teacher advised me to put my thoughts onto paper. I wrote poetry for years. In high school I started writing romantic stories for friends and simply fell in love with the idea of writing happily ever after.

Of course, college instructors pooh-pooh popular fiction in any genre (but especially romance). So, in an effort for self preservation, I hid my love of romance. In college I dabbled in playwriting as well as poetry, and met with some publishing success with both. In writing courses I strived to create disgustingly real characters (based on people I knew) and set them in a world where there was no HEA. While depressing to write, they achieved the desired grade.

In my spare moments (of which there were–and still are–precious few) I began writing a novel. This was my very first start to finish novel, over 110k. I still love these first characters. They were hybrids, crossed over from college years, real and flawed and lovely because of that. They were meant to be together. And while I never had the courage to submit that first novel, I went on to write more.

Years (perhaps eons) ago, I picked up a magazine, Arabella, at Barnes and Noble. I enjoyed the concept of a magazine dedicated to short romantic fiction and so I searched their online site. At the time, they were looking for paranormal romance, under 1500 words. I thought, “I can write that much of a vampire romance.” But when I started writing, I ended up with 3000 words before I even got to the core of the story. I ditched the first idea and went for a severely truncated version, using the same character names but leaving the setting and premise behind.

Long story short, Arabella wanted my story. I signed a contract and was the happiest writer in the entire world…until Arabella went under.

I was devastated. I joined a support chat group and soon thereafter found a fledgling publisher that published short stories online. I changed my story to suit their longer word count, submitted and was accepted. After Between Shadows and Lightning, Wild Rose Press published another short story, a novella and my first published novel.

But there were years and years of strife before I was published. I’d wanted to be taken seriously as a writer (both from my family and from the industry), but found myself spinning my wheels in contests that eventually helped to thicken my skin but didn’t really get me anywhere.

My husband still doesn’t understand my passion for writing. I steel all my moments for writing. It’s difficult to juggle the needs of my day job, my school age kids, my house, my husband, and my writing career.

And yes, sometimes my confidence falters. Sometimes I go days without writing fiction (I fill the writing need with blogging and writing social stories for the children I work with). But my determination for becoming a full time author of romance (and children’s books) is as strong as ever. I know I have the ability and the drive. All I need is the break.

Not getting the break is the hardest part. I often wonder if I’m trying too hard or not hard enough. Is it about being great or is it about being in the right place at the right time? I’ve been holding out for something wonderful, because I think my stories deserve it. But (I’ll say it again) not getting the break is the hardest part.

Redirection

I’ve changed my way of thinking!

Well, not in the sense that I haven’t ever thought of my life in this certain context…but more of a sense that I’m going back to who I am. And that’s exactly what I’ve been missing… Me.

But after much soul searching, and let me tell ya a lot of anger and bitterness, I realized that I was trying to control all those little things that I can’t control. I was becoming obsessed with how other people view the world, what they do or don’t do, how they treated me, and so on. But in these endless sessions of frustration and tears, I kept forgetting one fundamental truth. You can’t change other people.

Adding onto that, you only have control over yourself and how you react to the people and the world around you. Or, saying it more to the point…It’s the Serenity Prayer. Change the things you can, but let the rest go.

It sounds so easy. But when I fell out of practice, it was hard to find my way back. But I’m back, baby!

And (at the risk of sounding completely manic) I love you all!

Happy reading and I hope you have a wonderful week.