Most of the time I like to keep my posts upbeat, but lately I’ve been dealing with a heavy heart and mind, so I decided to break the rules and lament a bit.

I am coming to the end of my teaching career. I feel it. I know it. In fact, I was very close to not going back to school this year. For five years or longer I’ve toyed with the idea of moving to my ideal little dream town and trying something new. I almost had my chance this summer. I went in for the interview and kept my fingers crossed, but it didn’t happen.

It’s no secret. My principal knows what I’ve been going through, and I told him he truth about how hard I knew this year was going to be. I don’t always speak, but quiet doesn’t always mean shy. Sometimes it just means keeping a distance.

My parents were like that. They were very stoic. I guess that’s why I have such a difficult time opening up to people. They certainly didn’t open up to me. Today was a rough day. For the first time since my father died, I drove out to the cemetery and visited the grave sites. Funny how life is. Only a few months ago, he and I sat a distant relative’s house picking out the tombstone. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t realize that only days after it would be ready for my mother’s grave, his name would be inscribed on it as well.

But what really hit me was the little headstone next to theirs—infant son. I stood in front of my brother’s grave, a brother I never knew, nobody knew. For five years before I was born, my father and mother had a different family of three, a mother, a father, and a baby that never took his first breath.

But my parents never shared anything about him with me. They were too private. They kept it all inside. Until today I didn’t even know his birth date. I found it ironic how my mother died on the 25^th, my brother on the 26^th, and my father the 27^th.

And now they’re united in Heaven.

But after all these years it just now dawned on me how my parents never showed any emotion. I went on with my happy little life, oblivious to what they must have felt ever time his birthday rolled around. They never gave him a name, but I think I recall my dad telling me what they had planned to call him—or maybe it was the name they had chosen to call me if I were a boy.

I do know they almost named me Cindy. I look in the mirror sometimes and try to picture myself as Cindy. No. I don’t feel like a Cindy. But I never liked the name Teresa. I never could say it right. I pronounce it Treesa. I even consider changing it to Terri in college, with my father’ s blessing. But all my high school friends called me Tee, so I stuck with that.

I was named after the singer Teresa Brewer. I’ll never know the impact she had on my parents’ life, but it was enough to name their only living child after her.

During the last year I’ve undergone tremendous change. And as I stated before, I didn’t want to go back to school. Teaching requires a lot of giving of oneself. To be honest, I felt as though I had nothing left to give. But to make matters worse, not only did I receive a new curriculum for my dual-enrollment classes, I also received a new class, giving me a total of four preparations.

I’m used to being super woman, but not his year. I just didn’t have it in me. When I walked in to face this new class of students, I didn’t want to teach, I saw a roomful of trouble. The students didn’t want to stay in their seats. They were chronically late. They didn’t work. They never had their materials.

But they grew on me, and I opened my heart to them. I think they really believe I love them. And you wouldn’t believe what a change has overcome them. They work hard now. I’m so proud. It pays to invest in someone else’s life, especially if you are a teacher.

My greatest fear with all this state testing is that we teachers will become very self-centered and competitive, thinking about ourselves and forgetting about our students. We may find a way to wrangle out of teaching the low students. But the lowest students need the greatest investment and often yield the greatest return.

Kids don’t participate because they’re afraid to open up. They’re afraid of ridicule. They’re afraid to be vulnerable. That’s why I model vulnerability in front of them.

I know how it feels to to be imperfect. But I want my students to know I care about them unconditionally.

I’ll be honest. The most difficult people I’ve ever had to work with are religious people. Many of them have led such blessed lives they don’t understand desperation. They don’t understand people will do just about anything when they can’t find the love they need.

Mother Teresa said, “Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty.” She also said, “If you judge people, you have no time to love them.”

My parents taught me to be tough, to keep up my guard. There are very, very people who see the real me. Trust me, I can be rather annoying. I’m like a naïve child in an adult’s body. I’m so far from sophisticated and pretentious, that I’m playful. Not everyone likes playful. Students included, but I try to stay as far away from pretentious as I can. Most of my students who have been hurt appreciate the vulnerability.

I don’t think it’s possible to love without being vulnerable. And I do love these kids, especially this special rambunctious group of hooligans that I dreaded teaching at the beginning of the year. They changed my lives.

Children, even almost adult children, have a way of doing that, changing lives. One of our fantastic English teachers asked her students to honor their favorite teachers this week. I was surprised to receive letters from a couple of my journalism students. Here are just a couple of excerpts (used with their permission.”

“You, as our fearless leader, have taught us, not only about journalism, but also about life as a whole. One never stops learning. Cupcakes can be suicidal. Chocolate helps. When in doubt, Febreeze-Run it out. Crying isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a sign you’ve been strong for a long time. There should be a Rock ‘n Roll setting in lazer tag. Never pass up the opportunity to change someone’s life for the better. Haters need to be shown more love. The best time for good music is all the time.  ~  Ethan

“The newbies don’t know it yet cause they haven’t been around long enough, but we are a family, and we love each other like a family. All I have to say is you’re the best Newspaper Family Mom anyone could have.”  ~  Haylee

I’m looking forward to my last days of teaching. I’m ready to move on to my next career. Why? Because I think God has a plan for me to use what I’ve learned to help kids in a way I can’t help them in a school environment. Who has time to care when all we focus on are the tests?

Remember Dian Fossey, the woman who lived with the gorillas in the mountainous forests of Rwanda for years and years? Well, she and I are a lot alike. I’ve feel as though after the decades of teaching teenagers, I know them as well as anyone can.

I understand their vulnerability because I give them mine. Becoming vulnerable allows a person to be target for ridicule and revenge, but it’s hard to love behind a wall. So if I take down the wall and make myself vulnerable, you know I’m serious about love.

And that’s why I want to write for teens. I want to give them something real to hold onto–even if it’s a book. S. E. Hinton’s The Outsiders changed my life and made me feel what love was meant to be. Maybe I can do that for teenagers someday.

If I ever get the chance, I hope God allows me to publish my book and then travel around the region hilding workshops in writing to teach teens how to write. I want them to find their own success.

I’m not the best teacher. I’m not the smartest. I’ve won numerous awards and been recognized on television a couple of times for my success. But all of that means nothing if I don’t get into the heart of a student.

Today I receive one of my honorable awards—a Christmas card from Kimberly, a student I had in class ten years ago. She still remembered me, and she told me I made a difference in her life.

I call that success, and it was worth the vulnerability.

Gather round children, oh ye with aching feet and depleted pocketbooks. Most of you who are reading this have just awakened after your first round of napping. I know where you’ve been. I know what you’ve been doing. I know what you are.

Early birds.

If you think this blog does not apply to you, don’t stop reading. There is always the chance that you too could fall into danger next year and drink the Kook-Aid.

I don’t blame you. There was one a day when I too fell under the spell of desperate merchants tempting me with their buy-one, get-one-free one-day deals. But the truth is people just don’t think right at four a.m.

Now that you’re a little more clear headed, think with me. Did you really need that sweater or that toy? Did you get caught up in the frenzy and buy one of everything just so somebody else wouldn’t beat you to the punch?

And, hey, if I were to give you ten bucks, would you go stand in line two hours to buy one of those sweaters for me? No? Then why did you stand in line two hours this morning? Is ten bucks not worth your time? I’ll bet you’d consider paying somebody else twice that now to finish your shopping list.

I gave up early bird Black Friday shopping this year. Why? Because I found a mall where all the stores opened at ten p.m. Thursday. I’m a night owl anyway.

Before I left, however, I set some ground rules.

One, I reminded myself there was absolutely nothing I had to buy for me or anybody else. I was going for the sheer adventure of it.

Boy, was I stupid. I wore cowboy boots.

Okay, here’s the deal. I’m going to break a cardinal writing rule—don’t stray from the subject. But, hey, I’m driving this bus. Every now then it’s okay to take the scenic route.

See, I’ve had these boots for over year. They were a Christmas present from last year or the last. I haven’t worn them much. In fact, the only other time I’ve ever had cowboy boots was when I actually wore them to keep my feet from slipping through the stirrups when I was riding. But my absolutely adorable snuggly brown vest went so well with them, I wore them anyway.

Plus, there’s something about cowboy boots that’s empowering. I figured should I have to fight my way out of a mob of insane shoppers, I might as well be dressed for it. I only planned to shop for a couple of hours.

Again, stupid me.

The traffic was so backed up it took forever to get there. Then I had to wait in line forever in the cold because fire codes permitted a limited number of shoppers to enter each store at a time.

When I finally entered Old Navy, my eyes lit up. Mesmerized. Scarves! Only a dollar each. I grabbed an armful for everyone I knew. Then I looked at the line. It wrapped around the store twice. I came to my senses. I left.

I checked out several other stores, but again, I really wasn’t looking for anything except a little adventure, a little people watching. But everybody looked the same. They all had the same drop-jaw expression that said, “What am I doing here?”

I finally made my way to the Gap and endured the line. I figured I’d better bag something during my bargain hunt.

But my greatest act of stupidity was letting the aroma of coffee lead me to Starbucks. The line was out the door, for goodness sake! But I fell in line anyway. This is when I realized that my cowboy boots might come in handy despite my aching feet.

I was surrounded by a hundred caffeine addicts just dying to get a triple shot caramel latte. I found myself in the middle of several manly women discussing a Zombie run and their plans to check out an obstacle course the next day.

My greatest fear was the baristas would mix up my drink with theirs. The only advantage I had was my boots. There was no way I could outrun them even if I were wearing sneakers. I think one of them was a cage fighter.

Needless to say, my shopping experience was a bust.

I froze. My feet hurt. I waited nearly 45 minutes for a cup of coffee that was cold by the time I found my parking place, and I got so buzzed up on caffeine I couldn’t sleep once I finally made it to bed.

So children, those of you who make the vow to give up early bird shopping next year, don’ t be deceived by midnight madness. It is what it is.

I’m preparing for some intense writing—I should say re-writing—in the next couple of days. Before I get back to work, I thought I’d exercise my impromptu writing, and visit the Plinky prompts. 2011 has almost come to an end, and this may be the last time I’ll get to do a top 11 list. So here’s to Plinky and one of my last, if not the last, top eleven .

What drives me crazy?

Eleven
Driving into work and hearing nothing on the radio but talk or commercials
I can usually get a couple of good classic rock tunes in the morn before I punch in my favorite country station. I have a couple more on standby. WAY-FM won’t come in, so that’s not an option. If all else fails, I’ll try a contemporary station, but I turn it back to the commercials if Lady Gaga is on. Rah rah rah. Blech.

Ten
Reading instructions
I have no patience when putting stuff together. I bought a new desk light for my classroom the other day. I had to assemble it. First step? Toss the instructions. They made no sense anyway. I did fine until I got to the last step of screwing in the light bulb. I could not for the life of me figure it out. I had a doctor’s appointment the next day, so I left a note for my sub and requested help. The next day the light bulb was in. It never hurts to ask for help.

Nine
People assuming I’m stupid because I am instructionally challenged.
Yes, I am blond. Yes, I have trouble with my lefts and rights. Yes, I have trouble following directions. Yes, I have trouble with all of those things, but I am not dumb.

Eight
Not wearing earrings
I have a favorite pair of earrings that I wear almost every day unless I choose another pair that goes with a certain outfit. I can’t stand not wearing earrings. If I start my day without earrings, my day goes downhill.

Seven
Stress eating
I want to lose weight; I need to lose weight, but cortisol consumes me due to all the stress in my life. I really don’t eat much. I even skip meals. (I know—eating breakfast helps with weight loss.) But I turn to chocolate when I’m in survival mode. I’ve been known to beg, borrow, or steal when I’m really desperate.

Six
Skinny women on cop shows
I’ll bet all those uber thin actresses playing cops are like a size 2 or 0. You flaunt the fact that you can tuck in your shirts and wear belts around your flat bellies. Yeah, I know if I gave up the chocolate and returned to regular exercise I could get back to a size four. Those were the good old days and not so long ago. But you cop show chicks make me crazy. Okay, I’m jealous. I’m just not jealous enough to give up the chocolate—yet.

Five
Wearing socks that don’t match my outfit
I like color coordination. My closet is color coordinated. The files in my filing cabinet are color coordinated. When I’m wearing boots or clogs, I like for my socks to match the color of my shirt. It doesn’t matter if anyone else sees them. I know.  Being unmatched drives me crazy.

Four
Mysterious people
This could be good or bad. Everyone who crosses my path is like a character in my book, the life I’m living. I like to understand my characters, the ones I can trust, the ones I can’t. Mysterious people drive me insane. You keep me guessing and boost my imagination, but enough is enough already!  Illusionists drive me crazy too. I want to see what makes the magic.

And now for the top three things that REALLY drive me crazy

Three
Manipulative people
I don’t like being used, and I don’t like being a puppet. And most of the time, I can read manipulative people like a book. Just because I’m directionally challenged, kind, and patient doesn’t mean I don’t know I’m being played. I would rather bear the humilation of brute honesty than a lie that breaks my heart. Okay, I’ll admit I’m naive, super sensitive, and gullible at times, but eventually I catch on. On the flip side, if a manipulative person goes after one of my babies, the Mama in me comes out and whoa be unto the soul that tries to hurt one of my babies–biological babies or my students.

Two
Arrogant people
It’s simple. Arrogant people make me crazy. No matter how good, how smart, how rich, how talented, etc. Get the picture?

One
Mean people
Taylor Swift, you got this one right. I’ve always stood up for the underdog. Mean people are the antipathy of love. Loving people are patient, kind, and humble. Mean people are envious, lying, arrogant, hateful, hurtful, violent, and vengeful. “Why you got to be so mean?”

And now it’s your turn. What makes you crazy?

I should write a blog about blogs a writer should never write. Every day I come up with yet something else that’s not printable.

Don’t jump to conclusions. I’m not talking about X-rated or even R-rated material. I’m talking about the stupid, “you-had-to-be-there” kind of ideas that only you and your dog—or cat—would find hilarious.

But  considering the kind of week I’ve had, I am breaking my “no rant, no stupid” blogging rule, and I’m ranting about a topic that’s dear to my heart—and other body parts.

The bathroom.

Most of you have “normal” jobs. I am a teacher. There is nothing normal about being a teacher. We never grow up. We’re conditioned like Pavlov’s dog to respond to bells, and if we know in advance we’re going to kick the bucket, we’d better turn in our lesson plans a day early.

And we teachers have limited privileges.

“Yeah, right. I’d like to have a two-month vacation,” you say.

Believe me. We pay for our two-month “vacation,” both literally and figuratively. We don’t work 9-5, or even 8-3. We take our work everywhere we go, on vacations, to our kids’ ballgames. I recall one pregnant teacher phoning in her lesson plans while she was the delivery room.

But the basic necessity we teachers lack that most other members of the workplace take for granted is the opportunity to go to the bathroom as need arrives. We must pre-schedule our visits—or not go at all. To a teacher, a semi-private bathroom, one we don’t have to share with students, is a luxury.

It never fails. Every time I make a quick trip to the student restroom, which is closest to my classroom, I’m under constant scrutiny. I’m the enemy. The students shut up then whisper, “Not now. Teacher.” Then everyone shuts up to see what I’m going to do.

Awkward.

Here’s the problem. The teacher bathroom at my school is on the opposite end of the building from my room so if I need to visit, I must manuever through hundreds of students during class change or slip out of my room during instructional time and hope, nay, pray, my students don’t torment each other or—worse yet—an administrator doesn’t enter the room without me present.

Teachers aren’t supposed to talk on the cell phones during class time. Sometimes we can’t even answer when nature calls.

I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I’m one of those people who have recurring dreams—and they’re all about bathrooms. I find that bizarre, don’t you? I decided to do a little research to find out why. I didn’t consult a medium or witch doctor. I Googled.

Psychologists suggest my bathroom dreams reveal I am repressing my feelings and not admitting to how I really feel about something.

Well, great. Blogging is a wonderful idea. Letting go of my bathroom troubles is cleansing, renewing. Maybe I can just rant and flush these troubles away.

Yeah, right.

This past week I suffered a great dilemma. When I arrived at school, I had limited time to carry in my book bag and the many bags of groceries I brought for our annual Thanksgiving food basket drive. I knew I would have to make many trips and then go sign in and do hall duty before school started. Somewhere in between those duties, I needed to go to the bathroom.

My first trips to my room were easy. Arms loaded, I balanced just right, and unlocked my classroom door. I still had a few minutes to spare. With only one bag left in the car, I estimated I could do it…sign in and visit the ladies’ room before the bell rang. I rushed back to my Explorer.

Then it happened.

When I picked up my bag, a jar of peanut butter fell out. And it rolled. And rolled. Underneath the SUV next to me.

Keep in mind, I was dressed in my professional attire, not my Saturday afternoon jeans and t-shirt.

My school is undergoing extensive re-modeling; construction workers abound. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of them, but I got down on my hands and knees on the gravel drive and peered under the automobile.

I couldn’t reach the peanut butter.

I had my options. I could leave it, waste the money, and turn in an incomplete basket. I could ask the driver to move the car, or I could go inside and hunt for a broom to whack the peanut butter closer so I get my fingers on it.

But here’s the problem. I had limited time. I didn’t want to waste the money or the time it took to hunt down the driver or a broom.

So I did what any insane, improper, undignified teacher would do. I put down the bag, dropped to my belly, and crawled combat style under the SUV to retrieve the peanut butter.

Total humiliation. (If a construction worker asks you about some nut rolling around in the teacher parking lot, please pretend as if you know nothing.  Let’s keep it our little secret.)

And you want to know what’s worse? The next day our school had a lock down during our first period class. I followed my principal’s directives. I locked my door and told my students we were completely safe. NO ONE could get in.

And then the ceiling gave away, and the roof started leaking. Drip. Drip. Drip. But we still had a huge barrel to catch the water from the many other episodes of leaks we’ve had since last year.

There was one problem. I had to go to bathroom. I could not leave the room for any reason. The class period extended for another forty minutes or so.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

But we were safe. NO ONE could get in our room because I had locked the door.

But the door opened.

And a man entered.

And he carried something in his hand. I thought it was a Glock. It was a flashlight.

One of our hard-working maintenance personnel peeked in to check on my ceiling. He arrived just in time. The ceiling immediately exploded with multiple leaks, and we only had one bucket.

Drippity, drippity, drippity, drip, drip, drip. And I still had to go to the bathroom.

But I couldn’t go to the bathroom, not even the next class period.

I was scheduled to be observed as part of our state evaluation program. If I left my room, I risked points being deducted from my score for not being on time and prepared.

Drippity, drippity, drippity, drip, drip, drip.

There are those times when a teacher has to do what a teacher has to do.

The principal announced the end of the lock down, and out the door I flew. I found my evaluator. I rescheduled my observation and rushed to the teacher’s bathroom on the other side of the building.

But it was locked. I couldn’t get in. Like my room, the women’s bathroom had suffered too much water damage and had to be closed for repairs.

ARRGGGGG!

So here I am at home on Thanksgiving break. Bet you can guess one of the reasons why I’m thankful. We have two bathrooms in our house, and when Mama says, “Mine!” my boys know I mean business.

What a difference a few steps can make.

I teach in the English department on the opposite end of the building from the band room. But a couple of weeks ago I found myself stepping back in time as I wrangled a set of drums for my son’s talent show.

It seemed like only yesterday that I was there with my best buds, hanging out and feeling like a part of one big dysfunctional, but generally happy, family. The atmosphere was the same. A cacophony of brass, wind, and laughter filled the room.

Show time. There was a stir of excitement as the band members packed their trailer for the night’s performance.

When I was in high school, I though my chances at joining were voided when a friend talked me out of signing up for beginner band in seventh grade. I never learned how to play an instrument. But somehow I found a home in the band as a member of the guard.

Actually, back then we referred to ourselves as the flag corps. The beautiful majorettes stayed to themselves, and the rifles stuck to their guns. But the flag girls were special. I’ll never forget the parties and those horrific fiberglass flag poles we had to carry. They were lethally heavy, nothing compared to the lighter and prettier poles the guard members carry today.

I’m not the outgoing type. I’m competitive, yes. I’m a Bell. But I never have been what you would call a girly girl. I’ve always felt more comfortable throwing a baseball, shooting a basketball, or riding a horse. When the band director and my friends suggested I try out for guard, I thought they were nuts.

Me, dancing around in costume on a football field, keeping time, waving around a flag? Yeah, right. I was the bonafide poster child for all the rhythmless, clutzy dorks.

I lacked confidence. I didn’t carry myself well, but a slouch doesn’t look so great on the field. I had to learn how to march with one foot in front of the other, how to maintain great posture with the chin held high, and how to stay totally focused even if I messed up.

I never, ever considered trying out until my band director and friends on the corps pushed me into it.

As they say, never say never.

I learned the routines. I tried out. But there were no guarantees. I had to get over my fear of failure and do what I thought I could not do. I still remember the music from my routine–”The Theme from Love Boat.”

(Many thanks to the flag captain who worked with me and help me put together my routine. I never throught I could–or would–do it.)

But I did it, and I made it. I survived camp and even won a Drill Down competition for the most precise moves. And even more unbelievably,I actually performed on the field in front of packed bleachers, twirling a flag
to the sounds of the “William Tell Overture.”

Okay. I’ll admit there were times I felt a little awkward, prancing around like the Lone Ranger in search of Tonto. But the friendships I made and the courage I developed were worth everything.

I’ll never forget the Homecoming game when we planned our greatest feat yet. Members of the flag corps lined up in two rows, and the band paraded through the middle of us and we tossed our flag poles to our waiting partners on the other side, making them spin above the band members’ heads.

“Dear, Lord,” I prayed. “Please, on this Homecoming night, do not let me kill anyone. And if I do hit somebody in the head, please don’t let it be one of the cute drummer boys.”

I am happy to report there were no casualties.

The point I’m trying to make her is that sometimes we need a little push to take the extra steps to move out of our comfort zones. Something grand may be waiting us just a few steps away. We may even see it, but our fear can keep us from crossing the line.

If my friends and my band director hadn’t given me a nudge, I would have never realized that I CAN do what I think is impossible, I never would have made friends with some of the most incredible people I’ve met in my life, and I may have never opened the door to my creativity.

As a teacher, I push my students. They don’t like it.

I make them do assignments they don’t like to do. I make them try new things. I make them talk in front of the class. I make them interpret poetry. I make them meet deadlines. I make them write.

Sometimes they say ugly things about me behind my back and occasionally to my face. I laugh. Some of them are very creative with their insults. I’m sure it’s just their “special” way of saying “I love you, Mrs. L.”

Truthfully, I think the majority of them know I do what I do because they know they need it.

The greatest compliment I can ever receive is for my students’ eyes to light up when they realize for the first time they possess a gift they never know they had, when they discover they can do something they once thought was impossible.

I always figured myself to be just another short, dorky kid that didn’t belong. But my band director believed I was worth “pushing.” I hope my students realize they are worth “pushing.”

I have a challenge for those of you out there with a gift, especially you writers. I believe God places people in our lives for a reason. Look around you. Is there someone in your life that you can “push” or “nudge?” Can you share a little bit of your gift, your encouragement, so that others can discover they have something special too? Don’t keep it all to yourself.

Just a thought. Push on.

NOTE:  Do you know someone who needs a little push, a little encouragement? Please encourage your friend to read my blog. I always hope for a new subscriber.

To be or not to be...writing vs. playing Angry Birds

Disclaimer: After reading this blog—which you are probably doing right now instead of writing your own blog or editing your own manuscript–you will better understand the problem areas in your writing life. I offer no cures. I think we both know there’s only one way to get those words on the page. Write.

Anyway, here’s everything you need to know to become a highly ineffective writer.

1.      Surround yourself with clutter.

By all means, do not write in a clean, neatly organized room, for if you do, you will find limited reasons to procrastinate. If there are no laundry to fold, no papers to grade, no toys to pick up, no dishes to wash, no books to read, and no dirt to vaccum, then the only thing left to do is to write.

I am a minimalist by nature. Honestly, I HATE clutter. I could live in a hotel room as long as a maid cleaned the bathroom and made the bed. Better yet, give me a rustic, clean cabin in the woods. If I see clutter, my obsessive nature kicks in. I can’t think about writing because all I want to do is clean.

2.      Place an object of temptation within your reach.

Don’t lie to yourself. Don’t think you’ll reward yourself for your 500 words by with a quick interlude of entertainment. Like to crochet? Put down the needle. You’ll only hurt yourself. Of course, you like to read, but that one chapter soon turns into two, and then before you know it, you’re engrossed, hooked. There are no intervention plans, folks. Withdrawal from a good book is killer.

My object of temptation? The guitar. My laptop is within an arm’s distance of two guitars and an amp. Even as I write this, I tell myself, “No. I will not pick up the guitar. I will not pick up the guitar.” But I already have.  True, one chord never hurt anybody. But I can’t stop at one chord. Now that I’ve learned how to move up and down the neck, I’m sliding over every fret. Dangerous.

3.      Participate in a pre-writing ritual.

What do you do before you fire up the laptop? Make a pot of coffee? Watch some reality TV? You’re not one of those fitness people are you? Tell me you don’t work out before you write. (If you tell me you do, then I’ll feel even more guilty. Not only will I have to admit to being a highly ineffective writer, I’ll also have to admit to being a lazy, highly ineffective writer.)

The point is if you become too focused on your ritual, you’ll place more emphasis on preparation than on production. Me? I MUST have coffee. But coffee is not enough. To clear my mind, I must go for a ride and
drink my coffee. When I get home, I’m usually tired. Then I need a nap. By the time I wake up, the day is done, and my writing is not.

4.      Stop writing; start researching.

You’ve set a goal. 1000 words? 2000 words? But the world of research calls. Do you answer, or return to the page? Research is fun. Research burns minutes. And hours. Even days.

I love research. Give me a name or a subject, and within an hour I can tell you anything you want to know about anyone or anything. And when I research, my mind wanders. And when my mind wanders, I think of new projects. But my old project never moves forward. Then I have TWO unfinished projects.

5.      Immerse yourself in a bottomless pit of social media.

By all means, get your name out there. Twitter. YouTube. Facebook. Google. But can you stop at one status, or do you find yourself wandering off to Farmville, Angry Birds or Zuma?

My downfall? I’m hooked on stupid Facebook quizzes, but I have learned so much about myself. If I were a vampire, my hidden gift would be to see into the future. If I were a Disney princess, I would be Snow White, but if I were a character from a horror flick, I’d be Chucky. What do my eyes reveal? I have a deep, dark secret I don’t want to share with others.

I wonder how much writing I could have achieved if I hadn’t been taking these quizzes.

6.  Become a jack of all trades, a master of none.

Your family needs you. Your church needs you. Your boss needs you. Your organization needs you. You have 24 hours in a day. By the time you’ve made the meals, served on three committees, spent an extra hour on the job, and organized a Boy Scouts fundraiser, you’re tired. You probably don’t feel like writing. But the real question is did God call you to do ALL of these things, or did you call yourself?

I’m one of those people who have a hard time saying ”no.” I believe I have a purpose, a calling to write. But so many other things pull me away from what I KNOW I’m supposed to do. While it is commendable to teach Vacation Bible School or to take youth on church camp retreats, I don’t believe God expects me to do everything that is commendable. I think he gave me the desire of my heart (writing), and I think He will give me the time to pursue it—if I’m not guilted into doing the things He’s not calling me to do. Unfortunately,I am the most guilty at making myself feel guilty.

7.  Never, ever forgive yourself when you fail.

Life happens. Deadlines for contests pass, and we don’t meet them. We rush a query letter to the post office, and then we realize the editor only accepts e-mail. We trade our 1,500 words a day goal to go play in
the park with our children. We lose the business card of a potential agent. Epic failures.

While we’re at it, we might as well condemn ourselves for ever sin we’ve ever committed, It’s so easy to make ourselves feel bad. It’s so hard to make ourselves work when we feel so bad about ourselves.

In the past year, I have suffered tremendous losses, and my writing success has slowed to a crawl. I feel like a failure because I lack the emotional punch to keep me going. Sometimes I fear I have reached a dead end, but I can’t stop there—even if it means turning around and finding another way out, another route to success.

We know what it feels like to fail others. Have you really thought about how it feels when you fail yourself? It  hurts just as badly. But just as we forgive others, we must forgive ourselves.

No one is perfect. We are all works in progress.

Note: If my children read this, I will be in some serious trouble. But as they say, forgiveness is easier to get than permission.

Last night I treated my sons to a delicious meal at the Hong Kong Buffet. When the waitress brought us the ticket and our fortune cookies, Josh grabbed one and looked at me in horror.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t open it. I’ll put it back.” And he pulled his hands away. It was too late. He had already touched it.

See, we have this “thing” in my family. I ALWAYS get to pick the first cookie. I choose my fortune. Michael ALWAYS gets the last cookie. His fortune chooses him. Whoever’s left gets what’s in the middle.

But since he had already touched it, I told him to take it. I chose another one, and Michael’s cookie chose him.

Michael’s cookie said he needed some relaxation time. My cookie told me to pursue my long-term goal, and Josh’s cookie predicted mystery and romance.

“Hey, these cookies went to the wrong people. I think Michael needs the mystery romance cookie.”

Michael balked at Josh’s words. He’s is in that “in-between world” of not knowing whether he should run to or from girls.

I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. We don’t put much stock into these “fortunes,” but we have a lot of fun with them—Michael, usually more than others. He likes to add the words “in the bathroom” to everyone’s fortune.

Try it. It’s fun—even though it’s obnoxiously juvenile. I always scold him when he says it at the restaurant, but on the inside I’m laughing.

I told Josh I believed his cookie was meant for him because the word romance didn’t necessarily mean “huggy, huggy, kissy, kissy.” And both of us proceeded to explain to Michael that romance also referred to adventure in a King Arthur kind of way.

I like to think both of my children are adventurous and romantic. When they were little, they became so caught up in their imaginations I had a hard time pulling them back to reality.

For eight years Josh was an only child, so he invented imaginary brothers and a sister—Kinder, Mark, and Folla. They road atop of our van along with his imaginary uncle from England.

Josh went through a Batman phase. Even when it wasn’t Halloween, he used to dress like the superhero. I remember taking him into a Shoney’s in Knoxville. He signed autographs for the waiters and waitresses—as THE Batman.

He also created his own detective agency and made me print business cards for him.

Michael, on the other hand, has always been creative but in a different way. He’s always had Josh, so he didn’t need imaginary siblings. I could buy him expensive gifts at holidays, but there has always been one gift that enthralls him—pencil erases, as long as they come in two colors so that he can create intricate battles between opposing teams or armies.

Isn’t that weird?

Michael also wants a golf cart more than anything else in the world. Who knows what he plans to do with it. For years he has pleaded with me. When Old Stone Fort shut down its golf course, Michael begged to go there so he could ask a park ranger for one of the golf carts.

Not going to happen.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to the days of my childhood. As only child, I spend nearly all of my waking moments in another world. It was okay back then. When you’re a kid, you can imagine all you want, and nobody thinks you’re weird.

I loved horses, so my mother’s brooms became my mighty steeds. My golden banana seat bike transformed into a palomino. I spent weekends at my grandparents’ hiding in the bathroom with my cousin Robin, my partner in crime, and we spent hours mixing Jergan’s lotion, Comet cleanser and other cleaning supplies into magical potions. Were we scientists or actresses in commercials? I don’t remember. We just had fun.

Sometimes I find myself drifting off into my imaginary world again, even as adult. When Josh read his fortune at the Hong Kong Buffet, I found myself drifting off again. I had a plan.

Josh is a journalism major and sometimes falls into media opportunities. There is a possibility he might work a major awards show in the near future. A possibility.

Sometimes these workers drive the celebrities to their appointments. If I recall correctly, one Steven Tyler showed up at last year’s event. Who’s to say he won’t come back this year?

So here’s the plan, man:

Josh finds a way to grab golf cart duty. He looks for Steven Tyler. He drives Steven Tyler in the golf cart, but he doesn’t stop at the awards show. He brings him to our house. (I don’t know what we’ll do with him once we get him—I don’t want to keep him. I just want to borrow him for autograph or a picture. Maybe a song.)

Mission accomplished.

If the plan works out, not only will I get to meet Steven Tyler, but Michael will get his golf cart. Josh will probably go to jail, but hey…he’s the one who grabbed the first cookie.

And it’s MY imagination.

Oh well. I guess I can just “dream on.”

Stevie Ray

“Mom, if you keep talking like that, people will start calling you the Cat Lady.”

Brandishing his infinite wisdom, my college-age son once again offered his advice. And called me the Cat Lady!

Cat Lady? Visions of a deranged, lonely woman surrounded by hundreds of hungry, yowling felines invaded my imagination. Okay, the scenario is technically possible, but what my son doesn’t know is that I AM The Cat Lady, better known as The Cat Whisperer. I talk to my cat, and he talks back.

He doesn’t speak English. If he could, I think he’d prefer to talk like an Egyptian due to his breeding, but, nevertheless, he speaks. He just doesn’t use words.

He shows rather than tells.

Stevie Ray, named after the legendary blues guitarist Stevie Ray Vaughan, is a highly intelligent tabby who communicates with subtle and not-so-subtle cues.

Stevie Ray is a free spirit. He comes and goes as he pleases. I don’t force him to stay. He’s a back-door man who taps on my sunroom’s glass door with his velvet paw when he wants to enter.

Stevie Ray is refined. He requires no litter box. He sits by the door and meows when he needs to excuse himself. If I don’t respond soon enough, he sharpens his claws on my potted plant and shakes the leaves until he has my attention. If necessary, he topples the plant, which is nearly five feet tall.

Other than the occasional tree toppling, Stevie Ray, never, ever, violates my home–which is a whole lot more than I can say for the Scottish terror who invades our  living room and kitchen. She, with her vindictive attitude and predisposition for stealing quesadillas on take-home Mexican Monday, is jealous of Stevie Ray. Given the opportunity, she sneaks into the sunroom where Stevie Ray and I hang out, and leaves a nasty “gift” on the carpet by my computer.

By nature, I’m a dog lover. In addition to Maggie, the Scottie, I am also the proud owner of a yellow lab and a Hellhound. I’m sorry. This IS a rated-G blog. But it’s true. The same college-aged son who accused me
of being the future Cat Lady once brought home a sweet little black puppy we named Scooby Dee. I relented and let her stay, never imagining what she would turn out to be.

Little did I know that this black puppy with the big paws would grow into a shiny ebony monster with a Cheshire cat grin that resembles a Capuchin monkey. She has a body that’s a cross between a black lab and a Great Dane and the face of a Pit Bull or some other flesh-gouging canine straight from the depths of ….

But she’s a sweetheart, despite her looks. Scooby talks too. Literally. She tries to mimic our speech. But I don’t understand her words. I have to watch her actions. When Scooby wags her lethal tail, she’s happy, so happy, she knocks me off my feet.

Lacy, her yellow sister, is the runt of a litter of 13, the baby. And you know what they say about the baby. She always wants attention. I enrolled her in obedience school, and the leaders almost kicked us out because Lacy was too social. She barked constantly and wanted to rub noses with ever pup in the place.

Nevertheless, Lacy SHOWS her affection by trying to snuggle in my lap. Nevermind she’s at least 50 or 60 pounds. She flops at our feel for belly rubs and shakes hands over and over again because she knows it makes me happy.

My pets don’t tell; they show. And that’s what effective writers do.

My juniors are preparing for the TCAP Writing Assessment Test. My goal is for them to show vivid examples, not just tell about them. We’ve been practicing this objective all week. I usually throw in a personal example like the one below to make a point.

As a naïve, young teacher I agreed to sponsor a band concert for Homecoming, not realizing that five-foot little old me would be the ONLY chaperone of 500 hormonal teens. And because it was a concert, the only lights available were on the stage.

I could tell you I was terrified. Better yet, let me paint you a verbal picture and show you.

Being the naïve young teacher, I feared two things: procreation and illegal drug use. I was moderately worried about the mosh pit, forming at the front of the stage.

I watched with hawk eyes, and then I saw saw it. The glow of a red light. My imagination soared. I had to save my students. I assumed some shady perpetrator had sneaked a funny cigarette into the theater. I flew into combat mode and attacked the unknown suspect, yanking him over the back of the theater chairs.

Can you say overzealous?

Ironically, the red light on the alleged smoke was actually a laser that beamed from a Rebel Canon EOS camera. I had just wrestled my newspaper cameraman to the ground. I didn’t recognize him in the dark. I think I scarred him for life.

Can you say embarrassed?

A picture is worth a thousand words.

The greatest piece of advice my mother ever gave me was, “Actions speak louder than words.” You can only truly judge a person’s heart by examining his actions. Some people are takers. They depend on other people to make them happy. They always want something and possess a “What’s in it for me”attitude. Other people are givers. They find their happiness in doing something to make others happy, even if it means sacrificing something for themselves.

When it comes to writing, readers want to get to know their characters. They want  to fall in love with the characters in our books just as we want to fall in love with the characters in our lives. Actions speak louder than words.

Being the hopeless romantic, my heart melts in the presence of a giver. And that’s what I want my readers’ hearts to do when they meet my characters. I can’t just tell my readers the protagonist in my book is wonderful. I have to show them. I have to make the character do something that makes the readers’ hearts melt. Actions speak louder than words.

Just ask Stevie Ray. If he flips his tail, he’s telling you to back off, but if he purrs, he invites you to enjoy his presence. Right now he’s sleeping at my feet—he wants to be near me. That’s how I know he loves me.

At least that’s what his actions say.

J. T. Ellison kills people for a living. When she showed up to dinner one night at a nice restaurant and saw her victim alive and well across the room, she freaked out. Wouldn’t you?

J.T. Ellison is a writer, specializing in thrillers, and when she creates a character, she scans the Nashville society sections of the local magazines and papers to find the perfect victim. She just happened to run into one of those victims in real life—a person who was once just a face on newsprint. JT supplied the rest of the details from the depths of her imagination..

Oooooh, what fun!

Writers make the story real for us when they make the characters real to them. Sometimes writers need a visual prompt before they can imagine a character’s personality, predict their actions, know their tastes, feel their pain.

Some writers are plot driven, but I think I’m character driven. Soon after I read The Outsiders as a kid and fell in love with Soda Pop Curtis, I created my own character. He never appeared in any of my stories I wrote as a teen, and he wasn’t an imaginary childhood friend. But whenever I daydreamed, I imagined this person. Today that character is still very real to me. The perfect character. Maybe he’s just waiting for his story to be written.

When I first started my writing venture, I attended one of J. T.’s writing workshops, sponsored by the Tennessee Writers Alliance, and was giddy at the thought of creating my own character.

I wanted to try J. T. Ellison’s technique of building my character around a real person. Like I don’t do that anyway. I always write about people I know—I just don’t tell them. Taylor Swift and I have something in common. She writes about the bad ones, but I write about the good.

I considered perusing the society sections of the local papers, but we don’t have a society section. Too small town. Instead I trolled Facebook and MySpace and gawked at people I didn’t know. That just seemed too weird.

I even considered filling out a dating match for one of my male characters to see what type of girl would be interested in him. But I thought better of it. What if the real live girl thought she had found the match she had waited for all her life—only to find out it could never be?

Nooooo! That’s not my kind of story. My stories have happy endings. As the writer, I’m in control, so I can make it happen, at least in fiction.

Now that I’ve written this, I’m beginning to think I sound a bit deranged like one of those “characters” on Criminal Minds. Eeek. I hope profilers don’t read my blog and think I’m a serial killer. (It wasn’t even my idea to pull Tony the Tiger from the frosted flakes box. But that’s another story.)

I admire writers who create real characters. If I had to pick one of my favorite masters of character creation in addition to J. T., my choice would be Tyler Perry. The man’s a genius.

All of his characters evoke an emotion, but his Madea character is my favorite. Forever the hopeless romantic, I combine love and comedy. So does Perry, but Perry also uses his very real characters to unleash a profound message. He makes us laugh while, at the same time, makes us look dead in the eyes of truth.

That’s why Perry is one of my favorites. His characters are multi-dimensional. I feel as though I actually know them. They have an emotional impact on me.

What character is your favorite and why? What makes that character real to you?

For more information about J. T. Ellison, click on the book jackets to visit her website. You can also see her in person during the Southern Festival of Books in Nashville October 14-16.

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Ten seconds.

Pick a movie that could be the story of your life. Mine? Adventures in Babysitting, starring Elisabeth Shue. If you haven’t seen this movie, don’t rent it. Buy it. I hear there’s a remake on the way, but I can’t imagine anything being as good as the original.

Adventures in Babysitting is the story of life’s little habit of going from bad to worse.

Cry or laugh. Either way we have to get through circumstances. Our earthly problems never fade away forever, and just when we think we’re cruisin’, that’s when get a flat—kind of like what happens in the movie.

Here’s the movie’s premise. Chris Parker plans a romantic evening with her boyfriend, but when her date backs out, she’s stuck babysitting three bratty kids. Chris’s crazy best friend goes off the deep end, runs away to the city, and then calls Chris to rescue her. What else can Chris do but load the kids into her mom’s car and take off on an adventure?

Along the way, the car gets a flat, and Chris and the kids hitch a ride in a tow truck but end up at chop shop. They befriend an amiable car thief, who tries to save them, but they find themselves moving targets of ruthless
thugs. Their only means of escape is to duck in a back alley door, the entrance to a hardcore Chicago blues club.

The four find themselves on stage, and as blues guitarist Albert Collins tells them, “Nobody gets outta this place without singing the blues.”

Sometimes that’s all any of us can do. When life goes from bad to worse, we have to sing. And sometimes the singing or the situation is so bad, we have to laugh to keep from crying.

Chris Parker and I have a lot in common.

Just recently I found myself lost in a big city with my crazy friend. I had signed up for a SCBWI conference as a writer and talked my illustrator friend into going to share the costs and the fun. We had Saturday evening free, so we signed with other conference attendees for a walking tour around downtown Nashville. We rode to the rour with one of the organizers.

The tour took us to several legendary sites, including the Capitol and the oldest church downtown. But then our guide led us to the notorious Printer’s Alley, the site where a man named Skull ran his business and walked his painted pink poodles until the day he was murdered.

Everyone in our tour took turns taking pictures of the entrance to Skull’s now defunct club. My friend I obliged several passers-by and took their photos so that they’d have a souvenir of their trip. We were so pleased to help others that we lost track of our group. They left us.

Panic.

We were lost on Printer’s Alley with no clue how we got there and no clue how to get back to our hotel, which was too far away for walking.

But I remembered our tour guide saying the tour would end at the Ryman Auditorium. All we had to do was find it. My friend and I serpentined from one back alley to another and found our way to a main street. We could see our group standing in front of the Ryman, and we ran to them.

When we finally made it back to our hotel, we were famished. The polite man working the front desk showed us the hotel restaurant, the bar, and the tiny pantry/ convenience store. My friend headed straight for the pantry’s
freezer and Ben and Jerry’s.

But I was feeling rather sassy and proud of myself for having saved the day with my keen navigational senses. (My friend’s story may differ, but this is MY POV.) Anyway, when the man asked me what I wanted I slapped the
desk and smiled big and boldly said, “I want me some chocolate.”

Awkward silence. I cringed. I panicked.

For was it then I realized there was no smile on the man’s handsome, genteel dark brown face, emphasis on dark brown, the color of chocolate.

More awkward silence.

And then I babbled.

“You know what?” I said. “I really don’t think chocolate is such a good idea. I’ve had way too much chocolate lately. I like chocolate—don’t get me wrong. It’s just I’ve really been consuming the calories lately. I don’t
need chocolate. I don’t really want any chocolate. I think I’ll just skip the chocolate.”

I must have gone on and on for 15 minutes mumbling about chocolate. Every word that tumbled out of my mouth was the wrong word. I finally caught my breath and said, “You know what? I think I’ll just get a
bottled water.”

I crawled away from the counter, grabbed a Dasani from the pantry, dug a buck or two out of my pocket and crawled back to the desk.

“How much?” I squeaked.

“Go ahead. Take it,” the man said, smiling now.

“Really?” I squeaked.

He nodded. And I slunk into the elevator, where my friend awaited. By the time I explained the whole ordeal to her, we were laughing hysterically.

I was sooooo embarrassed. But considering all the other troubles life has had to offer, I have to admit, a little embarrassment is nothing—except reason for a good laugh. And who doesn’t need that every now and then? Rather than sweat the little situations, we should do what the man says—sing. Or laugh.

After all, nobody leaves this place without singing the blues.

Click on this Adventures in Babysitting clip for an added treat.

What movie is your “theme” movie? Please share your thoughts and a smile.

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