I’ll Take That Gift of Time!
Second Set Chances has officially entered its production stage. On Tuesday, June 18, I woke up and immediately checked my email. (This phone reaching in the AM is such a bad habit, I know, but the blue light wakes me up, I swear!) There it was, an email from my publishing director sent to me and my development editor, right on time according to my production schedule.
I’d been anticipating this step since I signed with Vine Leaves Press almost a year ago, the first in a long checklist of things to complete before Second Set Chance’s pub date in April. I’ve been worried (about everything my entire life) about balancing my teaching job with my writing job, especially since the latter now comes with deadlines, but was relieved to learn edits would begin during my summer break. I figured if I wrote full time during my teacher’s summer, I could begin the new school year with most of them complete. That goal eased my stress.
And then I read the email. The exciting, long anticipated email that moved the surreal into the real.
For months, I’ve been planning for my editor’s feedback, comments, and suggestions on June 18th, thinking I’d be able to get to rewriting right away. I thought wrong. The initial email merely connected all of us, and I was directed to send my manuscript to the editor so she could read it and work her feedback magic. Her follow up directed me to enjoy the easiest part of the process (for me) while she read through the manuscript, and to expect her feedback in about a month. My “real” work, it seems, will begin just as I’m reporting back at work.
WHOMP WHOMP.
I’ve never published a book before and should have zero expectations, as I was reminded by my husband when STRESSING to him, but an anxiety sufferer can’t help but have some façade of control in a plan. Unfortunately, my plan wasn’t going to be, and I had zero control over it.
But while I’ve been failing my therapist’s instructions to avoid morning phone media, I have been making gains in dealing with my anxiety. So, after a day of worrying about the real editing timeline, I started to silverline it. I love my summer vacation; it is a tease at what retirement will be. I mooch on the front porch in the morning with my coffee and a book. Hike. Paddleboard. Concerts at Red Rocks. Visit my family in PA. Travel. And write. Had my publishing expectations lived up to reality, I would have had little time to do all the things I love best, save for the writing.
But I’ve been given the gift of time to relish in all of it, everything (!), without the constant worry or guilt that I shouldn’t be doing anything but working on Second Set Chances edits. And though I’ve been writing a lot these last few weeks, it’s all on my own timeline and on projects I feel like working on, not those I have to be. Between all the words is plenty of outdoor adventure, music, and family time. The feedback is coming soon, and I guarantee the stress will be high, but until then, I am going to enjoy myself.
How about you? What is an unexpected but welcome gift you recently received?
Chalkboard Torture
I am intentional. I am consciously creating a life I love.
This is what my affirmation card read at yoga class on Sunday. My hand hovered over the circle of shiny gold cards spread facedown before I plucked this one. I placed it at the front of my mat, dedicating my yoga practice to these words. Oh, how they resonated with me, their timeliness and truth.
I recently returned from a trip to Miami, a Wesley reunion of sorts, to meet my niece. My brother couldn’t wait to be a father. He and my sister-in-law are so stoked. My parents, too. I’m thrilled for them all, especially Mom and Dad, first-time grandparents.
The new parents are also about to close on a house, their second one. They recently relocated to South Florida from Los Angeles and were bummed to leave their renovated bungalow. My brother loves being a homeowner. Putzing around in the yard, Painting. Shopping for décor.
We have two completely different versions of our American dream, I said to the two of them as I cradled their newborn. My brother rolled his eyes. He doesn’t get why I am chosen child-free. Why I complain about being a homeowner. (If not for my logical husband, I’d still be throwing money away on rent for the additional freedom it provides.)
But I do love my life. I’m obsessed with it (when my shitty mental health isn’t raging a wildfire in my headspace), this American Dream of mine that skews from a traditional one and includes dogs over children, travel and concerts instead of home renovations, and a career fit for a bookworm.
Since returning from Miami, I’ve been thinking a lot about the choices I’ve made in life. Some easy, some devastating, and some life-altering mistakes, but each intentional, either to get me on my chosen path or keep me there. And I can’t help but think how fortunate I am to have this option. I didn’t have kids on account of societal norms or enter a profession due to family pressure (100% not the case). But I have friends with different experiences. I don’t think I want kids, but my mom will be disappointed if I don’t.
To quote my favorite band, from one of my not favorite songs, “You got one life, blaze on.” (#IYKYK). Live the life you want, whether that includes six kids or six dogs. Stay in your hometown or live in a van cruising across The Americas. Wear tie-dye or collared Lacoste. Architect your design so that when you pick that affirmation in yoga class, your body buzzes with joy in that affirmation.
I pulled this card when I desperately needed it, (as always, thank you for the timing, Universe) with my self-esteem in the gutter for months. It’s a mantra to be repeated, a recess penance of writing this one hundred times on the chalkboard as a reminder to have gratitude for this.
I am intentional. I am consciously creating a life I love.
Time Travel in the Modern World
For the past few months, I’ve been a metaphysical time traveler, walking around in my middle-aged body with the confidence of my teenage self (with wrinkles AND pimples (WHY AM I STILL BREAKING OUT?)). I’m Stewart Smiley in reverse, feeling as if I’m not enough of any of the things. The only reason I’m not locking myself in the bathroom to cry it out at 3 PM every day is because of experience, maturity, and therapy (years of therapy).
This mighty trifecta has gifted me with a myriad of coping strategies, but even with walks and sunshine, daily exercise, journaling, conversations with loved ones, and an antidepressant, I still feel as if I’m just coasting through life in a torrent of mediocrity. I have enough wisdom now to identify and unpack why my brain has tricked me into believing nothing is coming up Rachael (total lies) and one major contributing factor is social media.
I’m a writer, and my debut memoir, Second Set Chances, releases through Vine Leaves Press next April. (My lifelong dream of becoming a published writer is happening, and yet I’m still riddled with these craters of (faux?) inferiority. Something needs to change.) I’m trying to build my audience and gain readers in anticipation of my pub date, which means amassing a social media empire and getting a few of my short stories published in some big-name magazines and journals. The problem is, I’m baby stepping, no, snail sliding my way to both.
Gaining followers is absolutely soul-sucking. I’ll enjoy the quick dopamine bursts of a like or comment on what I think is an engaging post, but then, when it doesn’t receive as much attention as I anticipated, I doom scroll, obsessing over similar accounts that garner more interest than mine. My story submissions are receiving rejections like a cornered boxer getting punches to the face; I frantically read other writers’ published works (posted on social media), studying their words and trying to figure out what my stories are missing. Both are pummeling my ego. I can’t help but compare myself to others, to the artists with thousands of loyal fans and the writers with the fancy bylines, and it’s thieving me of my own accomplishments and bleeding into all areas of my life.
I’ve decided to add another strategy to my arsenal of “feel good” moves, something I’ve never ever done before: a social media vacation. I’ve tried to set limits on my Facebook and Instagram usage in the past, but my compulsive fingers couldn’t stop reaching for the screen. I’ve learned from that. Out of sight, out of mind, I’ve deleted the apps from my phone. Six days later, I’m holding strong and wondering how long I’ll keep this strike going for. While I don’t have an answer yet, I can guarantee that I’m back on the Gram if you're reading this. How else would you have heard about my website if I didn’t post it on social media?
So, how does one find a balance in a world with such omnipresence? I can’t be a writer and expect to sell books or have people read my stories without it, but utilizing social media crushes my self-esteem. If anyone has found the answer to this modern-day riddle, I’m here for it, all ears and listening.
Update: Monday, May 20: Ok, I’ve peeked on Facebook a tiny bit, but only to see if Renewal, Billy Strings’ annual festival in Buena Vista, CO, has been announced yet. It hasn’t, and, once on FB, I commenced scrolling for about 5 minutes, 3 separate times. High on my priority list for my therapy session tomorrow is to come up with a boundaries plan for social media.
Update: Friday May 24: With a plan in place, I am going to make my way back to social media. I requested book recommendations in a Facebook group and am honored my boundaries since posting that. I am going to monitor my usage and head space for the next few days, and then hopefully, more of you are reading this, as this means I started spreading the word about my website on all the groups. :) If so, thanks for your support and thanks for reading.