Coping

Today's post is going to be raw, emotional, and probably painful for some of you to read. In truth, I started not to publish it. But this has been sitting with me for awhile now, and so I wrote it out in hopes that it would bring me some comfort and closure. I didn't write it to seek out sympathy, or to evoke any particular emotion for my readers. I simply wrote it for me. Any of you who have ever suffered with infertility will understand that sometimes, crying it out and exhausting all emotion is the only way to pick yourself and move on, to give yourself enough courage to take the next pill, the next shot, or the next test. That is what this post is for me.

I'm sitting in the bathroom floor, legs tangled beneath me. The towel I'm crying into smells of Brian's body wash. A nervous cat who managed to get closed into the bathroom with me sits by the door, tail twitching, waiting for a chance to escape. The digital pregnancy test still sits on the counter where I left it, the words "NOT PREGNANT" in stark analog print, breaking my heart again.

It's 4:30 in the morning.

Last night, we sat at the kitchen table, holding hands, the truth of the situation like ashes in my mouth. "I'm 15 days late," I say.

"I know," he replies.

Like a sorrow-filled waltz, we dance around the topic of conversation. He asks me if there are any signs of impending doom. I show him my ovulation calendar. We talk about the "peak fertile days" we managed to hit in the last month. Hope blossoms like spring flowers where one would think the roots were dead.

"Should I take a test?" I ask him.

"Maybe. But let's wait until morning," he replies.

And so we walk through the rest of the day, preparing meals and cleaning dishes, hugging cats and laughing at sitcoms, until the time for bed arrives.

As I brush my teeth, I rummage through the cabinets until I find what I'm looking for: a box of pregnancy tests, one left, waiting for the chance to make our dreams come true. I set it out, unwrap it, and stare at the blank screen, wondering what judgement it will have for me. I spit in the sink, and a spot of toothpaste lands on the digital screen. I wipe it away with my finger.

An hour later, my husband sleeps deeply beside me. I slide the bookmark between the pages of my current novel and turn out the light. My cat snuggles up on my chest, and I pet him while I think about what the morning might bring. So many possibilities. 

I try to keep myself from thinking it, but as usual, the laundry list of those possibilities begin to rattle off in my brain. If it's positive, I could have the baby by Christmas. If it's positive, I'll want to schedule an appointment with my doctor as soon as possible. If it's positive, I want to tell my parents first. If it's positive, I'll have the chance to tell Jenna in person this weekend. If it's positive, we'll have to do something about that middle bedroom. (I've always loved the idea of a Dr. Seuss-themed nursery.)

If it's positive, will it be a boy or a girl?

If it's positive, I will cry and laugh and dance and celebrate.

If it's positive.

I fall asleep with visions of round cheeks and tiny feet dancing in my head.

When I wake up with a full bladder at 4 a.m., my whole body comes to attention. I slide out from beneath the covers, leaving husband and cats undisturbed. I take a deep breath and do my duty, waiting the unbearable 2 minutes before allowing myself to read the screen of the pregnancy test.

And the new, more familiar laundry list of possibilities take over. If it's negative, I will not beat myself up for days on end. If it's negative, I will not let it ruin my week. If it's negative, I won't tell anyone about it, because I don't want people to feel sorry for me. If it's negative, and of course it will be negative, I will mark it on my calendar and move on.

If it's negative, I will mention it to Brian over breakfast and we won't talk about it anymore.

If it's negative, I will let myself cry, but only for a few minutes.

If it's negative.

I give myself ten minutes to mourn the baby that never was, and then I wrap the test, that thing, in toilet paper and throw it away. I toss the box and instructions away, too. I wipe down the counters, the sink, and the mirror just for good measure. I splash my face with cold water, blow my nose, and brush my hair. I never look at my reflection because I know I'll only see misery and regret. I turn out the light and open the door, freeing the trapped cat from the confines of his prison cell. I tiptoe back into the bedroom and ever-so-gently lower myself back into bed.

His voice pierces the night.

"Negative?" he asks.

"Negative." I reply.

And we wrap ourselves in each other and cope.

Words

I'm a writer.

I'm not just a writer because I call myself one. Writing a blog doesn't necessarily make one a writer, either. Yes, by definition a writer is someone who writes -- but for me, the titles goes deeper than that.

When I'm alone in my car, or taking a shower, or walking along the shore, my mind is rarely idle. Instead, I'm busy constructing sentences. Listing adjectives. Creating characters. Writing blog posts. I can spend twenty minutes of my life, or more, steeped in thought, ferreting out the best way to phrase a description of the morning fog clinging to the trees.

And I don't just write in my head. I have notebooks scattered everywhere throughout my life, just waiting for the words to pour onto paper, in hopes that they will find a home in a more permanent situation soon. Scraps of poetry, bits of story line, a jotted note about a dream I had once---all waiting to take shape into a more concrete, linear form.

I have a love affair with language. I am mesmerized by words: the fluidity of them, the meaning of them, the beauty of them. I collect quotes -- whether serious or thoughtful or funny--that speak to me. My house is decorated with words. Wooden signs with written reminders to dream, to fly, to live and love. 

Words give me strength. They can be anchors, or buoys, or vessels. They can be wielded as weapons, or wrought with grief. They can be witty and pointed, or placid and dull. 

Words are loneliness, and love. They are epic, and trivial.  Words are limiting. Words are freeing. They are weird and awkward, or subtle and shifting.

Words are romantic. Give me a bouquet of words--well-spoken, meaningful, lovely words--over a handful of flowers any day. 

I may not have a shelf of books with my name on the jacket cover, or be recognized among my peers as a starving artists paving her way with words. I may not spend twenty-three hours a day hunched over my keyboard, painstakingly pounding out the next great American novel. In truth, I may not even be that great at writing.

But nonetheless, I am a writer. My destiny is with the written word.

I can't help it. Words captivate me. I am their greatest fan.

I'm Always A Little Late To Every Party

So here I am, eleven days (11?!!??!?!?!?) into the shiny new year, and I'm just now getting around to writing an honest-to-goodness, real-life blog. 

What's that ya say, readers? "What's Up With THAT?"

Well, I'll tell you.

For starters, in case you missed it, Brian graduated about a month ago. Which means my man, in all his glory, has been home a LOT lately. That translates into...well...into this:

Pure. Unadulterated. Bliss.

There's been lots of sleeping, lots of snuggling, and lots of laughing. We've been socializing, taking road trips, going to movies, watching a TON of Doctor Who reruns, and just basically enjoying each other's company for the first time in practically three years.

If it hadn't been for all the working in between, it would have almost been like a vacation.

That being said, all this extra-super-fun-time has put a serious damper on my desire to write. Not because I don't want to, or because I don't have things to write about, but because I'd just rather be snuggling with my honey on the couch whilst playing Mario on our new Wii-U.

(Brian assures me that this honeymoon phase will pass. I'm not so sure.)

(Meaning, the honeymoon phase with him, not the Mario brothers. Although they're pretty adorable little plumbers. Mustaches and all.)

On top of all that quality time being spent, I'm also just getting over the monkey flu of death. It hit me like a ton of bricks a week ago today, and I spent at least 3 of the last 7 days totally sacked out in bed, unable to move much more than to blow my nose and beg weakly for more Sudafed.

After a week of nose-blowing, pill-popping, orange juice-drinking, and nap-taking, I think I've finally kicked the beastie's butt. At least, I'm showered, dressed, and upright for the first time in days. That's a major improvement. Trust me.

I crawled out of my cocoon of covers this morning just so I could get started on the new and improved Abby Gabs, all vamped up and ready for 2013! You'll notice a new banner, a new button, and a new theme that runs throughout my social media outlets (including Twitter and Facebook.) 

And that's all fine and dandy. 

But the addition to my blog that makes me the most excited???

The shiny new Pinterest button that joins my other social media links at the top of the page! How cute is that??? And now you can satisfy your deepest curiosity into what That Gabby Abby pins on a maniacal level daily basis. Because believe me when I say that I pin like a mad woman. It's the truth, friends and neighbors.

So, dear reader, I hope you'll accept my heartfelt apology in the late salutations. But in truth, 2013 really started for me today! So, in true Abby Gabs fashion, Happy 2013!!!

The Evolution of Abby Gabs

My blog is changing. Has anyone else noticed? 

I mean, the whole point behind starting this blog was having somewhere on the internet where I could go to be myself--to laugh, to be silly, to be creative using my own process--and I still feel like my blog is all of those things.

But I also feel like it's beginning to be something more.

When I looked through my dashboard this morning, I came to the startling realization that, in the past month, almost half of the posts I've published have been serious, or at least about serious stuff. Sure, a few of them were illustrated using my relatively new brand of art, but they've been heartfelt, honest, sometimes raw posts about my life. 

In case you don't believe me, here's proof:

Breast cancer, my dream of being a writer, a recounting of my wedding day, my continued struggle with weight loss and depression--->those are some serious blog topics, people! That's six out of thirteen blogs of seriousness. Seriously.

When I first realized this new trend, my initial reaction was to be disappointed. I mean, my banner says it all---I wanted Abby Gabs to always be a light-hearted, funny place to visit--somewhere people would point their browsers when they were having a bad day. If my earnest infatuation with famous people isn't enough to make you laugh, then my overly-colorful illustrations of myself doing silly things should be...right?

But then, the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that this was just a manifestation of my evolution as a writer.

Woah. I just went all Dr. Phil for a second. Scary.

In all honesty, writing humor is just easier for me. I enjoy thinking up the punch line. I like going for the giggle. Even when I was in college taking creative writing classes, more often than not, the stuff that I wrote was humor. It's a huge part of who I am. I love to laugh.

But I'm also emotional. I have a big heart, and even bigger feelings. I have a full, rich, sometimes difficult life that doesn't always include laughter. Most of the times, it does. But sometimes, it doesn't. And sometimes, I feel compelled to write about that aspect of my life.

And it's awesome that I have somewhere to do that.

Another thing that's changing about my blog is my new found love for drawing crappy pictures. In the beginning, I used Photoshop to create illustrations of a mish-mash of photos. Like this:

But recently, instead of spending hours scouring the internet for pictures to use for those kinds of illustrations, I find myself drawing them (badly) with Photoshop instead. 

They take me longer, and sometimes I struggle with certain aspects of the drawing (like hands. Have you noticed how bad my hands are?) But for the most part, I love the creative process behind the drawings, and I'm often better able to depict whatever it is that's in my head. 

Because where on the internet would I have found a picture of a giant Abby monster wearing lipstick and glasses?

I rest my case. 

Truthfully, the only change around here that I'm not so happy with is the frequency with which I've been posting.

When I first started, I was posting almost every day. Now...maybe twice a week. And that doesn't make me happy. I'd like to say it's because I'm evolving as an artist, and I only post things that I think are worth reading. But that's a whole bunch of hooey, because really, most of my posts are nonsense anyway. It all boils down to two things: 1) laziness and 2) Doctor Who reruns.

Sorry. I can't resist the madman with a box.

I'm sure some of the veteran bloggers out there would say to stick to the formula that works. That maintaining my voice as a humor writer is more important than using my blog as a creative sounding board. Because I don't want to lose readers. Right?

But I'm enjoying the journey. I'm loving the direction I'm headed in.  And so I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing.

I'm just going to try and do it more frequently from now on. Promise.

Someone Please Inspire Me

I've been totally uninspired lately.

I was so uninspired I couldn't even whip out the real camera for a decent photo.
Sorry, readers...it's a fuzzy cell phone photo for you. :(

Ok, wait...let me backpedal a bit and rephrase. Because that's not 100% true. I've been inspired to write, just not to write blogs. Which is good and bad, all at the same time. I mentioned last time that I've decided to turn my focus toward writing a novel. And I've put a lot of time into it over the past few days.

(Which, let's face it, is totally awesomesauce. Right? RIGHT??)

I get SO EXCITED every day to sit down and start writing that, by the time I look up, six hours have flown by, I haven't eaten anything, and my coffee cup is sitting in front of me, empty and sad. It's wonderful and exhausting and exhilarating and draining and wonderful...wait, did I already say wonderful? Well it is, so I'll say it twice.

But the truth is, by the time I've spent a few hours writing my book, I feel like my creativity gas tank is a little low.

I'll click over to my blog dashboard with every intention to write for Abby Gabs. And inevitably, smoke starts pouring out of my ears because my brain is over-heating. (Didja like that continuation of the car metaphor? Huh, didja??)

I had planned on getting up this morning and writing my blog before I did anything else, confidant that while I slept I would have some brilliant idea that would turn into the Blog of the Century.

That totally didn't happen.

So I turned to the innerwebs instead.

You guys rallied. I got some great blog ideas. Robbie K from Fractured Family Tales came in first with the idea to write about all the things I hate about fall. I really spent some time marinating over that idea---you all know how much I love list blogs---but the truth is, there aren't very many things I hate about fall. Except how EVERYTHING is pumpkin flavored (right Robbie?) I'll take a pumpkin spice latte all the live long day, but you can hold the pumpkin flavored bubble gum, thanks.

Alex from Late Enough shared a unique idea of "my day in pictures." Which is a totally awesome idea!!!...if I lead an exciting life. Truth is, I'm usually by myself, so you'd just be getting pictures of me and my cats doing a whole lot of household chores. That's not very exciting, so you'll just get a few drive-by photos instead. 

(A few other ideas by a couple of my favorite readers (Jessie and Rachel) have been filed away for a later date. Thanks guys!! If nothing else, I've got some awesome blogs ready for next week!) (I couldn't remember the grammar rule about parentheses inside of parentheses. It's legal in math, though, so I'm going with it here.)

As if it isn't bad enough that I could not, for the life of me, think of any blog topics this week, I also had to take my fuzzy brain on a pumpkin carving adventure last night. Great way to tell your brain is overcooked-----sit around and watch all your cool and creative friends come up with nifty jack-o-lanterns while you drool on yourself and swat at imaginary gnats.

Seriously. I couldn't come up with a single idea.

Thirty minutes into the process and my pumpkin still sat in front of me un-carved. That's when I had the most brilliant idea ever. I can't think of a single idea for my pumpkin, and I decide to try and jump-start my creativity with a little liquid encouragement.

It worked. Sort of. I wound up aborting the whole stencil thing and free-handed a pumpkin that said "Trick or Treat." Friend and teammate, Steven, did one that read "Smell My Feet." They were AWESOME. (Except after carving, the "e" in "Treat" sort of broke, and so mine looked like it said "Trick or Truck." Which is basically the same thing.)

Arielle is credited with the cute monkey face. Fred did the Clemson tiger paw. And if you didn't know by looking that Brian did the Autobot symbol, then you've not been paying much attention.

Wine + friends + a brain dead Abby = awesome Halloween pumpkins. 

Oh. Wait. I just figured out what's missing from my blog brainstorming. Gourds!

Summer Storm

It starts in the sky. Clouds darken, fill, blackening the horizon. Moments later, a distant rumble, a flash of lightning...all signs of an incoming summer storm. I grab my camera and dash outside to meet it, mood whipped into a frenzy from too many phone calls, too many distractions. I need a moment with Mother Nature, and she's going to provide me with a temper tantrum much like the one I've been craving to throw all day.

The temperature, 100 degrees in the shade, begins to plummet as the storm crosses the sun's path. The wind picks up, howling between the buildings, whipping the tree limbs back and forth, like She's waving a white flag--begging to release the fury. The sky darkens to a deep indigo. The weather vanes quiver, then begin to spin.

All the frustration, irritation, and anger I've felt in the last few hours start to pop up to the surface with each picture I take. My fingers tingle. I take a breath in, let it out, trying to calm my frazzled nerves. As the storm builds around me, I feel my tense muscles begin to release. And then--a flash of lightning splinters across the sky. "One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand," I mutter under my breath. It's closing in. It's coming. My bruised emotions are drowning in the excitement of the brewing storm.

As the first few raindrops kiss my forehead, I lift my camera and snap pictures of the clouds rolling in. The timpani of the thunder matches the beat of my heart. The little hairs on my arms begin to stand on end as the heart of the storm gets closer, closer, closer.

The raindrops grow fatter, dampening my hair, sliding down my neck. And still I snap as many photos as I can while shielding my camera from the oncoming deluge. The clouds reach their boiling point, wind howling all around me, and yet, for the first time all day, I feel calm.

When the bottom drops out, and the rain comes down in sheets, I retreat indoors to watch the storm from the window. Mother Nature is unrelenting, pounding the pavement in her midnight blue high heels, washing away the heat of the day with her summer storm. I sit and watch, enthralled, the chill from the air conditioning setting into my bones. The phone rings; I ignore it. And sink into the calm after the storm.

Mood Swings

Restless. Like the pounding of the sea in that ancient rhythm. The ebb and flow of my life leaves me wanting more. My soul is itchy beneath my skin, desperate for meaning. I look to menial tasks to make me feel like I've accomplished something in a day where my only duty is to answer the phone, answer the email, answer the same question over and over. There's no logic to it. There's no real reason to feel this way. And yet, I do. I need to get out. I need to get away. I need to bury my feet in the sand, lift my face to the sun, and purge discontent. I am restless.

Content. Like wrapping hands around a steaming mug of fresh coffee. It spreads its warmth up through my chest, wrapping me in an embrace as familiar as time. I prop my feet up on my husband's lap, cover us both with the gray-green afghan, and sink into gratification. There's nowhere to be tonight. No deadlines to meet, no tests to cram for, nothing requiring our immediate attention. Brian rubs lazy circles on my calf with his thumb and my eyelids begin to droop. As the moon rises in the sky, I feel my heart fill with unrestricted, absolute love. I am content.

Listless. Like every muscle has turned to water and any spirit once perceived has now dissipated. Lifeless, limbless, I am so much flotsam on a lazy sea. I have no desire to move, no desire to breathe, no desire at all. I float on an air of laziness. The only energy spent is that of the solitary tear drop that ekes from my eye. Questions bounce around in my brain: When is it my turn? When will life stop being so hard? What did I do wrong? A thunderclap outside and all I can think is finally, the weather will match my mood. I am listless.

Hopeful. Like a gull on the edge of the wind, soaring up, up, up into the blue. I place my hands on my belly and close my eyes, imagining what it will be like to feel life move beneath them one day. In the deepest parts of night, I lie awake, eyes barely focused on the popcorn ceiling, and pretend I can hear her cries for me, wailing through the gloom. I can almost trace the swell of her cheeks, the curve of her elbow, the slope of her nose, as if it were my own face in my mind's eye. Hair, thick and dark; eyes the color of rain clouds; fingernails minuscule and translucent: I can see her. How I dream for her. How I wish for her. Knowing that she is still within me, somewhere...I am hopeful.

Hurt. Like a child sent to bed without her supper for no reason she can understand. I am bewildered, rejected, discarded like so much trash. I reexamine everything I ever said, everything I ever did, to deserve this treatment. I turn to those I can still trust, those who love me for who and what I am, those who don't judge me for my misgivings. And still, it is there, in the back of my mind. Each word a weapon, and the silences that are deafening. They seem to go on forever. I've wished for a chance to understand. But I do not. I cannot. And I have to stop trying. For my own sake, for yours. I will retreat to my corner now and lick my wounds. Self-preservation is the only avenue I know now. I am hurt.

Optimistic. Like the very knowledge that the storm will eventually blow over. The bits and pieces will be picked up and put back together again. I will find a way to move past the others and be victorious. My life may not be perfect, but my life is my own. I will live it to the fullest, find a way to dull the aches and overcome the pains. I will revel in my love, my family, my friends. I will write and write and write, peeling away a layer each time I hit "publish." I will laugh too loudly, love too fiercely, and live too largely. I will be okay. I am optimistic.

I am linking up with Yeah Write today,

because it's not very often that I'm in a serious 

mood, and so it should be recorded

for posterity.

Saturday

Quiet moments. A steaming cup of coffee. Birds tittering through the open window as they feast at the feeder. Only the sound of my fingertips on the keyboard. It's the weekend.


A moment of pause gives him permission to leap up into my lap. I wrap my arms around him, reaching beyond his fur to the keyboard to finish my thought. A gentle nudge to my chin and I'm reminded that he's there, searching for affection, an ear scratch, some soft words.


I abandon my computer and turn my full attention to the cat in my lap. I stroke my hand over his head and down his back. His quiet purr reaches my ears, and I smile. "Who's a handsome boy?" I ask in a whisper. He looks at me, eyes wide and yellow, and arches his back toward my hand, as if to answer, "Me. Of course."

Ten minutes later, satisfied that he has accomplished the task at hand, he jumps gracefully from my lap and heads for his favorite patch of sunshine for an afternoon nap. My eyes follow him as he crosses the room, taking in the slower gait, the graying fur near his ears, the still slightly-shaven spot from his latest trip to the vet. My heart fills as I remember him as a kitten--vocal, rambunctious, curious, fiercely loyal. 


I grab my camera, not wanting to miss this moment. It's a rare occasion for him to be in the perfect spot with the perfect lighting, and I want to capture it on film. I snap countless pictures, changing the angle, softly calling his name. And he sleeps on, an unwilling subject for the portrait I have in mind.


I start wiggling my fingers near his paw, rattling toys above my head, tapping the windowsill--anything to get his attention. Finally, those two piercing eyes pop open, and he looks at me with disdain. I can read his expression as clearly as if he were speaking to me. "Woman, don't you know it's naptime?"

I ruffle the fur on top of his head and apologize. Then I lean in for a quick kiss. "I love you too much," I whisper. And I leave him to his nap in the spring sunshine.

Finding Inspiration Where You Least Expect It

As a writer, I'm often asked where my inspiration comes from. Where do I get my ideas? Do I have a favorite author that I strive to emulate? What is it that drives me to put pen to paper?

Source

Oftentimes, I don't have the answers to those questions. I just know that words, stories, anecdotes live inside of me, somewhere under my skin, itching to be released. I wake up in the middle of the night with a new idea for a blog, and lay awake, stars peeking through my curtains, and write it in my head. Dreams lead to book ideas. Illustrations lead to book ideas. A beautiful day at the beach leads to book ideas.

The problem, for me, isn't finding a way to tell a story, or jotting down a particularly clever turn of phrase. The problem is finding the motivation to do something with it. Share it with the world. Finding the courage to seek publication.

For years, I felt like a dog on a leash, desperate for escape. I had so many ideas tumbling around in my brain like so many puppies. A humor novel. A memoir. A children's series. Each time I would sit down at my computer, ready to take that first step into becoming a true writer, that choke collar would pull me to an abrupt halt. Questions, doubts, fear would creep in and take over, sending my creativity into a retreat.

Source

Would someone really pay me to publish this story?

Are my characters under-developed?

Are there too many holes in the plot?

What if it's not good enough? What if I'm not good enough?

One beautiful autumn day, not too long ago, I had a conversation with my brother, Adam, about this very subject. He'd asked me why I hadn't ever seriously tried to break into the publishing world. And I shared with him those fears, those doubts, that I just shared with you.

In Adam's crib, circa 1988.

And he said to me, in his less-than-poetic way, 

"You've got to tell that voice to shut the hell up and just get to it, sissy. Because you're better at this than anyone I've ever known."

I've received praise before--from glowing comments to awards and everything in between. My husband cheers me on every single day. I've had my Daddy pat me on the back, and my Mom tell me how much my words made her smile. I've had friends tell me they look forward to my blog everyday, and that they've passed it along to all their friends and relatives.

But those words coming from my little brother meant more to me in that moment than any praise I'd heard before in my life. Because finding out that your little brother actually admires you...well, that's just priceless in my book.

A rare moment of sibling concord, circa 1997.

A month later, when I had the opportunity to join NaNoWriMo, I didn't even hesitate. I jumped in with both feet and produced a manuscript that's tipping the scales now at approximately 53,000 words. And while it's a far cry from being a publishable work, it's the first time I've ever put that much work into a book that is my very own.

And all because, when that little voice started up inside my head, I told it to shut the hell up. And I just got to it.

I have Adam to thank for that.

♥ Thanks, Bubby. ♥

Just Be Enough: Silencing My Inner-Doubter

My fingers fly across the keys. Words spring up on the page, black against stark white. I can hear the dialogue in my brain--the characters' voices clearer than my own. I type and type, the story unfolding before me in a way I've never experienced before.

I don't just feel like a writer. I am a writer.

The scene comes to an end, and like a sprinter, I stop and breathe and try to regain my center. The story I'm telling lives within me -- I am just a conduit. The cursor blinks at me, awaiting my command. I instinctively check my word count. Thirty-three thousand, eight hundred and twenty nine words. The number delights me, and I sit back in amazement, momentarily stupefied.

Where did this come from? Is this the feeling that's been trapped inside of me for so many years, begging to be released? The high that comes with a 75-page-and-counting manuscript is more than addictive.

My mind wanders. I begin thinking about the steps I will take once my novel is finished. I should start doing research on local publishing houses, I think. I already have two friends who have offered to read my book, another to edit it. I'll need to print out a few copies to keep on hand. I wonder if I know anyone who can help me break into the business. 

I imagine myself as a Published Author. My heart begins to pound in my chest, my mouth goes dry.

Trying to regain some focus, I scroll up, read the passage I've just finished. I strike words from the page, second-guessing what came so naturally only a few minutes before. Doubt creeps in. The voice inside my head speaks over those of my characters. 

"No one else in the world would be interested in this subject matter."

"Do you know how many people dream of being an author and never make it?"

"Don't expect to win a Pulitzer with this stuff. You are no Toni Morrison!"

The cursor continues to blink at me, although now I feel as if it's staring at me judgmentally, waiting for the next bit of garbage I'll instruct it to include. The confidence I felt a few minutes ago has been totally derailed by my self-doubt.

My husband peeks over my shoulder, notes the page number, and beams. "Seventy-five whole pages? Babe, that's so awesome! I'm so proud of you!"

The clouds of uncertainty begin to part, and I wonder what this all looks like from his point of view. I realize that he sees me reaching for my dream, doing what I love, following my passion. I think to myself, "published or not, you're WRITING. And you're HAPPY."

The cursor winks at me again. I close out the sound of my inner-doubter and tune in to my characters' voices again. I take a deep breath, place my fingers on the keys, and let the words come. I'll second guess myself tomorrow. Today, I am a writer.

Every MONDAY join us… 
Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice.
Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission
to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

Nightmare

Fear has a way of finding you when you least expect it. Sneaking into your bedroom at night, closing its hands around your throat, whittling its way into your mind while you sleep. Some nights fear is gentle in its assault, easing its way into pleasant dreams. Other nights it rushes in, shaking you awake in a cold sweat. 


And it takes hours to wipe it all away.

I wake in a panic, familiar images of sterile gowns, blinking red lights, and IV stands still swirling in front of my eyes. I feel tears sliding down my cheeks, into my hair, wetting the pillow case. All I know for sure is that it is night time. The moon shines through my window, not enough to illuminate the room, just enough to give me a vague idea of the time. My breathing sounds haggard. Loud. Labored. I'm disoriented. Unsure of my surroundings. Unsure if I'm alone.


I reach out in the dark, fingers sliding over soft sheets. Searching for warmth. My hand stops on fur, a sleeping cat curled up close. I pause for a moment, seeking comfort by sliding my hand slowly over kitty's head, back, leg. And then continue my search through the dark for who I'm really reaching for.


My heart rate stalls, then slows as I close my fingers around his wrist. Warm. Present. Alive. I curl into him, concentrate on my breathing. In. Out. Into the dark, I sigh and whisper, "He's fine. He's fine. He's fine," until my panic subsides.


It takes me about an hour to find my calm so I can sleep again. And he sleeps through it, not knowing the nightmare that interrupts my slumber.


I wake a few hours later, still curled into him, still gripping his wrist. The sun had begun its climb into the sky. Dawn chases the rest of the nightmare from the room, like dusting the dregs from the corners.

I release my husband's wrist, study the way his eyelashes curl on his cheek--his cheek that is pink with life--and smile. I roll over, facing the window. My last thought before I slip back into a dreamless sleep: it's cloudy. I wonder if it will rain today.

Summer Reading List

I would describe myself as a lot of things. A wife. A friend. A Donnie Wahlberg Addict. A writer.


But the one description I'd never leave off the list is Avid Reader.


I'll read anything if it's not nailed down. My bookshelves bloom with murder mysteries, trashy romances, classic novels, biographies, pop fiction, science fiction, and fantasies. I was the kid who always kept my text books: "Literature: Structure, Sound and Sense," and "AP Style" and "Elements of Fiction Writing: Characters and Viewpoint." Authors reign like rock stars on these shelves: Steinbeck, Wells, Lamb, Franzen, Tolkien, Austen, Rice, Card, Bellow, Follett. I have a separate shelf in my room for my childhood books: Light in the Attic, Dr. Seuss, Chatty Chipmunk's Nutty Day, The Great Bunny Race, Island of the Blue Dolphins, and the entire Little House series.


In short: I love books. 


I love the way they smell, the way they feel in my hands, the delicious anticipation of turning to the next page. I love the way words look, the weight of a 700-page book, the feeling of completion when the last page is finished. I savor each book like a treasure: I never turn down pages or write in margins; I save book jackets, carefully peeling them away while I'm in the process of reading the book so I can wrap it back up for safe keeping; I'm a re-reader so keeping the book in bookstore-shape is important to me.


When the world first introduced digitalized reading, I was hugely skeptical. What about BOOKS? Am I supposed to give up all those things I love so much about the physical BOOK in order to read from a tiny little screen? What about the smell, the weight, the actual PAGES? Can you still refer to your favorite new novel as a "Page-Turner" if you're not actually turning pages?


 I was never one who was held captive while reading from a monitor. I found researching on the internet tedious, and would often just print off pages to read later. The stark white backgrounds, so many black words swimming in space, would trigger headaches for me. I just didn't like reading anything digitally.


Then I stumbled upon the blogosphere.


As a member of the blogging community, it quickly became obvious to me that, in order to gain the respect and readership of fellow bloggers, I had to, in turn, read and comment on their blogs. It was a slow process at first: there are a LOT of blogs in the blogosphere that are less than appealing. A lot of artificial facades for selling insurance or software or other less interesting wares. 


But for every 500 blogs, there's one that's an absolute treasure. 


These are a few of my favorite treasures:

Meet Alex, author of Late Enough. Alex is the kind of blogger that is so good at what she does, she inspires me to do better. From slap-your-knee funny posts to thoughtful, emotional posts about motherhood, Alex always has something to say that is actually worth hearing. 


One of the first blogs I read at "Late Enough" was one about how Alex was preparing her family for the apocalypse, and the resulting zombie take-over of the world. Clever, witty, funny, and just strange enough that I know we'd be instant friends. (Who doesn't worry about how they'll deal with zombies?) From that post, I ventured into the depths of her blog, and discovered a family who's creativity knows no bounds, a mother who parents her children with thought and fastidiousness, but who's not afraid to laugh about life's awkward moments. But seriously, if you read no other blogs of Alex's, you must read The Yellow Bow and Princess Solidarity. They will break your heart, make you smile, open your mind, and make you an instant Late Enough fan. I know I am. I never miss a post.

After my daily visit to Late Enough, I point my browser to Ryan's blog, The Woven Moments. Ryan is a mommy of two whose blogs revolve around the business of parenting. Thoughtful, funny, well-illustrated posts, paired with a laid-back writing style, will have you feeling like you're sharing a conversation with a friend over coffee.


The first thing that really sucked me in to these Moments is Ryan's description of her own great love affair. When you can compare your marriage to a cicada, you've definitely got something worth talking about.  Coming from experience, I know how rare it is to have something so special, so when I read about Ryan's wedding, I knew we had something very rare in common. Ryan is another thoughtful, careful Mom who blogs her daily lessons with those of us wanting to learn. One of my favorite posts of hers is about her daughter's frustration with her lack of jungle-gym-climbing-ability, and the lessons Ryan learned from her daughter in those moments.


One thing I know for sure, Ryan's blog is the type of blog you bookmark and return to daily. Check her out and I think you'll agree.


As a blog reader, I look for blogs that are well-written, funny, witty, delectable and downright beautiful. Few have the gamut. But when you find one with all of those aspects and more, it joins the list of "My Favorite Blogs." And GreatFun4Kids, written by New Zealand resident Simone, is that very blog.


The first thing you'll be struck by upon visiting this blog is the delicious photography. Seriously delicious. If you don't read a word, you'll be struck by beautiful pictures of landscape, family, children--Simone's life.


But if you're smart (and I'm betting you are) you'll sit down with a hot cup of coffee (or tea), read the first post you come across, and spend the next 2 hours with Simone's blog. Her recent post about watching her daughter run her first race, was thrilling and heartwarming, all at the same time. Her advice to new bloggers is helpful, informative, and supportive--all the things a new writer needs to be successful. If you're looking for an inventive party idea, Simone's your girl. Check out this adorable Toy Story party she threw for one of her children. Simone's posts feel like illustrated poetry to me. And I love that!


One of my favorite things about Simone is her support of new bloggers. She wrote a post very similar to this one a few days ago, introducing ME to her blog world. (For which I am still awed and SO grateful for!) So check out this gorgeous blog--I'm betting you'll find it as scrumptious as I do! And thanks, Simone, for being so supportive of AbbyGabs!!




Finally, I'm going to point you to one of the funniest blogs I've ever had the pleasure of reading. This is the blog I go to when I'm in desperate need of a pick-me-up. I'd skip the coffee while reading Hyperbole and a Half, because it's very likely it would end up spraying out of your nose before it's all said and done. And truthfully, that would REALLY hurt.

Allie's blog is a combination of a comic strip and a blog. Her sense of humor is a bit twisted, a lot warped, and right up my alley. There are very few posts on this blog that I haven't read and laughed out loud, and that really does make Hyperbole a special blog. Her blog about spiders was so hilarious, it inspired my own version, which you might remember as the post titled "I Finally Know I'm Not Alone." The tales she weaves about her slightly neurotic, incredibly moronic dog are gut-busters for pet owners. Her colorful, hilarious encounters from her childhood, particularly the story about her birthday cake, are pee-your-pants funny.


While Allie is busy writing a book and doesn't post nearly as often as we (her fans) would like, you will entertain yourself for HOURS reading her previous posts. Seriously, bookmark this blog. It's better than prozac.


I think it's pretty safe to say that I admire women who blog. I hope you'll join me in reading some of these fantastic blogs--and I'll keep reading each of them daily.