Check out this incredible post from Stan Mitchell, which I meandered over to via good pal Tim Dittmer.
The importance of breathing life in is crucial to our enjoyment of its awe-inspiring beauty. The more we rush, the less we absorb. Every day, every damn moment deserves our full attention.
So, inhale and hang onto it, Lovies. It’s a keeper.
I never dreamed of the white dress.
While we’re at it, I never thought much about white picket fences either. Hey, I grew up in a modest condo in Southern California.
My parents divorced when I was six. I remember it like it was yesterday.
I hid in the My Little Pony tent on my bed until I heard the front door slam shut, signifying the finale of “Mom Just Moved Out”, a play I never wanted to see. I peeked my head out and saw my dad sitting on the floor, his face covered by his hands.
All I could do was put my arm around him. It’s all I had.
We did the joint custody thing. Dad most of the time and mom every other weekend. It was odd living out of a suitcase when I hung out with my mom, but we did our best.
I have two half-sisters and one half-brother. None of us grew up together.
A smattering of step-siblings trickled in and out of my life for years. It was always a strange dynamic with them: we played together, we ate together, we pretended to be this makeshift family.
It never worked…we were strangers playing house.
But, this story isn’t about having it hard growing up. I know, compared to many, my childhood was a piece of cake.
The outcome of it all was a cynic – a young one. I grew up thinking love was a sham. Marriage was just a joke to me, the kind I rolled my eyes over.
From a young age, I vowed never to marry. Why the hell should I even bother? All I could see was heartbreak, callousness, and paperwork.
Then, somebody came along to prove me wrong. My husband. My soul.
When we first saw each other…we just knew we were meant for one another. It’s cliché, I know. But damn, what’s wrong with a little cliché?
This year we celebrated eight magnificent years of marriage. We’ve been through it all together – we’re war buddies, we’re best friends.
Now I believe in something different, that love is available to all of us. We just have to accept it, then hang onto it for dear life.
Well, that’s how the cynic became a sap.
Say it with me…I
I
love
love
OK, guys. Here’s the toughy…editing.
silence
editing (she repeats in a firm, but encouraging tone)
extreme silence
Alright, writer pals. We’re getting there. Baby steps.
I just so happen to be one of those weirdos who doesn’t mind the editing process. (Notice I still didn’t say love.)
When it comes to a systematic approach, mega details, and cutthroat decisions devoid of emotion. Well…meet my dark side, folks! The editor.
On a less intense note, I see editing as something to cherish. Because at the end of the day, you just wrote a freaking book.
A novel is no joke, pumpkins.
The love, commitment, and devotion put writing a book on par with the most important people in your life. That book is the buddy you tell all of your secrets to, the lover you think about endlessly, and the spawn of your imagination.
It’s your soul in written form.
Man, oh man. There’s just something magical about seeing your first draft all printed out.
Sure, it looks like shit. But that shit is yours.
Currently, I’m working on my second draft of The Bra Game. In other words, I’m murdering my baby with a cheap red pen.
Now I don’t claim to be an expert, nor am I anything in the vicinity of a bestseller. In fact, I’m a self-taught writer who gets her jollies by bending the rules.
But, I do have three books under my belt, so I’ve learned a thing or two about editing.
Specifically, how to try to love it a little.
Hello, sweet friends!
Just wanted to share my first official post from my new blog, All the Way Yoga. It’s an ode to niceness.
Hope you’re having a spectacular week.
With love, Britt.
When we’re babies, our parents have dreams of grandeur of what we will become. The doctor, the scientist, the celebrity.
When we’re kids, every adult we encounter asks us what we want to be when we grow up. And we answer them with conviction. A cowboy, a ballerina, an alien.
When we’re teens, our teachers prepare us for the future, to figure out which piece of expensive paper will pave the path to a fruitful career. Teach and be poor or business and be rich? Choose wisely.
When we’re adults – thrown into the world of bills, loans, and other hyped up seriousness – our dreams tend to fade. Usually, they disappear altogether.
Yet, sometimes they are revived. Quite suddenly you’re doing the things you loved most when you were a kid…coming full circle. You play music, you paint, you write.
You’re not the suit, you’re not the boss, you’re not the mom, you’re not the bachelor, you’re not the assistant, you’re not the alcoholic, you’re not the divorcee, you’re not the nobody.
You’re just you. And, you’re effing happy about it.
If you’re one of these dream-chasing adults, you’re often out of place. Everyone’s playing make-believe, the adults on one side and the children on the other.
Playing adult is allowed, respectable even.
Playing child isn’t. As a matter of fact, you’re the troublemaker.
I’ve done the day job thing most of my life. Hell, I’m doing it now…Monday-Friday, 9-5.
I play dress up every day just so I can play the board game. Buy, sell, trade. I was never any good at Monopoly. I liked ridiculously colorful games like Twister and Candyland.
For me, playing with the grown ups is just a game of pretend.
I will always be the rumpled employee who gets ready for work in five minutes flat, the grown ass woman sleeping with a stuffed animal, the hopeless case daring to dream because she can’t live any other way.
And, I don’t know why it’s so strange and unusual. I mean…what’s wrong with having dreams, anyway?
Britt Skrabanek 