Shut up and Write

I’m happy to report that I’m just on the other side of a whole-life writers block. I was uninspired, unmotivated, and kind of stuck. The worst part is, I’ve been doing this long enough that I could spot the demons miles away. Procrastination, undue pressure, overthinking. Talking with anyone who would listen about how I was stuck. Did I mention procrastination? I did research, but didn’t write. I’d start writing, but didn’t finish. My deadline was too far in the future to panic, too close to put it aside and come back later. Which then spiraled into a sense of lameness that I hadn’t achieved anything, and bled into the rest of my life.

Crafting the right words, even better if they’re funny words, in a profound and compelling way, lights me up. But starting a bunch of half-assed scripts that don’t go anywhere makes me feel unfulfilled and hugely disappointed in myself. Which then makes me be all passive aggressive and sullen. And an absolute party ball of fun to be around. Just ask my husband!

It seemed my writer’s block was cleared randomly, like a clog of hair in a drain that finally broke free. (Yum.) But it retrospect, it wasn’t random at all. I was texting with a writer-friend, whom I greatly admire, about advice to give a junior writer. And he said, (because he always gives you the credit of having the great ideas) “You probably said what I would say. Shut up and write.”

Those words came back to me, and I realized what was really holding me back. I was thinking too much, listening to the chatter in my head, and writing too little. Editing too much and stream of consciousness writing not enough (until now, apparently, based on that sentence.) Stream of consciousness writing not enough? WTF. Please don’t quote me on that when I run for president in the year 20NEVER.

Anyway, I’ve been too worried about perfection and not enough about getting words down on paper. Which has always been my issue. This blog took a year to launch, and when it did I had five painstakingly written and re-written posts. I’ve since added a couple, still pining over every word, joke, analogy, imagined pause and punctuation mark. And then I read a lot of things out there and I’m so disappointed. Sure, there are great, amazing, sharp, witty pieces I love and wish I’d written. But there are so many others that have gone viral and aren’t funny, particularly insightful, or even well-crafted. But then I realized these people post A LOT of shit. All the time. It’s a numbers game. What I’m doing is the equivalent of waiting for a shooting star to snap a picture, where these other writers have their aperture open and are just waiting for the star to cross in front of their lens. Or some other metaphor that works way better.

Plus, I must remind myself that the point of a blog for me was always to simply have an outlet to write, unencumbered by :30 time constraints and client mandatories, not to post the Top Five Ways to Calm a Rabid Squirrel. (You wanna read that, don’t you?) Sorry. Not here.

So basically, this long, rambling diatribe is the hair that was stuck in the drain. Thanks to my friend, I’ve stopped thinking so hard (for now) and took his advice that I knew in my heart.

Just shut up and write.  

I Told a Stranger About my Promotion

“I got a new job!” I said to the man. He looked at me blankly. “I’m a Creative Director now!” I said, pointing to the press release on my phone featuring my picture. I thought at least with a visual aid, it might help hit home what a big freakin’ deal this was. “Oh” he said nonchalantly.

Then he waved his fork in a circular motion toward his beef stroganoff.  “Well, this… this work. I’ve got to work on these things…“ he said, pointing now at little mound of baby carrots nearby. “And then the work, it…” he trailed off.

My dad, patiently posing for photos with friendly strangers who resemble him.

The man isn’t a stranger to me, but, I am mostly, to him. That man is my dad. And he has Alzheimer’s. The reason I even tried telling him the news was because I had told my husband that it really stung not to be able to share something I knew would make him so proud. Feeling my pain, his own dad gone for many years, my sweet husband encouraged me. “Tell him! Maybe he’ll understand.” And so I did.

I didn’t really expect him to light up with a hearty congratulations. Or to shout about how proud he was of me to his “friends” who were sitting in chairs, staring blankly at a National Geographic special about baby water buffalos getting eaten by crocodiles. I guess I was just hoping for a glimmer of recognition. A sign, that deep down, even though he doesn’t even know who I am most days, he was proud of his little girl.

I don’t spend a lot of time being sad about my dad. Despite my easy emotions at everything else in life, I am have a certain stoic calm about the whole thing. (Which I'm sure will unravel someday.) Maybe it’s because my grandmother had the same disease and followed the same patterns, and I watched my dad handle it with a certain resignation and a healthy sense of humor. Maybe it’s because it’s such a slow process and I find solace in the fact that he’s not in pain, not an active mind trapped in a body that’s failing him. In fact, it’s the opposite. I swear the man still has a 6-pack under that shirt I’m pretty sure he took from someone else’s closet.

Mostly, our family deals with my dad’s Alzheimer’s with laughter. In the 2/12 years since he’s been in memory care facilities, he has told us in broken sentences how he’s played for the Mariners, reffed a Seahawks game, done some casual welding and gone “up North” for projects multiple times. He escaped (for real) once, which was terrifying for a few hours, but now we retell the story about how my daughter and I came upon him, 3 miles from his care facility, carrying a huge, wire dog cage. I calmly convinced him to put the cage down and get in the car, and we drove him back to his home without incident. But I bet the people who lived in the house where I found him are still wondering where that cage came from.

Increasingly, words are difficult for him. But he’s still polite as can be, offering bites of his stroganoff, smiling when we say his name as if he recognizes us on some level. All the nurses and caretakers tell me what a kind, polite guy he is. And in that way, he’s still my dad.

As usual, when I left, I gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He smiled kindly, which is something else that hasn’t changed. But you could almost see him thinking.  “Wow. That lady with the new job is nice, but a kiss? We just met!”  Or maybe he was thinking about stroganoff. I’ll never know.

'Tis the Season

Guess what, everybody! It’s horse show season! Yaaay, right? 

Oh...you're getting paged for a fake meeting? Okay cool.

For those of you still here, you’re in luck! Because I've answered some of the most common/dumb/adorable horse-show related questions I’ve gotten over the years right here. So you’ll soon have knowledge about my obscure hobby that could literally SAVE YOUR LIFE.  If you’re ever in a life-or-death game of Jeopardy, where the topic is "Horse Shows."

Giddyup! (Nobody actually says that while riding a horse, BTW.)

Q: DON'T GIRLS OUTGROW BEING HORSE CRAZY?                                                                                                                          A: Nope. Once it’s in your blood, you never get over it. It’s like a really fun kind of malaria.

Q: DO YOU RACE?                                                                                                                                                                                     A: No. Only jockeys race. And jockeys are toddler-sized humans made entirely of brass balls and muscle fiber. I am not that. Also, Thoroughbred racehorses cost approximately a billion dollars, and people voluntarily pay real money to go watch them. That also doesn’t apply to me.

Q: DO YOU JUMP?                                                                                                                                                                                    A: No. It’s exciting and fun to watch, but my horse isn’t trained to do that. I did it when I was younger and bounced better.

Q: SO, WHAT IS SHOWING?                                                                                                                                                                     A: Showing is competing. Either in an arena or on a course. It means you pay an entry fee to ride in front of a judge who will rate you and your horse based on a set of very specific, objective criteria. And whether or not they like the color of your riding pants.

Q: DO YOU WEAR THE LITTLE OUTFITS?                                                                                                                                               A: If by “little outfits,” you mean larger versions of the riding clothes your daughter puts on her American Girl doll, pretty much yes.

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The sickness is commonly passed down through generations.

Q: DO YOU WEAR CHAPS AND A COWBOY HAT, LIKE A COWBOY?
A: If you ride Western, yes. I ride English, so I wear English-style riding clothes.

Q: SO YOU WEAR TIGHT PANTS AND TALL BOOTS?                                                                                                                          A: Yes. And the pants are called “breeches.”

Q: WHEN YOU WEAR THE TIGHT PANTS AND TALL BOOTS AND GLOVES, DO YOU EVER CARRY A LEATHER WHIP AND SLAP YOUR PALM WITH IT?                                                                                                                                                                   A:  You're a perv.

Q: SO YOU JUST SIT UP THERE AND THE HORSE KNOWS WHAT TO DO?                                                                                     A: Um no. Imagine you control your car with only your hands, voice, and tiny movements of specific muscles. Also, imagine your car is afraid of mountain lions, plastic bags and the occasional light breeze. Sometimes, your car doesn’t get along with other cars on the road, and sometimes it’s tired and really just wants to go back to the garage. So you have to convince your car to do exactly what you want and not run into other cars, using cues that are undetectable to the human eye. All while a person with a clipboard watches you like you might be shoplifting. It’s kinda like that.

Q: YOU MUST BE REALLY STRONG.                                                                                                                                                      A: Riding is more about finesse than strength. But I could crush you with my inner thighs if I had to.

Q: DOES IT COST A LOT?                                                                                                                                                                        A: It can. But so do boats, time-share condos in Aruba, and Microdermabrasion. And none of those things whinny at you when you walk in the barn.

Q: DO YOU EVER WIN MONEY?                                                                                                                                                              A: Sometimes, but usually only enough to cover some entry fees and a small bag of Peanut M&Ms from the concession stand.

Q: DO YOU EVER WIN STUFF?                                                                                                                                                                A: Yes! Ribbons, trophies, coffee mugs, large, decorative keys. Even the occasional silver-plated tea set. It’s like going to an expensive, time-consuming garage sale.

Behold, my Championship Bread Basket and other assorted Major Awards.

Q: SO WAIT...WHY DO YOU DO IT?                                                                                                                                                        A: Because I love it. Because it’s hard work. Because the sense of accomplishment is great and the friendships are greater. Because I’d choose horse shit on my boots over red soles on my designer stilettos any day. Because winning always feels great, but winning with a 1000+ pound partner (who could just as easily freak out and trample the photographer) is like nothing else.

Q: ARE HORSE PEOPLE CRAZY?                                                                                                                                                            A: You have no idea.

Q: CAN I COME WATCH YOU SHOW?                                                                                                                                                   A: Just kidding! Nobody ever asks this.