Rena Olsen

I love social media. Many of you are rolling your eyes and saying “duh” under you breath, because of course I love social media. I’m on Twitter all the time, on Facebook less, but still pretty frequently. I even Instagram from time to time. I don’t Snap or Tumbl or any of those other wacky things the kids are doing these days, but what I do I do with intensity and passion.

I won’t rehash too much why I love Twitter so much. The writing community is ace. Some of my closest friendships started there, people I talk to daily, who moved from imaginary status to real life friends. I have the most random, wonderful conversations there, on topics that make me literally laugh out loud, sometimes in inopportune places. It’s amazing to have the opportunity to connect with people I’d never have met otherwise. Not to mention what Twitter has done for my writing career.

And yet.

Lately I’ve noticed that Twitter is angry a lot. And for good reasons, I would say. There are a lot of crappy things going on in the world. So I do what I always do. I read. I listen. I try and learn from what people are saying. I research the things they’re talking about. Often it sparks conversations in my real life.

But I rarely engage in the conversation. Not because I don’t care. Not because I’m not listening. There are many reasons. One is that is not what I use my Twitter for. Maybe that makes me callous, but I don’t think so. I think anyone should be able to use their social media for whatever reasons and in whatever way works for them. I use mine to talk about writing and naps and tacos.

Another big reason I don’t often engage is for my own mental health. I can handle reading and researching on my own, but I need to think about things, stew in them for a while before I feel like I am prepared to enter a conversation about it. Engaging in things like that on social media makes me anxious. And honestly, I come to Twitter for a break. It’s one of my self-care tools, or it has been in the past. Between therapy sessions, after a tough phone call, I could log on, cruise through tweets, take a step back from the horrors that I hear about daily.

It became apparent that I needed to take a mini break when too many times my silence was confused with apathy. When people I had befriended, supported through book releases and tough times and everything in between, had conversations with on a regular basis, broke off our connection because I didn’t care enough. Because I didn’t tweet about their cause. Because not entering a conversation about a topic I’m unfamiliar with clearly means I’m apathetic, not worthy to be an ally.

My cause is my job. It’s being an advocate for children. I work more than 50 hours some weeks helping kids, or helping other therapists figure out how to help kids. I have called DHS more times than I care to count. Encountered angry parents. Held children as they cried over tragedies that they are far too young to be experiencing. Scolded abusive parents. I have stood between a teenager and her chain smoking/drinking mother while trying to make phone calls to ensure the child had a safe place to be for the night. I have been in some of the dirtiest houses you can imagine, and some of the nicest, and guess what…they all had problems. Some I could help with, some were beyond my ability to fix. And that was something I had to learn. I can’t fix everyone. I can’t fix everything. I can’t jump on every cause that I care about because then none of them would be getting the attention they deserve.

Oops. I went on a bit of a rant there. I guess it still frustrates me to be called apathetic by people who only know my online persona.

Therein lies another problem with social media, and the amount I use it. It has gotten to the point where people think that if they read my tweets or my Facebook posts, they know me. They know what’s going on in my life. And they consume my posts without responding, without engaging in any way, and that feeling of aloneness builds up again. Yes, my social media persona is me. It’s my wacky, goofy, sarcastic side. But it’s not all of me. Yet I’ve had people tell me that they don’t call or check in because they read my tweets, so they know I’m fine.

It got to the point where instead of being my escape, social media became a place of sadness and anxiety, a place I emerged from feeling worse than when I logged in.

I recently took a mini-hiatus from social media. Not super long, just three days, though a lot can happen on a site like Twitter in three days. I still scrolled through, but I refrained from posting for the most part, except a couple responses. I didn’t do it for attention, or to create drama. I just needed to step back for myself, to evaluate why I posted what I did, whether for conversation and connection or attention, and to figure out how to continue and still keep my own mental health intact. I still used DMs and messaging, and it was kind of amazing the deeper conversations I was able to have as people checked in with me.

I still love Twitter. And I’ll be going back, possibly posting a little less, but maybe not. It was interesting how the first couple days of not posting I was in super withdrawal, and I realized how much I feel compelled to tell Twitter. I learned a lot about myself, my own limits and expectations. I’m not willing to give up all the wonderful people I’ve met online. I am more aware of the world around me because of the people I follow on Twitter, and I hope they continue doing what they do, educating, sharing, talking. I just hope they understand why I can’t always jump in, and sometimes need to take a break completely.

It’s a gorgeous Iowa night. The sun is setting behind me, turning the sky a light pink color. And I sit on my new favorite bench, just outside my new house, watching the ducks swim back and forth across the pond, listening to them talk to each other, with sounds that remind me of laughter, contemplating life as I stare at the blank pages of my recycled elephant poo paper journal.

Wow, I know how to ruin a moment, eh? Here, back in the moment with you…

Just relax

Last post, I mentioned that I wanted to talk about finding a balance in life, and why it’s important. The sermon at church yesterday, as usual, applied directly to me, and was about the busyness of life, how we fill our time with ALL THE THINGS and forget to take time for the really important things. THE most important thing, Jesus, but also things like family and friends and SILENCE and just BEING.

This summer I have been a fantastic example of how not to balance. I spread myself way too thin. In the midst of finishing edits for my debut, I applied for an accepted a promotion to supervisor at my day job, which included continuing my current position through the summer until my replacement could start, while also taking on supervisor duties. I also decided it would be an awesome time to start looking for a house, which I figured could take months, but I found the perfect home, and went for it.

It didn’t take long for the strain to show. Stretched to the brink, things started falling through the cracks at both jobs, writing fell by the wayside, social interactions fell off, and there were times when my head would hit the pillow at night and I’d realize I hadn’t prayed at all that day, when before prayer and conversations with Jesus were just a regular, almost constant part of my day.

For the entire summer, I’ve been chanting to myself about making it to September. When September comes, I will have one dayjob (that I will actually know what I’m doing at), one house, plenty of time to write all the plot bunnies clogging up my brain, time to breathe. In the meantime, I don’t think I’ve been living each moment, each NOW, to the fullest, and that’s sad.

Last week, a high school classmate of mine passed away. I wasn’t overly close with Abby. She attended my dad’s church, and we were friendly, but we hadn’t spoken beyond Facebook since graduation 13 years ago. She was witty, kind, and talented. Gone way too soon. None of us know for sure what time we have left. Wishing it away seems like such a waste, and not enjoying the moment is a tragedy.

Pause for ducks.

But, Rena, you say. I have so much to do. All these responsibilities! And I HAVE to do them! Busyness is just the way the world works now!

Is it? Is it really?

Here’s what I’ve been doing to work on balancing better. It’s not easy, but it’s important.

First, I’m learning to say no. I desperately wanted to help out at VBS at my church. It’s always been one of my favorite times of year, and connecting with kids is such a joy. However, this year VBS fell on the same week I was leaving for Midwest Writers Workshop, and also right before my official move date. I wrestled with wanting to do one or two nights, but in the end, I had to say no this year. Hopefully next year will be different. I definitely won’t be moving again. Similarly, there are always opportunities for volunteering at church, and I want to do them ALL. I’m really working hard to decide which I can balance with everyone else and still give everything I have. It does no one any good if I am only giving a part of myself.

Second, I’m setting aside specific writing times. I’ve been doing Sunday morning coffee shop writing this summer, since my evenings have been full, and I will continue those as often as possible. Each week my schedule may change, but I am dedicating at least one evening a week to writing, though I plan to write more than that. Routine is important, and since I’m under contract with this next book, I need that routine more than ever.

Third, I am taking time for silence. I haven’t watched TV in two weeks and I don’t miss it. I’m done spending hours on mindless things. Don’t get me wrong, there will definitely be some Netflix marathons and vegging times, but I want to balance those with intentional times of prayer and reflection. Those are the only things that really fill me up, give me energy and strength to keep going, and this is an area I have been lacking especially in the past month.

Fourth, I want to be more intentional about relationships, really pouring into them and connecting on a deeper level. I wouldn’t have made it through this month without some really awesome friends swooping in and saving the day. Cultivating those friendships, being genuinely with those people, showing my support is essential. I want to grow deeper in some of the more surface friendships I have, and touch base with friends I’ve grown apart from.

That’s a lot, but I think it will be good. I might expand on this entry later, but as far as balance goes, it’s time to do some chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’ all cool, maybe shoot some b-ball outside of the school… (Bwahahaha)

Time to reflect

I’m laying in my bed, the only light emanating from my phone screen and an occasional flash of lightning, listening to the thunder rumble in the distance, contemplating humility.

As one does.

I’ve been planning a blog on balance for a while. Clearly something I need to work on since I haven’t been able to balance time well enough to even write the dang thing. But as I drove home from my apartment tonight, I was thinking about all the blessings I have in my life.

The past several nights, except when I was out of town at a writing conference (autocorrect changed that to “wiring conference” even with writing spelled correctly. I could learn to wire things. It would be handy with my house.), I have had friends over helping me pack up my apartment.

You guys.

How does one person have so much STUFF??? Seven years in that place. The closet in my bedroom is like Hermione’s beaded bag or a wizard tent. I have no idea how I fit so much in there! I have filled over a dozen bags for Goodwill, and I’m sure more will be filled yet.

It’s completely overwhelming.

I hate asking for help. HATE IT. I feel like I should be able to do it all. And well. (I am Batman.) But this was something I wasn’t going to be able to accomplish on my own. No way, no how. So I reached out. I allowed my friends in.

When you invite people over, you can hide the things you don’t want them to see. You wipe things down, vacuum the areas they’ll be in, shove things in closets guests shouldn’t open, throw junk into the other room and shut the door.

Having friends help me pack is the opposite. They have to look inside everything to be useful.

It’s humbling to have your friends see how much you hoard things.

It’s humbling to show them the parts of life that aren’t so organized.

It’s humbling to let them see how truly disgusting and ridiculous you are, and hope they don’t think less of you.

Humility is a good quality to have, and a rare one. We encounter the need for it every time we send our writing to another reader, especially one who will rip it to shreds.

It’s humbling to share your writing, a piece of your soul, with someone else.

It’s humbling to ask them to critique it, to give an opinion, to point out areas for improvement.

It’s humbling to let someone else see how you struggle with commas or homonyms or any other skill “real” writers should have mastered.

Without help from my friends, my apartment would probably still be unpacked, and I would be panicking even more.

Without help from writing friends, I wouldn’t be in the spot I am now, celebrating the success I have achieved.

It’s hard to ask for help. Humbling.

But so worth it.

This weekend I was incredibly blessed to have my darling friend Margie come and visit me. She hopped on a bus and took a 7 hour ride just to stay a couple days with me. We had a fabulous weekend of late night chats, lots of giggling, and jamming out (once we got new strings on my guitar!). I actually met Margie on Twitter, and wasn’t sure she was real for a while.

MARGIE IS A REAL GIRL

Of course, late night chats led to pretty serious, introspective discussions, as they tend to do. I’m not sure what it is about the night that makes it the perfect time for these sorts of talks. The dark, the quiet, barriers lowering as participants grow tired? As scary as the night can be in some cases, there’s also something safe about it. Sacred. The night is a keeper of secrets.

Clearly it’s a little late for me to be typing this up too. Before I wax poetic for a thousand words, I’ll just move on.

One topic of conversation that came up regularly was the past, and how all the big and small events of our lives led us to this point. If one thing had been different, we might be in completely different places. If my dad hadn’t taken a position at a new church my freshman year of high school, what path might I have gone down staying in that small Iowa town? If I’d chosen a different college, a different major, where would I be? If I had dated this guy or that?

Even the things that seemed the most tragic at the time have put me in the place I am now. When my parents told me during my freshman year that we were moving, I ran from the house and to my friend’s house. I threw a fourteen-year-old tantrum. I may have been a little dramatic. If I’d ended up with that guy, would I have accomplished all that I have? Would have I been able to focus on my dreams, create new goals? When I couldn’t find a job immediately out of grad school, it gave me an opportunity to seriously rely on God, and I ended up at the agency that has been my employer for 7 years, where I’m now a supervisor. When my church closed two years ago, I was ready to be done with organized churches, but now I’m at a church that feels like home, like family, after only seven months.

Since Margie is also a writer, our conversations also turned to writing pretty frequently. Most obviously, if I hadn’t found the writing community on Twitter, would Margie and I have ever met? Or any of my other fantastic friends, both real and imaginary? Devastating to think about. If my first, second, or third novels had been picked up, would I have even written the fourth? I would have written A fourth, but would it have been this book? The Girl Before was always meant to be THE book. I just didn’t know it while I was getting rejections for the others. I always had a picture in my head of what it would look like, the kind of agent I wanted to have, the kind of book I wanted to write. But if I had signed with another agent on another book, I wouldn’t have the amazing rockstar agent I have now. I might not be publishing with the incredible publisher who picked up the book.

Timing is everything.

I’m glad my first book didn’t get picked up (oh boy am I glad about that). I’m glad my second one won’t be my debut. There’s something special about the book that will be my debut, and it was always meant to be that way.

I’m glad the job I interviewed for in Sioux Falls seven years ago didn’t pan out. I’m glad all the jobs I applied for in Minneapolis never called me back. I have met some of my favorite people in the world here in Des Moines. It’s a beautiful city. I’ve gotten to watch my nieces grow up. I met friends who put me on the path toward publication, both overtly and not.

As surreal as it is for me to say, I’m glad my church closed. I cherished my time there, and the relationships I formed, and especially those I’ve maintained. It was the right place for me at that point in time, but not forever. My time away from church forced me to grow in my faith in different ways, to test it, to see how I could fit in this world. It also helped me realize how important it is to have a community of people supporting you, coming alongside you, caring for you. Like-minded people, but not clones. People you can have great discussions with, disagree, and still love each other at the end of the day.

Sound like the writing community at all?

I’m glad I’ve stayed single all this time. Twenty-three year old Rena would disagree, but it was the best thing for me to learn to rely on myself, to become independent, to gain confidence and learn to take chances. Twenty-three year old Rena would have married the first guy who asked her, and given up almost anything for that companionship. It’s not always easy doing life alone, but I know that I can, and I know I’ll never settle for someone just because they’re there. If I end up with someone, it will be because they realized the full extent of my awesomeness, and I have no doubt their level of awesome will match my own.

This is the parallel always made with agents as well. Newbie writer Rena would have taken any agent offer. But it’s so so so important to wait for the one who is going to be just as passionate as you, put just as much effort into the relationship as you, and appreciate the relationship, be just as in awe that you chose them as you are that they chose you. I can’t imagine being with an agent other than Sharon. She is my perfect agent match, but if I had been less patient, more eager to just GET SIGNED, I might not have found her.

The times where I felt things were the most bleak are actually the times where I see the most growth in myself. Strange how that works. And yet, not so strange. Not really.

So when you’re feeling like things aren’t going fast enough, like you’re not getting anywhere, remember that it just might not be your time yet, but your time will come. I know, easy for me to say, on this side of it, but there are plenty of things I’m still waiting on as well. Let’s wait together.

As a writer, I spend a lot of time making up people. Creating their personalities, building their world, learning them inside out. (Although part of me wants to argue that I don’t do any of the work. They just tell me who they are and I copy it down, but that’s another post. I may have already written it.) As a reader, I spend a lot of time reading about these brain babies that came from the wondrous imaginations of fellow authors, and no small portion of that time is spent wishing myself into the worlds those characters inhabit.

Have you ever thought about which character you’d be if you were in a book? I mean, sure, we all hope we’d be the main character, right? The one to save the day? Or at least to be the love interest. The one all the other characters (not to mention the readers) pine for.

But books would be boring if it was just main characters and love interests. Who would the MC fight against? Who would they save? Who would provide comic relief?

If I were a book character, I would most definitely be the heroine. I mean, taking on the bad guys, saving the world, snagging the hot guy…

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I KID.

But seriously. If I were a book character, I’d probably be the Snarky Best Friend. The one who always has a smart comment or borderline-inappropriate joke. The one who is maybe a little cautious, but still pushes the MC toward her (or his) destiny. There for support, or to be saved from some treacherous situation.

I’m not the one who gets the guy, but I play Cupid, pushing the love interest toward my BFF. Husbands and other attached guys adore my friendship and quick wit, while the unattached guys make a beeline for the MC. Or, if my BFF the MC is a guy, I’m most likely secretly in love with him, but will self-sacrificially help him find his One True Love (not me). I am the gatekeeper there too, heading off those those are unworthy or incapable of helping to save the world. (Superpowers are a plus.)

I get dragged along on the final adventure, and in the end the MC probably wouldn’t be able to save the world without me, but I’m fine without the glory. All I care about is that my friend is safe and sound and in love by the last page. OR, alternatively, by the end of the series.

Of course, this is only one genre of Snarky Best Friend, but most of the attributes are easily adjusted for other genres.

So now it’s your turn. Tell me in the comments which character you would be. Or, if you’re feeling long-winded, write about it on your blog and link in the comments. Tag your friends! I bet we could get a pretty epic novel together with a crazy cast of characters.

The summer before my senior year of college, I set out on a mission. I wanted a guitar. A red guitar, to be exact. Tired of singing along to tracks all the time, I wanted to learn to make music myself. Sure, I could play piano a bit, and could sing that way when I was at my parents’ house, but a dorm room is not exactly accommodating for a piano. I even got family members in on my quest. I particularly remember my aunt bargaining with me for an Augie sweatshirt if she could convince my parents that I needed this magical red guitar.

Well, for Christmas, guess what.

Awww, little college senior Rena was so happy.

I was ecstatic. I called her Big Red. I took my little beginning guitar book back to school with me and strummed until the tips of my fingers burned, and then eventually developed super sexy callouses. Sure, I was terrible, but I was having fun, and surely I would get better with practice!

Fast-forward to the following year, when I was neck-deep in my first year of graduate school. Neck-deep might be an understatement. I was drowning. Full time classes during the day, 20ish hours working at an after school program each week, plus hours in the clinic seeing clients between classes and in the evenings, then back home to mountains of reading and papers…and all the time, Big Red waited patiently in her case. I’d take her out from time to time, until my roommate was playing her and one of her strings broke, and neither of us knew how to fix it. Oops.

So I quit.

Big Red moved to Iowa with me after grad school, and after a couple of years of staring at her longingly after getting home from my dayjob at 10pm, my parents bought me guitar lessons for my birthday. I was so excited to learn again. My guitar instructor was a college kid, super talented, and patient. He said I was his best student, though many of his students were ten years old, so I’m not sure how much of a compliment it was. I didn’t learn how to change strings, because they did it for me, but I practiced like a fiend. I even took it on vacation that year.

Like the Pied Piper, except with a guitar.

Except. It was hard. Really hard. And for someone to whom learning new things comes fairly easy, it was frustrating. My fingers didn’t want to twist the way they needed to. They weren’t strong enough to get a good tone. Forget about bar chords. I bought more lessons when mine ran out, but soon the expense and the frustration ran together and I had to give them up. Of course I said I’d continue to play, watch YouTube videos, learn how to change the freaking strings, but I didn’t. Big Red gathered dust. I quit again.

How many times have you been tempted to quit something you love? For any number of reasons? Maybe it’s too hard. Maybe it’s too much of a time commitment. Maybe it’s just not turning out the way you’d hoped it would.

I can’t tell you the number of times writing was like that for me. It started out exciting, full of possibilities, but when the reality set in, it got much more difficult. Scenes that looked beautiful in my head just didn’t translate to paper. No matter how much I worked a page, there were always errors. No matter how many times I rewrote a query, I continued getting rejections. It took a toll. I quit more times than I can tell you. Threw my hands up (usually just metaphorically, but sometimes literally) and said, fine, this is not for me. This will clearly never happen.

I was on the verge of quitting last year. I’d received some nice feedback on my latest MS, but still got passes. It still wasn’t quite there. And I was tired. I had just finished an R&R for an agent, and I decided if it didn’t pan out, I was taking a break for an undetermined amount of time.

Well, if you’ve been paying attention, you know what happened next.

It’s the hardest thing in the world not to give up when things are tough. I’ve been there. I will be there again. But you don’t know what might be waiting over that next hill, beyond that next strike of the pickax. (If you find diamonds, remember I like sparkly things.)

I’m moving in a few weeks, and one of my goals is to set up a music corner in my new house. Eventually I hope to get my mom’s piano down here, and I am determined that I will learn how to restring Big Red and start from scratch learning how to play her. I don’t know how yet, but I will find a way, even if I have to teach myself. It may take longer than I want it to, but if I don’t try, I definitely will never succeed.

So go ahead. Quit. Take a needed break. Step away. But if it’s important, if it’s something you care about and want to do, come back. Quit quitting. My next challenge is cleaned up and waiting for me. What’s yours?

[SIDENOTE: I just wanted to say THANK YOU for the response to my last entry. It was incredibly scary to post that much of myself and my past, and I’m so glad it struck a chord with so many. I can’t tell you the number of comments, private messages, emails, and even texts I received with people saying ME TOO. We gotta stick together. We’re not as alone as it may seem sometimes :)]

It’s almost spooky how often my life lines up with the sermons I hear at church. I have been working on this blog post all week, and then today the pastor preached on this very topic. Well, at least a close cousin. I will warn you…I’m not sure how long this will get. I am an novelist, after all, and I’m also the Queen of Overthinking, so processing through that muck sometimes takes time. But we’ll have some fun along the way, yeah?

If you know me at all, follow this blog, follow me on Twitter, follow me to work every day, you know that 2015 has been a pretty amazing year for me. Possibly the most amazing year of my life. I signed a book deal, got a promotion to a supervisor position at dayjob, I’m in the process of buying a house, and those are just the big things. There are new friendships, new adventures, a myriad of other things that make each day fun and exciting. I have been beyond blessed.

So when I have nights like Monday last week, nights where I feel sort of sad and melancholy, I feel guilty. Because I should be happy all the time, right? That’s what people expect. That’s how I want people to see me, isn’t it?

And how do I handle those moods? I reach out to friends, of course!

And then I run away.

Before I let myself become too vulnerable. Before I let anyone see that I don’t have things as in control as I pretend to. Before I admit that maybe a snarky quip won’t get me out of this one. I make one anyway. I change the topic. I turn the focus back to my friend(s) before they can guess that I’m anything less than the euphorically happy woman I’m supposed to be. That’s how it went Monday. I reached out, then retracted anything vulnerable. And most everyone fell for it. (This is not a reflection of my friends. I’ve become very adept at dodging.)

Tuesday morning, I had a client who hit close to home, who spoke the words of my soul. I sat and told this kiddo that they should never feel like a burden to parents or friends, that they are WORTHY of love and respect and that they should NEVER feel like they are bothering others when they’re feeling back. I told them that feelings are never wrong, that we’re not meant to deal with them alone. That there were so many people who cared about them and wanted to be able to help in any and every way.

Hmph.

A little while later, I got a text from my friend Sara. She was the one person who wasn’t fooled by my dodging game the night before, and wanted to know what was up. Given everything I had just told my client, I decided to stop dodging and actually talk to Sara about what was going on. Which is good, because Sara doesn’t take my bull. We met at a coffee shop that evening to chat.

Here’s the ironic part. The reason I was feeling down was because despite all the awesomeness happening in my life, I often feel like I’m doing life alone. When I was looking at houses, a friend told me she envied the fact that I get to make all the decisions on my own. I told her I envied the fact that she had a partner to help out in that. There are people all around me, yet, in the end, I am responsible for all these decisions. House decisions. Career decisions. Decisions on what to make for dinner. And yet, when given the opportunity to reach out to people, I tend to run away, which Sara was more than happy to point out. “You’re running again.” I don’t know how many times she said that about one topic or another. Most often relationships.

New friendships are hard for me. I’m really great at talking to people, but it usually stays surface. I don’t go too deep. The deeper into a friendship you get, the more ammunition you give someone else to hurt you. That is the lesson I’ve learned, and one I’m trying hard to unteach.

I don’t know how much I’ve talked on this blog about my past, but the most obvious reason for my scared bunny act is that I was bullied horribly as a child. Mostly through middle school. And I was a weird kid. (Who wasn’t, amiright?) But I was the fat, awkward, bespectacled girl with the bad perm, so I really didn’t stand a chance. Kids are mean, guys. That’s the not point of this post, though.

My safe place growing up, besides books, was the church. I was the pastor’s kid, and I reveled in that role. I got to run crazy all over whatever church my dad was serving at the time. I hung out in the balcony, ate all the extra communion bread, and played hide n seek in the cemetery at the small country church he pastored while attending seminary. I made prank phone calls from his office (sorry, Dad!) and played the organ when the building was empty. Everyone knew who I was. I mattered. I sang solos and starred in the Christmas pageant. Where I felt invisible outside of those walls, at church I was significant.

(It’s kind of incredible how difficult this next part is to write, and I’m only giving an overview. Bear with me.)

The summer of 2003 is the summer church changed from my safe place to a hostile environment. I’d just finished my first year of college and was working at a Bible camp for the summer. It was my week to be in a cabin, but I had a two hour break each day, so I used it to run to staff quarters and check email. I had an email from a friend back home asking how my dad was doing. I freaked and immediately called home.

My parents told me that my dad had been forced to resign from his position at the church he’d been at for almost five years. I won’t go into details, partially because it’s just too hard, and partially because this is a monster entry, but it was nasty. It was one of those situations that you see in a movie and you’re like, that couldn’t possibly happen in real life. People don’t behave like that. Christians don’t behave like that. It was ugly and it was devastating and it felt like my entire world had been ripped out from under me. If Christians acted like that, these people who had been my safe haven for years, then who could I possibly trust?

I walked away from the church for months. Completely. I wanted nothing to do with it. I became depressed and attended therapy for a short time, and even took antidepressants, although I hated the way they made me feel and took myself off of them. (I was a terrible client. My poor therapist.) Then during J-term I took a class called Christ-Centered Counseling. Through that class, I came to the realization that I had put all my faith in the people of the church instead of in God. And people are fallible. (Surprise surprise!) Slowly my faith grew again, but it was definitely a more cautious faith.

Again and again over the next several years I was taught that some of the least trustworthy people in my life were those that professed a faith in God. The next church my dad pastored, after being out of the ministry for a year and a half, did the same thing to him. (It’s interesting to note that both those churches, which were thriving under my dad’s leadership, have dwindled. One survives only because of money, the other is little more than a small group that meets sporadically in a basement.) My dad is no longer in ministry. He and my mom are part of a small house church, and generally only attend traditional services when they visit us. I used to attend a service for young adults at a church in Sioux Falls. I hung out with the people in leadership, and helped out when I could. When I entered grad school and had to cut back on commitments, I was shunned until I quit attending.

Obviously there’s a lot more to this, but I think what I’ve shared is more than sufficient for the purposes of this blog. (Yes, there is a purpose. Probably.)

When I moved to Des Moines, I knew I wanted to connect with a church. Despite my dubious feelings towards Christians in general, I knew that it was important to be part of a worship community, and I had high hopes that I would find a place that could once again remind me of the feeling I had as a child, that feeling of home and belonging and safeness.

Wow. Is it ever hard to find a place like that!

I tried. I did. I tried huge churches that wouldn’t have a clue if I was there or not from week to week. I tried small churches where people stared at me like a visiting alien. I tried traditional worship, contemporary worship, and everything in between. I was exhausted.

Through a “random” (read: God) series of events, and through a completely unexpected source, one Sunday morning I found myself at the Historical Building in downtown Des Moines, visiting a little church called rechurch. My first visit, the pastor preached from a beam set up between the stage and the first row of seats. I was hooked. The message of the church was “Love, Grace, Friendship, Acceptance, No Matter What.” It was a church of people who had never been a part of a church, or who had been hurt by churches in the past. My people.

Still. Despite knowing I needed to connect, I held back. Distrust runs deep. For three years I slipped in and out of the services, rarely speaking to anyone. The pastor always greeted me, and his wife sought me out. Without them, I probably would have run away. I attended a group here and there, but didn’t get too involved.

Then came Bekah. A woman I’d never spoken to, though I had seen her lead worship when our main worship leader was absent. She approached me one Sunday after church. “This might be a weird question, but do you sing?” She’d been sitting behind me and down the row, but somehow still heard me singing. She recruited me then and there to help lead worship for a teen girls retreat, and to help lead worship the next time the leader was gone. After singing in church that first time, the worship leader approached me and asked if I would consider joining the team, and I started singing about every other week with the band. And then I helped restart the women’s ministry, leading groups alongside the pastor’s wife.

Less than a year later, rechurch closed its doors. My home. My family. The place I finally belonged. And as much as you say you’ll keep in touch and keep meeting…it never turns out quite as you expect. I still get a small group of women together once or twice a month. Some of the best women I’ve met. They know more about me than almost anyone. Rechurch gave me the place I needed to learn to trust again.

It’s been two years since rechurch closed. It still hurts sometimes. And starting over is hard. I attended a some other churches through those couple years, but it was a battle. Nothing felt right. I ended up staying home most Sunday mornings. That was easier than putting on my church face and mingling with people who also kept their church faces firmly in place. What’s that Casting Crowns song? Stained Glass Masquerade? That’s sort of what it was for me. And those churches had some very good people. Good messages. But they didn’t feel like home. I was an outsider. Always.

(We’re closing in on 2,000 words, folks. I told you it was going to be a beast.)

And now here I am. Ridiculously happy at the church I’ve been attending since January. It feels like home. I have felt my heart changing, softening a bit again. Feeling hopeful. (Which is fitting, since the church is called Hope.) I’m excited for Sunday mornings again. I devour the messages, and can always find something to mull over for days. The music is always on point, and I’ve had the privilege of singing with the band a couple of times.

And yet.

Every time I pull up to attend a service or a rehearsal or an event solo, I have to take deep breaths before getting out of the car. It takes everything in me not to run for the door at the end of the service, to stay and find people to talk to. I always enjoy it when I do, and I’ve met some amazing people, but my instinct for running is still strong. My instinct to keep things on a surface level is stronger. I’m trying, more here than I ever have before, but my past experiences are in a constant battle with my need for a deeper connection.

So what’s the point of sharing all of this? Hahahaha I have no idea.

Kidding. Sort of. My life and my experiences have made me into the person I am. Into the writer I am. Writing is a pretty isolating thing. We spend a lot of time alone in dimly lit rooms, researching, writing, editing. It’s easy to feel alone, because, well, we are alone much of the time.

I had a friend tell me recently, and she’s not the first, that all this writing stuff seemed to come really easily to me. That I “got it” right away. And after reading through my entire blog last weekend, I’m not surprised, because that’s exactly how I presented it. Sunshine and daisies. Rainbows and unicorns. (See a similar post on this topic here.) A few little blips but hey, such is life. When in reality it was HARD. I fought for every word, for every stinking edit note. And while I’m proud of the final product, I’m also intensely terrified. And that’s okay. What’s not okay is NOT sharing that part of me, at least with my close writing friends. We all need that support, that feeling of not being alone. Yes, a lot of what we do is alone, but a lot doesn’t have to be.

Okay, bottom line. In writing and in life, REACH OUT. People are not going to feel like you’re bugging them. Your friends, your family, they WANT to be there for them. Being vulnerable is more difficult for me than almost anything in the world. I hate asking for help. (When I broke my leg in college, I hobbled all the way across campus in the pouring rain rather than call for a ride and inconveniencing anyone.) I am challenging myself to be better about that. To know that it’s okay to share those darker parts, it’s okay to not always be happy, it’s okay to be vulnerable with people. (Ugh, seriously, the thought is terrifying.) If you don’t struggle with that, find someone who does, get their story, be their safe place. We’re all looking for one. We all need connection. We’re not meant to do life alone.

At over 2500 words, I think I’m done. As always, apologies for any discombobulation. It’s just how my brain works, and I still haven’t found that blog post editor 😉

There are two movies out right now that I haven’t had a chance to see and still really wanted to. One is the cartoon Inside Out, which I really cannot wait to see, not just for entertainment, but because I think it will be super useful in my job as well. The other was Spy, and this morning a friend and I hit the theater to see what it was all about.

Spy has gotten really good reviews, even earning at 95% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, which is pretty rare. (Inside Out is at 98, so…). It’s the story of an overweight female CIA agent pulled from behind her desk and into the field to kick ass and take names. Which she does. I’m sure it’s not a spoiler to say she saves the day.

I love spy movies. I love the spy movies that take themselves too seriously, as well as the ones that are almost parodies of themselves. I love the gadgets they come up with, the fight scenes, and, of course, the usually clever dialogue. And I enjoyed Spy. I did. I mean, what’s not to like about the big girl being the hero? Showing everyone that she’s not what they expected looking at her. Showing up even the most seasoned agents, sometimes BECAUSE no one expected her to.

And I think that was part of the problem. This movie was definitely making an effort to make fun of the stereotypes society has of fat people. But in doing that, they hit a little too close to home for me. Everyone in the movie, INCLUDING the main character’s best friend, expected her to fail. They assumed she would mess everything up, that she couldn’t do it. Even when she would do things well, they expected her to screw it up the next time. And I suppose it wouldn’t make a very “good” movie if everyone came to her side immediately. Everyone talked down to her, as if the extra padding on her body somehow inhibited her intelligence.

I go through life expecting people to think I’m stupid. One time I met a guy for coffee, and it came up that I had my master’s degree. He looked shocked, and said, “Wow, my estimation of you just went up a lot!” Yes. He actually said that. And it wasn’t like we’d never talked before. But for some reason he had very low expectations of me and my accomplishments. (Not to mention that it irked me that he would think more or less of me based on my education…I know some extremely intelligent and amazing people with less formal education than some of the stupidest people I’ve met with master’s degrees or beyond…but that’s a rant for another post.)

Of course there was an attractive love interest for the poor schmuck of a homely agent to be in love with as well, and he took advantage of her every step of the way. And she was mocked for her feelings, for having any inkling that someone like HIM would be attracted to someone like HER. (Sidenote, Melissa McCarthy is GORGEOUS and I love her. The only thing that made her “unloveable” was her weight. And we wonder why there is such a problem with eating disorders.)

We perpetuate these stupid stereotypes over and over again, and it’s frustrating. We put ourselves apart from other people based on generalizations that have no basis in reality. (The movie also took a couple jabs at us rednecks here in the midwest, with our knitting clubs and podunk lifestyle.)

I think there’s an art to being able to make fun of yourself, and poke fun at the strange little eccentricities in society. Goodness knows a good portion of my Twitter feed is me confessing to any number of ridiculous thoughts or actions, maybe slightly exaggerated. But there’s a balance and there’s a line.

I’m not really sure what this post is about. I liked the movie, but at the same time I had some pretty serious issues with the themes, I guess. I generally try not to think too deeply about movies, but this one struck a chord, and I do think it’s important to parse out the confusing messages movies like this can send. Of course, in the wake of recent tragedies, this all seems very small and silly.

Maybe I’ll take myself to see Inside Out tomorrow. Maybe then I’ll be better able to sort out my feelings 😉

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we interact with others, and the impact we have on the world around us. In the social services field, I don’t always get a lot of chance to see the impact I’ve had on those around me. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I see some big changes, but more often than not, I’m only doing the seed planting, maybe a little watering, and then sending my little buds off to bloom elsewhere, I hope. If I’m very lucky, one of my little flowers is able to tell me how I’ve impacted them. Of course, this isn’t why I do what I do. If I was in it for the glory, I would have picked a different field.

Like writing.

Ha! Gotcha. If anything, there is much less outside validation for writing. It’s easier to get discouraged, and you seriously have to do it for the love of writing, not for the glory. Rejections and harsh critiques and reviews can overshadow any praise. I attended a conference the past couple days, and one of the presenters talked about how we, as humans, have a negative bias, a tendency to let the negative responses outweigh the positive, even if there are more positives in reality.

Let’s go on a slight bunny trail, shall we? Hop this way…

Several weeks ago, I got a message from the seven-year-old daughter of a friend of mine. It was probably one of the most adorable things ever, and I can’t explain it better than to just give you the screenshots of our interactions.

Doesn’t that just touch your heart like a flock of butterflies floating on a rainbow? (The kissing chickens part was in response to another friend who commented about kissing her chickens. Addi gives very good advice.)

What I realized after this interaction was that even though my book isn’t out yet, even though Addi won’t be able to read my book for many years after it comes out, I’m already able to have an impact simply by doing what I do, by being who I am.

A few weeks after that, I was visiting Sioux Falls, SD, and my old stomping grounds at Augustana College. My friend and I wandered around campus and through the buildings, and we walked past the office of my creative writing professor. I only took one class from him, over 9 years ago, but it was my first exposure to the publishing process, and the first time I thought, hey, maybe someday that’s something I could do. Even at that time, I didn’t know what an impact the class had on me, so of course the professor had no idea either.

So I emailed him. I also emailed my favorite supervisor/professor from grad school, the man who did the majority of my training to become a therapist, since I’m reaching new milestones in that career as well.

The emails I got back from both professors brought me to tears. So excited, so glad to hear how I was doing. I knew my grad school professor would remember me, as we’ve corresponded periodically throughout the years, but I was sure my creative writing professor would have no recollection of me. I mean, one class, come on! But not only did he remember me, he remembered many of the people who were in that particular class! Talk about a great memory. I was also told by a friend who is Facebook friends with him that he posted about it and that it totally made his day to get that email.

A small gesture, ten minutes out of my day to let someone know how drastically they impacted my life, and the effect was amazing. They were happy, I was even happier, and they got to see the fruits of those seeds they planted years ago. I really want to look up my third grade teacher now, the one who submitted my first story to the State of Iowa writing contest, which set me on the writing path. I’d love to see how she’s doing, and show her how that small gesture impacted me.

So here’s my point. When someone does something that impacts you, or that you appreciate, TELL THEM. Big or small. Maybe they saved you a seat, or maybe they saved your life. Make sure you let them know. I think we all, at times, just sort of wander around this big ol’ world, feeling alone, like nothing we do matters.

How might a smile change someone’s day? A kind word? A thank you?

It takes very little effort to show gratitude, to share a kind word, but the rewards for everyone involved are limitless. It’s my goal to be very cognizant of the things people do, and to recognize them for that, whether it directly impacts me or not. Build someone up today.

All it takes is a few words.

Is there a time when someone unexpectedly pointed out something positive you’d done?

If you’ve kept up on this blog, you know that I am the Queen of positive thinking, being confident in your work and in yourself, pushing through the yuck and believing that good things will happen. I do my best to live life with the attitudes I preach on here, though there are definitely days (weeks, months) when I struggle to follow my own advice.

A few posts ago I talked about how a friend told me that she approaches every interaction assuming people like her, and how it revolutionized the way I interact with people, both those I’ve known for a long time and those I’m meeting for the first time. Last week I had several discussions with different people about the idea of feeling worthy. How often in my life have I approached people and situations with the “one-down” attitude? Way too often. “I’m not cool enough to talk to that person.” “I don’t know enough to give advice on that topic.” “I’m not pretty enough to talk to that guy.” “I’m not talented enough to put myself or my work out there.” “I’m not ENOUGH.” “I don’t DESERVE.” Ugh.

The sermon yesterday was also about being worthy, about accepting that because we are created by God, we ARE worthy. That we need to OWN our fierceness, and live it out in everything we do. We’re not supposed to be meek, hanging in the background (hello, my life).

To tip this to the writing side of things, one of my favorite things I’ve ever read is when Janet Reid posted that writers are not beggars at the banquet of publishing. We have all done the work, done something only a small percentage of people ever do, and we deserve to have our work seen and acknowledged. Though it can often seem like we’re approaching agents and editors slowly, not making eye contact, holding out the thing we made, praying they will deign to acknowledge our existence, we should be approaching them as equals, realizing we are both looking for opportunities to connect with a project that speaks to us, and to partner with someone to make it an even better project.

(Disclaimer: During one of my conversations on this, I used the term “deserve,” and a friend had an issue with it. Keep in mind that confidence is important, but swinging too far the other way is also dangerous. Treating others as if it is a privilege to get to talk to you or work with you can be even more off-putting than taking that one-down stance. So yes, we all deserve equal opportunities and equal standing, but not the right to push others down in pursuit of that “equality.”)

I’m almost 500 words into this post and I haven’t even gotten to my point yet. I need a blog post editor.

So what happens when we’ve done everything right, approached someone with confidence, owned our weirdness, put ourselves and/or our work out there…and nothing happens?

I’ve made it a goal to try to talk to one new person at church each week, and also touch base with people I’ve talked to before. I’ve made the mistake in the past of slipping in and out of church like a ghost, not connecting, not becoming a part of anything. I am determined not to do that this time. I’ve always been the type to wait for others to approach me, but that just doesn’t happen as much as I’d like it to. So I’m trying to be brave, hop out of my comfort zone, and remember that I’m great and people like me. But what happens when I approach someone and they are less than thrilled to talk to me? When, for whatever reason, they don’t see how delightful I am? (This has happened a couple times, and for a socially awkward person like myself, there’s no good escape from the situation.)

Writers are so super aware of rejection. We’ve all experienced it to varying degrees. We have this super amazing project, and we KNOW it’s super amazing, and yet the rejections flood in. We’re confident, we put ourselves out there, and no one can quite see the potential we know is there. Or we send a new piece to a beta reader and the response is meh. Or we have a book out in the world (huzzah!) and a bad review comes in. What then? Confidence and believing in yourself isn’t a guarantee of anything. It’s a good way to live your life, much happier than being negative all the time, but often the more confidence we have, the more we put ourselves out there, and the more we end up rejected or brushed off.

Sigh. Uplifting, yeah?

So here is just a small list of things that I do (or try to do) when faced with these situations in life and in writing.

DO:
STOP! Take a moment before reacting. Maybe more than just a moment. Step back from the situation. Go to your happy place. Call a friend. Watch trashy TV. Disappear into a book. Get a pedicure. BREATHE. Distance is important for mental health in the face of rejection.

ALLOW yourself to feel whatever it is you feel. If it’s sadness, that’s okay. Anger? Fine too. Disappointment? Absolutely. Most likely it’ll be a whole mix and mess of emotions. (Also a good reason to get some distance and sort that ish out.) It’s okay to wallow a little. A LITTLE. Eat some chips. Then take a deep breath, close that bag (or throw it away because it’s empty), and make your next move.

Have your affirmations ready. This may be a total therapist thing, but sometimes I need reminding of why I’m so awesome, and having that stockpile ready is important, since if I’m in the midst of a rejection haze, I might have a difficult time coming up with those affirmations. Focus on the many amazing accomplishments you have, the friends and family who love you, the unique and fabulous things that make you YOU. If you can’t do this for yourself, have some people around you who can. I used to force my friends in college to do affirmation circles when one of them would be down on themselves. They hated them but also secretly loved them. Who doesn’t like hearing positive things that others see in us?

Just keep swimming. If it’s a person who isn’t treating you the way you deserve, move on to someone who will. Of course, this depends on the relationship. A new acquaintance is easier to replace than a longtime friend or family member or spouse. Evaluate each relationship and adjust as needed. This is another time when calling in a trusted friend is smart. If your writing isn’t getting the love it should, give other people a crack at it, or move on to another project.

Be willing to admit what you’re doing, and what’s in your control. Have you been acting like a creepy stalker? Maybe chill out a bit. Are there things you can change in your writing? Things people are pointing out consistently that you could work on? Accept that criticism and find a way to apply it that feels right. Critiques are so hard sometimes, but it’s amazing what can come out of a constructive critique. (Blog post on critiquing and accepting criticism coming soon. Be excited.)

DON’T:
Let one person’s opinion dictate what you think about yourself and/or your work. Not everyone is going to like you or your work. I mean, I may have mentioned before how charming and DELIGHTFUL I am, but plenty of people have zero interest in hanging out with me. (Baffling, I know.) Plenty of people, agents, editors, even my grandma, read my book and weren’t terribly impressed. And when it comes out next year, there will be many more that read it and think it’s terrible. That doesn’t mean it is. It means it’s subjective, and focusing on the people who say positive things is a much better use of my time and energy.

Make any rash decisions in the middle of your wallowing or based on your initial reaction. Just because one person is indifferent to you doesn’t mean you should stop trying to make friends. Just because one relationship ends doesn’t mean you should shut yourself off the the possibility of a new one. Just because your manuscript is rejected a few (dozen) times doesn’t mean you should quit writing and join the circus. Again, DISTANCE and TRUSTED FRIENDS are super helpful in decision-making.

Assume that the way it is now is how it will always be. Things can change in a heartbeat. That person you only sort of know could become your closest confidante. That agent you queried on a whim could be your perfect match. I am living proof that things can happen quickly, and many times when you least expect them to happen. (Remind me to tell you about how I was considering a query break just a couple weeks before my first offer of representation.)

You feel me?

Sorry, didn’t know how to transition to the ending here. I’m sure there are many more DOs and DON’Ts, but this is quite long enough. If you have others, add them in the comments. This is a constant battle for me, trying to maintain perspective in the midst of rejection. But the more I practice, the better I get, and the less bags of chips I go through 😉

As always, keep going. Be you. Embrace the weird. Know you are amazing. Own it.