Yes, at the end of this post I'm revealing one secret and several embarrassing photos of myself. First, a little context. 

I loved this Ted talk about leadership (titled How Great Leaders Inspire Action), because speaker Simon Sinek conveys a brilliant but simple idea that applies to so many different kinds of people and situations.

It relates directly to my leadership work on a school improvement team at the high school where I’m an English teacher. But it also applies to my writing career – specifically how to define myself as an author so like-minded readers can find me and my books.

His boiled-down message: “People don’t buy what you do. They buy why you do it… Start with the why.”

So I’ve been asking myself, Why?

Why do I write? Why spend those hours in that chair? Why risk putting myself out there? What motivates me? What is my purpose? My cause? My belief? What themes emerge from my work, however unwittingly? And why should a reader care?

Maybe more importantly, who should care?

That’s the question all of this should answer, because ultimately not everyone will connect with my novels – or my essays on this blog. I want to find the people who do. And hopefully they want to find me too.

Therefore... Ahem. *straightening shirt*

Here goes.

I’m going to admit something that only my mother knew about me, and she passed away two years ago without ever revealing my secret.

Everybody knew one thing. I was a tomboy from the time I could walk, probably because of my birth order: fifth child of six, sandwiched in between two older brothers and one younger one.

I played sports of all kinds, baseball, basketball, football, hockey, golf. I climbed trees and sported a perpetual scab on my knee. I baited my own fishing hook and cleaned my own catch.  I didn’t cry when I got shots. I was pretty tough, at least on the outside. 

The secret was inside. I struggled with girlish tendencies that I worried others would ridicule as uncool. I loved to play with Barbies and baby dolls. I put on makeup in the bathroom, then washed it off. I took dance lessons for five years and didn’t tell my friends.  

And the thing no one knew until this moment: When I was eight, I asked my mom to buy me go-go boots. Shiny, white, faux-patent-leather, zip-to-the-knee, skin-tight go-go boots. They never saw the light of day. I only wore them in my bedroom with the door locked, where I was freed to model-walk down the runway, to strike a pose, to dance.

I write with that girl in mind. Figuratively speaking, I write for her and about her.

I write about the quirks of human nature, the contradictions, doubts, struggles, and triumphs. I’m less alone and afraid when I discover the complexity – and messiness – of what’s under the surface. That’s where courage springs from. It’s the birthplace of humor.

This kind of storytelling binds us together as human beings. It gives permission to that little girl hidden in the bedroom to go outside in those white zip-up go-go boots, stand tall, and give a high kick to the critics.

I’m working on some self-improvement goals this summer, and it’s going pretty well – the usual ups and downs of making significant changes that last – but I came upon a not-so-happy realization while walking my dog Stella yesterday.

Usually I walk her off leash on trails behind my house, but this day she was leashed for a trip around a paved walking path at a park in town.

We’d get moving along nicely, hitting a sweat-inducing stride that felt great, and suddenly Stella would have to stop and sniff. Urgently. As in planting-her-feet-and shrinking-her-ears-to-slip-her-collar urgency. It happened at mailboxes, sign-posts, parking curbs, even clumps of weeds. I was patient for a minute each time it happened. Then I’d urge her forward with enthusiastic chants of “C’mon, Sweetie! Let’s go, Babe!” But she’d have nothing to do with my timeline, barely looking up from the engrossing business of investigating what other dogs had left behind. Fortunately, she mostly sniffed pee spots, but still…

I tried to make the best of it, in the spirit of self-improvement, by demonstrating patience. I observed the details of her using that black button instrument of discovery – her highly sensitive nose, which I’ve seen pick up scents in a breeze – as it twitched and sniffed rapid-fire, then expelled air in a quick flush, and took up the speed-twitch-sniff again. I found the humor when she squatted to squirt her scent on the scene for the eighteenth time (how did she have any pee left?). And I dug out the metaphor: Stella was communicating with other dogs, reading their scents and leaving hers, without actually sniffing a single behind, and never rubbing necks with a potential friend, and without ever growling a warning to a bigger, meaner-looking male.

Sniffing pee is canine virtual networking, I decided. Social media, doggy-style. Standing there, I chuckled at the thought: She’s just like me, losing momentum on my writing by hopping on Facebook or Twitter or Writers’ Café, or Goodreads, and getting lost down the rabbit hole of links and cool sites and intriguing articles and curiosities… until I’ve forgotten the reason I turned on my computer in the first place. I chastised Stella for procrastinating on the internet instead of pounding out a sweaty workout.

Then I dug a little deeper and got honest with myself.

I’ve launched positive changes this summer. I’ve added some healthy foods to my diet, nearly eliminated alcohol, and completed two big landscaping projects in my yard (having never been much of a gardener). And for the third summer in a row, I set a goal to improve my fitness, because I want to beat that monster in my closet. This time I decided to try to tone up and lose weight doing exercise that I could maintain year-round (such as walking with ankle weights on) – as opposed to doing more intense, longer spurts of exercise in the summer and then lagging (and gaining weight) in the winter. So far, so good.

But as for my writing, I have not been so focused or dedicated. I hope to launch my second novel in the fall, and I’m “working on” revisions. However, I need to face the truth. The reality is that I find ways to avoid the work when it gets hard. When I can’t figure out how to fix a rough spot, I jump on the internet. It even happened with this blog entry. Yesterday I sat down to write, it seemed hard, and I clicked myself away from the difficulty. Sure, I’ve always done that, but this summer it’s become a problem. 

THE problem.

As I’ve improved in other aspects of myself, this part of my life has devolved. Internet procrastination has replaced old unhealthy outlets I used to escape unpleasantries: the glass of wine, brainless television, naps. I tightened up in one area and the ickiness just oozed in another direction.

So the internet has become more than a bad habit for me. It’s the thing that makes me feel bad about myself. It’s the stumbling block that makes my goals seem unachievable. It’s the dark voice in my head – the one that wants me to think I’m not good enough and I can’t do it – finding a way to stay strong after I thought I’d gotten the upper hand.

It’s the hurdle I place in front of myself.

Starting today, internet surfing joins potato chips and chocolate chip cookies among the temptations I need to actively manage in my daily life or risk failing at what matters most to me. However, I’m thinking I have deeper self-improvement work to do. While my efforts have focused on removing self-imposed hurdles, perhaps what I need to do is figure out why I sabotage myself in the first place and work on fixing that root cause. Otherwise, I may be doomed to press on one side of the issue and watch it squeeze out in another direction.

I appreciate Stella for inspiring my soul searching. Now it’s a new day. Time to strap on my ankle weights and head out to the trails where my dog can run free and sniff all she wants, and I can move closer to being the person I want to be – one step, one thought, one metaphor at a time.

  

  

Writing an engaging, tightly woven, affecting novel is arduous work. But connecting that book with its audience is a truly punishing challenge. Think chiseling an adorable giraffe figure from a two-ton boulder (writing a novel) versus pushing the (now) one-ton giraffe figure up a mountain with your nose (finding its audience).

It’s not easy to distinguish one book from the other 600,000 titles published each year. That’s why I was so delighted to learn my young adult novel, The Twelfth of Never, has been awarded a B.R.A.G. Medallion.

The medallion is a stamp of approval from a global group of readers dedicated to bringing attention to the best independently published books. Selection for the award must be unanimous, and follows a comprehensive list of criteria, including plot, characters, dialogue, writing style, copy editing, and cover/interior layout.

And I love this note included in the judging criteria, according to the IndieBRAG website: “One final factor our readers use to judge a book is whether or not they would recommend it to their best friend.”

The recognition and validation of my work comes at an emotionally critical – and lonely – time for me. I’m working on final revisions to my next young adult novel, scheduled for release in the fall.

B.R.A.G. (Book Readers Appreciation Group) awards the medallion to just ten percent of the books submitted for consideration, so I’m incredibly excited and honored to be included in the community of B.R.A.G. Medallion honorees!

 

I’m a teacher, so summer is my New Year. A natural point of transition. Time to look inward, outward, and forward. To dream, hope, plan.

And make resolutions.

Even if I weren’t a teacher, it only makes sense to attempt big changes during the brightness of summer. Everything seems possible – unlike in cold, dark winter. At least my summer New Year's resolutions stand a chance of being realized.

This year more so than ever.

This summer, I set my goal at losing weight and getting in shape – yes, a clichéd resolution – but my hope for myself goes so much deeper. I want to feel stronger, happier, more resilient in the face of challenges. So I may measure my success in terms of weight lost, or clothing sizes dropped, but the motivation driving it plays in my mind more like Rocky-climbing-the-steps. I want the triumph of experiencing my own strength, built from my determination and will.

Damn right. Go, girl!

Then why the heck is it so hard to accomplish? How come people like me fail at New Year’s resolutions they know would make them happier, healthier, better people?

Here’s what I’ve learned this summer: It’s all about quelling the mean, nasty, hateful voice in my own head.  Wherever it came from, why ever it’s there, that voice wants me to fail, and it is an excellent strategist.

It is the voice of NO when I’m facing a new challenge or a hard day that makes me wonder: Can I do this?

It is the voice of YES when a setback unleashes discouragement that makes me wonder: Should I just give up and give in?

It knows just when to speak and what to say to drain my confidence and feed my fears. It preys when I am weak and bides its time when I am strong. It knows my vulnerable spots, and waits and positions for moments when they are revealed.

The difference now is I’m paying attention. I’m not letting that voice blind-side me anymore. I notice when that voice is preying on my weakness or exploiting my vulnerabilities, and I’m turning the tables and talking back. We’ve become worthy opponents.

Nice try, I’m saying, but NO, you won’t be telling me what I can or can’t achieve. And as a matter of fact, YES, I do think I’m capable of anything if I can just get through this moment of doubt, or fear, or panic, and not give up and not give in. Go ahead and keep whispering, because I know what you’re up to and two can play at that game.

Hey, Voice, you’re really not that great. In fact, you’re a loser. You might as well give it up.