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S is for Saturday, S is for sleep

It’s been five full days of little changes. Coincidence or not, I had the energy last night to take in an evening of amazing performances by young musicians at our provincial music festival: solo performers, high school students, forcing air through brass instruments in ways that made your spine tingle, or offering up musical theatre performers that made you think,for a moment, they were really an unwed father, a waitress, or Fanny Bryce. As unique as their selections, disciplines and adjudicators, there was one unifying piece of advice. Keep it simple.

Talk about a sign of being on the right track, I thought at home, drinking my last glass of water of the day and munching my carrot. There was one competitor, with the voice of an angel and costumes the quality of Broadway. She did very well. The winner, however, had a more subtle voice, darker and more understated songs, and simple outfits – basic black with accents, depending on he characters. She was edged the winner for her simplicity and clearer connection with her songs. Simple and real. She has that now in her discipline. I’m hoping to get there.

So what to do today? Keep doing what I’m doing. And add one more thing kind to my body: sleep. A half hour earlier, every night. That means no more dozing in front of the TV, no playing on my iPad. Go to bed at 10:30, go to sleep. Nothing more simple than that.

Thanks for being here. See you tomorrow.

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Airing things out: KISS Day 5

Just breathe. Well-meaning folks would tell me that, and I would want to choke them. What do you mean, breathe? What do you think I’m doing, flapping my gills? Of course I’m breathing, you twit! How is that going to help me calm down/finish this presentation/get through the next five minutes? It turns out they were being very helpful, and I was/am the twit. Most days, without thought, my breathing is so constricted and uncommitted that the air I take in could barely keep a bird alive, even a tiny bird, like a robin. An adult at rest can take 12-20 breaths per minute. Those breaths need to fill the lungs with air. That air contains the oxygen our body needs for its own internal combustion. We can go days without water and weeks without food, but only a few minutes without oxygen. yet when we’re stressed or preoccupied, our muscles constrict and our breathing gets shallow, reducing our flow of oygen when we need it the most. But that’s what burnout feels like, at least to me: body, mind and spirit all arguing and pushing each other around like drunken siblings at a family reunion, desperate to connect but too damaged and immature to figure out how.

So now, on Day Five, I am trying hydration through extra water, nutrition with my extra serving of vegetables, a wee bit of exercise to build muscle and vent negative energy, 15 minutes of mindful quiet (or in simpler terms, a nap), and now, breathing. Real breathing. A slow, deep breath in, held for a second or two, then released slowly, a controlled trickle taking with it a painful memory, a chunk of undigested bitterness, a shard of stress. Then repeat. Again. Ten in a row of these slow, deep, deliberate breaths. I did them this morning when I woke up, that familiar knot already settled firmly in my gut. Now, I’m at my desk, about to finish my first task of the day, enjoying the sunshine, looking forward to breakfast (and my extra glass of water).

Thanks for being here. See you tomorrow.

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KISS Day Four: Where’s the rest?

I can’t remember the last time I did anything four days in a row, which is no doubt why I am now engaged in a search for healing. An unstructured schedule completely adrift on the tide of life sounds like a paradise, but the reality is most of us need some sort of anchor, base or structure to call home. For now, my structure is this 30-day challenge to heal my fried adrenals through tiny, realistic changes. And do you know what? After only three full days, I have a concrete result to report.

Last night. I had committed earlier in the day to five minutes daily on the trampoline. By suppertime, though, I had a splitting headache and my body felt like it had run a marathon. I flopped on the couch, too tired, aching, and sad to move. I’ll add it tomorrow, I told myself as I dragged up the stairs to help youngest daughter get ready for bed. The trampoline is in her room, and of course was mounded with stuffed animals, yesterday’s jeans and tomorrow’s outfit. I stared at the plush pile of rounded bodies topped with unblinking eyes. You can do this. Five minutes. Daughter lent me her iPod, I swept off the trampoline and with Carly Rae Jepson singing her heart out, I bounced for five minutes. I returned to the couch still tired, still achy, but with a sense of accomplishment. A half hour later, my mood was clearer. What was once hopeless was now calm. I kept a promise to myself. I did something good for myself. The cost? Five minutes.

So to recap, I am drinking more water, eating an extra vegetable, and now bouncing for five minutes. Time for a rest. I need it. We all need it. Don’t believe me? Check history and the globe. Cultures the world over still shutter businesses at midday for an afternoon break. A generation ago, many Nova Scotia houses had a cot in the kitchen next to the stove; you ate dinner, napped, then went back at it till dark. Modern schedules, though, treat lunch time as another work hour, routinely scheduling meetings, appointments, and commitments that have no focus on eating or recharging. That midafternoon slump? Beat it with snacks and caffeine, they say. Listen to it, I say, and have a rest. So here’s my Day Four addition: 15 minutes of afternoon rest, every day. Maybe a nap, snuggled in bed with my quilt. Or maybe a quiet time nestled on the couch, eyes closed, phone off, hum of traffic in my ear, kiss of sun on my cheek, mindful relaxation and letting go.

That’s it. Nothing special. But I’m really looking forward to it. Fifteen whole minutes. Enough for a dream.

Thanks for being here. See you tomorrow.

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Time to bounce: KISS Day Three

We have drink. We have food. Time to add a little motion. Sitting is an occupational hazard for writers. Some authors have, and do, write standing up or lying down but call me old-fashioned, I need to be seated to do what I do. Granted, I do it atop a yoga ball. I gave up my desk chair more than two years ago thinking the ball seat would strengthen my core and whip those flabby abs into shape. It didn’t. Seems nothing can take the place of actually moving one’s muscles to tone and sculpt. The irony of exercise, though, is that it can be as unhealthy as healthy, depending on your body type, health conditions, and preferred method of movement. Some bodies, especially those in the throes of burnout, can actually become more stressed with exercise, resulting in greater fatigue, achiness, and stubborn weight retention. However, as my body is pretty much at rest all the time, a little motion needs to be incorporated. My solution? A wee indoor trampoline. My naturopathic doctor suggested it months ago as a possible remedy for the fluid buildup in my legs. Another admission – I have the legs of a 500-pound 90 year old. At certain times of the month my lower legs swell to nearly the size of my thighs, my ankles disappear, and I can forget wearing any footwear that doesn’t have velcro. My ND suggested five minutes a day on the trampoline.I tried it. I liked it. My legs felt less tight. Then, as with all my health improvement plans to date, I stopped. Got busy, was away, etc etc etc. No thought that I could have run on the spot, danced, did jumping jacks instead.

So today, no more excuses. I will trampoline for five minutes a day. Every day. Plus drink my extra glass of water at every meal and eat an extra serving of veggies. So far, nothing has taken extra time or effort. Five minutes a day is a song and a half on my iPod.  Ready, set, bounce.

Thanks for being here. See you tomorrow.

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Adding some crunch: KISS Day Two

Here we are, Keep It Super Simple path to feeling better, Day Two. So far so good with the water, the only issue being increased demand for the facilities (five people, two bathrooms, you get the idea). Today, I’m feeling the need for crunch. Crunching is so satisfying to the senses: it feels good, sounds impressive, adds attitude to the mundane. My favourite walk is a path steeped in the spent leaves of autumn. My favourite snacks: Doritos, tortillas, kettle chips, popcorn smothered in white cheddar powder … yum. However, since it is spring (or supposed to be) in Nova Scotia, the only thing crunching underfoot are my dreams of sunshine and while my snacks are craved by mouth and mind, my body and spirit are politely raising their hands and pleading for something with a vitamin, maybe a mineral, too, if it’s not too much trouble. So, my addition for today: add a half-cup of vegetables to my daily diet. I actually like veggies, even for breakfast when I saute onions and peppers to go with my scrambled eggs. But most of us don’t eat enough; 7-8 servings for a girl my age, according to Canada’s Food Guide. One serving is half a green pepper, a quarter of a cucumber, a carrot. I’m going to eat my extra serving raw for the crunch and at night to start weaning myself from the fat fest that is my evening snack. The raw veggie thing is also a great habit former as we in Nova Scotia roll into our natural fresh produce season. Local farmer’s markets, including our awesome New Glasgow market, are now open for the season. Local farm fresh – good in so many ways.

Thanks for listening! See you tomorrow.

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30 days to feeling better, Day One

I was supposed to be releasing a new book this month. I’m not. I could blame my schedule, my business partner, global economics and the consistent lack of spring in our Nova Scotia weather and believe me, I have. All it gave me was heartburn and more fatigue. I need spring all right, but spring in my step is the real thing lacking in my life, and while all of the above are contributing factors, the cause lies firmly with me and my choices. According to the charts, I am in the throes of burnout. In the words of my naturopath: my adrenals are ‘shot.’ I need to fix this now. I know that. I also know that my insurance company will not pay for six months in the south of France. The added wrinkle: I am a lousy patient. I lack discipline for daily gym visits and embrace my nightly couch-potato stance as a sacred ritual. But I am also tired of my own excuses for being, well, tired. So I’m launching an experiment, a give-myself-a-KISS a day program, changing the acronym a bit to replace the negative with a positive. Are there little things I can add to my routine each day to help my body heal? I’m giving myself 30 days to find out. Each day, I’ll post one thing I’m adding or changing in my day. Each week, I’ll recap and post any noticeable results. Will it work? Who knows, but it beats sitting here whining about my lack of energy and all the things I haven’t done.

Okay, then. Here we go, Day One of my 30-day Keep It Super Simple challenge to feeling better.

My addition for Day One: add a glass of water to every meal. Sure, I drink water, but I may not be drinking enough. My indoor air is dry, especially in these damp chilly days when my hot-air furnace is working overtime. Headache, fatigue, hunger, and brain fog can all be caused or aggravated by a lack of water. A few glasses of water a day should help that and if not, my body can get rid of it easily enough. There, done.

Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.

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What do a writer, bagpiper and Muppets have in common?

Life lessons crop up, emerge, or even squeal in the most unlikely places, an everyday gift to each of us. The fine print that our logic often ignores is being open to the lesson, even when the cold sting of rejection and churn of duty urges us to close up, sign off, and pretend it didn’t happen. I nearly did that this past weekend but there is no ignoring bagpipes, especially when the piper is peeved. It went something like this. I spent the day at a trade show with a couple dozen other authors and several dozen avid readers, and it was terrific. For this solitary vocation, it was a necessity: getting out of the house, meeting other authors face-to-face, perfecting the pitch as visitors browsed for hints and swag. But in the glare of the house lights, fuelled by coffee and chocolate and recycled air, doubts emerged with each passing hour. Clearly I was the worst writer there, the least interesting, the lowest in sales, called ‘author’ not because of talent or promise but because I paid the fee and showed up. Now the warm goodbyes of strangers-turned-colleagues, some fresh air and a nap sent the doubts on a bit of a hike, but it took the Muppets to send them packing. More about that in a minute.

While I was flogging my wares down the street, my preteen piper was on Halifax’s awesome Citadel Hill wrapping up a four-event competition in which she earned two firsts, a second, and a third, taking the overall award for her grade. It was a great accomplishment. But. That second place, it was to someone she knew, on a tune she thought was solid. That was all she could think about, not what she won, but what she lost. The good-natured teasing from her peers, meant to show their pride in her accomplishments, threw fuel on the fire and by the time she got home frustration was waging all-out war on her outlook. Now the only folks more competitive than those swaddled in kilts are, perhaps, writers. Called by maternal instinct from the ooze of my pity party, we sat on the couch and shared miseries. Yes, we took pride in our work. No, it didn’t seem that was always recognized. But did we believe we did our best? Yes, we did. We repeated it over and over, until the black cloud melted and our stomachs unclenched. We can be our top judge or our worst critic: which will it be? A judge, we agreed, and a good one, who tells it like it is with constructive comment and encouragement, not insults or doubt. We will hold ourselves to our highest standard, and not tear ourselves or others down in the process. She hauled out her instrument and began to practise. Her final song was Danny Boy, described on the page as a Londonderry Air. When she read it aloud, though, it sounded like London Derriere. She giggled, we cracked up, and we hooted until we were sore. Then we watched this clip from The Muppet Show, with The Leprechaun Brothers, aka Beaker, Animal and Swedish Chef, and their rendition of this classic song. No awards, no medals, but clearly a winner:

Who were we kidding? Life is so much more than a competition. So, what do a writer, bagpiper and the Muppets have in common? We all share the same Derry Airs. Thanks for reading.

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The Writing Process Blog Hop

How did Finding Maria become a Nova Scotia love story? Read on in my conversation with author Susan Rodgers, who is from beautiful Prince Edward Island and author of the Drifters books – A Song for Josh, Promises, and No Greater Love. She was a finalist in the 2011 Atlantic Writing Awards (unpublished novel) and hasn’t looked back. Meet Susan and her work at www.SusanRodgersAuthor.com.

Thank you, Susan, for tagging me! Here is our conversation on The Writing Process.

Susan: Tell us about the inspiration for your series. Where did the idea come from and how did it evolve?

Me: The series started as a book, and the book started as a short story for an audience of one. I wrote The Watch as a gift for a friend, on the 5th anniversary of his wife’s passing. The story about their first meeting was meant for his eyes only, but I could see a larger story and he believed it was meant for a wider audience.  That led to a second short story, a chapter outline and, four years later, the publication of Finding Maria. It was after the book’s release that I realized there were more stories, and more details, to share. I envisioned a series of five, then of seven, with Finding Maria smack in the middle. True to the vision, Orchids for Billie (his childhood) was released in 2011, On the Scent of a Mandarin Moon (his Vietnam experience) came out in 2012, and Song of the Lilacs (his marriage) will be released in May 2014. Then work will begin on three books to pick up where Finding Maria left off in the present day.

Susan: When did you first become interested in Maria and/or the Von Trapp family?

Me: I watched the Sound of Music for the first time when I was 8 or 9, and despised it. I couldn’t stand how mean the children were to Maria, and didn’t watch past the first half hour. When I was 12 my aunt gave me the soundtrack on LP, and after being hooked by the music I gave the movie another try, and have been a fan of the story ever since. Flash ahead nearly 30 years, when I’m sitting across the restaurant table from my friend (now my business partner and publisher) as he shared another of his life memories, and the story clicked. The search for love and where one belongs, from a broken home to monastic life to marriage: that was Maria’s journey, and his quest seemed to mirror that.  As it turned out, he was a Sound of Music fan as well, and had made that connection after seeing the movie in the theatre following his decision to leave the seminary. That scene is included in Finding Maria, fictionalized but true to life. I am also fascinated by how artistic licence has elevated the von Trapp story from history to epic. Millions of people love the movie, but far fewer know the real names of the von Trapp children, or that they escaped from Austria not on foot in the dead of night, but calmly by train that took them to Italy where they boarded a boat to America. Despite those differing details, the courage and legacy of the family is clear and appreciated around the world and across the generations. It showcased to me the power of blending fiction and non-fiction, maintaining the essence of a true story while allowing the messages to ring out to a diverse audience.

Susan: I was asked about how my location informs my writing. I’m wondering if you find this also. Does living in Nova Scotia somehow impact your creative work? And does it make it easier in terms of marketing/sales?

Me: That one short story has evolved into the Finding Maria series, which we now brand as a Nova Scotia love story, for two reasons: I was born and raised here, and my main character was continually drawn back here in his search for love. So being Nova Scotian not only impacts my work, it is a reason for its existence. As for marketing and sales, it is an exciting time to be an author and publisher anywhere in the world. With a good story, some marketing savvy, passion for your work and internet access, sales can be attracted and driven from across the ocean or across the street, Nova Scotia included.

Susan: What are your future plans in terms of writing?

Me: Well, my immediate plan is the launch of Song of the Lilacs in May. Then I will wear my publishing hat for a while; we have a book due out by a new author this summer, and two other manuscripts currently under review. In November, we will be at the Toronto International Book Festival in The Hub, where all the cool creative types hang out.  Amid it all, I’ll get serious about Book Five in the Finding Maria series, picking up the modern day storyline that has corporate executive Jack and ghostwriter Gwen trying to deal with their newfound passion for life, and each other.

Thanks, Susan Rodgers, for the conversation and thank you for reading! I’m keeping the party going by tagging more Atlantic Canadian authors.

Susan Walsh Whistler was fortunate enough to be born and raised in St. John’s, Newfoundland, surrounded by family, fog, forest, and the North Atlantic ocean. A writer from an early age, her stories, poems, and essays are typically inspired by a sense of place and connection with both people and the natural world. After a bout in academia, she worked as a marketing maven, a retail clerk who got excited about things like the new Dior fall makeup line, a beaten-down stressed-out office worker, a communications/public relations person, a nursing home and animal shelter volunteer who suffered from wavering levels of tolerance, and finally, a stay-at-home mom to a beloved daughter and son who bring her all-new levels of inspiration. Susan is the author of the children’s book The Great Crow Party, with British Columbia-based artist Heidi Van Impe. She is a regular columnist for her local newspaper, The New Glasgow News, and showcases her work, both fiction and non-fiction, on her website www.susanwhistler.com.

Sarah Butland was born in Ontario, lived in New Brunswick for over 15 years and now resides in Nova Scotia with her high school sweetheart of a husband, their superstar son William and cat Russ. Butland started creating while still learning to walk. Many stories, attempts at novels and thousands of ideas later, she created BananaBoy and the Adventures of Sammy was born with Sending You Sammy, her first published children’s book. Then came Brain Tales – Volume One, a collection of short stories and finally Arm Farm, her current literary pride and joy. She is now working on Blood Day – The Novel (tentative title) to be released as soon as possible. In addition, she is active in her home community promoting local authors and events. Read more about Sarah and her wide range of work at www.sarahbutland.com

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Handling rejection: the Gem in the Mire

I just finished a call that a month ago would have had me wringing my hands and fighting back tears. My quote was too high. My services will not be required. His exact works: “I’m going to pass.” This after being highly recommended by a dear friend who did this job in the past.

However, I know now there is no place for tears or regret. He appreciated my timeline, work plan, and references. There was nothing more I could have done except reduce my billable hours or rate, and the old me just might have done that, after spending hours agonizing about ‘will they like this?’ or ‘am I being too greedy?’ The new me is smacking her forehead, saying ‘grow up’, and appreciating the positives I gained in this ‘loss’ of business, namely:

Confidence. I would be stuck investing time in something that serves neither my life goals nor my bank account if I charged less. Now the days I would have had to assign to this project can be used to work on more interesting things that can also make me money.

Clarity. He said, and I quote, “I wonder how [dear friend’s name here] could have done it for so much less.” His statement led to some pondering, and as a result, I figured something out. She provided them a favour, not a service and they didn’t distinguish between them. I gladly do favours for friends and on occasion for valued clients; thanks to the rejection, that distinction is becoming more clear.

Courtesy. I sent my quote promptly when asked. He responded quickly, made a point of discussing things by phone, and did not angle for a discount. I did not offer to fix issues that were not mine or beg for another chance. We ended our call with mutual gratitude for the professional contact and a promise to keep in touch for future projects. I did not gain a client, but did build a bridge. My only regret? Telling him: you get what you pay for. Anyhow, I have a feeling he already knows.

Courage. Staring down a fear isn’t easy, and rejection is a biggie. For this, I have an amazing group of women to thank. Writing is an isolated profession, entrepreneurs are by nature independent and women in business tend to be multitaskers to the point where connections become too fleeting to notice. As all three, I would go months without a single exchange or challenge to shake me out of my rut. Then, some clever minds got together and arranged 10 weeks of Thursday nights where women in business can share, argue, plan, and dream while being challenged by our fearless leader, Debi (read more about her and her proven results for business at www.thinkitplanitdoit.com). Halfway through, we have been told (and told, and told) that our time is valuable and our goals are important. I could blame this uppity thinking for losing me a contract. Or I can be grateful for how good standing up for myself feels.

The thrill of taking the high road is already hitting a few bumps … was my price really too high? Did I need that billable prep hour? Will I ever work again? … Need another head smack …. Looking forward to next week already.

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From fruit bowl to word count

Yes, I’m writing. Can you read it, you ask? Better than that. You can eat it. I wrote a recipe. One that worked. My first real recipe, ever.

I’ve been cooking since my first batch of Rice Krispie squares for my Brownie bakers badge, but always from someone else’s recipe. Make up my own? It never occurred to me, with so many great cooks out there who could do it better than me. But those cooks didn’t have my triple threat of :

1. a heat-fueled fruit craving, my body desperate for any moisture after three days of 35C heat (pushing 100 degrees for you fahreinheiters)

2. A tired fruit bowl,  that colorful container dutifully filled with fresh offerings in the hopes that the kids will grab an apple instead of the crackers. But, proving no match for the Call of the Carbs, the fruit in time and heat wave is reduced to the appearance of little old granny heads  on the fast track to composting. I couldn’t give up or give in, due to Threat number three:

3. Celtic blood running hot at the mere notion of throwing something out.

Without my albeit bizarre circumstances, the best chefs in the world couldn’t imagine my story, let alone write a recipe to match. So just like Jack had to find himself in Finding Maria, I had to find my own culinary voice. And you know what? It’s darn-tootin’ tasty, this concoction of mine.

Pear Rhubarb Applesauce

Two apples and one pear, peeled, cored and cut into small chunks; 2-3 stalks of rhubarb, washed and diced, leaves removed

Put the fruit in a small saucepan with about a 1/2 cup water, enough to cover the bottom of the pot. Sprinkle with 2-3 tsp of sugar. Bring to boil, then simmer 5 minutes. Sprinkle with a bit of ground cloves and nutmeg. Simmer another minute. Stir to break down any remaining chunks of fruit. Let cool. Serve warm or cold. Makes 4 dainty or 2 generous servings.

Okay, so I didn’t write a chapter today. Or a sentence, even. But I did acknowledge my story, test my limits, and share the results. It seems to me all writers do that exact same thing, but good writers do it fluently, confidently, taming the unknown with a polish that comes from good old-fashioned practice.

Don’t worry, Rose, I’m getting to your story. Right after I finish my snack. And maybe take a nap. Testing limits, even the tasty kind,  can really take it out of you.