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A life uprooted: seeing the possibilities

Last week I was sulky because of the rain pelting on my window. I had a powerful lesson handed to me a few hours after that, as our century-old giant silver maple succumbed to hours of intense wind and tipped over, literally ripping its roots out of the lawn. The body truly can process a trillion bits of information in an instant: there was terror at what had caused the groan and thud, shock at opening our door into the maelstrom and seeing nothing but leaves, gratitude that the house and our power seemed intact, then a pall of pure and utter emptiness. We have lived in iour home for 20 years. The tree was what drew our eye to the out-of-the-way property in the first place. Its rustling in the summer was soothing, its shade cool, its unique size a proud part of our yard, and our street.

Now, in a blink, it was uprooted and splayed across our yard and driveway life a discarded giants’s toy, leave that once touched the sky now trailing the ground, branches once warmed by sun now buried in the dirt at the points of impact. There are the logical steps that followed: power crews, telephone crew, tree removal team, but behind it all was plain and simple grief. This was a devastating surprise, a loss not completely unexpected – nothing lives forever – but not anticipated right this minute. No more shade, no more sturdy trunk or embracing branches, just an empty lawn and a crater where the root bed parted ways with the earth.

Once the storm passed and the grief began to process, the world got brighter, and bigger. The tree was beloved, but also of concern. Its age and size was beginning to worry us about potential damage to the house and cars. We were also planning to install vegetable raised gardens on onur lawn next summer, and the sahde from the giant tree was creating a challenge. No matter how abruptly, those two issues were now resolved. And the crater? With the weight of the tree removed, the stump is expected to pop back into place, but it will be a stump no more. It will be a wooden table, with three matching woden stools, and two matching benches to accessorize our raised veggie garden arrangement. The tree will live on, but in a form more fitting to its age and our needs.

Huh.

Being uprooted is terrifying. Even seeing roots evokes waves of panic, loss, an unsettling something-is-not-right feeling. When down becomes up, and upbecomes sideways, we lose perspective and fight to go back to the way it was, a natural reaction for safety. What we need to do is allow time for the panic to subside and the grief to be honoured, then look at the possibilities. It might be a tree uprooted, a home damaged, a job lost or a manuscript rejected. Perhaps its a scathing letter from someone you thought was a friend, a harsh critique of a work you believe to be your best, or a letter from the admissions department of the school you were hoping to attend saying – better luck somewhere else. There is much we cannot control and ultimately, that is good for us; otherwise, we’d control ourselves from cradle to grave in a straight line that would deny us the ability to test our roots, stretch our reach, and see furniture where others see only destruction.

In the days since the uprooting, as I walk past the soaring leaves and maze of branches, I realize I am closer to a massive tree than I will ever be. It looks so very different than when upright, yet is still magnificent, sturdy, proud. It fell in the one spot to spare us any harm. Change is perceived to be scary, but often is not. Case in point, I’ve written more this past week on Book 5 than I have in the past few weeks combined. Did I have more time? No. I had more courage. Staring at roots can be scary, but it can also be freeing.

Thanks for reading.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and a partner in Marechal Media Inc.
www.FindingMaria.com

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Unthankful things for which this writer is thankful

Rarely do I gush about gratitude, because with all the good in my life, it’s easier to list things for which I’m ungrateful. Snakes, rain on my beach day, a blank page that screams at me to fill it while my inner voice tells me what a lousy writer I am, those things that I think I could do without.

But could I?

It turns out I’m grateful even when I’m ungrateful. For example, it’s pouring a sea today and windy to a point where taking a refreshing walk among the autumn leaves after a gut-busting round of turkey would result in me being blown into the next county, or drowned in the process. I was bloody cranky when awakened tyhis morning to the sound of driving rain against the windowpane. One Thanksgiving day a year, and the driest few months on record, and the rain has to let loose now? No way I was being grateful for that, until I imagined life withou the windownpane upon which the rain could pound. My house isn’t fancy but its sturdy and the wind can howl its fiercest, my house stands firm and cozy. It sounds cliche but it’s worth repeating, especially in earshot of my kids who wonder why we live in an old house when their friends live in new ones. Well, dears, it’s called career choice (stay-at-home self-employed parent) and debt management (no bills to follow you from my grave). I made those choices fully supported by my instincts, my fanmily partner, and my awesome network of clients and friends. For that, I am immensely grateful, and it took raining on my imaginary parade to see that.

Here’s another one: I’ve spent years every September slipping and sliding around my backyard thanks to the fallen apples from numerous trees, elderly by age but still spry enough to procreate bushels of fruit that, if not wormy and bruised, could have been useful. Instead, they become fertilizer for my lawn, but not before turning it into a minefield of squishy, crunchy proportions. Then yesterday, after buying our autumn pumpkins and arranging them on our autumn hay bales (eventually mulch for the garden), I knew the scene needed something. We had orange and yellow, but nothing red. I looked down, and there they were. The dreaded apples. Except this time, they gleamed a tantalizing scarlet. There. Free. Perfect. I gathewred the least scarred of the lot and tucked them into a plant pot. An accent that both Mother Nature and Martha Stewart could be proud. Messy and annoying, until there for you iin a pinch. Sounds much like life itself. The picture, you’ll notice, is blurry. Rain on the lens, and a fast-moving photographer racing for the safety of her house. Was I thankful? See example 1.

And finally, since offices are closed and things are quiet, I spent the morning getting caught up on my mail. Aw, crud, wouldn’t you know, the phone bill has gone up, again. And yes, I choose to have phone and internet service, but to choose not to have it could effectively cut my ties to employment as well. Spend some money, or make no money. I choose the former. And yes, there are multiple providers but at the end of the day. any savings gained in price are lost on service or reliability. It is no win. We are in the information age and these companies know it. Thankful? For this? Not a flippin’ chance in … wait a minute … I can call them tomorrow, and get the lowdown on what I’m paying for and if I can make do with less. Yes! I can do this. I should do this. Self-advocacy and negotiation are equally vital skills in this information age, and too rarely are we taught, mentored or practised in how to do it properly. This is a chance. An opportunity. I am, it turns out, thankful for that.

So there it is, thankfulness from unthankfulness. Setting Thanksgiving on its ear. That’s what writers do: show you things from a different angle. Happy Thanksgiving from wet and windy Nova Scotia! Many thanks for your visit.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and partner in Marechal Media Inc.
www.FindingMaria.com

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Five hints to harvesting trade show success

It was a glorious autumn day, perfect for harvesting or anything else that didn’t involve being behind a table inside a conference room. Yet, that’s where I was, at a conference, waiting and hoping to promote my story, my services and … yikes … myself as author, publisher, expert worth hiring… The creative side of me was screaming to go for a walk on the beach or hide at home with – you got it – a good book. The business part of me, however, knew this was the perfect place for me. I was at a conference of library personnel, folks who have dedicated their careers to the love and promotion of books, reading, writing, and all those things I, too, am passionate about. But how to connect with them, with only a display table and a few moments of their time to work with?

To clarify, the event of which I speak is not a retail show, where the goal is to promote and sell. This is a trade show, where the realistic goal is to connect, share details, swap contact information and ideally, begin an ongoing relationship that will result in a sale or engagement at a later date.

Here is my five-point checklist:

1. Start with realistic expectations. As mentioned, trade shows are rarely also retail events. You will not recoup your investment in direct sales that day. I view my trade show fee and time as investments in promotion and business development, a business course and living advertisement all in one. When I measured my success in sales, I would leave frustrated and defeated. When I measured my success in quality (not quantity) of engagaments and knowledge gained, I have yet to post a fail.

2. Get in touch with organizers and, if possible, participants in advance. Touch base with organizers on estimated participant numbers and demographics, ask for insights on what materials and pitches to prepare, be mindful for hints on what would make good giveaways or prizes. Offer invitations or goodies for the conference bags, something to make participants feel welcome at your table before they arrive.

3. Don’t sweat the decor. Yes, put some effort into making your table look inviting, neat and unique, but don’t spend thousands of dollars or kill your back lugging trunkfuls of bling to spruce up your space. Meaningful engagements will come from the sincerity of your presence and substance of your information. Spend time and money on your pitch instead. Ultimately, if you can identify quickly what you provide and it’s a fit for what they’re looking for, you’ll have them at hello, no matter how much time and money you’ve spent on matching table linens or display racks.

4. Offer a takeaway, no strings attached. We all love gifts, and while we as writers can’t have too many pens or notepads, imagine as well something unique that shares your message, invites a callback, and catches their attention. I offer pocket reading kits: small shimmery bags with two excerpts from my books, a business card and a snack: could be a tea bag, a sucker for kids’ giveaways or an individually-wrapped piece of chocolate … just not in the summer when my gear has to sit in a hot car, I’ve learned the hard way. Info sheets, with a small bio, clear list of services, and our company story are also helpful. If there is little time to talk, offering a sheet is a pitch to go; if conversation has been good, the sheet is a reminder for when they arrive home. Whatever you choose, offer it up freely and with a smile, even when the occasional crank snaps ‘I don’t like tea,’ and fires your gift back in the basket like she’s been bitten. Those who partake will remember the experience of your interaction, not your pitch, so be sure you treat these gifts as just that – gifts. If they start a conversation or provide an opportunity to share your pitch, all the better.

5. Be open. What looks at first glance to be a small or slow event could yield that one contact you’ve been waiting for. The surly guy who initially stares at you like you’re contagious may hear something that causes him to blink, nod and share. We don’t know the stories of those who pass by, so park the judgement and be first and foremost a caring human being. Offer a greeting and kind word, and don’t take it personally when there is no response. Move on and keep at it. There is no predicting the future, but sharing positive energy in the present always leads to something bright, even if it’s just that moment.

In this age of technology, trade shows remain a rare opportunity to engage with people face to face. As with any business function, it can be a chore, or it can be an opportunity. As challengeing as it can be sometimes, I cling to the latter. I have enough chores waiting for me at home. So, when the next trade show invite surfaces, check your schedule and budget, and if it works, say yes! Then breathe, imagine, plan, and get out there. It only takes one key conversation to move your business to the next level.

Thanks for reading.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and partner in publishing company Marechal Media Inc.
www.FindingMaria.com

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Owning my Inner Unruly Child, One Word at a Time

Quick-tempered, then withdrawn, reactive, close to the chest, stumbling over the sound of her own voice, like a toddler and a teenager all in one, so powerfully entwined like a garden untended, choking out the adult that gets only rare opportunities to poke through. How have I survived? Apparent success in life has been due to two things :

1. Those brief visits by adulthood

2. The relative immaturity of much of the human race

That’s not disparaging, but it is a comment on how we’ve been raised through the generations: emotions dismissed, cursed, quashed; intellects bolstered to swollen, spirit left to atrophy. Grow up! We’re told later, as if we had a magical formula to bridge childhood  and adulthood. Instruction and support on learning to read or drive a car we had, but on embracing and using one’s emotional power? Nada.

Is it too late? I’ve decided it isn’t, if I:

1. Own my immaturity

2. Work with it

3. Grow

Not everybody has to, nor should they. We’d be just plain boring if we were all the same. But I’ve decided my inner child is denying me entry into the life I want. So, then, it is time to evolve. Here’s where to start.

1. Strengthen your body. Something has to channel all that energy.
Muscles. Nourishment. Make sure you have enough.

2. Own your life. All of it. Memories, actions, choices, those horrid checkered pants you wore in fourth grade, the time you slipped on the ice and missed a goal in the peewee playoffs (and got shunned in the locker room), the time the teacher sneered you’d never make it through high school, the time you punched him in return. We’ve done stupid things. We’ve hurt people. We’ve hurt ourselves. That can’t be changed. Our futures can.

3. Do something every day that’s uncomfortable. Make a cold call. Run 500 meters. Post a blog with your photos in it. (Done!) Offer to meet with someone who bugs you at work. Don’t deny your instincts or common sense and play chicken with a train,  but tackle something your anxiety is telling you is dangerous, when in fact, it will help you grow. You do know the difference.

4. Do something every day that is pleasurable. A glass of wine after work. A glass of wine with work (if you’re writing safely at home.) Chocolate. A walk. Good music. A reward that won’t undermine you, hence the giant bag of Doritos is out if physical training is on the list, but something that gets the happy hormones flowing and tells you – Hey! Great job today!

5. Build a team. Not yes folks, but those who emulate the qualities you’re trying to achieve and who are solid enough to challenge you, remain detached from your crap and love you for who you are now, and who you will become.

6. Hang in there. This will take years. The rest of your life, perhaps. But guaranteed, you will end in a better place than you started.

Today, I’m seizing the moment. Tonight, I’ll no doubt slack off but I’ll be honest about it, and keep at it again in the morning.
How about you?

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and a partner in Marechal Media Inc.
See more at www.FindingMaria.com.

Photos by Tanya Petraglia.
Used here with much love and gratitude.

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Am I a writer without a cat?

Is just one crazy idea my mind created as I deal with the one unavoidable thing that life brings: death.

Linc was 17 in our years, 85 in his. He joined our family when it was new and growing: I was pregnant with my second child when we picked up this cream puff of a Himalayan, at a year old he was nearly the size of our toddler son. Linc was reviled by our older alpha cat, ignored by our sweet female kitty, and alternately chased, cuddled, squeezed, dressed up and adored as our child count grew to two, then three. But he took it all in stride, as if he knew that his reality then would not stay static for long. His patience won out – flash ahead a few years and the squealing racing toddlers are now subdued teens, one of whom still cuddled and made of him, but no more tutus or capes for impromput home movies of ballerina cat or Super Linc. As the elder cats aged, he gradually muscled in, inching closer to us during TV time, hanging out in my office during Cat #1’s nap time, until the day came when he was last cat standing and king of the castle. If I was writing he was in my office, on whatever chair of the week was his, atop books or folders, he didn’t seem to care. Occasionally I would find a file folder or paper tugged from inside it with teeth marks in the corner indicating his annoyance, with the paper that tickled his belly or with me, I was never quite sure. If he was really peeved he would tip over my garbage cans, in the office, in the bathroom, and if highly offended, the metal can in my bedroom at 3 a.m. At that moment he looked better to me as a fur coat than a companion, but he would run, I would scoop up the used tissues, and by daylight, we were good again. On days when I didn’t get out of bed, or returned to it to nurse a headachae or some other ailment, he would sacrifice his chair of the week for a spot on my bed, the only time he’d sleep there. He’d start at the foot, curled in a ball, but by the time I was ready to rise he was next to me, still curled up, but closer. On cold winter days, as I reclined in front of a classic Bogart or Newman movie for inspiration, he’d curl up on my legs for his afternoon snooze. I know it was to keep his feet warm, but I didn’t care. It still felt like love.

The last few months, though, has felt more like pain. He stopped coming upstairs, began making puddles on the floor, started bumping into walls. He still ate, drank, and came in with us during TV time, but it was clear his body was shutting down, cell by cell, in front of our very eyes. The question became, not if he leaves us this summer but when, and how. Do we step back, keep him comfortable and let nature take its course? Or do we step in, ease his suffering and allow us all to move on? It’s an ageless question of how best to show your love for another. It also became a question of ownership, that the grief I was already feeling was not for the pending loss of a cherished pet but the unrelentless passage of time. He could no more be that determined, playful, howling-in-my-room-for-breakfast cat than my children could go back to being toddlers. The 16 years he was with us was lived and loved, but can be no more. There are new times ahead. Times that his age will not allow him to be a part of in our world. And then, the decision became about me. No longer could I watch this beautiful animal stand confused in the kitchen, not knowing where he was or what he wanted. No more could I stand the sight and smell of him lying in his own urine because he no longer had presence of mind or body to care for himself. The night before our appointment at the vet, I sat on the kitchen floor next to him, patted his head, scratched his chin, but there was no nuzzling of his nose against my hand, no acknowledgement that he knew who I was. He was purring, though, always purring. Even as the needle went in, he purred. Seconds after the purring stopped, his heart stopped, and he was gone.

As long and dreaded as the drive to the vet was, the longer and more dreaded was the going home to a house completely empty: the family gone for the day, the last of our pets now passed. The quiet is a great place to cry, but also an invitation to think, way too much. I stare at his water bowl, the food dish half full, the crumbs around the plate since he increasingly dropped more than he ate. I won’t miss the mess , I tell myself, as I clean out the bowls and open the fridge. Damn. That’s a brand-new can of food we just opened, and only a sliver gone. What a waste. I open the cupboard, pull out the bags of treats that at nighttime would drive him into a frenzy. 10 p.m., like clockwork, he would begin pacing in front of the TV room, waiting for his snacks, until the past week, when he sat motionless in his new chosen spot on our basement stairs. I should have known at that moment there was no more for him here. It took several more days, and opening a new bag of snacks (which he didn’t eat anyway) to finally make ths step. Should have done it before you opened these, my mind tells me, bemoaning the waste, which in grand total was less than $5. Way too much time to think.

I dump the litter pans, scrub the floors, pull tufts of fur from the furniture. Writers and cats go together like, well, writers and wine, writers and solitude, writers and eccentricities … I know, none of this makes sense. Many writers have dogs and drink beer, too, but my mind was determined to use this grief as an excuse to shut down. You can’t write without a cat, I heard clearly. Get another cat and you’ll have to go through this agony again. Ergo, no more cats. No more writing. I stare at the floor I’m trying to scrub. It’s marginally improved, but far from seeing your face in it or eating dinner off it. I sure as hell can’t become a cleaner. If I’m not a writer, what do I do?

I finished scrubbing. I sat outside and enjoyed the summer breeze. I listened to the excited recounting of my family’s day trip. We had supper, watched a movie, went to bed. This morning, I sorted through pictures of my departed fuzzy boy. I stared at the computer. And then I began to write. As I typed, more words came and with it, tears flowing to the point where I could barely see. But I kept writing, through the tears, fuelled by the grief. Because I am a writer. Linc may not be supervising me from his chair now, but he’s still watching, without the mess, the mobility issues, the half-eaten mice on my mat or the hairballs in my hallway. Just him: his patience, his loyalty, his never-stop-purring attitude. I just may kick my garbage can over every now and then, though, just for old time’s sake.

Thanks for being here.

Jennifer Hatt is a publisher and author of the Finding Maria series.
www.FindingMaria.com

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Three things to get you in the mood … to blog

I’m in a toxic relationship with my blog. There, I said it.

I know I’m supposed to love my blog, or at least appreciate what it can do for me: the search engine rankings, the engaging virtual storefront, the opportunity to exercise my writing voice. Instead, I circle my blog like a wary stranger, saying a polite hello every now and then, wishing it would just go away, until in remorse I lavish some attention, make a few promises, and the dance begins anew.

I am resolving to restore my blogging relationship to health.
Why? Marketing benefits aside, I have come to realize that how I treat my blog, or any aspect of my business for that matter, is how I treat myself.
Avoiding and neglecting my blog means I have been avoiding and neglecting myself, my authentic self that is called to write and share and live successfully in my chosen career.
That needs to change if I am to lead the life I want, and at the very least, sell a few of those books serving as box shelves in the basement.
My blogging attitude is not the only thing that needs to change, but it’s a start.

These are my first three steps:

1. Be honest.

Come on, seriously. No time? The truth is, faced with the choice of blogging or scrubbing the rim of the toilet with a cotton swab, well, let’s just say my bathroom has never been cleaner. It’s all about owning choices and focusing on the ‘can’ rather than the ‘can’t’. Do I have time to blog every day? No, and that is realistic. Do I have time to blog once a week? Yes, I can. An hour a week. I can find that, if I choose to.  And I will choose to, if I want this relationship to work.

2. Make a date.

For everything in my life – project deadlines, client meetings, kids’ dentist appointments – if it’s not in my calendar, it doesn’t get done. My blog will not write itself, nor will it appear magically in a dream when I suddenly decide today’s the day. It certainly can’t give me any kind of return if I give it nothing to start with.  It takes (and deserves) creative space, which only I can create. Getting it on the to-do list starts the process.

3. Offer kindness.

Writers can be their own worst critics, which in the extreme can go two ways: complete shutdown that smothers ideas and deletes any words before they can see the light of day, or complete detachment, where stream of consciousness bubbles unchecked and unedited into publication, flooding the blogosphere with typos, rage, and half-formed thoughts attached to your name. There is a middle ground, discovered through kindness to self and to writing. Be clear in expectation, but also realistic. I am in a position to write a blog because I’ve written and published books; that counts for something. And, this is a blog: a small snapshot of my world, my story, my intent that I choose to share today. It is not a pitch for the Pulitzer or a tome to endure the ages. Maybe someday, but expectation and unfair comparison to anyone or anything other than where we are in this moment can be cruel, demoralizing and a good excuse to just say no.

Why do this at all? Because my relationship with my blog will lead to something bigger: my relationship with you, fellow writers, readers, and creative spirits, and ultimately, a healthier relationship with myself. So, today,  I blog … Thanks for being here to share in it.

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Camera vs writer’s block

Writing about myself was always a challenge, which is why I became a journalist and then a fiction writer. But like a river clogged with the silt of memories and ill-disposed junk, the flow of all my words became slower and more painful over time. The more space and opportunity I was given to write, publish and build my business, the more jammed I became. By this past spring, four books into our Nova Scotia love story, with two new authors in our stable and a fifth book on the brink, I was buried to the point where composing a tweet could be a daylong affair. School excuses took 30 minutes and three rewrites. Where there was once ease and confidence in my work, there was a suffocating pall of gloom. Writing was all I knew how to do, and now, I couldn’t even do that.

Then light appeared, first as a spark that encouraged me to drop everything and go to Hawaii in April, at a time when the dollar was tanking and my credit card was spiralling. Thank God I listened to myself. Ten days immersed in the energies and stories of more than a dozen amazing women coalesced into a pull forward and a beacon within. A month later, when I saw a blog post from fellow Hawaii traveller and awesome photographer Tanya Petraglia inviting photo shoots of ‘creative collaborations,’ the spark ignited into a flame of possibility. Creative collaboration: a perfect phrase for the creation of the Finding Maria series and the publishing company behind it. I had a business partner, but the partnership was far from being easily defined. He was generous with his story, which I gladly wrote as a gift for him, but then his presence seemed to fade like a shadow at midday when we formed a company and began the arduous task of selling our creations. You got this, he would call reassuringly over his shoulder as he dashed back to his own life, one he packed way too full for the new responsibilities of entrepreneurship, creativity, and, God forbid, friendship.  This 2-3 dance: one step forward, one step back, round and round, has gone on for more than a decade, ever since Finding Maria was first conceived. Yet, through the fog of fury I felt the distinct pull of a clear connection, that we were collaborators for a reason. Could images capture the words I needed to find? Several messages, an affirmative from my business partner and a few weeks later Tanya was in our presence, on our turf, with camera in hand ready to document this ‘thing’ of two people creating … what? Stories? Books? Life?

See Tanya’s blog of our adventure here.

As you can see, it was a picture-perfect day. What you may not see at first is that it accomplished exactly what it needed to do. It rolled over boulders of fear and frustration that had been in place for years, and tossed about stones that were newly planted, sharp and slashing. That was what I felt every time I sat down to write, a stone wall biting into my skin, threatening to crush me, while a stagnant trickle of festered fears hissed: forget all this, go back to where you were. Life needs to be defined, contained, controlled. Be safe, stay small, go back. And I blamed all of it on him, the person I call my business partner because I as a writer cannot find another phrase. In our actions and choices we appear more like strangers than friends, yet there remains this pull that brings us together and a conduit of knowledge flowing through us both that neither of us can define. I blamed him for blocking this knowledge, for his obstacle course of hoops and rules that he carefully crafted to keep his world safe while keeping our work, and by extension, me, at arm’s length. The truth is, the photos revealed something very different, that I needed to see.

It is not him. It is me.

I was given a chance to be an author and publisher, and I took it. I have the choice to remain in the partnership or leave. I choose to stay, because I continue to see an invitation to a life of enlightenment and adventure. If I want to get anywhere, though, I have to stop blaming others for how I feel and stop listening to the lurid hiss of fear. Does my business partner divert and avoid? Sure he does. But he also stepped up to be part of this photo shoot, knowing he was stepping into an earthhquake of soulful proportions. What did I do? What I always do: set it all up, fill my head with stories, then detach and cut the power. I have energy and insight to share, to break the 2-3 dance, to create the life I have envisioned. I have a voice.

Do I use it?

No. I used the books as a shield rather than a map, created them as a means for him to explore his life, while completely shutting down to the fact that they also existed to help me explore mine. The stone wall I slammed into time and again was my yearning for authenticity, as chapter outlines and business plans for the creation and sale of fiction became confused with my vision of life itself. I was allowing life to unfold, the fear assured me, and when life didn’t follow the script I conveniently hadn’t written yet, another boulder of frustration rolled over what few words I could find. It was a nifty scenario that kept me small, sheltered, and safe, but increasingly miserable and isolated from my words, my voice, my essence. And I had only myself to blame. Bloody hell.

The photos showed it all, and through tears, blackness and emptiness I forced myself to feel everything they brought up: the distance between us, the isolation, the failure to thrive in a a decade of opportunity, the gratitude grown bitter from lack of sharing. I had to completely reframe how I approach our collaboration and our partnership. No more could I blame him for his choices. I have to take ownership of mine. No more could I hide behind the concepts of books and commerce. I have to rediscover and define myself, for me. And dammit, I can’t even torment him about being short any more. A photo of the two of us, backs to the lens, eyes to the water, shows clearly he is just a shade taller than me. On another day, revisiting that photo, I noticed that the distance between us was not the unbreachable chasm as it had first appeared. We were closer than we were apart. Our stance, exactly the same. We even dressed alike. There is a connection, without a doubt, but not one I will label with carefully-chosen words. It is one I will identify by stepping into myself.

Only these photos could show me that.

As the boulders continue to shift and the concrete ramparts crack, the fears ooze away and words begin to flow. There will be much, much more written about these photos, this day, this experience.

Where will it go from here? I have to say, for the first time since the writing of these books began, I really don’t know. I only know there will be no going back.

Thank you, Tanya Petraglia, for sharing your talent and essence with the world. A picture is worth so much more than 1,000 words.

Thank you all for reading. I hope to see you again soon.

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Five summertime ways to combine work and play

When the thermometer soars, my mind drifts on the sun-kissed breeze and my productivity takes a belly flop. My solution: multitasking. I don’t mean laptop-on-the-beach kind of multitasking … too much glare and sand in expensive parts for me. I mean the get-out-there-and-experience-summer-while-making-some-business-connections kind of multitasking. As a writer, screen time is a must, but so is networking: as a writer and publisher, I’m a small business owner, too, and while social media has opened the world to business of all shapes and sizes, face-to-face interactions, especially those in your home town, province or state, remain a key ingredient in building your business one relationship at a time.

So, instead of sighing at summer through my office window, I’ve started looking at my summertime calendar with a fresh perspective: where do I want to go today, what do I want to do, and who can I meet there? Then I breathe, open my mind to the possibilities, tuck a few business cards in my pocket and head for a day of adventure.

Here are my top five places that I like to hang in the summer, and how that works for me and my business.

1. Farmers’ Markets. These weekend events are springing up all over. In my hometown of New Glasgow, Nova Scotia, the Saturday morning market draws more than 1,000 patrons and is chock full of small business owners selling everything from self-designed gadgets to breathtaking artwork. The folks behind the tables are usually more than willing to chat up their businesses: marketing, promotion, work habits … I come away with great advice and a basketload of goodies ebcause, of course, I need to be a good neighblur and patronize their businesses with more than lip service. And with all of those patrons milling about, there are some you know and can make introductions to those you don’t. An awesome morning that’s win-win for you, them, and the community.

2. Festivals. I’m a snare drummer in a pipe band, so summer weekends are spent on the Highland games circuit, but there are dozens of events every weekend throughout the Maritime provinces alone. Most events have vendors that again, give insight into great products and small business hints. But where gthese crowds are gathered ion fun – to enjoy music, food, or the warm summer atmosphere – is the opportunity for good conversations. It is not the time to be a telemarketer on foot, hawking wares and handing out cards like you’re on a quota, but to engage in genuine conversation about what is being enjoyed and why. The chat may be little more than ‘nice weather we’re having’ or it could lead to an email exchange and a mutual discovery worth following up on Monday morning.

3. Tournaments. Soccer, baseball, softball … ask any sports family, and they can give you the schedule. I’m not an athlete or particularly sports minded, but I love the energy and dedication evident on and around the field. Again, folks are gathered in a positive common purpose; it’s a great field not only for connecting with the ball, but for connecting with fans. Plus, getting to see in action the result of hard work, practice, commitment, and teamwork is inspiring for us desk jockeys, too.

4. Flea markets. Indoor or outdoor, these are goldmines for characters who spin great yarns along with making the sale; I’ve ended up with nuggets of businesss acumen and ideas for stories along with those old coffee tables that make great bookcases. Faced with tables of old yearning to be new again, my imagination takes flight and the occasional rush of adrenaline from bartering or sealing the deal gets the blood pumping and brain working, too. A $20 bill never went so far.

5. Car shows. Perhaps I was born in the wrong generation, but, my beloved Beetle aside, I yawn at most car models today. It’s the golden age of the 1950s that fans my flame of automotive desire. These gorgeous testaments of metal and pigment, speaking to a time when distinctive design and craftsmanship were showcased with pride, are outshined onlyby their owners, who spend thousands of hours and dollars preserving and sharing their four-wheeled beauties with the rest of us. Some of these cars were rescued as rust heaps from garages or fields and lovingly restored, or built from the ground up piece by piece, not unlike many of us who’ve purchased or built a business. Conversation, contemplation, and incentive to move forward have always come for me at these events, all for the price of admission and letting go to the experience.

So, despite my bulging calendar and our notoriously short summer season, I will enjoy every moment, and get some work done, too. Win-win. As a small busienss owner, and a writer no less, I’ll take allthe wins at a bargain I can get.

Thanks for reading! May your summer be rich in ways you choose, as well.

Jennifer Hatt is a freelance writer, publisher, and author of the Finding Maria series, a nova Zcotia love story based on true events.
www.FindingMaria.com

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Resolutions We Can Keep

It’s fresh start time, but I have the attention span of a flea and am by necessity, cheap. Can I commit to anything workable? Here are my thoughts.

As I stared at the piles in my office it occurred to me that I have spent hundreds of dollars and countless hours on organizing things with files, baskets, shelves, cabinets and those cute crafty inventions on Pinterest (which I nail, by the way … NOT). Yet as small business owners, our most valuable assets are not the papers on our desk or files on our hard drive, but the things carried in our hearts, souls and bodies: our memories, experiences, ideas, and feelings. How much do we invest in processing and sorting all of that?

In my case, not nearly enough, which is why for years I have felt like I’ve been pitched overboard into a sea that some days is calm enough to almost let me reach my tropical island, before a wave sucks me under, rakes me across the coral and bounces me offshore. Regimens to fix me are numerous, it would seem, but as mentioned, routine is my sworn enemy and to survive on a writer’s budget, I’m cheap. As a result, I need resolutions that are super easy, cost next to nothing, and give me results NOW. Here are my Top 5 resolutions for staying organized and energized this year.

1. Breathing. I know, obvious and overstated. Yet, when I’m overwhelmed or jabbed by a spear of self-doubt, my breathing becomes so constricted and uncommitted that the air I take in could barely keep a bird alive, let alone fuel the brain and body cells I need to do soemthing constructive. Deep breaths: a gift we can give ourselves anytime we need it.

2. Water. Again, I heard this so much I tuned it out, until I tried it. I added five glasses of water to my day: one when I got up, one with each meal, and one before I went to bed. Some days, I found I drank more but even on those days when I didn’t want any, I was glad I drank them. I could actually make decisions about what to recycle and what to keep, when I had the liquid fuel I needed on board.

3. Art. A favourite song. Better yet, a whole list of go-to songs for every occasion and mood: for reflecting, for planning, for jumping in and tackling that bloody overstuffed closet once and for all. Add to that a photograph or painting that inspires or transports you to another place, a mini vacation before stepping back into the fray. That quirky little statue on my shelf is there not because it’s valuable or even beautiful, but because it reminds me of the tacky Florida gift shop shaped like a wizard where our family had a blast two years ago. We all have these things in our home, our office, our car even, but sometimes forget to let them in and absorb their goodness.

4. Plants. For anyone who knows me, this is hilarious. I’ve killed everything in the garden, including the plastic stuff. But I’m finding as I become more mindful, I am keeping a plant or two alive, and that’s a great feeling. So much of small business ownership is intangible, where you can’t see or touch that which you are building, that it’s encouraging to witness progress of any kind, whether its a seed sprouting roots or an herb producing enough leaves for dinner. And, if it doesn’t work out, compost it, learn from it and start again.

5. Time. 15 minutes. One-quarter of an hour, once a day, all to me, to snuggle in a blanket, meditate, read a chapter, colour a page, or nap. Fifteen minutes is nothing to to the folks out there needing our energy, expertise, and services, but it is an eternity to us: time enough to rest, be thankful, and to dream.

These are simple, which works for me. Self care is not something that I was taught or had modelled for me in my formative years, and as we know, learning things with an adult body and brain has its own set of challenges. I may never graduate from remedial self-help, but after my glass of water this morning I’m pretty sure I can get one more pile in my office sorted. Then who knows? Maybe tomorrow I’ll be back to writing Book Five.

Wishing a terrific year to each of you, full of what works for you.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series.
Read more of her blogs, and about her books, at www.FindingMaria.com
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Five things my father’s life teaches me about writing

I am my father’s daughter, a fact that both enriches and terrifies me. This will, however, make me a better writer. Here’s how.

First, though, a bit about my dad. He wasn’t a writer, he was an electrician by trade, both of us in the business of connecting: his medium was electricity, mine was words. We also didn’t realize then, but it is apparent now, that we shared something else: battles with ourselves,  defining our lives from the time we both could remember. For him, it was being born a gentle, loving soul into a sandpaper world, a determined spirit in a body plagued by childhood illness and chronic pain, a  life lived, as a result, in the protection of intellect while the spirit starved. On rare days his spirit won, and in those moments anyone in his presence, ever so brief, was made to feel part of something special, warm, aware, trusting in the great potential and unseen of the universe, until intellect would slam shut the door and begin the lockdown anew. His battle ended, I pray, with his passing on Dec. 13, 2015.
Reflecting on his life and death, however, has kicked my battle into high gear. I possess that same intellect, that same ability to talk myself out of things or even shut myself down rather than risk anything: stage fright as a child so severe that I quit the music I loved altogether at 16, and that by 30 was creeping into my writing as well. Shyness, self-doubt, fear of one’s own voice are all butterfly kisses of death to any form of success as a writer.
Life is choice.
So, should I ignore my spirit’s desire to connect through writing and save myself a lifetime of combat? Or, do I take a breath and dive into the memories, risking pain and drowning to find treasures of knowledge my time with my father has created?
I choose memories. There are thousands upon thousands, so for this first attempt I didn’t dive too deeply, and found these five. They came from our epic father-daughter battles, and from the quiet of just sitting together, saying nothing, knowing everything. Some things he taught me about what to do. Some are things I wished could have taught him.
Here they are, five things my father’s life teaches me about writing.

1. Be fastidious.
This was an endless source of amusement when I was younger, and annoyance in my later years. He would check, recheck, and check again, every little step along the way: burners on the stove, door locks, keys in hand, wallet in pocket … turning his computer on required the plugging in of two power bars and his monitor, plus the flipping of two switches. therer would be no power getting in or out of there without his say-so. Yet, it was this same attention to detail that saved me on grad night from driving to the wilds of cottage country without a drop of oil in the car, or from overpaying the government three years in a row on my taxes.
In the context of writing, attention to detail can lead to a better quality of product, more efficient service, and benefits to both author and reader: good relationship, more sales, solid reputation … all great stuff.

2. Trust YOU.
This is something I wish my father could have learned, but he was raised in an era when trust was to be placed only in the ‘professionals’: scientists and doctors, for example. As he aged and his health issues multiplied, he placed more and more expectation on the medical system, but didn’t realize that in doing so, he was giving away more and more of himself. YOU do not need a degree, certificate, or acceptance letter to tell you who YOU are or what YOU are worth. In the writing world, where there is no clear-cut credential or formula to success, being true to YOU is the first and foremost unique quality YOU bring to the field. Once clear about YOU, then you as writer, publisher, or marketer can get out there and share your authentic story.

3. Know your numbers
Okay, chalk another one up to dear old Dad. He spent hours, and I mean hours, at his desk, examining every bill and bank statement, checking his investments and account balances, writing budgets, and managing schedules. If a penny was amiss, he was on the phone or, in recent months, on the computer to identify and remedy the discrepancy. He spent more time in a month on his finances than I did in a year, and since I am a small business owner, that was not overzealousness on his part, but slackness on mine. His being on top of his finances brought he and my mom the simple yet comfortable retirement they wanted,  a mere pipe dream for most people their age.
Know Your Numbers is the mantra of every marketing course I have taken, even those course supporting a business model based on personal goals rather than cold hard profits. Numbers are needed for good business decisions. Good decisions lead to success, yes, for writers, too.

4. Build your community.
Another lesson I had little time to impart. My dad was brilliant, charming, and loved, but rarely shared this with the larger world. His comfort zone was doing things completely on his own. Writing may be solitary, but words freeze on the page without support of family and friends, beta readers, editors, mentors, investors, and word of mouth, blog and social media. It’s a dangerous world out there, but silence inside is deadly.

5. Believe
In what? Something.
Marriage is tough, but my parents did it with love for 49 years, because they believed it was their life, the best they could do for their family and each other. We kids and grandkids have to agree: our parents gave us what they could for a good life, and gave us the tools to get what they couldn’t – or shouldn’t – give us themselves. Throughout the hard work and pain that his life often included, my father always believed in the Golden Rule – Do Unto Others as your would have them Do Unto You. He encouraged his children to be independent, respectful and honest. He challenged institutions to be more humane. He clung to the belief that we as humans could create a better society, even though his intellect churned it into frustration. On a personal note, he always dreamed of visiting the Egyptian pyramids. Hope he’s there right now, soaking up all the wonder and energy they represent.
As writers, we believe we have something to say. As published authors we believe what we write is of interest to others. To be successful, we must believe in what we do, absorbing the fear and setbacks and criticism and rejection as energy to move forward rather than recoiling from it. We have to believe the hour spent polishing a sentence, the months spent doing a business plan, the week spent recharging on vacation will pay off.

It has taken me nearly a week to write this. In these hazy days after my father’s death I wanted to write, needed to write, but my intellect would have none of it. I have napped, snacked, paced, tidied, deleted emails, scrolled my timelines back to early fall, and cried. I am still doing all of the above. But one word after another, I have finished this. I am my father’s daughter, the light and the dark of him, and I will make the most of the new lives ahead for both of us.

Thanks for reading,

– Jennifer