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The Path Less Travelled

I looked down over a cliff and with only a belief, a calling and a trusty pair of flipflops, I started down. This was the beach calling me, not one with tidy boardwalks and crowded with tourists, but shards of sandstone around me and underfoot, and not a soul around.

It is not unlike the writing life, this trail less travelled. Our ability to spot paths few others can see, then craft a map of words to follow draws us into a life much craved by those watching, but lonely in its midst. It requires us to spend vast amounts of time in places no one else sees, imagines, or wants to be. Loneliness is not just a side effect, it is a catalyst to dive in, discover, finish, and connect. In this moment, however, I didn’t recognized any of this. I only knew I felt inside as awash and submerged as the rocks below, a day beautiful above but churning within.

It wasn’t nearly as tough as I thought, the descent. For the first time in hours, I thought of nothing: my fears as a writer, my failures as a friend, my irritation that seemed to rise like the tide to a frenzied pitch then recede leaving me dark, empty, confused. With that energy diverted to muscle and focus, each movement found solid footing, each step inched me closer to my goal. Seated on a throne carved by centuries of the sea, surrounded by surf, warmed by sun, I had arrived. I was whole in that moment: body and spirit. I could do anything I was called to do.

Then I looked up. The path I had seen on my descent was gone. The gravity that was my ally was now my adversary, working against my every step. And who the hell was I kidding? I was a fat old lady in a dress and flipflops, which were now wet in my dance with the sea, not a rock climber. I had followed my impulse without any thought to getting myself out. And my companions were off looking at historical plaques and fishing boats. I wasn’t even missed. Or so I thought. How quickly the powerful woman of moments ago was washed away by that one word: thought. I know I can. I think I can’t. Why does thought win?

Because it’s safer that way. Think it through, we are taught. Don’t act without thinking. There is merit to the advice, but only as a reinforcement, not as a decision. Our bodies know our capacity, which is often far greater than our brains give us credit for. You got yourself down here, you can get yourself back. That wasn’t thought. That was knowledge. A fact. So, I stood, stretched toward the sun, breathed, and found a new path, one foothold at a time. Just like writing, one word at a time. If it’s too dark to see, write another word or another scene. If there is no way out, keep inching forward. Write your name, gibberish, anything to keep the blank screen from having the last laugh. It’s in you. Keep moving.

I did. Rock by rock. Foot by foot. I was at the top. And I was not alone. I never was. Tanya was taking pictures the entire time, a witness then and giving me a continued reminder for shadowy times like today. She asked how I got down there. The path and the call I followed were clear only to me. In those moments of descent, of feeling the spray from untamed waves, of rising again with no skill, training or equipment, I was more myself than I had been all day. No strategies, no calibration, no predicting or judging or worrying: just a belief, an impulse and my trusty wet flipflops. And now, a lesson and reminder I can carry with me when I think I’m incapable, overwhelmed, unworthy. I know now what I can do with my thoughts. Use them to shine, not to hide. And wear sneakers. A little preparation doesn’t hurt.

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

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

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Getting to the roots, Engaging to the core

Two weeks ago my beloved 50-foot silver maple tree succumbed to high winds and uprooted my lawn and my world. I’ve just spent five days taking my world back, not replanting to replace or duplicate, but embracing the opportunity to reach deeper, higher, differently.

The seed: a five-day program called Engaging and Awakening Others. That is what authors do and why they do it. However, some of us called to write have heard and heeded the spark of creativity, but have way too many layers of self-doubt, fear, anxiety, conditioning, and others’ values and beliefs to allow that creativity to take form and shine. This program is not just for writers; in fact, in my few years of connecting with Wel-Systems programs I have met everyone but those who make their living from the printed word. But spending these five days exploring who I am, who I am called to be and why the hell I’m not doing it will not only make me a more whole and happy person, it has given me the skills to tackle those classic writing blocks and excuses that keep my words hidden and my creativity hostage.

Here are three excuses that have locked my words and ideas in the dungeon, and what I’m doing to release them:

1. I don’t have time.
Classic strategy, and one easily sold to those who observe a busy mother of three, an author, publisher, freelance writer, communications consultant, friend … yes, I am and do all of those things, but I still have time to write. An hour, 15 minutes, a day here and there. I make time to eat, nap, pick up my children (when someone esle could do it), meet with clients, flop on the couch for reruns and linger over laundry as if it were prized artwork. I make time to do what I feel is important. Me saying I don’t have time to write is me saying writing isn’t important to me. Why would I say that and be called to do it at the same time? Because to feel its importance would be to admit that I love it, and past experience with myself and observing others is that you should love nothing or no one that much, let alone show it. You’ll be teased, you’ll be used, you’ll have your heart broken. That’s what I was telling myself every time I thought about writing. But no more. Writing is what I do. It is part of who I am. That’s why I wrote the Finding Maria series. Yes, it was to give someone I love their life back. It turns out the stories and their process of creation were also to give me back my own life.

2. My writing sucks.
The only voice to tell me that is the one inside my head, the voice of my intellect which in its bid to keep me safe needs to keep my world small and all external influences out. Quite frankly, all writing sucks and all writing is brilliant. The only thing writing can never be is perfect, which is the unrealistic ideal I set up to keep everything shut down. ‘This isn’t perfect, so it must suck … quit wasting your time and go do something useful.’ I still hear that voice. Yet as I write this, my body is absorbing the anxiety and using it to slide words from my cells to my fingers. Yes, I own it, my writing sucks. It is also brilliant. It is up to the reader, not me, which description they choose.

3. Everyone will hate me.
This is my eight-year-old voice, the one who craved attention on the playground, standing among kids bigger and older because she was moved ahead a grade, teased and avoided because she was the ‘smart one.’ Success brought ridicule, I learned early on. Fitting in, now, that was a safe place. It just wasn’t a place to be creative, innovative, or shiny, which is what writing can do. Writing can also give insight into one’s essence: hopes and dreams, fears and doubts, opinions and vision. To have someone criticize, demean, or attack anything in there is like having a chainsaw loosed on your insides. However, in finding my adult voice I realize I don’t need playground attention from those seeking the small and weak. I crave attention from those who own and love themselves, share that love and respect with others and acknowedge that when they shine, the whole world becomes brighter. To attract that attention, I have to start within, embracing the dark,light, and grey that is me, owning it all. In the past five days I’ve learned that the ‘everyone’ I was giving my power to was actually myself. No one hated me, except me. Inviting myself to love myself allows me to love the words I create. Will these words be a commercial success? Maybe. What is guaranteed is that they will be authentic, which will serve mne long after the promotion fades and the royalties dry up.

This is by no means an easy process, or over and done with in five days. This is the start of a new way of living, with thoughts fed by feelings, rather than the other way around. Like my tree uprooted, my life is now upside down. But like my tree, which has found renewed purpose in new form, so will my life, if I let my spirit and body lead my once-overwrought mind.

Have a good week!

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

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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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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