writing

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

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I’m a procrastinator and as such, I waited until today to download all of my files for The Devil Within from Booktrope. I have been okay with Booktrope closing. There’s no other way to be. I haven’t let it hold me back, but I haven’t exactly let it drive me forward either.

Today I’m feeling a little sad about the whole thing. I put a lot of time, effort, and pain into writing the book. I spent hours editing and proofreading it (and yes, there were still mistakes–there always are). I spent hours thinking about William, his family, their lives. This book meant a lot to me. It took me in a different direction from my previous book, and I felt like I’d found my niche in dark Southern literature, if there is even such a genre.

The Devil Within Cover

I learned from The Devil Within how to give my characters depth and voice. And I’ve taken that into my other writing, finding the spirit of the characters to make them come alive in my books. The truth is, I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it at this point. I debated self-publishing. I debated putting it on Wattpad. What I really want to do is find a traditional publisher for my other works and then beef up The Devil Within. Maybe take it a step further. I’ve already started writing about Lily (Tommy’s girlfriend), a minor character in The Devil Within, because I felt like I still had a connection to the book. This is strange for me as I’ve consistently said I would not write sequels. It doesn’t seem so much like a sequel, more like a continuation of the timeline that I started in the book, sort of like Faulkner’s characters from Yoknapatawpha County.

At any rate, I’m stewing and trying to figure out what to do.

The Devil Within is still on Amazon for the next few days; however it could be removed before the 31st, or so we’ve been told.

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PS: The Devil Within is only available until May 31, 2016. Don’t forget to get your copy while you still can at Amazon.

The Weird Adventures of Dick and Jane

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Here’s another piece of flash fiction from Terrible Minds. There are bad words in this short story. It is 1414 words, and a little bit looney! The prompt came from THEY FIGHT CRIME, which gives hilarious prompts apparently!

My prompt: He’s a Green-fingered advertising executive who believes he’s a wolf. She’s a mentally unstable astronaut with a magical ham sandwich in her pocket.

And the story:

Dick finished his nightly howl after checking in on his calla lilies. Of course they bloomed with the power of a thousand glories. After all, Dick had always had green-fingers as his  grandma liked to say. God rest her soul. He looked up to the sky to see the tiny dot, he thought was a star, traveling closer and closer. He didn’t think that was right. In fact, he’d drawn stars before. He was drawing stars right now for some pathetic ad he had to do for the Wright Agency. God, he hated the Wright Agency. They were always wrong in his opinion. He opened his mouth to howl again.

His neighbor threw open his window, “Shut the fuck up, Dick. You’re not a wolf. You’re just a goddamn asshole for waking everyone up with your incessant howling, every single goddamn night!”

Dick ignored his neighbor’s negative comments and asked, “How about those Braves?”

“Damn, your mother knew what she was doing when she named you Dick,” the neighbor said, closing the window.

Dick didn’t let it bother him. Instead, he focused on the dot. Now it looked entirely too close. And in fact, it wasn’t a dot anymore. It looked like a—s.

Close call, Dick thought, as he brushed himself off from where he’d thrown himself. The spacecraft landed on the other side of his fence sparing his morning-glories and forget-me-nots. The neighbor’s house had been saved too. Too bad. Dick didn’t think anyone could survive that kind of landing, but the spacecraft, the size of a mini-cooper, looked largely intact. His fur of his beard bristled up as he walked out the back gate and stood near the spaceship.

Dick sneaked up to the spacecraft on all fours. Smoke rose from one side. He knocked on it, hearing the hollow sound of metal ring out against the night. Other people looked on from their windows, but no one was as brave as Dick. He protected his territory with a canine ferocity and the machine had landed precariously close to his land.

The door opened and he jumped back, landing on his hands and feet. He barred his teeth and began growling as the astronaut stepped out of the spacecraft. She lifted the orange space helmet from her head, and shook out her long strawberry locks. Her eyes twinkled, illuminated by the moon, and to Dick it seemed as if she’d walked right out of a fairy tale to meet him. Dick barred his teeth and began sniffing as she walked closer to him. He stared at her orange spacesuit which looked a little too tight around her breast area.

“Where am I?”

He stood up and brushed the dirt off his arms and legs.

“Outside Atlanta. Name’s Dick. Top wolf, these parts. Somewhat of a Casanova, really.”

“Wolf?” Her brows knitted into a question mark above her head. “Tried to make it to Mars. Dammit. Failed again.”

Dick hung his head and whined.

“Wolf! The fuck you are!” the woman screamed.

Dick backed away from the woman, unsure why she was so angry. He wanted to go back into his house and work on his ad. He felt safe inside his den. He sat back on his haunches against the roughness of the asphalt as she came toward him. He thought she wanted to attack him, but instead she helped him up on to two legs then wrapped her arms around him in an embrace. She smelled. Not like perfume. Like meat. He stuck out his tongue and salivated, dripping salvia all over her orange spacesuit. He sniffed, leaning down toward her and she let him, amazingly. Most people hit him or attacked him with their purses when he started sniffing around them. He sniffed all the way down to her pocket. He could tell the smell came from there. He wanted to take a bite, but she gently pushed him away.

“Not that. Not here. Not now. Can we go somewhere private?”

He pointed to his backyard, and he opened the gate for her.

“The flowers.”

“Green-fingers,” Dick said, waving them in front of her face like jazz hands.

The garden brimmed with flowers of every imaginable kind. Dick could plant anything. Orchids sprang up from the mere thought of his touch. His backyard felt like paradise, unless you were allergic, then it would have been a nightmare.

Inside the house, the fire cackled.

“Fire in the summer?”

“I sleep on the hearth,” Dick said.

“Do you think you’re actually a wolf?”

Dick’s face took on a blank stare. “Tea?”

“I hate fucking tea,” she said. She picked up the closest thing she saw, a framed picture of Dick’s prized pumpkin from 1997, and threw it against the brick wall closest to her. Dick didn’t flinch. Instead, he went over to the fire and stoked it, ignoring the woman’s hostile glances. She broke into tears again, and Dick knew something was wrong with her. A mental illness. Depression maybe.

“Why do you have a sandwich in your pocket?” he asked.

“This?”

She pulled out a ham sandwich. Dick could smell it from all away across the room. Ham and cheese on ciabatta bread with honey mustard, lettuce, and tomato. It looked like something you’d order from Panera or Subway. Dick loved meat. Any kind would do. Of course he normally ate it completely raw.

“That,” he started salivating again.

“This is a magical sandwich,” she said. Her eyes glowed as she gazed at it.

“Magical?”

“Magical. It can grant my wishes. What’s your one wish?”

“Like a genie in a bottle?” Dick felt his ears perk up the way they did when he was out on a hunt.

“Yes, I suppose like a genie,” she said. She cradled the sandwich as if it were a piece of crystal. The smell wafted toward Dick, and the hunger in the pit of his stomach doubled.

“To find a mate. To expand my brood. What is yours?”

“To make it to Mars.”

“What’s on Mars?”

She shrugged her shoulders as if the answer to that question was not the least bit important.

“What’s your name?”

“Jane.”

He plopped down in front of the fire and stretched out, rolling onto his back and exposing his belly. He then turned to his eyes and stared at her with his wolf eyes, calculating the right time to pounce. Instead, he asked a question, because after all he knew in the human world the way to a woman’s heart was through her mind. And Jane was no ordinary woman.

“If the sandwich is magical, then why hasn’t your wish come true?

“If you’re a wolf, then why don’t you have fur?”

“Touché.”

Dick could feel the crazy emanating from Jane. But, still, he wanted to get closer to her. He did what he knew attracted female wolves. He climbed onto the couch next to her and began rubbing his head against her neck. He flicked out her tongue to groom her, but she pulled away and rose her hand as if she were about to slap him.

“What are you doing?” she screeched.

She pulled at her hair in distress. Dick moved closer then stroked her again trying to calm her down. She put her hands down on the couch and pushed herself further away from him. He growled deeply then pounced.

She screamed as his teeth ripped into the sandwich, shoving the whole thing into his mouth, hardly chewing before he swallowed.

“The magic,” she sobbed.

 

* * *

“She’s stabilized.”

“Jane. You were out a long time. But Dr. Hartsell said the shock treatment might have worked. Isn’t that great news?

“You Dick!” she shouted.

She tried to sit up, straining against the restraints meant to keep her from attacking. Dick backed up and shook his head dejectedly at the doctor.

The man in the white coat paced the room as Jane raged. He made his way over to the medicine cabinet and opened the drawer. He pulled out a needle and a vial. From previous hospitalizations, Dick knew it always took awhile to stabilize her. He scratched behind his ear, making his left leg move up and down slightly, as he watched the doctor inject her. Her screams quieted and an ominous silence filled the room.

“What’s that smell?” Dr. Hartsell asked.

Dick reached into his pocket to find the remnants of a half-eaten ham and cheese sandwich.

“Funny. I thought I’d finished that.”

Follow Lauren Greene:

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PS: The Devil Within is only available until May 31, 2016. Don’t forget to get your copy while you still can at Amazon.

Writing the Feelings

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Today is my 37th birthday. Not too young. Not too old. But it’s gone so fast. Actually, the first twenty years or so went super slowly. Then it took off. I don’t even remember the last ten years of my life. They were mostly filled with dirty diapers, grades, too much to do, spousal spats and reconciliations, gaining and losing friends, and kids growing up at the speed of light.

I’ve been down this week. And I think it’s because I’m not doing what I expected to do with my life. Plus, I started cleaning out my closets yesterday and stumbled upon pictures from college and when the kids were little. Nostalgia always makes me feel down. Not regret. But a sense of loss to a certain extent. I attach myself easily to people, and I feel such a sadness when they are no longer in my life.

But depression is a liar as someone told me yesterday. Depression tries to tell me I’m worthless. It tries to tell me I can’t and won’t achieve my goals. Well that’s total bullshit. And I know it. Deep down on the inside, I know I have it within me to write and to lead the life I want. Happiness is not elusive. It’s a decision.

I’ve told you before, but I HAVE to write. I have to write to get all the bad feelings out. I go through life smiling, because mostly I am happy. And I can find the positive in my life every day. But sometimes I feel so down. And this just happens to be one of those weeks.

The one thing about feeling down is it energizes my writing. I can type and hurt my characters. I can twist their souls with angst, guilt, anger, sadness. All of the above. All of the things I can’t seem to express that feel stuck inside. You see, I’m a better writer than a communicator. And it hurts me when it comes to real life relationships. People have always thought I was so cool because I didn’t give a damn what people thought of me. And perhaps this is why I tend to have more close male friends than female friends. Girls seem to get caught up in the small bits without looking at the bigger picture. And I’ve always been a bigger picture type person. I love and care about my male friends. But I need and want female friendships. I’m just not sure how to go about making them and keeping them.

I think I’m open and caring, but I feel like I can’t express my deepest wants and desires to others. In the past, I let the fear of intimacy rule my life. I didn’t tell certain people I loved them when I did. I didn’t tell them my wants and desires. I expected them to read my mind. And I became sullen and angry when they didn’t. Instead of expressing those emotions to them, I let them walk out of my life. Eventually I learned how to express all of that in my writing and it became an outlet for conversations never had, wants and needs never lived. Fear stifled my creativity and became a thief of happiness in my life.

But I’ve reached the point where pretending to make other people happy isn’t worth it anymore. I’m tired of living in a pretend world. I want the important people in my life to know what I think. I want them to know when I feel disappointment, sadness, love, excitement. I’m tired of being stuck in a box of despair, at the whim of my moods and emotions. And so, I’m trying to make a change. Once again. And feeling a little stuck in the muck.

It’s hard to change a behavior and a way of life I’ve been living for years. It’s hard to stop hiding when things get tough. It’s hard to stop shutting people out when all I really want is to let people in. As I work through these heavy emotions and feelings, I’ll be writing more for sure. But I also plan to be listening more, engaging more, and cleaning out my closet of all the emotional clutter that only serves as an impediment to my happiness.

Follow Lauren Greene:

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PS: The Devil Within is only available until May 31, 2016. Don’t forget to get your copy while you still can at Amazon.

Satisfied

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Many of you know, that thanks to my sister Kelsey, I am currently obsessed with the musical Hamilton. (If you click that link you will be taken to a YouTube of the Hamilton song, Satisfied). 

I’ve been listening to this musical for about a month. I wake up singing it in the morning. I’ve always liked musicals, but I wouldn’t say I’m a connoisseur of musical theater. I simply listen to music and musicals I like.

In the song Satisfied, Angelica is making a toast to her sister, Eliza, on her marriage to Alexander Hamilton. Only Angelica is still in love with Hamilton, but gave him up for many reasons. And the scene zooms back to when she met him at a Winter’s Ball, and they talked about never been satisfied. I know this song is about a romantic situation, but it can be applied to other situations in life too.

Satisfaction. Is anyone ever 100% satisfied? This song was in my mind, because I think I have a tendency not to be satisfied. For a long time, I looked for the little negative things in my life. I didn’t look at the bigger picture. I walked around with a smile on my face, but behind the smile lay a world unraveling. I felt wholly and sadly unsatisfied. I wanted what I didn’t have, and I didn’t want what I had. Finding writing again helped me curb the unsettled unsatisfactory feeling within myself.

In the song, Hamilton tells her she seems like a woman who has never been satisfied. And then he compares her to himself and says that he has never been and will never be satisfied either.

Hamilton was wildly successful, you know, besides being shot and killed by Burr. He wrote the majority of the Federalist Papers, shaped the US founding government, was the first State Treasurer, and started the banking industry (because of him I have a job). But he never felt satisfied (or the creative license would have you think that). And here’s a thought: the lack of satisfaction is a driving force in success. Why do people rise up from the poor? Because they’re not satisfied with what they have? Why do people change jobs? Because they’re not satisfied. Why do people become politicians? Because they’re not satisfied. Why do people write? Because they’re not satisfied.

Think about it this way. If a writer wrote a book and was completely satisfied with it, would they ever write another one? Part of what keeps people driven is the lack of satisfaction, either with their current situation or with the world around them. Not feeling satisfied is an unsettling feeling, but is also a key to success.

Why drives you? Are you satisfied?

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Countdown

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Five days until the half-marathon. It’s crazy, because forever I felt like it was far away. And here it is. And I don’t feel ready. I mean, I can run 12 miles. Or at least walk/run and feel like I’m dying with my breathing or possibly my legs might fall off. The thing I’m most worried about is the heat and humidity. It’s supposed to be 90 degrees in Nashville on Saturday. The thing I’m looking forward to most is seeing my sisters. I love how this journey has brought us closer this year. We are all striving to do the same thing, and the common goal has brought us together. That’s pretty awesome if you think about it.

I haven’t been writing, and last week I didn’t even blog. I have been soul searching a little bit. (Of course, because don’t I always?) This week, my eleven year old told me that maybe he didn’t want to do gymnastics next year. And when I asked him why he said, “Because it’s gotten hard and it’s not as fun as it used to be.” In all my wisdom I said, “Well, if you want to quit you can. It’s your choice. But you have to make sure you’re quitting for the right reason. Are you quitting because it’s hard and you don’t like hard work? Or are you quitting because you’re ready to try something else?”

And then I went for a run with Sean on Saturday morning, and the first 2 miles were fucking amazing. Fast. And then I said I wanted to walk. And we walked/ran the last 2 miles. On the way home in the car I complained about running the half again. “Why the hell am I even doing this? It’s so stupid.” And Sean said, “You may have a bit of Caden in you. You want to quit when it gets hard.”

And he was right: I do. I’ve always had a huge amount of motivation, and I get to a certain point and then I just don’t feel like doing it anymore. So this weekend I was thinking of that in terms of my writing instead of my running. I’ve been in a funk. I started a difficult novel. And I’m 30,000 words in, and I’m stuck. But the thing is–I know what’s going to happen and how to finish it but writing it is hard. It’s hard for a million reasons, because of emotions, and the voice, and all the shit that will make it good in the end. And I also think that’s why I’ve had a hard time editing Little Birdhouses. I’ve always been the type of person who sets a goal, finishes something, then moves on to the next big thing. But I don’t want to be like that with my writing. I want to make it a lifetime of work. I want to work through the discomfort. I want to get to the end and really have produced something amazing that readers can relate to. I want to query, live through the rejection, and, eventually, become a famous writer. I have this incredible talent and this amazing dream, but I can tell you I’m never going to get there if my attitude is the same as it’s been the last few months. No one ever gets anywhere by not working hard and giving up before they’ve reached the finish line.

It’s funny, because after my talk with my running buddy on Saturday I went running with my girlfriends on Sunday morning and I had all this incredible energy. I think I could have finished the half marathon easily that day. My attitude had changed, and I felt like I’d just push through. Now if only I could apply that to my writing.

Innately, I know that success comes from hard work, and part of the feeling of accomplishment is working hard to get there. But in reality, putting that into practice is difficult for me. And yes, I know I have lots of valid excuses: three kids, husband, day job, and PTA, but in the end I need those factors to motivate me instead of serving as a roadblock to my success.

Suggestions are welcome. Do you feel like you hold yourself back from achieving your dreams?

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Now…or Later

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I met a woman over the weekend at a book club who had the gift for gab. She told me she had written a children’s book and four memoirs. She has this exuberant personality, go-getter attitude, and incredible energy. We went to lunch yesterday. This woman is in her 80s, and she wanted me to put some information together for her so she could try to have her non-fiction children’s book published. Talk about living your dreams at any age.

I’ve had a hard time lately, thinking I’m running out of time to become a serious writer. And I think this woman was sent to me to remind me that as long as I’m motivated I can achieve my dreams. She has done so much with her life, because she went for it when the time came. And she said something to me yesterday that made so much sense too. We were talking about my fear to speak in big groups, and she said, “Let the butterflies in your stomach drive you, because they’re energy. Don’t let them turn into anxiety that holds you back.” I think this can be applied to other situations. Often in writing, us authors get caught up in the thought of someone reading and critiquing our work. We get caught up in thinking about rejection after rejection from agents.We let these anxieties hold us back. We need to use our creative energy to propel us through that and not let the anxiety rein us in.

What drives you forward? What are some ways you can achieve your dreams?

And as a completely unrelated aside. Here’s a tribute to my dog Beasley who is being euthanized today. 14 1/2 years old. He was a wonderful Beagle pup we retrieved in the country of Maryland from a breeder who said he was defective because of an overbite. He lived with us for 5 years, and then resided with my parents when Rob and I moved to Montgomery and had to live in an apartment. He was always happy, smiling, and there never was a tail that wagged more. My mom fixed him some pizza in the Cuisinart last night, and he went to town. He has cancer, is blind, and deaf, and has started walking into walls, and acting like he doesn’t know where he is. So we know it’s time. Here’s to a sweet old dog as he travels across the rainbow bridge.

Beasley

Beasley – younger days

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Weekend Wonder

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I had one of those amazing weekends. Of course the weather helped. In the 70s. No humidity. Sun shining in a blue sky. No clouds. Plus, I finished my part of the yearbook, and it seemed like a huge weight off my shoulders.

I went into the weekend feeling a bit over-scheduled, but it ended up working perfectly. I had two book clubs to attend and discuss my books. The first book club met and discussed No Turning Back. I felt a little worried, because I hadn’t done a book club on this book. I self-published No Turning Back six months before The Devil Within, and it is not professionally edited. Part of me wanted to pull it off Amazon, but I do like the story. As a novice writer, many mistakes are made and not having the story edited was mine. I can, at some point, remove the story, have it edited and put it back out there, but at this point I’ve moved on and have bigger fish to fry (cliché).

The book club went off without a hitch though. It was at my neighbor’s house, and as usual I met some interesting people. I also met some women who are writers themselves. I always love meeting writers who are looking to start out in the business. It’s so motivational and inspirational to see others on the same journey as I am. Plus, at this point I have some knowledge I can impart to them because when you’re first starting out the process of getting published seems big and overwhelming

After the Saturday book club, we had a grilling extravaganza at our house. Rob made one of our friend’s famous rib recipes, and they tasted great. All the kids had fun playing outside in the sunshine, and of course we had a good time eating and drinking too much. I fell into bed feeling happy, content and loved. Isn’t that the best feeling?

On Sunday, I had a goal to run 9 miles. I’m still training for the half marathon, but my training derailed with my stress fracture. I’d gone to Montgomery Multisport and met with Malcolm about my shoes the weekend before, because I really think my Saucony Ride 7s were not the shoes for me. They aggravated my stress fracture. I bought new shoes, and Malcolm showed me how to do a runner’s loop. Let me tell you: my feet have never felt so good on a run. They weren’t sliding around or coming up in the back. Apparently I have skinny ankles. The run went well. I had to walk some of it, but my goal was to stay below a 12 minute mile, and I did  (just barely). I listened to Hamilton the Musical, recommended by my sister, and let me just say if you haven’t listened to this you should. What an amazing and tragic life Alexander Hamilton lived.

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Sunday continued to be gorgeous, and I spent some time up at our neighborhood playground with the kids and some new neighborhood friends. Then I had yet another book club meeting on The Devil Within. That book club went well too. I continue to be amazed at the generosity and the interest I receive in book clubs. It’s amazing to meet people who have lived such amazing lives. And I feel like all of these people could contribute to a story about the human existence. We had a great discussion about abuse,  the rigidity of religion in the South, and about the psychology of human beings. I always learn when I attend book clubs, and this time was no different. I think that’s what I enjoy most about them how books can bring people together, and give them a commonality. As a writer, there is nothing better than feeling like your reader can relate to you.

All in all the weekend felt so productive. And I was able to see people I loved and meet people I will grow to love. Who could ask for more?

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Carry On

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When I wake up in the morning, I grab a cup of coffee, sit down, turn on Pandora, and I blog, write, or work on yearbook (almost done!). This morning, Pandora played the same song for me two times in a row. Carry On by Fun.. It reminded me how you can put CDs on repeat and play them over and over again, reveling in the words that seem so relevant in your life but are sung by a total stranger. How many of you have done that when you’re having a bad day (or a bad breakup)?

Carry On is such a great song. A few years ago, I listened to this song in my darkest days, and it helped me to do just that: carry on. Walk away from the past with open arms toward the future. The future is full of infinite possibilities, and if we didn’t carry on then we’d never have those experiences.

I sat down unsure of what I wanted to blog about this morning. I have been writing, working on a story that took me away from my two previous works in progress. Now that yearbook is almost complete, I’m going to put more effort into blogging more and also into finishing up edits on Little Birdhouses, writing more, and I’m going to start querying again. (Get ready for lots of blog posts about rejection) When I wrote last week, for the first time in awhile, I felt relief wash over me. And it reminded me of the reason I write. I write because I have to. I write because it takes all of my restless energy and turns it into something amazing and beautiful. And because maybe, like I did with Fun.’s song, someone will relate to something I’ve written. The gift of words.

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Weak Spot

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I haven’t been writing—for weeks now. And my escape of running has fallen by the wayside too, because I have a stress fracture in my foot. I’m the kind of person who needs an outlet, or I get depressed. I need to write my worries away, solve problems I don’t understand, or run to clear my mind.

My foot is almost healed, and it’s only been about a week and a half of no running. This makes me think it is/was a weak spot on my bone and not an actual fracture. Weak spot. I have a lot of weak spots in my life. I have a lot of times I don’t feel like enough. I hem and haw over the fact that I couldn’t be two places at once, that my house is dusty, and that my children’s nails are not trimmed. I worry they are growing up and I haven’t been present enough. I worry I’m not feeding enough love into my marriage. My marriage is a constant worry, because it represents companionship and love.  Sometimes I think I take advantage of my husband’s good graces or take him for granted.

Thinking about the weak spot in my foot made me think about how sometimes we let weakness cripple us. We let those weak spots in our life fester, build up, and turn into a fracture. We let weaknesses in our marriage grow until they become raging gaps or chasms that cannot be crossed. We let weak spots define who we are.

Reading about stress fractures, I learned that often when the weak spot heals in your foot it is stronger than before. A revelation to me. Sometimes things have to break down before they can be made whole again. Marriages often cycle through weak spots before strengthening. I wonder how many people have left in a weak spot, when all they needed was a few dedicated weeks to heal.

A few years ago, my marriage broke down. We were not in a good place. We were both to blame for this breakdown. We both had selfish needs to fulfill. I left the marriage. I didn’t leave the house, but I explored my wants and desires. I started exercising a lot and taking myself away from the house, because being in the house was too tense and painful, and I couldn’t stand to look at my husband’s face. I spent time with friends, gallivanting around, and figuring out the me within.  I was lost, but I didn’t know it. During this time, I felt strangely and hugely alive. I felt like I had awakened from a dream and realized the reality in which I lived was not the reality I wanted to be living.

My husband rallied his family and mine around him. He talked to them as I pushed myself further away. I felt alone, manipulated, and betrayed by the people I loved. I wanted more than anything for my family to stand behind me and to understand why I was hurting, but I don’t think they did. At first, I wallowed in the weak spot of my life. I was depressed and filled with hurt and rage. I wanted to make that weak spot deeper just to feel justified in my stance on my marriage. And slowly, through walking out and finding myself the weak spot began to heal. I began to see my husband’s point of view. I saw just how much we had been hurting each other. I told him it hurt me that he’d gone to my parents and tried to get them on his side. I understand now he was trying to save the family. I understand now that he was hurting, and didn’t see it as a betrayal. I told him it hurt me that he hadn’t told his mom and his family the whole truth about his actions.

But I chose to forgive and rebuild. And he chose to forgive me (I’m guessing, since we’re still married).  And we began to rebuild by communicating. We began to rebuild by focusing on the good in our lives, instead of focusing on the bad. We built up the bone around the weak spot until the foundation was deeper and stronger than before.

I learned by finding myself that I can give of myself to my marriage even if I’m not always getting what I want. Marriage is, after all, a compromise. I realized how much my husband does for me and how much he does for my kids. I realized that no one is perfect, and I can’t ask that of him. I also realized that no one is a mind reader, and therefore making a marriage weaker by not communicating is certain to bring on a non-repairable fracture.

We are both human, and we both have wants and needs. Our wants won’t be entirely fulfilled by each other. That’s impossible. We still have bad days, and we will continue to have bad days as long as we stay together. No one’s marriage is perfect, but we can provide each other with companionship, warmth, love, respect, and someone to come home to.

I strive through my writing to find some inner piece of me, some weak spot, and try to fix it before it becomes a break too big to heal. Much like my marriage, my writing takes work. And I could not do that without the reinforced strength and bond of my marriage partner.  We’ve been together fifteen years now and married for thirteen. I hope we have much more time to get to know each other, to let go of our hurt and our past, and to build a stronger foundation than the wobbly, weak spot where we were founded.

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I’m an Extroverted Introvert

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Last week on Facebook, one of my Wench friends posted an article about Extroverted Introverts: How Extroverted Introverts Interact Differently With The World. Forever, people have been telling me how extroverted I am. Lauren, you’re so friendly. You always have a smile on your face. This part is true–most of the time. I’m super empathetic. Empathy can be draining, especially when you talk to someone and tend to try to talk out all their problems. People always feel like they can talk to me about big, serious issues in their life. I love being able to make those connections, but it can be emotionally draining as well. Plus, it makes me feel closer to them than they might feel to me. I get emotionally involved in people’s lives, even if I’ve just met them which often sets me up to be hurt.

I always wondered how I fit so well in an extroverted category when I don’t really feel like an extrovert. When I take the Myers Briggs test, I’m classified as an extrovert always. But in my down time, I love to come home, veg on the couch and recharge. In fact, I have to have that downtime or I feel so out of sorts. I like hours alone–sometimes days–and I feel overwhelmed when I don’t have time to recharge.

I feel very alone in a group of people, and I have a hard time breaking into new friendships. But other times, I’ll jump right in depending on the day. I use alcohol as a crutch in social situations to come out of my shell. I love to make people laugh, and I love to be the center of attention too. I do better one-on-one, but I don’t have a lot of close friends. I will have a friend for a few years, and then they drift away. I love to have deep conversations and sometimes this scares people off or is too much for them. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and I say what I think. But, I have a hard time letting people get close to me. I have a tough time with intimacy and space. I see this same quality in my middle son, who shirks away from being kissed and hugged. I know how he feels–that overwhelming feeling of being captured or suffocated and needing my me-space away from people. I have felt that way on so many occasions.

The worst part of being an extroverted introvert is the over thinking. Sometimes my mind tacks onto a question and rolls in circles around it. Big questions like, why are we here? Is there a God? When we die what happens? – questions no one can answer, but that my brain won’t give up trying to answer. And not so big questions and fears that I can’t stop thinking about. Overthinking will make you miserable if you let it, and I think it is the source of depression in a lot of people, including me.  My brain is in overdrive so much, and the only thing that can stop it: writing. Writing has been such a great outlet for the introvert part of my mind. I love to go out and hang with friends. I love to drink socially and talk, but when my introvert-side clicks in then I need to be by myself–just ask my husband. I want a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, quiet, veg-out, write and recharge time. I need a bath with a good book. I need to revert back to myself, recharge, and feel like my happy little self again.

What about you? Are you an extrovert, an introvert, or a little bit of both?

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