I have about 7,000 things to write about, and my series on race will continue after this break post.
Relationships with your parents are complicated to say the least. There’s this sense of gratefulness they gave you life. Then everyone’s had those feelings of, “Oh, I’m this way because my parents screwed me up with the way they raised me!” My parents did a good job, but like all parents they had their flaws. I’m sure my kids will say the same thing about me. Being a parent is a thankless job in a lot of ways. There’s a lot of pain and guilt (maybe that’s because I’m Catholic Lite). But being a parent is also amazingly wonderful. It’s great to see a child you raise grow and flourish.
My mom told my dad to read my blogs on race. “It’s wonderful,” she said, “and all about you. Like Lauren didn’t even have a mom.” Thanks for the guilt-trip, Mom.
I’m sorry, Mom, that I didn’t mention you. You were a constant in my life. Always there. Making delicious dinners–except that nasty chipped ham, talking to me about the birds and bees, and guiding me throughout my life. I remember when I’d come home from nights out you would come up to my room just to talk to me. Those are some of my best memories, of just the two of us. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without your guidance and influence.
And I just really wanted to give you props, because on December 12th, I saw all your hard work for Doug Jones come to fruition. You worked so hard on that campaign. I’m impressed by your persistence, faithfulness, and your ability to push yourself and work hard for something/someone you believe in. You taught me persistence and follow-through pays off. You taught me how to “just do,” even though I’m still working on that. You’re a strong woman and an inspirational person in my life.
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.
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.
This past week, I attended a book club to discuss my book The Devil Withinand do a little book signing. I’m always a little nervous attending these functions, but it’s nothing a big glass of wine won’t cure. 😉 Luckily, the book clubs I go to usually have wine. Don’t get me wrong, I’m fairly outgoing but I’m always nervous and a little shy in a group of people I don’t know at first. It takes me a few minutes to come out of my shell.
Book clubs are always interesting, because sometimes readers have insight on your book that you didn’t necessarily have. Or their opinions about the characters and the events differ from the author’s own thoughts. I find this intriguing, and it’s one of the things I love most about writing: the reader’s reaction.
At this book club, one of the attendees questioned by inspiration. I’ve never had this happen before, but it made me think about inspiration. Because really, inspiration is a funny thing. Slimy, slippery, there one minute and gone the next. A single fleck of an idea that spins into a larger story like a blanket being spun from yarn.
What about this sign inspired me to write about Will and his family? I’d driven past this sign a million times, and then one day as I drove past it I thought about a little boy, growing up on that beautiful rolling hill, in a family that used religion to justify abuse.
Religion and the South go together like peanut butter and jelly. But religion and big churches can always be used to further hateful agendas. They can be full of hypocrisy. They can provide so much good too: comfort, devotion, and social outlets. And looking at this sign, spawned the idea in my head of Will being stuck in the middle of the two: devotion to religion as a comfort and devotion to religion as a way to further hate.
What inspired me to write this book? My own background of growing up in the South. My own thoughts on how religion and Christianity ought to promote love and peace instead of hatred and judgement, a thought I’ve struggled with my whole life in respect to the promotion of the Christian agenda. Spirituality and godliness plus church don’t always necessarily go together. One can lead a Christian life without ever attending church. Or one can lead a life promoting kindness and faith without even believing in God.
Driving to Knoxville with my oldest son two weeks ago, we passed this sign and here was our discussion (He’s 11):
M: What do you think about the message on that sign?
C: I think it’s true. Church is good. God is good.
M: So do you think if you have a person who is always doing the wrong thing, and he’s hateful, and hurtful that if he goes to church the devil won’t get him?
C: Backtracks, Well, um, maybe not.
M: What if you have a person who doesn’t go to church, maybe doesn’t even believe in God, and mostly does the right thing (there is no always–no one always does the right thing)? Is that person doomed to an eternity in hell, because he didn’t go to church even though he was true and good?
C: You’re right. The devil wouldn’t get that good person.
It’s all about perspective. I’m interested in knowing what road my next flake of inspiration will take me down.
I haven’t shared my flash fiction in awhile, because I haven’t been writing it as much. Between promoting The Devil Within, editing Little Birdhouses, and writing my no-name work-in-progress I haven’t had time. But this week, I decided to write for Mid-week Blues-Buster.
The song this week is Little Blue One by Cowboy Mouth, which is an upbeat song about a sad subject. When I heard this song, after not having listened to Cowboy Mouth for years it took me back to a crowded concert venue in Atlanta in the late 90’s or early 00’s, where I’d gone to visit my childhood friend, Stacy, at college. I hadn’t heard them before I attended the concert with Stacy and Andrea and a few other friends, and I immediately liked their music.
Fair warning: the subject matter is about divorce or the end of a relationship.
Here’s the song if you’d like to have a listen:
So here’s the Dear Jane letter…
Xs and Os
554 words
@laurenegreene
Dear Jane,
The dream again. Your face. But when I wake up you’re not beside me in the ocean swell of what-used-to-be our king sized bed. The room wreaks of your ghost. I pretend not to think of you. I tell my repetitive thoughts to still the image of you in my mind as I pour two cups of coffee instead of one for the third time this week. Without thought, I pour the second one down the drain. I think about picking up the extra cup and smashing it against the wall, but instead I set it in the sink and think about how you would have told me to “just put it in the dishwasher.”
The photos of you and me in the Caymans eating turtle soup. The smile on your face is eternal. You don’t live here anymore with me, but every waking moment I have to tell myself you’re gone. Today, I’ll take the photos down. It’s been six months, and I know you’re not coming back. I’ll put them in boxes, and I’ll wrap them up, and it will be like our life together never existed. That’s what you wanted.
When your text pinged my cell at 2 AM, I had to stumble from the couch where I’d fallen asleep watching Geraldo. I knocked the half empty bottle of wine onto the rug. You remember that rug, don’t you? We spent four hours debating on whether to get blue wool or the checkered cotton at Pottery Barn. I, like the sales clerk, wanted to gouge out my eyes with knives before you’d make up your mind. Back and forth. Wishy washy. That was always your way. Maniacal laughter erupted from my lips when I thought how ironic it was that this rug, your baby, your precious, had been left in my incapable hands. It’s in the green trashcan waiting for pickup on the curb now. So long sucker.
The laughter turned to tears when I read your text. “I want an annulment.” The words stung. Married for six years and just like that you wanted to pretend we didn’t exist. Well maybe you didn’t exist, but I did. I waited for you, lost in your blue world of depression as you were. I stuck with you when no one did. I made sure they pumped your stomach. I made sure you didn’t die on the pink title floor of our bathroom by sticking my finger down your throat. Covered in your puke and half-digested pills, I helped get you to the hospital. I saved your life…literally. And I helped you find your way. Even if that way was away from me.
So, my little blue one, now that you’ve found your way you want to pretend that none of it ever happened? Move on, put me behind you and that period of your life when you couldn’t control yourself. You couldn’t control your emotions.
The answer is no. I’ll grant you a divorce, but not an annulment. Because not every day was filled with vomit and fights over rugs. I walked on the beach with you. I kissed you under a gazebo. I imagined our life together, complete with babies, and I thought I’d be with you forever. I can’t pretend that never existed.
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I know I’ve told you all the inspiration for The Devil Within came from the Go to Church or the Devil Will You Get You sign. But growing up in the South I was surrounded by a lot of folklore and crazy roadside attractions.
One day when my sister was in college, she brought her then-boyfriend, now-husband down to visit. We told my parents we were going to go buy fro-yo, but instead Kelsey took us toward Prattville. She had heard about this man who lived out in the country who had covered is whole yard with crosses and signs. People flocked from all over to see these crosses.
We drove north from Montgomery for about thirty minutes until we found The Cross Garden. Not only did this man have crosses littering his yard, the hills across from his house, but he also had signs proclaiming things like Hell is Hot Hot Hot.
The story we had been told was that this man had a dream and Jesus came to him and told him to repent or something terrible would happen to his family. He laughed it off. A few weeks later, his wife and children were killed in a car wreck on the interstate. Amidst the handmade crosses in his yard was a wrecked car. Supposedly he had the wrecking company bring the car there so he could always be reminded of his mistake. He made his yard and surrounding land a tribute to Jesus and the hell that awaits sinners on judgement day.
I often thought about The Cross Garden and how horrible it would be to lose your family. It’s funny, because thanks to the power of Google I now know the car accident never really happened. The owner of the Cross Garden wanted people to see the power of God and to be saved before they burned for eternity in Hell. Don’t you just love the South?
Lauren Greene, Author 