Book Reviews!

I’ve never been one to document the books I’ve read or offer reviews, but considering that I now have a new website with a section dedicated to my favorite books and authors, I thought it would be fun to see how many books I read in 2024 and offer some quick thoughts about each.

So without further ado, here’s a list of the books I’ve read throughout January – March of this year, and a few quick thoughts on most of them.

Tom Lake by Ann Patchett (SPOILERS):
TBH wasn’t as thrilled with it as the rest of the world seemed to be. I guess I’m just not a “literary” fan. It was well written but it seemed like it was mostly telling, not showing. I didn’t really sense any “stakes,” but I was caught off guard with Nelson being Joe. That part was well done. I appreciated the twist at the end with her getting pregnant and having the abortion, but Duke being in that hospital and how he died was too damn sad.

Lucky Red by Claudia Craven:
I DEVOURED this book. It was everything I wanted it to be and more. I absolutely loved the writing and the atmosphere. I could see, hear, taste, and smell everything. There was so much going on to keep me enthralled. The descriptions and scenes were a master class on writing. Each chapter had a surprise waiting. I loved how the MC Bridget started the story just trying to survive day to day, meal to meal, and one of the characters opened her eyes to the possibility of thriving/something more. Effortless, subtle social commentary. I can’t BELIEVE more people aren’t talking about this book. PLOT TWIST!!!

Sea Change by Karen White

That Summer by Lauren Willig

Really Good Actually by Monica Heisey:
Sadly, I DNF’ed this book. I wanted to love it SO much — the cover art, the flap copy, the fact that the author wrote for one of my favorite shows ever, Schitt’s Creek. But I have trouble reading books without much dialogue and I couldn’t relate to the MC — 29, newly divorced. I don’t ever want to trash another writer’s work but this one just was not for me.

Medusa’s Sisters by Lauren J.A. Bear:
Another DNF! To be fair, I picked up it because I thought it was a different book. I gave it a try, but it was too high-fantasy for me. Just not my genre.

The Leftover Woman by Jean Kwok:
LOVED this book! Jean Kwok’s writing is spectacular — accessible, relatable, beautiful. Nothing overdone, nothing showy. But punchy, vivid. This had more thriller vibes than I was anticipating but I flew through it and really liked it. Definitely want to read her other books.

The Edge of Lost by Kristina McMorris

California Golden by Melanie Benjamin:
This book started a little slow and disjointed for me but I’m glad I stuck with it. I’ve enjoyed all of Melanie Benjamin’s books and I really liked this one. It was quite vivid and enlightening, especially about a part of the 60s not many people write or talk about — surf culture, cultural appropriation, feminism in sports, etc. The ending was a bit more open-ended than I prefer, but it was a good read.

Meet Me at the Lake by Carley Fortune:
Another homerun by Carley Fortune! So relatable, emotional, and sexy. She has quickly become an auto buy for me!

The Other Daughter by Lauren Willig

The Burnout by Sophie Kinsella:
One of my favorite authors. Laughed out loud endlessly, but as with most of her books, this one had a deep emotional core. Loved it!

A Class Reunited by Susie Murphy:
Book 5 in the Matter of Class series. I’ve loved all of her books and honestly this is one of my favorite historical fiction series I’ve ever read. A shining example of what self-publishing could and should be.

Dear Carolina by Kristy Woodson Harvey

As March comes to a close, I’ve Just started Cackle by Rachel Harrison. Full review next quarter as I’m loving this one so far!

I’m planning to post these lists and reviews every quarter, so see you in June!

Disappointment

To say I’ve been in a dry spell when it comes to publishing is an under statement.

I haven’t received an acceptance from anywhere since March of 2023 — 11 months.

Seeing it typed out in black and white and thinking about how long of a stretch that is makes me quite sad. I feel quite defeated. Especially because I thought that I had a really cool opportunity with that publication.

I Bought was published by local university RMU’s Rune Magazine, and all contributors were invited to a reading of the issue on campus that April.

Excitedly, I accepted their invitation. I pictured myself zipping through downtown Pittsburgh, vaguely familiar enough with the outskirts of the campus to not be anxious about traffic or parking or getting lost. I planned out my outfit — something between artsy and serious — and pictured myself getting chatty and cozy with esteemed writers, students, and professors, finally making that serendipitous connection that would elevate my writing career. I even convinced my husband to take a half day of work that Thursday so we could attend together. We were both so excited that we took the following Friday off too so we could have an “us” day.

Then I realized that the reading was taking place at the university’s other campus — the one north of Pittsburgh. And with this city’s traffic, the commute would probably be two hours.

Still, J and I resolved to go. We’d attended RMU’s hockey games at their sports facility in the past so we had a general idea of where we were going. We could even grab a celebratory dinner on the way.

As we were climbing into J’s Ford Escape (slightly later than I planned on leaving), I pulled up the address on my phone. And realized that the part of the campus hosting the reading was even further than the university’s sports complex we were familiar with.

J still had to stop for gas, and with rush hour traffic quickly approaching, we’d be cutting it close.

I was already anxious about the prospect of reading my piece out loud to a roomful of academic strangers, but my panic grew as J fought traffic and became increasingly agitated at the string of red lights, clusters of bad drivers, and constant construction marring our route to RMU.

Half an hour into our trip, J had dropped more F bombs than I could count and I was near tears. We were never going to make it on time and I felt my opportunity to make connections in the Pittsburgh writing community slipping away. It didn’t help that J and I were on edge and that we were both absolutely starving. At this rate, there would be no detour for dinner.

I begged J to turn around at the next exit. I was so stressed that I didn’t even want to go to the stupid reading anymore. But he was hell bent on getting us there. I felt incredibly guilty for making him drive all this way for my dumb little writing event.

By some miracle, we pulled into the RMU parking lot roughly ninety seconds before the reading began.. My stomach was growling, my eyeliner was smudged with barely-shed tears, and I was shaking with nerves and stress.

When we entered the room, it was packed with roughly 50 people — and every single chair was taken. The hosts were already gathering at the podium up front and students were whisking away empty trays sprinkled with discarded toothpicks, scraggly pieces of parsley, and cracker crumbs. My stomach growled desperately.

Three or four young women in the center of the room were gathered around a small basket, tossing folded papers inside. They called out to all contributing writers, asking us to check in and place our names in the basket for a chance to read our piece out loud.

“Welcome,” the cheerful, bright-eyed twenty-year-old said, handing me an issue of the journal. “Would you like a chance to read tonight?” She held up pen and paper encouragingly.

Suddenly I felt like I was a thousand years old. Whatever iota of confidence might have been left deep inside my soul crumbled. “No,” I managed, shame-faced. I wanted nothing more than to walk out of that room and bury myself under the mulch in the tree planter.

“You’re not going to read?!” J whisper-shrieked as I turned around. “Why did we drive all the way up here if you weren’t going to read?”

I bolted to the only empty table in the room — a high top wedged between a vending machine and the wall. Hide in the corner. Fitting.

I didn’t have to look at J to know he was seething. Guilt and embarrassment engulfed me completely. I did not belong here. Far too old to identify with the college students, far too young and uneducated to have anything in common with the professors.

The evening’s host — a junior who had already accomplished more in her writing career than I probably ever would — welcomed everyone and formally began the reading. Contributors were called at random if their names were pulled from the basket, and I pretended to read along in my spiral-bound copy, but I could barely hear them over the humming of the vending machine next to our table.

The hour passed slowly, painfully, my shame and disappointment morphing from anger to frustration to embarrassment to the despair of utter failure.

A comedy of errors had started this night on shaky ground, and I was so anxious and out of place I didn’t have the strength to fake enthusiasm or confidence. Sadly, I let the hour pass us by and bolted as soon as the last writer finished reading their piece.

So much for opportunity.

Call to Action

There are a lot of people around me right now struggling with different aspects of mental health — anxiety, depression, postpartum, and everything in between. For some of you, this is the first time you’ve experienced it. For others, this has been a lifelong struggle. Still others see it come and go depending on what stage of life you’re in.

First things first — I do not say any of this from a place of judgment or on any type of pedestal. I still have a lot to work through and hurdles to overcome in my own life. I still have days when I feel hopeless and can’t seem to get out of bed.

But since starting EMDR in 2016, I’ve spent the last few years finally, finally, finally getting my mental health to a place where it’s well-managed enough that I no longer feel as if it’s dominating my life.

I want to make sure that everyone else out there who is in a dark or scary place right now knows that it can be temporary and there is hope. You do not always have to feel like this.

So here’s a list of my personal advice and recommendations that helped me find my way through the scary maze and still keeps me grounded when I feel the dark cloak of depression or anxiety clawing its way back into my life —

• Surround yourself with friends and support people, even if that means a barrage of texts or emails or “virtual” friends online. Never under estimate the power of community with people who share your interests on message boards, discord groups, fan fiction sites, etc. If you have the energy, do some one-off volunteering for a cause close to your heart.

• Find a therapist who listens and is helpful. Some people benefit greatly from simple talk therapy while others need a more hands-on approach like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) or Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR).
  Remember: Therapy is like dating. It can take a few sessions before you know whether or not a therapist is right for you, and there are tons of different therapy options and types out there.
  If the person you’re currently seeing isn’t helping, it’s okay to move on to someone else. This happens all the time so don’t be afraid to “break up with” your therapist.

• Obviously I’m not a doctor, but don’t be afraid to take meds. Most therapists works with a psychiatrist who can write prescriptions, and many PCPs can also get you started on something.
  Give the pills time to work. It may take years before you find a pill or combination of pills that work for you. You may have to change pills from time to time. This is okay.

• Some days “your best” is simply feeding yourself. This is okay, just don’t get stuck there.

• It’s okay to prioritize things that make you feel happy over things that make you miserable. Watch your favorite movie instead of cleaning the bathroom. Eat ice cream instead of a salad. Wrap yourself in a blanket and read your favorite book instead of going to the gym. Again, just don’t get stuck here.

• If you’re dealing with uncertainties regarding your health or a loved ones health/ job issues/child issues/a new baby, try to make peace with the fact that you’re in transition and things will feel weird and “off” for a while. Take it 1 day at a time, 1 hour at a time, 5 minutes at a time. This is okay.

• How do you “take it one thing at a time?”
  I agonized over this for decades. But sometimes it’s quite literally reminding yourself of what you are doing IN THAT MOMENT so other scary thoughts can’t creep in.
  “Right now I’m showering. Right now I’m eating cereal. Right now I’m grocery shopping.”

• Adopt a calming or positive mantra. A therapist can help with these and there are plenty of self-help books and websites with calming phrases you can say to yourself on a regular basis.
  My go to phrase, when I’m having a panic attack, feeling nervous, or simply trying to fall asleep is, “I am safe, I am calm, I am quiet.”

• No matter what you’re dealing with, allow yourself to feel ALL the emotions — the uncertainty, the fear, the hope, the anger, the excitement. Mood swings are a normal part of anxiety and depression. This is okay.

A few other more simple, actionable ideas that always help me feel better or get out of a rut:

• Visit someone who has a pet or ask someone to bring their pet to you. Science has proven that something simple like petting a dog, cat, or even a bird relieves stress and releases dopamine and serotonin.

• Get a happy light. I have one similar to this.

• Essential Oils. I know the craze has sort of died down, but there is nothing like a quick whiff of lavender to bring anxiety down a notch. Use with a diffuser if you’d like or simply sprinkle some on your wrists, neck, or chest. Here’s some of my favorites:
  Chill Pill
  Clary Sage

• Try The Calm app. My husband downloaded this years ago to help him sleep when adjusting to working different shifts and still uses it to this day. I also find it helpful if I’m tossing and turning for some reason.

• Find some soothing music. I use Pandora because it’s free (with ads). Some of my favorite stations for relaxing:
  Classical Relaxation
  Rain Radio
  Instrumental Chill
  Nature Sounds

• Watch your favorite movies or TV shows. Read your favorite book or magazine.

Other Quick Links:

• https://www.psychologytoday.com/us

• Postpartum Depression Helpline

• Crisis Helpline

Remember: Someone Loves You

This should go without saying, but I am not a mental health professional.

Unexpected Inspiration

Hello, readers & writers!

It’s been quite some time as I’ve been busy with other projects, but I wanted to share something from my inbox that was a pleasant surprise.

Helen from Fullers Library in the UK reached out because one of her youngest members of their writing group found the resources section of my new website useful. Not only that, this young girl wanted to share another link that they’ve found helpful, especially for writers in the film and theatre industry.

Of course I am all too happy to oblige. Any writer knows that writing can be quite a lonely journey, and anytime someone makes a connection, however small (or from halfway across the globe), it’s incredibly encouraging.

As far as writing goes, the end of 2023 was a bit of a dud for me, and while 2024 has been starting a bit slow, little things like this make me realize that I have to keep going and that support and encouragement can come from the most unexpected places.

Here’s the link from young creative Anna, and please say hi to her in the comments if you have a few minutes.

https://www.theaterseatstore.com/blog/writing-for-theater-film

My Favorite Writing Resources

Hello, readers, writers, & fellow bloggers!

It’s been an embarrassingly long time since I’ve blogged, but I have been a busy little writer bee. Most of my time’s been dedicated to revising and editing my WIP, Ocracoke’s Daughter as well as my query and synopsis.

Ever since I discovered The Shit No One Tells You About Writing Podcast back in February, I’ve been OBSESSED with listening to every single episode and using their invaluable advice and critiques to better my manuscript and query (that pesky synopsis is a whole other story …)

Not only has the podcast breathed new life into my novel and set me on the right track for querying, but it helped me finally find a group of beta readers who have given me incredibly helpful input. I’m due to exchange further pages with two of the girls at the end of this month, and I cannot tell you how good it feels to have like-minded writer friends who “get” my genre and will give me valuable feedback and necessary criticism.

Anywho, after thinking about all the podcast has done for me in a few short months, I decided to put together a list of my favorite writing resources to share with other writers out there.

Funds for Writers — This website is chock full of contests and submission opportunities for writers of all levels. They have a weekly newsletter featuring interviews, writerly advice (especially on freelancing), and usually a decent list of publishers and literary agents to submit to. Funds for Writers is probably the biggest contributor to my massive Excel spreadsheet of agents to query.

Jane Friedman — If you’re hungry for information on the business of being a writer, Jane’s website is the place to be. She also features tons of online classes and has a treasure trove of recommended resources for everything from writing a query letter and synopsis to book design and legal issues. Sign up for this newsletter too!

Littsburgh — You read that right! Littsburgh is a regional organization that highlights reader and writer-related events and news in the Pittsburgh area. Even if you don’t live in the Golden Triangle, this is a great resource for book recommendations. They are huge supporters of indie bookstores and their calendar is always teeming with events like author talks, classes, and interviews.

Mslexia — Brought to you by our friends across the pond, Mslexia is a publication aimed at women writers around the world. They also have a fantastic newsletter full of advice and submission opportunities, and they host plenty of contests year-round to help bring unpublished and unagented authors into the limelight.

HerStry — An inclusive, feminist literary mag with themed submissions, editing services, and critique groups, this website focuses on all aspects of being a woman. They were one of the first publications to publish one of my pieces when I got back into writing, so I’ll always have a soft spot for them.

The Shit No One Tells You About Writing — last but certainly not least, TSNOTYAW is the podcast I mentioned at the beginning of this post. I could gush on about these incredible women forever, but believe me when I tell you that their witty, uncensored banter combined with their welcoming approach and spot-on advice will change your writing life. Writing instructor Bianca Marais and two real-world agents read and critique real query letters from real writers and offer insight as to how to make them better to snag an agent. They always have fascinating author interviews and an amazing segment where listeners can call in to ask a bookseller with help finding comps for their WIP. (Fun Fact: I was on one of these episodes on April 24, 2023! Bookseller Emilie gave me some great suggestions on authors whose tone might match mine for Ocracoke’s Daughter. My call is right around the 2-hour mark).

I hope you get a chance to check out each of these websites. Let me know which ones you like and if there’s any others out there you think I should know about!

Imposter Syndrome

When I was searching for a local story to cover for the next issue of The Valley Mirror, I stumbled upon an upcoming concert by a community band. I emailed my editor to see if she wanted me to cover the event, and she replied enthusiastically and asked me to snap a few pictures. Easy enough.

But I started thinking that maybe I should have some personal connection to the band and its members, and after visiting their website I figured it was worth a shot to reach out and see if anyone was willing to chat with me prior to the show. They responded immediately, which was encouraging, but over the next few days I developed serious anxiety about this little concert at a local church.

Maybe it was because it had come together quickly, in less than a week. Maybe it was because the director and VP of the band I emailed suggested introducing me to their guest conductor, a local who has literally traveled the world and whose resume is longer than this blog post. Maybe it was the thought of driving into an unfamiliar part of Pittsburgh, something that always sets me on edge.

Whatever the reason, I woke up the day of the concert in a state of unshakeable anxiety. A nap didn’t help, essential oils didn’t help, and neither did deep breathing. I actually almost emailed the group to tell them that I was sick. But I sucked it up, got dressed, tapped the address into my GPS and hopped in my car.

As expected, I got a little lost in the unfamiliar area, but once I parked, I figured my anxiety would decrease. No such luck.

Was I dressed appropriately? How would I recognize the VP I’d chatted to over the phone three days ago? Should I approach her before the concert or after? Why had I come alone? Would people look at me funny because I was scribbling in my notebook during the songs? Was I allowed to take pictures inside this pretty little church? Could anyone actually see me sweating?

Of course, no epic disaster took place, unless you count the crazy coincidence when the guest conductor picked me out of the audience to sing along to the band’s rendition of Hey Jude. The microphone was in front of my face for maybe twenty seconds, though it felt like twenty minutes, and I was sure my face turned as red as a tomato. (shout out to Dove deodorant though, I guess)?

I met the band’s VP and their director during the intermission, and after the show they took me backstage to snap a few photos and meet the guest conductor who was shocked that he’d coincidentally picked me out of the crowd without knowing I was “their press” for the event. Everyone was chatty and down to earth, no complaints there, but I still couldn’t help feeling awkward and out of place among a large group who was obviously very tightly knit.

Almost as soon as I got home from the show, I had to sit down to work on the article considering the deadline was within twenty-four hours. Normally this was no big deal for me, but I was so physically and mentally exhausted from an entire day wrought with anxiety that I felt as if I’d walked 100 miles.

A week later, I realize there was nothing hugely stressful or epic about that day, that concert, or even the release of my article. And when I think about how anxious I was, I feel ridiculous, as is usually the case with anxiety.

But over the last few days I’ve been trying to analyze why exactly I put so much pressure on myself and why the notion of writing an 800-word article and attending a local concert made me almost sick enough to call the whole thing off.

It’s that pesky imposter syndrome that so many writers talk about.

Maybe it’s because things are finally starting to “flow” for me as a writer. I have a good list of publishing credits on my resume, and I stumbled into freelancing after years of being completely overwhelmed by the notion.

And it’s true what they say — the more you have, the more you accomplish, the more you want.

It’s like I’m . . . SO . . . CLOSE.

I can see it. Almost touch it. 

I want what’s next.

I want the big prize.

I want an agent.

I want to see my book on a shelf.

There have been a few times in my life when I’ve cried thinking about how much I want this; the desire is so overwhelming.

Listening to the phenomenal podcast, The Shit No One Tells You About Writing has added to that desire. Not only has it given me countless tips on querying, but I also finally know how to tackle the dreaded second (third?) draft of my manuscript, Ocracoke’s Daughter. It’s intimidating, sure, but having these ladies by my side virtually also makes me excited to dig in and do the work. That’s a good thing, but the excitement I feel from it also makes me impatient.

Since working through drafts and queries can be rather lonely, I decided to reach out to The Shit to get help looking for comps for Ocracoke. They graciously allow listeners 60 seconds to pitch their manuscript so a bookseller can offer comp suggestions, and since I’m having so much trouble in this arena, I wanted to give it a shot.

I spent weeks crafting a pitch and read it out loud to myself dozens of times. But when it came time to record my question I sounded like a chipmunk on speed. I kept running way over the time limit and had to keep trimming what I thought was such a well-crafted pitch.

By the time I got my message down to the allotted time, I felt like my story was so watered down I no longer liked it. I didn’t feel like it embodied what I wanted to convey. But because I was so impatient, I just started clicking buttons and let it fly anyway.

So now it’s out there in the universe. I don’t know if it’ll be featured on the podcast. If it’s not, I know at the very least The Shit’s audio person will hear it. Maybe it’ll be so terrible she’ll send it to the hosts for a good laugh. Or maybe they’ll roll with it for some bizarre reason and release it into the podcast-sphere and thousands of people will be laughing at me.

Lord.

Even after these embarrassing episodes, I still hadn’t learned my lesson. While #PitMad and #ComPit were busts for me, I keep trying to make connections on Twitter. So when I saw the newest trend #MoodPitch, I irrationally thought I HAVE TO DO THIS! 

I followed a “how to” link on making an effective mood board and excitedly started saving photos. But then I realized I still had no idea what I was doing. Even with step-by-step instructions, a graphic designer I am not. Oh and I STILL didn’t have any comps for this WIP I was attempting to pitch.

So why was I wasting all this time?

Impatience, frustration. Wanting desperately to make connections with the writing community.

Yet each time I try to make those connections I somehow end up embarrassing myself.

I know this is partially due to my anxiety and the fact that this writing stuff is still pretty new to me. The fact that the fear hasn’t stopped me proves that I’ve made progress, but also shows that I have a long way to go.

Just hopefully not too long.

I’ve said it a million times in so many different avenues of my life — if I was put on this earth to learn patience, I’ll live to be 150. Until then, I’ll keep going, hoping that my both my writing and personal achievements keep growing in the right direction.

My next opportunity will come on April 13th, where I’ll attend a release reading for Robert Morris University’s Rune Magazine, a publication that will feature a flash fiction piece I wrote.

Stay tuned for a full report!

For the Love of the Arts

At the beginning of February, a high school south of Pittsburgh suffered a devastating fire that destroyed their auditorium. The marching band lost most of their instruments and uniforms less than a week before they were due to travel to Disney World to perform.
Within hours, alums and surrounding communities (including ‘rival’ school districts) banded together to raise money via social media and collect instruments so that these students could still travel to Florida.

On March 2nd, another area high school received news that the supplier of costumes for their spring musical experienced a fire which destroyed all the dresses, uniforms, and headpieces needed for opening night which was a week away. The director, a thirty-year teaching/directing veteran who clearly understands the meaning of “the show must go on,” put out a request on social media for anyone who had old gowns or turn of the century dress lying around to lend or donate whatever they could to help the students be properly attired for the stage.

As usual in the communities surrounding Pittsburgh, people came together in a big way. And while the end result is a heart-warming example of kind souls and creative minds going out of their way to help artists and musicians, there was of course a shadow lurking behind what should have been a positive story.

In the last few years, I’ve exercised great self-control in refusing to read comments on social media, but every so often I take the bait. When I clicked to see what people were saying about the destruction of thousands of dollars of costumes, I was actually expecting supportive and encouraging comments and suggestions. But humanity let me down this time. (please forgive my atrocious editing skills) —

For context, you can read the article here.

After stewing on these negative comments for a day, when I went back to the post for reference, some of the more disheartening and downright insulting comments appear to have been deleted — and rightfully so — by the news channel.
Some zingers I specifically remember were along the lines of:

“Unbelievable. So much destruction and these people are worried about their kids getting to Florida/singing and dancing.”

“no respect for a firefighter who died in the line of duty”

“these kids need to suck it up and learn what’s really important”

Fascinating that the same people who would call these kids weak snowflakes for cancelling the show or the trip are now calling them selfish and small minded for going on with it.

But these are probably the same people who will NEVER acknowledge the importance of the arts or give credit where credit is due when it comes to rehearsals, practices, or fund raising.  People whose heads will explode if their football team doesn’t crush an opponent or who make their child cry when they strikeout in softball. These are the same people can’t lower themselves to congratulate, sympathize, or empathize with a band or cast who lost everything.

I’m not sure why I’m surprised.

I was in marching band for four years in high school and my sister performed in four of our spring musicals and every chorus concert. I can’t even begin to imagine how many thousands of dollars we had to fundraise for trips, costumes, and uniforms. I can’t fathom the number of times our parents picked us up from rehearsals and grueling practices that lasted long into the night.
What I can tell you is that these kids — yes, teenagers are still kids — give their literal blood, sweat, and tears for these organizations and events, and they do it all in the name of creativity and love.

Sure, most of us did not make a career out of any of this. Sure, most of us were only averagely talented. But we took pride in our work. We learned life skills and made lifelong friends. We learned confidence and value and culture. All the while being ridiculed and discounted by our peers, our sports teams, and yes, sometimes even teachers and other adults.

We were told that what we did was pointless. We were told we didn’t deserve practice fields or trophies. My junior year, our cast of South Pacific was literally greeted with uproarious laughter after our principal turned a performance into a joke.

And now the director of this unfortunate high school who has given thirty years of his life to students is being blasted for trying to convey a message of soldiering on. Instead of admiring the teams’ work or perseverance, people are accusing them of being selfish for having valid emotions over the loss of something they’ve worked extremely hard for.

When it comes to musicals, concerts, or even trips to Disney, what most people don’t realize is that the students involved are not only invested in that one show or that one night.
Going to Disney World is not simply a vacation. There is an application process bands have to go through and it takes years of fundraising and months of rehearsal. The same is true for trips taken by the chorus or orchestra. Even if the students only have one performance on their trip, for many of them this is an opportunity for many life ‘firsts’ — their first time traveling without their parents, their first time on a plane, the first time they’ll be trusted to budget money, honor meet ups and check ins, and rise to the occasion to perform at top level in an unfamiliar venue. And they do this knowing that they’ll still have a week’s worth of schoolwork to catch up on as soon as they return.

When a cast takes the stage for opening night, no one sees the nerve-wracking auditions or the hours it takes to memorize a script. No one sees the sweat pouring off their faces after mastering dance moves. No one feels the uncertainty of the female lead who had laryngitis. No one sees the two cast mates who fell in love in between scenes. And no one acknowledges that most of these students somehow manage to maintain their grades throughout.

All I ever wanted in high school, and even today, is for those who are closed-minded about the arts to give it a chance. To not judge or ridicule. To not automatically think they’re better, stronger, smarter humans when compared to those who sing or dance. It never really sat right with me that students were forced to take gym classes for 12 years but only had to take music or art until 5th or 6th grade. And it certainly never sat well with me that those who chose to continue on in the arts were automatically pegged as weak, nerdy, nobodies. I could never wrap my head around why it was okay for a flute player to like hockey (like myself), but it wasn’t okay for a football player to date a trumpet player.

Twenty years after graduating, what I still don’t understand about all this lack of respect for the arts is that we give it so willingly to other organizations — if you’re a football player or soccer player you are automatically a god among men. Strong, dedicated, focused, talented. The same can be said for those who volunteer with certain organizations or choose certain careers. While I’m not suggesting that respect is finite, I am suggesting that perhaps maybe we need to learn to extend that respect to all types of hobbies, all types of careers, all types of talents. Obviously different people will have different affinities — a bookworm is probably not going to have the same interests as a thrill seeker. A ballerina is probably not going to have the same interests as a graphic designer. And that’s okay. As I tried to convey in one of my previous posts, this isn’t about everyone’s jobs or interests fitting neatly into evenly-spaced categories.

It’s about coming together as humans to appreciate and support one another no matter how we define ourselves.

Updates!

Admittedly, it’s been awhile since I’ve posted regularly. It’s been a hectic year, with buying the new house, working on endless remodeling projects, and dealing with ongoing family health issues.

All things considered, 2022 wasn’t an entirely unproductive year writing wise. In the fall, I landed my first actual freelance job writing for a small local newspaper called The Valley Mirror. This publication has been a staple in the Mon Valley of Pittsburgh for decades, and I remember the weekly edition being a constant presence at my grandparents’ house. To be honest, it had been years since I even thought of the paper, especially considering it’s such a tiny publication with no real online presence. In the days of digital media, I was sure the organization was defunct, but an unlikely source let me know that a new, millennial-aged writer had recently taken over as editor and she was looking for contributors. After exchanging a few emails and having a quick phone conversation, I began submitting articles every few weeks and she’s published most of them. It’s been so cool to see my name in black and white and I’ve gotten some great feedback. Getting paid is certainly an awesome bonus that’s been a goal of mine for a few years, so this was a big confidence booster.

Towards the end of the year, I also added two more publishing credits to my name. Lavendar Bones published a visceral piece called Beaumont, and I also received notice from Defuncted Journal that they’d re-home a piece I wrote a few years ago for a publication that no longer exists (link will be posted once it’s up on their site).

On the negative side of things, after a string of query rejections with positive feedback, my last few “no thanks yous” from agents have been of the form variety, and I’m struggling with exactly what to change about my submission process. I took the plunge and paid an editor to review and critique my query and synopsis for The Month of May, and while she helped me revise a lot, her conclusion was that the pacing of my manuscript was “off” and suggested I re-work it. Considering I’ve rewritten May at least half a dozen times, I feel like I’ve hit a brick wall. I have no idea how to rework the book again and am terrified and overwhelmed on where to even start.

I’m also in the midst of navigating a horribly disappointing turn of events associated with a contest I won in late 2021. Long story short, the publication has yet to happen and I’m losing faith that it ever will. It’s gotten to the point where I’d prefer to find a different publisher for my story, but of course I have to navigate the legal/rights issues first.
Luckily someone I know is a law student and he’s going to try to at least see what my options are. I certainly don’t want to sue anyone or get anyone in trouble, but I do feel as though I should have the right to publish my story elsewhere.

But I will end this post by going back to something positive.
I recently discovered a writer podcast that I LOVE and wanted to recommend it to anyone who is looking for another form of support. The Shit No One Tells You About Writing is hosted by three women — writers and literary agents — and although I’ve only listed to three of four episodes so far, I truly believe their intent is to help writers make their dreams come true. There’s a ton of episodes to sift through, but right now I’m focusing on the Q&A sessions that concentrate on querying and comps, and I’ve already learned so much. Their website has plenty of opportunities for writers to submit questions, participate in book clubs and workshops, and even share their success stories. There’s a page with resources for editing, book design, and coaching, and of course lots of recs on other writing-related podcasts.

Check it out!

Jobs of Value

Prior to spring of 2020, if someone had told you that society would be treating grocery store employees with the same reverence as first responders, you probably would have thought they were nuts.

But in the early days of the pandemic, when everything was shut down except medical facilities and grocery stores, we suddenly came to realize just how important a seemingly “easy” or “entry level” job was.

While it was great to see people thanking cashiers, delivery drivers, and shelf stockers and treating them with reverent respect, it also made me think. These people weren’t doing anything differently than they had been before COVID-19 changed our daily lives. Before the pandemic, most customers probably treated grocery store employees as indifferently as the inanimate shopping cart they pushed through the aisles. Shoppers with high-paying salaries or a number of degrees under their belt may have even scoffed at these people, wondering why anyone would want to work in a grocery store. Now all of a sudden society was seeing these people in a new light — a light that perhaps should have been there all along.

For ages, there have always been invisible lines drawn designating some jobs as more valuable than others — EMTs, nurses, police officers, and teachers are always held in high regard. While I’m not trying to take anything away from those professionals, it’s interesting to think about how the exceptional value of these positions can actually cause us to look down on other jobs inadvertently.

In my last post, I talked about my husband not necessarily feeling valued at his job. To make matters worse, he’s under some delusion that all the work he does around the house isn’t anything of value either. While he’s not a professional, he’s probably as close as one can get without having any formal training or experience.

Within the first few days of us moving into the new house, he installed a water pressure regulator and replaced the wonky toilet, shower doors, and shower head in the main bathroom. He’s slowly replacing all outlets and light switches in each room. Along with his friend, he spent fourteen hours refinishing the hardwood floors before we moved in. He ripped up the ugly tile in the dining room and replaced it with solid, modern flooring. He’s painted, put up curtains and shades. He took our kitchen down to the bare bones and rebuilt it piece by piece. He did the same thing with our basement bathroom. He’s hand-dug holes and set fence posts, wired up chain link and constructed gates so our dogs could have a safe yard to run freely in. He’s replaced locks and fixed leaks, installed a dishwasher and a water line for our refrigerator. While he was working on the fence one day, a random guy driving past slowed down to ask him if he was in the fencing business. Even after J explained that he was a DIY-er, the guy pretty much offered him a job at his contracting company.

The last time J went to see his PCP, he was telling his doctor about how he’d hurt his thumb working on the fence. The doctor replied with, “You’re building a fence? I thought you remodeled your kitchen.”

“I did that too,” J replied. “And the bathroom.”

This doctor, a man who had attended medical school for an absurd number of years, furrowed his brown and said, “Isn’t that stuff hard?”

There he was, talking to a man who was automatically placed on a pedestal because of his occupation, yet that doctor was beyond impressed with the projects J had tackled as a DIY-er.

Now, my husband had said multiple times how much he likes and respects his PCP, and in a world where doctors tend to rush patients out the door and throw pills in their faces for every ailment, J’s PCP is probably one in a million. But as cool and helpful and educated as this man is, he was obviously stymied by home improvement projects that J tackles on a regular basis.

For someone who in all likelihood has endless office hours, J’s knowledge and ability to fix a leak, change a faulty plug, or remodel a bathroom is probably invaluable. Yet it is no secret that society tends to treat laborers with less respect than people who hold degrees.

The same can be said when it comes to celebrities and athletes. When an NFL player suffered a terrifying cardiac event in the middle of a game a few weeks ago, the world seemed to stop while millions hoped and prayed for his recovery. That same day, a police officer from Pittsburgh was killed in the line of duty, and I saw several posts on social media about how that officer’s sacrifice should not have been overshadowed by a football player.

But it’s not a competition. There is no one counting the amount of posts, ‘likes,’ or prayers sent into the universe about the NFL player or the fallen officer. The fact of the matter is that all people deserve care, respect, and recognition for what they do — no matter how difficult or “easy” their jobs may be, no matter how much they get paid or how much or how little the public knows about them.

Before I worked in the auto-adjacent industry, I could have cared less about tow truck drivers. But over the years I’ve learned just how much these people do on a daily basis and how dangerous and difficult their jobs are. They climb under 4000 lb. vehicles to hook up a tow chain or change a flat tire. They risk their lives every time they climb out of their truck on a busy highway. They maneuver cars without brakes or cars missing tires. They keep your car safe if you’re transported from an accident by ambulance. They work in every kind of weather, crawling on the wet, muddy ground, fishing their hands into places where they could slice open their skin. They’re out there in the heat, the snow, and the rain. They answer emergency calls at 3am are often the first to arrive at the scene of accidents.

Nearly every job out there holds some type of hardship or difficulty that outsiders know nothing about. Yet we place value on positions and people because of our limited knowledge of what they represent.

The school bus driver who kept kids safe and calm after an accident — the same guy who doesn’t make much more than minimum wage and doesn’t have benefits.

The customer service rep who answered the phone when my devastated husband called to make our dog’s appointment to cross the rainbow bridge and soothed him through his sobs.

The Z Trip driver who helped an elderly man carry five heavy bags of personal belongings from his wrecked car.

The custodian who grasped my hand while I was sobbing in the hallway during my mom’s most recent hospital stay.

The animal rescue worker who stopped her car on the side of a four-lane highway to save an emaciated dog darting in and out of traffic.

The administrative assistant who came into work on her day off to help her boss find an expensive, critical piece of equipment that went missing.

The Hallmark employee who took money out of her own wallet so a ninety-year-old man could buy his wife a birthday card.

Employees are people. Their work is valuable, no matter what it is or what it pays.

Eleven-year-old Self

“What are you, eleven?”

This was the question posed to my husband after telling someone that he recently got back into hockey card collecting and selling.

To be fair, out of context, I may have asked the same thing.

In the age of the Internet, social media, and digital versions of pretty much everything, I had no idea that trading cards even still existed.

But when we moved last year, my husband discovered a local store that operates several locations in the Pittsburgh area selling cards, autographed jerseys and helmets, as well as panoramic pictures of NHL and NFL stadiums. One day after work he decided to stop by and see what it was all about. Suddenly he was transported back to his childhood.

On “take your child to work” days, or days where his parents’ shifts would bookend each other, J would often spend a few hours with his dad who worked in the parking garage of Children’s Hospital. The bonus to these days would be trips to the hospital gift shop, where J was allowed to buy a pack of hockey trading cards to keep his young mind occupied. J still has many of these cards today. Most of them are not worth much monetarily, but they remind him of a simpler time and serve as a connection to his father who passed away in 2009.

After a few trips to the local card shop in the last year, it didn’t take long for J’s excitement over trading cards to reignite. He spent some time reorganizing his binders, dusting off his 3D collectibles, and researching items online to see if he had any of value. For Christmas, I bought him a wall-mounted case that now hangs in our game room and displays his “best” cards — those of both sentimental and moderate monetary value.

In between purchasing packs of cards and selling some older ones on Ebay, J also began following several YouTubers who actually make a living “unboxing” and discussing hockey trading cards. Much like anything these days, enthusiasts of all types can find a kinship online with people who are just as passionate about a certain item or subject as they are. When you think about it, it’s not unlike what I’m doing as a writer — putting my thoughts out on the world wide web on the off chance that some reader, writer, or self-described anxiety case will identify with me and give a post a “like” or, if I’m lucky, follow my page.

Recently, J decided to throw his hat into the ring of YouTubers. So far he’s posted two of his own “unboxing” videos and plans to do more on a regular basis. He also talked about posting videos where he displays his favorite hockey memorabilia, from trading cards to collectible figurines of his favorite goalie, Patrick Roy.

While hockey is truly the only sport I’ve ever been enthusiastic about, I still don’t quite understand the lure of trading cards — or the “unboxing” videos if I’m being honest. But what I can appreciate is how they’ve given J a spark of passion and joy for someone who is one of the hardest working people I know.

My husband has worked at the same place for eleven years. In that time, he’s worked in three different departments — receiving promotions and raises, being named team-lead, and passing certifications. But over the last few years, he’s struggled to feel as though his work is valued. He feels “stuck” and slightly bored but is not sure what else he’d like to do for a living. Instead of focusing on a career move that he isn’t sure he even wants, I’ve suggested several times that he pursue some sort of passion outside of work to see if that helps his particular case of the blues.

To be fair, he’s given certain things a fair shot — guitar lessons, online gaming communities, and setting up a Twitch account to gain followers who play the same video games. (People can potentially get paid lots of money for this too). Despite his best efforts, none of these ventures filled the void, and none of them really provided any sort of significant financial gain. But he’s been focusing on the hockey card thing for a few months now, and maybe, just maybe, this is the thing that will stick. He recently shared his YouTube channel on Facebook, and since he’s always been so supportive of my writing ventures, I am sharing his link here — https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uinscySOsFs

I’m sure there will be plenty of people who furrow their brows in confusion and even ask the same question that I started this post with — “are you an eleven-year-old boy?”

When you think of trading cards, your mind very well may picture a group of elementary or middle school kids excitedly gathered around a pile of cards at recess. But judging by the multiple locations that my husband’s new favorite store has, it’s obviously still a lucrative business as well. And I’m sure the guys on YouTube who literally make their living in the trading card business would be proud to tell their eleven-year-old selves that they could pursue this hobby as a job as an adult.

My husband’s rekindled fascination with trading cards isn’t much different from my writing endeavors. I realized I wanted to be a writer when I was — you guessed it — eleven years old. I literally remember sitting in sixth grade English class when I had the epiphany that has stuck with me for twenty-six years. Even though I had to claw my way back to it after decades of self-doubt and mental health battles, writing is the singular thing I’ve returned to again and again throughout my life. Since I made writing a priority again back in 2016, I’ve made less than $3000. Zero of those dollars came from this blog. But it’s helped me connect with readers and writers from Canada to Australia, and as long as it gives me a certain amount of kinship and validation in this crazy world, that’s more valuable than a lot of things.

I’m sure the wide-eyed eleven-year-old in my husband’s heart feels the same way about hockey cards.