July 18, 2005

Heading home from the hospital after having Mack, I realized that I had made the classic first time mom blunder of thinking that just because I didn’t gain a ton of weight while I was pregnant, I would be able to fit into my pre-pregnancy shorts when we left the hospital.

Being a sympathetic man, or at least not wanting to listen to me complain, Hubs stopped at Walmart, the haven of cheap clothing and essentials you didn’t know you needed for your newborn and we bought a pair of denim capris. I was able to buy the size I wore before I was pregnant because they had so much stretch in them, so I was a happy mama.

For the next three years, I was in love with my capris. They were probably in just about every load of laundry I washed, just so I could keep wearing them. They were awesome! They had cargo pockets on the sides and a slight flare at the bottom. They were roomy and the stretch accommodated any fluctuation in my weight.

May 16, 2009

My capris were part of my going home outfit after having Bubba. It was about this time that I noticed they were starting to get thin in spots. That’s okay, they still fit and they were comfy. The denim was worn and soft, a surprisingly comforting feeling.

Summer 2011

Sometime last summer, I noticed holes starting to form in the knees of my favorite capris. I was devastated! Six years later and my less than $20 investment was going to hell! One would think that’s the end of the capris, but you would be wrong. Once the holes were big enough that they looked really bad (you know, because just wearing holey capris isn’t a fashion concern), I just took the scissors to them!

Throughout the summer, more rips started appearing on the thighs. I told myself this was acceptable since people pay good money for jeans that are pre-ripped, and mine are all-natural.

I was a little more cautious about where I would wear my comfy shorts, but they were a staple in my wardrobe. I wouldn’t wear them to church or a family function, but that was pretty much the limit. And they had to be worn with flip flops because tennis shoes just didn’t look right!

Late Spring 2012

Around mid-May, I pulled out my shorts and started wearing them for the year. The rips were more prominent, the threads a tangled mess that had to be clipped after every wash. And then I noticed the holes starting at the top of the cargo pockets.

Suddenly, my shorts that I loved scared me. What if those holes got bigger while I was wearing the shorts? I may not be a fashion plate, but I do have enough respect for others (mostly a would-be mortified Mack) that I’m not going to walk around with my shorts ripped out right at the bottom of my backside!

That held me back for about two weeks, at which point the upcoming laundry day necessitated our reunion. I figured it was okay, anyone at the laundromat would understand that I had to wear my shorts that day. And, like an addict, “just this once” wasn’t enough.

Last Week

After our first trip to the pool, I noticed the rips getting even bigger. “I have to get rid of these.” I thought as I looked at the gaping hole in my left thigh. But I’m addicted to my capris-turned-shorts, I know I’m not strong enough. Something drastic had to be done.

As I began to play with the fabric, or what was left of it, I could feel the denim disintegrating in my hands. I knew what I had to do.

In a moment of desperation to end this unhealthy relationship once and for all, I started pulling at every ripped edge and tore the thigh open from seam to seam. Now, if I wanted to wear them, I would have to cut them off so they’d have about a 1/2 inch inseam, and no matter how much I love my shorts, I can’t bring myself to do that to anyone.

I’ll miss my capris. They walked through the door with me the first time each of our children came home. They were what I put on to take my kids to the park for the first time. They covered me during swim lessons, dance and everything else. And the worst part? I have NO clue what will take their place!

For far too long now, I’ve called myself a “blogger.” While it’s true that I do have a blog, to me, that’s not what I am. It’s not what I need to be. I am a writer. If I wasn’t writing here, I would be writing elsewhere. It’s part of the fabric of who I am. While there are many professional bloggers out there who can be committed to their craft while calling themselves bloggers, I can’t. And from here out, I won’t.

What is a Blogger?

To me, a blogger is someone who has a hobby and puts up posts on whatever comes to mind from time to time. Before you pull out the pitch forks, this is the way my mind operates, I’m not saying it’s the definitive truth. Everything is very casual, there’s no plan of attack in place.

What is a Writer?

A writer, on the other hand, is someone who takes time to research what they are writing about, sits down and creates a draft, edits it, cuts words here and adds words there, until they have a piece of work they would be proud to show off. That is who I want to be.

I took a break from everything today and sat down by the lake while Mack was at her swimming lesson, and this was the conclusion I came to. I don’t want my writing to be a hobby, I want it to be a business. I want to stand with my shoulders back and my head held high when I tell people that writing is what I do for a living. I can already do that with my design, I have confidence and a path with that part of my life.

Have you made the shift from being a hobbyist to a business person? What changes did you make in your mindset to help you succeed?

Being the crazy believer I am in signs that you’re on the right path, this image was on the first page of results when I typed in “state of mind” looking for an image. I have no clue how this sign fits with state of mind, but it completely fits with the fact that I’m a writer, not just a blogger!  Thank you, God, for the little sign that I’m starting to get the message!

When we were teens, every new relationship brought to life a new mix tape. We would sit on the floor of my bedroom, tape case in front of us and my double deck cassette player just to my right. We would pore over the collection of tapes, hoping to find the perfect songs to profess our undying love and affection for whatever boy we were either dating (and, of course, going to spend the rest of our lives with) or, the majority of the time in my case, the boys I wanted to date, but either they didn’t know I existed or I was so firmly planted in the “friends zone” that there was no crossing the border.

While I can’t say my high school years were my romantic wonder years, I miss making mix tapes. I will never forget my second boyfriend, who made me a mix tape of songs that told me how he felt about me, so I could listen in my car, even when we were apart. The B side was songs that we enjoyed listening to when we were together. It was such a simple gesture, but one I will never forget.

Maybe it’s because I’ve always considered music to be the soundtrack to life. It’s not just something entertaining to listen to in the background, it sets the tone, it puts into words what you could never say. Even now, I have playlists compiled that set the tone for my work day, I have to have Jimmy Buffet playing when I clean and They Might Be Giants when I’m designing. I have a playlist I put in when I’m having a down night and know that the only cure it to let it out in the form of a therapeutic cry.

Music brings memories flooding to the front of my consciousness. I can’t listen to Mike and the Mechanics because “The Living Years” came on the radio the day we lost my mom’s mom and the afternoon I heard the news that my dad’s dad had passed away and I was waiting for dad to get back to town so we could join the family. Candlebox was the tape I listened to while I was sitting in my car, playing chauffeur for my friend so she could see her boyfriend. There aren’t many songs that come on that don’t bring back some sort of memory for me.

It seems like the faster life starts to move, the more we lose track of the little things that used to mean so much. Who knows, maybe it’s something kids still do, but we allow to fall off our radars when we grow up. That’s really a shame because the mix tape used to be a love letter when the words wouldn’t flow onto paper.

One more quick memory… as I was writing this, the Rascal Flatts version of this song came on my playlist. Most people don’t realize they were the ones who made it big, but not the first to perform it. I met Melodie Crittenden in about 1996 or 1997 (time’s fuzzy, I’m getting old) when she was doing a radio tour. I was the front desk clerk at the hotel she stayed at and checked her out in the morning. We talked and she gave me an autographed single before she left. The first time I played the song, I bawled like a baby. I truly was on the Broken Road at the time. It’s funny how things come into our lives at the perfect times…

Yes, I know, many of you may laugh at that statement, but as someone who has been able to sleep in for the past eight months thanks to having a night-shift husband, this is just stupid early! So, why am I awake? Because Jeff Goins told me to.

I’m working my way through his 15 Habits of Great Writers series right now, and right there in black and white on day 2 was a call to wake up two hours early to write. I have to admit, there was part of me ready to throw in the towel when I read it and part of me that didn’t believe I’d peel my butt out of my nice, cozy bed (notice, I didn’t say anything about comfortable) when the alarm went off. As my husband and I discussed last night, I have a great respect for sleep. Sleep and I have a good relationship and it works for us.

On the other hand, Jeff is right, you have to make time to be a writer. And as much as I’d like to think that I could just as easily do my writing at night, once the kids are in bed, I know that’s not true. There are too many distractions in life once the world is awake. Writing in the morning, the only distraction I have is my husband trying to tell me about the latest debates he’s gotten into on Facebook, which is normally a play-by-play of what’s going on.

So, why was the advice to get up two hours early and write? Because if you are to believe that you are a writer, you have to be willing to be committed to that belief and bring that reality to life. It will be a day by day challenge, but like a small child’s belief in Santa or the Tooth Fairy, I believe this and I’m going to make it work. For two hours each morning, before the kids are awake, I am going to commit to a date with my coffee cup and my computer screen.

When was the last time you took a step to commit to your dreams and make them a reality?

Today, I’ve spent some quality time with someone I have been missing. Me. There are times “Heather” has to fade to the background because of the other important roles in my life, like being mother to Bubba and Mack and wife to Hubs, but once again, I’ve allowed myself to sink into the quest for the necessary evil in life. Money. And it’s taken a toll on me. But just over 1,000 words later, I’m feeling the life coming back into my body.

When I was 15, my dad belonged to an APA zine, a collection of amateur writers who produced at least one page of work every other month, headed to Kinkos and printed 30 copies on whatever color was suitable to them, and delivered the finished works to the editor, who collated, stapled and mailed each month’s collection. Now that I think of it, the zines were a kind of pre-Internet network of blogs. The writing was freestyle, some creative, some journals, but all enjoyable in their own way.

After a few months of reading what my dad wrote, going to a local restaurant each Wednesday night for their get-togethers, and eventually guest writing on his zine, I was nominated to join their group. As a 15 year old girl in a room full of adults, it was intimidating at first. My dad assured me that if I wasn’t a mature writer, he wouldn’t have nominated me, and encouraged me to write what came to my heart. That’s something he has always done, looked for the strengths a person possesses and nurturing them to grow.

My first zine title was “Rope the Moon,” the title of a John Michael Montgomery song and a hat tilt to the man who I am lucky enough to call “daddy.” That experience taught me about deadlines, about writing well and writing to engage the reader. But more than that, my dad made sure I wasn’t writing what I thought someone else wanted to read, but rather to write what my heart wanted to create. “When you write with passion, the reader will pick up on that and want to read your words. When you write what your head thinks you should, it’s forced and not as enjoyable.”

I forgot that nugget for a long time. I wrote about what I thought would bring readers to my site, which in turn would allow my statistics to increase to the point where I could review products, secure advertising deals and, with any luck, be the next big blogger that everyone was talking about.

The problem is, unlike back then, when I knew at least half of the members “in real life” the Internet is a whole new beast, one where everyone is a stranger. Think about it, even if you form “friendships” online, there are times those “relationships” crumble like a house of cards if you meet the person face to face. And what percentage of the people you “know” on the Internet ever have a chance to leave a real-life impression on your heart?

That means I was spending my time writing for people I didn’t know a single thing about. I was writing for the search engines, hoping to bring new readers to my site. And I was draining my personal fuel tank until I was running on fumes.

It’s time to remember that writing is something that feeds my soul. Much like a relationship, it’s not something I can force to make it when there’s nothing there. When I can remember that concept, that is what I love the most about writing. The feeling I get when the spark is there, the emotions that fill me as my fingers glide across the keyboard. Now, will someone promise to remind me of that from time to time?