Write or Die

Today, I officially became a freelance writer, and I owe it to insanity.  
I was too insane to quit.

I was a hustler by day.  Sales.  Straight commission.  Even though I enjoyed my job, the economy was not conducive to selling anything.   While I wasn't making enough money, I was still afraid to leave the job for the unpredictable world of freelance.  I also recognized I’d never make it as a writer until I knew more about the industry.

So there I was, working the day job and writing whenever I could squeeze in some time.  Sometimes, the lines blurred.  Last spring, I was at a convention answering questions from potential customers as they passed by our booth.  I gazed at them as they strolled by, wondering who they were, what their wounds were, what kind of character they’d make in a story.  My mind was on anything but my “job.” 

Then, the “ah-ha” moment hit.

A woman approached, picked up our brochure and asked about our company.  I jumped into my sales pitch, “blah, blah, blahing” her the spin.  During our chat, I asked, “what is it you do now?”  She answers, “Oh, I’m a writer.”  My heart sank.  I wanted to yell, “I’m a writer too!”  But I couldn’t.  I stuffed it down and presented her with my card of my false life.  She was a writer.  I was a salesperson.   I vomited in my mouth. 

The next week, I met my writing partner for breakfast.   He noticed my distraction.  I shared my frustration of living a dual life.  Would I ever be free?  He reached across the table, looked straight into my teary eyes, “Jeanne, I am your biggest believer.  You are a writer.”  You’d think, coming from a Pulitzer Prize winner, I would believe him.  I wanted to believe him.  

I kept working the job, writing blog posts and connecting with writers.  I soaked up information anywhere I could find it.  I simply wouldn’t give up.  I was readying myself for the opportunity.   When that opportunity finally arrived, it was in the form of Jane Friedman, publisher of Writer’s Digest.

I met Jane on Twitter and pimped out her links and those of her colleagues.   She knew my day job was based in Cincinnati, so when Writer’s Digest had its 90^th Anniversary Party, she invited me.  I used my last airmile to get there.

It was a dream come true.  I had found nirvana in that crowded bar full of hippy writers.   I was the real me.   I was smiling so brightly, my face hurt.   Jane opened her arms, literally and figuratively and changed my life.  While drinking and chatting about Twitter, she nonchalantly said, “You should write an article for us on the value of Twitter.”  She was dead serious. 

Before my plane took off, I started writing.  I submitted a classic, conservative article along with a how-to list to tweeting.  Jane sweetly replied the article was “solid,” but she wanted a personal essay of my journey through Twitterverse in my own unique voice.  I rolled up my velour sleeves and gave her the pure, raw Twitter Pimp Angel that is Jeanne.

Today, I got an email from Writer’s Digest, making an offer to acquire my submission.   Within two hours, I had the contract signed, scanned and back. 

I still don’t know how I did it through the tears.  Yes, tears.  I was bawling.  I’m still crying.  I wish I had the words to describe the validation coursing through me.  It’s more than validation; it’s relief.  All the tension, anxiety, fear, and insanity that is being a writer is pouring out my eyes as the words fly out my fingertips. 

The irony is the editor probably has finalized offers with hundreds, maybe thousands of writers.  Today was just one more writer providing the article to fill the empty slot.  But for me, it was a day I will remember forever.  A gift.  A blessing.  A moment of hope.  I am a writer.  I am free.   Freelance.  Damn.  I did it!  

What Jane didn’t know was just hours before I walked into that party, I quit my day job.  It was time.  Write or die.  


I pray I never forget this feeling or ever take it for granted.

The Honest Scrap Award

I click a link and BAM – I discover I have been awarded the Honest Scrap Award by Brittany Landgrebe aka @lights_aurora.  I look closer. This must be a mistake.  Perhaps it reads “Honest Crap Award”… yeah, that would be more like it.

I have no idea what this award means, but it comes with rules.  I knew there was a catch.  Why couldn’t it come with unicorns, candy and sparklers?  I read closer. 

The rules? Simple. Reveal ten things you likely don’t know about me, then pass the award on to someone else I admire. They shall do the same, and it’s just a whole big pile of Honest Scrap!

She admires me!  She admires me!  I felt like Rudolph.

Once the happy dust settled, the rules sunk in.  I’m to unleash 10 sins to cyberspace and do the work for TMZ.   Afraid?  Hell, no.  I’m very competitive, therefore the thought of beating a reporter hiding in my shrubs and sifting through my garbage for an award-winning expose of my life has my sin-riddled skin tingling. 

I need to channel a reporter to get into character.  But who… or is it whom?  If I were Walter Cronkite, I’d know the answer.  He was my fraternity brother (see #7 below).  I even shook his hand while wearing a very ugly 1980s puffy dress.  I was in the dress, not Walter.  Just wanted to clarify, since I’m a top-notch reporter and all. 

Does that count as one of the ten?  Nah, I’ll give you that one for free.

1.  Jackasses make me laugh.  In the 60s, my parents decided to move to the country in pursuit of a simpler life.  Intellectual father.  Hippy mother.  They found an old run-down farmhouse on 150 acres where the animals roamed free… inside and out.  Flies.  Oh man, were there flies.  The sale came with a horse and a jackass.  I always giggled when my daddy said, “jackass”  *giggle*.  I was four when a scary man came and took them away.  They either became my school glue or my dog’s dinner.  I hate the smell of both.  

2. I didn’t like to play with the girls in kindergarten.  I wanted to play with the boy toys… oops, I mean boyS' toys.  My kindergarten teacher didn’t know what to do with me, since all the other girls were fighting over the only cute doll.  At first, she tried to conform me into a proper girl, but I always ended up on the sidelines starring at the boy’s fascinating toys that made noises and turned into buildings and magical structures.  These girls bored me.  One day, the teacher knelt by me, took my hand and said, “Go ahead.  Show me what you can do.”  She unleashed my creativity in that single moment.  I ran straight to the Legos and found a quiet, shy boy who became my best friend.  I remember building a duck with wheels for feet.  I still have some clay ducks we made together. I guess we liked ducks.  

3.  I have always been unlucky in love.  My Lego duck buddy came to class with cupcakes.  I was confused.  I knew it wasn’t his birthday, but was convinced he did it just for me.  He knew the way to my heart.   He liked ducks, after all.  As I joyously gobbled my chocolately goodness, he sadly announced he was moving away.  My heart was pounding so hard I thought I’d throw up… but I never let chocolate out once it was in.  I held back tears all day.  As we lay on the mats for our daily nap, I let the tears fall.  He crawled closer to me and held my hand.  I squeezed his back.  When it was time to say goodbye, he leaned in and gave me a kiss.  My first kiss.  Then he ran out the door and never looked back.  I don’t remember his name... but he loved me.  I didn’t play with Legos the rest of the school year.  I tried to conform… because playing with the boys hurt too much.

4.  I was obsessed with babies.  I cut baby pictures out of magazines and hid them in my room.  The Vietnam War was always on the news.  I’d watch people bringing home Vietnamese babies, praying my parents would adopt one for me.  Being the youngest of four, I wanted a little sister.   I cried when the war ended, and no one understood why.

5.  I am a murderer.  Back on the farm, we replaced all the farm animals with forty-five cats.  Yes, you read that right.  The previous owners would let their pigs in the house, but we changed that rule.  Our cats were never allowed inside unless one was about to give birth.   Grumph gave birth a lot.  She was a kitty slut.   I used to curl up with my kitten on the couch and fall asleep.  When I woke from my deep child-like slumber, I found her lifeless, fuzzy body and panicked.  I squashed her.  I ran to the fire and laid her on the warm hearth, hoping to bring her back to life.  I don’t remember anything other than being alone in the living room with the dead kitten and feeling empty.  I think I left her there and ran upstairs.  I wonder what my parents thought when they found her.  They might have thought I was the next Ted Bundy.  Yikes.  I should really ask.

I need a part two to #5 because now I’m depressed.  Let me share a really cool kitty story:  my siblings’ kittens were always healthy, but my kitties often fell victim to amputation.   No, I didn’t amputate them.  I just had bad kitty luck, remember?   I will never forget picking my injured kitten up from the vet only to be terrified to hold the now "broken" kitten.   The vet heartlessly shoved the kitten into my 6-year-old arms, with still-bleeding stump, and told me I was selfish for not loving her.  He was a mean prick.  I had no idea how to handle a three-legged cat.  I ignored her for weeks.  She hobbled around the house crying for me.  I hated her.  I missed what she was before… perfect.  Then one day, I was playing with my matchbox cars on the square-patterned rug, and she came bouncing over.  Without even thinking, I swept her up in my arms and kissed her.  A moment passed and I froze, holding this imperfect cat that I had hated.  An enormous smile swept my face, and I went running out of the room, kitty clutched into my chest, yelling, “Mommy, mommy… I DO love her!”  That kitten taught me great lessons in loving the imperfect.   I don’t remember her name… but she loved me and I loved her.

6. We never bought new clothes as kids.  Our “shopping sprees” were always at Salvation Army – $1 for a paper bag of clothes.  Sure, my dad had a great job, but my mom was a hippy and a Depression-Era kid.  I think she felt guilty buying new things.  Once, she drove in the yard in her hippy van, jumped out, and yelled for us.  She whipped open the back doors like The Price is Right curtain, revealing hundreds of jeans!  Fat jeans, skinny jeans, straight jeans, and bell-bottoms.  She paid $100 for the van load.  We were set for life.  I made purses, stuffed animals and my own bell-bottoms with flowered-patterned triangles.  Man, my mom was cool.  She picked up hitchhikers too.

7.  I never joined a sorority.  I went through the whole rushing process.  Even got a bid to the most popular sorority on campus.  But when it came time to accept, I felt like that little girl in kindergarten.  I just didn’t get it.  I didn’t want to fight over the pretty doll.  I became a little sister in a fraternity instead. 

8. I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan and even fix the broken shelves.  I was 29 when I got married and managed a motel and restaurant.  I had all the girlie things I needed at that age, but I didn’t have tools.  For my wedding shower, I registered at True Value Hardware Store.  There was even a picture of me in the national True Value newsletter.  Before you assume I’m a complete tomboy, you should know I’m also a gourmet cook.   I would have dinner parties with five-course meals.  I once broke up with a guy because he wouldn’t eat Coquille St. Jacques.  I’m sorry, but if you were too scared to taste a scallop, you’d be boring as hell to live with.

9. I gave birth like a monkey.  When I was pregnant with my first child, I was a tad nervous about this whole birth thing.  I’m gonna push this kid out of there?  Really!?  Yikes.  As my belly grew, I searched for any answers I could find on how to make this hurt less.  I flipped to the Discovery Channel and found a show with two monkeys giving birth – one via cesarean and one natural.  Excellent.  All the research I needed.  The mama monkey who had the natural birth was amazing.  No humans helped her.  She delivered her baby all by herself in her little cage.  That monkey never made a peep.  Not one little groan, moan or complaint.  I was going to be that monkey.  And I was.  Three days of labor, and not a peep out of me.  I quietly pushed my baby girl out without even an aspirin. 

10. I got fired only once in my life.  After both my kids were in school full time, I decided I needed a new career.  A friend convinced me to try medical transcriptioning.  Being a competitive freak and all, I was top in my class.  I started working for a hospital in Massachusetts, getting all my files online.  Every few days, this one doctor would dictate with the most pompous voice, and he’d make up big words that didn’t exist.  Now, I went to Cornell.  I’m no moron, but I am a perfectionist and stickler for detail.  At first, I’d give him the benefit of the doubt and search for the words, but when I was finally satisfied they didn’t exist, I’d flag the report.  After several weeks, my boss told me I was pissing off Dr. Pompous.  In fact, the doctor’s words were, “Who does this glorified secretary think she is?”  I may have given birth like a monkey, but I wasn’t going to put my name to a report dictated by one.  He fired me.   I wish I could find him and thank him.  He was the person who finally gave me the confidence to write. 

There you have it.  Ten things about me you probably didn’t know.  Is your life better for knowing them?  I’m sure not.  But at least I beat TMZ to it. 

I now pass the Honest Scrap Award onto a person who I admire but don’t know enough about.  This was very difficult to choose.  There are many I admire, but today, I am choosing @slushpilehero.  Oh my God, I don’t even know her real name!  Actually, I don’t know the name of my dead kitten or the boy who gave me my first kiss.  This is perfect.    

save Karen... I beg you

When I started blogging, I made myself a simple promise to post every two weeks.   Doable, right?  Wrong.  Real life gets in the way.  Specifically, the current script we’re writing.   Oh, I’ve thought of at least half a dozen topics, but I can’t afford to miss this deadline.   Completed script or blog post?  The tipping scales have spoken. 

While lamenting my blog constipation to Karen Quah, Penny Ash and Carrie Brozovic tonight, we came up with a super-silly-crazy-nutty-psycho idea:  a blog to create a new bio for Karen.

Why does Karen need a new bio?  Because hers sucks.  Specifically, it just says “writer.”  That’s it.  Writer.  Man, I could have written that.  What Karen needs is a bio defining her true glorious skill set.  This woman is a goddess.  A writing phenomenon who is stalked regularly… by none other than herself.  

This is an official intervention to cure her bio boringness.  

You don’t know Karen?  Have no fear.  No suggestion you leave could possibly be more boring than “writer.”  You have nothing to lose.  But if you’d like to get to know her, read the great post she wrote on Tyler Weaver’s Multi-hypenate site.   You’ll have all the ammo you need to kick her boring bio to the curb.

So grab your tequila and give it a shot.  You truly can’t fail.

P.S. Wow, I even made a post about Karen's bio a pimp out for Tyler Weaver.  Maybe I'm the one who needs an intervention - #pimpaholic.

Forty Pounds

Holy heifer... I won!

Pauline Campos, our very own @aspiringmama, is running an essay contest on her Aspiring Mama site for mothers to share their stories of postpartum weight loss.  Gee, an opportunity to reveal how fat I got... how could I resist?

Apparently, I was either the best essay writer, or I gained more weight than any other entrant.  Regardless, check out my jiggle journey and read for yourself:

Baby F(Ph)at Winner #1: Forty Pounds

If you're a mom with a story to share, don't forget to enter her ongoing monthly contest.  Let the phat mama reign!

I will not read your f*cking script or manuscript... until June

By now, I’m confident most of you have heard about Josh Olsen’s blog in The Village Voice, “I Will Not Read Your F*cking Script”.  While I find his lack of tact or ability to give back distasteful, I’m going to join him in saying “no” to reading your f*cking script (or manuscript)... for the next six months.

I need your help in keeping that promise to myself.  I can’t do this without you.

Here’s the deal: I am a disease-to-please, insane giver.  I didn’t come upon the title of Twitter Pimp Angel by being selfish, you know.  It’s because I promote others, put fellow writers’ needs first, and give of myself until my pimp feet ache that I am in the position of spending hours a day reading and giving feedback to my posse of wonderful and talented writers. 

The reality is, I have a May deadline to submit the script Doug and I are writing to the Sundance Screenwriter’s Lab.  Our adaptation of Doug's Pulitzer-winning Slavery by Another Name has to be my number one priority.  At this juncture, it is essential to my well-being and professional goals to be selfish. 

Sure, being one of twelve scripts selected is a long shot, but if you know me at all, you know odds don’t scare me.  I believe in the impossible.  Danny Brown recently taught me that “IMpossible” should be interpreted as “I’M possible”.   In order for me to reach my goal, I can’t stand in my own way.

Therefore, Doug and I are going for the brass ring.  If we don’t get Willy Wonka’s golden ticket, it won’t be because we didn’t eat every chocolate bar in sight while writing our fingers to the bone.  Submitting a polished, moving script to Sundance is more important to me than a big, feathery pimp fedora.   If you have any doubt how committed I am, please know I have tears in my eyes as I write this.  Not being able to fully support my fellow writers is extremely difficult for me.

So if you love me; if you want to see your pimp succeed, please, I beg you, don’t ask me to read your f*cking script.  Hold on to it, and I promise I will consider reading as many as I can in June.  Above all, know that I do support you; I do love you; I do want you to be the best writer you can possibly be, but I can’t give any more of myself than I’m giving at this moment. 

My brutally honest, raw feedback will be here waiting for you… in June. 

It ain’t easy for a pimp to ask for help, but I’m asking.  Help me.


*I haven't completely gone on the selfish, self-obsessed train ride... I still want to read all of your blogs, so @ me on Twitter with your latest posts.  I'll read, comment, and pimp until my hat falls off.

Kicking Fear's Ass

In 2008, I gave up fear for Lent.  It changed my life forever.

Fear was paralyzing me.  I was afraid to make a decision, afraid of change, afraid of hurting people.  You name it, I was afraid of it.  I was miserable in many areas, and the one common factor blocking me from growth was fear.  So, I decided to put my fear in God’s hands and let Him hold it, allowing me to focus on the problem, not the emotion.  I trusted He’d be there and would only give me what I could handle.  It wasn’t about a religious belief, it was about finding a way, any way, to let fear go because it was not serving me, it was stopping me… it was killing me and killing my spirit.

Let me step back to the weeks leading up to Lent.  I had been training in tae kwon do for seven years.  Nine months before my black belt test, I tore my ACL in half, sparring.  I had only been back to three classes after my injury and nine-month absence when my Master declared I was to test with the other candidates in three week’s time.  I couldn’t believe his request.  Just moments before, he was fighting me, and I was crying during the fight because I was so scared of getting hurt. This injury had stolen my otherwise inspired mojo.  How could I possibly test?  I’d have to train intensely, but more importantly, I had to face my fear of fighting… and failing.  I had never been more terrified in my adult life.

I spent days searching deep in my soul to find the strength to do this.  I had two choices: cower in fear or face it.  I needed desperately to feel some sense of control.  So, for the next three weeks, I trained hard.  It became a full-time job.  My whole body ached.  I could barely get out of bed in the morning.  I got massages, put Chinese oils on my tired muscles, prayed for strength, meditated, listened to my friends words of encouragement, and let them feed me with power. 

One day, I was beating “Bob” in the basement, our heavy bag shaped like the head and trunk of man, absent appendages.  Exhausted, overwhelmed, and fighting my fear of failure, I hit him over and over… then burst into tears.  Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around “Bob” as if the armless man would hold me in return.  I held tight, releasing sobbing fear-filled tears onto his shoulder until I suddenly realized, he could not embrace me back… he could not give me the reassuring hugs I needed.  I was truly on my own.  Lightbulb.  The only person who could give me the strength I needed was me.  My mojo was being summoned. 

Even with a small bright light of hope, there was much work to do to make up for nine lost months.  I knew all the moves of the forms, I now needed to feel them, listen to my body as I blocked and punched and let the forms move through me.  I was merely a vessel for its beauty.  Fear had no room on this vessel.

I ran daily for the stamina to endure the aerobic aspect of the test, knee throbbing.  While running, I’d think about what the forms and karate meant to me.  I realized how symbolic this art form is to what I am trying to accomplish in my life, mostly finding strength, both physical and emotional.  A form is a perfect example:  It’s a fine balance of strength and grace.  With each step and movement, you show power, but at the same time, the fluidity of a dancer.  It’s the balance of male and female.  Strength and beauty.  My life goal.  When done correctly, forms are almost hypnotic to watch.  I strive to do a form the way my Master does.  When I watch him, I literally stop, my mouth drops a bit, and all I can think is, “Wow! I want that.  I want that kind of strength and grace.”

Each day, I felt a little stronger.  Each day I learned new things.  Each day I rediscovered my inner strength, until one day, I was able to wake up feeling this goal might actually be possible. 

The day before the test, I knew there was nothing further I could do to increase my odds.  Time was up.  There was no point in being afraid.  I either knew it, or I didn’t.  I had to now stop thinking, stop cramming, and just trust my body to perform.  I started to feel some of the stress leaving my shoulders, but my back still ached.  I went about my day as normally as I could, even getting a mammogram I had been putting off for six months.  Just a routine day. 

The next morning, I was making our bed, joking with my husband that either one, two or no black belts would be sleeping in it that night.  He held me, kissed my forehead and said he didn’t care.  He was proud of us for getting this far. 

The phone interrupted the moment.  It was the mammogram center.  They needed more images of my left breast to investigate a “suspicious spot.”  My husband immediately panicked.  I breathed.  I passed my fear to God and breathed.  My husband stared at me in disbelief as I spoke calmly to the woman delivering the news.  Her voice was eerily spooked… even confused.  She too was alarmed by my soft tone.  I admit, I had a moment of panic, but I was able to instantly push it out of my mind, chanting silently, “I am not afraid. I am not afraid.”  I know this sounds strange, but I truly wasn’t worried, even if it did turn out to be cancer.  I knew I could handle whatever it was.  There wasn’t an ounce of fear in me.  I was strong… at least at that moment.  That was enough to hold on to.

God was simply testing me again.  I wasn’t going to let fear rule me.  I gave it up.

So I danced all morning, literally.  I put on old disco music – Michael Jackson, Chaka Kahn, Marvin Gaye, and just danced and danced.  I was calm, smiling, and even giddy.

As my husband and I drove to the test that night, I was still rocking out in the car to Mustang Sally while he intensely focused.  We both decided that no matter what happened, we wanted to enjoy the test.  We wanted to be able to look back on the night and remember how much fun it was and not focus on the stress.

We entered Master Grant’s basement dojo smiling and ready, shaking all the black belts hands.  I stretched, put my knee brace on and then sat for a quick prayer.  As I blessed myself, I could feel tears start to well inside me.  I looked down at my injured knee, hoping it would survive the night.  I touched my left breast, hoping it would survive too.  Taking the deepest breath I could, I quickly asked God for strength and courage and sat up before allowing the tears and fear to take over. 

As we lined up for the test, my husband and I were in the front row.  The small basement was already hot with 15 black belts who were judging us, not to mention the wood stove blaring in the back.  We went through all the kicking and blocking drills one could imagine and even some I had never heard of.  Sweat poured down my back and my knee throbbed.  Condensation dripped down the windows from the heat… and it was March.

One candidate grew pale and faint. She left the dojo to get air.  The Master turned to me and growled, “Get her back in here.” I opened the door and firmly stated, “Don’t you give up!  I am not leaving you behind.”  She rejoined us, weak.

Forms went on, alternating between the six men and women candidates.  I didn’t watch anyone else… well, I did peek at my husband, but I stayed in my zone.  Closed my eyes when I was off the floor.  Stayed focused solely on what I needed to do next.  I gave every command every ounce of energy I had.  I did my forms heading straight toward the five Masters and throwing kicks and yelling out loud, with all the passion that was in me.  I never felt weak.  I never allowed myself to think about what was still ahead of me.  I forged on one form at a time, giving each move intense power.  Dead on.  Every punch, every kick was directed at fear.

My biggest fear of the test was fighting and fully tearing the half an ACL I had left.  There were two Masters I was most afraid of: Master Baccognia, a 6ft 8in 6^th degree whose reach and speed were that of a cheetah, and Master Kazinski, a 5^th degree, strong-as-hell, built-like-a-brick-house prison guard.  Guess who I had to fight?  Yep.  Both of them.  I thought the mammogram scare was enough, but God had other plans.  He wasn’t done testing me that day.  Master Kazinski’s gaze pierced through me, but I looked him in the eye with my best Dirty Harry glare and went at it.  It was intense, he didn’t hold back, kicking, hitting, slamming, but as I went, I was determined to block as much as I could, and get off something… and I did.  I landed a powerful kick, dead on target.  Later, he told me he threw a punch to my head he was convinced would nail me and somehow I avoided the hit.  He wanted to know how.  I didn’t remember it.  Someone else said, “She ducked.”  Guess my body did know what to do. 

Then I fought Master Baccognia, who nailed me multiple times in the head.  Let me say, my 5ft 3in frame is no match for that guy.  I might as well have been a Lollipop kid. Instead of quitting, I dodged, took the punches, and even got some good moves in.  Two days later, my cheekbones still hurt from the blows.

The very last task of the 2½-hour test was board breaking.  My only option was to use my bad leg for the sidekick.  I lined up, took a slow, deep breath, stared those boards down like they were my enemy and went for it.  I busted through all four in the first shot. 

The test was over.  A rush came over me.  Even if I hadn’t passed the Master’s test, I had passed my own test of inner strength.  But yes, I was promoted.  After the new black belts changed, I was the first one back in the dojo and literally skipped in.  As he watched my smiling, skipping, giddiness, Master Baccognia turned to my direct Master, Master Jones, and said, “I don’t remember that move, did you teach her that?”  Everyone laughed. 

When pictures were done, the Masters approached with congratulations, saying my injury never showed.  One even confessed he literally gasped watching me do forms and thought, “COOL!”  To me, that meant more than the belt itself.

What an incredible feeling.  The best thing I can compare it to is childbirth.  Pride.  Joy.  Excitement.  Anxiety.  Amazement my body could actually do it.  I birthed a new woman that night: A f’ing black belt goddess!  She would never have been born if I had not faced my fears.

One week later, I went for my repeat mammogram.  I noticed the pink robe tied in exactly the manner my karate uniform did.  I smiled, went into the room and told the technician, “Show me this spot and let’s kick its ass.”  I was not afraid.  She was floored how composed I was.  I explained fear had kept me from making important decisions in my life, and I could no longer afford to cower to it… especially if I had cancer.  Her eyes welled with tears.  Apparently, she was having a terrifying day of her own. 

As I left, this scared, shaking technician hugged me, thanking me for teaching her she alone had the power over her own destiny and emotions.  I’ll never forget that day.  She said, “I will have hope to survive today and hope that tomorrow will be better.”

Hope kicks fears ass.

I am now a second-degree black belt who is both cancer and fear free.

Courage is fear holding on a minute longer.  – George S. Patton

note: the Masters are in the back row, standing. Master J, Master C, Master G, Master K, Master M, and Master B.

TweetsGiving: What I Am Thankful For

Giving thanks. Some years, it’s easier to identify what I am thankful for than others. However, a crap storm has barraged my life the past few weeks, making each day a struggle. I’ve questioned my sanity, my goals, my writing, my perspectives, and even my character. I’ve been in survival mode. I’ve lost focus, specifically in my writing. Contemplating what I’m thankful for has been the last thing on my mind.

Yet, here I sit, pondering the notion of pushing aside the above-mentioned crap, and seeing the big picture. Right now, I’m thankful for Tina, @CTK1, for inviting me to participate in TweetsGiving. Perspective is precisely what I need.

What am I thankful for? Without a doubt, I’m thankful for the obvious blessings: health, family, friends... and my therapist. But this year, I’m most thankful for the lessons I’ve learned in my life, especially in my writing. Being open to those lessons, even in times of great sorrow and pain, is the key to growth and learning.

Through my words, I have moved people to tears, to laughter, and yes, to anger… anger directed at me for daring to write naked. I have apologized and defended, even taking down one blog post, but refusing to take down others. But in all of this, I owned when I was wrong, tried to rectify it, and most importantly, learned critical lessons.

Many of my Twitter writers felt my angst these past weeks. As I slowly peeled away the layers of pain from having censored myself, they rallied around me, sending hugs, kisses, and even chocolate tweets as salves. They encouraged me to write without fear and to stay true to my words. They provided me with perspective, compassion and love. They pulled off the duct tape I had placed across my mouth. I am forever thankful for my posse of insane writers who understand the pain of censorship the way no family member could.

I am thankful for the people who question not only my motives, but also me. I am thankful for the people who have honored my words, enjoyed them, and shared them with friends. I am thankful for having the ability to swell emotions in my readers’ hearts. I am even thankful for pissing them off, whether I am right or wrong. Above all, I am thankful people read my words. I am humbled by the power they have.

Writing naked is an enormous responsibility. Sometimes, one must be a mercenary… a hard lesson for a disease-to-pleaser like me.

So when you’re barraged with a crap storm of your own, remember to plug your nose and dive in. The sting will seep in your eyes, your nose, your throat, but feel it… let it in. Once you push past the pain, you will find light and lessons. Every crap storm has a lesson… if you dare to stick your head in deep enough. Above all, be thankful for the opportunity to grow.

Please click on the TweetsGiving donation link below and unleash your gratitude.

This post was created as part of a global groundswell of gratitude called TweetsGiving. In conjunction with 12For12K, this celebration, created by US nonprofit Epic Change is an experiment in social innovation that seeks to change the world through the power of gratitude.

Join us http://tweetsgiving.epicchange.org/

Who Do You Attract?

Saturday morning, September 5, 2009. As I pulled my weary body out of bed, I reached for my cell, finding a stream of unopened emails. I scrolled down, reading, “Call me when you get this.” My heart sank. I didn’t need to dial the numbers to know Sharon was dead.

I met Sharon in elementary school. I couldn’t have been more than six or seven. She had a strong personality, even as a child. Stubborn. Knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. Two years ago, her brother called to deliver the news of her ALS, more commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. She was 44 and mother of three. Sadly, life as working mothers had forced us to lose touch, absent the occasional Christmas card or accidental meeting. But despite that, she wanted me to know.

Even though I hadn’t seen her in six years, her smile greeted me with all the warmth of someone I saw every day. Only months after her diagnosis, she was already dependant on a walker. Despite the obvious decline, denial was everywhere. We didn’t broach the subject of her disease or what it meant. I simply cleaned her kitchen, made her laugh as much as possible and played with her young children. As we talked for hours, catching up on our lives, I puttered about her house, being her arms and legs to do her bidding. The joy of being together was exhilarating.

At the end of the day, I arrived home exhausted but still had my own family to care for. As I cooked dinner, I looked at the timer. Ninety seconds before the pasta was ready. I raced to the bathroom and returned before the buzz went off. Seems simple, right? Except just hours earlier, I watched Sharon take a total of 25 minutes to walk to and from her bathroom. I drained my pasta, crying. Everything I did that night, no matter how simple, was something Sharon could no longer do. Her life was now full of dependency… my greatest personal fear.

Although I lived almost an hour away, over the coming months, I helped care for her whenever possible, always spreading a constant stream of laughter through her house… my forte. Each time I’d arrive, I’d see a steady decline – the wheelchair being used more often, and then her hands betraying her. I cut her food and fed her. But the task I remember most was taking her to the bathroom. Allow me to digress: When Sharon and I were in the 3^rd grade, we went to her family’s lake house. We were changing into our swimsuits, when she asked me to turn around. I wanted to laugh. We were so young, and as insecure as I was, I was never shy about my body. Besides, I was all of eight. What was there to hide? But that was Sharon: Conservative, modest and stubborn to the core. You simply didn’t deny Sharon a request, even back then. So, here I now was, helping her with the most personal bodily function, yet trying to allow her dignity.

As I wrapped my arms around her, lifting her almost lifeless body from the wheelchair, we looked like a couple slow dancing. I held on with one hand and slid her pants down with the other. She started to giggle and whispered, “Jeanne, come on… at least you could romance me a bit first.” We laughed so hard I almost dropped her. She’s lucky I’m a mule.

That moment got me thinking, who would wipe my ass if I couldn’t? Have you ever pondered the notion of not being able to do the simplest of tasks? I now look at my friends and family wondering which one of them, if any, would be humble enough to serve me. Sharon always said, “Who ever thought when we played Barbies, I would need you this way?” Who ever thought, indeed.

I was usually alone with her, but as time went on, the family required more caregivers, not just for Sharon, but also for her children. Sharon’s posse of supporters, live-in au pairs, nurses, and her neighbors would flutter in and out. I no longer spent hours cleaning her house, as she had people for that. My time with her became a luxury of laughter and remembrance.

My job now was to bring Sharon any friend from the past she wanted to see. Her first request was Julie, a woman neither of us had seen in almost 30 years. I found and delivered the self-proclaimed crazy artist. Upon pulling up to the curb, Julie handed me a small bottle of vodka, cracked hers open and downed it for anesthetic. She didn’t yet know there was no need to be numb to see Sharon. We entered to meet Anne-Marie and Joanne, Sharon’s neighbors. I’ll have to save the entire, fantastic Julie story for a longer installment, but suffice it to say, when Joanne left, she pulled Anne-Marie aside and said, “Don’t you dare leave her alone with them… I’m sure she has a bong in her purse!” Anne-Marie warmed up to us though, and by the end, we had her laughing in hysterics and looking forward to my next visit, and to whomever I brought through the door.

Most people assumed visiting Sharon was depressing, but I only cried once. Just once. I had called another childhood friend, Paul, who lived four hours away and put him on speaker, allowing me to translate her facial expressions as the ALS had taken her voice. When I hung up, I expressed how much he loves her and hopes he can get here “before it’s too late.” It’s the only time I ever acknowledged someday we’d be without her. Neither of us could hold our tears back. However, I betrayed her that day by permitting reality to seep into our cocoon of love. I never let it happen again.

Despite not being able to talk, Sharon was a marvel with her ability to communicate. She had this chart to spell things out with… we referred to it as the “damned alphabet.” Between her alphabet and her intensely expressive eyes, she could “talk” for hours, and truly LIVED. She was still Sharon, just trapped in a body that failed her.

Stubborn. Forever stubborn, she asked for what she wanted. She spelled out “R. I. N. G.” every time I was there. It meant one thing: MY ring. She wanted it on her finger. So, I would dutifully take it off and place it on her hand. Each time, she’d hope I’d forget it, but I wouldn’t. I’d slip it off, joking she can’t keep it. But each visit, I would place it on her finger, until one day, I left it there. This ring is one I had worn daily which literally feels like a hug on your finger. I placed it on her hand and leaned in, “When you feel this, know I’m here with you.” I knew the next time I wore that ring, Sharon would be dead. I touched my finger for days, feeling the nakedness, but hoping she was feeling my love.

Always waiting for word of Sharon’s health, I slipped back into my life with my own family. While at the lake, I got an email on my cell: “It’s bad. She’s scared.” My teen daughter saw me crying… not something I do publicly… grabbed my hand and cried too. I went to Sharon immediately. When I arrived, her four crazy, nurturing, beautiful friends I heard so much about were all there. Never having been in the room at the same time, we immediately embraced, tears flowing… but not in front of Sharon. Never in front of Sharon.

Then something magical happened. The five of us sat with our unresponsive Sharon, telling stories, talking to her, laughing, and reminiscing about each of our roles in her too-short life. We took turns wearing my ring, finally placing it back on Sharon’s hand. Full of emotion, one of the girls declared, “We need to make a toast" and ran to her neighboring house to retrieve wine.

These incredible women turned a death vigil into a celebration. Sharon's brother, parents and husband came in. We toasted her. Toasted her life, her love. Toasted mothers and friends. We laughed, took pictures and lingered for hours. Finally, we laid our hands on Sharon's, with my ring prominent, and took a picture. We kissed her and said our goodbyes. Anne-Marie sang a song in Sharon's ear from Wicked:

"I've heard it said, that people come into our lives, for a reason, bringing something we must learn. And we are led, to those who help us most to grow, if we let them. And we help them in return. Well I don't know if I've been changed for the better, but...because I knew you, I have been changed for good."

It was the most beautiful night. A celebration of life. Sharon died five days later.

The story of Sharon isn’t the story of a woman who tragically died young, but rather one of unique and rare friendships. She brought five women together who were strangers. She made us one. She united us in a way that changed our lives. I sit here typing, watching my fingers fly across the keys and seeing the ring all of us had on our fingers at one point, if only for the symbolic gesture of feeling closer to Sharon. Because we loved her, we now love each other.

Since her death, so many people have said, “Jeanne, you’re such a great friend.” They’re missing the point. Sharon was the great friend. When she would relentlessly thank me, I would jokingly drop to my knees, bow and say, “It is an honor to serve you.” Giggling, she knew in her heart, I meant every word. It’s not that this group of woman who served Sharon were special, myself included. It’s that Sharon herself had the ability to attract selfless, humble people to her world. It speaks volumes of her character.

Think about your friends. Think about the people you follow on social networking sites. Think about those who have passed through your life. Would you wipe their ass? Do you think they would wipe yours? And more importantly, what kind of people do you attract? Selfish or selfless? What is the purpose of your connections with people? Is it for personal gain or for love? If you can answer those questions, you might learn a lot about yourself… just saying.

Sharon’s story is one of my works in progress.