Every now and then, I feel myself gently drawn back to one of my favorite stories, Pride and Prejudice. It holds special appeal In the last lazy days of summer, when I want nothing more than to read all day, or take a walk, or sit in the sun, and by night to don a pretty dress and dance with a handsome man.
Such is my romantic view of Victorian life.
These days, being a mother requires the memory of an elephant—and the thick skin of one too. Thanks to a recent scene with my 15-year-old son, I won’t soon forget that most of us are simply lumbering our way through parenthood, and life.
While my son was at school I was supposed to drop his laptop off at his dad’s house, but I was engrossed in listening to a book-on-tape while driving across town, and it completely slipped my mind.
I’m not proud of the fact that there are unwashed dishes in my sink, a pile of unfolded laundry on my bed, or a family of dust bunnies under my dresser. But I’m writing. And when my writing time increases, my usually high cleaning standards take a dramatic fall.
You’ve learned a thing or two in this lifetime. Maybe you know the secret to making the perfect souffle. Or how to be a stepparent to kids who refuse to say your name. Or maybe you want people to know how prayer has changed your life. Whatever it is, there is some message that you feel called to share in a blog.
The first day of school holds a lot of significance– new friends, new experiences, new shoes (and new undies too!). Even if you don’t have kids, you probably feel that brisk energy and resolve to get ‘er done that comes back around each fall.
What you don’t need stuffed into that new backpack or purse is a sense of helplessness.
That’s what I felt when my oldest son told me about his first day as a high school junior.
This week I went to a Meet-up event for writers– something that’s been on my to-do list for ages. There were seven of us at the Village Tap in Roscoe Village. We sat on the back patio with a noisy crowd of Cub fans. Above us a section of the cloth roof was rolled back like the lid of a sardine can, showing us a sliver of sky. We took turns posing questions to one another and shouting our answers down the length of the picnic table.
I stand on the edge of the dance floor watching couples glide, spin, and groove as they dance the West Coast Swing. The tempo of the music is fast, but the beating of my heart is faster. I want to dance, but I’m afraid I’m not good enough.
I’ve thought a lot about the words ‘hello loved ones,’ and I’m so happy that it’s evolved to be not only a more fitting title for my novel, but also to include you, my readers.
Four years ago in the shadow of Chicago’s Aon building, surrounded by 40,000 people, Chicago marathon runner Jeff Goad stopped thinking about cancer and got back to running his life.
“It hit me how unbelievably gratifying it was to just be there when I didn’t even know if I’d be around,” he says. “With cancer, your life revolves around all the medical stuff. You don’t feel any control over the things you’re passionate about. I refused to let that define me.”
I bring you good tidings of great joy, as I share the stories of several of my friends who are living and sharing their purpose and passion: Pam takes on pole dancing, Keith discovers equine therapy, and Jeff tackles Mt. Kilimanjaro! May they inspire you to find your own joy this holiday season.
👉 Enjoy dedicated writing space just steps from Lake Michigan
👉 Benefit from one-on-one developmental editing sessions