My Metaphorical Baseball Field

If you build it, they will come.

Kevin Costner followed this advice in Field of Dreams and it worked out for him. So how about for a fresh-faced author, huh? 

If you write it, they will read. 

I wish it were that simple. 

I wrote the book, I published the book, and now people should read the book, right? But first, they have to actually find the book. They. have to see the cover, read the synopsis, and decide whether they want to take a chance. Maybe they chat with me, enjoy my enthusiasm and easy banter, and want to help a gal out. To those of you who have done just that. Thank you. Thank you very much. For those who do not know who I am and haven't seen my book at all: therein lies the challenge. My potential readers aren't ghosts that will magically find the baseball field in the middle of Iowa farmland. No, these are readers in the flooded wild of capitalism, already inundated with products of varying quality. How am I supposed to be found in the giant pile of recreational purchases? 

I'm trying my best, putting myself out there, doing all the things. But, man, this author beat is a tough one. I'm out there working book fairs, craft shows, and festivals. I'm hosting Ladies' Night Out programs at libraries, using my class management skills to help me engage potential readers with party games and discussion. And I'm doing the social media thing, posting, filming, and trying to capture my authentic self all in the hopes that someone will choose me. 

The only way to survive this gig is to not take myself too seriously and laugh when the outcome isn't quite as expected. It's a good thing I've been laughing at myself for forty years now, because there are moments where it could easily slip into mopey woe-is-me self-deprecation. Don't get me wrong, I've had those moments, too. However, I'm finding the more "failures" I have, the easier it is to brush off. It's like playing the field, and this time I'm not referring to the baseball field analogy from before. No, like the dating field (which I thankfully wasn't part of for too long). 

In all honesty, I'm a people-pleaser searching for a sense of accomplishment, asking for that pat on the head, whining like a puppy for a sign of love. But by putting myself out there and experiencing rejection, I'm getting more and more comfortable with that previously-feared brush off. So maybe that's why I became an author. To fix the part of me that seeks fulfillment from the acceptance and praise of others. 

And if so, it's working. I think I'm becoming stronger in my sense of self. 

But I'd still really like to sell books. 

So I'll keep building my metaphorical baseball field and hope some ghost players come wandering in and decide to stay awhile. Otherwise, what do I have? Just an empty, dusty pile of dirt? No thanks. I'd much rather try to run the bases than hang in the dugout. 

Okay, that's enough sports metaphors for me. Catch me on the socials or come see me at an event. I'd love to try and win you over! 

Entering My Forties Era

 Tomorrow is my birthday. My FORTIETH birthday. When I was a teenager, forty seemed so ... old. But now that I am forty, I don't see myself that way. Sure, there are days where my knees click and I definitely can't handle roller coasters or dairy like I used to, but that's not because I'm old. That's because my body is ... experienced with life and burdened with gravity. Okay, age-euphemisms aside, I don't feel forty. I still have energy, humor, and fairly nice skin, and honestly I feel healthier and more comfortable in my body than I ever have. 

It's a cliche to say "age is a state of mind," but it's also true. I choose to have fun and feel young, so I'm going to will my brain and body to do just that, only with the forty years of wisdom and balance that keep me grounded and capable of moving forward despite challenges. I still have more than half of my life to go (if all goes as planned) and I'm grateful that I've earned the chance to apply what I have learned in life as I enter this next decade. 

So what have I learned in the past four decades? Here's a quick summary:

0-10 years old: I learned that kids can be cruel, that life isn't fair, and that sometimes you just need to cry. But I also learned to take joy from simple pleasures, to sing loudly even when you're afraid, and to cherish those that are kind and in your corner. (This was a tough decade.)

10-20 years old: I learned that the problem might be the situation and not necessarily you, that you will find your people if you put yourself out there, and that falling in love can be exciting and messy. I learned that not all friends are forever, and that's okay, because there was a reason to have them at a certain time. And I learned that change is scary but necessary, not matter how many times it happens. (This was a very emotional decade. We're talking LOTS of emotions)

20-30 years old: I learned that sometimes you just need to be by yourself and focus on yourself, and that's okay. I learned that most things arrive when you stop looking for them. And I learned that true love takes compromise, respect, and communication without sacrificing your own identity. I learned that I deserve love. (This decade saw the most pivotal growth.)

30-40 years old: I learned that being a parent is the most rewarding and most difficult job in the world. I learned that the days are long, but the years are short and to not take any moment for granted. I learned that pausing or taking a break from something doesn't mean it's over. And I learned that I can invest in myself and love myself without being selfish. (This was my best decade yet.)

There's so much more, but sometimes we learn a lesson in the moment, forget it, and have to learn it all over again. Therein lies the beauty of life. 

I had an amazing 39th year. I published a book! And there were so many events with friends and family, thousands of pictures taken, interesting places visited, and professional milestones reached. But beyond the concrete list of items that can be ticked off, there's the overall feeling of this past year: acceptance, empowerment, and love. It always comes back to love. 

I love the life, the opportunities, and the people that have helped me grow into the person I am today. And I can't wait to see what else there is to love in my next decade of life. 

Taking Time Together

Many of my writings include female characters that get lost in their roles as partners, mothers, and workers. It probably comes as no surprise that I am often inspired by my real life. As a mom, teacher, wife, and writer, I sometimes lose sense of who I am without all those titles. Or I try to be the best at each of them and end up feeling anxious, guilty, or disappointed in myself. In order to keep some semblance of sanity, the roles sometimes exist in flux, with certain ones rising to the top and others falling to the bottom. 

Unfortunately, one role that tends to often fall to the bottom of the priority list is that as a wife. Not that I’m a bad partner: my husband and I work together to keep the house up, prepare meals, run errands, and spend time with the kids. But we don’t get as much time to just be together, to just enjoy one another’s company. We fall victim to the routine and the deadlines. After fourteen years of marriage and two kids, some might say it's normal, but I know we aren't at our best when we start to lose connection. 

That’s why it is so important as a couple, especially a couple with children, to prioritize time together. It’d been three years since my husband and I spent a kid-free weekend together until this weekend. For my birthday, my husband arranged for us to drop my kids off with my mom for the weekend, drive back home, and spend the weekend together. We went out for karaoke with friends (I do a mean rendition of “Don’t Stop Believing”), went to the musical Hadestown (I still can’t get “Wait For Me” out of my head), and watched whatever we wanted on Netflix (North of North is a fun binge). Sure, we also had to take care of the regular weekend errands such as grocery shopping and laundry, but it was nice to spend it with him, making a date of it rather than dividing up the duties and going our separate ways. To remember this was the person I chose to do life with and to create life with. This weekend was a necessary reminder.

Those other roles in life don't disappear, but it's okay for them to take a backseat once in awhile. And even though I am prone to guilt (as I've discussed in previous posts), it doesn’t make me a bad mother to want some time alone with my husband. It doesn’t make me a bad teacher to avoid all schoolwork for a weekend. And it doesn’t make me a bad writer to abstain from marketing and writing this weekend (okay, I did still post and work on my edit … so maybe that doesn't count). It’s healthy to take the time to reconnect whether it be with yourself, a partner, family, or friends. It’s probably what we need to keep going, keep thriving, and keep loving ourselves and others. If we take the time for ourselves, we can see who we are individually more easily in the various roles we hold, and appreciate all more authentically.

I’m feeling more connected and free this Sunday evening, and even though I am still looking ahead and worrying about what I need to do this upcoming week, I can go into the routine knowing who I am and what I’ve chosen in life. And I can say this: I’ve chosen well. 

First Edit and a Whole Ton of Humility

 The best part of writing is definitely creating a story and characters then hearing that the story resonated with readers. 

The worst part of writing: everything else. 

More specifically: editing.

No one likes to be told everything they did wrong while writing (unless that is a special brand of self-masochism). Okay, yes, it is satisfying to make those corrections and realize you are one step closer to the end product, but the actual facing of what you did wrong the first time around? Not as satisfying. 

For anyone who's ever been interested, here's the process of writing, or at least a process that I am familiar with:

• Plot out story points (some skip this part and just start writing like the wild animals they are)
• Write the first draft (this can take a week for overproductive freaks of nature like R.L. Stine or up to a decade for those who are more meticulous...or distracted...or afraid of commitment)
• Go through draft and edit/revise on own
• Have beta readers read the draft
• Wait anxiously while beta readers finish reading 
• Collect beta readers' feedback and decide whether or not to apply
• Go through draft again
• Give draft to publisher who hands it off to editor
• Wait anxiously for editor to return draft with recommended changes, possibly adding to your draft while you wait just to make the edit application that much tougher
• Receive first edit and vascillate between crying about your inadequacies and cursing the poor editor that was just doing their job
• Start the tedious job of applying edits and feedback, sometimes painfully deciding which to follow and which to ignore
• Send edited draft back to publisher and editor for next round
• Wait anxiously to receive next round of edits
• Go through the exact same process with hopefully less edits
• Possibly play this back and forth editing game multiple times
• ...
• ...
• ...
• ...
• ...
• ...
• ... (You get the point. This is the agonizing, redundant part.)
• Sign off on final edited draft
• Receive formatted copy
• Read through pdf and write edit suggestions on another doc because now the formatting is set
• Go through this process multiple times which is however many times you find something wrong or want to make changes to what you previously thought was a brilliant idea but doesn't come across as brilliant the tenth time you read it
• ...
• ...
• ...
• ...
• Accept that you hate your story now because of how many times you have been forced to read it
• Sign off on the final copy
• Wait anxiously for the book to be printed
• Cry tears of joy when you see your printed baby and believe all the pain, self-doubt, and headaches were worth it (Pretty much the equivalency to giving birth and seeing your baby only with less tearing of flesh)
• Start the marketing and selling process
• Fully understand the meaning of self-hatred and disappointment

So maybe this isn't everyone's process, or maybe other writers have healthier self-images. Either way, I just received the first edit of Road Maps and am now going through the first grueling process of applying said edits, of which there are over 2900 this round. 

Someone send help. Or dark chocolate. Or cheese. Or wine. (I prefer rosé.)

If you seeing me crying in the next few months, please understand it's all part of the wonderful process of being an author. And I'm happy to have the opportunity. I really am. 

(Are you sending those snacks yet?)

Me staring at my computer while I apply edits

Thinking Back to Ponies, Pigs, and a Wurlitzer Organ

 I was obsessed with horses as a kid. I owned nearly forty Grand Champion horse figurines, read countless books on horses, both fiction and nonfiction, and pretended my bicycle was a horse on numerous occasions. The obsession took a slight hit in third grade when I fell off a pony and separated my elbow from my upper arm, necessitating surgery, but I've still always loved looking at horses. However, casual horse riding is an expensive gig, and I'm not an expensive gal. So what can replace the desire to ride a majestic horse? How about riding a majestic carousel? Okay, okay, not quite the same experience, but you can also ride dogs, chickens, pigs, and other vividly-colored wooden figurines. At least that's the case with Story City's antique carousel. 

I have lived within an hour of Story City, Iowa for over fifteen years, but I had never visited the iconic carousel until this past summer when my family stopped there on our way home from vacation in the Wisconsin Dells. Sure, it was for research for my book Road Maps, but it ended up being one of our favorite family vacation moments for many reasons. 

To begin, the carousel is beautiful. The oldest carousel in Iowa was originally built in 1913, purchased by Story City in 1938, and restored and moved to North Park in 1982. With twenty-six colorful figurines to choose from, you are going to want to ride multiple times, enjoying the three-minute ride on the back of different steeds. And it's only $1 a ride! I don't know of any other worthwhile, family-friendly entertainment that can beat that price. And this is not a toddler's paced ride. No, I was quite shocked at the ride's fast clip. Shocked, but exhilarated. 

Another whimsical feature is the music coming from the 1936 Wurlitzer Military Band. The whole experience is a sensory transport back to a more innocent time, where children played outside and communities came together to enjoy the simple, yet fantastical joys of life. 

I included Story City's carousel in my book not just because it is one of Iowa's best hidden gems, but because of the magic it represents. It makes you feel like a child again, and while I was writing about Logan Sterling's journey across Iowa with her father, I wanted to capture that everlasting feeling of being a little kid when with your parent, no matter how old or how strained the relationship. An unexpected tie to my dad also arose when I found out the carousel was built in Tonawanda, New York which is the town right across from Grand Island where I spent every summer as a child visiting my dad. It felt meant to be, and something about riding that carousel with my children rejuvenated my soul more than I ever thought possible. 

So many joyous feelings and memories flooded me while riding the carousel. And while it might not be the same as riding a real horse, the experience was just as enjoyable and poignant. Please enjoy this excerpt of Road Maps, featuring Story City's antique carousel:

Nighttime has transformed the carousel into a magical wonder. Vintage light bulbs illuminate the interior, twinkles of light reflecting off the golden poles and glossy figures filling the space with whimsical nostalgia.  

“Which one do you want?” Tom asks, his voice respectfully quiet in the shrine of childhood amazement. 

I take in the options: dogs with outspread legs as if running through a field; toothy-grinned pigs rearing their heads up mischievously toward a potential rider; chickens that capture a realistic look of concern and hurry; and the classic horses, nostrils flared and mouths open with spirited abandon. I step up to a cream colored horse with a red saddle, sliding my hands over the smooth veneer, moving it up to trace the divots of the carved mane. 

“Hop on!” Tom places his hand at the small of my back as I mount the horse. He then climbs atop the one next to me and signals to Rick to push the button, the carousel coasting to life. 

The carousel moves around as the figures dip up and down, my stomach experiencing the slightest flip from the repetitive motion. We’re moving in a circle, resigned to a perpetual path of redundancy, but I feel truly free, as if I were riding an actual horse out in a field, the wind whipping my face and all worries leaving my body. The circus music manages to capture every happy memory from childhood and bottle it within the bright, jaunty notes pouring from the antique Wurlitzer organ, an attached drum pounding out the beat. My once-tight grip on the pole loosens as I relax into the motion, and my face is broken in half with my grin. I finally turn to take in Tom, expecting to see him looking forward, experiencing his own mid-life rejuvenation, but instead, he’s staring at me, his face mirroring my delight. He leans over the aisle and asks loudly, “So you like it?”

All I can do is nod vigorously, and I turn forward to close my eyes and enjoy the rest of the ride.

Bad Mood Journaling and Taking Control

 I have been in a horrible mood today. I'm depressed, I'm short, I'm just downright done with everything. There's many reasons this cloud has settled over me today:

1) A not-so-successful book event has left me feeling like a failure, doubting the investment of my time, money, and energy into a cruel endeavor such as writing

2) Feeling unsettled due to upcoming floor renovations on the main floor of our house, resulting in our clearing of all our kitchen appliances, kitchen and dining furniture, and TONS of knick knacks. 

3) The end of my spring break in which I didn't go on a vacation, but rather stayed at home with the capricious Iowa weather which was not on our side. In short, my children and I have extreme cabin fever and need to be separated. 

4) Communication issues with students about an upcoming speech event leaving me scrambling, asking for favors, and possibly accepting the fact that I will have not one but two students unable to perform due to my ignorance of other events going on in the state. 

5) Just a general malaise that could be attributed to hormones, season affect disorder, stress, or other situation factors. 

I'm a person that likes to have my belongings and life in order. If not, I feel as if I've lost control, which is my ultimate nightmare. Maybe that's why I enjoy writing so much; I have control over the story and am able to write the characters and endings as I want. Or maybe I'm trying to teach myself some of those life lessons since I do like to throw my characters into chaos. Hmmm...

I know I can't control everything (at least I tell myself that) and I understand that I have a good life, that I shouldn't feel so down about these things, but my discomfort has been unshakeable. So what's to be done? Maybe writing and taking control of the situation will help me process and move on. Okay, let's turn these issues around:

1) I have had the opportunity to publish a book, many people have purchased it, and many have enjoyed it. I believe in the story, so I should be proud of my endeavors and just keep trying, knowing that there will be ups and downs and at least I have the ability and support to participate in book events.

2) Hopefully, my floors will look beautiful, and all my belongings will be returned to their original places. And my husband is on vacation, so he can probably do most of the moving...

3) At least I had a spring break and time with my children. And there's summer break to look forward to, as well as a family trip to Gatlinburg. I have a pretty sweet schedule in having time off and I should treasure rather than bemoan it while comparing to others' more exotic trips. 

4) If students don't get to perform, it's not going to affect me, nor them. There's no point dwelling. And, there's always next year, and I'll do better with scheduling. 

5) Spring is here; summer is close. There are sunny days in the future. We just bought bicycles so we can enjoy upcoming nice days. And I have a birthday coming up, and I feel and look good for my age. 

So, yeah, that actually helped. Putting words on the page and casting my feelings from my heart and brain to a easel beyond me has left me feeling a bit freer, a little lighter. 

Bad moods happen. Disappointment occurs. But there's also a natural cycle to life, and writing about the positive does seem to have knocked the pendulum back, so here's to a new season, a new week, and hopefully new opportunities coming my way. 

Shrine of the Grotto of the Redemption in West Bend, IA

One of my favorite places to visit this past summer while researching for my book Road Maps was the Shrine of the Grotto of the Redemption in West Bend, Iowa. While it is a Catholic structure, I recommend it for anyone of any religion. The spiritual connection there surpasses any religious denomination limitations, and it's inspiring that such a structure came from the devoted mind and dexterous hands of mankind. You can find more information on the Shrine at its website here: https://www.westbendgrotto.com/ but it is definitely something that should be seen in person. Pictures do not do it justice. 

Father Paul Matthias Dobberstein began working on the Shrine in 1912. Over a century later, it is now composed of nine grottos and materials ranging from petrified wood, malachite, azurite, agates, geodes, jasper, quartz, topaz, calcite, stalactites, stalagmites, and more. It is quite a feat of artistry, religion, and human dedication. 

In Road Maps, Logan Sterling and her father visit the Shrine of the Grotto of the Redemption while on their father-daughter journey across the state of Iowa. Previously estranged for ten years, Logan's father reaches out, hoping to reconnect before he dies of a terminal illness. Logan writes a book about this journey, which gets made into a movie five years after the events. Here is an excerpt from my upcoming novel Road Maps, which is written includes excerpts of Logan's novel Iowa Nice. I hope you enjoy this sneak peek, and if you get the chance to visit West Bend yourself, I'd love to hear about your experience. 

Excerpt from Iowa Nice
West Bend

Religion has always been a nebulous concept for me. There’s too many options for me to choose just one. It’s like an ice cream counter, and I’m being handed tiny spoon samples of each. But I’m afraid if I commit to one and get a larger scoop, there’s going to be some part of it I don’t like, an ingredient that didn’t make its way into the sample. Or maybe I’ll get sick of the taste before I finish, overwhelmed by too much of a supposedly good thing. 

My eyes are bigger than my stomach when gazing upon the spiritual smorgasbord of life, and I am worried I’ll be left with a horrendous stomach ache if I actually start to fill my plate. 

But it’s difficult not to dive into the buffet of belief when surrounded by such unique beauty and sheer will of faith while traversing the path through the artistic geologic wonder that is the Shrine of the Grotto of the Redemption. I’ve lost sight of Dad, having given him some space after realizing he was in one of his moods again: reflective, quiet, testy. These moods have only increased. We’ve started renting separate hotel rooms when available, not because we necessarily need the space from one another, but because Dad’s sleep is interrupted and fitful. He exists in a perpetual state of exhaustion and insomnia, desiring nothing more than rest, but unable to drift away into slumber when given the chance. He’s taken to napping in the passenger seat more, which has given me loads of quiet time while driving. 

I loathe it. 

Quiet time means dealing with the demons of my past: my mistakes, failings, and regrets. Things that might be aided by some grasp of theology, but alas, I’m still empty-handed. However, being here, in this meticulously made structure of stone, minerals, and petrified wood; it’s easy to see how many people have gained solace from religious structure. 

I stop on the path, surrounded by the stations of the cross, a passageway constructed of fourteen scenes depicting Jesus’ journey from when he was condemned to death to when he finally met his fate. To know one is dying, a curse and a blessing. And though Mac McClarnon is no Christlike figure, I am aware of the tangential similarities of the grotto’s story and anyone diagnosed with a terminal illness. 

That’s what my dad is doing, marching through his own stations of the cross, and though I am on this journey with him currently, eventually he’ll be on his own. And so will I. 

Almost makes one want to find religion. 

Road Maps out Fall 2025.