Category: Inside Lane

Doesn’t really seem like enough time, does it?  My month is about to get really crazy, so I’m going to 30 Day It right here, right now.  And here we go:

1. Of course I am thankful for my family and my friends
2. and their health
3. and happiness
4. I am thankful that B and I have good jobs,
5. and are able to live in a district where Thor goes to an excellent school
6. and that we are able to live in a sweet, little house
7. and that our cars are paid for, and both of them still run (!)
8. I am thankful that my son loves to read
9. I am thankful for the ability to write and make people laugh
10. I am thankful for good doctors who are repairing my mother
11. I am thankful that I truly like my coworkers
12. I am thankful that Al Gore invented the internet
13. I have the best in-laws you could ask for–they are up there in 1, 2, and 3, but they also deserve their own thanks because they are that awesome
14. I get to live in Texas.  Texas is pretty amazing, y’all.  No state income tax.
15. I am thankful that we get to travel
16. I love my silly dog, and I am thankful for him
17. We are coming up on our 10 year anniversary, and I am thankful that B asked me to marry him–sparing me from having to propose to him
18. I am thankful for old photographs
19. and for good memories
20. and for great memories
21. I am thankful for all the old family stories rolling around in my head
22. I am thankful to live in this time period where we have electricity, indoor plumbing, and 5000 channels on TV
23. I am thankful for coffee
24. I am thankful for a strong back
25. I am thankful that as I give thanks, I can remember those who might be having a harder time with it
26. I am thankful for the pizza delivery guy
27. and the mailman
28. and that really nice lady who gives me my coffee at McDonald’s in the mornings because her smile brightens my day
29. and for Thor’s teachers, who are so good to him
30. but most of all, I am thankful for my mom, my husband, my son, my in-laws, my dad and his wife, my aunts and uncles, and cousins, my friend-family, and my friends.  All the things in the world don’t match up to my people.

A new review is up on A Chick Who Reads, today.  Four Flowers!  I love the background design on that site.

I hope you all had happy Halloweens.  We only had two visitors to our door, and that was disappointing, but it worked out well for those kids.  They got gobs of candy.

This morning, I had a sweet note from my aunt, who is coming up to visit with my mom.  My cousins, my uncle, my friends–everyone who cares–has been offering support, thoughts, and prayers.  I really appreciate that.  You have no idea.

My Mom’s parents were people who always helped others, but who frequently refused, or pretended they needed no help.  This carried over into the way my mother raised me.  ALWAYS help other people.  ALWAYS feed that hungry person.  ALWAYS help that neighbor.  ALWAYS find a way to do for someone else.  NEVER let your own need be visible.  NEVER say you don’t have, or you can’t afford.  NEVER expose your own weakness, and NEVER accept charity.

Pride doesn’t always go before a fall because it’s nose is in the air with hubris.  Sometimes it goes before a fall because it is weak from refusing to ask for, or accept help.

I’m still figuring this out, in part because I was raised to keep so many secrets, and conditioned to believe that “telling everything you know” exposes you to more harm than help.  “Don’t tell so-and-so that this happened because (s)he will only use it to hurt you!”

This line from the blog I reposted yesterday, really resonated with me: “I was so afraid of what might happen if I tried to leave that it paradoxically kept me in a situation where I was actually being harmed.”  That’s how I was raised to think about asking for help.  You worry more about what might happen if you ask for help, than what might happen if you don’t.

Somewhere in my 30s I rebelled against the rule of keeping secrets, and I started a blog where I told all of mine.  So, I got the hang of talking.  I’ve got the hang of telling the truth about what goes on in my life (and I understand audience–I don’t put everything out here in public-public, you know.)  What I’m still learning is how to react to people’s reactions.

Whenever someone offers help or support, I go through this thought process:

1. Oh! How nice! [This Person] likes me!  Who knew?
2. That is very sweet that they say they want to help.
3. I’m sure they do not mean they will help, but it’s nice they said so.
4. What if they mean they will help?
5. How much will I owe them?
6. I can’t afford anyone’s help.
7. I can’t afford help!
8. Oh no–how do I budget for this?  How do I budget for it financially and emotionally.  How much do I owe them?
9. If they help, am I on the hook for it?  What if they need help next week, and I can’t give it to them?  Will they hate me?
10. I can’t afford for them to hate me!
11. What is my end of the bargain?
12. I can’t afford this.
13. I shouldn’t have said anything.
14. I should be able to do this by myself.

And then I shame spiral and feel like I am a terrible, terrible person for a) needing help, b) not knowing if I will be able to return the favor of helping someone else even though I don’t even know if the other person will ever need anything.  This plagued me the day of my grandfather’s funeral when all my girlfriends showed up–having taken time off work to come support me–and I panicked with worry that I might not be able to get the day off to support them if/when they had an important funeral.  I AM NOT KIDDING.

I started crying at Boom’s funeral because I was afraid I wasn’t going to be able to pay back the kindness these wonderful girls had shown me.  I had been fine until I saw them, and it hit me that I might not be able to pay back the love.  I don’t think I’ve ever admitted that before.

Isn’t that crazy?  It is crazy to me that I grew up with people who took care of others without ever asking for anything in return, only to be conditioned to worry that someone might ask in return.  Where does that come from even?!

SO, if you offer to help me with something, and I freeze like you’ve just asked me what color my underpants are, that’s why.  I’m busy doing a shame spiral.  Give me five minutes and I’ll come back to you.  😉

I’m learning to assess my needs honestly, and learning when it is okay to ask, and when it is okay to accept.  I think a good rule of thumb is for me to remember that when I offer help, it is with no strings, with good cheer, and with full sincerity–just the way I was raised to offer help.  I’m sure other helpful people were raised the same way.

 

 

 

 

 

Well, it can’t all be sunshine and roses, can it?  After a dozen excellent-to-very good reviews, today brought the first bad one.  Lucky number 13?  I’m not quite masochistic enough to link you to it, though it should be pretty easy to find if you are interested.  In short, the reader simply did not like the style of the book [it made her scream], did not enjoy Destinee’s voice [and by, “did not enjoy,” I mean, “hated like fire”], and thought my sentences were too long.

I’ve wondered how the first bad review was going to hit me.   I certainly want everyone to like the book.  I’d like everyone to love the book.  That’s not the way the world works, though.  On the whole, I appreciate that the reviewer took time out of her life to read the book, and to write the review.  I can’t hold either of us accountable for her taste–if you don’t like something, you don’t like it.  It’s not right, or wrong, it simply is.

So how did it hit me? It was a shock, and then blindingly painful for about 30 seconds, then it was over.  Of course, I’ve had some practice at rejection.  Like the time I got blackballed by all the sororities on campus the 3rd day of Freshman Rush Week.  THAT is mass rejection right there.  Also, I had enough “no thank yous” from agents and publishers before Tiara Trouble sold that I realized there would be bad reviews in the offing.

A bad book review means you wrote, sold, published, and marketed a book with enough success that someone could come along and say, “Ew.”  It means you wrote, sold, published, and marketed a book.  Even a bad review is a reminder of your accomplishment.  I have accomplished something WORTH taking the time to say, “Ew.”  That’s not a bad thing.

When I wrote for the college paper, I got paid to review music, movies, and art shows.  I remember getting this album by a new artist, listening to it and gagging into the typewriter that it sounded like a bad rip-off of Sinead O’Connor.  I gave it a terrible review.  The rest of the world loved it, and I think you could probably name five more Sarah McLachlan songs off the top of your head, than Sinead O’Connor tunes.  And commercials.  A band I loved, the Fatima Mansions, whose album I gave a rave review, are…nowhere.  There is no accounting for taste.

I sent the reviewer a thank you for her time, and now I’ll focus on the text message I got today that read, “Just an fyi…my boss’s wife is ordering your book to give as Christmas gifts because she loves it.  Oprah, here we come!”