Tag Archives: Writing

Inappropriate Times to Wear a Tiara

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mother-daughter

I’ve been writing/working on this memoir for three and a half years now (wow how time has flown). While I’ve had a few opportunities to share it, I’ve just been a tad on the insanely nervous side to really let anyone read it.

However, after going through the workshop process and not getting it ripped apart or running out in tears, I’ve decided it’s time to put on my big girl pants and share it with the semi world (I would say world but unfortunately the whole world does not read how to with Courtney…weird I know).

So here goes nothing:

Inappropriate Times to Wear a Tiara

 

Chapter 1/ Book Opening

My mom knew how to absorb all of the light in the room. She had an essence about her that just made you want to be near her. Something that made you think, “Hm, I want some of what she has.”

I grew up living in that shadow, the shadow of always being told what my mother would and would not approve of, or how my mother “would not have done it that way.” It was a constant battle between family members of what I should and shouldn’t do, luckily I won that battle by running away from it, far, far, away.

Slowly, while building a life on my own, I came to realize that if my mum was truly who everyone said she was, then she wouldn’t care what I did so long as I was happy.

So, I did what made me happy, and wore a lot of tiaras in the process of figuring that out.

Chapter 1:

When I was six my world changed.  After battling almost a year of ALS my mum passed away.

The night she died every aunt and uncle from her side crowded into our split-level pink home. One by one people went into her bedroom, which had been revamped into a make-shift hospital room, holding a portable hospital bed and a regular twin-sized bed, one that my father and I would take turns sleeping on. I took the opportunity of a crowded house to hide in my bedroom, I couldn’t stand to have another aunt or uncle tell me just how much they loved my mum or to have them look at me like some lost orphan.

I put my face in my pillow and breathed in. Still not fully aware of why everyone was there, though I realized it wasn’t a joyous reason. I lifted myself up onto my bed, and pushed back against my cool wall. My feet barely reaching the edge of my bed.

I heard a knock on my door, without looking up I heard the familiar squeak of it open and my sister shuffle her way into my dimly lit room. The only light in my room was the pink lamp seated on the white bookcase my mom bought for my nursery. The nursery of her beloved baby girl. 

“Are you okay?” She whispered, crouching under my Minnie mouse canopy.

I gave my best smile in reassurance.

“I think there are some people who want to see you.” She held out her hand and pulled me down from the safety of my bed. The bed where my mom once had tucked me in but no longer had the strength to.

I walked out and was greeted by a fresh round of grieving family; all letting their sympathetic eyes find me. I finally found my dad in the crowd, his face pained and eyes stained red. He hurried over to me, sweeping me in a hug and told me of the new plans to sleep at a friend’s house.

“Why don’t you go say bye to mum” he said quietly while putting me down and ushering me into the live wake.

I tip toed inside her dark room, shutting the door behind me; the only noise left in the dark pit being the beeping of the heart monitor, the steadying beep…. beep. I put my hand in hers and felt the lifelessness that her hand-held. She wasn’t there anymore, her personality and everything that made her, her, was gone. There was just a body left.

“Mommy” I whispered.

Nothing.

“I love you mommy”

I saw a tear start to form in her eye and slowly trickle down. Her eyes holding the only life left.

I nuzzled my head into her neck, being careful of the wires I had learned to avoid.  I breathed her in; she smelt of everything pink and the way mothers should smell. The smell of an alive, loving mother, not one who would be gone within the next two hours. I lay next to her for what seemed like a second, and then was interrupted by my father.

I felt his strong warm hands rub my back and slowly help me up.

“No, I’m not ready!” I whispered “Please” I said a little louder.

But my pleas were lost.

“It’s time to go.” He said.

“I don’t want to leave her. Why do I have to go?”  I cried.

I could see my father trying to fight back tears. “I’m sorry, your friend is here. Tell her goodbye,” he stopped “you’ll see her tomorrow,” I heard him choke.

I hugged my mother, not tight enough, and whispered that I loved her and goodbye.

That was the last time I saw her.

The next morning I woke up to a big breakfast, the kind my best friend’s mom was famous for. I had just managed to stop worrying about the other night when my dad and sister rang the doorbell. I saw their tear-stained eyes, but didn’t realize what was going to happen next. They each took a hand and led me up her dirt driveway. I could hear my best friend in the background yelling for me not to leave, her cries drowning out the leaves crunching beneath our shoes.

I looked from side to side and waited for them to stop.

“What’s wrong daddy?” I asked.

He stopped and crouched down in front of me, I looked into his blood-shot eyes and put one hand on either side of his face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked again.

He looked into my innocent green eyes, getting ready to deal me the hardest blow of my short life.

“Mommy was very sick last night, and had to go to the hospital.” He stopped as tears started to fill his now soft dark brown eyes “The doctors tried to do everything for her, but…Mum won’t be coming back.”

My sister crouched beside us and put her arm around me.

“But when is she going to come back? Is she just on vacation again?” Vacation was when she and my dad would go away for different treatments, leaving me with my sister.

“Sweetie, mum’s in heaven” my sister whispered, while trying her best not to cry.

I looked down at the dirt and felt warm water drip from my check to the ground. I watched as little puddles formed near my shoes.

I looked at both of them, not knowing what this all meant. I just wanted my mum.

We were all silent. Both of them leaned in for a hug but I didn’t react. I reverted back to the years where I wouldn’t let anyone touch me, where I would stand still to the touch of affection from those closest to me.  I pushed them away and ran as far as my little legs could take me into the field by my best friend’s house. By the time my dad and sister caught up to me I had collapsed on a pile of dead grass and just cried. The three of us sat there, me in the middle, and just cried.

I didn’t cry for years after that day.

Then we were in the limo. I don’t remember lowering her into the ground. I don’t remember who was there.

All I remember is the limo ride to the graveyard where my Aunt offered me an Altoid. We sat there, in the black limo, following the car that the woman who brought me into this world was laying in.

And then, she was gone.

—

Just a note: I realize this may not be how other family members remember it, please keep in mind this is my story, my memory, and how I feel it should be told. 

 

Inspiration is just a crutch

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I lost my job. Well technically I quit, but got the perks of being fired. And instead of writing, I’ve been just waiting for inspiration to write. Because apparently there is a magic inspiration fairy that comes around and sprinkles dust to influence topics.

This is basically what the fairy dust looks like in my mind.

The problem with that is there is no inspiration fairy. And if you keep waiting for inspiration to stike…you’re going to waiting a long time.

I speak from knowledge people. Using the “waiting for inspiration” line is just another excuse. You might as well just admit you’re lazy and don’t feel like writing…and that you only go for Starbucks for the coffee, not the “inspiration” (cough hipster cough).

And I know I’m not alone in this rat race, everyone is always talking about how they are waiting for the perfect moment to be inspired. That if they just moved into the woods a few weeks they’d be able to pump out that novel.

Instead of wasting time and money why not just turn off your phone, disconnect your Internet and lock your door and just write. Write lists, write descriptions, write anything you want to…so long as you actually write.

Next time you get stuck think about three people you saw during the day, then write character descriptions of them. How they talk, who their best friend is, what career path they wish they had chosen…anything and everything you think would make up this person.

Once you’re on a role, switch to something you’ve been struggling with (that ending chapter, a lost cause post..anything), it should help get your mind off whatever you were nit-picking before and let you start fresh.

What I’m getting at is this: Don’t wait for inspiration to strike. Chances are it won’t, or it will be months between when it does. If you want to get great ideas for writing, write more. The more you write the more confidence you’ll gain in ideas you didn’t think were that great to start with. So get to it. Set up certain times during the day dedicated to writing, and just write, don’t self edit…just write it all out or the magic inspiration fairy will kick you in the face.

Writing is a lot like taking an insane amount of drugs

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Writing is my drug, if I don’t do it at least once a day I get shaky and start muttering inane things to myself. Sometimes I even start rocking, then I scour my apartment for a pen and paper and just write things down.

Usually it’s lame, and something I hope no one ever reads. Sometimes it inspires a post, a book I won’t ever finish, or a poem I won’t ever share. Usually it’s just something I think is great at the time, then I go back and try to make sense of “Frog legs, orange stripes and bananas.”

My mind works in mysterious ways when I haven’t been able to fit in my scheduled writing time.

Like a crack addict I just keep coming back. (this rhymed with the song playing in the background at my neighborhood starbucks…I considered deleting it, but I’m trying to get better about my prejudice to things that rhyme and alliteration)

So today I’m trying to make up for being a lazy bum for the past week and not writing. Instead I caught up on re-watching the entire Office series (both U.S. and UK) and then started Ghost Whisper. I also went on a few interviews…but who really cares about working anyway.

I told myself that when my job with Monster.com ended I would make my blog my full-time job. You know, really put more effort into writing multiple posts a day, actually doing something with it. But my overwhelming out of work slump took over quickly and now the only thing I can muster up energy for is making fun of preppy white guys that wish they were real golfers. Oh and drinking Pumpkin spice lattes. Adding that to my list of things I am sadly addicted to.

What I’ve been trying to get at is, writing has become my recreational drug. I do it when I need a pick me up, or if things are going a little crazy. Sometimes I do it because I feel I have to, other times I don’t realize what I’m doing until I’m half through ten pages of rambling. I need writing to get me through this messed up world, without it I would be stuck rocking back and forth in a padded room with no windows.

Why I’m okay with being Rejected by Columbia

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With two months left of school and now no plan afterwards I should be freaking out a little more than I am now. But honestly, now that I’ve processed everything…I’m fine.

Last night I got the news that Columbia wasn’t going to be meeting me in August. I was heartbroken, I have wanted to go to the Columbia J school since Freshman year of high school. I sat and cried while continually rereading the rejection letter hoping I had read it wrong or that it would magically change if I looked at it long enough. It didn’t. And the more I stared at it the clearer it became I needed to close the window and get ice cream.

Columbia has been turning out journalists for years, and I’m sure they are all great writers. But I could never be one of them, I have my way of writing and my way of thinking. I don’t need a school to tell me I’m good at what I do, the hits on this blog and my posts for Collegecandy tell me that. Not to mention, I don’t like writing news…at all. I actually want to write about celebrities and pop culture, I would absolutely love to write an article on finding the best LBD for your body shape. That is what I want to write about. I don’t expect anything I write about to be some amazing life changing story, I just want it to entertain someone for the brief seconds or minutes it takes them to read it.

At work today I realized that in order to be a writer you can’t count on other people thinking you are good. You can only count on yourself, and while I have felt like that for most of my life, with my writing I always turned to other people’s opinions on how to make it better or to see if they thought it was good enough. When really, I needed to convince myself that it was good enough first…since my opinion is the one that really matters (Not including editors and potential publishing companies).

So, thank you Columbia for rejecting me. You have helped me realize my potential, and that I don’t need an ivy league school to tell me I can write.

How to Find your Potential

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As adults we forget to dream outside of the lines

Be honest, how many times a day do you use the word Potential? Do you know what it means and how can you find it, if you don’t know what you’re looking for?

Potential: capable of being or becoming. (Something to note in this post is that almost all of the definitions had to do with a danger threat.) How can someone find what they are capable of being or becoming, if they don’t know?

This all sparked from a class two days ago, my sociology professor was lecturing about how students these days just throw away their potential. How can you throw away a capability of becoming? you can’t. It’s more of an apathy towards school because for years teachers have let us slip but by doing the least amount of work possible, so now when we are expected to try just a little bit harder most students run scared. Not this girl though. I run toward to it, practically charging. This is where professor see a potential into molding me as their perfect student. That I am not. I’m not capable of becoming a hand raising over sharing brown noser. It’s not in my DNA.

I see my potential as an open door, I’m capable of becoming anything I want to be. So when someone says to be “You’re throwing your potential away” I don’t think they understand what it really means. It’s not possible to throw the capability of becoming something away, you just aren’t becoming what that person wants you to be. Which is fine. Trust me.

I’ve always been told I’ve had the potential to do whatever I want. Mainly by myself, but some teachers, parents and others have said it also. But I’ve also been told that I have no potential. Imagine being told you aren’t capability of becoming anything? Now imagine how many times teachers say this to students in high school, in college, even JR high (during one of the toughest periods of an adolescents life.) These people who are responsible for giving knowledge to boys and girls across the world have loss touch with the meaning of the word.

Everyone is capable of being or becoming anything they want. The trick to “finding your potential” is believing you can. If you think you can do anything, then you can. Except stop a speeding bullet, I’ve tried before and I think it’s a superman only type of deal. When you stop believing in yourself that’s when you start losing your potential, you lose touch with what you really want. But good news, it’s never really lost and you can’t throw it away. It’s like the annoying voice in the back of your head that is saying you’re beautiful when all you can think is I’m ugly. Sometimes you just give it laryngitis…but it always comes back.

I’ve recently been told by about 5 different people, who I hold in high regards, that I am throwing away any and all of my potential by becoming a writer. I was also told by a few of these people who I would never make it as a blogger. Shortly after that talk I was hired to intern at College Candy and promoted to editor-in-chief of the Campus Center’s blog. It sucks to be told you’re “throwing away any and all of your potential” because it makes you want to give up. Sometimes you just need to ignore the people you care most about because they are too blind to see what really makes you happy. Writing makes me happy. All forms of it. And if I can find a way to entertain people through my ramblings you sure as hell can bet I’m going to find a way to do it.

Because that’s who I am. I am a blogger. My potential for myself is a giant door that I can run through any time, in fact it’s loads of doors. There is one leading toward writing for a magazine, one leading toward a job in cooperate america, another one leading to paris. The possibilities are endless for me, because I say so. The only one who is stopping you from finding your potential…is yourself.

So wake up. Stop listening to the negativity that is surrounding you. Discover who you are, what you love and how you are going to achieve your dreams. And right then, that spark, that little voice I was telling you about..It’s going to get about ten times louder. And sure enough, it will be telling you that you are capable of being or becoming whatever you want. Just make sure to keep the volume all the way up.