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Having Resolve

Posted on by kimberlymoorhead_2czdcd

A year ago, I made a single resolution. I was going to finish writing my first novel. And I did.

Meeting my goal brought me a sense of overwhelming pride and accomplishment, but it also shuffled in an era of frustration, anxiety, guilt, resentment, vulnerability and exposure, self doubt, and well, you get the picture.

I never had grand illusions about becoming the next Jodi Piccoult. I enjoy the craft, I had a story to tell, and that’s the basis for my novel. But to be honest, I had difficulty getting the job done. The ideas and words were all there. Most days, I simply couldn’t find the uninterrupted time.

A large part of writing comes down to discipline. I’ve read that Stephen King cranks out a minimum of two thousand words a day—no excuses, no stalling, no bullshit. He sits down first thing in the morning, he shuts out the background noise, and he works until noon.

There’s tremendous value in establishing a set writing time each day. For the average person, turning out five or ten quality pages should take about two or three hours.

Unfortunately, my creative energy begins in the early evening hours—pretty much in the middle of dinner prep, sports practices, or the thick of the witching hour where at least one of my kids becomes completely unglued.

I didn’t pick these hours. They chose me. So, here’s what actually happens when I sit down to work.

Picture yourself in a diner with Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield. That scene where Jules opens up his briefcase and everyone stops to stare at the warm golden glow of Marsellus Wallace’s soul emanating from within? That diner is my house and my tablet is the briefcase. The minute I open it, my daughters materialize out of nowhere. They stare into my screen as though they’ve never before seen an electronic device. When I snap it shut, realizing they’ve probably read the word fuck at least once, they wake from their trance, asking about my day, what am I making for dinner, can I help them edit an essay, can they borrow my charger?

My husband does at least three random walkbys, trying hard to be discreet as he glances at my screen to see what I’m writing. He’ll lean in to sample the wine I’ve poured into a glass and he’ll massage my shoulders. The dogs whine by my feet, begging for belly rubs.

The background noise is impossible to tune out. Within minutes, frustration turns to resentment, which turns to guilt.  Why. Can’t. They. Let. Me. Be?

I’m a problem solver by nature. So I do the obvious. I train myself to “be creative” during my non-creative time when I won’t have family distractions. I establish my new time – after lunch and before school lets out for the day. I am proud of myself for working out a solution.

Unfortunately, the new time doesn’t work either.

I open up my tablet and I’m fairly certain it projects a Batman symbol into the sky, even during broad daylight, letting the world know I am in deep distress and need to be rescued from myself.

My phone buzzes every five seconds because a friend added me to a group text with twenty other ladies all trying to find a mutually convenient date for lunch.

The Amazon and UPS trucks stop outside of my house and their sharp raps on my front door send my dogs into a barking frenzy.

A friend calls to share a funny political story she heard on the news that morning.

Landscapers arrive to clean the trimmed grass from the greenway beside my home. I clench my teeth at the grating sound of their blowers stopping and starting.

I wear earplugs; I mute my phone. Why can’t I turn it off? Because the moment I do, I’m pretty sure the school nurse will call to let me know one of my kids is puking their guts out in her office.

I can’t silence my life.

The idea of becoming a writer sometimes feels like a futile one. I’m fighting against a powerful current that has left me treading water with land in sight, but always out of reach. And then it hits me. I need to swim with the tide, diagonally, until it eventually releases me.

Sometimes, the journey itself is part of the experience.

So as I contemplate resolutions for 2020, the obvious one – to get my manuscript published – will take a seat in the second row.

Instead, I will try to be more content with the blessings I’ve been given. I have my health. I have a family who happily orbits around me as though I’m their undying sun. My friends keep me from becoming a recluse. They pull me into pickup tennis matches and birthday lunches. I will be grateful when Amazon and UPS deliver packages to my house.

It’s time to worry a little less about what I don’t have, and care a lot more about all that I do have. My writing adventure may take longer than I want or ever intended, but I will reach the shore eventually.

Bad Pickups

Posted on by kimberlymoorhead_2czdcd

I wish this blog was about hilariously funny pickup lines. It’s not. Sorry.

I hate trucks. They totally stress me out. I’m not talking about the semi big rigs that drive cross country, although I definitely make sure I’m never sandwiched between them when I’m on a highway.

And those house movers—the wide load ones? They freak me out for sure.

But those aren’t the ones really scaring me either. I’m talking about the Ford pickups. The Chevys and the Rams. And truth be told, the trucks, themselves, don’t bother me. I’m frightened by the drivers behind the wheel.

I drive a girly car. It’s white and pretty. I have a student driver in my household so my husband thought he’d help keep us safe. He slapped the yellow “Be Patient, Student Driver” stickers on both sides of my vehicle, plus one on the back for good measure. You can’t miss me. My car reads like a giant danger zone.

You’d think drivers would heed the warnings and steer clear. Interestingly enough, this hasn’t been the case.

The minute those magnets were attached to my car, the pickup trucks that showed aggression towards my car increased two fold. At first, I thought I was imagining it. But as the days wore on, I realized that the magnets were actually attracting a strange breed of men who were emboldened by the clear signs of a distressed youth learning how to drive. They were deliberately trying to antagonize a young female student driver. They drove up behind my car, around my car, to the right and left of my car. I suddenly felt like I was in the Indy 500.

The funny part of this story, if there is a funny part, was when these morons caught up to me. Their look of surprise to see an adult driver behind the wheel was priceless. Yeah – it’s me. The forty-plus year old mother. I’m wearing my sweatshirt and yoga pants. Not who you thought? Feeling stupid now? You should.

When the male drivers realized they weren’t chasing a young woman, and the thrill was gone, well…they looked…disappointed and then angry. I received a lot of obscene gestures and dirty looks. Over the last few weeks, I’ve captured pictures of a half dozen license plates. I’ve thought about turning my collection into a photo gallery to post on social media, but sadly, all the cars look the same.

I still might do it. Kimberly Moorhead Author/ Photographer has a nice ring to it.

Family

Posted on by kimberlymoorhead_2czdcd

Family. I’ve always loved this word.

Like most Americans, my family heritage is a mixed bag of nationalities. My grandfather on my dad’s side was a first generation immigrant from Italy. My mother’s family was from Ireland, Austria, Hungary, and the Baltic countries. Even so, I primarily identify as an Italian American.

Italians have a strong family bond and we tend to stick together. I look Italian with olive skin, dark eyes, and thick unruly hair. I gesture wildly with my hands when I talk. I equate feeding people with love and I make my children sit down most nights to eat a giant plate of food.

If you’re reading this blog, you probably know I’m trying to get a manuscript published. Sometimes, it feels like I’m peddling a dead skunk that no one wants. I’ve worked on my manuscript for several years, chipping away at it in between making dinner or flipping laundry, Christmas shopping and throwing birthday parties. I’ve written a chapter of my book, courtside, at my daughter’s tennis match. I’ve made edits in the grocery store. I even sent off a query letter to a literary agent from carpool. I misspelled the agent’s last name in the opening salutations. (While I’m an excellent multi-tasker, this wasn’t one of my finer moments.)

Creating a fictional world has taught me a ton. But the most important lesson I’ve learned hasn’t been about writing or editing, drawing people to a social media site, or crafting the perfect letter to an agent.

It’s much simpler.

I’ve learned my family is larger than the people who are connected to me by blood and genetics. I have many of those for sure, and I’m grateful for the support of each one. But lately, I’ve been touched by a great many other individuals who don’t actually have a branch on my family tree.

There’s my crazy Indonesian friend who threatened to unleash a reign of voodoo on her peeps who didn’t like my Facebook page.

I have my Sweet Briar College sisters (holla holla!!!), who have my back no matter what.

I have my teacher friends who edit my own edits, my social worker friend who keeps everything real by repeating “It’s fine!” every chance she gets, my pals who offer to read chapters —without me asking. They reassure me that my work isn’t a dead skunk, or road kill of any kind.

I have my children who tell me my words are “impactful” to their generation, but I really should calm down and stop acting so “angsty” all the time.

The writing world is tough and the publishing world is even tougher. I’m thankful every day to be surrounded by good people to help me get through the highs and the lows. I call them my family.

Pat the Patter

Posted on by kimberlymoorhead_2czdcd

I have a confession to make. I recently met a man named Pat. A mutual friend of ours had arranged for us to play some fun tennis doubles. There were four of us in the group and I was the only woman.

The day was promising to be a beautiful one. The kind where the sky was shockingly blue and the air was nice and dry. We were enjoying ourselves immensely. Pat was witty and engaging. I laughed at his jokes because they were funny and I gave him a high-five when he smashed an overhead.

He responded by swatting my butt.

He used his racquet and he did it playfully, but his action made me freeze. I imagine my eyebrows probably arched high into my hairline out of sheer incredulousness, but I can’t be positive. I know I cringed inwardly. I know it made me feel uncomfortable and confused. Instead of calling attention to his action, though, I know I stayed quiet.

He interpreted my silence as permission. So he did it again. Three more times. I deliberately moved as far away from him as I could after points and between changeovers. The final time, he used his bare hand. Yet, I still said nothing.

Why?

I had a discord of voices shouting in my brain. There was the voice of a little girl who said, “Respect your elders.” The voice of a young woman who endured this kind of treatment in nearly every job she held, whispered, “It’s fine. You’ve had worse things happen.” The mature adult voice faltered and warned, “You don’t want to be the over reactor. He’s harmless. You don’t want to be the one ruining the fun.” The voice of a mother of three daughters screamed, “You just perpetuated the problem by saying and doing nothing! You failed the test.”

Our group finished playing, shook hands, and then I made a huge detour to avoid any further physical contact. I came home, ashamed and disgusted with myself. I told my husband and daughters what happened and they stared at me, jaws hanging open, in absolute disbelief.

You see, by no means am I a shrinking violet. I’m feisty and fierce. I don’t pick fights, but I also don’t step down when challenged. I’ve raised my daughters to stand up for themselves, to have self respect, to say “no” or “stop” with power and conviction. So why did I let Pat put his hands on me?

Here’s the reason.

I am part of the generation that grew up with a “boys will be boys” mentality. Where “grab ‘em by the pussy” is disgusting, but not shocking. Haven’t we all been grabbed there or somewhere else on our bodies? This is what we have learned to accept and expect. This is our normal.

Fresh out of college, I landed a job in publishing. My first boss pinned me in the corner of an elevator and he asked me to kiss him. I didn’t, but the memory remains vivid and it makes me squirm to this day. My third job, the founder of a multi-million dollar company took advantage of a dark bus ride to a corporate event to slide his hands up my skirt. That same night, a different executive followed me back to my hotel room and he asked to be let in so we could “talk.” He was persistent and I ended up running down the hotel corridor to get away. I can go on, but you get the point. What was I wearing? A modest black suit. Did I report the incidents? No, I did not.

Current statistics are still alarming. According to RAINN, there are over 400,000+ documented victims of rape and sexual assault in the United States each year. Only four out of ten rapes get reported. One in every six women will be the victim of rape or attempted rape in her lifetime.

So, what do these statistics mean to me? Sure, I know dozens of women who have been assaulted. We’ve all survived. We are resilient creatures. We’ve learned to hide our scars and wounds. But I have three daughters. The likelihood that one of them will be assaulted is strong. This thought keeps me awake at night.

I don’t hate men and I don’t think all men are bad. I am tired of being on guard, though. If I smile too big or laugh too hard, will it be misconstrued as flirting? I am also wary of both men and women who despise the #MeToo movement. They want it to go away. Well, you know what? So do I, and so do millions of others. But the only way that is going to happen is if we speak up. We need to keep the dialogue going until we eradicate the cultural disease feeding on generations of innocent victims.

And if I ever see Pat again, my voice will be a roar.

The Process of Writing a Fictional Novel

Posted on by kimberlymoorhead_2czdcd

Writing a fictional novel isn’t for the feint of heart. It’s right up there with giving birth. The journey is a lonely one, too. I’ve been word crafting my entire life, yet I somehow missed this very important memo.

The dramatic rise in the number of self-published books certainly indicates that many people can write fiction. But creating work that both rings true and engages the reader is an entirely different animal. It’s what sets apart the book that a reader devours in two days flat, versus the one collecting dust on a nightstand for weeks.

A few friends recently asked me about the process of writing a fictional novel. I’m new to all of this, so I let the question rattle around in my head for a week. Here’s my answer:

Writing fiction is akin to living with a group of literary individuals you know as well as yourself. But here’s the kicker–no one else is privy to your arcane world. You are totally, completely, unequivocally alone with the characters that are simply figments of your imagination. Reality merges with imagination and the experience can be unsettling.

I recently stumbled upon the fact that this process is called Method Writing, which is in the same vein as Method Acting. Who knew?

Consider the most poignant big-screen movie scenes of all time. They include memorable performances from Marlon Brando, Heath Ledger, Rami Malek, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Meryl Streep, Hillary Swank, and Michelle Williams to name a few off the top of my head. These artists stand above others in their industry for a reason. They transform into their characters. If you’re a Stephen King fan, think Jack Torrance from The Shining. I’m not sure I could meet Jack Nicholson without getting shivers.

Method writing is a strange phenomenon. It can also be a mentally draining experience. In order to create believable narrative that moves the plot line forward, an author often spends months or sometimes years breathing life into their characters’ personality traits. Differentiating dialogue needs to match the individuals’ unique personalities. Actions and reactions need to remain authentic to the characters throughout the entire story. This process is what makes characters become real to the reader. But for the author, it’s a bit like having your brain in solitary confinement for months on end. You very much want to talk about your characters and their dilemmas, their motives for behaving the way they do…but to the people who have real blood coursing through their veins, well…you end up sounding a wee bit crazy.

To take things a step further, think about conflict in a book. Conflict is the force that drives a story. Write what you know is a common phrase in the world of fiction. It’s safe to say that many authors base their characters’ struggles on real experiences–sometimes personal and sometimes not. The experiences can be a blend of two or three stories from different sources. Fiction writers are often fabulous listeners who have a keen ear for the interesting nugget that can be embellished or made into something new. But any which way you cut it, authentic-sounding narrative is created when an author fully immerses themselves in the story. Sometimes this means going to the mind’s darkest places to embrace the ugliest parts of life at the very root. And then sharing those feelings of vulnerability through a character–all for the pleasure and entertainment of the reader.

For someone who doesn’t particularly enjoy putting herself on display for the world to see, this last year has been a roller coaster ride of mixed emotions. I have felt the eyes of my friends and family members watching my sometimes-peculiar behavior with veiled curiosity, wondering if the changes are temporary. They are. But writing a novel is definitely a profound, life-altering experience, which will forever change the way I view the art of fiction.

Now, it’s time to take a break because all work and no play makes…. ummm, never mind.