• Books

    Put on Your Big Kid Pants

    When I was about ten years old, I participated in a music competition. Wait, let me back this up a bit. My parents left one night to buy a piano; I was overjoyed. They returned with an electric organ. I was mortified. Still, my sister and I obediently took lessons. I practiced daily, because I was the first-born rule follower. My sister, disliking it as much as I did but not needing to do the die-hard rule following thing because she had ME, instead put on her headphones, kicked up the rhythms and pounded away at the keys for her practice time, until the day music teacher gently suggested to my…

  • Books

    Anxious Much?

    If you know me well, you know I am a nervous talker. I’ve always been a bit of an anxious person. I was an anxious child, a perfectionist – I was more than the usual nervous about saying the wrong thing, putting my foot in my mouth…embarrassing myself… Yikes. I think that is why I so greatly enjoy writing. Two words: Self. Editing. I remember shortly after graduating from college being in that place of unemployment where I needed to bring in my resume to various companies. Pressure was on to find a job – I’d been working retail part-time since graduating – and I spent one afternoon driving past…

  • confession time

    No Grudges Here

    There are many things you can say about me, but one thing you’ll never say is “Boy, can she hold a grudge.” I’ve never been able to hold a grudge, not even when I am really, really mad. Not even when I’m never going to speak to them again, not ever mad. Seriously. I once worked for a manager who was infuriating. He was pretty belittling, always second-guessing me in front of senior managers, and when I was right, he would make it sound like I was the one who was doubtful of the issue/question/answer. I worked in a position where I had constant client contact on the phone, and as it could…

  • Writing

    Losing the Artist Within

    When I was twelve years old, I thought I would be an art teacher when I grew up. Perhaps I would illustrate children’s stories, maybe create great paintings. I loved to draw and thought that whatever I did, it would involve art. I was always drawing, doodling and creating. I filled notebooks with images. I would draw pictures and sell them to my classmates for twenty-five cents (unknowingly filling the stereotype of the struggling artist.)  With a good friend I co-wrote and illustrated a “magazine” or two that may or may not have included less than kind fictional stories about a fellow classmate (which may or may not have landed me in Sister Patriciana’s office,…