“Every step I take brings me closer to the realization of my dreams”

OK. I read The Secret last spring. I believe in it. I try to live following the principles of The Secret.
Last June my first novel, The Gate House, was accepted for publication by Virtual Tales. YES!!!! But as any writer will attest, acceptance for publication is just the beginning. True -- I can tell people I am a writer, and when they ask me what I have written, I can truthfully say, "I have a novel that will be out soon."
But I still substitute teacher at a local high school everyday to pay the bills. My dream is to make my living by writing, and to be able to travel when I want to back up and fortify my writing. I have always found great inspiration in "place."
"Every step I take brings me closer to the realization of my dream."
I have found that the steps I take each day have much to do with developing the confidence to call myself a writer.
1. When people ask about my goals and plans, I tell them about my novel. I name myself as a writer.
2. I have created a web site and this blog.
3. I participate in an online writers' group.
4. I have organized my scattered pieces of writing so I can find what I want to work on.
5. I write. I write at school when the students are working on their own, and during free periods. I write on days off and during vacations.
6. I submit small pieces of writing when I find opportunities. A small step is a step.
7. I allow myself time to dream, while walking, driving, or just looking out the window at home. Ideas come from dreaming.
8. And as to the traveling -- if it means traveling alone, I do it, because it is about research and inspiration, not just a vacation.
9. I am a writer.

Simplifying

One of my favorite books is Coach Yourself to Success by Talane Miedaner. I reread it about once a year and try to complete at least some of her suggestions. One of my favorites is the idea that as you eliminate unnecessary things from your life, you make room for new opportunities. The break between Christmas and New Year's always seems like a good time to eliminate things from my life, and it feels great. Today I took an old laptop computer to be recycled, and I threw out a large dead plant from my deck. Yesterday I took several bags of plastic, metal and glass to be recycled. Throwing things out feels even better when you know things aren't just filling up a landfill.
I love the story about Thoreau at Walden Pond when he found a rock that he liked and set it on his desk. When he realized he had to move it to clean, he pitched it out the window. I don't go to that extreme, but I do try to think carefully about what I really need, and what is important to me. This goes for the way I spend my time, as well.
I don't read the daily newspaper or watch the news. I watch very little TV at all. I see headlines online, so if something really important happens, I know about it. This gives me much more time to do things that are fun and creative. I bought some yarn yesterday, and plan to get back to crocheting. All it takes is to think -- what is the best use of this next hour, or this evening. Make a conscious choice. The opportunities of that hour only come once.

Caught in the Cracks

As a substitute teacher and writer, I am living in two worlds. I constantly look for cracks in the day in which to write. I carry a bag that is heavy enough to give me back pains. (Thank goodness for yoga.) If I am not required to be actively engaged with students, I write, go through my notebook and try to come up with ideas. If possible, I steal a few minutes at a computer.
I would love to stay home and write, but that is not financially possible right now. In the meantime, I focus on the joy that I find in expressing my thoughts, ideas and imagination.
Some people write in coffee shops sipping lattes (a romantic dream of how writers work). I write surrounded by teenagers doing math assignments -- at least I hope they are -- two days before Christmas break. I help them if I can, but since my math knowledge at this point stops around pre-algebra, and I generally use what I call "Kathy math" for my own needs, I can't help them with much.

Slow Day

While New England and the Midwest are getting more snow, all we got in Philadelphia was rain. It is the middle of the afternoon, and all I have accomplished is successfully putting a background color onto my MySpace page.
I just finished reading another book in Anne McCaffrey's Pern series, which I recommend to anyone who likes dragons but isn't sure about science fiction. After reading the Pern books, I can just see a beautiful bronze dragon looking over the railing of my deck into my dining room window, and my deck is on the second floor.

It's Cold in Pennsylvania

I always had a somewhat romantic idea of Pennsylvania. When I was a child we drove from flat Illinois to my grandparents' home in Connecticut for a visit every few years. On each trip I looked forward to the hills of Pennsylvania, and the Pennsylvania Turnpike with its tunnels was about as exotic as it could get.
Now I have lived here for about a year and a half. I don't want to antagonize any Pennsylvanians who might read this, but it isn't that romantic. I live in a suburb of Philadelphia, and, sure, the pretzels and cheese steak sandwiches are good, and I do love water ice in the summer, but it's not as exotic as it once seemed.

Why Chicken Bones?

When I was in high school, my grandfather got a chicken bone stuck in his throat while eating dinner. My grandparents lived near my family on a farm in southern Illinois. When the chicken bone did not come out by means of the normal coughing and slappping on the back that are the usual home remedies for such difficulties, my mother was called on to drive my grandfather, and my grandmother as well, into town to the doctor's office. The doctor was also unsuccessful in removing the bone, and my grandfather was then taken to a hospital about twenty miles away for surgery.
This whole episode was quite an event at the time, for the family and all our neighbors, too, who listened to the events unfold on the party telephone line.
Recently, my youngest brother, who would have been about six or seven at the time, wondered via email about what really happened that day. Between my memories, those of our mother, and a cousin who has kept a diary since the 1960s, we were able to reconstruct the event more or less accurately.
The whole discussion made me think about how something small and insignificant, like a chicken bone, can lead to an entanglement of events, and the creation, or recreation, of a story.

A Tired Beginning

I am a writer. I stopped at the library on the way home from my day job to pick up children's books to use for tutoring, and to feed my addiction to the written word. I checked out an audio book by Jacqueline Winspear, one of my favorite authors. She writes mysteries set in 1930s England, and her characters all feel the effects of World War I, which is still clouding their lives.

I made soup and prepared a few things to bring to my tutoring date with seven year old J.

But most of all I am a writer. Writing defines my life.