creativity

I was reminded this weekend of a Petition to God that Liz Gilbert wrote as part of her memoir Eat Pray Love.

Her intention was to ask God to intervene in the suffering and dysfunction of her contentious divorce. She finished by signing it and sending it out into the ethers to collect the signatures of other interested parties, living or dead.

She figured that if you can stop the energetic animosity—it serves the world.

That got me to thinking.
I was hanging with a bunch of soulful, heart-filled creatives yesterday, with intriguingly varied projects and books in the works, but they’re no different from all of you guys with your projects and creations, dreams, hopes and wishes. Everybody’s got something in the works.

So I tweaked (okay I totally changed it, but kept the intention) Liz’s Petition To God.

This can apply to any situation you want to hand over to a higher power than yourself.

After you read it, if it feels right to you, “sign it” with your heart. (You can also sign it by putting just your name in the comments) and invite other parties to sign it as well.
They can be people attached to your project, people you know personally, people you’ve never met, people you admire…or in my case Robert Downey Jr. — it doesn’t matter, whoever comes to mind (you’ll, be surprised at who shows up).

Like Liz says in EPL:
“and I became filled with a grand sense of protection, surrounded by the collective goodwill of so many mighty souls.”
Hey, who doesn’t need that?

This is The Petition To Our Muses:

Dearest Muse,
Please intervene and help this project in any way you see fit, and even some ways that would shock and surprise me.
I have done my part. I have shown up, been receptive, chosen your words carefully, sat in the seat and done the work. Now it is your turn.

I recognize that you may be busy with other things like keeping the earth spinning in its orbit around the sun, editing the final drafts of Pulitzer Prize winners, and other various mundane tasks; but it is my understanding that you are focused on each and every one of us and our projects at all times (because times doesn’t matter where you are) and that you can multitask like a mo-fo.

It is also my understanding that when you gift someone with an inspiration, an idea; and that person, with your help, is able to birth that creative endeavor into the world — it uplifts everyone — and isn’t that what we’re all here to do?

Well, that and drink Sangria and eat fried food?

So therefore, it is my most humble request that you help me birth this project into its most splendid and kick-Ass physical manifestation. Whatever that looks like.

You have my utmost cooperation and my endless admiration and love.

I thank you for your kind attention,
Respectfully,
Janet Bertolus

It is my humble opinion that this applies to falling in love as well.

Love you my peeps,
Happy Valentines Saturday!
xox

Ah, perfectionism – you rat-bastard.

You are the behind the scenes ruin-er of every event.
You are the “I told you so” inside every mistake.
You are the “It could have been better, you should be thinner, I’m a freak, a fake and a fraud” whispered in my ear at the end of every day.

In short, you are the cause of so much grief.

Perfection, like a 22-inch waist, a man who asks for directions, and delicious vegan cheese—is literally impossible. It is a myth and an illusion.

Perfectionism starts in childhood.
The dolls lined up perfectly on the shelf, school papers stacked in neat piles, worn thin by rigorous erasing. I should know.

Perfectionism stifles creativity.
They cannot co-exist; creativity is messy, I don’t care what anyone says. When you’re in the flow, you can just throw perfect punctuation and grammar to the wind.

Have you ever seen a painter’s studio when they are creating? It is a catastrophe! There is shit everywhere – Empty coffee cups, brushes and tubes of paint in heaps, tarps, stacks of ideas, even some paint on the ceiling (?).

Perfectionism would never be caught dead in the swirling vortex of creativity – it might mess up its perfect hair!

When you take perfectionism to the office; well, yeah, good luck with that.
It is the bully in the room, taunting you with thoughts of inferiority, assuring you that you’re not good enough.
Work harder, be better, PROVE YOUR WORTH, it sneers.

Perfectionism sabotages joy.
It’s a punk. It steals its lunch money and gives it a wedgie. Perfectionism hangs out with those two thugs, anxiety and stress.
It is my belief that perfectionism is complicit in every nervous breakdown. Most especially, the ones suffered during the holidays.

I can speak to this with authority.

I am a retired perfectionist.
It started to wane when I got married again. Perfectionism doesn’t compromise, and compromise and relationships arelikethis.

The exact time of death of my perfectionism occurred when we decided to live in our house during a remodel. Any last vestiges that remained hit the road, (along with the tiny bit of modesty I possessed.)
You reside in so much chaos, dirt, and destruction; I can remember wiping 4-5 inches of plaster and drywall dust off random surfaces in order to sit and drink the coffee we made in the bathroom. The refrigerator was in the dining room and we were sleeping in the garage.

It got so bad I actually started to throw trash (gum wrappers, receipts) on the floor, fuck it, what’s the use, it’s a disaster, I’d tell myself. The upside was that I’d never in my life felt so FREE! So I ran with it, and I haven’t looked back!

Living in a construction zone is like aversion therapy for perfectionists.

It’s time to join me and retire from perfectionism. Take off the twenty-ton shield and fly.

Maybe you want to talk about how you kicked perfectionism’s ass, or how you’re still struggling? Either way, I’d love to hear about it in the comments below. Don’t be shy. It doesn’t have to be perfect. 😉

Xox

It’s not cool to be giddy about Christmas and the holidays.
I KNOW!
Relax!
I get it.

I’ve already confessed that the shopping gives me a buzz; as do the white twinkle lights, the tree smell, the carols, the eggnog lattes, and just the general festiveness of the season.

But I still get those looks from those people, (you know who you are) the ones that want me to put a lid on my joy.
To them it is ridiculous, and frivolous – and it makes them uncomfortable.

But why should I?
Why should any of us let others, especially the haters dictate our happiness?

EVER.

I get that the whole commercialization of Christmas has gotten insanely out of hand; yet, I can’t help but smile when I see whole families in those God-awful Christmas sweaters, little kids on Santa’s lap at the mall, the gorgeous, giant tree at the Grove, and houses covered with lights.
 
There is one house at the end of our block that looks like Christmas barfed lights and reindeer all over it; but damn it, I still smile when I come around the corner.

The store windows get me too; I LOVE them.
I have several friends who put great thought and immense creativity
into their store windows, so I know what goes into assembling those mini masterpieces.

The ones in New York reign supreme, but take a walk down LaCienega, Melrose, or Beverly Hills – it’ll blow your Grinchy little minds.

One year, when I was in New York for the holidays, I ran to see the Bergdorf windows, and let me tell you, they did not disappoint.

My chin hit my chest with wonder and amazement. It is definitely true – more is better. There was a window with hundreds of moving parts. There were dioramas and gemstones and an entire window whose contents were painted silver – I was trembling.

Just when I thought I couldn’t feel anymore inspired; that I had reached my quota of Christmas joy, I looked next to me and there was a little kid, with a tiny peppermint candy cane stuck in his hair,(true story) holding his grandma’s hand. His mouth was agape too.

I caught our reflections in the window, and it took all of my willpower not to burst out laughing.

Then, just as I was having the time of my life, a pinched face lady walked briskly by, not even turning to look, but shaking her head with disapproval just the same.

REALLY lady?
You’re gonna kill our buzz?
Don’t judge our joy!
It’s frickin’ Christmas!

Here, have a peppermint candy.

Xox

I really love Kate Northrup. She is a fresh, new voice in the “Spiritual Self Improvement” genre.
I’ve been a devotee of her mom, Dr. Christiane Northrup for years. Her books about navigating menopause have talked me down off the ledge many, many times. More times than I’d like to admit.
I discovered my beloved naturopath, Dr Holly Lucille, through her website, back in the day.

I found this article of Kate’s particularly insightful and we’ve been discussing it in the Wednesday Woman’s Group for two weeks, and again today in my writing Mastermind session.

So here’s the question: What’s the payoff for staying stuck?

When days, months, years or even decades go by, and you haven’t accomplished what you say is your heart’s desire…could you have an even deeper, more subconscious desire that overrides all that?

For instance, you may be able to trace the fact that you never get the time or opportunity to travel, which you say you’re dying to do, back to an even deeper desire for routine and normalcy, the VERY THINGS travel shoots to hell. So those deeper, ingrained desires will cancel out the travel – every time. Get it?

Here, take a minute to read Kate’s article, and start to become aware and make the changes you need to get unstuck.

Happy Friday!

xox

http://www.katenorthrup.com/what-are-you-getting-out-of-staying-right-where-you-are/

http://drhollylucille.com

http://www.drnorthrup.com

This level of creativity leaves me giddy…and grateful…and hopeful. Take a look.

Xox

I just went away for five days and had the best time a fifty-six year old woman can have without getting arrested.

I’m serious.

I’ve been nervous to make the seemingly Grand Canyon size leap from blog writer to author, and I desperately needed a writing “tribe” …and a net.
Real writers to give me honest, constructive critique, yet not break my heart.
I found them there, in Carmel By The Sea.

As far as acquiring a tribe goes, I am thrilled to report that they are mine, and I am theirs.

The people, the writing, the instruction and feedback were of such high-caliber, I described it one afternoon as the Harvard of Writing Workshops.

SEX IN SPACE

This wildly talented crew kept me on my toes, in the game, and laughing every minute of every day.
I LOVE to laugh, but I never imagined I would be laughing until my sides ached and I couldn’t breathe. These people were wicked smart; and smart people are FUNNY…and to my surprise and delight… they’re silly.
Like I said, I found my people, so I joined in.

I talked to my finger as if it were giving me sage advise, smeared gravy on my face as a parody of a fellow table mate who was enthusiastically enjoying her bread with gravy, mimicked a fellow writer’s teenage character from her brilliant novel, with a Valley Girl voiceover, and gleefully joined in, every time we would all put our hands up to cover our mouths, moving them rapidly for an echo chamber special effect, shouting,
SEX IN SPAAAAAACE.

I’m not exactly sure how SEX IN SPACE came to be. It became the “working title” for *New York Times Best Selling Author D’s science fiction thriller, even though he had a perfectly good title, it doesn’t take place in space, and the only sex he read to us, was implied.

He did write about scrotums a lot, I’ll grant you that. He is a doctor after all – and a man.

What’s for lunch? SEX IN SPAAAAACE.
Stumped on a particular section of your book? SEX IN SPAAAACE.
Just heard someone read something so incredible from their book that you want to slap their mama? SEX IN SPAAAAACE.

You get the picture……Guess you had to be there.

*by the end of day one, we all insisted that when our name was said, it had to be preceded by the title,New York Times Best Selling Author… I know.

WHALE ENERGY
“Examine your own use of creativity and apply your own creative intuition to formulas as this is what imbues them with power and magic. Creativity for the sake of creativity is not what the Whale teaches. It awakens great depth of creative inspiration, but you must add your own color and light to your outer life to make it wonderful. The sound of the Whale teaches us how to create with song.
You are being asked to embrace the unknown.”

In between group mastermind sessions and binge eating, fueled by exhaustion and the close proximity of delicious food; we would each, the six of us, ascend the stairs to Mount Olympus (Linda’s room) for a forty-five minute one-on-one intuitive, brainstorming session with the ‘Master’, as I now refer to her.

After each one, I would gather the contents of my brain, which after failing to contain all the mind expanding concepts discussed, had exploded in an embarrassing mess all over the room; descend the stairs…and take a nap.
It was THAT intense.

The house, like a silent sentinel sitting high above Highway One, overlooked one particularly beautiful stretch of the Carmel coast, with its giant picture windows.
Mount Olympus, being on the third floor, has a staggeringly beautiful, breathtakingly uninterrupted view of the ocean.
One afternoon, during my session, as we were working to steer my writing ship off the rocks, the sea came alive.

I’d just had an idea: “I think I’ll call it One Ride Away From…”
“OH MY GOD JANET!” Linda squealed, “A whale just breached as you said that!”
I turned my attention to the roiling waters below.
“LOOK! There’s another one over there!”

We were both on our feet now, running toward the window, screaming screams that only dogs – and whales, can hear.

Below us the ocean had become Whale Soup.
Everywhere we looked, tails were breaking the surface, slapping the water, producing torrents of white foam. Noses were poking through the froth. Water was shooting into the air from their blow holes, giant saltwater geysers reaching toward the sky in every direction.

We went insane with excitement. We had to share it with our tribe!

Knowing that on the floors below us, everyone had their noses buried in their computers, diligently typing away at their respective masterpieces, we bound down the stairs, screaming the whole way.

“Are you guys seeing this?! Oh My God, come up here, the whales are going crazy!”
Seven of us were now running excitedly, back up the two flights of stairs, to the Mount.

Like little kids we danced and squealed and jumped up and down, arms around each other, hugging and laughing, for a good fifteen to twenty minutes, sharing the magical whale show that the Universe was providing just outside our windows.

“Look over there! No! Over there, shit! I don’t know where to look!”
“Wow…”
“It’s a bathtub full of whales!” Someone said in a sing-song voice.

“I’ve NEVER seen this before, EVER; and I’ve been coming to this house six to nine times a year, for over five years” said Linda with reverent awe, never breaking her gaze, entranced in the spectacle below.

The logical explanation was the unprecedented anchovy bloom off the Central California Coast.

Our tribe, the mystical creatives upstairs, writing our heads off?
We knew in a moment, that those majestic creatures had arranged that show. Just. For. Us.

BOB

On our final full day of the retreat, Linda took us on an early hike through the rocky outcroppings and tidal pools of Point Lobos State Park. It felt amazing to breathe the fresh, ocean air and move my ass, which had been in the seated position for days on end.

We walked along the dirt paths that weave in and out of the cypress trees, with the spectacular Pacific Ocean to our left; pairing up with one of the tribe, or hanging back, alone, lost in thought. Was it technically a “hike”? Maybe not, but it was delicious just the same.

When we came to a particularly beautiful viewpoint, we all gathered for a photo-op, steadying ourselves on the rocks, the calm blue ocean as our backdrop, Linda as the photographer.

“Are you all from here or are you visiting? Do you want me to take a picture of ALL of you?” he asked with a slight hint of a Detroit accent.

Suddenly, there before us stood a big bear of a man, with his affable manner, and giant smile. Bob, the accountant from Michigan.

“Sure” said Linda, handing Bob her phone and quickly getting into the shot.
“Now take one with my phone, I want one of all of you” he said, and even though I’m happily married and so is he, I fell a little in love.
I think we all did, as Bob unobtrusively joined our hike and inadvertently, our tribe.

I believe in the magnetism of energy. In our days, sequestered together, the seven of us had congealed into a kind of containable Super Nova. I think Bob was drawn to us, to our collective glow.

Bob was in Carmel to golf. It is the golfer’s Mecca with Pebble Beach just a stone’s throw away.
“Wow, you all are writers, I could never do that, I wouldn’t know how” he said as he took turns walking and chatting with each one of us along the trail. “Well, I can’t balance my checkbook” I said, joking around, searching for common ground.

We arrived at the spot Linda was leading us to; the branches of a long dead cypress, splayed open like a throne, wood worn as smooth as marble. It faced north, looking out over a small, placid, kelp filled cove.
“The Indians would sit here and meditate” Linda said.
“Look how worn it is, people have been sitting in that spot for hundreds of years.”

We all took turns, this group of mystics and shamans, healers….and Bob.
Bless his heart, he took a turn too, sitting inside the open arms of that magical cypress tree.

As we were gathered, waiting for everyone to take their turn, deer appeared, so we all quieted down and Bob became introspective, talking to me in hushed tones about some experiences he was having, and his revelations about love. “Now THAT’S what you can write about, everyone can relate to matters of the heart.” I whispered.
He nodded his head looking out at the sea. I could FEEL him opening in the silence between the words and even though I didn’t think it possible, I fell in love with Bob, the accountant from Michigan, even a little bit more.

I gave him this blog address as we all hugged goodbye about ten minutes later in the parking lot. He had a tee time to make and I had an appointment with my iPad.

I hope you read this Bob. You, along with this transformational time in Carmel, left a mark on us all, and THIS – from the heart; this is how you write about amazing stuff when it happens to you.

Love to all,
especially NYTBSA Dave,Murphy,Orna,Matthew,Jeannie,Denise,Master Linda and Bob
**Bob took the picture above.

Linda Sivertsen is the author, co-author, or ghostwriter of nine books–two NYT bestsellers among them. When she’s not writing her own books (Lives Charmed, Generation Green, and the most recent Your Big Beautiful Book Plan with Danielle LaPorte), Linda teaches writing retreats in Carmel-by-the-Sea. She and her work have appeared in/on CNN, E!, Extra, the NY Post, New York Times, Family Circle, Teen Vogue, the Huffington Post, and Forbes.com. She lives in Los Angeles with her man, their horses, and a couple of perfect pups.

www.bookmama.com

Xox

okay, okay, here’s the audio!
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/sex-in-space-whale-soup-and

If it sounds like writing…rewrite it
~Elmore Leonard~

We all come in with a purpose.

But because we’ve forgotten to remember, we spend the majority of our lives searching for it.
Unless you’re incredibly lucky and come in as a child prodigy….or angry cat.

Once we make our connection with God, the Muse, Source, or whatever you want to call it, our ONLY job is to remain a clear and unbiased vessel.

When we do finally connect with our purpose, it becomes more than a job.
It becomes a calling.
All we need to do is enthusiastically show up every day.

The purpose itself will create opportunities for its accomplishment.

What?

You mean I’m not the only one who controls how this work gets out in the world?

I feel solely responsible for what happens to anything I create, after the initial process is finished.
I want to write the pitch, I want to orchestrate the meeting, I want to call the shots with every i dotted and every t crossed…..by me.

Yet, if we can trust the Muse to co-create our purpose, can’t we trust her to place it just where it needs to go?

She’s got a much broader vision than we’ll ever have, and her contacts are legendary. Back in the day of Rolodex’s, she had fifty of them lined up, side by side, crammed with every mover and shaker across the planet.

Nothing escapes her radar.

Her ideas have ideas.

We have thoughtfully and tenderly brought her masterpiece to third dimension; she’ll take care of the rest.

If we muck up the trajectory SHE has in mind with our ideas of how WE think it should play out…..crickets.

Here is the story of J K Rowling’s (if you’ve been living under a rock, she is the author of the Harry Potter series of books) rise to fame.

After being rejected twelve times by every major publishing company, one of the manuscripts found its way into a pile on an office shelf. End of story, right?

It could have been. It should have been.

What happened next could have come with a swish of Harry Potter’s wand.
(Muse magic?)

In the spring of 1997, struggling English producer David Heyman’s secretary, Nisha Parti, picked up a manuscript from the shelf marked ‘low priority’.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was yet to be published. She took it home to read over the weekend.
Monday morning they had their meeting and David asked if anyone had read anything good. Nisha said, “Well I’ve read this book, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“That’s a rubbish title,” he said. What’s it about?”
She said, “It’s about a young boy who goes to wizard school.”
Intrigued, he took it home and read it in one night.
And the rest is history.

So…..
What if J K Rowling had stopped after three rejections, or seven, or ten?

We have no idea which manuscript ended up on the low priority list in that producer’s office.

What if she had listened to the criticism that boys don’t read books?

What made his secretary pick THAT manuscript to read? Who marked it low priority, so that it ended up in her pile?

What if she’d released them as short stories, because people were telling her the books were too long and wordy?

What if she was against film adaptation? Some authors are.

Someone came up with the release date parties held at midnight in bookstores across the globe. They created a marketing frenzy. That was a completely new concept in book publishing/marketing at the time. Whose idea was THAT?
(That has the Muse’s fingerprints ALL over it.)

What if she’d wanted a more well-known producer, or more money?
The list goes on and on.
I think you get the gist.

I really love the concept that all we have to do is sing, write, paint, create; then listen for instructions on what comes next and not have to drive ourselves nuts figuring out the rest.
You get that we can’t possibly know what comes next, right?

Finish your work. Say a prayer. Let go of the wheel.

Let the source that wrote the screenplay, line up the appropriate people, and then pitch it.
She’ll tell us what day and what to say. She’s proud of her work, that Muse, and so naturally she’d love it to get as popular and touch as many people as possible.
Doesn’t that make sense?

Due diligence, yes. Thinking we have all the answers, no.

The purpose itself will create opportunities for its Accomplishment

It’s worth repeating.

Do you have projects you need to let go of and trust the process? I’d love to hear some stories of how the Muse took a project where it needed to go.
Tell me in the comments!

Xox

Prayer To The Muse
Give the act to me.
Purged of hope and ego,
Fix your attention on the soul.
Act and do for me.”

Excerpt From: Steven Pressfield & Shawn Coyne. “The War of Art.” Visionary Press, 2012.

The Muse and I were sitting around the other day chatting, as we do. She with an air of gin, tonic and attitude; and me, always in awe of her beauty and general badassery.

I was questioning her about all aspects of the writing process, publishing in particular, of which she is extremely knowledgeable.

She is the Muse, after all.

As the conversation zig and zagged over the various ways to get published, she shook her head. “There’s no excuse these days, for an author not to get their work out in the world to be read.”

“So all of us, the writers of the world, together with our Muses, we just write what we love, and send it, like our precious baby, out into the world? I asked “What intention should we give it as we send it on its way? To touch people? To help people? To make money? To be a best seller?”

I couldn’t tell by the way she slowly turned to face me, with a kind of half smirk, whether her answer was going to be kind, or I was gonna get a smack down.

She started to laugh.
The Muse has a laugh like the throaty purr of a Maserati. Deep and sexy.
The result of age, too many late nights, strong drinks and cigarettes.

“I only write best sellers, my darling” she purred with her usual lack of humility.

“That’s all I’m capable of. I only paint masterpieces. I only write musical compositions that bring grown men to tears. It’s all I know how to do.”

Now I was shaking my head, but she continued.

“As the Muse, I am Divine Inspiration at the highest level, sending my masterpiece through you, the vessel.”

Now I was leaning in; listening intently, she could sense my interest, so she took a long drag on her cigarette to keep me in suspense.

“I’m incapable of writing a boring book or a piece of shit movie.” She threw her head back, smoke billowing from her nostrils.
“That’s YOUR contribution.” She was laughing again.

“The clearer the vessel, the clearer the translation of my work. If you start to question it, or edit it, or doubt it, well, darling, you’re being an idiot.”
I laughed.

“If you can’t recognize a masterpiece when you see it or read it, or you somehow think you can do it better,” she shifted in her chair, “you’ll compromise the material.
It will become mediocre….or suck altogether.”

That was a big AhHa for me.

What she was saying was this: that no matter what your talent is, no matter what ideas you have, we are ALL capable of greatness; it’s wholly dependent on the clarity of our connection to the Muse. No one is more talented, they are just better connected.
Steve Jobs, I’m going to venture to guess, kept his nose out of her business.

He just let it flow.

I get it. I get it!

“Our relationship is very complicated, my darling. Everyday I’m taking a chance that you will trust me enough to write my words the way I say them or paint my vision, using the colors I choose. I hear your prayer and I get ready to work. All you have to do is trust and stay clear of fear, doubt, and judgement.”

“Oh is THAT all.” I replied, sarcastically.

“My job as the Muse is to pick the correct vessel.”
She got to her feet for emphasis, turned and winked.
“It is how all the great works of humanity; of architecture, and the arts have been created. I believe it to be a good system.”

So do I.
I’d be an idiot to disagree with the Muse.

Xox

“As you begin to take action toward the fulfillment of your goals and dreams, you must realize that not every action will be perfect. Not every action will produce the desired result. Not every action will work. Making mistakes, getting it almost right, and experimenting to see what happens are all part of the process of eventually getting it right.”
– Jack Canfield

Oh God, here I go again…experimenting, making mistakes, almost getting it right…Crap!

As Monday approaches, which is the day my online business class starts,
I’m getting a stomach ache. Maybe a headache too. Yeah, definitely head ache.

Why you ask? Because of my expectations!
They started off strong, which is par for the course for me.
I devoured all the pre-class curriculum, watched the videos…twice; then I got to the parts I just didn’t understand, and I got frustrated. 
” Go big, or go home!” has often been my battle cry. But that was in the ventures where I knew my shit.
Now, I’m WAYYYYYYYYY out of my league, and I want to go to bed.

That all got me to thinking about expectations. 
I’m expecting everything to be over my head.
I’m expecting that I will not understand analytics, web design, content blah blah, and all that jazz.

I’m expecting to be asked to build a rocket ship from popsicle sticks, some gum and a flashlight.
I don’t understand how televisions work and planes fly. I know it’s something about capturing pixels and aerodynamics, but it’s all just a miracle to me.
So is the internet.
And I’m about to go behind the curtain and see how it all functions.
Then, I’m going to learn how to finagle and manipulate it.
Then I’m going to rule the world! Mwaaaahaaahaa!
Expectations too high?

See? My expectations have run amok. I vacillate between knowing I’m gonna suck, to thinking I’m the next Mark Zuckerberg.
Damn you expectations!
Do you do that too?

I have until Monday to stop being so expectation-ally schizophrenic and get a more realistic grip on them.
Then I need to just be okay being a student.
I can’t be good at all this stuff, because it’s all NEW to me. Some things I’m going to grasp right away, and love them because they make me feel smart.
I expect a great majority of the material will read like Greek to me, and I’m gonna suck.
I’m expecting a lot of tears…Because that’s what I do when I get frustrated.

So stay tuned. This should get interesting, funny and soggy.

This blog will soon become part of a website. I expect it to be…great.
You will all get to witness this transformation in the coming months, and I know you’ll weigh in 🙂
There will be two, maybe three books available. They’ll be compiled from the over 400 blog posts I’ve written so far.
Hey! Email me your preference for the first book, will ya? Atikhome@me.com
1) The poignant posts with a message and the poems.
Or…
2) The more humorous posts.

I know you’ll be honest with me, because…
I expect nothing less.

XoxJanet