writing

“Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us.  Between the two stands Resistance”
~Steven Pressfield “The War of Art.” 

“The War of Art” is one of my all-time favorite books on creation, life, love and well… what else is there?

In my humble opinion, it should be a textbook in every school, on every hotel nightstand, next to the Bible, and reduced to liquid form and added to the water supply.

Beyond what the title implies, this book is not strictly written for artists and writers.

As you’ll glean from the list below, Resistance isn’t particular about which endeavors it sabotages. The only thing they have in common is our desire to become fully realized. Whether that be through artistic pursuits, the Paleo diet, Fab Ab Boot camp, that non-profit you want to start or marrying Skipper.

Up until Steven set us straight, we thought we were all just dumbass, procrastinating losers.

Nope, that’s just Resistance talking smack and taking the wheel, leaving us eating its dust and only dreaming about our unlived lives.
It will always stand in the way of our growth.
It’s a law; like gravity. That explains sooooooooooo much.

Assbite.

But…what I know for SURE….Resistance only has the power WE give it. 

“The following is a list, in no particular order, of those activities that most commonly elicit Resistance:

1) The pursuit of any calling in writing, painting, music, film, dance, or any creative art, however marginal or unconventional.

2) The launching of any entrepreneurial venture or enterprise, for profit or otherwise.

3) Any diet or health regimen.

4) Any program of spiritual advancement.

5) Any activity whose aim is tighter abdominals.

6) Any course or program designed to overcome an unwholesome habit or addiction.

7) Education of every kind.

8) Any act of political, moral, or ethical courage, including the decision to change for the better some unworthy pattern of thought or conduct in ourselves.

9) The undertaking of any enterprise or endeavor whose aim is to help others.

10) Any act that entails commitment of the heart. The decision to get married, to have a child, to weather a rocky patch in a relationship.

11) The taking of any principled stand in the face of adversity.

In other words, any act that rejects immediate gratification in favor of long-term growth, health, or integrity. Or, expressed another way, any act that derives from our higher nature instead of our lower.

Any of these will elicit Resistance.

Excerpt From: Steven Pressfield & Shawn Coyne. “The War of Art.” Visionary Press, 2012. iBooks.
This material may be protected by copyright.

I’d LOVE it if you’d tell me:
What beautiful thing has Resistance been talking you out of doing?
Do you agree that we have two lives, the one we live and the unlived life?

MuchO loveO
Xox

* Hi Loves,
Recently I tried to rush someone’s healing process.
Right? Shame on Me! I’ve been there, I know better!
So I needed to re-read this to remind – myself.
Maybe you need it too.

Healing takes time! Time to find the silver lining, to look on the bright side, to discover the purpose, to remember that this too shall pass.
Sorry.
Carry on-

Barn’s burned down,
now I can see the moon.
~Masahide~

Oh, so I get it!

Don’t worry about the loss of that beautiful, useful, building you’re still paying for, now you have a view…of the moon…on the nights when you’re outside sobbing over your lousy luck and the shit the insurance company’s putting you through.

Only then can you take a second to raise your snot covered face to the sky,
“Oh never-mind, why am I so devastated? – that is so beautiful…now that the barn’s gone…I can see the moon”.

NOT!!

I wish to God Almighty I could always be that enlightened in the face of crisis and chaos!

Car got totaled,
now I can get some exercise…
How practical.

Or how about,

Husband left me,
now I can catch up on my reading…
Ommmmm…perfectly Zen.

Don’t get me wrong.
I love the message behind these spiritual sayings,
and they really do give me pause to do a reality check, but honestly! Who lives like that?
Maybe me on a good day.
But it would have to be my best day ever.

I take it as a suggestion of an ending place, a goal, a place to aspire to.
Because, if I live under the impression that that’s where I should be immediately, it makes me want to scream and cry, and punch somebody in the face.
It may take me awhile to get there, shit, it could take years!

If the proverbial barn burns down, I’m gonna freak out.
I’m gonna get mad.
And sad.
And scared.
Maybe all at the same time.
Because in that moment, that’s appropriate.

I’m going to use every profanity known to man,
in every language I can think of, and some that haven’t been invented yet.
I’m going to yell them loudly – and often.
As verbs and nouns and adjectives.
They will start and end every sentence I speak.

Maybe NOT appropriate, but amazingly cathartic.

Then, only after the dust has settled, and I’ve had a good cry and a glass of wine and regained my composure…
THEN and only then…will I appreciate the fuckin’ view.

Xox

How did it get so late so soon? 
It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?
~ Dr Suess

I could smell the pan burning, but it didn’t make any sense, I’d only put the veggies in the steamer five minutes before.
Must be something burning on the bottom of the pan was the conclusion my brilliant critical thinking had brought me to.

I was in the middle of writing a fiction piece that’s been keeping me glued to my seat, basically taking dictation, curious to find out what happens next.

The smell got stronger, to the point that I was forced to check it out, and not a moment too soon. The bottom of the pan was about to burn through! That’s impossible I thought, but much to my surprise it had not been the five minutes I was sure had passed (and I’m really good at estimating time – ask anyone) – it had been forty.
Oops.

That was the second time this week that I’d lost time while writing.

On Tuesday I’d actually lost a huge chunk – an hour and a half – I’d actually missed an appointment.
If you’d have asked me right then, under oath, how long I’d been writing I would have sworn “fifteen minutes.”

So the time warp phenomena has decided to pay me a return visit. I love that. You know I love me some good phenomena.
It’s been over twenty years since I’ve lost time.
I started to loose forty five minutes of time when I’d meditate, on a regular basis. Back then it used to freak me out, now, besides having to make excuses and put out fires, I think it’s cool.

Note to self: Don’t cook when you write.
I’ll have to show this to my husband, since I write all the time – it’s a virtual get out of jail free card.

Isn’t time fascinating? It really is just an illusion.
You get a glimpse of that when we change the clocks backwards in the fall and forward in the spring.
Time is so completely malleable, it morphs according to our state of mind.
 
Doesn’t time draaaaag on when it’s the day before you leave for vacation?
How about when you’re doing something you despise, like taxes or waiting in line at the DMV?

Doesn’t it seem to move at light speed when you’re having fun? The perfect meal? Falling in love? Moments spent when you’re in bliss? “Oh, it’s over already?”

Then there’s the flow or the zone – a place of no time.

Elite athletes report a loss of time during peak performance, when they’re in the flow. So do artists and musicians – even writers. It’s also called being in the zone.

This zone has been described as a state of timelessness; a distorted sense of time; feeling so focused on the present that you lose track of time passing.

According to studies, what you are experiencing in that moment of flow, is a state of complete immersion in an activity.
It has been described as being completely involved in an activity for its own sake. The ego falls away. Time flies. Every action, movement, and thought follows inevitably from the previous one. Your whole being is involved, and you’re using your skills to the utmost.

My husband experiences it while riding motorcycles – and surfing the web.

When do you get in the flow and lose time? What activity causes that to happen for you?
I’d love to hear your experiences in the comments below.

Xox

The hubby just returned a couple of weeks ago from an arduous off road motorcycle journey through the back country of British Columbia. It was brutal. He returned with a banged up bike, a couple of cracked ribs – and some great stories.

As he sat in a much needed bath, soaking in Epsom salt, he regaled me with tales of breathtaking scenery, ferry adventures, muddy, rutted roads, his epic falls (this is the guy who doesn’t fall) and all the laughs shared around the campfire at the end of each day with wine and great grub. I know most of this tribe, they are smart and funny and major badasses.
Unfortunately, no one was able to avoid dropping their big, heavy, overloaded bike.

But here’s the first rule of off road adventure riding: you just don’t talk about falling, about going down. And you NEVER name names.

Zip it.

A couple of motorcycle journalists went along, to chronicle the ride for their various publications.

When the first article came out, as I read it, I couldn’t text my husband fast enough:
How much does it cost to have someone killed? This guy has broken the first rule!

I was joking, of course (sort of) but there it was, in print, the jerk mentioned the rough terrain, and my husband BY NAME, saying he had fallen twice.

“Of course he did” hubster replied over dinner that night.
“We got into it a couple of times. He’s a young, insecure know-it-all, and after awhile, when I heard him throwing inaccurate stories around about people I know, places I’ve been and courses I’ve taken, well, I corrected his facts and he didn’t like it. Hence,(he says hence in conversations – I swear) he felt the need to try to embarrass me. No biggie, we all know what went down. The fact is EVERYONE fell – parts of it were reduced to a mud pit.”
He was laughing and cringing; holding his left side.

Another journalist’s article came out last week and it was well written and more importantly, humorous and accurate.

Then, a couple of days ago, the first guy published a second piece. 

It has now become his Hero’s Journey, with his bike the heaviest, (it wasn’t) his struggle the hardest, due to riding on street tires (they weren’t) and his proud claim that he was the only one who had the skills and wherewithal not to fall (WTF?)

Dude, it was already a really good story, you didn’t have to lie about it.

All the guys from the trip are emailing each other privately to vent, they’re too gentlemanly to publicly humiliate him by leaving comments on his website.

We all know why he did it. Insecurity, inferiority, blah, blah, blah…I don’t care.

Why do people lie? Especially when you have twelve other people out there that know the truth?
Now he’s just writing fiction. It’s the tale of “The Boy That Cried Hey, Have You Heard How Awesome I Am?”

Somebody really smart (I can’t remember who) said that most non-fiction is really fiction, because it come from the writer’s perspective. Hmmm…

I can’t stand lying.
When I write I do not lie. I may embellish (I didn’t really kick my Christmas tree until it begged for mercy, I stopped when it asked me politely the first time). But I write humor. Although, when I write about real people and real situations, I’m SO careful to depict them truthfully.

My stories aren’t written as vanity pieces, to make me sound good; on the contrary, most are cautionary tales of all my fuck-ups.

As I sat and stewed about this guy, I remembered some words of wisdom from my therapist, back in the day. She was a very beautiful and wise woman. Imagine Yoda and Oprah in the body of Candice Bergen.

1) “Janet, the biggest mistake you make in life, is thinking everyone feels and thinks JUST – LIKE – YOU. I can assure you, THEY DO NOT.”
That little nugget has saved me a lifetime of misery. My internal rules, dialogues, morals, and views on life are mine and mine alone. If I want others to know them, I have to communicate them.

Which brings me to:
2) “Janet, you’ve gotta cut people some slack, they’re not mind readers.”
This one needs no explanation.
Although, the guys do have a kind of Jedi mind meld about their rules of the road. They are un-discussed, yet understood – apparently with the exception of a certain Pinocchio.

3) I truly believe – with all my heart – that liar’s pants – should actually CATCH ON FIRE. 

There. I vented. I feel so much better.

Have you heard or caught someone in an epic lie? Something that made them sound awesome, while trashing everyone else? Share please.

Big, group hug,
Xox

“Well, what will you do for money?” The fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Her eyes were huge, and the fear inside them was palpable.

“Nooooo, honey, you’re a jeweler, that’s what you do.” It was not a statement, it was a directive.

“What? Why? Now? You’re in your fifties.” Said by someone whose recent anthem had been: Fifty is the new Thirty.

Turncoat.

Those are just a few of the reactions I’ve gotten when I’ve been asked ‘So, what are you up to?’ And I reply “I’m a writer.”

I’ve said it before and it’s worth repeating. A lot, no, make that most – most people who ask you how you are and what you’re up to – they don’t really want to know.

It’s the amuse bouche of conversation – obligatory and unnecessary.

Which leads me to two important revelations ( bigger than insights, more important to remember than observations) that I’ve had about who I told about the writing in the very beginning; and I think they can apply to anything precious that you’re considering doing in your life.

NUMBER ONE:
Don’t tell just anyone everything. THAT can be considered an act of self sabotage.
That was a hard one for me because I’m about as opaque as Saran Wrap, but you’ve really got to be careful here.
How well do you know the person in front of you?
Are they safe? Meaning, do they have your best interests at heart – or an agenda?
I’ve had more amazing responses and feedback from strangers – on airplanes – than I have from the people close to me.
Probably because they aren’t invested in my old identity.
One guy recently responded “oh wow, that’s great; you look like a writer.” Whatever that meant. It felt like a compliment, but I’m thinking he got a look at my writer’s flat ass.

Advise in a nutshell – take a minute, and size up the asker.

Don’t divulge your new passion/ plans/ career choice/ to anyone who wouldn’t understand, may laugh, or potentially invalidate you – and you may get burned by a friend.
Just don’t get burned twice by the same flame. 

NUMBER TWO:
We’ve talked about this in our Wednesday night group because I’ve found this to be true WITHOUT FAIL.
Whatever insecurities and doubts I’ve had about any new venture I’ve undertaken (and this includes relationships) I’ve always been able to count on them to be mirrored back to me by some assbite naysayer.

So those responses at the top of the page?
Of courses those were my trifecta – of – terror.
Fear of the loss of income, abandoning my long-standing career, and starting something new at my age; lobbed back across the lunch table for me to justify…to myself really.

Because here’s what happens: when you have the mirror held up and it pisses you off, and your hackles go up; all your College Debate Team skills kick in, and you’re able to come up with graphs and evidence and flow charts, to prove to them – AND YOURSELF – why this is the best idea ever!

So how can you be mad? They did you a favor. I’m aware that I’ve played the naysayer role in other peoples’s dramas many times.

Now, I hardly get any blowback, because I worked out all the confidence kinks early on and I’m better at owning it.

I’m kinda a writer like someone in their eighth month is kinda pregnant.

Just be advised; if it keeps happening, your doubts are bigger than you think – or you may need new friends.

Remember: Don’t get burned by the same flame twice.
(I swear, we should all embroider that on a pillow)

As always, I so appreciate you reading and your comments below.
When have you had your insecurities mirrored back at you? Have you gotten burned by revealing too much to the wrong person? Was it a friend? Or family?

Thanks loves,
Xox

(Rare photo of my Muse)

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. She is VERY knowledgable.

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.
I’m guessing it’s the result of age, too many late nights, strong drinks and cigarettes; but if she asks – you didn’t hear that from me.

“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, no matter what ideas you have, we are ALL, every one of us, 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

(Photo of Picasso and his Muse. “THE MUSE AND THE MASTER”)

We need to carry this chart around with us at all times, because
most of us have a hard time articulating our level of pain.

My husband goes to the head of the class.
Classic story.

It was back a few years ago, when he discovered (on Web MD in the middle of the night) that he had appendicitis.
I scoffed at his self diagnosis, of course, suggested he had gas; and told him to buck up and take a couple of Motrin.
Wife of the Year, I know.

Since he was due to leave on a motorcycle trip to the Sierra’s the next day, unbeknownst to me, he went to the doctor.
THAT should have told me something right there, because he’s someone who can have a chainsaw stuck in his neck and he will sidestep a visit to the doctor.
“Oh that? Nah, I don’t need a doctor, I’m just going to observe it.”

He called me at work from St John’s, where he had been sent immediately by his doctor for an MRI.

He got the results while I was on the phone. He was told to go directly to Emergency, where they would admit him for surgery; seems his appendix had a slow leak and I was going to have to give back my medical diploma.
Gas it was not.

I drove like a maniac, in a thunderstorm, to make it across town at rush hour, to see him before they took him in to operate.
When I got there (late) he was in Emergency, hooked up to antibiotics and pain meds, waiting for his turn in surgery; doing his Sudoku and entertaining the nurses.

“What’s your pain level, one to ten?” the friendly nurse asked while I was hugging him hello.

“Three or four” he said, without even a cringe.

“Really? What’s a ten to you?” The nurse was curious, since appendicitis is up there on the pain scale – for most mere mortals.

“Being skinned alive or boiled in oil” he responded, completely serious.

“Huh… okay Braveheart, have you felt that? How would you know? I’m asking you as a point of reference.”

But that’s a great question.
What is a five or an eight or even a ten?

I wondered, have I felt a ten? 

We all know those individuals to whom a paper cut is a ten. Are most of us even aware of our pain tolerance scale?

Minutes later his appendix burst.
If he’d been riding the back country of the Sierra’s—he’d have died.
He hadn’t been accurately portraying his pain, because he didn’t know how.
“It’s a ten, it’s a ten, maybe even eleven!” he yelled as she injected morphine straight into his IV, his whole body relaxing, his eyes rolling back into his head.

They rushed him into surgery and he is now happily appendix free.

It appears to me that this list could apply to emotional pain as well.
Will we tolerate three’s and four’s as we “observe” the situation?
What constitutes a ten? The equivalent of emotional stigmata or boiling oil?

Food for thought.

Copy this list and keep it with you – in case someone asks.
I especially love the faces.

Love,
Xox

“Everything about me is a contradiction, and so is everything about everybody else.
We are made out of oppositions; we live between two poles. There’s a philistine and an aesthete in all of us, and a murderer and a saint.
You don’t reconcile the poles. You just recognize them.”
~Orson Wells

I used to LOVE loligaging around, reading and listening to music – simultaneously.

It was a habit I got into during school. I could only study with music playing or the TV on in the background. Nothing too heady, The Price Is Right or The Sonny And Cher Comedy Hour would drone on in the background, helping my brain process information.

Studies confirmed that there were others like me.
At least that was the lame excuse I would give my parents. I would sneeeeeer it out of my sideways, teenage mouth, like a hoodlum with the stub of a cigarette; when they’d yell for me to “turn that shit down!”
I lied about it so much, it became…true.

So what the hell has happened to me?
Now, as a writer, I need complete and utter silence when I sit down at the computer.
Is it age? Is my brain so busy just trying to conjugate a verb, that I can’t handle the distraction?
And forget about reading. I have six books open right now, all of them half read and only partially understood.

Suddenly, I’m a writer who doesn’t read, a singer that doesn’t listen to music.

I guess I can just add that to the list:

I’m also a woman that never lactated, or used her uterus for the good of the world in ANY WAY.

I’m a ex Jeweler who does’t wear or look at jewelry.

I’m a former Nationally Rated (fibbing here, but I could have been) professional shopper who hasn’t bought ANYTHING that wasn’t for someone else, since the inception of the boyfriend jean.

I’m a foodie who consumes steamed veggies and green drinks everyday and just to be cruel, I force my husband to do the same; utilizing his Catholic guilt.

I’m the biggest slug. The most ginormous lazy bones Jones, exercise loathing, couch potato, that God ever had the imagination to create; yet, I go to the gym – everyday.

WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH ME?

I’ve become a walking contradiction. But what I’m starting to realize is that we ALL are…in our own ways.

I know certain individuals that are vegan, gluten free, alkaline water junkies…who smoke and eat bacon; hoity-toity fashionista’s who wear Target with their designer duds, Yogi’s who teach meditation that are high strung and judgmental, financial advisors that are millions of dollars in debt, Prius drivers who waste every resource imaginable, and drive like bats out of hell; and intellectual giants – who can’t tell time.

So I figure, seeing that it’s part of the human condition, living a contradicted life, that it would be unfair, almost cruel, to hold ourselves or anyone else for that matter, up to too much scrutiny.

I promise to look the other way, if you promise to do the same. (As far as I know, I’m still someone who can keep a promise.)
Deal?

You KNOW you’re contradicted, think about it and tell me how!

Loving you all…today.
xox

If you want to listen instead:
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/youre-a-walking-contradiction

The house is still. It’s the middle of the night so…that’s appropriate.

The only sound I can hear is the soft whrrrrr of the refrigerator, which spends its nights keeping my kale and green drink ingredients cool and fresh.

Damn you stainless steel box of cold air! (yelled dramatically while waving a fist).

Rant Alert:
Why can’t my protein, vegetable laden juices taste like a chocolate malt?
Is that too much to ask?
I’m submitting a formal complaint right here and now. This healthy shit has GOT to start tasting better…or else…

Anyway…
My refrigerator has undergone a recent renaissance.
It seems to follow my life’s trajectory. Right now it’s all cleanses, bitter greens and shit.

I’m home most days writing, so I give myself very few options so I won’t cheat with fat infused deliciousness. As a matter of fact there is nothing delicious within a three-mile radius. I’d have to get in my car and drive to get it, and my laziness overrules my craving for gooey goodness, so I think technically, I’m not an addict, which gives me some solace.

What I am is: a vessel seeking clarity…with a bad attitude…in dire need of a cheeseburger.

For about two decades the freezer in my apartment contained two things: vodka and cigarettes (if you’re just a casual smoker, keeping cigs in the freezer keeps them fresh) not even an ice-cube dared show its face. Later, ground coffee replaced the cigarettes.

Quick story about how THAT happened.
Back in ’93 when I had my first “energy work” done, a friend came by the apartment to get the dirt. Remember, I had been violently ill for three days.

She was one of my gossip girls, so she knew about the cigcicles, and since she could tell my story was going be juicy and warrant a smoke, she walked over to the kitchen, which was just to the left of where I was sitting, and opened the freezer.

Suddenly, she jumped back, as if she’d seen a ghost, slamming the thing shut.
I watched it all happen, puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her, with my head tilted sideways like a dog hearing a high-pitched whistle.

My friend still standing in front of the closed freezer door says, “A voice just said DONT SMOKE AROUND HER!”
“What?”
“I’d better go”

Man, the disembodied voices in my apartment in those days were bossy!

“Sit your ass down, I’ve got a story to tell.” I barked, taking a page out of their book.

And THAT was the end of my casual smoking.
I tried one occasionally in the years that followed but they made me feel awful, and when something stops being fun, I quit doing it. Think Jane Fonda Workouts.

So, back to the middle of the night as I tossed and turned and awfulized; mulling over this decision or that.
I finally made the first decision and that was to switch my brain from FU mode to productive mode, remembering all the recent things I’ve heard and read on making life altering choices when you’re at a crossroads.

So, to save you the obsessing and the time and trouble, here is a list of the things you should ask yourself:

1) Will I regret not making this change? (Regrets are like walking around with a wet coat on. They are killjoys.)

2) Why exactly am I hesitant/ indecisive? Make a list. (The list that you make in the light of day will always be shorter than the phone book sized one you make at three AM…just sayin’).

3) What doors will close if I make this change? Do I care? (That one makes my butt clench. Here’s a great quote from Mark Nepo for the people pleasers among us: “I tried so hard to please that I never realized; No one was watching.”
Right!? Did the top of your head just blow off? Mine too)

4) Which choice will make the better story? (kinda like the movie viewing analogy from Saturday’s post.)

5) How does the choice or change FEEL? (that really should be number one. Check your kishke).

6) What’s the worst thing that can happen? (consult your three AM list, believe me, they’re ALL there).

7) Whats the BEST thing that can happen? (usually written on a Post It)

8) What would I tell my best friend to do? (sans snarkiness, jealousy, competitiveness and ego).

9) What’s the “next right thing” to do to stay free of ego? (In other words, check your motivation. Is it pure? Not really? THERE’S your answer.)

10) What choice or change would make me the proudest in five years? (That’s often the clincher for me. Can’t say I’m too proud of myself when I can’t be brave and I play it safe.)

There you have it. I hopes this helps. Clarity is key to making the best choices. That and chocolate.
Love you all,

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