Avoiding the Calendar and the Clock

The math isn't difficult, I just don't want to do it. I liked July so much better, or even June. Then I could say "Frank isn't leaving for two months. I'm good." Now it's this month. I'm okay, but I'm not good. 

Even as recently as earlier this week, I said, "I'm fine with Frank leaving for college. It isn't as though he's climbing on a covered wagon to travel to the other side of the country where I'll never see or hear from him again."

Yeah, right.

I'm going to miss him like I'd miss one of my appendages. Trying not to dwell on it. Trying to focus solely on his next steps in life, his opportunities, all the fun he's going to have, and the friends he's going to meet. 

Today I officially go from fine to okay, as long as I don't look at the calendar.

Who is Heather Slade?

It's been over a month since I've posted on my blog . . . almost two as a matter of fact, but I have a good reason for not writing. It's because I've been writing.

I made some major decisions about my writing career over the course of the last several weeks, inspired by another author who I've called my author/mentor/guru/fairy godmother. I contacted her via a mutual friend to ask a question.

And then every single thing in my life as an author changed, and she is responsible for designing/creating all of it, except the content of my books (yeah, that's still me). 

She, by the way, is author Becky McGraw. Her photography also graces the cover of The Promise, and another book in the series that hasn't been announced yet.

I have a new pen name: Heather Slade. For those who have known me longer than twenty years, it's a familiar name, since it's my maiden name.

I have a new website: heatherslade.com

I have a new book series out . . . Butler Ranch. The first book in that series, The Promise, released on June 23, and the second in the series, The Truce, releases July 31.  The third book in the series, The Secret, is available for pre-order.

I have rewritten the Cowboys of Crested Butte series, and those books will start re-releasing with new titles, new covers, and new content. Fall for Me releases August 28. Oh, and Fall for Me is the first book that is available from retailers other than Amazon. A very big deal for me.

Let's see, what else is new? I have a new author Facebook page, Twitter page, Instagram, Tumblr, Pinterest, and . . . and this one is probably one of the most exciting (to me) . . . a YouTube channel. On that YouTube channel there are two book trailers, one for The Promise and one for Fall for Me. 

My author/mentor/guru/fairy godmother (Becky) created the trailer for The Promise, and every time I watch it, I tear up. 

Frank did the trailer for Fall for Me.  Given it's Frank's first book trailer, I think he did an amazing job (he's been a Premiere guru for about four years, finally able to work his magic on a project that wasn't for LPSD). Depending on when you read this, it may still be its first iteration, or he may have made changes to it, but either way, he did a great job.

Oh, and I have a new kick-ass team helping me, Rockstar PR and Literary Agency. Between them and Becky, I've learned more in two months about indie publishing than I could have learned in a lifetime on my own.

I think that about covers it. I'm writing up a storm, so that's why I'm not here as much. But now that I've actually posted something, maybe I'll remember to come back sooner next time. 

Vegetable Gardens and Book Gardens

It's springtime in the rockies, which means snowstorms can continue well into June. They're more random after Mother's Day, so most everyone who lives at our elevation waits until after June 1 to plant their vegetable gardens. 

Yesterday, we planted. We've been planting all along, just not the vegetables or the outside pots. But since we hit the June 1 mark, we decided it was time to finish up and let stuff grow. I posted "before" photos a few minutes ago on Facebook, and can't wait to see how it looks a couple months into the season. 

As I watered our tender plants earlier this morning, I thought about how my vegetable garden is like my book garden. I planted their seeds, fed and watered them, and now it's time for them to grow, flourish, and produce. I talked to the experts about why they weren't growing and producing the way they should, and with sound advice in my pocket, switched up their care to help them along. I guess this post serves as my written "before." I can't wait to see how it all looks a few months into the season.

His Music is Changing, and so is His Dance

Frank is graduating two weeks from right this minute. I'm sure I'll shed many tears in the next two weeks, and in the months that follow. 

To say he and I are close is a vast understatement. I'm still his mom, which means I bitch at him about stuff, and don't always say yes when he wants to do something . . . and remind him every single time he leaves the house to be careful and smart. But I'm his friend too. It's not an easy balance to achieve, and most of the time, I'm more his mom than his friend. If Doug and I have done our job even remotely well, we've raised him to be an independent adult. 

Here's the thing though . . . I really like him as a person. I'm proud of the man he has become, and am proud of the direction his life is taking. Doug and I both say that we want the boys to be successful by whatever yardstick they measure their own success. Whatever his dreams are, whatever they become as he navigates his journey, I hope he gets to do them, live them, enjoy them, fulfill them. 

At this point he's probably sick of hearing about how he should take advantage of these four years to really experience college. I remind him with regularity not to wish this time away, or be in any hurry to finish growing up. He's a crazy-serious kid, prone to work too much, stress too much, commit to too much. He's already talking about getting his first internship at Belmont as a freshman, and planning when and where he wants to do his first semester abroad. 

As many times as I've wished over the last seventeen years that I could stop time, I have never wanted it more than I do right now. I'm gonna miss him. Like crazy. 

A few months ago, at the beginning of his senior year, I came home from senior sunrise and cried uncontrollably. When he came home a little while later, and asked if I'd make him and his friends blueberry pancakes, he couldn't help but notice my blood-shot, swollen eyes. He hugged me, and I whispered, "I'm just gonna miss you so much." His response that morning was, "As much as you don't want me to go, is as much as I don't want to." But he has to. We both know it. It's the next step in his life. 

So here we go . . . his music is changing, and so is his dance. And so is ours.

Henry Miller's Eleven Commandments of Writing

1. Work on one thing at a time until finished.

2. Start no more new books, add no more new material to [past book].

3. Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand.

4. Work according to Program and not according to mood. Stop at the appointed time!

5. When you can’t create you can work.

6. Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.

7. Keep human! See people, go places, drink if you feel like it.

8. Don’t be a draught-horse! Work with pleasure only.

9. Discard the Program when you feel like it—but go back to it next day. Concentrate. Narrow down. Exclude.

10. Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.

11. Write first and always. Painting, music, friends, cinema, all these come afterwards.

Mentoring and Eight Skills Everyone Should Have by the Age of 18

I watched Saturday night, as Frank sat mesmerized by the conversation taking place between him and a dear friend of ours. The friend was telling Frank about an experience he had in Nashville as a songwriter. He talked about his approach to his time in Nashville, what happened while he was there, and the good and bad of it. The truth is, that was several years ago and in that time both the methods of business communication and the business of music has drastically changed. However, Frank listened, didn't interrupt, and didn't feel compelled to interject—and thus, there was much he took away and learned from the conversation.

This time in the life of a high school senior is different than any other time in their life. The challenges they'll face, the experiences they'll get to have, the people they'll meet, and the feelings they'll have will be unique. I read a student board from Belmont in which students wrote what they wished they'd known as a freshman. Over and over I read posts from students saying they wished they'd known the importance of networking. 

Mentoring is equally important to this age group, because having a mentor in and of itself is a networking opportunity. I've had an opportunity to do some mentoring myself, and in both cases, I feel as though there is as least something the two kids learned from me. I've also watched another kid, who had an opportunity to talk to someone who has had a long and successful career in that kid's field of study, completely discount the potential mentor. What a shame, because that particular situation could have been so beneficial to this kid.

I've suggested to Frank that there are loads of people in his life that he can learn something from. I've encouraged him to reach out, particularly to people who have watched him grow up, and who have influenced his decision to study music production. It isn't always easy. Kids are shy, or they "feel stupid", but the value in what they could learn, or who they could meet, is worth overcoming the discomfort.

A daughter of a very dear friend of mine wants to be a writer. I suggested to my friend that her daughter come and talk to me. It was near the end of our California trip, so my time was tight. I couldn't meet her, I really needed her to come to me, because I only had about an hour to spend with her. The girl contacted me, drove down to Newport, found a place to park (not always easy), and spent an hour basically listening. She asked a couple questions, and at the end I asked if our visit had been worthwhile. She rattled off a list of what she'd wanted to ask me, and as it turned out she got all the information she desired, plus some. It took guts on her part. I've known her all her life, but that doesn't mean she remembers ME. I was proud of her, and I see her as a serious young lady who I honestly believe will be a published author some day.

I'm going to reference an article I read here, because as Beckett matures, I want to be able to pull up this post and remind myself what I need to work on as his parent. It's taken from the book, How to Raise an Adult: Break Free of the Overparenting Trap and Prepare Your Kid for Success. 

1. An 18-year-old must be able to talk to strangersFaculty, deans, advisers, landlords, store clerks, human resource managers, coworkers, bank tellers, health care providers, bus drivers, mechanics—in the real world. 

The crutch: We teach kids not to talk to strangers instead of teaching the more nuanced skill of how to discern the few bad strangers from the mostly good ones. Thus, kids end up not knowing how to approach strangers—respectfully and with eye contact—for the help, guidance, and direction they will need out in the world. (See above: mentoring!)

2. An 18-year-old must be able to find his way aroundA campus, the town in which her summer internship is located, or the city where he is working or studying abroad. 

The crutch: We drive or accompany our children everywhere, even when a bus, their bicycle, or their own feet could get them there; thus, kids don't know the route for getting from here to there, how to cope with transportation options and snafus, when and how to fill the car with gas, or how to make and execute transportation plans. 

3. An 18-year-old must be able to manage his assignments, workload, and deadlines 

The crutch: We remind kids when their homework is due and when to do it — sometimes helping them do it, sometimes doing it for them; thus, kids don't know how to prioritize tasks, manage workload, or meet deadlines, without regular reminders. 

4. An 18-year-old must be able to contribute to the running of a household 

The crutch: We don't ask them to help much around the house because the checklisted childhood leaves little time in the day for anything aside from academic and extracurricular work; thus, kids don't know how to look after their own needs, respect the needs of others, or do their fair share for the good of the whole. 

5. An 18-year-old must be able to handle interpersonal problems 

The crutch: We step in to solve misunderstandings and soothe hurt feelings for them; thus, kids don't know how to cope with and resolve conflicts without our intervention. 

6. An 18-year-old must be able to cope with ups and downsCourses and workloads, college- level work, competition, tough teachers, bosses, and others. 

The crutch: We step in when things get hard, finish the task, extend the deadline, and talk to the adults; thus, kids don't know that in the normal course of life things won't always go their way, and that they'll be okay regardless. 

7. An 18-year-old must be able to earn and manage money 

The crutch: They don't hold part-time jobs; they receive money from us for what ever they want or need; thus, kids don't develop a sense of responsibility for completing job tasks, accountability to a boss who doesn't inherently love them, or an appreciation for the cost of things and how to manage money. 

8. An 18-year-old must be able to take risks 

The crutch: We've laid out their entire path for them and have avoided all pitfalls or prevented all stumbles for them; thus, kids don't develop the wise understanding that success comes only after trying and failing and trying again (a.k.a. "grit") or the thick skin (a.k.a. "resilience") that comes from coping when things have gone wrong. 

Remember: our kids must be able to do all of these things without resorting to calling a parent on the phone. If they're calling us to ask how, they do not have the life skill.

Lightning Strikes

I really struggled to finish the third Linger book, that is no secret. I wrote about the pain of it here often enough. There was a point that I wondered if I'd written all the books I had in me. It wasn't that I didn't have story ideas, it was more that the enthusiasm, the excitement, just wasn't there. I loved the last Linger book, but I struggled with it so much for so long that I wondered if I'd ever get that lightning strike feeling again . . . the one where I can't write fast enough because the story was inside, constantly nagging.

Over the course of the last week, lightning has been striking daily. It started a week ago today. I went to the grocery store early Friday morning, and saw someone walking into the store who I thought I recognized. That was it. One quick strike, and the story developed aisle by aisle. Finally, Sunday afternoon, I decided that if nothing else, I needed to get the first few paragraphs out of my head. 

Initially the story was set here, in Monument. By the time I reached two or three hundred words, the lightbulb turned on and I realized that I had the opening book of a series I've been planning to write for a couple years.

The series is set on the central coast of California, in Cambria and Paso Robles, and the area in-between the two. It's an area I know well enough that I can close my eyes and see it as clearly as if I was there. I've been going to Cambria for long weekends since I was seven years old. I used to go with my mom, and then friends, and then Doug. 

A couple months before Doug and I started dating, I spent a weekend there with a friend. I distinctly remember sitting on a rock on Moonstone Beach, and deciding that marriage and kids just weren't the cards for me. I decided that weekend that I was okay with it. I liked who I was, I liked where I was in my journey, and I liked what I saw in my future.

Isn't it always that way? As soon as we decide we're okay with who we are, where we are, and where we're going, the universe decides it's time for an earthquake. Or it sends thunder and lightning in your direction. Within weeks lightning struck, and Doug and I had our first date. A few days later I was on my way back to Cambria and the Paso Robles area with a group of friends. We spent the weekend at the Paso Robles Wine Festival, and I spent most of my time wondering what would happen with Doug when I got home. The rest is history as they say. Three years later, when he and I were with the same group of friends at the same wine festival, we made the decision that Cambria should be the setting for our wedding. We got married a year later, wine festival weekend.

When we visited again two years ago, I had a lightning strike moment. A bunch of them. As we drove over Highway 46, crested the summit, and the view I've seen a thousand times but still takes my breath away opened before me, I knew I'd set a book series there. It used to be that every time I made that drive, I saw myself living there. I'd imagine a house on those hills, and know that one day, it would be mine. I was wrong, it isn't mine, the imaginary house belongs to the characters in my newest series.

There are three families, so far, in the series, with lots of unmarried adult kids, and countless scenarios floating around in my head about future books. When I named the first book, and the series, I kept that in mind. This is the Butler Ranch series, but there will definitely be a spinoff series, and that will be the one I planned to write (and named) two years ago.

The excitement is back, the enthusiasm is profound. I wake up ready to write, and I end my day writing more. I've written 9,000 words in five days. If I were able to keep that pace, I'd be finished with this book in under a month. 

In a little over two weeks, I'll be back in California, but we don't have time to drive as far north as Cambria. Next year will be our twentieth anniversary, which I just mentioned to Doug, who is sitting here next to me. 

"What should we do?" he asked. "Think we should go to Cambria?" Uh, yeah. Definitely. Wine festival weekend. 

I wonder how many books in this series I'll write between now and then, because with a view like this . . . how could I possibly ever stop writing?

Number Eight

Today I finished the first draft on my eighth book. It has been a long, difficult road to finish this one. I started it almost two years ago, and wasn't sure I'd ever finish. It's the third book in the LINGER series.

So, in hindsight, I wouldn't write the first in a trilogy as my first book ever again. Not that I could, but if I had to do it over again, I wouldn't be quite so ambitious. And if I ever wrote a trilogy again, I'd write it all at once, no breaks. It's much too difficult to go back and make sure it all makes sense when you start the third in the series three years after the first.

LINGER is a series dear to my heart. It is set in my beloved hometown, and many of the locations in it are places from my childhood. I ended the third book today in the O'Brien family's kitchen. The action in the scene took place in their outing grove. So, by way of writing it, I got to spend some time in a place that meant something to me. That's the bonus if you're a writer. Writing it means you have to remember details. Remembering details means you get to close your eyes and picture yourself there. 

I thought a lot about why I wasn't finishing this book when I was in the midst of not finishing it. I wondered if it was really as hard to write as I kept telling myself it was, or if  subconsciously I didn't want to finish it because then I'd be done . . . no more excuses for my mind to slip away to the Adirondacks or my childhood home on Ostrander Road. Partway through I gave myself permission to continue the series. I elevated an ancillary character within the story thinking he may be future-book worthy. It leaves the door open anyway.

The other thing about this book is so many of the characters are based on people I know and love. Some know who they are, some don't. Some know I've written this series, in which a character is in some way modeled after them. Some probably don't even remember my name.

I ended the book with a line from one of my favorite characters. She's based on my aunt. When I write her, I see my aunt. The character is full of love . . . she has a great sense of humor, kind to all who've ever met her, generous, sweet, and wise. I love that I see her in my head when I write this character, it means I get to spend some time with her, at least in my imagination.

When I finished the first book in the Crested Butte Cowboy series, I had a REALLY hard time letting go. I loved the two main characters so much. But then, as the series continued, I got to write them again. The next book I'm going to write is part of that series . . . a Christmas novella, so all the characters from all five books will be in it. 

As I write this, I'm crying a little. It's the natural thing to do I think, when something is finished. Or maybe it's because Doug and I shared a bottle of wine when we toasted the end of the book, as we always do. Anyone reading this who has written a book is probably nodding their head, maybe laughing a little, as I would do if I read a post like this written by someone else.

So . . . number eight. Done. Number nine, in the queue. And then there are the countless ideas I have written on scraps of paper, or in the Notes app on my phone, or just lingering in my imagination, waiting to jump out onto the page. 

Bye for now East Aurora. I hope to see you again real soon. I miss you already.

Not the end, but it's nigh.

I've spent the weekend writing. The mostly uninterrupted time has been priceless. While I'm no further ahead than I was on Friday, what's on the page is so much better than it was. If I've ever wondered whether the stops and starts have hurt the story, I have my answer. It more than hurts, it devastates.

I resolved the things that weren't working. I cleaned it up, simplified, and most importantly, I outlined the end of the book. With a clear focus, the time I spend writing from this point forward will be productive.

As I sat with it, the most obvious things came to me. A couple hours ago I set about editing, to incorporate those obvious things, knowing it might take hours and hours to do. And now, less than two hours later, I'm watching Lady Gaga on the first Grammys I've enjoyed in years. I'm relaxed knowing my edits are done, my book is better, and the end is nigh . . . in a purely secular way, of course.

It's a Love-It Day

I've spent all day with the third Linger book . . . reading, editing, thinking, lingering. And I love it. I'm so glad I didn't pick it up yesterday. 

All day I kept thinking I was just about to the part I hated. And then, I'd read through the parts I thought I'd hate, and not change more than a word or two. 

There are definitely parts I already knew I didn't hate. In fact, I knew I loved them. There's one line that is probably my favorite in the entire series. Her toes felt like iciceles, her hands no warmer, but her heart was happier than it had ever been. Every time I read that line, it makes my heart happy. In the story, Anna is sitting on a sled, it's Christmas day, and she's watching as the others toboggan down Baum's hill. I can remember taking a break, sitting off to the side, watching the kids from the neighborhood sled down the same hill. Slade's hill.

I have two days ahead of me with little scheduled. Which means I can write. There is even a chance I'll finish this weekend. So if there are any betas reading this blog post . . . get ready! Nothing like the third book of the Linger trilogy to keep you busy over President's Day weekend!

Reading and Writing

As a writer, or even an aspiring writer, reading is both overwhelmingly stimulating, and  devastatingly debilitating. It is impossible not to compare your own writing to that of the book you're reading. Sometimes it's better, but often, it isn't. Or you think it isn't, which is really the point.

I can't always write. Sometimes I simply don't have the time. And then when I do have the time, I can't do it. I start to reread what I've written previously, maybe the most recent ten pages, to get myself back in the swing of it. If I hate all ten of those pages, I'll sometimes go back to the beginning. If I cannot read the first page without hating every single word, I close up the file, and find something else to do. Because I know I don't really hate it. I have enough experience at this point to know there will be days I really hate it, and then there will be other days I think "Why did I hate this? I love it."

I always hope for the love it days. Because I hate the hate it days. I feel defeated. So I read. And then I feel more defeated. 

Today is a hate it day. Mainly because I'm reading a book I love. It's intriguing, well written, with very few things in it that annoy me. When I finish this book, which I'll do shortly, there is no way in hell I can go tackle the end of my book. It would be easy to say I'll set this book aside, and go write, but it's too late. There is a very slight chance that if I finish this book today, I'll be able to write tomorrow.

The thing is, that I'm fairly certain every writer feels this way. I remember watching a 60 Minutes interview with Chris Martin. This was several years ago, before he did interviews. He was talking about Adele's "Rolling in the Deep." He talked about how he'd listen to it and it would make him mad, and frustrated . . . because he didn't write it. I would guess that like literary writers, songwriters listen to other songs, wish their songs were as good as whatever song they're listening to. Some may even attempt to write a song "like" it. Case in point, there are too many songs out right now that sound like Mumford and Sons. It's their sound, I want to say. Do your own sound.

As much as it is tempting to try to write like someone else, or say to myself that if I could write like someone else, then I'd be a good writer. This morning I recalled reading Fitzgerald's letters to Hemingway. Hemingway was full of self-recrimination, doubt, depression . . . and Fitzgerald responded as a friend would. A couple weeks ago Doug and I watched Genius, about Thomas Wolfe's relationship with Max Perkins and his books Look Homeward, Angel, and Of Time and the River. Perkins also edited for Hemingway and Fitzgerald. The movie was a fascinating glimpse into the relationship between editor and author, but also between authors. 

What if, I thought while in the shower this morning, Hemingway attempted to mimic the writing of Wolfe? Or if Fitzgerald had? It would certainly have tortured their souls exponentially more than they already were. And what would we, as readers, have lost? 

I am not ready to write the book or books that throw me into the most tortured version of myself. I may never be. I may never be brave enough. I write nice stories. That's it. Stories that make me happy, stories I like to read. The book I'm reading now is a nice story. I'm not big on the tortured souls stuff. I used to be, but I'm not anymore. 

I suppose it's because reading them would force me to look deeper, challenge myself more, and I don't want to. There may come a day that I do, but it's unlikely. I envy those three men, and so many others who are considered great authors, and then I wonder if I could write something more profound if I tried. Maybe. Maybe not. 

I wrote the other day that someone had private messaged me on Facebook telling me they wanted to write a book, and were looking for advice. I told them the same thing I tell everyone who asks me about writing. Write. And then write some more. And keep writing. And soon you'll know whether you can write a book or not. 

A friend who has a healthy opinion of themselves, told me they were going to write a book. As if it's the easiest thing in the world. And then a few months later, said, "I tried. I couldn't do it." Yes, it's difficult.

Even when you find you can write a book, it doesn't mean you can write the book. Today, or at least right now, I can't write any book. But tomorrow, maybe. Or maybe I'll keep reading.

It's official . . .

Frank has officially enrolled in Belmont University, Mike Curb College of Entertainment and Music Business. Next step is housing . . . oh, and Belmont merch. Or more Belmont merch. He said he needed a photo holding his #accepted2belmont certificate so he could join the Belmont Class of 2021 Facebook page . . . as if that didn't make me feel a thousand years old. 

When I took his photo, he was in grandma's study, and made a bit of a fuss about it (mainly because he's sick and feels as though he looks like he's sick). I told him this is our first kid's first college enrollment and that is something you document. Then Charlotte told him this is something we celebrate.

Exciting day for all of us. The deeper we've gotten into the process today, the better I think we all felt. 

Once he has the housing paperwork sent in, and his orientation scheduled in June, we can all relax for a few weeks. Nice to have him where he is . . . ready to embark on the next leg of his journey later on this year. In the meantime, I plan to enjoy having him around 24/7-ish, and encourage him to enjoy the second half of his senior year of high school. 

Belmont - Part II

Doug and Frank got home from the airport just as Atlanta scored their first touchdown in the Super Bowl. They arrived about an hour and half later than planned because Frontier lost Doug's luggage, and the luggage office asked them to wait. Still no luggage this morning, but I'm sure we'll hear something later.

I talked to both Doug and Frank several times while they were in Nashville. Sadly, Frank was, and is, very sick with the head and chest cold that Beck had, then Doug, now Frank. Charlotte and I have managed to stay well (knock wood). Anyway, when I asked Frank how he was doing, each time he'd say "really good, but really sick." 

I spent Saturday with my best friend, who was following along with the conversations that took place throughout the day. At one point we were in the barn in Castle Rock, shopping, and I noticed she was crying. "I'm just so proud of him," she told me. Hand on heart moment for mom, as I started to cry too.

I've suggested to Doug and Charlotte, as well as other friends that Frank may not want to hear the words, "it's for the best," or "everything works out the way it's supposed to." I know that when I'm experiencing disappointment, those aren't my favorite expressions. In hindsight I will accept the idea that everything worked out for the best, but in the moment, it's harder to hear. He may not feel that way at all.

Talking to Frank on Saturday after they spent the day getting to know more about Belmont, one of the things he said was, "What I like most about Belmont is there are just so many opportunities." Yes, there are. And not just in music. The Mike Curb College of Entertainment and Music Business is, in Doug's words, a "ten." Right now the biggest struggle I see Frank going through is his choice of major(s), minors, emphasis. Last night he would say, "I could do this with this, or that with this, or that with that." The most important thing I heard was enthusiasm and excitement.

Doug went through the various things they saw on their in-depth tour, and there were several "tens." Many were in CEMB (not sure how they came up with that acronym). Outside of CEMB, which Frank has been accepted into (I didn't realize it was essentially an ancillary college), other tens were the residential halls, the brand new cafeteria, the brand new swanky arena, and the surrounding neighborhood. People were high on the list too, particularly those they met at CEMB. They were touring a soundstage and the girl leading the tour struck up a conversation with Frank. After he told her he ran the PRTV studio, she suggested (enthusiastically), that he could major in music business, but minor in film production (or something), or double major, or . . . so you can see why last night he was so excited about the opportunities.

There were other things he and Doug told me, many I remembered hearing about when we were there in July. One thing I didn't know was there are fifteen different places Frank can study abroad with Belmont. Berklee had one (yeah, I can't help myself). We looked at the academic year last night too, and it's another positive. It starts in late August, and the second semester ends at the end of April. Belmont offers something called "Maymester," which is an intensive "summer semester," that begins and ends in May. There is a second summer semester as well, but I told Frank I hoped he'd be able to resist the temptation to overdo . . . which he struggles with. 

He's been offered an internship this summer, here in the springs with Dr. James Dobson's organization, but when the offer came (to me), I was quick to say that Frank would be out of town for at least a month this summer, because I want him to have a "summer." He deserves a break without school or work or any other stressors. It's unlikely he'll allow himself that break, but I'll continue to encourage him to take it.

As we watched the Super Bowl go from a slam dunk to an unbelievable comeback, Frank and Doug continued to randomly mention positive things about Belmont as it came to them. "They have a really nice fitness center, Mom," was one positive among the countless. 

I believe Belmont will be a really good place for Frank. We've discussed the possibility that he transfer into Berklee next year, or the year after . . . and that may be something he tries to do, and then again, he may just stay put.

Today Frank becomes a Belmont Bruin. And we become a Bruin-to-be household. It occurred to me that eventually we will become another to-be household, but not for five more years. Frank will have graduated college by the time Beckett graduates from high school. He may go on to graduate school of some kind, but he'll have his four year degree before Beck is a senior. Crazy to think. Crazier to think how quickly that time will go.

So, as I said Saturday . . . and then, in just a few days' time, everything rights itself, and life is, at least for this moment, as it should be. From devastation back to a positive and excited outlook in less than a week. Thank God.

Belmont

Frank and Doug are on their way to Nashville this morning, to attend a "Discover Belmont Preview Weekend."

We visited Belmont last July, on our way back from spending five days in Boston. Unfortunately, as much as everything went right with our Boston visit, almost everything went wrong in Nashville. Our timing was off for the two days we were there, missed the rental car counter at the airport being open by five minutes, couldn't get into our Airbnb apartment when we finally arrived at one in the morning, had to go get a hotel, had to argue with the Airbnb owner, and with Airbnb the next morning, and it goes on and on and on.

Frank found out he was accepted to Belmont in August. A couple weeks later, he received a scholarship offer from them. It moved into second place in terms of where he wanted to attend to college. No matter who you are, it's tough to measure up to Berklee. That's just a fact.

I've been a fan of Belmont since before we went to Nashville. First, it's a real university, with a campus, and all the things that make up the attending-college experience. There is a brand new music and entertainment school, named for Mike Curb, that opened less than two years ago, so everything in it is state of the art. The other thing Belmont has going for it, is that it sits perpendicular to the top of Music Row. They own their own recording studios on Music Row, and the internships available to Belmont students number more than there are students to fill them.

Belmont school of music students are given the opportunity to attend the Grammy's (they are volunteers at the show), and the CMAs are held in Nashville in June, along with the four-day festival celebrating the awards. Not to mention ALL the music that is produced in Nashville. When I mentioned OAR recorded at least part of their XX album in Nashville at Blackbird Studios, Frank raised his eyebrows in surprise.

A friend of mine, whose husband has been in the music industry for over forty years, is a bigger fan of Belmont than I am. She also knows a professor in the music department. When we came back with a less than favorable impression of Nashville, she was mind boggled. She couldn't figure out how that was possible.

So they're off. This trip was planned whether he got into Berklee or not, so he could compare the two, and make his final decision. Now he has to decide whether he wants to go to Belmont, or pursue Berklee again next year while continuing his online Berklee classes. Needless to say, Doug and I are biting-our-fingernails anxious, hoping he'll recognize all that's positive about attending Belmont. He can always transfer to Berklee after a year or two . . . 

Doug is great about planning trips. They're staying at a swanky hotel in the Gulch, he's got their days planned out so they see as much as possible, all of which is different, for the most part, than what Frank and I saw in July.

The tour we went on in July was an overview of the college. Frank didn't have the opportunity to even see the studios. On this visit, he'll spend time with faculty and students from the music school, along with getting to spend time in the studios. He'll be able to look at the residential halls, and hang out on campus at a time when students are there, rather than being home for summer break.

I know this will be hard for him. He wanted to go to Berklee so badly. I told him that all I asked was that he have an open mind and try to see the positives rather than measure what's there against Berklee. No matter what age you are, that is difficult. When you're seventeen and just experienced one of your first profound disappointments, it's difficult times ten.

I'm remaining optimistic, because it's what I do. I hope his experience this weekend is a good one, and he comes home excited and enthusiastic again.

Actually it was a little after 11 . . .

The notification came over a little after 11pm on Monday. Unfortunately, Frank was not accepted at Berklee. It's a tough thing for him, he worked really hard, but in the end, he just didn't make the cut. With a 32 percent acceptance rate, that leaves 68 percent who aren't accepted.

The good news for him is he has other options with great schools of music, both of which have offered him scholarship opportunities, and he has time to decide what direction he wants to go in.

I read and read and read the sites about Berklee, where people post questions about getting in or other topics.  There was a high percentage of students who posted that they didn't get in the first time, went somewhere else for a year, and then auditioned again, and transferred in. Even Frank's local instructor who is Berklee grad, was a transfer student. That's one option for him, but there are so many others, like the two colleges I mentioned above.

This is the stuff life is made of, and he's learning some valuable life lessons as he navigates this process. I'm sad for him that he didn't get in, but then again, there's that whole closed door means another door opens thing. Maybe that wasn't the best place for him, maybe it wasn't the best place for him right now.

He and I had a great conversation yesterday afternoon. It started off slow, but soon he was telling me some of the options he'd thought of. In the course of twenty minutes, I listened as he thought of pros and cons of different scenarios. Even within that short amount of time, he went back and forth about his different options. In the end, I told him I was proud that less than twenty-four hours later he was picking himself up, dusting himself off, and getting right back on that horse called life.

One of the reasons I write this blog, is so I remember significant or important milestones in the lives of our children, in Doug's life, and in my life. Some things are exciting and wonderful, some things are disappointing, and even insignificant to anyone but me. And once in a while, I'll hear from someone who says, "after reading your blog, I realized I'm not alone."

There are lots and lots of kiddos who are having to face the disappointment of not getting into the college that is their first choice. Yesterday afternoon I asked Frank to consider the ones who did get into Berklee, but didn't get a scholarship or grant they were counting on, and thus, couldn't go. To me, that would be so much more difficult to overcome than not getting in.

Frank and Doug leave early Friday morning for Nashville and another visit to Belmont. It was a trip scheduled whether he got into Berklee or not. Over the course of the long weekend he'll have the opportunity to see the Mike Curb School of Music and Entertainment Business up close and personal. Unlike a regular college tour, on this tour he'll be able to talk with other students, meet faculty, and spend time touring actual studios and other production facilities. He may come back with a decision about what he wants to do, and he may not. Either way, he'll have food for thought.

As with everything else with my boys, it is the journey that is so much fun to watch. Sometimes life is hard, but knowing (and seeing) each of them overcome obstacles they encounter, or learning how to move on from disappointment or rejection, or even failure, is proof positive that Doug and I are doing at least part of our job right.

10pm

Tonight at 10:00pm, Frank will find out if he's been accepted to attend Berklee College of Music in Fall of 2017. As I write this, a feeling of deja vu has come over me. I feel as though I dreamt writing this post a couple years ago.

I know he is anxious today, and has been since last August. He's known since then that he had everything submitted for early notification. He's only brought it up a couple of times, as a countdown . . . in a week I'll know, etc. I have refrained from bringing it up, even though it's been at the back of my mind. At one point I thought about asking how he feels about plan B, but we'll cross that bridge if we come to it.

I hope he gets in, obviously, because it's what he wants. My own anxiety about it is that of a mother, hoping her son is spared the disappointment of not getting in, and what that will mean to him. 

For months I thought Belmont University in Nashville was a better option, and I still think it's a good plan B. He's been accepted, and has a scholarship offer. He's also been accepted to UC Denver, with a scholarship offer. But after having gone to the Berklee audition with him in December, I know how different his experience will be if he's accepted there. If he were planning to attend law school, getting accepted at Harvard or Yale would be a completely different experience than attending University of Minnesota, or Florida State, for example. Also good law schools, just not Harvard or Yale. Berklee carries the same cachet. On the other hand, I know plenty of people who didn't get their first choice, in colleges or other things in life, and it all worked out for the best in the long run. The same will be true for Frank, and for Beckett when the time comes for him to make these kinds of decisions.

It's very easy in hindsight to say something doesn't really matter. It's also very easy to not care, to say it's his thing. But I do care. I support him, and Beckett, in what they want in life. My experience was vastly different than theirs, and I'd rather be this mother, if you know what I mean. I will never apologize for it. I know the difference.

What Frank and I share is a determination to make it on our own. He's a self-starter, responsible for his own actions . . . and I know how rare that is for a seventeen year old. It hasn't been entirely nature versus nurture. Part of it is that he's just built that way. I was the same way, and definitely attributed it to lack of nurture, now I wonder if I, too, was just built that way. 

Since Frank was in middle school Doug and I have been counseling him on how our job is to raise him to be a successful, independent adult, able to be a contributing member of society. Success, we have always told him, is what HE deems it to be. We all have our own definition. Regardless of how he defines it, Doug and I have always reinforced that we will support HIS decisions.

Frank has a very good friend, one of his best friends, whose parents aren't as supportive. Their approach has been to talk him out of some of his ideas because in their estimation, it wouldn't be a worthwhile pursuit for him. I know this because Frank talks to me about it, and so does his friend. The friend is floundering, unsure what he's going to do when he graduates from high school, unsure what he wants to do in life. Frank sat down with me a couple weeks ago, and asked me to keep in touch with his friend once he heads off to college. He told me how different he sees his dad and me, how we've helped him, guided him, but more importantly, supported him in his decisions. He's told his friend that we're here for him if he wants to talk things over. From OUR perspective, it's what parents do. 

So, 10 tonight, he'll know where life's journey will lead him next. It's a big day for Frank.

Inauguration Day

For the past thirty-six years, I have enthusiastically exercised my right to vote. More often than not, my personal desired outcome did not win the majority vote. I had to live with it. Some of what was voted in worked in my favor. Some did not. Some of our elected officials were people I could support. Some were not.

A little over eight years ago, I watched President Obama's acceptance speech on the night of the election. Let me clarify. I started watching it. When he said, "The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even in one term. But, America, I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there." I stopped watching. I would've stopped watching regardless of who uttered those words. What I heard was "I'm not sure I can get the things done I said I would." What disappointed me the most, was he chose to make that statement on election night. 

What I didn't do was disparage him in every public forum available to me at the time. I kept my opinion to myself, and stopped watching. I felt disheartened by the statement. That's it. No hate, no anger to spew. I just felt disheartened. Maybe he didn't mean it the way I took it, but that doesn't matter, and never will. I heard it the way I heard it, and my reaction is what determines my opinion. My opinion—two important words. They should be two important words to everyone.

What disheartens me the most today, is the violence. Up second are those who relentlessly disparage every institution that defines our nation.

I pray things will get better for ALL of us. I pray we see some of the campaign promises materialize, without caveat. I pray we will put America first. I feel as though it's been a very long time since we've done that. There are people in this country who are suffering unimaginably, they are VETERANS, who in my opinion, should come before aid to any other country. I'd also like to see health care be affordable for everyone. Everyone. Personally I know too many small business owners who are also struggling unimaginably, many of whom had to give up the business that likely was their dream, due to health care reform. It worked for a lot of people. And for a lot of people, it didn't work.
There are other things I hope happen. I hope we, as a country, see job growth that is reflective of jobs that pay a living wage. When one person has to take on three jobs in order to earn what one job had paid him or her in the past, that is not job growth. Particularly when the initial job included benefits that the individual must now cover him or herself. Is it possible? I'm skeptical. I'm skeptical about a lot of things. What I've learned over the course of the past thirty-six years, is that campaign promises go unkept. Idealistic intentions are hard to turn into reality.

I can't watch the news coverage of the events taking place in our nation's capital. I simply can't. And that too, is my right.

It's Back!

Miche Bee's Kitchen.

With Change Come Tears

Yesterday Frank began his final semester as a high school student. He also began his third semester as a Berklee Online student. I didn't cry. I'm not crying now, but I anticipate the tears will come unexpectedly. When Doug let Frank sit at the head of the table on New Year's Eve, I cried. I teared up periodically throughout dinner, much to the chagrin of my family. But hell with it, I'm emotional. And I cry. If they haven't figured that out by now, they've been in a coma. I'm tired of apologizing for it.

Perhaps that should be my resolution for 2017. I'll cry whenever the spirit moves me, without apology or shame. In fact, not crying should be more shameful than crying. I'm able to express my feelings. It's a strength, not a weakness.

We are in midst of the countdown to the hour Frank finds out whether he got into Berklee or not. When asked if he's anxious, he consistently says he's not. It is what it is, he explains. And he's right. There are options, although I think all of us are staying positive.

It is hard to believe that sweet baby boy we welcomed into the world seventeen and a half years ago is about to graduate from high school and soon, leave for college. I know I'm not the first parent to say this, I'm sure EVERY parent says it. 

I'm already thinking about vacations and school breaks, and how long he'll be able to be home between semesters, but then I do tend to get ahead of myself. I've been purposeful in reminding myself that there are months between now and the time we drop him off at college, and not to wish those away, or not savor every moment between now and then.

And so time marches on, as it always does . . . and tears will come, as they always do.

Happy 2017!