On Learning the Art of Self-Promotion

I remember the first time I had to stand in front of a room full of my peers. It was kindergarten, and it was show-in-tell.

It sucked.

Embarrassment flamed through my body like it should have been a vintage race car a la Grease, and we were racing for pink slips.

I hate being in front of people, explaining something, talking about myself, or in other words, pretending to seem intelligent and interesting.

Most of the time I don't feel like I'm any of those things, and I especially never felt that way as a kid.

Now, I'm an adult, a mother, a wife, a photographer, and an author of two separate novels. One YA and one contemporary.

And I have to promote myself.

That means I have to put myself out there, stand up in front of the proverbial class and explain something, share something, and this time it's even more important and embarrassing than it was the first time all those years ago. Now it's done not just in person, but across dozens of different Social Network platforms. It's done via blog, Twitter, Facebook, Myspace, Email, LinkedIn, and others I can't even remember.

I'm not just sharing something I was given or bought. I'm sharing a part of myself. Hours of worry, sleepless nights, late dinners, and sweat. A part of my soul, my heart, my hopes and dreams, all combined into something a person could say, 'Eh, not interested. Not good enough."

 It's a terrifying prospect.

But, I have to do it, and do it well.

I don't want to push myself on people who won't be interested or will be turned off by the salesman's approach, but I don't want to be so lax nobody will take me seriously. There is such a fine line, and I'm not sure where it even begins, but I know I'll find it.

When I do, I'm going to rock that line like an Earthquake.

So where do I begin?

Any ideas? I'm open to suggestions.


R.S.

On Kristine Marie Cushing

First, what is up with mothers killing their young and getting away with it? Sometimes, reality is so much stranger than fiction.

The other day I came across an article about a custody dispute. Normally, I wouldn't bother reading something like this, but it also happened to take place not far from where I grew up, and involved a former Marine Officer.

I'm a little concerned about the state of our legal system when the officials don't even bat an eye when a woman convicted of killing her own daughters  in 1991, is once again living with children-- this time her ex-husband's children from a second marriage.

Found Not Guilty by the Prozac Defense

This of course, prompts the question: when halfway houses wouldn't even take her in after her first release from the mental institution in 1994, why would the father of the children she executed in their sleep, take her back?

Everything about this situation boggles the mind. As a mother I'd be horrified and appalled, just as Trisha Conlin is. As the wife of a Marine, I wonder what the hell the man is thinking. He didn't just take her  back, he remarried her. I'm also equally glad he's no longer actively serving in the Marines. I sure as hell wouldn't want him in charge of my husband, and I doubt any Marine would ever trust his judgement during maneuvers in a war zone.

Kristine's doctors are claiming she's not a safety risk, and the only reason she killed her two daughters before failing to kill herself was because of a bad reaction to Prozac.

Really? That's what they're going with?

What happens if she suddenly has another bad reaction to a medication?

How many times will they allow a person to use the 'it wasn't me, it was the medication' defense? Maybe we should start calling it the 'Prozac Defense'.

It seems like a pretty weak cop out.

Plain and simple, the woman is a killer.

There is no coming back from that.

Ever.

Especially, when she took the lives of two small children she gave birth to and was responsible for nurturing and protecting.

Thoughts?

R.S.

On Cloning Myself

Have you ever had one of those days where you realize you're drowning? Maybe not physically, but metaphorically?

I have.

In fact, I've had several, and many of them were this week.

Granted, it's only Tuesday, but there are twenty-four usable hours in every day, and my weeks tend to blend together. The calendar might say Tuesday, but I'm pretty sure it's really Thursday... of next week.

 I'm one of those people who need to constantly be engaged. No, not to a man-- I'm pretty sure my husband would disapprove of that hobby, but mentally. I rarely watch  television or movies because they can't hold my attention for very long, but books I can sit for hours engrossed in.

Why? Because they're engaging. I'm thinking, I'm feeling, I'm actively involved.

This is also true of my 'real' life. My husband has pointed it out--as have others who know me well-- that I tend to overextend myself. I'm not truly happy unless my proverbial plate is so full I can't see around it, and it's threatening to topple over.

How right they are.

Most of the time, this mode of living works well for me. I thrive under the ever changing responsibilities. I grin at the pace, and sleep well at night.

Not always though.

Sometimes, like this last week, the pressure gets to be too much, my heart starts to pound, my head starts to hurt, and I'm afraid the black demon locked inside me is going to escape.

It's a scary thing.

I laden myself down with new and exciting responsibilities; writing a short story, editing and polishing two novels--one YA, one contemporary, a new dog, a summer writing program, shameless self-promotion (that I truly, truly, hate), a training program that requires 90 minutes of working out a day--every day-- numerous blogs, writing groups, and Writers Organizations (RWA, YARWA, SinC, etc) that in order to be useful and worth the yearly dues, need to be used and participated on... the list seems endless, and getting longer.

Days like today, when I feel like I'm drowning, and there is no visible way out of the deep end... I wish I had a clone.

Just not an exact clone.

One who has more patience than I do, is less easily frustrated, and more understanding of her own limitations.

Or maybe I need to learn moderation.

When do you wish you could clone yourself? Or at the very least have more arms?

Speak out. I want to know!

R.S.

On First Jobs

Today my niece takes the next step in becoming a productive member of society.

She begins her first job.

It got me thinking about my first job, and the long line of employment opportunities that came after it.

I've had...well, let's be honest... a lot.

From my first job the summer of my junior year, to finding myself as a writer, I've done just about everything. Honestly, I had a hard time sticking to any job for longer than a couple of months. I'd get bored, annoyed with the stupidity of my coworkers, or I'd find something better.

There was always something better.

My longest job lasted two years, and I was twenty-three. I was a tech-department and cell phone representative for Circuit City--before it went belly up. I stuck with the job for two reasons. One: I needed the money to pay bills, and Two: I felt like I owed them. Not because they were an amazing company to work for, but because when I was at my lowest, the management and my coworkers, had my back.

When I got married, and my husband and I got transferred to Hawaii, I continued my day job. At least until it came time for his first deployment, and I wanted to actually see him before he left to a war zone for seven months. Who knew that large corporations didn't care about things like that?

Art is subjective, and art school was expensive. 

I've worked as a telemarketer, a pizza maker, a soldier, a pageant princess, a substitute teacher for special needs, a dating service counselor, a make-up artist, a model, and my personal 'favorite'--a housekeeper for a small, low class, hotel chain.

I spent five years as a professional photographer, providing tangible memories of weddings, graduations, births, and military reunions-- only to realize my passion for photography was outmatched by my need to not be a portrait photographer. I loved the art of photography, not the cookie cutter, conveyor belt version most of the population expects. After more and more military wives with their new cameras opened up shop as photographers, I threw in the tripod for the focus of photography as art.

I'll never make it rich that way, and I'm okay with that.

After the birth of my daughter I realized something in my life was missing. Not family, or the love of a good man; I had those. I was missing a part of me I hadn't seen since I was eighteen.

The writer.

I was first published in junior high at the ripe old age of thirteen. Nothing spectacular, just a few dark, angst filled poems about the usual teenage drama--though my prose might have been just a tiny bit darker than average. Once I graduated and got away from the hallowed halls of purgatory, I tried to write my first novel.

It was a colossal vat of failure.

Not because it was rejected by publishers, but because I never finished it. I had the story idea, but not enough know how or understanding to complete it.

I found it recently, and it wasn't half bad.

After the demise of my potential writing career I put the dream away for over a decade until one amazing bundle of joy brought that spark back.

You know what? I learned a lot about books in a decade.

I've written three novels in the last year and a half. One needs extensive work before I'll be willing for it to see the light of day, and two of them are going through editing. Whether or not they get picked up via a traditional publisher or I decide to self publish, I know one day, not too far in the future they'll be available for others to enjoy.

It took a while, but I've finally found something I can stick with, and I'm sure, someday, my niece will find her calling too. Until then, I'm proud of her for taking the first step in figuring it out.

Congrats, T-Dawg, you're an adult now.

R.S.

On Insane Summer Storms

It would appear we've hit the flash flood season again here in the desert. Thunder and lightning storms are striking several times a day, the parched ground can't absorb the onslaught of water fast enough, and alleyways, driveways, and streets are becoming streams.

I love the heat of the desert, the high temperatures, and the dryness of the weather, but a few times a year the temperatures rise, the clouds roll in, and moisture accumulates causing the humidity to climb and days of mugginess to begin.

I could live my entire life without this weather change.

The past few days have been like this. The skies are gray and filled with dark clouds, rain sporadically falls in torrential buckets, and the humidity is enough to make someone want to stay in the shower all day. Even with AC on it's stuffy and sticky.

Picture by: James Bo Insogna

 Last night, the storm took on new proportions, and in the dark early hours of dawn, my already restless sleep was disturbed by bolts of lightning tearing through the sky like serrated blades through pudding. They lit up the sky like industrial strength fluorescent lights. The thunder accompanying the impressive display of natural electricity was strong enough to shake the walls of my house.

My husband, amazing man that he is, slept through it.

I remember, when I was little, and a storm would rage outside the warmth and safety of my home, thinking it was the God's bowling. Some people say it's God laughing, or Angels clapping. Whatever you believe, one thing is undeniable.

Storms are beautiful.

They're also enthralling, dangerous, and worthy of the art dedicated to them. There is a reason so many stories have a dark and stormy night in them. They are the perfect backdrop for the battle between good and evil, right and wrong, and life and death.

What is your favorite part about storms?


R.S.

On Today's Happiness

I find that I spend a lot of time thinking about what I want to blog about, and half the time nothing I come up with seems interesting enough.

Today, while I was contemplating a topic, I realized something.

 I'm happy.

 Yes, it's still relatively early to most people, though I've been awake since six--just like everyday when my three year old daughter/personal alarm clock, wakes up, but to me it's well toward 'mid-day'.

I'm feeling good about myself, and with myself (and yes, there is a difference).

 

I have an amazing daughter who even when she's driving me batty, is  still the most amazing person in my life. I've got great friends who love me, even though they're hundreds of miles away; family who loves me--both those who live with me, and those who also live their daily lives in various states across the country.

I'm happy.

I'm happy, because I realized all the choices in my life have led me here.

Right here.

To this day.

To this blog post.

To this city in the middle of the desert that most people have never even heard of, let alone visited.

Every bad decision, painful experience, emotionally dark period, and wonderful highlight, has led me to the person I am today.

A mother, a wife, a writer, a photographer, a friend, and a confidant.

I'm not the world traveler I someday want to be, and I haven't been published...yet, but all of those are on my personal horizon.

If I had a chance to go back and change anything in my past... any of the horrible experiences, the loss of innocence, the dark days after the death of my son, the heartbreak I wasn't sure I'd survive... I wouldn't change it.

Why?

Because I wouldn't be where I am, who I am, or what I am today.

Today wouldn't be... today.

Life is a precious, precious thing. Don't take it for granted, and don't regret the experiences in your past. Always remember who you were, where you came from, and who was there to help you along...

R.S.

On America's Priorities

The other day I was perusing the never ending status updates on Facebook when I came across this one:

Another (booze and drug addled) celebrity dies and now the whole world is gonna talk about it, but quick question, who can name a single US Servicemen who died in the last week? We have had 14 KIA's since July 15th but they are not in the news I can clearly see where America's priorities are .... God Bless those that sacrifice so much for us.

Now, far be it for me to trust anything I read on a Social Media network, after all, they're not much different than the tabloids at the checkout stands. The ones screaming, "Elvis was abducted by aliens and now has squid-like love child." 

With this in mind I did a little research of my own and found the statement to be pretty accurate. In the six days between July 12 and 17, 2011, the United States lost eight citizens in the ongoing 'War on Terror' in Afghanistan. This information was not found in a national newspaper, or even broadcast on local news stations. Instead, I discovered it, after considerable research, in a tiny newspaper serving the Silicon Valley.

These men lost their lives fighting under our flag, for the rights and freedoms of not only ourselves, but those in a country without the basic benefits we're afforded simply for being United States Citizens; yet the barely rated acknowledgement. 

On July 23, 2011, admitted drug addict and alcoholic singer, Amy Winehouse died in her home under unknown and questionable circumstances. Unless you've been living under a rock, lack the ability to read, or have roommates and friends who have taken a vow of silence, you've heard of her death. 

On July 26, 2011 among family, friends, and HUNDREDS of people who knew nothing about her other than she sang and had a penchant for illegal substances and erratic behavior, she was laid to rest. 

Her death is still being talked about (Hell, this blog right here is spotlighting her death--go figure), and will continue to be talked about for days, weeks, months, and years to come. Every year on the 'anniversary' of her death, tribute will be paid her. 

Will those eight men be remembered by anyone other than their close family and friends? 

Not likely. 

What makes a single  celebrity's life so much more valuable than the lives of the men and women who are actually doing something more useful than entertaining us with their questionable talents and shocking public behavior? 

Every day more and more American Marines, Soldiers, Sailors, and Airmen, lose their lives in the continued battle under the Red, White, and Blue... and every day, their sacrifices are ignored, forgotten, or overshadowed because some rich socialite made their personal, private demons, public grist for the gossip mill. 

How many more American citizens need to die to over shadow one self indulgent entertainer? Two-thousand? A million? 

One more American death is too many.

I for one will not be offering remembrance to those whose lives were taken by their own demons, and touted in the public eye as martyrs to their art-- though I feel for their families, and the friends who actually knew them. 

I will hold each day, a special place in my heart for the memories of every man and woman whose loss is remembered only by those whose lives are now a little emptier, a little darker. In my world, they are the celebrities, the martyrs who died for a worthy cause. They deserve the moment of silence, the burning candle, and the tears shed. 

Sgt. 1st Class Kenneth B. Elwell, 33, of Holland, Pa; Pfc. Tyler M. Springman, 19, of Hartland, Maine; Spc. Frank R. Gross, 25, of Oldsmar, Fla.; Sgt. Lex L. Lewis, 40, of Rapid City, S.D.; Staff Sgt. Wyatt A. Goldsmith, 28, of Colville, Wash.; Sgt. Jeremy R. Summers, 27, of Mount Olivet, Ky.; Seaman Aaron D. Ullom, 20, of Midland, Mich.; Lance Cpl. Robert S. Greniger, 21, of Greenfield, Minn.; and all other Marines, Soldiers, Sailors, and Airmen who put your lives on the line each day, or selflessly gave your lives for the lives and freedom of those less fortunate-- I thank you. May your lives and memories never be tarnished. 

R.S.