Sometimes it seems that when you're on top of the world, life decides to throw you a curve ball. You're at the top of your game, happier than a clam (but how happy is a clam?) and couldn't ask for more, when you're suddenly knocked off the top of the world. That's where I'm at and here's why.
Yesterday I was driving home from work along the expressway in Milwaukee. Traffic was slightly heavy, but then again, compared to Chicago's traffic, a little heavy doesn't last long enough to really bother you. Then traffic slows down as I'm approaching downtown Milwaukee, then it comes to a stop. I'm sitting there glancing around me and then I look in my rear view mirror and see an SUV going too fast and quickly approaching the rear end of my car. My heart sinks and I'm completely helpless to the situation at hand. With no where to go, I resign to the fact that I'm going to be a victim of a rear end collision. Sure enough, the white SUV barrels into the rear end of my innocent car. BAM! Fortunately I didn't hit the car in front of me, but at that point I didn't care. Quite shaken, but assessing any bodily damage to my body, I realize that I'm in tact. Nothing obviously broken nor bleeding, just jolted. I was dazed by it though. Not quite sure what to do, then the assailant approachs my car and gives me his driver's license and insurance card. Well, at least he knew he was guilty. I do the same, then call the police.
I was stunned, unable to move or even completely comprehend what has just happened. I'm dazed and confused and not even enebriated. Sober and scared. I try to call my husband, but he doesn't answer his phone. I just want to wake up and realize this is only a bad dream. A nightmare. But it clearly is very real. I patiently wait for the police to arrive, which feels like a lifetime. My assailant and I are blocking traffic and traffic is too heavy to pull over to the side of the road. I wanted to scream and pull out his hair! In a few long minutes the police finally arrive to assess the damage. I was certain that my car was nearly totalled. It felt like he rammed into my back seat and turned my life upside down.
The police escorted us off the expressway onto a crash investigation site. We probably sat there for about 20 minutes while they did whatever it is they have to do. I continued to try to contact my husband, but failed and my phone was almost out of juice. What more could go wrong? Nothing else did fortunately. The police finished their report and off we went our separate ways. But now I had to get back on the expressway. My new nemisis. Enemy number one. My next phobia, highway driving. It was an uneventful drive home. Then I fell into my husband's arms and cried. I was finally able to unwind and just let it out.
Why do such events happen to us, especially when we're at the top of the world? Fate? Or just because? Obviously there is no clear cut answer. It's just life. But perhaps it's life's way of keeping us on solid ground. Keeping our perspective in tact, or even improving it. More or less I see life as a half full glass, unlike so many who see it half empty. While I was filled with fear, anger and confusion, I was grateful that I wasn't seriously injured and that I would come home to a loving husband and concerned family and friends. While I sit here with radiating pain in my neck, shoulders and back, I'm still happy and content, and all the more aware of how precious life really is, even when a curve ball is thrown my way.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 2011
The many moods of a stepmother...
I woke up today feeling kind of...moody or just plain bitchy. No particular reason. None that I could think of. But then it occurred to me...the kids are up at our house this weekend. A bimonthly event. A bimonthly challenge.
As time progresses it has become easier and yet, more difficult. I really had no idea what laid ahead of me when I said "I do". Regrets? No! I am truly blessed with a wonderful husband. One I can talk to and one who listens. But why did he have to have kids?! Cold, huh? I can't help how I feel. I can't help the thoughts that run through my mind. I just can't help it.
In the beginning I was prepared for the difficult times that lied ahead of me. I probably understood them better than most. Why? Because I was a stepchild with both of my parents. And it wasn't fun or good or even a happy time. My father married what seemed to be a nice woman. I still remember the first time I met her and she was so nice. That was short lived. She became quite mean and cruel, without just cause. I was only 6 or 7 when she came into my life. I was a good kid. I didn't talk back or get into trouble, at least not intentionally. But she was out for me and my little brother. She would say harsh and cruel things about our mother, right in front of us! I hated her for that. I knew what she was saying was wrong and I knew it was a wrong thing to do. Oh, there are so many stories of the horrible things that she did to us, but it's just too much to unearth today.
My brother and I, as adults, have had numerous conversations, hours of analyzing her actions, but still, no justified reason for her cruelty. Granted my father was a difficult man to love. In fact, while he was married to this woman, he stilled pursued our mother. What a wack job! I suppose she was taking out her frustrations and anger towards my father on us. But that's just not good enough. Years later she joined AA and got sober, but I never got a call or letter from her apologizing for her actions. I guess in a way, I still begrudge her. Why? Because I can still feel the stress, the knots in my stomach of when we went to visit our father. I was always walking on eggshells around her. I tried so hard to be perfect around her, but she always found fault in me. In fact, I don't remember talking too much around her. I couldn't wait for our father to take us to the store with him, just to get away from her. "Are we going to the hardware store today, Daddy?" Please!
As a result of this, I vowed, swore on my grandfather's grave, that I would never treat my husband's children the same way. No matter what! And so far, I've stuck to that vow. But there are days, oh there are days, when I just want to strangle them! And then there are other days that I want to embrace them.
The greatest, or one of the greatest, challenges of being a stepmother, is feeling left out. One day it occurs to you that you're not a part of this family. AT least not the part where you weren't in it. And the kids love to share stories of yesterday. I understand them. I know why they do it, but it just leaves me feeling more empty, more distant. And I have a unique situation. Over 20 years ago my husband and I dated for about a year, on and off. I could've married him. But I wasn't ready for him or marriage. Regrets? Oh yea! Those kids could've been my kids. But they're not. Instead he married someone else, who later on, made him quite miserable. That makes me sad.
Then there are times when the ex-wife calls and one of the kids is in trouble. Well, a lot of trouble. It upsets you. you want to help. You want to be a part of the solution. But, you can't. At least not as much as you want to. So often, I want to lecture the kids, yell at them, make them understand, but I can't. Stepparents have boundaries. Not forever. But longer than you think. It actually takes about 2 or more years for the kids to adjust, to accept and to truly love you. It's a very slow process. An emotionally exhausting one, too.
The one thing that has made this journey easier is my husband. He really listens to me. He understands, too. One of the most important parts of being a stepmother is having a strong marriage. Open lines of communication. STanding by each other. Supporting each other. As important as his kids are to him, his wife has to be just as if not more important to him.
Right now, I'm home alone. The hubby and the kids went to a museum, and I opted out. I just needed to be alone, to catch up on some projects around the house and to ground my emotions. It's also important to give your husband some alone time with his kids. It helps your sanity and gives him some bonding time with the kids. I remember how much I appreciated those times alone with my dad.
Are there good times? Yes. Most definitely. My stepdaughter wished me a Happy Mother's Day a couple of weeks ago. It felt good. Really good. I know now that they see me as an integral part of their lives. A permanent fixture. And they actually care about me. I'm in now. Really in.
As time progresses it has become easier and yet, more difficult. I really had no idea what laid ahead of me when I said "I do". Regrets? No! I am truly blessed with a wonderful husband. One I can talk to and one who listens. But why did he have to have kids?! Cold, huh? I can't help how I feel. I can't help the thoughts that run through my mind. I just can't help it.
In the beginning I was prepared for the difficult times that lied ahead of me. I probably understood them better than most. Why? Because I was a stepchild with both of my parents. And it wasn't fun or good or even a happy time. My father married what seemed to be a nice woman. I still remember the first time I met her and she was so nice. That was short lived. She became quite mean and cruel, without just cause. I was only 6 or 7 when she came into my life. I was a good kid. I didn't talk back or get into trouble, at least not intentionally. But she was out for me and my little brother. She would say harsh and cruel things about our mother, right in front of us! I hated her for that. I knew what she was saying was wrong and I knew it was a wrong thing to do. Oh, there are so many stories of the horrible things that she did to us, but it's just too much to unearth today.
My brother and I, as adults, have had numerous conversations, hours of analyzing her actions, but still, no justified reason for her cruelty. Granted my father was a difficult man to love. In fact, while he was married to this woman, he stilled pursued our mother. What a wack job! I suppose she was taking out her frustrations and anger towards my father on us. But that's just not good enough. Years later she joined AA and got sober, but I never got a call or letter from her apologizing for her actions. I guess in a way, I still begrudge her. Why? Because I can still feel the stress, the knots in my stomach of when we went to visit our father. I was always walking on eggshells around her. I tried so hard to be perfect around her, but she always found fault in me. In fact, I don't remember talking too much around her. I couldn't wait for our father to take us to the store with him, just to get away from her. "Are we going to the hardware store today, Daddy?" Please!
As a result of this, I vowed, swore on my grandfather's grave, that I would never treat my husband's children the same way. No matter what! And so far, I've stuck to that vow. But there are days, oh there are days, when I just want to strangle them! And then there are other days that I want to embrace them.
The greatest, or one of the greatest, challenges of being a stepmother, is feeling left out. One day it occurs to you that you're not a part of this family. AT least not the part where you weren't in it. And the kids love to share stories of yesterday. I understand them. I know why they do it, but it just leaves me feeling more empty, more distant. And I have a unique situation. Over 20 years ago my husband and I dated for about a year, on and off. I could've married him. But I wasn't ready for him or marriage. Regrets? Oh yea! Those kids could've been my kids. But they're not. Instead he married someone else, who later on, made him quite miserable. That makes me sad.
Then there are times when the ex-wife calls and one of the kids is in trouble. Well, a lot of trouble. It upsets you. you want to help. You want to be a part of the solution. But, you can't. At least not as much as you want to. So often, I want to lecture the kids, yell at them, make them understand, but I can't. Stepparents have boundaries. Not forever. But longer than you think. It actually takes about 2 or more years for the kids to adjust, to accept and to truly love you. It's a very slow process. An emotionally exhausting one, too.
The one thing that has made this journey easier is my husband. He really listens to me. He understands, too. One of the most important parts of being a stepmother is having a strong marriage. Open lines of communication. STanding by each other. Supporting each other. As important as his kids are to him, his wife has to be just as if not more important to him.
Right now, I'm home alone. The hubby and the kids went to a museum, and I opted out. I just needed to be alone, to catch up on some projects around the house and to ground my emotions. It's also important to give your husband some alone time with his kids. It helps your sanity and gives him some bonding time with the kids. I remember how much I appreciated those times alone with my dad.
Are there good times? Yes. Most definitely. My stepdaughter wished me a Happy Mother's Day a couple of weeks ago. It felt good. Really good. I know now that they see me as an integral part of their lives. A permanent fixture. And they actually care about me. I'm in now. Really in.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Dear Ol' Dad
I try not to think about him. I try, I try, I try. I have to confess, I miss him. It's been over three years since I saw him, almost 4 actually. No, don't be mistaken. He's not dead. No need for pity or sympathy. My Dad is alive and well and still living in the Chicagoland area. I chose not to speak to him anymore. It was, by far, one of the most difficult choices I ever made, but if anyone was in my shoes they probably would've done the same thing. I just couldn't stand anymore hurt from him. Anymore emotional abuse. Anymore toying with my heart. Anymore cruelty, just because he can. I had no more room in my heart for pain. Yea, it was a drastic measure to cut him out of my life, but I snapped. My husband had just died and he dug his last digs into me. Because he could. My mother always said that my father was emotionally handicapped. That about sums it up. Sure he had a tough childhood, but so did I. And I don't take it out on the world. If anything, it made me stronger, and a little wiser.
I guess what really, well, quite frankly, pisses me off, is that my father has two great kids. But he doesn't acknowledge it, or embrace it. Instead he abused it. Or us. Both of us are loving, funny, intelligent and responsible adults. Never spent a day in jail. NEver abused drugs or alcohol. Never took advantage of him. Just wanted to be loved and accepted by him. That's all. Simply put.
It seems my weakest moments are at that certain time of the month. My monthly reminder of my unchosen gender. Those few days I get weak and ridiculously emotional. One day about a month ago or so I was listening to the radio and they played, "Witchita Lineman" by Glen Campbell. I loved that song as a young child. And yet, it always reminded me of my dad. It was played when my parents divorced, which makes it a bittersweet song, but one I still like. So there I am in my car at the bank and tears start rolling down my cheeks. I started to miss him. Painfully. Guilt swept up inside me and tugged at those vulnerable heart strings. Tug, tug, tug. Should I or shouldn't I? I looked at my cell phone, which still has his phone number in it, and I debated for a brief moment to actually call him. To tell him how much I love him and miss him, and want things to be better between us. But I couldn't do it. Then the voice of reason took over and reminded me that if I call him nothing would change. Nothing. He wouldn't change. He's never at fault nor does he ever take responsibility for his actions nor his harsh words. We've had those "talks" before and nothing changed. He would find a way, his way, to turn the tables around and dump the responsibility on me along with the guilt. The voice of reason won.
A dear, close friend of mine once told me, well actually numerous times, that it only says "to honor thy father and mother" in the Bible. Nothing about loving or liking them. She told me that it was OK to love him, but I could still dislike him and strongly at that. It was comforting advice. It took a long time for that to sink in, but it finally did. I still love him, but I don't like him. Nor do I respect him. And that's OK.
It's not easy telling people that I don't talk to my father. Few understand. And some think it's just wrong of me. But they're not me, nor have they walked in my shoes. A story comes to mind of my dad that I've been thinking about lately. Years ago, about 30, my brother and I were waiting for our father to pick us up and take us to his house in Wisconsin for summer vacation. I had just finished my freshman year in high school and embracing the lazy days of summer. No school. No work. Just swimming and sleeping in. Now my father was never a punctual man. He was like the cable company. He'll be there between 12-4. So we're sitting there patiently waiting for him and my mom decided to run out quickly and get us lunch from Burger King, which was only half a mile from our house. Sure enough, after she leaves our evil stepmother arrives. Apparently Dad couldn't get away from work to get us, so he sent his beloved wife to haul us up north. My stepmother, or ex-stepmother now, was the epitomy of the evil stepmother in the Disney classic, "Cinderella". She had the same cold green eyes and the same disdain for her stepchildren. But that's another story. ANyway, she's ready to get going and get going now. But I pleaded with her to wait for our mother. Did she really expect us not to say goodbye to our mother? Really? As we're waiting for our mother I start to have an emotional breakdown. It finally hit. I realized at that moment that there was no way in hell that I was going to sit in a car with this mean horrible woman for 2 hours. My mother returned with our lunch in tow and I told her that I couldn't go. So we called my dad and he begged and pleaded with us to go with his wife. I didn't give in. I cried and balled and stood my ground. Fine. So the evil stepmother stomped out to her car, threw our luggage out into the street and screeched out of the driveway like a bat out of hell. Phew! I did it! It felt good. But now I would have to deal with my dad. But I assumed and felt that he would understand after he heard me.
In a few days following that incident, my mother and stepfather decided to take a little vacation, which included driving us to our grandmother's house in Northern Wisconsin, my father's mother's house that is. Sure. Why not. I loved visiting my grandmother. I was so excited! So off we went. When we arrived my father was there, but without his evil spouse. It was great to be there and I thought everything was good. We had a fun dinner with my mom there and a grand reunion. Then my mom and husband left to begin their vacation. And mine would soon turn sour.
My father pulls us aside to talk to us. Good. We're going to work this out, talk it out and make things better. Right? Wrong! Instead of listening to us and comforting us, he turned the tables around and made us feel bad. We were the guilty parties. My innocent brother and I were wrong. Huh? Really? I never looked at my father the same way again after that. I was so confused. So hurt. So angry. And there wasn't much I could do to change it. I learned that day that life is truly unfair.
I think about that day often, especially when I'm feeling weak and feeble and wanting to pick up the phone to make amends. Then I remember that day, that horrible inexcusable guilt that was whipped at me. It took me 30 years to finally realize that I have choices. Difficult ones at times, but choices nonetheless.
I guess what really, well, quite frankly, pisses me off, is that my father has two great kids. But he doesn't acknowledge it, or embrace it. Instead he abused it. Or us. Both of us are loving, funny, intelligent and responsible adults. Never spent a day in jail. NEver abused drugs or alcohol. Never took advantage of him. Just wanted to be loved and accepted by him. That's all. Simply put.
It seems my weakest moments are at that certain time of the month. My monthly reminder of my unchosen gender. Those few days I get weak and ridiculously emotional. One day about a month ago or so I was listening to the radio and they played, "Witchita Lineman" by Glen Campbell. I loved that song as a young child. And yet, it always reminded me of my dad. It was played when my parents divorced, which makes it a bittersweet song, but one I still like. So there I am in my car at the bank and tears start rolling down my cheeks. I started to miss him. Painfully. Guilt swept up inside me and tugged at those vulnerable heart strings. Tug, tug, tug. Should I or shouldn't I? I looked at my cell phone, which still has his phone number in it, and I debated for a brief moment to actually call him. To tell him how much I love him and miss him, and want things to be better between us. But I couldn't do it. Then the voice of reason took over and reminded me that if I call him nothing would change. Nothing. He wouldn't change. He's never at fault nor does he ever take responsibility for his actions nor his harsh words. We've had those "talks" before and nothing changed. He would find a way, his way, to turn the tables around and dump the responsibility on me along with the guilt. The voice of reason won.
A dear, close friend of mine once told me, well actually numerous times, that it only says "to honor thy father and mother" in the Bible. Nothing about loving or liking them. She told me that it was OK to love him, but I could still dislike him and strongly at that. It was comforting advice. It took a long time for that to sink in, but it finally did. I still love him, but I don't like him. Nor do I respect him. And that's OK.
It's not easy telling people that I don't talk to my father. Few understand. And some think it's just wrong of me. But they're not me, nor have they walked in my shoes. A story comes to mind of my dad that I've been thinking about lately. Years ago, about 30, my brother and I were waiting for our father to pick us up and take us to his house in Wisconsin for summer vacation. I had just finished my freshman year in high school and embracing the lazy days of summer. No school. No work. Just swimming and sleeping in. Now my father was never a punctual man. He was like the cable company. He'll be there between 12-4. So we're sitting there patiently waiting for him and my mom decided to run out quickly and get us lunch from Burger King, which was only half a mile from our house. Sure enough, after she leaves our evil stepmother arrives. Apparently Dad couldn't get away from work to get us, so he sent his beloved wife to haul us up north. My stepmother, or ex-stepmother now, was the epitomy of the evil stepmother in the Disney classic, "Cinderella". She had the same cold green eyes and the same disdain for her stepchildren. But that's another story. ANyway, she's ready to get going and get going now. But I pleaded with her to wait for our mother. Did she really expect us not to say goodbye to our mother? Really? As we're waiting for our mother I start to have an emotional breakdown. It finally hit. I realized at that moment that there was no way in hell that I was going to sit in a car with this mean horrible woman for 2 hours. My mother returned with our lunch in tow and I told her that I couldn't go. So we called my dad and he begged and pleaded with us to go with his wife. I didn't give in. I cried and balled and stood my ground. Fine. So the evil stepmother stomped out to her car, threw our luggage out into the street and screeched out of the driveway like a bat out of hell. Phew! I did it! It felt good. But now I would have to deal with my dad. But I assumed and felt that he would understand after he heard me.
In a few days following that incident, my mother and stepfather decided to take a little vacation, which included driving us to our grandmother's house in Northern Wisconsin, my father's mother's house that is. Sure. Why not. I loved visiting my grandmother. I was so excited! So off we went. When we arrived my father was there, but without his evil spouse. It was great to be there and I thought everything was good. We had a fun dinner with my mom there and a grand reunion. Then my mom and husband left to begin their vacation. And mine would soon turn sour.
My father pulls us aside to talk to us. Good. We're going to work this out, talk it out and make things better. Right? Wrong! Instead of listening to us and comforting us, he turned the tables around and made us feel bad. We were the guilty parties. My innocent brother and I were wrong. Huh? Really? I never looked at my father the same way again after that. I was so confused. So hurt. So angry. And there wasn't much I could do to change it. I learned that day that life is truly unfair.
I think about that day often, especially when I'm feeling weak and feeble and wanting to pick up the phone to make amends. Then I remember that day, that horrible inexcusable guilt that was whipped at me. It took me 30 years to finally realize that I have choices. Difficult ones at times, but choices nonetheless.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
An amazing weekend is the start to an amazing future...
Yesterday I returned home from an enriching, eye opening and inspiring weekend at a writer's retreat in the beautiful and quaint village of Saugatuck, Michigan. Not only did I learn about writing and how to achieve success as a writer, but I connected with other fellow writers who gave me just as much, if not more, inspiration to be a writer, a successful one, a published one! I felt so much at home at the B&B where we stayed, where we connected, where we took our futures to the next level. It's hard to explain exactly what I felt or how I felt, but it was good. Damn good!
Everyone I met at this retreat had a great story to share with us and a great voice to do it. Some were funny, some were deep and introspective, some were sweet, but all were phenomenal. It was the perfect combination of people. I expected everyone at this retreat to be from the area or the region, but it was a national convention! Some were from Ohio, Nebraska, Texas, New Jersey and a few from the area. Each one had a unique voice and a great story to tell. Some brought us to tears and some brought themselves to tears with their stories.
The author, Wade Rouse, who led the retreat gave us our first writing exercise Friday morning to write about what we fear most to write about. Anything. No limits on subject matter. So many thoughts ran through my head. Should I make it a funny fear? An emotional fear? A career fear? Yikes! What do I fear most to write about? I decided to write about my fear of how happy I am with my husband. I figured it was sickening enough and I feel awkward sharing it sometimes as it does seem unreal how happy we are. WHy not? So I did. When I read it to the group, I was thrilled at the feedback that I received. I still have this absurd issue that I don't possess a talent to write well. But in fact I do write well, or at least have a way to express myself that is felt and understood by others. As we discussed my piece it came out that I was writing about my guilt of being happy after the death of my first husband. I didn't even think about that when I was writing it, but it's true. For the longest time I did feel guilty about being happy again. As if I was betraying my dead husband. Sounds ludricous, but it's so common with widows and widowers. You feel bound by this loyalty to them, and yet you want to move on and have moved on, but the guilt, survivor's guilt, holds you back. I'm pretty much past that, but I suppose it's still there, a little bit at least.
Wade, the author in charge, gave me positive feedback and liked the simplicity of some of my statements in this piece. He even said that I could really expound on it greatly. That piece alone has a lot of mileage on it. I felt good. REally good after that. Yep, I am on the right track!
I have to confess that the other day I was looking for my grade for an assignment for one of my classes. Sure enough, the teacher had graded it and even commented on it about how good it was. So I opened up the assignment to read it and discovered that it was indeed a well written paper. I say that because I don't remember writing it like that and I was impressed at how well I had composed it. I would've given it a good grade, too!
So here I am starting my first blog to see where this writing thing can go, all thanks to Wade, and my beloved and devoted husband, Brad. More than anything, I want to be a successful writer. No, I'm not aspiring to become another Nora Roberts or even J.K. Rowling, but successful enough where I don't have to work another day in an office making money for someone else and not feeling any gratification from it. I returned to work today and the motivation factor really started to kick in. Write, write, write!
Everyone I met at this retreat had a great story to share with us and a great voice to do it. Some were funny, some were deep and introspective, some were sweet, but all were phenomenal. It was the perfect combination of people. I expected everyone at this retreat to be from the area or the region, but it was a national convention! Some were from Ohio, Nebraska, Texas, New Jersey and a few from the area. Each one had a unique voice and a great story to tell. Some brought us to tears and some brought themselves to tears with their stories.
The author, Wade Rouse, who led the retreat gave us our first writing exercise Friday morning to write about what we fear most to write about. Anything. No limits on subject matter. So many thoughts ran through my head. Should I make it a funny fear? An emotional fear? A career fear? Yikes! What do I fear most to write about? I decided to write about my fear of how happy I am with my husband. I figured it was sickening enough and I feel awkward sharing it sometimes as it does seem unreal how happy we are. WHy not? So I did. When I read it to the group, I was thrilled at the feedback that I received. I still have this absurd issue that I don't possess a talent to write well. But in fact I do write well, or at least have a way to express myself that is felt and understood by others. As we discussed my piece it came out that I was writing about my guilt of being happy after the death of my first husband. I didn't even think about that when I was writing it, but it's true. For the longest time I did feel guilty about being happy again. As if I was betraying my dead husband. Sounds ludricous, but it's so common with widows and widowers. You feel bound by this loyalty to them, and yet you want to move on and have moved on, but the guilt, survivor's guilt, holds you back. I'm pretty much past that, but I suppose it's still there, a little bit at least.
Wade, the author in charge, gave me positive feedback and liked the simplicity of some of my statements in this piece. He even said that I could really expound on it greatly. That piece alone has a lot of mileage on it. I felt good. REally good after that. Yep, I am on the right track!
I have to confess that the other day I was looking for my grade for an assignment for one of my classes. Sure enough, the teacher had graded it and even commented on it about how good it was. So I opened up the assignment to read it and discovered that it was indeed a well written paper. I say that because I don't remember writing it like that and I was impressed at how well I had composed it. I would've given it a good grade, too!
So here I am starting my first blog to see where this writing thing can go, all thanks to Wade, and my beloved and devoted husband, Brad. More than anything, I want to be a successful writer. No, I'm not aspiring to become another Nora Roberts or even J.K. Rowling, but successful enough where I don't have to work another day in an office making money for someone else and not feeling any gratification from it. I returned to work today and the motivation factor really started to kick in. Write, write, write!
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