Dare to Share: When I Grow Up

*Post inspired by the the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Dare to Share prompt, "When I grow up."

This week for the Dare to Share Link Up I'd like you to link to a post about your dream job, what you wanted to be when you grew up as a child...what you want to be now. Tell us about your dreams and how you're going to make them come true. This post can be old or new, fiction or nonfiction, poetry or prose.

The lights are blinding, but I know what's before me. So many voices, all screaming my name; a sea of adoring, shouting fans. All chanting. For me.

I try not to squint into the spotlight and instead smile, widely. I even take a little bow; not too overdone, but tasteful. Elegant.

As I bring the microphone to my mouth and a hush washes over the crowd, I feel my quickened heartbeat. I raise my hands in anticipation for the first note of the song I just wrote and recorded last month.

And I sing my heart out, the feel of the microphone in my hand and the stage beneath my feet the best sensations I ever experienced. My voice carries, to everyone and everything, and it frees me. And I hope it frees them, too.

And that microphone is the best gift the universe has ever given me.

That used to be my dream. As a child, a teenager, and even as a young adult. I loved the rush that singing on a stage provided and whenever I was presented with the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" a singer/songwriter was all I could fathom. Nothing else fit. It was unrealistic, I knew. And so did everyone else, telling me it was impossible to make it in that industry. And they were right. But it was all I wanted.

And then I got married, had kids. I realized that my new responsibilities could never allow for that, not with the amount of attention I wanted to devote to my family. Besides, I wasn't that good anyway.

So I took my love for words, prose, literature, and reading, and turned it into a hobby. I decided to start writing, just for fun. I was a SAHM and drowning in a lack of hobbies. And writing was a perfect solution.

But then I became hooked. I realized just how much I actually loved it. Who knew I could write?

I couldn't stop, even though I did it all in secret. I told no one of my new passion, not even my husband. And I'd quickly hide my work whenever he'd enter the room, in a oh-no-I'm-looking-at-porn sorta way. I was too much of a rookie and had way too much to learn. Really, I was a joke. And people would laugh at me if they knew I was writing.

Or worse, they'd ask to see my work.

But then my husband got suspicious I was looking at gorgeous hunks on the internet it came out. And surprisingly (though it shouldn't have been surprising), my family was more supportive than ever. My husband even allowed me time away from the kid to feed my passion, because he wanted to be married to a famous author who'd rake in the dough so he could quit his job cared about my interests and wanted me to feel like me again.

And I did feel like me. More me than I'd ever felt, actually. Finally, I had found MY passion. THE thing that made me me and allowed me to express myself. I'd thought it was in singing (don't get me wrong, singing and music is still a huge love of mine), but I was wrong. And it only took me until I was twenty-four to find it.

Eventually, I finished my first novel. Then I wrote another. And another. And though the road from start to now (I don't say "finish" because I know I'm still at the beginning of this journey) has been eye-opening, painful, and a huge learning experience, it has been so rewarding.

Because with writing, I've found out who I really am and what I'm capable of. Because of writing, I feel I have purpose, aside from being the mom of three boys and the wife to another boy.

I fell in love, and even though we argue and have cold spells, I continue to fall in love every moment I spend with it.

So, instead of doing the career that's nearly impossible to make a living in, I chose a career dream that's even more impossible to make a living in: novel writing. This is a difficult time to be heard as a fiction writer, more difficult than it ever has been. Renowned editor and author, Pat Walsh, said that out of everyone trying to publish with a traditional publisher, only 2% will succeed. Yes, that's right. TWO PERCENT.

And that was a few years ago. It's even harder now.

So, though the odds may not be in my favor, I will continue to write, revise, submit, revise, and revise (did I say revise?). Because if I don't, I'm not so sure I'd survive.

Okay, I would. It just wouldn't be pretty.

And who knows, maybe I'll even go the new and more recently accepted route of self-publishing. Or even self-epublishing (seems to be the new trend). We'll see where the road takes me.

So until then, I go back to revising.

So that, just maybe, one day my dream of seeing my novel on a Borders Barnes & Noble shelf can come true.

Dear awkward, naive, sixteen-year-old self...

You know how you've always liked to write long, meaningful letters? Well, here's what one from the future looks like:

It's been quite a crazy and rewarding twelve years. You actually ended up where you hoped you would be: the wife to a wonderful, supportive, and faithful husband, and the mother to three fantastic children. It was all you ever wanted, really, since you could never put your finger on what you actually wanted to do with your life.

But even though you got what you wanted, be aware that you veered pretty far off the course to get there.

And you know what, past self? Though those certain obstacles and "bad" decisions in our life delayed the rewarding outcome, don't regret them. Because all our mistakes and life experiences--difficult and joyous--have made us who we are today. And we are pretty proud of that.

So, live life. Make the mistakes you will at one point regret. Because without them, you won't have a full understanding or appreciation for the Savior and His atonement. You won't have the life experience and character you now have. And you might not even have the open-minded view you now own.

One thing to look forward to: You realize you're pretty healthy after all, even after the Epstein Bar and depression episodes. You have a great immune system and can actually handle sleepless nights with a tinge of grace.

You love to run (imagine that), and you actually have your own sense of style. I know, that's hard to believe, isn't it? But you now know how to match, what styles do and don't fit your body type, and you only wear what makes you comfortable--not what you think you should wear.

Plus, there's a great show called What Not to Wear, from which you've learned a few helpful lessons.

Though you'll still have a hard time with it, you will learn how to say "no" to people and be slightly less of a pushover. Only slightly though. Maybe in twelve more years from now, forty-year old us will say it's not a problem at all.

You're not a singer, like you always wished you could be. In fact, your singing glory days were in high school, unfortunately. You haven't even sang in church in years, though you wish to. But you do still have that embedded passion for music. It still moves you in a way that nothing else can. Be proud of the fact that that's always been inside of you. In fact, don't feel embarrassed about any of the things that move you.

Despite your fears of what kind of a mother you'll be, especially because of your distaste for children, know that you will actually be a pretty great mom. There will be times when you won't feel like it, but you are. And you will love them without even trying. You'll love your kids, you'll actually know how to wear the mommy pants, and you'll be proud of it.

And you're proud to wear the wife pants, too. Sometimes they're old, dirty sweats (more times than we care to admit), and sometimes they're a little more appealing. Sexy even. I know, it's not a word in your vocabulary yet because you can't comprehend such an idea, but you will learn it's just one more thing that makes you, you.

Don't be afraid of intimacy, in any light.

And don't be afraid of sex. I know, you will blush when reading this because you aren't very open-minded about the idea, but that will change. There's nothing to fear. And it's actually pretty great.

Your husband loves you a great deal, and believe it or not, he finds you pretty desirable. He even claims he is the luckiest man in the world. And though you will not understand or believe him, take in his compliments.

Oh, and enjoy your smooth stomach while you have it. Because one day, after children, there will be nothing there but saggy, stretch-marked skin. But you will also be grateful because of what those scars have earned you. Your children are your life. And though they take on some of the traits you hate in yourself, you love it in them.

You will learn how to cook. Don't be so afraid of it. Your husband will give you all the pointers for a good foundation when you get married, and from there, you'll teach yourself. And half the time, you'll actually be quite decent at it.

Now, here's something you might not want to hear: you are still strangely proportioned, physically awkward, and uncoordinated. I know you hoped and daydreamed of one day growing into your long arms and legs, and maybe even getting better hair and a longer neck. But it doesn't happen.

In fact, sometimes you will feel even more uncoordinated than you once were. And you'll blame that on the beautiful children. You will hear this a lot in life, but it's true: pregnancy and raising children makes you scatter-brained.

Did I mention you have amazing, beautiful, strong-spirited children? Three boys, who will drive you nuts but make you feel like the most important, blessed girl on the planet. And that list you made with all the qualities you want in a future husband? You got them.

Well, all of them except the height. You don't marry someone tall. Sorry.

But his strengths will more than make up for it. He will see in you what you will still be struggling to see in yourself years down the road. And you are still very in love three children and eight years of marriage later.

So don't fret so much over the boy who broke your heart. No, he is not your future husband. No, you don't really love him. Yes, you will be happily married one day. And no, the cares and stresses you are experiencing now are not the most dire problems you will ever experience.

Don't worry so much about what other people think, please. The girls with Abercrombie & Fitch plastered to their perfect bodies don't know crap about what makes a girl special.

But you do. You know your divine heritage, and that you are a special, beautiful daughter of God. You know this. So please remember it, and let it fill you with confidence. Enjoy yourself and stop worry about the little things!

Oh...and pay better attention in math. We both know it's not our strong suit, but that doesn't mean you don't have to try.

And, confused, self-conscious girl: you will find your passion someday. You might not find it until later in life, after you've had your first child, but be aware of it. Recognize that your love for literature, English, poetry, and art stems from your destined purpose to write.

Yes, you are a writer. And it will be hard for you to call yourself that sometimes, because feeling inadequate is what you're best at, but you are a writer. Even without a degree, awards, or published work. Finally, you will find something you're good at, something that makes you feel special and passionate.

And thanks in partial to something called "blogging," you will be able to let your voice be heard. You will be able to pour your heart out and say what you really mean. You will find just who you are.

You have a lot to look forward to. Soak up every memorable moment in your life. Soak up the love that comes your way, and learn what you can from the hatred. You will be proud of who you become. You will realize one day that you wouldn't trade a thing in your life. And you will find yourself thanking God everyday for the path He's put you on and the people He's blessed you with in your life.

The things your future self is most proud of:

• The beautiful creations that are your children
• A happy, healthy family life
• You've written three novels
• You gave childbirth naturally (with no pain medication) to two of your children and now feel like you can accomplish anything as a woman

Lastly, love yourself. I can't say it enough. Love yourself even when all you can do is hate yourself, because you will need all the practice you can get for later in life, when you realize you never really did. So throw me a bone, sixteen-year-old me, and just love yourself.

Love,
Slightly-less-self-conscious, twenty-eight-year-old me

*Post inspired by the Lightning and the Lightning Bug Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "A Letter to You."

Write a letter to yourself at age sixteen. What might you tell your sixteen year-old self? Would you warn yourself not to make a certain mistake? Would you ask yourself to treasure being young? Would you tell yourself how much you've changed?

The Day Cliché Became Reality

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt "Write a dramatic synopsis of a memorable day in your life, as if it was a movie or TV series." 


For extra kicks, imagine it being read in the voice of Don LaFontaine.

When Jennie Davenport walked into the church building on an early Sunday in September of 2002, she couldn't have guessed the way her life would change. Confident, uninterested, and somewhat rebellious, she looked like the last person who belonged there.

It was a ward for single adults--a place where young people paraded themselves in the never-ending and pressurized search to wed the first available object of the opposite sex came to cultivate their love of Christ and strengthen their testimony of the gospel. And though Jennie's eyes remained aloof and her chin was high, she came there craving just that: the spiritual feast she'd been missing out on for nearly two years.

With sweaty palms and tensed muscles, Jennie walked into the meat market church building--anxiety-ridden from being somewhere that used to feel like home.

"I can do this," she told herself.  "I need to do this."

Since returning to the prison comfort of her parents' home one week prior, venturing back to church was one of the things Jennie was looking forward to the most, and when her friend, Katie, convinced her to accompany her to the singles ward on that first Sunday--the first church-going Sunday in nearly two years--every stereotype from the popular Mormon movie, The Singles Ward, shot to the forefront of her mind, and she almost declined.

And almost threw up in her mouth a little, too.

After all, Jennie wasn't single, but was in a very unhealthy, co-dependent, recently turned long distance sound relationship.

But little did she know that she'd receive the very thing that 99% of the Mormon single adult population goes to the singles ward for--the only reason: the cliché gift of an eternal companion.

Not making eye contact with a single soul, she walked through the doors and straight to the emptiest pew, willing the mingling singles to sit and the meeting to start.

Then he came over. The first person to speak to her.

Geez, couldn't he give me at least five minutes to settle in?

"Hi," he said, beaming from ear to ear. He looked fresh on the market...like a newbie to normal society.

A return-missionary.

Every button of his olive-colored suit vest was nicely buttoned and a glow emanated off of him.

Ugh, that glow.

He took his hand out of his pocket, offering it politely. Somewhat reluctantly, Jennie took it. It was warm, nonthreatening, and...nice.

His eyes were nice, too. Blue and sincere.

"I'm Dave," he continued. "I just got home from my mission three weeks ago."

And...there it was. Jennie forced a smile. A return missionary was the last thing she needed in her life--spiritually bombarding, innocent, eager.

But then Jennie found out she and the RM had something in common. Dave had served his mission in Huntington Beach, California, in the very home ward Jennie had grown up in. They knew the same people, enjoyed the same smell of that old, white church building.

And despite her objections, she wondered if it was a sign.

Will Jennie dump her dangerous boyfriend and fall in love with this faithful, strapping man, leaving her rebellious life to the wayside?

And will this fresh return-missionary be persistent enough to win over a stubborn, struggling woman?

**Spoiler Alert**

He was. And he did.

No Pennies!

*Post inspired by the The Red Dress Club's remembeRED prompt, "What, from your childhood, do you still know by heart?"

Besides the obvious things, like the Pledge of Allegiance and "No cuts, no butts, no coconuts," I remember a lot of things from childhood.

Okay, maybe not a lot. I actually don't remember that many details. I'm the kind of person who, once I have no need for it, let's the information go to make room for all the other stuff that is thrown my way. It's also why I am horrible at remembering names.

Sorry new person in my ward who has probably told me her name at least five times and who I just call "you" because I'm too embarrassed to ask you your name. Again.

I do remember some silly, nerdy things, though. Like the tune of the Nintendo video game, Mario 1. Or the Gummy Bears theme song (sadly, I don't have the "secret" recipe for Gummy Beary Juice memorized anymore, though I did at one point).

But mostly I remember the haunting tune of blue ice-cream truck: me, my brothers, and my fellow neighborhood children's arch nemesis. There was Doyle, the one we loved and would save all our change for, but then there was the "No Pennies!" ice-cream man. The one who would speed down Sabre Lane and angrily throw our change back at us if it included too many pennies, yelling, "No pennies!" before screeching away again.

I also remember saving all of our pennies and trying to buy two dollars worth of goodies for that reason. Handing him that clear sandwich bag, nearly tearing from the weight of 200 pennies, and seeing that sweaty, Arabic mustache twitch in irritation brought a smile to my eight-year-old angel face.

I also remember that it takes five children's bikes to make a barricade in the street so that he cannot pass. With a waving fist, he turned that little blue music-mobile around and we, the neighborhood kids, cheered as though we'd just defeated a terrorist threat.

Needless to say, our tactics worked, because we never saw him again.

Cheerios and Bed Fires

*Inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "Write about a time you got in BIG trouble as a kid."

This one is kind of difficult for me, since I practically never got in trouble as a kid. No, really. Ask my mom and dad. I was the bee's knees.

The bee's knees who was co-conspirator to my thirteen-months-younger-than-me brother. Or maybe it was the other way around. I don't really remember.

Either way, we were perfect. I mean, just look at us. Little angels.


I also don't remember sneaking downstairs to make sure our beloved grandma was preoccupied with Days of Our Lives (she watched us in our pre-kindergarten years while Mom worked), and then trying to find as many ways we could to wreak havoc in such a short window of opportunity.

Okay, so maybe this is difficult for me because there are too many acts to choose from. Like...

Dumping a whole box of Cheerios down all the heater vents in the upstairs bedrooms.

Ripping open and dumping out all of our older sister's Equal packets under the kitchen table and making an Equal dune for our little men (our index and middle finger), who were starving in the desert.

Popping out the second story window screen so we could throw out as many toys as possible in that little time we had before Grandma would run outside and pick them up, yelling and raising her fist at us from below (and probably cursing, too)...while we laughed at her and continued to throw more toys down on top of her.

And last, but certainly NOT least: Setting my parents' bed on fire. We were just "camping," okay? Our intentions were innocent and precious when putting our favorite Siamese Cat lamp on the bed, topping it with a blanket, and then sitting beneath it while we pretended to be warmed from the glow of a lantern, somewhere deep in the forest.

Cute, right?

Well, for some reason I still don't get, neither Grandma OR Mom saw the cuteness when the bed caught fire and the lamp burnt a large hole straight through to the other side of the mattress.

And funny thing (aside from the fact that we still used that mattress until many years later--and when I say we I mean our sister), I honestly can't remember the specific punishments for any of these things. Rather, between the ages of three and five, all I can remember is feeling my parents' (and any caretaker my mom would give us) constant oppression.

Okay, so I admit. I got in trouble ALL the time as a child. But who didn't at that tender, young age?

It was AFTER that point when I became the perfect angel.

**Sheesh, after this I feel like I owe a HUGE apology to my parents...and mostly to my grandma, God rest her magnetic-lovable-stubborn soul. I'm so sorry for making you sob on almost a daily basis, and for probably being one of the main causes of your graying hair.

I'm sorry for throwing things at you when, really, I thought you were the greatest person around.

I'm sorry for lying when you asked if we were conniving. Really, we were "kniving."

And thinking back on this has helped me remember just what it feels like to be a child. It brings me back to the evil, skewed inner-workings of a child's mind, who cannot comprehend the consequences when doing something outright bad and mischievous. And making adults look like the fool in the process.

I get it now, kiddos, I get it.

The Nerd and the Cheerleader

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's weekly writer's workshop, with the prompt, "Explain how you met your best friend."

“Look at her,” I whispered to my brother, discretely pointing to the girl on the corner. Stylish clothes, platinum hair, trendy makeup job over a beautiful face…and no smile. “I bet she’s so stuck up,” I finished, folding my arms uncomfortably over myself. Her arms were folded, too, but probably because she thought herself better than us newbies.

We had just moved to Idaho Falls and it was our first day of school—my Freshman year and my brother’s eighth. He didn’t respond to my assumption. He probably knew I was just jealous.

As we waited on the corner for the bus to arrive, my stomach twisted madly inside at what lie ahead. And seeing this cute girl, who apparently lived just one street over—great—made it worse. Was everyone going to be this way at Clair E. Gale Middle School? Would there be anyone I could connect with?

Nudging my brother, furthering my desire to feel better about myself, I harrumphed. “I bet she’s even a cheerleader.”

Later that morning, while all the students congregated on the lawn outside the school, a girl from my church who I’d met the previous Sunday approached with none other than blondie from the bus stop. “Hey, Jennie!” she beamed, “remember my friend I told you about?”

I gulped a guilty breath. “Yes…”

Well, turns out, blondie’s name was Chloe. Turns out, blondie was in fact a cheerleader.

But she was also the sweetest, most compassionate girl I ever met. And I felt horrible.

Come to find out, Chloe was shy, too, which explained her aloofness at the bus stop. And even funnier, she told me years later that when she first saw me at the bus stop, she thought I was a snob. Ick. I never thought I was, but maybe judging someone without knowing their story made me one. Lesson learned.

But from that first day, Chloe and I clicked better than I’ve ever clicked with anyone, and to this day—fifteen years, lots of boyfriends, 2 husbands, and 6.5 children later—we are the best of besties. Even when we’ve gone months without talking, or years without seeing each other (like right now), we can pick up that phone and have a conversation as though we just spoke the day before. She gets me. I get her. We are the same in so many, quirky ways.

She is talented, artistic, and beautiful, and can connect to me on a wavelength special only to us. She is my sister and my best girlfriend. Chloe, I love you.

High School or Hell?

*This post is inspired by Mama Kat's weekly writer's workshop. The prompt was "If you could go back to high school, what would you do differently?"

Anyone who knew me in high school knows I was shy, self-conscious, and just plain dorky…to put it lightly. Don’t get me wrong. I had an amazing, select group of friends who gave me memories I will always cherish. To you girls: I will love you forever.


But for the most part, the first word that surfaces in my mind when trying to sum up my high school experience is...Hell.

Besides to those few who knew me well, I kept myself locked inside—because in all reality, I didn’t know who I was to begin with. Every negative experience, every setback, was utterly traumatic to the emotional teenage girl I was, and since I was shy and closed-off, my teenage years were filled to the brim with them.

Just walking through the crowded hallways between each class was unnerving and gave me anxiety. Being looked at or recognized by anyone was scary—even by the boy I’d been crushing on at the time. Crazy, right? What teenage girl doesn’t thrill at that “cosmic, I’m-gonna-mary-him” eye connection? Well, even though I gushed about it in my journal, I just plain hated it. Hated the vulnerability, hated the exposure. Even from Bill and Bob*, the two guys I was sure I’d end up marrying someday.

And no, I didn’t. (No regrets there, by the way)

*We will give them fake names in order to avoid embarrassment on both parts...or maybe just because these were the actual code names my girlfriends and I used.

To those boys: Even though I’d shrink and run the other way when you’d make eye contact with me in the hall, really I was pathetically, madly in love with you…

Because instead of adoring myself, I put all my emotion into someone I spoke no more than one word to on a daily basis and claimed it “love.”

Atrocious haircuts, awkward-fitting clothes, no sense of self-worth, zero confidence: I was the very definition of the term “crawling in my skin.” It was a sad, depressing time, really. Letting my raging teenage emotions get the best of me, letting them affect friendships, opportunities to branch out, and—back to those boys again—even boyfriends.

Oh wait. BoyFRIEND.

Yes, that’s right. One. And I’m surprised I even had him, though I only had him for a month. I was so uncomfortable and unsure of who I was that I didn’t know how to act in any intimate setting. My dearest friends knew me and loved me, and when with them I could be the strange, silly, and funny girl I was...


...Or even the empathetic girl I was—always the first one there when anyone needed an ear to listen or a shoulder to cry on.

But put me around kids who loved being the center of attention, loved bringing other people down, and insults and glares would brutally throw me back into the dark hole I’d dug since the first day of middle school. The hole that had become home. Home, sweet-nauseating, home.

Gabby girls linking arms on the way to the cafeteria: keep those loving limbs away from me and my insecure bubble.

BoyFRIEND going in for the kiss or the hand, especially while walking through the hall swimming with judgmental teenagers: forget it. Kill me now, and What do I say, and How do I act running in a panic stream through my mind.

What would they—the beautiful, bold, cheerful and sometimes mean students—think of the star basketball player touching the girl with uneven dishwater hair, a baggy sweatshirt, and jeans too short for her daddy-long-leg legs? What would they think of the nobody? Surely they’d see the couple as a misfit, just as she so clearly does.

And so they did. And so did he. Do I blame him? Not in the slightest.

So what would I do differently?

I’d love myself. Pure and simple.

And not for those boys or even those teens who smashed my self esteem into the ground, but for me.