Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Love Builds Confidence

Going into the archives for some classic blogs to get this blog resurrected. It's no longer The 41st Year and Life on Clemson Road is, as always, an incredible Journey.

From May 2016:

For Mother’s Day, Hollie gave me a picture card she’d drawn in school. It said: 

You like to read and write with me, write and read, write and read, write and read. You work every day, work, work, work, work. You watch movies and shows with me, watch, watch, watch, watch, watch, watch. You eat lunch with me on Saturday, eat, eat, eat. I love u!

Beneath it was a picture of two equally-sized people wearing orange, holding books, and standing near a restaurant booth. On the table was a hot dog (hers) and a glass of wine (mine).

My first thought was, “Way to hit that word count, girl!”

My second was, “Hollie really knows me.”

I’ve not been hiding myself from her. She knows I love to read and write. She knows I love to watch movies and Animaniacs. She knows Saturdays are our date days and that during lunch she can have sweet tea and I’ll be drinking wine.

I am who I am.

Being myself with Hollie is how I’m showing her that it’s okay for her to be herself, too.

Saturday, March 31, 2018

The 42nd Year is Underway

"Easter is about hope."

That’s what the Australian-accented, boomerang-slinging bunny in Rise of the Guardians says about his holiday.

Easter is about possibility. Redemption. Renewal.

It’s rather fitting that the end of The 41st Year is Easter week. It’s fitting because when I set out to do this last year, I was really looking for renewal.

On my 40th birthday, sitting in a bar in New York City, I wrote, “This all started because Heather said, ‘Forty is a motherfucker,’ and, like most things in my life, I decided to manage my expectations.”

Forty couldn’t fuck with me if I knew what I was doing. If I had a plan. A purpose. A mission.

On the first page of the journal I bought in NYC to track The 41st Year, I wrote, “I know I’ll struggle. I know I’ll focus on the shortfalls and the challenges. I know I’ll be glaringly aware of the misses, the failures, and the face plants.”

So here they are:
I did not visit Papa 40 times. I got to Florence 11 times in the last year. It’s an hour trip and a three-hour commitment. It takes about $20 in gas round trip. I’ve been too broke and too busy. And yet each of those 11 visits filled me with a sense that my Papa appreciates me. Loves me. Is proud of me. So, I’ll try to keep my once-a-month pace and hope that will suffice.

I did not donate 40 articles of clothing or put 40 pages into Hollie’s scrapbook. I didn’t do even one for either of those. I did accept some pieces from my dear friend, Teresa, who has lost weight and gave me the six pairs of pants and four tops that have made my working full time doable these last three months. As for the scrap book, someday I’m sure I’ll wish I had captured every minute with Hollie. For now, though, I’m waiting until she’s interested in helping with the project to really take it on.

I did not submit 40 times. I submitted 27 times but now I have a weekly habit, so that’s a good thing. I feel good about the submissions. I feel like I’m getting used to rejection and that’s part of being a writer.

I did not do 40 runs, in fact I haven’t run at all. Something I regret and something I plan to remedy. Immediately. Let’s roll that goal into next year.

I didn’t get to 40 new places but I did get to 15 including two new cities: Kansas City, Missouri and Toledo, Ohio. It’s hard to travel when you don’t have any money. Some “places” that mattered this year included the Office of Business Opportunity’s Small Business Conference last May at which I was a speaker and the Winter Wheat Literary Festival where I was on faculty. The SCWA’s writers conference in the fall to which I won a scholarship and the Girls Rock! showcase where I saw my daughter play guitar on stage for the first time. I’ll take quality over quantity on that one all day long. We even got to Five Points on St. Patty’s Day which was a big achievement for Hollie and me.

I also wrote in that journal that The 41st Year was meant to provide wins. Easy ways to show progress and success.

“Say you will and then do it. No fear. No excuses. No boundaries.” Reasonable, achievable things on the list.

Categories where I killed it: Blog posts and books by female authors. I read 73 books last year and have read 28 this year so far. Nearly all of them are by women writers. My blog posts were mostly on the SCWA blog, but I also generated content for Clemson Road Consulting, Unapologetically X, and two clients. This blog, The 41st Year, has been neglected. But that’s mostly as a reflection of my glaring awareness of misses, failures, and face plants.

So, it’s Easter and this is about hope. Renewal. It’s about opportunity.

There has been so much opportunity in the last few months, really since I started The 41st Year and started being intentional about pretty much everything. Opportunities are not hiding under bushes waiting to be found like colored eggs. They’re flying past us like dandelion seeds on the wind. I’ve tried to gather them all. Chased them all. Watched them float by and wished they were mine.

Now I’m going to bloom where I’m planted.

This was an important year. A year in which I decided I am the grown-up in the room and it’s up to me to make decisions and take action. A year in which I stopped waiting for others to offer, comply, and play along.

I was so afraid that 40 would be a motherfucker. So, I geared up and took a few practice swings. When they landed, and the resistance gave way, I decided to kick its ass. And what it feels like right now is that I’m just getting started.

It feels like Game On. Bring it, 42nd Year. Show me what you’ve got.

Friday, March 9, 2018

Selling Myself in Bits & Pieces

I’d like to say I haven’t blogged here since November because I’ve been crushing it in the 41st year.

In some ways, I have. Since January, I’ve added three titles to my resume:
  • Project Manager at the McNair Center for Entrepreneurship,
  • Adjunct Instructor in Entrepreneurship at the Darla Moore School of Business, and
  • Co-Host of the radio program Start Something, Columbia.
We’re waiting to hear this month about funding for a new women’s business center in Columbia for which I would be Co-Director.

I’m still Managing Partner of Clemson Road Consulting (formerly known as President of Clemson Road Creative) and I’ve been the Lead Organizer for 1 Million Cups Columbia for about six months.

What do all these titles do for my 41st year goals?

Well, I’ve been adding up live events with conferences, summits, and meetings in support of my new titles. I’ve also been writing dozens of blogs for various outlets. Today I’m sitting down to write out two-dozen thank-you notes to all of those people who wrote us letters of support for our women’s business center grant application.

Where I’m killing it: 40 books by female authors.

In 2017 I read 73 books and so far this year I’ve read 25 books; the majority of these books have been women authors. In fact, I might want to try reading some men in 2018. I definitely need to add more non-fiction to the list but that’s the case every year.

Visiting new places and visiting my Papa are goals that have both suffered from my lack of funds. I’ve been so low on cash that a lot of things (pedicures, wine) have fallen off my regular expenses. I know Papa doesn’t begrudge me the visits but I have always equated driving with freedom and to not be able to travel has been a soul-crushing reality.

The purpose of the 41st year was always to find some measurable things I could do, some ways to spend my time that would equate to impact. I have to say that the work I’m doing these days seems more impactful than anything I was doing before.

I feel like I’m turning a corner. Cresting a wave. Climbing the S curve.

Since last March, I’ve given more workshops, submitted more writing, and applied for more opportunities than I have in the past. I’ve been working my sales plan with three principles: 1) people need to know me, 2) people need to know what I do, and 3) people need to trust I can do it. When we get all three, we earn business.

The business is coming. The future is bright. The 41st year feels like just the beginning.

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Where ya been? Oh, right, it's #NaNoWriMo

So it's National Novel Writing Month or #NaNoWriMo2017 and I've been under a rock. I haven't worked out since Nov 1 though I have been getting up early every day.

I've been writing. This year's project is a Neverland story which you can read more about here. And I might stick a little bit on the end here just for fun.

So this 41st Year post is about falling off the wagon. 

I'm a professional wagon-faller. Oh, sure, I euphemize it with words like "redirect" and "pivot" but the truth is, when the wagon doesn't seem to be making any progress, I topple right off.

Some of my most famous wagon-fallings include the six-week no-alcohol "tradition" I had for about five years. It stretched from New Year's Day until the Daytona 500. It was meant to give my liver a break after football season because September through December is rough. After 2008, though, I gave that giving-up up. Be sober for nine-ish months and you'll stop inflicting that shit on yourself, too.

Another great wagon-jumping happened when I decided to scrap book Hollie's baby book. I did two mini-books and have been collecting stuff for the rest ever since. She's nine. I'm never, ever going to catch up. Which is fine, I realized, when I learned no other moms are doing a week-by-week log of their kid's growing up except via Facebook (collective groan and eye roll).

I've started and stopped dozens of fitness programs from half marathon trainings to swim team to Beast Mode and even a personal trainer. I've started and stopped dozens of diets meant to offset the booze, lose the baby weight, make recovery easier, make my metabolism faster, and make me hotter for my 20th reunion.

In spite of my wagon-falling, I've also been faithful and steadfast in a number of pursuits. I've attended my South Carolina Writers Workshop (SCWA) group sessions two Mondays a month for about three years. I've been at the Tuesday Twitter chat #wschat for more than 5 years. And I've done NaNoWriMo for five years. 

Writing, it seems, is a wagon I'm glad to be on.

For the last 18 months I've been faithful to 1 Million Cups which meets weekly and I've volunteered to read in Hollie's classroom every November since kindergarten. I'm not afraid of commitment -- I'm framing an assembled 1000 piece puzzle this week -- I'm just easily persuaded to drop relationships that aren't working.

The 41st Year blog is about the things I wanted to do that I felt would give me evidence of a life well-lived. Live events, visits with my Papa, and meaningful time with friends. What I didn't account for in that planning was the downhill slope my work life would take from January until now. 

The 41st Year is turning out to be less about charting new territory and more about resilience, persistence, and steadfastness. 

Lest you mistake these as synonyms, let me explain.

Resilience is about recovery, a return to the original form. I've been working over Clemson Road Consulting for months. The original mission of the company was remote, asynchronous work in storytelling -- a writing studio. We're there. Again.

Persistence is about continuing, a constant effort in a single direction. I've been pushing into fiction writing for half a decade and broke through this year with some highly-regarded work, opportunities, and recognition. 

Steadfastness is about being firm in purpose, resolved to a specific direction. I have not abandoned my dream of being either a writer or an entrepreneur. It's tough but if it wasn't, everyone would do it. 

I have a vision for my life and I plan to achieve that vision. It's just taking a few setbacks to earn the breaks I need to leap forward.

My faith remains. 

Faith in the vision, faith in my partnerships, and faith in myself. It's funny how spending the entire month with a kid who discovers The Neverland is a lie has made me more resolved than ever to make the most of the real world in which we're living.

Now, as promised, a little hint of the #NaNoWriMo project:
The ship anchored off the coast of Neverland, its black sails visible like an ink blot on the horizon. A flag with a skull and crossed bones waved on the highest tip of the highest mast, above a crow’s nest where stood a man peering at the shore through a long, retractable telescope.
I peered back through my own lens and tried to make out the whiskers on his face, the set of his jaw, the evil in his eye.
“How many?” Peter asked.
On deck I’d counted twenty-one. Six pulling at ropes and raising sails, five turning cranks and wheels, four tying knots, three securing ballast, one in the crow’s nest, one studying a map, and one at the helm. The last one wore a wide-brimmed cap with a feather that fluttered in the wind, a long duster trimmed in gold, and tall black books that caught the morning sun and shone as though just polished.
“Looks as though they’re getting underway,” I said, watching the anchor emerge from the water and climb toward the rail.
“And go where?” Peter’s voice had mocking in it. He hovered just above me, legs akimbo, arms crossed. Did he see what I saw? How keen was his vision for such things?
“Let ‘em go,” Hickory said. “They may return with treasure.”
“Or chocolate,” one of the twins piped.
“Or down blankets and feather pillows,” Peter sneered and spat at the ground beneath him. We’d raided the ship before, stolen the materials they’d captured from wherever it was they’d gone. The luxury of those items hadn’t left our memories and the five of us, Hickory, twins, Rocky and me, could share the same fantasy of fresh peaches, warm silks, sparkling jewels, and crisp wafers.
“How long will they be gone?” Rocky asked.
Peter’s sneer turned to a glare that he threw carelessly at the bear-costumed boy beside me.
“No time,” I whispered. “There is no time.”
Rocky blinked, nodded, “Sorry, Peter,” he said quickly so that all the syllables merged into one sound of contrition.

Peter turned his gaze back to the horizon.

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Live Event: Counting Crows and Matchbox 20

The last time we went to PNC Bank Arena in Charlotte, Charlie and I misbehaved. We were there to see Kelly Clarkson and Maroon 5 and Kristen (my sister) ended up babysitting us.

Since then, we’ve done Red Rocks twice and basically gotten our shit together. So the concert before the eclipse was not such a disaster. In fact, we did several things I’ve never done at a concert:

We arrived late.

Our friends Mike and Melanie live in Charlotte and we spent the afternoon pre-gaming on their back patio. Craft beers, snacks, shade, and comfy chairs are all better than sweating it out in the parking lot. Plus, Melanie is an old friend and Mike a new one so it was good to spend time getting to know them.

After we checked into the hotel, we wandered next door to TGI Friday’s for another pre-game beer and snack. Again, no hurry to get to the arena.

When we finally got parked and started walking in, we had missed the first two songs of Counting Crows’ set. Fortunately, our section was basically empty so finding our seats and settling in wasn’t too tough.

We sat down.

I only typically stand if the people in front of me are blocking my view. But that’s pretty much always the case. Except not this time. Our section was the first part of the outdoor half of the amphitheater, so a wide sidewalk separated us from the inside folks who all stood. We could see over them just fine. And we were only two rows back and no one sat in front of us.

So we sat. When it is so crazy hot, sitting or standing doesn’t really matter.

During our favorite Counting Crows songs we stood and danced, and the people behind us urged us to stand for Matchbox 20 and we did for the encore. Mostly, though, we just sat and enjoyed the live music and the light show and seeing Rob Thomas, who looks rather old by the way, on the big screens that flanked the stage.

We left early.

Apparently sitting and being hot is boring because by mid-way through Matchbox 20’s set we were kind of done with the whole thing.

It may have also been that our buzz was wearing off and the beers were $25 for two tall Budweisers and water was $5.

“You know it’s just water, right?” I said to the girl at the concessions. “And that $5 is way too much to charge?”

“Yes,” she replied.

When you can buy a case for $5 and that’s the retail markup you know you’re being gouged. Five dollars per bottle is $120 per case, or $115 worth of additional profit. What the hell? Price gouging always makes me angry but at concerts when it’s 100 degrees and it’s water-for-fuck’s-sake, I can’t hold my tongue.

“That’s ridiculous,” I told her.

“I agree,” she said. Then handed me my change and turned her attention to the woman behind me.

Anyway, we left early. We pretty much never leave early. I told Charlie I only cared about one song and as soon as Rob-looks-too-old-to-be-him-Thomas sang it, we could go. It was the first song in the encore.

So, we left.

Maybe it was that the tickets were Groupon and only cost me $17 each. Or maybe it’s that Charlie had to work on Monday so we needed to get up early. Maybe it was us trying to save money and therefore not drinking $25 beers or paying for an Uber.

Whatever the cause, we did this concert like grown-ups.

Counting Crows did not play as long as we would have liked but we did find that Matchbox 20 was better than we expected. We are now renewed Matchbox 20 fans. So, there’s that.

Love Builds Confidence

Going into the archives for some classic blogs to get this blog resurrected. It's no longer The 41st Year and Life on Clemson Road is, ...