Valentine’s Day has always had a special place in my heart among holidays. That’s because I learned some very important lessons about life one Valentine’s Day many years ago.
One was a lesson I’d never forget: girlfriends cost money.
You have to remember this happened in a time before political correctness, a time before the Equal Rights Amendment, a time before I had a job and money.
I was in the sixth grade and just coming out of that awkward stage where boys think it’s fun to show girls bugs and moving into that next stage where guys do other stupid things instead.
There was this girl, Rosemary, who used to wear her beautiful brown hair in ringlets that were popular in the days before orange hair. I had admired her from afar since we were in the fourth grade. Well, it wasn’t that far afar. We sat beside each other in class.
I actually had decided in the fourth grade to ask her out, but had waited a few years so as not to appear over-eager.
Our school that year was throwing this big Valentine’s Day dance in the gym. It was to be the social event of the season for all the sixth and seventh graders.
Somehow, I managed to talk to Rosemary without a bug in my hand and asked her to the dance. And with the faintest hint of blush on her cheeks, and a demure smile on her face, she agreed.
I was the happiest boy in St. John’s School that day. I literally floated home on air, carried by cherubs while Cupid tossed rose-petal hearts before me.
Sauntering into our house, I announced as casually as I could, that I would be going to the school dance on Saturday with Rosemary.
“You’re going to have to get her a corsage,” said my father, not looking up from his evening paper. “Girls like corsages.”
This was something I hadn’t planned on. Unwise as I was to the ways of the world, I didn’t realize the guy had to pay for the girl’s dance corsage. I just assumed corsages came with the girl. What a dumb system, I thought.
On the day of the dance, I pulled out my life savings of $5.78, which I had put away to buy a pocketknife. “Oh, well, this is for the love of your life,” I thought, stuffing the money into my pocket and heading out for the florist shop.
Now I have to say on a scale of 1 to 100 of the most useful things in the world, flowers hadn’t ever made my list. Entering the florist shop that day I had no idea of what kind of flower I should buy her. Luckily, the florist seemed to know something about flowers and recommended I buy a red-tinted chrysanthemum with my school’s letter on it.
“She will love it,” he advised me. It’s a good thing he was there to help, because, left to my own instincts, I probably would have bought her a flowering shrub.
The corsage cost $2, which was a lot cheaper than a flowering shrub, and I felt pretty good as I headed home with my tissue paper wrapped, red-tinted chrysanthemum in its heart-covered florist box.
Back at home, with all of the naive delight of a schoolboy, I showed my mother the corsage and she said: “Did you remember to get some candy for her mother. They like that, you know.”
It still amazes me that as wise as my parents were in the social graces of the day, it never occurred to them that I had no money to pay for these things.
Trudging down to the local corner store — with the remainder of my pocketknife fund — I bought not one but three boxes of candy — one for Rosemary, one for her mother and one for my mother. I wasn’t taking any chances this time, unless Rosemary’s father was also owed some sort of Valentine tribute. If so, he was out of luck.
My dad drove me to Rosemary’s home to pick her up. I have to say she was a dream in her organdy taffeta party dress, and with as much aplomb as I could muster, I distributed the gifts. I even pinned the corsage to the top shoulder of her dress without causing her any pain.
I’d like to say the evening was a huge romantic success. Actually, for most of the evening, the girls huddled on one side of the gym comparing chrysanthemums while the boys stood on the other side complaining about how much this dance had cost them. It was my guess that this one evening had thrown the pocketknife industry in our town into decline, if not outright collapse.
As the evening wound down to its final dance, I found myself at last alone with Rosemary, dancing to a slow song in a dimly lit corner of the gym. As the strains of the last dance came to an end, Rosemary looked up at me and said, “Thank you,” and gave me my first kiss.
And at that moment, I learned there were more important things in life than pocketknives.
— Myron Kukla
Myron Kukla, a Midwest freelance writer, is the author of several books of humor, including Guide To Surviving Life. He is also a regular contributor to the Erma Bombeck writing forum and has several humor pieces in Not Your Mother’s … books. Visit his webstore at squareup.com/store/myronkuklabooks.
My household is completely without coffee or toilet paper this morning. I was going to dash off to the store, but then I decided to write about it instead.
When my husband wakes up in a few minutes, I may re-prioritize, as he will undoubtedly dust off his “Staples of Life” speech. It’s all about the things which, in his estimation, are essential to living, and as such, no Decent American Home should be without them. We have several friends and family members who have had the pleasure of listening to him rant on this topic. In fact, if I weren’t the target of said rant, I would probably find it as amusingly entertaining as everyone else does.
In my defense, the “Staples Of Life” speech contains a “floating list” that is subject to change based on his current unmet need. In the early days of our marriage, it was fairly succinct. As time marched on, however, it morphed and grew. Suffice it to say, coffee and toilet paper occupy premium real estate.
Things my husband thinks are the “Staples of Life” include, but are not limited to, the following:
Coffee , toilet paper (and its personal hygiene cousins, soap, toothpaste and deodorant) , bread , milk , eggs , lunch meat , Diet Coke — and anything else I am out of.
I prefer to view this as more of a semantics issue. Sometimes, when I forget to swing by the grocery store, I embrace a looser definition of the word “need.” (As in, do we really NEED coffee or toilet paper?) There are several alternate sources of caffeine in our home. One can always brew oneself a nice soothing cup of tea or guzzle down an energizing can of Cola. As for the toilet paper, it’s a proven fact that women use it more often than men, so if I can make do with a box of Kleenex, then he can, too.
With that said, I can’t deny that there are flaws in my system of procuring goods from the marketplace. I have stubbornly refused to adopt the method that my spouse has endorsed through the years, which involves “taking inventory,” using a “Master Build-To Sheet,” and “Par Levels” to aid in re-stocking with organized efficiency. I acknowledge that, while this model works in his business, it’s just not me.
I’m better suited to the browsing method, which entails meandering through the grocery store, sans list, searching for cues and inspiration from the shelves.
Admittedly, I can’t always remember if we are already “stocked up” on an item, so I just buy it again. That is why we have five bottles of mayonnaise, three bottles of Karo syrup, eight cans of refried beans, six boxes of Cap’n Crunch (all opened), an embarrassing amount of Ramen noodles and no coffee or toilet paper.
This system is far from foolproof, which prompted this rather glib text from the hubby the other day:
By the way, one of those bottles is “Miracle Whip,” which everyone knows is technically not mayonnaise.
I will probably swing by the grocery store today.
But with Valentine’s Day swiftly approaching, remember that all we truly need is LOVE (sniff). …Pass the Kleenex.
— Leslie Blanchard
Leslie Blanchard is a wife of one and mother of five, who writes the blog, A Ginger Snapped: Facing The Music of Marriage And Motherhood. After she received a journalism degree, she became the “Wind Beneath My Husband’s Wings” and didn’t write anything for 27 years, except her family’s Christmas letter. All that changed with the invention of the iPad with a waterproof cover. Now, she lays in the bathtub all day, neglecting her other responsibilities, and writes about life outside the tub. Her essays are titled after songs because, as she and her hubby puzzle through a marriage or child-rearing problem, they sing the song that particular issue reminds them of (with a pertinent lyric change here or there).
When did we start naming winter storms, or more to the point, WHY are we naming winter storms? I can understand naming hurricanes and typhoons but naming a winter snow storm is a bit much.
Winter Storm Hercules was a case in point. I knew it was serious when Access Hollywood was pre-empted with a special report of the upcoming storm. Any time Kim Kardashian is pre-empted, you have to guess it’s pretty darn serious. I was surprised they didn’t have Snookie reporting from Belmar.
Naming a storm adds to the frenzy and the sudden extreme addiction to milk, juice, eggs and bread. I saw gals in ShopRite who hadn’t touched a piece of bread in five years with a ridiculous amount of bread in their carts. If I’m going down because of a snow storm, you can bet that it’s not milk and bread that I’m making sure I have available. The parking lot looked like the day before Christmas, New Year’s and Thanksgiving, all rolled into one. Who knew so many drank milk?
The leading news story at 5, 5:30 and 6 was Hercules. The national news at 6:30 also ran it as their lead story. Two hundred fifty killed in Syria and the lead story was a winter storm…in the northeast….in January. Really?
I could understand all the commotion if this was happening in, let’s say — Arizona. But cold weather, dark and damp days coupled with snow and ice on the East coast in winter, the last time I checked., was normal. It’s why we choose to live here. Jersey Strong, baby.
Adding to the hysteria are the weather experts from Stanford, the weather specialists from the Weather Channel with their charts, graphs and markers, and let’s not forget the reporters trying to analyze while the snow and wind are blowing. “Look,” they shout, “snow and wind!” They highlight pictures of people sliding, falling and crashing. Do we really need experts with charts to tell us it’s a snow storm and to stay inside? Do you think they are such weenies in Fargo, North Dakota, or Omaha, Nebraska, every time it snows and gets cold?
While growing up, I can’t remember my parents ever caring very much about the weather. It’s New Jersey. It’s snowing. Big deal. What’s for dinner? Making a snowstorm in January major news? Fugetaboutit.
Back to Hercules. The experts were predicting it was going to begin snowing at 8 in the morning so many people, myself included, changed appointments, cancelled meetings and became unduly nervous about the driving we had to do. I found myself scanning the sky like I was looking for Santa. I checked the forecast on my weather app every hour. I was so obsessed I even checked the hourly weather in Detroit and Boston, where my kids were. It’s snowing in Detroit! No s— Sherlock! It’s January. I was ridiculous. But they made me ridiculous.
But with their Hercules forecast, they were wrong in their prediction as it didn’t start snowing until 7 p.m. that night and it was gone by the following morning. By the time it actually started snowing I had already eaten all the bread and drank all the juice. Now what, I wondered?
Don’t you wish you could be paid to be wrong as many times as they are? It would be like your doctor telling you that you have throat cancer only to find out it’s strep.
So now we are on to Winter Storm Janus, and I’ve decided I’m watching Netflix. I don’t need hourly updates; I can look out the window. I will NOT go to Shop Rite. I can make do with whatever I have available. There is always plenty of red wine and pasta in my house.
I will be OK.
I will avoid buying in to the hysteria.
We all should.
And as far as staying off the roads, I’m driving where I have to go, when I have to go. I’ll make the decision to drive on my own. I don’t need charts, graphs and newscasters reporting in a snowstorm outside to tell me it’s a snowstorm outside.
— Tracy Buckner
Tracy Buckner contributes periodically to the Observer Tribune Newspaper of Chester, N.J., and blogs for the New Jersey Hills Newspaper, serving Madison, Chatham and Chester, N.J. She enjoys writing about the slow decline and vows to go down kicking and screaming. You can see read other pieces and sign up to follow her on her blog.
She laughed to keep from crying, and it became a way of life as she enriched millions of lives, including mine.
Though she’s been gone since April 22, 1996, Erma Bombeck lives on and will live on for generations because she not only laughed to keep from crying but she turned that laughter into words to uplift and feed the spirits of millions.
She laughed to keep from crying because her tears began early when her father came home from work one day, went into the hospital, and died the following day. She was only nine years of age.
Erma was left to a mother who grew up in an orphanage, the same as I, after the death of my father. She married when she was only 14 years of age. She saw her mother go bankrupt, losing all of their worldly possessions. Yet Erma was strengthened.
She was strengthened by using her talents, by honing her skills as a writer that began in a Dayton, Ohio, junior high school paper. She found humor to be a way of dealing with her life, of coping with a stepfather whom she long resented before she finally let go and realized how much he loved her as his own.
She first wrote obituaries, and once commented that she could make them die in alphabetical order. She wrote for a local newspaper before gaining national syndication.
I, too, wrote to keep from crying after I suffered a nervous breakdown in Mountain Home, Ark., after one too many moves as a minister’s wife in 1981. I wrote to survive.
And I wrote to Erma Bombeck because I instinctively knew that I needed a mentor, someone far more successful than myself who would encourage me in my wild pursuit as a writer. She always wrote back, herself, not through a secretary.
Writing to Erma became a turning point in my life! With each letter I was strengthened. I jumped for joy! I went into orbit with her words of encouragement.
Once she said, “If you have talent, it can’t be held down.” Another time she said, “Just think what you could write if you gave up defrosting and flushing.” And she was known to say “If you do housework right it will kill you!” She also said, “Nothing would please me more than seeing Sarah Hudson Pierce’s picture on a book jacket.”
Although I’d published numerous poems and columns for publications that paid in copies only, it wasn’t until late 1985 that I finally sold my first poem for $5. I sent her a photocopy of that check; she quickly wrote back and told me that I’d inspired her February 26 1986, syndicated column. I was ecstatic! I knew I’d make it with her encouragement.
Erma Bombeck made a difference to everyone she touched. She knew what she was doing. She lives on!
— Sarah Hudson Pierce
Sarah Hudson Pierce is a syndicated columnist, the author of five books and the host of her own television talk show for nine years. She is president of Ritz Publications, a company she founded in 2002.
That’s what a big part of parenting is comprised of. I went to college to get a degree and skills in a field of study, so I would know how to do all the jobs that were required of me. I had kids, and suddenly a list of new job titles popped up for things I didn’t even know I would have to do, like:
Sippy Cup Lid Fastener
I am the person in charge of making sure this lid is on right because if it isn’t, that bad boy is going to pop off when someone throws it across the room, or I sit on it in the middle of church and have to go up for communion with a soaking wet ass.
Off tables, chairs, out of beds. No place is too big; no crumb is too small.
This is a bi-hourly issue in my house where my kids run around like a category four hurricane and pull every pillow in our house off their base. Pillows are moving around in mid air like they are controlled by Carrie-like telekinesis.
There is nothing more important to my cats than not being put inside the toilet.
*This applies to all household pets.
Everyone always needs a blanket. Even if it’s 97 degrees outside, someone, somewhere in my home, will ask for a blanket. Instead of vibrant, energetic toddlers, my living room often looks like the sitting area of a nursing home. Except instead of people knitting, they are eating Goldfish crackers out of Sippy cups and putting puzzles together with the wrong pieces.
Toilet Paper Re-Roller
Because that four-mile trail of toilet tissue isn’t going to roll itself back around the cardboard tube that someone chewed on before casually tossing into the toilet water.
Whether it’s in a bucket, a trash can, a blanket, a towel or your bare hands.
It only takes one pocket full of tissue to travel that daunting journey through the wash-and-dry cycle to make sure you never skip checking a pocket again.
Sometimes fast, sometimes ridiculously slow, always more than 40 times because the toddler brain does not respond to anything that isn’t presented in the form of food, bright colors or fun sounds.
No one sympathizes more with delivery drivers than parents. Except we don’t get paid, and the request often comes in the second your butt cheek grazes a couch fiber. The tips are also worse: “Mommy, the goldfish taste better when the other side is facing up.”
Okay, maybe I don’t mind this one so much. Probably it’s because they’re my babies. But, I draw the line when someone says, “Can you scratch my butt?”
Searcher of Socks
If I had a dollar for every sock that lost a pair, I would be able to keep buying socks instead of wondering when the day will come when I finally find a gigantic pile of discarded singles.
A collective list of useless skills, which will be useless beyond the first years. A lifetime of memories and the chance to look back on people who have kids after you shake your head and say, “I remember those days. Hey, while you’re up, could you turn my goldfish crackers, so they’re facing the other way?”
— Christina Antus
Christina Antus lives in Denver with her husband, three kids and two cats who still haven’t caught the red dot. When she’s not neglecting laundry, or avoiding the grocery store, she’s writing and making mediocre meals for her family. You can find her overthinking things on her blog, or you can follow her on Facebook.
I should have known better.
Usually I put a hard stop to the up-sell, but the cosmetics salesperson caught me at a vulnerable moment.
I’d come in to get my makeup done for a party. The bright fluorescent light at the makeup station spotlighted every age spot and discoloration.
“Are you wearing at least SPF 30 every day?” asked the makeup artist. Nope, not year-round, I had to admit. After our session, she led me back to the sunscreen section. As I was browsing, desperate to prevent further sun damage, another salesperson pounced.
“How do you take off your make-up?” he asked. “I’m just a soap-and-water gal,” I said, putting up a little resistance.
“That’s fine,” he said, “but let me show you this amazing Japanese-inspired cleansing system.” Too much time and money later, I left with a special cleansing oil and a fancy clay-based sponge. That night, I dutifully used the new oil and sponge to remove my make-up and hung the sponge in the shower to dry.
The next evening, my husband emerged smiling from the bathroom. “Is that your sponge that our son is using?”
I walked in to find him reclining in the tub, gently cleaning his (ahem) with my new sponge. I rinsed it thoroughly and found a new hiding place.
My friends wanted to know — would I use it again? Of course. I’m a mom. Rinse and repeat.
— Courtney Bennett
Courtney Bennett is the mom of three kids, two typically developing girls and a boy with special needs. In addition to parenting and blogging, she works in education policy for a university. She has contributed pieces to Sunset magazine, Psychology Today, parenting magazines, public radio and the op-ed pages of The Philadelphia Inquirer. She spent a long time in school avoiding the real world and holds a Ph.D. in communications and an MSc in social psychology.
For the first time in my life I have something other than basic cable.
I like a few channels not provided by the local cable company on basic cable like AHC or Military Channel, NFL Network, DIY Network and Cooking Channel, to name a few. My telephone company in conjunction (cahoots) with DISH Network kept offering me a deal that sounded too good to be true. I’m slow to change things that don’t really need changing. I’ve been a customer for more than 20 years and the only thing that ever changed on my cable was my bill: it kept going up.
But this year, now that I’m back from a six-week holiday break and a two-week-long stomach ache, I’m shaking things up.
The deal offered was so good it took six months of weekly conversations with the same customer service rep before I was (somewhat) convinced that they weren’t going to pull a switcheroo and charge me a fee every time I turn on the television. They didn’t ask for a credit card number up front, they didn’t charge for installation and now I have something called a HOPPER and an additional remote for each television. They also brought three additional devices (joeys?) in the house that need to be plugged in, which has created an even bigger problem: where do I plug them in?
I guess I could run a line next door to my neighbor, Merlethem Shatz’s house. She wouldn’t find it until spring, anyhow, because she doesn’t go outside in the winter, except to get the mail.
I used to complain about the basic cable because there were so many channels that didn’t seem to belong. Included in my plan was a bevy of local artists singing off key at local church functions, local school sporting events that I didn’t follow and 15 channels of various religious groups all vying to save my soul if only I would be one of the next 10 callers to send in $10. I had two shopping channels, six news networks, five sports stations and the Weather Channel, which kept me informed on what Fat Guys Were Doing In The Woods.
All of this I had to pay for.
Shoot, I could have just walked around town and seen most of that on any given day. For free.
My old cable stopped on channel 99 and took about two minutes to flip through. Now, the channels number into the hundreds, and I’ve yet to make it completely around and back to channel two.
I’ve got three free months of every movie channel. Who knew there was more than one HBO channel? Why do you need more than one HBO channel? More channels that offer VOD for free and VOD you have to pay for (this sounds like a pesky personal problem) and several other stations I’m afraid to push the SELECT button on because an extra charge might be incurred.
I now have the ability to perform social media functions on my television, which opens up a whole other can of worms. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for technology, but I’m just a bit late to the party. I have an IPOD — the original one with the clicking wheel and it works perfectly fine. I’ve seen no reason to upgrade — so they say — to the Nano, Mini or implantable thingy in your left nostril that I’m sure is just on the horizon.
I don’t want to become so wrapped up in “the newness of everything” that I forget how to leave my chair to go to the bathroom. And with my addictive personality it wouldn’t take very long before my butt and recliner became more than just friends and I ordered a supersize box of Depends to keep me dry. (Who needs Costco when you can order directly from Amazon on your television?)
I know I wanted to shake things up, but the new satellite system couldn’t have come at a worse time. I have two novels that are nearing completion, and they deserve my undivided attention. I suppose I could put myself in timeout, but I learned something new today when the technician came to finish the installation: My new laptop can communicate with the new satellite system. I’ll be able to work directly through the television.
There’s only one problem: I had to unplug the television so I could plug in the laptop.
Now where did I put that extension cord…
— Gianetta Palmer
Gianetta Palmer lives in the North Georgia Mountains and is the author of Reflections On A Middle-Aged Fat Woman and Scrunchie-Fried. Visit her at www.middleagedfatwoman.com or www.GianettaPalmer.com.
What if you saw a child trying hard to accomplish something positive — a young boy or girl doing something they enjoyed, maybe trying something new, putting everything they had into it with the playful, non-perfectionist glee many of us lose as adults? And hovering behind that child was another person saying, “That sucks! You’re no good at that! What the hell are you doing? That’s stupid!”
The person behind the child might be another child, a discouraging parent, a toxic teacher or some random jerk — anyone who found sick satisfaction in infusing insecurity in the heart of a child who was having fun trying to accomplish something.
What would you do?
Would you confront the other person and tell them to shut up? Would you remain silent, rolling your eyes in disgust? Or … would you sidle up beside the bully and reinforce what they were saying, telling the now-deflated child, “Yeah, you loser! You don’t know what you’re doing! You’re an idiot!”
Unless you’re a total a**hole, you wouldn’t choose the last of those options.
And yet, if you’re a writer or a creative person of any sort, there’s a good chance you’ve said these things before — to yourself.
A couple of weeks ago, as I was outlining my new online workshop on how to deal with writer’s block, it occurred to me that many of us have something worse in our heads than the “inner censor” or “inner critic” we learn about in writing classes. We have an inner bully — a voice that tells us terrible things about our writing — a voice that tells us things we would never say to anybody else.
“My writing is terrible. It’s stupid. It sucks. I’m a crappy writer. I’m always going to be a crappy writer. I might as well just quit writing and go do something useful with my life, such as repeatedly telling myself I’m a crappy writer.”
Recognizing our writing weaknesses in a constructive manner, so we can work on improving them, is a good thing. That’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about the silent tantrums we throw in difficult writing moments, shrieking to ourselves about how pathetic we are. Most of us who write have done this before. Some of us do it regularly.
The things we tell ourselves in these moments can sound startlingly similar to the hypothetical bully at the beginning of this article: “I’m no good at this. What the hell do I think I’m going to accomplish? This is stupid. I can’t write.”
Ultimately, this self-bullying drags down our spirit and squashes our self-esteem — which is the exact opposite of what we need when we’re trying to get past a moment of writer’s block.
So what do we do about it?
“Stop bullying yourself” is the logical answer. For some people, however, it’s not that simple. We’ve been self-bullying for so long, it has become a reflex. We fall into it subconsciously whenever writing gets hard, whenever we reach a point in a story, an article, a poem, a book, that we’re not happy with.
If you are one of those writers for whom self-bullying is a reflex, for whom, “Just stop bullying yourself,” is impractical advice — because you do it without even realizing you’re doing it — then how do you get over it?
Try These Intermediate Steps
Recognize you’re doing it. And when I say “recognize,” I really mean just recognize it. Don’t tell yourself it’s bad. Don’t beat yourself up for beating yourself up. “There I go, bullying myself again! Man, I’m an idiot!” No. That’s just switching bullying tactics. Instead, for starters, just acknowledge your self-bullying messages, and recognize they’re not useful.
Question what you’re telling yourself and how you’re saying it. “This writing sucks.” Is that true? Hey, it might be — because on some days, everybody’s writing sucks. Some days, my writing sucks dismally. The way I solve that, however, isn’t by beating myself up. The way I solve it is by interrupting my self-bullying and switching from, “This sucks,” to the alternative thought: Keep working on it.
At other times our writing doesn’t suck, in spite of what our inner bully is saying. We’re just tired, or headachey, or in a bad mood. Bullies like vulnerable people, so when we’re not feeling well, they attack. So be aware that what your inner bully tells you might not be true. Don’t believe everything he or she says.
Don’t personalize or catastrophize. Remember: our inner critic can be useful. It helps us recognize what we need to improve upon. Our inner bully will try to make us feel helpless.
“This isn’t my best writing.” That’s okay to say. “This needs work.” That’s okay, too. Those are things we can fix. But “I can’t write” isn’t true, nor is “I’m a terrible writer.”
(How do I know that last sentence isn’t true? Because terrible writers don’t care about the quality of their writing. If you can recognize weak spots in your writing, then trust me, you’re not a terrible writer.)
Watch for the subtleties in what you tell yourself. “This writing sucks” is one thing. “My writing sucks” is more encompassing. “My writing is shitty today” is writing you can work on. “I’m a shitty writer” carries a catastrophizing permanence that causes people to give up.
Say your self-bullying thoughts out loud so they’re not lurking subtly. Then ask yourself: Is this something I would ever say to somebody else? Usually, our self-bullying thoughts are things we’d never say to another person because they are mean-spirited — and we should stop saying them to ourselves for the same reason. Saying them out loud helps us hear how terrible they are. It makes them easier to confront.
Making Your Inner Bully Go Away
Permanently shutting down your inner writing bully might not be realistic. These thoughts can creep up on us at inopportune times, such as when we’re under a tight deadline. We can, however, train ourselves to intercept and respond calmly to our self-bullying thoughts, and make them stop — at least temporarily.
When I was growing up, I was taught that if I ignored bullies, they would go away. In reality, that worked sometimes but not always. When it comes to the bully in your head, however, it will work all the time once you train yourself to really ignore him or her.
Ironically, however, step one is acknowledging your inner bully’s presence. Once you do that, you begin to understand that, unlike real-world bullies, when it comes to your inner writing bully, you are in total control — because your inner bully is you talking. Over time, you can learn to confront and disarm your negative self-talk.
So be nice to yourself. And keep writing.
— Dave Fox
Dave Fox, a former EBWW faculty member, is author of Getting Lost: Mishaps of an Accidental Nomad and Globejotting: How to Write Extraordinary Travel Journals (and still have time to enjoy your trip!), both Amazon bestsellers. This article is based on a lesson in his online workshop, “Write-Brained: Overcome Writer’s Block and Write with Confidence.” The workshop is the first in a series of courses on the mental and emotional challenges that hinder writers, and how to overcome those challenges.