Author: Allie P.

Working on the follow up project

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it

When my eldest son was still in swaddling blankets I used to rock with him close. I thought a second child could never be as special to me as my first. As my son grew into a little boy, this belief was only strengthened. He was quiet, polite, eager to please, and as helpful as anyone could expect a toddler to be. At the time, I had no interest in adding another child to our family. I believed I had hit the child temperament jackpot. Since cloning wasn’t really an option, I worried about having another. I just couldn’t help worrying that I would subconsciously compare my second to my first and that just wouldn’t be fair to him or her.

But two-year olds are demanding, and mine was no exception. My son was incredibly shy around anyone who wasn’t a close associate, almost to the point of paralysis. Play dates weren’t worth the hassle of coordinating. All I wanted to do after a long day at work was sit down on the couch for a few minutes, but he wouldn’t have it. After playing the same game for the hundredth time, I caught myself thinking how nice it would be if he had a friend to play with. Someone he’d feel comfortable around. Someone who would match him in energy. We didn’t decide to have another kid just to provide our eldest with a diversion. There were a number of other factors that influenced our decision over the next several months, but this thought was a starting point.

My second son came into this world roaring. While they resemble each other physically (at least in coloring), my boys have vastly different personalities. I should never have worried. Comparisons between the two of them are like comparing a dog to a cat. For example, my youngest rarely cares about your approval. No, in his opinion, it is more important to him that he approve you. He’ll follow the rules if they suit him, ignore them entirely if they don’t. He has a stubborn streak that could almost be seen from space. But he was born knowing how to charm a room. He’s quick to smile, fills the house with comfortable chatter, and loves to cuddle.  My boys couldn’t be more different, and yet I love them both the same.

To make it as an indie writer, I’ve been told that you must have more than a couple of books to your name, ideally at least five. Therefore I needed to expand my family of work too. Unfortunately writing is a long, drawn out process. Especially when you are trying to squeeze it in between a full-time job and parenting. Publishing the work takes even more time. My first novel had barely started seeing its first sales when I decided I needed to start writing a second.

I didn’t know how well An Uncertain Faith would be received at the time it launched. Although I’ve since read a number of opinions advocating writing sequels as means of developing your writing platform, I chose to work on something different. I didn’t want to spend precious time on a sequel until I knew it had an audience. In the end, not only is the resulting story different from my first, it isn’t even in the same genre. I didn’t do this out of some hidden dislike of my first experience. It just was the story that came into being.

I was several chapters in before I read opinions suggesting that genre hopping might also be a mistake. By then I was too committed to my project to turn back. I’ve sent my second manuscript off to be professionally edited. With any luck title reveal, cover reveal, advance reviews, and book launch excitement may soon follow. ‘Soon’ will depend on publishing schedules and deals I am and am not willing to make. I hope that when it does make its way to bookshelves or onto e-readers you will find a passing resemblance between the two stories at least in style and will enjoy them as much as I have.

I may soon find out whether or not if I can make it in more than one genre. Until then, it is time to get started work on project number three.


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A night out with my prince

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it, Personal Favorites

It has been more than fifteen years since I went on a date with anyone other than my husband, but Saturday afternoon I found myself looking forward to doing just that.

I made sure to pick out a dress that was sure to please. A combination of slacks and nice blouse just wasn’t going to do. As I came down the stairs, my date was already there and I took satisfaction in the smile that broke across his face.

“Mom! You are a pretty princess!” he exclaimed.

In his next breath, my son amended his comment. “Well, you aren’t green dress pretty (his favorite of my outfits) but you are still pretty.” My son may be quick to praise, but is also great at finding ways to keep me humble.

I was taking my son to see a local live theatre production of Disney’s The Little Mermaid. It was an evening show time, but even so at least a third of the audience was made up of children close to his age and nearly all of them were female. I wasn’t surprised that some changes were made for the stage adaptation, but didn’t expect the that the big climatic sequence at the end would be one of those edits. The prince no longer drove a jagged piece of shipwreck into the sea witch saving the mermaid from certain death. No in this version, the mermaid saves herself as well as the king. The prince is entirely absent from the climax. Only after the witch is defeated and Ariel and her father have heart to heart does the prince reappear. Additionally, in this version the prince spends the majority of the play contemplating abdicating his crown for a life as a sailor, and only accepts his responsibility when Ariel emerges victoriously from the waves with her very muscled father behind her.

I regularly attend networking functions with other working moms and other executive women. Often there are discussion prompts such as ‘what is the one thing you hope to pass on to your daughter’ or ‘what are you doing to empower the next generation of women in the workplace?’ While I appreciate the thought process behind these prompts, they always tend to bother me. Did I in someway betray my gender by only having sons? Is there no place for young boys in a ‘Girl Power!’ world? I refuse to accept this.

I wish more boys had been at the performance. It was a special night out with my son that at least I will remember forever. He held my hand both to and from the theatre. He curled up in my lap during the love songs, and proudly proclaimed to our seat mates how happy he was to be there with me. Other mother/sons missed out on a truly magical bonding experience. Why? Because it was a musical play about a princess.

My sons love their legos, transformers, toy backhoes and front loaders. They love to play in the sand/dirt, fight pretend bad guys, and build things with tools. They are about as stereotypically boys as they come. However my sons also like cooking, painting, and reading. They are just as likely to play with the kitchenette set at day care as they are the train table.

I may not have daughters today, but I may, in the far, far, far, future have a daughter-in-law. For now, I am raising my sons to be just as confident running a household as they are a board room, so that if they do choose to stay home for the betterment of their family they can do so without feeling like their masculinity has in someway been threatened. I am raising them to be respectful of women beyond using proper manners. I am raising them to understand that women can do anything, but at the same time I am making sure that they know they can too. If I am successful, my sons will hire, promote, or feature a woman because she is the most qualified or most deserving, not because she is a woman and certain standards have to be met. That is how I am empowering the next generation. That is the gift I intend to pass on to my future daughter – may she be equal to my son.

 

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Megan Cyrulewski on Dancing in Puddles

by Allie P., posted in Book Stuff and Publishing News, Indie book promotion
A few weeks ago I was nominated for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award and I looked to see who other the nominees were. I was not surprised to see that one of these was Megan Cyrulewski. Since her blog launched, Megan has routinely supported authors by featuring numerous author interviews on her site. I was fortune enough to be included in that list. This Saturday, August 2nd, Megan will be releasing her own first book, a memoir, entitled Who Am I?: How My Daughter Taught Me to Let Go and Live Again. In it she details her journey into post-partum depression, divorce, domestic violence, law school, and her struggle to survive with her sanity intact. Her story helps to provide hope during times of challenge that things will get better.
I am thrilled to be able to support this book launch by featuring her writing on my blog. I hope that the following inspires you as much as it did me.
Sometimes you just need to dance in the puddles
by Megan Cyrulewski
I’ve been stressed lately, I’m not going to lie.  I feel like I have a million things on my plate and my plate is spilling over.  I have anxiety disorder and sometimes my anxiety goes up a notch when I’m overwhelmed.  This is how my life has always been.  Nothing has ever happened a little at a time.  I’m riding even for a long time and then everything starts again all at once.I’ve been feeling sort of like a robot lately.  I have deadlines and I know what needs to be done so it gets done.  Each day I have a list in my planner (my old-school paper planner) and by the end of the day, everything is checked off.  I should feel a sense of accomplishment, but all I see when I look at my planner is what I have to do the next day.Yesterday when I came home from working on something, Madelyne (my daughter) was upset.  I asked my mom what was wrong and my mom said that Madelyne was upset because she had a potty accident.  She peed in her pants.  Madelyne, unfortunately or fortunately, is already a Type A personality like her mommy.  She doesn’t like to make mistakes.  Everything is supposed to be right and in order.  That is a blessing and a curse for both of us.  Sometimes I need my life to be orderly and neat, which means I’m right on schedule.  But as I looked at the tears on Madelyne’s face after her accident, I realized in that moment that bumps in the road are okay.I told Madelyne to get on her rain boots because we were going for a walk around the block.  Madelyne loves to go outside so she immediately jumped up.  The tears stopped falling and a smile replaced her frown.  She was confused as to why she was wearing rain boots instead of her tennis shoes, but I told her it was a surprise.  She took my hand, we waved good-bye to Grandma and we started on our walk.

It had rained the night before and I knew there were going to be puddles on our walk.  When we got to the first puddle, Madelyne started to walk around it because that’s what I usually tell her to do.  This walk, however, was different.  I jumped smack dab right in the middle of the puddle.  Water splashed everywhere – our boots, pants and even on Madelyne’s jacket.

“Mommy,” Madelyne said, “We have to go home now and change our pants because they are wet.”
“You know what, Pooks?”  (My pet name for Madelyne is Pookie sometimes shortened to Pooks) “We’re going to dance in the puddles today.”  So I continued to dance.
Madelyne stuck one booted foot in the puddle.  She looked at me, her eyes questioning.  I smiled.  She took a few steps back and then leaped into the puddle.

“We’re dancing in the puddle!”  Madelyne exclaimed.
“We’re dancing in the puddle!”  I exclaimed.
“And it’s okay if our pants get wet!”  Madelyne yelled.
“And it’s okay if our boots get wet!”  I yelled.
“Because we can always change them when we get home!”  Madelyne screamed.
“Because today we are dancing in the puddles!”  I screamed as we twirled around.

When we were a couple of houses away from home, Madelyne told me how much fun she had on our walk:
“I love taking walks with you, Mommy.”
“I love taking walks with you too, Pooks.

Madelyne slipped her puddle-soaked hand in mine.  “It’s okay that our pants are wet.”
I smiled and gripped her hand.  “It’s okay.”

We walked up the driveway.  My mom watched us from the window.  She laughed when she saw us in our wet pants.  After I put a new dry pair of pants on Madelyne, she gave me a hug and whispered in my ear, “I love you because you are my mommy.”

As the tears streamed down my face, I whispered, “I love you because you are my Pookie.”

Sometimes, you just need to dance in the puddles.

Parting with an old friend

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it

I remember the day I picked out my stroller. I was so overwhelmed with the number of options out there and had a difficult time staying focused on my need versus want list with all those little kicks in my stomach. I finally selected one of those stroller systems which includes a car carrier that clicks and locks into place. It was easy to push, and could fold down with a single twist of a hand.

This last feature proved to be particularly beneficial to me as my husband went into business for himself slightly before the birth of our first child. My son was planned. The factory closure where my husband worked prior was not. At least it wasn’t planned by us. I would strongly caution others to think long and hard about their decision to start a business at the same time as bringing adding an infant to the family if there are other options on the table, or if you lack a strong local network of friends and family willing to pitch in.

We didn’t know better. He was already chewing on the entrepreneurship option, the factory situation merely sped up the time-table. As a result, I found myself spending several evenings alone with only the dog and the baby for company while the hubby acted as sales, marketing, service, and support for his fledgling business.

As neither of my two companions were exactly strong conversationalists, I decided to take us to the streets. I walked miles upon miles with that stroller, holding it with one hand and the dog’s leash in the other. Neighbors laughed. I looked like I was conducting some southern suburban dog sled race. I embraced the image. I intentionally hammed it up when there were witnesses grateful for the attention of other adults.

Then one day we were walking down our usual route when a cat bolted out from a nearby bush. My dog, a stocky 60 pounds of pure muscle, darted after it, snapping the leash from my hand. Off balanced, I fell, bringing the stroller down with me. My son started screaming as the stroller landed on its side. The sound caused my dog to stop chasing the cat and return to our side full of concern.

Passerbys also came running to help. I stopped trying to compete for the mother of the year award a long time ago, but I still felt like the lowest scum of the earth as I attempted to calm my son. My neighbor pointed to the buckles as I fumbled to release them. “It’s okay. He’s okay. The stroller did what it is supposed to.” He must have repeated the phrase three times before I really heard what he was saying. My son had been strapped into his stroller with its five point buckling system and had suffered no injury. He had only been scared due to the sudden change of altitude.

Have stroller will travel
My eldest helping me to take the baby for a stroll

My husband’s work schedule eventually settled into something more manageable. He was able to join me for walks more and more. The stroller was swapped out for a tricycle. Then our other son was born and the stroller once again became a necessity, but time advances like an avalanche.

Now my sister-in-law is expecting her first child, and is experiencing that same nervous overwhelming feeling I remember so well. My husband and I are content with our two children. We offered to give her the stroller months ago. But the actual act of giving was more difficult than I anticipated. I had so many great memories associated with it. Not just of my boys’ babyhood, but great times with my dog, who has since departed as well. Sending it away felt like I was truly closing the door on that time of my life.

But sentiment was the only reason to keep it around. It might trigger memories, but in the meantime it was going to collect dust and take up space in the garage. At the same time, my sister-in-law’s need wouldn’t become any less real. I had to remind myself, it was going to be okay. It had done what it was designed to do. I had to let go of the physical object. The memories would always be mine, but it was time to send the stroller on to its new home. May it give my sister in law equally great memories.

I now have room for new adventures with wagons, big kid bikes, scooters, skateboards, or whatever else may find its way into my garage over the next several years. I may have closed one door, but that thought is enough to make me look forward to opening the next with a smile.

 

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Once stung, twice equipped with repellent

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it
Meet Mr. Yellow Jacket (129 of 365) (EXPLORED!)
Meet Mr. Yellow Jacket (129 of 365) (EXPLORED!) (Photo credit: rimblas)

When I was a teenager, I was attacked by a swarm of ground hornets while hiking with a group of friends. I never even saw their nest. Someone ahead of me must have inadvertently stepped where he or she shouldn’t have and by the time they had flown to the surface in a rage I was the closest target.

A very short time later, areas of my body had swollen up like baseballs. I found my way on an express route to the emergency room.

I have a healthy respect for stinging insects of all kinds. I don’t squish them just for the crime of being bugs. I understand that the outdoors is their world. I try to remain calm and motionless when they are near, or avoid them altogether if I see them in the distance. I don’t bother them if they don’t bother me.

But when they try to build a nest in my porch, or more recently, move in underneath my children’s sandbox, I have to do something about it. I am no longer passive or kind. I don’t want to find out the hard way that my allergy has been passed on to my children. Or worse, that their reaction might be more than moderate.

At that point I have to make it clear to those insects that their continued presence will not be tolerated. Those that survive the lesson should move on to more welcoming ground.

“Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. I am kind to everyone, but when someone unkind to me, weak is not what you are going to remember about me.” – Al Capone.

I self published my first novel, and have been debating whether or not this was a path I would like to take again for my second. I’ve been reading about how little new authors can expect from large publishers and how aspiring authors are now asked to provide some potential publishers with a business plan and marketing plan in addition to the manuscript. I recently read an article entitled Publishing 3.0 detailing the rise of the authorpreneur. While the term authorpreneur may sound like one of those celebrity mash-up names, I find that it is completely appropriate in this instance. To be a successful self published or indie author, you do have to have an understanding as to what it takes to be an entrepreneur.

Like writing professionally, entrepreneurship is hard work. It too requires sacrifice and long hours, but with different results. Purchase orders are rarely aesthetically pleasing. But for an entrepreneur that first order is a work of art, one as beautiful to behold as a published novel with its glossy cover. It gets framed and permanently mounted on the wall for all the world to see.

Entrepreneurship can be at times a wonderful thing. There is something deeply satisfying about watching the business that you helped start grow and thrive. Whether you are your only employee or have a larger staff, it is both rewarding and terrifying to know that their ability to care for their families is because of what you’ve put in place.

But unfortunately, an entrepreneur is still not entirely in control of his/her own destiny. There are always going to be people out there who look upon your success with envy. They either want what you have, or are afraid that you have the ability to take something away from them. They will attack in ways you never saw coming, especially if they believe you aren’t paying attention.

During this time you have to keep in mind that these attacks are actually compliments. They are a testament to your ability and your achievements. They are recognition that what you have done has been noticed. You have to be the bigger person. Stay true to your values and out of their domain. Walk away if you can. Ignore them if you can’t.

That is until you have been stung one too many times and they mistake your kindness as weakness, your willingness to turn the other cheek as acceptance, and they threaten your baby’s life.

“There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man’s Fear

At that point, let them keep their compliments. It is time to hire the exterminator and bring out the bug spray.

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