Graduation Day
My daughter’s very artsy grad cap.
On a perfectly sunny day a week ago, my younger daughter graduated on the quad of her college, the same college I graduated from many–ahem–years ago.
If anyone has lived her time to the fullest at our alma mater, it was definitely her. She excelled academically as well as partook in service opportunities to better the world and made lifelong friends. She did research and worked with autistic kids and her GPA despite all of this activity was through the roof.
Her mother, on the other hand, was a bit more lopsided and definitely less well rounded. I spent a large part of my time holed up in a building that has since been razed, studying my brains out with occasional breaks to be social. All that work accomplished my goal of getting into grad school. But looking back, I could have had a bit more balance, a little less terror that I wasn’t going to make it. But what can I say, some of us are just more tightly wound than others and fortunately, my daughter seemed to find that elusive balance with amazing ease.
That’s okay. In all my nerdiness, I loved this place. I grew up there, got my heart a little bruised a little, showed myself how I could work hard and survive. It was a great place to spend a college career. Having this opportunity to be able to walk the campus again and reminisce about my times there and share the ceremonies and traditions with my daughter has been…priceless 🙂
I was surprised when my daughter called me one day during her first year there and asked if we could “buy a brick.” I was very touched that she would even want to do this–i.e., purchase a brick on a new patio area the university created near a beautiful fountain. (The idea is to buy one and get your name carved on it.) So on her grad day, we visited “our brick”, the one that has my name and grad year and her name and grad year. I have often stepped over that brick these past few years and thought, that damn brick will likely be here long after I’m gone. And my daughter will look at it and remember our bond of being alumnae at the same special place.
Baby Girl, photobombed by her brother.
It’s thrilling to me to share a place that I have such great memories of with my daughter, who feels the exact same way about it that I do.
From the first day she set foot on campus, my daughter’s dream was to graduate on the quad, always an iffy prospect with Northeast Ohio spring weather. My own graduation on a very rainy day was indoors, so I missed out. But the day last week was spectacular, and wouldn’t you know, I got a second chance through her, sitting on the quad on a brilliantly sunny day.
Life’s funny sometimes. So proud of you, Baby Girl. Go get ’em. I know you will.
The Good, the Bad, and the End
Hi folks! I’m on an editing deadline and we have a big graduation this weekend! Here’s a post from a couple years ago that feels very pertinent right about now…Have a great week!
reprinted/edited from October 11, 2013 
Yeah, yeah, I know, writing a book is a marathon. Don’t remind me, because I’m feeling the burn, baby! Here are Seven Signs you may be utterly toxic from struggling to the end of that elusive finish line:
–Coffee, ordinarily delicious and an aid to your muse, tastes bitter and disgusting and you never want another cup again.
–Your husband arrives home to find you in tears. Mumbling how you are in the last 50 pages and your book makes no sense and you think you have to delete the whole thing and start over.
–To take a break, you read a great, fabulous author, but instead of inspiring you, you start to cry. “I can never write like that! Why bother?”
–Your backside hurts from BICHOK (Butt in Chair, Hands on Keyboard). And your hamstrings, and your calves, and all the tendons in your hands. And the last joint of your index finger! There’s got to be a name for that…”writer’s finger,” maybe?
–You know that this, your “final” draft, is almost done. You pray for it to be done. All you want is relief. Your characters are suffering, heading right into that blackest of moments, and you are contemplating heading out the window. You are laughing, weeping, mumbling to yourself, and in total despair. And just to tip yourself over the edge, you know this will not be THE final draft. Oh, you will see this puppy again. And again, and again, as you carefully reread every word, requestion every word choice.
–You appear in public in sweats. Your deepest darkest secret is sometimes you don’t even shower and dress until just before your kids come home from school.
–You keep saying, “I’ll clean the [insert something appropriate here–e.g., refrigerator/mail pile/car] when I’m done,” a task you despise. But right now it’s looking pretty good as a diversion. Scary!
I don’t know how this marathon will end. All I want is to muscle through and be done. I pound my head against the keyboard and drink my gross coffee (better than eating through the fridge). Every day I sit here and slog it out, and every day I fix the slog from the day before. And most days I do this with a kind of joy I’ve never experienced before.
Except any suffering writer will tell you that getting to the end is a pyrrhic victory in a way. The exhaustion, the self doubt, it can take over if you let it. But you know that saying? It’s never as good or as bad as you think it is? Yeah. That’s usually the case. A little distance, a little rest, and laying off the coffee for a while and sanity usually returns. And you can’t wait to start another book! 
It’s All About the Rituals
**I sent out a newsletter this week. Next newsletter will come out June 20, the release day for A Man of Honor. Sign up to receive the newsletter and you’ll have a chance to win one of two $10 Amazon gift cards!
**I’ve got two books coming out this summer and I’m putting together a review team. If you’re interested in receiving Advanced Reader Copies of my books in exchange for a fair and honest review on release day, please contact me privately for more information at mirandaliasson@gmail.com.
Running a marathon and writing a book are, I’ve often thought, very similar. Not that I know much about what it’s like to run a marathon or even half of one (I was the kid who peeled oranges for the track team, what can I say). But both, I’d say, require endurance and a certain type of mental toughness. And they’re both all about the rituals.
I looked up some running rituals to compare them to my writing rituals…
Spirituality–yes, definitely.
Imagery–For writers, this may involve visualizing The End. Or Ryan Gosling, whatever works better.
Cleanliness rituals–These may fall a bit short for writers on deadline. And may possibly include wearing yoga pants every day and possibly not showering until you type The End.
Caffeine— Essential, if tolerated.
Thoroughness–Always important.
Get a tattoo–(What?) Can the equivalent to this be leaving sticky notes with motivational sayings on them everywhere? Like “Kick Edits’ Butt!” (And if you are a writer, the sticky notes will be grammatically correct, guaranteed!) The sticky note method is definitely less permanent.
Hydrate–Most definitely, as my fellow writer friends say, at wine o’clock.
Good-luck-charm clutching–Rabbit’s feet, four-leaf-clovers, pictures of the beach, your kids, or something slightly more threatening like your kids’ college tuition bills. Some of these aren’t charms, but more good luck is likely to ensue if the bills get paid, right?
Mental skills training–Repeating to yourself I can do this! Oh God, I can’t do this! Keep doing this!
When all else fails–Pull on your (comfy) big girl pants, your most beat-up flannel shirt, and sip from your favorite cup until the job is done.
Have a great week!
Happy Mother’s Day!
[Just a quick note: check out my Author Facebook page for a couple of giveaways I’m doing now by clicking here.]
My son (minus the heavy beard that he came home with, you might recall, over spring break, now with a much lighter, nicely trimmed one) is home from college now. He arrived with five “mystery bags” that he plopped down casually outside the laundry room.
I didn’t say anything, but neither did he. Now, he is the baby, the third out of three, and he has two older sisters. So the child knows how to deal with women, especially a house full of them who make it their moral duty not to allow him to, God forbid, turn into a man who can’t pull his own weight. But, also because he is the baby, he is absolutely charming, and he can sweet talk his mother out of nearly anything. Almost. So, to be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how this particular issue was going to turn out.
His sisters are still at college, plus I stubbed my toe on one of the bags, so I knew I had to, ahem, raise the topic of exactly which of us was going to tackle this…er, situation. I posted the pic of the laundry bags on my Facebook page this week, and the reaction from people who saw it was loud and clear: WAKE HIM UP, HAUL HIS SKINNY ARSE OUT OF BED, AND GET HIM TO DO HIS OWN LAUNDRY! And don’t let the bottle of detergent hit him in the head on the way into the laundry room.
He thinks I see this…
This unanimous reaction was a relief! Because I’ve (well, actually my husband and I, lest anyone forget I’m half the team here) tried really hard to raise my son as I did my daughters–to fend for himself, to be independent, to expect anyone, male or female, EVER to pick up after him. And not every parent does this, apparently, because after we hauled all his stuff out of his dorm room this week, he told me his RA said that some moms were cleaning their son’s dorm rooms for them before the mandatory final inspection.
My son then emitted a tiny snort (on seeing my *eyeroll*, methinks). “I didn’t think you’d go for that,” he said. “That’s why I already Cloroxed my shelves and defrosted my mini-fridge.”
Sometimes that boy just warms the cockles of my heart. This is the same child, mind you, that cleaned his entire room before he left for college last fall EXCEPT for one (damp) towel which he purposely left as a gift to me in the middle of his bedroom floor (for sentimental reasons, because every blessed day of his teenage life I nagged him to hang it up in the bathroom, for gosh sakes!) (But probably with slightly saucier language that I won’t repeat here.)
But back to those giant bags of laundry…turns out I had quite a surprise. When I finally confronted him, he said, “Why, Mother, I washed it all before I came home. I just didn’t have anywhere to put it so I bought a box of garbage bags.”
I was completely floored. Thrilled, really. (But I did remind him that did NOT count as a Mother’s Day present.)
And lest you think I’m really too good of a mother, guess what happened this morning? Well…let’s just say the wet towel’s back on his bedroom floor.
That’s okay. I’ll pick my battles. Because the war zone is pretty peaceful right now. And sometimes, for just a little while in this marathon, you have to bask a little when you do things right.
…but I really see this.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms, aunts, caretakers, sisters, pet owners, and any woman who takes care of anyone or anything! You’re all awesome!
Author Fun!
The Medina County Public Library hosted an author event today. The awesome Donna MacMeans (historical romance author and RWA board member) gave a plotting lecture and among the 38 writers from all different genres, I was happy to join up with some of my amazing NEORWA (Northeast Ohio Romance Writers of America) sisters. A great day!
NEORWA sisters: Me, Wendy Larken, AE Jones, IreAnne Chambers, Chloe Flowers
Historical Romance author Becky Lowers poses by the many books of her Cotillion Ball series.
Me! The backdrop is the beautiful Medina Library.
Historical Romance Author Donna MacMeans
Historical Romance Author Marin McGinnis