Tip of the Day: Get all the stories of your parents' teen years while they are still around to tell you -- and still remember. There are some gems in there!
When I was a teen, I remember seeing my mom do certain things, or being with her during certain events, thinking, "WHY is she doing that?"
Wait, strike that. What I was thinking was, "Oh my god, she's SO EMBARASSING!"
And now? Even without having kids of my own to embarass, I find myself doing the following -- and I completely blame my mother. :)
1. Carrying one, if not two, big bags around with me to work, the gym, a 30-minute car trip instead of just a small purse.... Because what if I need a snack? Water? Adil? Toothbrush? Sweater? Book?
2. Carrying a travel mug of hot tea around with me.... Because what if I need caffeine? Something hot? Something soothing?
3. Not being able to sit down and just do one thing.... Because if I'm not writing AND/OR watching TV AND/OR reading AND/OR working out AND/OR cleaning AND/OR eating -- I might not have time to get everything done during the day and doing just ONE of those things is way too little taxation on my brain!
4. Being "allergic" to certain foods.... Because apparently as a kid I could eat McDonald's and candy and fried foods with no problems, but as an adult I have inherited my mother's inability to eat certain things without feeling ill.
What traits did you swear you would NEVER HAVE that your mother/father did...that now you proudly embrace?
Deena, Miss Subbing for Pubbing
Showing posts with label teen years. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teen years. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Friday, April 6, 2012
Megg as a Teen: Sacred Writing Spot
Tip of the Day: Nothing about writing is typical. Do what works for you!
I grew up on a farm. Two and a half miles from town doesn't seem far - but it was. My brother and sister are six and eight years older than me, so I was pretty much on my own as a kid. Well, not totally, my mom was at home with me (my dad worked a lot), but I spent a lot of time by myself in my room.
<--- That's my daughter and I standing at the top of my dad's new grain bin.
Writing was always a big part of my life, but as the angsty teen years crept up on me (okay, so maybe they slammed into me like a freight train) my writing exploded. Suddenly I had all sorts of feelings to write about. It wasn't pretty. Here's an excerpt of song lyrics I wrote:
When I'm all alone
I just think of you
And the way it could be
If you loved me too
(There is obviously a good reason I'm not a poet.)
But, to teen me, those were deep lyrics. So, so meaningful. I wrote lyrics to more than fifty songs. Want to know where I wrote them?
In my closet.
Yep, in my closet. I grew up in an old farmhouse, the same one my grandma was born in. Yeah, you read that right. My grandma was born IN the house. Because my sister and I had to share a room, we were given the traditional master bedroom because it was bigger than the other two. Our bedroom had a walk-in closet. It was old, covered in cracked, peeling paint (most likely filled with lead). The orange carpet worn thin from years of women standing in it, wondering what to wear. The door didn't close all the way, but I would pull it shut as tightly as possible. Then it creaked its way open, just a tidge, until the tiniest stream of light shined inside.
I'd write in there for hours at a time. Lyrics, short stories and poems (which actually got better as I got older, but I'm very protective of my poetry because I don't want anyone to tell me how horrendous it is). I didn't tackle a real novel until the late 1990's.
So it's no wonder that when I write now I still like to cocoon myself, whether it's with music blasting in my ears, wrapped up in my bed, or writing in total darkness with nothing other than the glow of my computer (or iPad) and a candle.
There are secrets in my closet than no one will ever find. Distant memories, some precious, others I'd rather forget, float in veiled silence.
And now? I have a walk-in closet but I can't write in there. Not because my kids would think I'm weird (they already do), but because there's too many pairs of shoes in there. :)
Megg, Miss Enchanted ePubber
 | |
| Megg & her daughter on a grain bin |
I grew up on a farm. Two and a half miles from town doesn't seem far - but it was. My brother and sister are six and eight years older than me, so I was pretty much on my own as a kid. Well, not totally, my mom was at home with me (my dad worked a lot), but I spent a lot of time by myself in my room.
<--- That's my daughter and I standing at the top of my dad's new grain bin.
Writing was always a big part of my life, but as the angsty teen years crept up on me (okay, so maybe they slammed into me like a freight train) my writing exploded. Suddenly I had all sorts of feelings to write about. It wasn't pretty. Here's an excerpt of song lyrics I wrote:
When I'm all alone
I just think of you
And the way it could be
If you loved me too
(There is obviously a good reason I'm not a poet.)
But, to teen me, those were deep lyrics. So, so meaningful. I wrote lyrics to more than fifty songs. Want to know where I wrote them?
In my closet.
Yep, in my closet. I grew up in an old farmhouse, the same one my grandma was born in. Yeah, you read that right. My grandma was born IN the house. Because my sister and I had to share a room, we were given the traditional master bedroom because it was bigger than the other two. Our bedroom had a walk-in closet. It was old, covered in cracked, peeling paint (most likely filled with lead). The orange carpet worn thin from years of women standing in it, wondering what to wear. The door didn't close all the way, but I would pull it shut as tightly as possible. Then it creaked its way open, just a tidge, until the tiniest stream of light shined inside.
I'd write in there for hours at a time. Lyrics, short stories and poems (which actually got better as I got older, but I'm very protective of my poetry because I don't want anyone to tell me how horrendous it is). I didn't tackle a real novel until the late 1990's.
So it's no wonder that when I write now I still like to cocoon myself, whether it's with music blasting in my ears, wrapped up in my bed, or writing in total darkness with nothing other than the glow of my computer (or iPad) and a candle.
There are secrets in my closet than no one will ever find. Distant memories, some precious, others I'd rather forget, float in veiled silence.
And now? I have a walk-in closet but I can't write in there. Not because my kids would think I'm weird (they already do), but because there's too many pairs of shoes in there. :)
Megg, Miss Enchanted ePubber
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