Life Changing Stuff Here

Hello, My Friends.

I need to tell you about the last month.

It. Has been. Life changing.

I made a new year's resolution to rededicate myself to my small copywriting business, The Bright Words.

I built a new website. I got professional pictures taken. I started looking for new clients. I attended a business conference. That's the life changing part. The speakers and presenters were phenomenal. It was the first time I've ever experienced true synergy - and I figured out what I'm supposed to do with my life!

Long story short - two of the speakers there are now mentoring me and helping me along. I'm learning a lot and I'm exhausted - but in the good way. And now it's time for me to do some major hustling.

So here it is:

 I Need A Small Army to Help Market My Business

I’m crazy. But you know that.

And I need the support of a small army of people who are even crazier than I am.

I’m putting together an Influencers Group to help me create a groundswell surrounding the launch of my business: The Bright Words. It’s already out there, and I’ve been in business for a while, but I want to take it to the next level. I’m in search of a dream team of authentic, dedicated, positive and proactive wave makers to help me spread the word over the next few weeks - in fact - my goal is to get 100 influencers to join this group in just 10 days.

It won’t be allllll fun and games (just mostly). I’m going to need a lot of help. It’s going to be work. There may be blood, sweat and tears. (Joke. Okay, half joke.). But, I promise you’ll get a glimpse into my brand of crazy, which is better than say, Kim Kardashian’s brand of crazy.

Here’s what I promise you if you join the Influencers Group:

        I will spread information about you, your business, product, or service far and wide - leveraging my unique strengths and avenues of influence.

       Access to me (and the other influencers in the group) in an exclusive Facebook group. This group may just turn out to create mutually beneficial relationships that could last a lifetime. You never know.

Here’s what you promise me you’ll do if you join the Influencers Group:

    Share information about The Bright Words far and wide—leveraging your unique strengths and avenues of influence.
    Join the Influencers Group on Facebook, and be an active participant and collaborator: sharing ideas together to help each other more effectively spread the word.
    Find other people - influencers - who you think would love to be part of this dynamic group.

Here’s the link: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1688969331329988/

That’s it!
Are you in? It may just help you out, as well.
Love ya.
Mean it.
For real.

An Anniversary or Two, of Sorts

Today is February 17, which is the date my future husband proposed to me way back in 1996. That got me thinking about February 16, many years before.

What, you may ask, is the significance of February 16?

I attended Saguaro Elementary School in Casa Grande, AZ. The school had a discipline plan which looked like this: If you acted up, the teacher wrote your name on the board as a warning. If you kept it up, you would get a series of check marks next to your name, and each check mark had a consequence -- leading all the way up to getting a swat from the principal.

Being the good girl/people pleaser/teacher's pet that I was, I prided myself on never getting my name written on the board. Until the fifth grade on February 16, that is.

Because my last name began with an A, I was always seated on the front row. It seemed all my teachers were sticklers about seating us in alphabetical order in those days. The girl sitting to my right (I can't remember her name, but it must have also begun with an A) told me to pass a note to Albert Enriquez, who sat across the aisle, and one row back from me on my left. Mr. Jones was busy writing things on the board, so I had to time my hand-off just right.

Now, in my defense, I did not have a lot of note-passing experience, and I didn't want to get caught, so I very discreetly took the note, which my friend had folded into a small triangle, and placed it...
on the toe of my shoe. I kicked it in Albert's direction, just in time for Mr. Jones to turn around and see the note land nowhere near my intended target.

I still remember watching Mr. Jones' bony, wrinkled fingers slowly unfolding the little triangle. He read the note, glared at me through his horn-rimmed glasses, then slowly and deliberately wrote my name on the chalk board.

The humiliation was unbearable. I started to wonder if I should transfer to another school where nobody knew I was the kid who got my name written on the board. At the very least, I was afraid to go to school again the next day.

Fortunately, I stayed at Saguaro Elementary, where I remained in Mr. Jones' class for the remainder of the year. I am also happy to say my reputation did not follow me to Mrs. Mazur's class in the 6th grade.

Also, I don't recommend kicking as a method of note-passing.

Bullies

There was once a girl; a beefy, brawny, kind-of-hairy girl, with big teeth and sausage-like fingers. I was the scrawny, skinny, short girl, whose ears poked out from my thin, stringy hair; so naturally, I was her favorite target. She beat me up and pushed me around from the third grade until the tenth grade. She hated me because she thought I was Mexican but refused to speak Spanish. I tried explaining that I was Indonesian and spoke Dutch. That concept is hard enough for most rational people to understand, so explaining it to an over-grown 10-year-old was impossible.

One time, she rammed my head into a metal beam in the school library. If only we'd had today's safety codes in 1983. Another time, she shoved me up against a wall and told me never to sing La Bamba. Ever. I narrowly missed being thrown against a giant Saguaro cactus. Another poor girl was not so lucky, and I helped her pull the cactus spines out of her red T-Shirt. I don't know if I'm remembering the red because that's what color her shirt was or if that was just the blood.

The greatest day of my life was in the tenth grade, when Beef Girl got pregnant and left school. I don't condone teen pregnancy in any way, but in this case, it REALLY worked out to my benefit.

So I finished growing up without anymore pummeling and went on with my life. I never really think much about it, except of course, Every Single Time Anyone Mentions Bullying. Which is more often than you'd think.

And now I'm discovering that my son is being bullied and I want to find the kid doing it and ram his head into a metal beam.

Here's the thing. I'm a (mostly) rational, non-confrontational type of person. So are my kids, if you can imagine such a thing. I have always taught them that there will be people you won't get along with or even like. And that's okay. It's human nature. HOWEVER, you DO have to be nice to everyone. It's important to take the high road. To be the bigger person. To not react when someone is trying to rile you.

It builds character.
It teaches them how to handle difficult situations.
It equips them with the ability to rise above.

This Higher Road stuff is so much harder as a mom.

Shut Up, Frank!

We all have that inner voice inside of us. You know the one. It says you're ugly. You're stupid. Why do you even bother? This is never going to work. This is a dumb idea. You should just quit now.

You're.
Not.
Good.
Enough.

Last summer, literary agent John Cusick gave a speech and he talked about that inner voice of doubt. He suggested giving that voice a name so that you can tell it to shut up. His inner voice's name was Debra. I decided to name my voice Frank.

Frank has been talking his head off lately. He's a manipulative son-of-a-gun, too.

See, the thing is, I live in Utah, where we seemingly have a large number of published and successful authors. They're a very welcoming and generous community, willing to teach and guide and mentor the rest of us along our path. I go to workshops and conferences, and there they are: James Dashner, Brandon Mull, Shannon Hale, Ally Condie, and a host of others. They're full of energy and happiness and I always come away having learned something or feeling good about the track I'm on.

Then Frank shows up. And he says, You can't even get a book published, let alone made into a major motion picture. Shannon Hale has an MFA. You'll never be as good as her. You're wasting your time.

So I take a week and wallow in self pity and eat my way through a bag or two of candy corn. Then I meet up with another great author like Ken Baker who says to me, "Yeah, it's a tough business. You have to love writing. But you can do it. Don't give up."

So you know what? Frank can just shut the **&%* up. He doesn't know what he's talking about,  anyway. He's a miserable wretch of a thing who is only satisfied when I'm unhappy. I'm not giving him the satisfaction. At least not today.

After John's speech, I thanked him for the inspiration and told him Frank says hello to Debra.

His reply: "And they can both go to hell."

My Inner Eight-Year-Old

Dan and I recently returned from a Mediterranean cruise with the Larsens and the Emerys. It was magical, you guys; amazing sites, perfect weather, delicious European food, and funny, funny friends.

Remember getting the Weekly Reader at school? That was always one of my favorite days -- it was right up there with Tostada Day in the cafeteria. I learned all kinds of cool stuff in the Weekly Reader. When I was in third grade, I read about the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I loved the picture of its many arches. I loved that it leaned. The article said that one day, the tower would fall. I decided right then and there that I needed to see it before it came crumbling down. Fortunately, I recently learned that the ground beneath the tower had been reinforced, so that it would continue to lean for generations of third graders yet to come.

Last Thursday, on our way back to the ship from Florence, our guide detoured us over to Pisa. You'll be happy to know the tower is located around the corner from Ikea, if you're ever in the area.

The adult me took a bunch of pictures:

The eight-year-old me ran up and touched the wall. Then she bought this statue for 2 Euros.

Back To School (Waaaay Back)

I don't think anything marks the passing of time quite like the first day of school. New grade, new teacher, new clothes... and new lunchboxes.

When I was a kid, this was my lunchbox:

I mean, how cool is that? When I did an image search for it, I found out that this baby is worth about $150 bucks on ebay. Coulda woulda shoulda.

And now the theme song is playing in your head, right? Go ahead. Admit it.

Anyway...when I was in the second grade, there was this boy in my class named Jamie. Kind of like The Boy Named Sue, he was mean. He teased me and called me names. So one day, I'm walking home, carrying my METAL Happy Days lunch box in my right hand because it was too big to fit in my red book bag. Jamie is following me down the street, saying horrible things to me (as horrible as a 7-year-old can be). I told him to leave me alone, but he kept pestering me. Finally, I swung around with my lunch box and decked him a good one. Gave him a bloody nose and everything.

Jamie put his cupped hands to his nose, ran home crying, and yelled, "I'M GONNA CALL THE COPS ON YOU!"

I ran home and kept an eye out the window, waiting for a patrol car to show up. Of course, it never did, and Jamie never bothered me after that.

And that's how THE FONZ saved me from a bully.

The Blue Angels

My 11-year-old has been telling me for years that he would love to go see the Blue Angels in person. "It's something I've wanted to do my entire life," he told me.

We've spent a lot of time watching videos of them on YouTube.

Well, they finally made it to a town near us, so we spent my birthday checking off an item from J's bucket list. The look on his face when they made their first Mach 1 pass was the best birthday present I could have received. The feeling in my chest as they roared by was a close second.

I've said before that I believe in hefty amounts of horsepower. Our day with the Blue Angels cranked that up a notch. Or twelve. My words fall painfully short to describe the feeling I had as they streaked across the billowy sky that day, but J now has my permission to join the Navy if he so chooses.

 

 

 

Mission Accomplished.