An Apple a Day... Keeps Anyone Away if You Throw it Hard Enough

I am not, nor have I ever been, a particularly active person. While I enjoy hiking and camping, I am at my core an "indoors" kind of girl. I like cups of tea, fuzzy blankets, and good books. I like naps and Netflix binges.

My name is Sarah, and I am lazy.

There, I said it.

I will never run a marathon. I will never be a gym rat. I'm fairly certain that 6-pack abs aren't in my future.

I am a couch potato.

My entire adult life so far, I have primarily relied on my mother's genetics and an overabundance of anxiety to maintain my weight. Certainly not fitness regimens. And while I have generally always eaten well, the last few years my food choices went to crap as life got hectic and overwhelming, and my give-a-shit-factor all but gave up. Convenience foods, fast food, garbage snacks, those became my mainstays. I would cook gourmet meals on the weekends, but during the week it was essentially a sanity-saving free-for-all.

No mas!

My health has been a key factor for me since I was a teen, when my father was diagnosed at 40 with Stage IV fully-metastasized colon cancer and died less than a year later. Initially I ignored it (super healthy coping mechanisms coming in hot!), but after a few years I began reading up on colorectal cancers. The increased familial risks. The genetic factors. The dietary factors. And it basically scared me healthy.

I ate a clean, organic, whole grain, primarily vegetarian diet. I scrutinized ingredients. I thoughtfully paired together foods that ensured both forming perfect proteins and the inclusion of amino acids very easily left out of a plant-based diet. I canned all of the things. I baked my own bread. And I loved every second of it.

I was... mildly obsessed.

Still lazy, mind you. But very healthy nonetheless.

Gradually, as the fear subsided, I relaxed a little bit. But only just. I was fully, wholeheartedly committed to maintaining my health. After all, I had three babies to stay healthy for, and my biggest fear was getting sick. I knew what that loss felt like; I couldn't risk putting my kiddos through that.

I was a mama on a mission.

And then about 5 years ago, everything went to shit. My world as I knew it was crumbling around me, and I could not for the life of me figure out how to fix it. And that's when Survival Mode began.

Fuck organic and all natural. Boxed mac and cheese is perfectly lovely when your life is resembling a dumpster fire, amiright?!? I hit the drive thru. I bought frozen meals. I stopped reading ingredients. I hit the drive thru more. I bought items I previously solely made from scratch. My sole goal was to get through each day, put food in my children's bellies, and not succumb to the soul-crushing pain in which I was so deeply engulfed.

As months passed and the pain gradually began to subside, I started to step out of the fog bit by bit. But I was still deeply entrenched in Survival Mode. The ease of convenience meals maintained their allure as I spent my days running around like a chicken with my head chopped off. I was burning the candle at both ends, as well as several places in the middle. I was barely treading water. I was doing all of the other clichés associated with the hectic blur of single motherhood.

And in that place? In that overwhelming, exhausting, lonely, emotionally-draining existence? You do what it takes to make it through one. day. at. a. damn. time.

Keep the tiny humans alive and don't lose your shit in the process. Those are the only two goals you really have. The rest is superfluous.

And that's what I did.

And I was so wrapped up in this excruciatingly challenging season of my life that I didn't notice my health starting to decline. The migraines beginning to occur with greater and greater frequency. The nausea and heartburn occurring almost daily. The general feeling of bleh. And the subsequent weight gain.

I was trudging along, pouring my entire being into my children, into trying to create a life for us, into trying to create our happy little corner of the world, and I wasn't taking care of myself. I was pouring all of this from an empty cup.

And it took its toll.

Because of my heightened familial risks, I go in for preemptive screenings every two or three years, checking for any signs of colorectal or digestive cancers. And every time, those screenings have always come back clean.

Until now...

Changes are occurring. And while they're nothing super dangerous yet, they're signs that my risk factors have increased. Between my last test and this most recent one, the only real difference is the utter crap I've been putting in my facehole.

Like I said... no mas!

It was time to make some changes, tout suite.

(Yes, I am aware I just used Spanish and French in back-to-back sentences. I feel like it makes me complex and mysterious, mmmkay?)

While I'd known for a while that I needed to get back on the healthy track, I let my laziness, my stress, and the lure of convenience continue to dictate much of my meals.

These test results?

You guessed it.

Scared me healthy again.

I have too much life to live, too many good things happening, to risk it all for crappy (albeit tasty) eating habits.

I'm rapidly getting back to my old self; the health-obsessed girl poring over cookbooks and online recipes (Pinterest is my boo thang). I'm cooking gourmet meals virtually every night. I'm back to eating whole foods and ingredients you can actually pronounce. And while I will always love me some toxic plastic nacho cheese sauce, I haven't hit up the Taco Bell drive thru in... I honestly don't remember.

Oh! And my couch potato status?

Mildly in jeopardy!

I know right?!?

I mean, I haven't joined a gym, and I'm still nowhere near marathon or 6-pack status, nor do I desire to be. But I've been attending hot yoga 2-3 times per week lately, and going on 3.2-mile walks (yes, I've clocked the trail we take) as many times per week as the hubby can get me to. I admit, I'm still occasionally resistant, when the lure of the lazy beckons me, but I still begrudgingly acquiesce the majority of the time.

Because health, or whatever.

And also because fuck cancer.

Regurgitated Ideas and Probably a Vampire

Be a writer, they said.

It'll be fun, they said.

However, today puts the FU in fun. Why?

Writer's block is a bitch. There, I said it.

When the words are rightthere. When the story is righthere. When it's all freaking RIGHTTHERE. But nothing comes out.

Well, that's not true. Muttering to yourself comes out. Swearing comes out. Inane chores and attempted busywork comes out. Distraction on all levels comes pouring out like a broken levee.

But the words?

Yeah, not so much.

Maybe this candle will help?...

(Yes, shopping is one such form of distraction.)

I have a multitude of manuscripts in various stages of completeness. Some of which I utterly adore, and others need varying degrees of attention, editing, and maybe a flamethrower. Each one represents a slightly different genre or subgenre, and none, I repeat, none of them are currently striking any sort of inspiration in my brain.

The one I chose to focus on today is by far the least developed. Which is perfect, in that it offers me the most freedom and fewest constraints and editing requirements. However, this openness also means I have zero predetermined guidance; very little plot or established trajectory to which to cling desperately. The onus is on me to do the damn thing. 

But my inability to do the damn thing is exactly why I'm writing this post instead. They say to write through the fog. So I'm writing about writer's block. Because irony. 

Stupid elusive words.

Like every author, I have several ways in which I attempt to address writer's block, to varying degrees of success. I clean. I cook. I read. I fall down the Pinterest rabbit hole. I watch wordy TV shows like Gilmore Girls or The West Wing. I buy candles like the one shown above in the hopes its mere presence will elicit some sort of story inspiration. 

Sometimes it helps. Sometimes I've just wasted hours of my day, with zero written words, lofty redecorating goals, and a few new candles to show for it...

It is a common assumption that writing is easy. When you tell someone you're a writer, the most frequent response is something along the lines of "oh I'd love to be a writer, that must be so fun!"

Fun, Debra? Fun?

Sure, if crippling self-doubt, an inability to describe the most basic scene, failing to balance the proper level of interpersonal conflict in order to keep the plot going all without making your characters unlikeable or unrealistic, and forgetting the word "turquoise" sounds fun! Then yeah, it's fun.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find something distracting to do, in the hopes that my words find me and my imaginary friends start playing nice. I see some fall/Halloween decorating in my immediate future. And tea. Lots and lots of tea. 

But seriously, someone please buy me that candle.

Forgive and Forget? F*ck You and F*ck That...

Okay, that might be kind of a harsh way to kick things off, so let me dial it back.

It's no secret that I have been actively pursuing personal growth and healing for quite some time now. First with therapy, then books, podcasts, articles, meditation, spirituality, etc. Some real hippie shit up in here! I faced hard truths, both about myself and those around me. I discovered patterns of thought that had been sabotaging my wellbeing for years. I broke through a lot of baggage, trauma from my past that I'd never acknowledged, let alone shared with anyone. I walked my way through a lot of heavy emotional shit. It was uncomfortable. It was extremely difficult. Some days it was downright brutal.

But you know what?

It was freaking worth it. Because the person I am now? So much better than before! Current Me is far happier, more self-assured, more confident, and just all around lighter and more joyful than Previous Me.

But there is one area in which I still struggle, one area in which I still need some work, one area in which the baggage of Other People's Opinions still trips me up.

And that area is forgiveness.

As an inherent people-pleaser, it was my natural life-long instinct to force forgiveness upon myself, otherwise I felt I was inconveniencing those who trespassed against me, not being a loving person, or being a bitter harpy. I mean, heaven forbid I have any lingering negative feelings about the hurtful thing you keep doing while telling me I'm being too sensitive, amiright?!?

(Side note: if someone in your life keeps doing the thing you have repeatedly told them hurts you, know they don't respect you. Real truth.)

I made myself let things go on the surface for the sake of keeping peace, when deep down I was still incredibly hurt by what someone had said or done. As time went on, this pattern of forgiving before I was truly ready created some significant, deep-seated pain that went on to impact my self-worth, my self-confidence, my boundaries, and my relationships with those around me. I accepted behavior that I didn't like. I overlooked treatment that I didn't deserve and patterns that were giant red flags. I was a doormat for toxic people. And all the while, I pretended like it was fine, like a simple "I'm sorry" was enough, even when the behavior never changed. My inherent drive to be a nice person superseded my willingness or ability to look out for myself, to protect my feelings, to stick up for myself. And even as I was powering through other areas of self-growth like a mother-effing boss, I was still a freaking pushover to people. That's what nice people do, right? Best to not upset the apple cart, after all.

Or so I thought.

Over the last few years, certain events and certain people finally -- finally -- pushed me to my breaking point. Something inside me snapped and, for the first time in what felt like my entire life, I pushed back. I lashed out. I raged. That deep-seated pain that had been percolating under the surface finally boiled over, and I was ready and willing to go to war with the next person who so much as looked at me wrong.

I was going to burn.their.village.down.

Initially, this felt good. No, it felt damn good. Fuck the toxic people. Fuck their bullshit. Fuck the lies, the manipulations, the abuses, the mind games, the gaslighting, the control tactics, fuck it all. I was taking back my power.

Or so I thought.

What I was actually doing was allowing all these hurts, these betrayals, the years of doormat status to still be in control, only in an equal yet opposite way. Rather than being miserably passive, I was miserably aggressive. Every hurt, every slight, every twisted or ill-meaning action from every person who had ever wronged me sat on my shoulder like a really jaded parrot. For the first time in my life, I hated. I truly hated. Not in the way we throw it out there casually --"OMG I hate peas!"

No, no.

I physically hated people with the fire of a thousand suns. It consumed me. Rather than taking back my power like I'd thought, I had simply unleashed years of pain that had been bottled up, and I didn't know how to handle it.

Cue another round of utterly painful self-reflection. And unpacking that cargo ship of baggage was freaking hard, y'all. Facing things I'd long since buried, acknowledging hurts that had been brushed away since childhood, actually saying the feelings out loud; it broke me. But in the most amazing way. And I came to an incredibly powerful realization that lead to the biggest leap forward.

You ready for this?

You do not have to forgive anyone, for anything, until you are truly ready.

I'll say it louder for the people in the back.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO FORGIVE ANYONE, FOR ANYTHING, UNTIL YOU ARE READY.

Why?

Because doing so does you a grave disservice. By forcing forgiveness upon yourself, all you are doing is putting a bandaid over an emotional bullet hole. It might cover up the wound, but that slug is still in there, festering, destroying the flesh around it, creating gangrene of the spirit. You gotta dig that sucker out, purge the wound, let it ooze and bleed and hurt like a bitch, until your body finally begins its own natural healing process.

True forgiveness takes time. You have to walk through the emotions of what happened to you. You have to feel it in order to heal it.

Again, for the people in the back...

YOU HAVE TO FEEL IT IN ORDER TO HEAL IT.

And yeah, feeling it fucking sucks. It's easier to put the bandaid on, distract yourself, and act like everything is fine. But that wound still exists, and it will never properly heal if you just ignore it.

There will be plenty of people who tell you to turn the other cheek, to just forgive no matter what, to let it go or get over it. I hate to be the bearer of hard truth, but those people?

They're toxic.

Maybe they mean well, but their advice is shit.

Anyone who expects you to just "get over it"? They're not your people, and they don't have your best interests in mind.

Systemic forced forgiveness is unhealthy, if not abusive. And it's pervasive. But if I have learned one thing, it's this: never, I repeat, never allow anyone -- friend, family member, romantic partner, anyone at all -- to dictate to you what your feelings should be or how you should process them.

Ever.

Because forced forgiveness is a lie we tell ourselves to make others comfortable.

Real forgiveness?

It's messy. It's hard. It takes time.

But it's the only way to truly heal the hurt and move forward. Otherwise, eventually, something will happen that will be one hurt too far, and you'll end up bleeding on people who didn't cut you.

I did this. I bled on everyone around me. The hurt in my heart festered, it ate at me. I was snarly to hide the fact I was sad. I was vicious to cover up the vulnerability. I was judgmental to make myself feel like the better person. I put on a hard shell to protect the gooey caramel center that was my hurt. And it sucked.

And I am truly sorry.

That's not who I am. I am not hardened. I do not want to be nasty and jaded. I have a tender heart; I always have, and I hope I always will. And I finally got tired of carrying the weight of pain masquerading as anger. That shit gets heavy, fast.

I was finally ready to forgive.

And therein lies the baggage of Other People's Opinions mentioned above. I didn't forgive immediately, because I wasn't ready. And that apparently means I can't forgive ever.

Evidently it's one or the other. They have to be mutually exclusive.

For some, there is the perception or assumption that I have to carry a grudge forever, otherwise I'm being too passive. For others, failing to instantly forgive and allow people back into my life means that I am being too harsh, stubborn, or vindictive.

However, the truth of the matter is that it's neither. I am not obligated to forgive and forget, nor am I bound to carrying the weight of hurt or betrayal for the rest of my life.

I am learning the delicate balance of forgiveness with parameters, of letting.that.shit.go without letting go of the lesson the experience taught me.

I'm not holding on to a grudge. I'm holding on to boundaries. Boundaries that I fought hard to learn, and that I am no longer willing to overstep for the comfort or convenience of others.

I have people that I have forgiven fully and welcomed back into my life as though nothing happened. I have others that I've forgiven, but will always keep at arms length. Still others, the most egregious betrayals, will never be granted access to my life again, but I am no longer carrying the weight. And finally, I admit, there may be one or two individuals with whom forgiveness is still a work in progress. I'm human, y'all, cut me some slack!

But the lesson here is this: it is up to me where to set my boundaries with each given situation. It is my choice when and how far to forgive, and when to decide to set the weight down once and for all. Because if you do something shitty? That's on you. If, however, I choose to let that shitty thing dominate my psyche? Well that's on me.

Turn the Page

This week marked some major changes in my world, and the start of an entirely new chapter in my life. The first big thing will actually be discussed in a forthcoming post, because I like to keep the mystery alive.

(Hey, I'm building content here, people. Work with me!)

But the second thing? Well here it is, y'all!

As mentioned in my previous post, I finally bit the proverbial bullet and took a chance on my dreams, brushing off the naysayers and diving head first into the thing that stokes a fire in my soul. It's terrifying, exhilarating, daunting, and making me absolutely giddy at the same time.

Two and a half weeks ago, after significant deliberation, I submitted my letter of resignation to my boss (about which he was incredibly bummed out, and emphatically requested I change my mind on multiple occasions).

Yesterday was my last day, which brought out a mixture of emotions, some of which caught me off guard (I wasn't teary-eyed in the elevator as I left the building, you were teary-eyed in the elevator as I left the building...).

I will miss seeing those people every week; I will miss the humor, the camaraderie, and the positive changes and big ticket items coming down the pipeline for our division. There are good things in store for them, and I'll be excited to watch from the sidelines as they are brought into fruition.

However, while I enjoyed my job, I knew something was missing. I needed more. I needed to light my soul on fire. I needed to be more available to my kiddos. I needed more personal fulfillment. I needed a way to combine that whole pesky paying-bills-and-being-an-adult thing with the flexibility and freedom of self-employment. And thus, as of yesterday, I am officially a full-time writer!

It was an incredibly difficult decision to make, leaving the safety and security of a cushy government gig and taking a gamble on myself in this way. And I know I'm going to have to hustle if I want to be successful. But I'm also freaking stoked! I have freelance clients lined up. I have a couple of curated sites I'll be writing for. I have my own stories I'll be self-publishing. And, of course, I'll be documenting the entire journey on here.

My next chapter starts now.

Stay tuned!

I've Got Magic Beans*

*If you don't get the quote, we can't be friends. I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.


As the saying goes, opinions are like assholes... everybody has one.

These days, it seems like everyone has ALL OF THEM. All the opinions. All the time. Shoved in your face. Incessantly.

I'm coming out of the gate a little hot, so let me back up.

It's no secret that in this day and age, we are constantly bombarded with 1,000,000,000 opinions at once, all of which are viewed by the opinion holder as sanctified by Holy water or something. You are entitled to what they think or feel on any given subject, but they tend to seem less enthused to hear your side. Everyone is talking AT each other, not so much talking TO or WITH each other. Everyone wants to be heard, but no one wants to listen.

And, frankly, it's exhausting.

And it's made me pull back.

People in my life have noticed that I've been more withdrawn lately, more private, less communicative. This has been purposeful. And not because I'm miserable, grumpy, or bitter.

On the contrary, I am the happiest I have ever been. My life is unfolding in ways that I never imagined. I have found a love story I never thought possible. I am pursuing personal growth daily and doing the hard work to be a better version of my badass self. I am hustling like a boss, making my dreams come true and finding new, exciting paths to personal and creative fulfillment.

And quite frankly?

I don't want y'all Negative Nancys crapping all over it!

I post funny memes on social. I share cute anecdotes or snippets from my daily life. I give brief updates on certain events, if asked directly. And because of this, people assume they know all of the things about me.

But I'm an iceberg, baby!

You see the 10% I'm willing to share with you, while guarding the other 90% close to my heart. Because that 90%? It's precious. That's where the magic is.

I have recently had some wonderful things fall into place; an opportunity that has brought about some major winds of change. Change that is exciting and terrifying and nerve-wracking and incredible all at the same time. Change that involves a major investment in myself and my dreams. Change that will bring some wonderful things into my world.

Change that, I also discovered, brought out a new round of the Opinion Police.

Boom. Truth bomb just dropped.

Because these life things that are happening? They're not for everyone. And I get that. Taking risks, taking chances, going out on a limb, it's all terrifying. And many people aren't willing to step outside their comfort zone like that. Heck, many people don't even have dreams that require stepping out of said comfort zone in the first place, making these individuals even more baffled by my decision to do so.

And that's fine.

But keep it to yourself, pleaseandthankyou.

You don't have to fully understand something to be supportive. It doesn't have to directly resonate with you. It doesn't have to be your dream or align with your values in order for you to champion it for others. You can even think it's completely ridiculous and insane and be fully expecting it to crash and burn. That's fine. But please be aware, your opinion is not fact, it is not truth, it is not the cipher through which others must decode their lives.

It is with utmost awareness of being cliche that I say this: you. get. one. life.

Are you living it? Fully living it? Or are you simply existing? Are you being true to your authentic self, or are you pigeonholed by what others think, expect, or want of you? The most powerful question I recently heard was this: Are you happy, or are you distracted?

I have spent the vast majority of my life simply existing. I am inherently a people-pleaser; I never wanted to rock the boat. Making waves was a risk I wasn't willing to take because god forbid I make anyone else uncomfortable or give them a reason to tsk tsk me! I dove into things that were pre-screened for approval, things that others had given their tacit permission to enjoy. I was living confined. I was, in short, distracted. But I was not happy.

Then, after many years of living a limited life, I finally got tired of asking permission. Permission to have interests and aspirations that weren't aligned with the opinion-holders around me. Permission to have dreams. Permission to step outside of society's pre-determined box. In short, I stopped giving a crap what others thought.

Because I realized something invaluable: I will never make everyone happy. I am not tacos.

No matter what I do, someone will have an opinion against it. If I go left, someone will think I should have gone right. If I go right, others will think I should have gone left. If I stop and do the hokey pokey, well, people will think I've cracked and tell me to stop being weird. It is impossible to please all of the people all of the time.

Go for your dreams, but also don't be a dick.

So guess what I decided to do?

Stop trying!

I am no longer interested in making others comfortable, contented, or understanding of my path. It is my path, after all. I am going to follow my heart. I am going to live my truth. I am going to take the risks necessary to live an extraordinary life. To live with intention, purpose, and passion. To be bold and vibrant. To be unapologetically myself. I am going to take the risk and do the thing that is scary, because that is where fulfillment lies. It's still not always easy for me, the people-pleaser, to do my own thing at the expense of others' judgment. But the more I let my freak flag fly, the more natural it becomes.

And if your response is disapproval, disdain, or a barbed pseudo-supportive comment... feel free to take that ish elsewhere. Because guess what? 1) I'm not doing this for you, and 2) you don't have to get it. And both of those things are okay.

And to anyone reading this who has that dream? That idea? That thing that is burning a hole in your soul because you so badly want to take the plunge?

GO. FOR. IT.

You only get one life. Don't waste it living for others. Take that 90%, that fire, that passion, and invest in yourself.

Make your magic.

Don't take 'no' for an answer. Also, caffeine is your friend.

The Necessity of Self-Care

Self-care Sunday.

That phrase elicits images of pampered housewives spending the day at the spa, drinking mimosas and gossiping about the goings on at the country club, amiright? You know I'm right.

The notion of self-care is oftentimes dismissed as selfish, frivolous, something silly in which only the hoity toity get to indulge. And while the hoity and the toity do seem to get more time to engage in self-care activities, that does not in any way mean it is only for them. Nor does it mean one has to drop a hefty penny at a snooty spa in order to recharge their inner batteries.

As women, we tend to go go go, to burn the candle at both ends, to bite off more than we can chew and continue gnawing on that bite whilst working full time, running the kids to soccer practice or track meets or appointments, then coming home to cook, clean, and help with homework (unless you're like me and have geniuses for children and their math homework looks less like logical equations and more like Egyptian hieroglyphs... but I digress). By the time we get everyone to bed, we're drained. And yes, I acknowledge that this is 2019 and men are more evolved than their 1950s brethren, and are therefore also involved in family life too; I'm not denigrating that at all.

But...

I'm a woman, and this post is geared toward my ladies. Sorry, guys.

As women, we are expected to do it all perfectly, and with a smile on our faces no less. And quite honestly, it's exhausting. I don't know a single mother who hasn't had the urge to run away to a tropical island and never return. And that's not because we don't love our families. We're just so. damn. tired. And you can't pour from an empty cup.

Enter self-care.

Self-care can be anything from a solitary bubble bath WHERE NO ONE BOTHERS YOU FOR ONE GODDAMN HOUR, to a weekly mani/pedi sesh with your best gal pals WHERE NO ONE BOTHERS YOU FOR ONE GODDAMN HOUR, to regular therapy appointments, a solo hike, sleeping in on the weekends, arts and crafts, yoga, or whatever the heck makes you feel a little more refreshed and ready to tackle little Bobby's science project he forgot to tell you about and is due tomorrow.

Self-care is necessary. It's "me time" for your mind, body, and soul. It's a little slice of personalized heaven. You know how when a piece of technology isn't working, and the first solution is always "have you turned it off and turned it back on again?" Yeah, the human equivalent of that is self-care.

It is not selfish. It is not frivolous. It does not make you a bad mom. It makes you a human who needs a little piece and quiet, and a chance to get back to center. We all need to shut off and reboot once in awhile.

Things have been crazy for me lately. Full time job. Full time mommy. Full time fiancé. Rebooting my freelancing career. And now full time school again. That's a lot of full times and, last I checked, still only 24 hours in a day. I've been stressed, tired, overwhelmed, and quite frankly, just a lil sick of everyone's shit. Yes, even you. Don't give me that look. You know what you did.

So today, I focused on taking it easy. I cancelled today's plans and just spent the day at home with the kids. I had a good cry listening to a podcast the bestie sent me (so.many.feels). I snuggled with my Little Man, and cracked jokes with Daughter and Eldest. I communed with warm and fuzzy souls whom I love and adore. I had a gigantic cup of herbal tea. I took a long bubble bath, slathered myself in aromatherapy lotion, and snuggled into bed with the fuzziest of fuzzy blankets. And I purged my thoughts into this blog post, so as to clear up the writer's block I was having on my freelance project.

And honestly, I'm drained. But in a delicious way. A way that tells me I took care of myself today. I put my truest needs first, and refilled my emotional, mental, and spiritual cup.

Granted, that doesn't make me feel more ready to face Monday, but I'm definitely ready to face my full times. Hell, I might even smile.

For Whom the Bell Tolls....

Or for whom you write.... you know, whatever.

I admit, I've not read much of good ol' Ernest. A realization that hit me awhile back, and something I began rectifying by giving Amazon more of my money.

(As if they weren't already getting most of my money to begin with, let's be honest.)

Obscure Hemingway references aside, every writer has a different motivation for writing. Some for the money or recognition. Others just to make ends meet. Still others as a way to purge internal monologues and stress. But for most writers, there is a compulsive need to get the words on paper; something drives them. It can't always be explained to non-writers. Hell, it can't always be explained to ourselves!

But the riskiest-- and sometimes least rewarding-- reason to write is for the satisfaction of others. As a freelancer, this is something I relate to far too often. It's a tricky thing; balancing that pesky need to pay bills with stifling your creativity in order to meet the parameters of others. How much of that effort do you still retain for yourself? Are you sacrificing your voice by not strictly sticking to your own private works? Or does writing anything at all, in any form, serve as a catalyst for further creativity?

As someone who took far too long of a hiatus from writing because, well... life, I can attest that simply putting words on paper again is a wonderful feeling. Even if it is for others, I'm still doing the damn thing.

Hemingway took the title of 'For Whom The Bell Tolls' from a 17th-century metaphysical poet named John Donne's 'Meditation XVII', published in 1624.

No man is an Iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

While Donne was writing meditations and prayers on pain, health, and sickness, referencing the medieval practice of funeral tolling, the quote can be abstractly applied to writing in general. If you write solely to please others, you'll never be truly happy. But if you simply find happiness in writing, any form of your craft will feed your soul. You have a truth within you that needs to be released, a bell that only your authentic creativity can answer.

For whom does the writing bell toll?

It tolls for thee...