With the release of my first book, I have met a major goal in my life. I have more books to write, including a sequel to Tears, and there are many other writing accomplishments I must face. However, I put my life on hold to get published, and now is the time to meld writing and living. I’m in this for the long haul, and I still have children to raise, a husband to tend to, and my own self to take care of.
Time to start exercising again. Time to dust off my hobbies. Time to get the homeschooling in order. Time to rejuvenate my soul.
So I jumped into something wild and crazy: I’m taking tap and ballet classes.
Last year, my kids took ballet, and I was so proud of them when it came time for recital. They worked hard all year, and they performed beautifully. But a part of me wanted to be dancing on stage too.
I swore to myself that next year, I would be.
When there is something I want to learn or achieve, I absorb myself in it. Pouring over the schedule, I settled on three classes: Adult Ballet, Intermediate/Advanced Tap for ages 8+ (Makani and I take this one together), and Lyrical Ballet for ages 8+ (Rowena and I take this one together). Then I added some Zumba from the YMCA to my schedule to help get me in shape. I need to build my strength and endurance if I want to be good at this.
Yeah, I don’t do anything half-heartedly.
Did I mention that I have no tap or ballet experience? Three years ago, I did some belly dancing, and twelve years ago, I learned some swing dancing. Other than that, I am clueless.
Walking into my first tap dance and lyrical ballet classes was awkward. I’m twice the height of any of the other students. I thought ages 8+ meant there’d be a wide variety of students, maybe some teenagers, but no, they are all 8-year-olds.
10 eight year olds and ME. I felt like an awkward giant among Lilliputians.
But once we got to learning, my focus changed. I have a challenge to face, and so the awkwardness faded. I caught on pretty easily to both Tap and Lyrical Ballet. Tap dancing is rhythmical, and since I am mathematically and musically inclined and analytical, my brain caught on with two lessons. I’m loving doing this with Makani. She is also inclined to patterns, and I’m impressed with how easily she’s following the instructions.
Rowena does Lyrical Ballet with me. She’s such a little sweetheart, and I like the way she smiles at me as we stand side by side at the barre. She’s one of the most tender-hearted children I’ve ever known, and one word of correction sends her into fits of depression. This is my chance to build her up and encourage her.
My Lyrical Ballet teacher is a beautiful black man. (Strangely, he is embarrassed that his knees are so dark. I don't quite understand that.) I love the mop of braids he has for hair and his goatee. Excitable, a little effeminate, and pleased as apple pie to have me and Rowena in the class. Did I mention excitable? He’d make a vivid character in a book.
I am so thankful that he takes the class so slowly. He stops everything to correct a student who has a toe in the wrong direction. I am good at copying and I’m learning quickly, but Rowena struggled with form at first. My mommy’s heart thrilled to watch him take the time to gently help her out. She’s improving, and I’m so proud of her. I can hear him now as he helps her adjust her feet, “Yes. Yes. Yes!” Did I mention excitable?
Now here’s where my challenge really begins: Adult Ballet Class.
Our teacher is a white man with curly hair and a quirky sense of humor, but there’s nothing effeminate about this one. Not very excitable either. Where the black teacher takes things slow, this one moves us quickly from one set of exercises to the next. And believe me, the difficulty of this class is tenfold compared to the Lyrical Ballet.
I am the only student who has no prior ballet experience. In fact, one of my fellow students is a teacher at the dance studio. When he calls out those French words, I struggle to figure out what they mean. He says fifth position with arms in first. Huh? I look around at my classmates and try to follow along.
He gave us this exercise that goes something like this: First position, tendu left foot in out in, step out plié down and up. Then you repeat it backwards to return to your original position. Then repeat to the right, then to the left. Then to the back and the front. Then you do it all again in the exact opposite rotation. Pivot toward the bar so that you are facing the opposite direction and do it all on the right foot. Pivot again, this time away from the bar. Start from the beginning—only this time in fifth position.
And don’t forget the appropriate arm movements! Not that I had any clue what those arm positions should be. Oh, and when you tendu to the side, switch between returning your foot to the front and to the back.
That’s only one out of 10 patterns he had for us. The other exercises are just as complicated.
Week one, he took it slow, and he stood at the front of the class, going through the steps with us. I can copy anything, and I stuck pretty well to the moves, following along as he did them. Week two, he demonstrated, but when it came time for us to do it, he only called the moves. I was utterly lost.
Lost and embarrassed, especially when even the new people kept up with him without a problem.
Maybe I bit off more than I could chew. Maybe I should focus on the beginner classes. Maybe I could try again next year after a year with the Lilliputians.
But when have I ever given up before? It’s not that I think I can’t handle the challenge. For Pete's sake, I have written 4 novels, one of which is published, and have several short stories in anthologies. I'm sure that a few more weeks, and I’ll be fine. Well, maybe not fine, but passable. By the end of the year, I’ll be fine. My real problem was everyone watching me flounder as I work to get my bearings.
Suck it up and get over yourself, I scolded.
Week three. I was almost passable, and Lyrical Ballet is now too easy. Furthermore, I can do the buffalo and the Irish step in Tap Dance.
Maybe next week, I’ll actually hold the fifth position relevé for 32 counts without wobbling.
Loving, living, writing, art, family, friends, music, and books. Us and our small corner of the world. Because, as we all know, the world is square. For only a square world has corners.
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Follow your dreams...
...but don't quit your day job. Not until you're ready.
I believe in living on the edge. To follow your dreams is to abandon the world of security, but that doesn't mean you have to be foolish about it.
In the last 3 years, I have written 4 novels and countless short stories, edited novels for friends, published an anthology, and marketed myself as a writer. While working to become a writer, I have also been a wife and mother, an employee, a friend, and helped my husband homeschool the kids. This has been an insane amount of hours of work, and I have often forgotten I am human. Sitting at my desk, writing and editing, I sometimes forget I have legs, that I am something more than a brain full of words and fingers propelling those words onto the screen permanently attached to my body.
Someday, I will be more than a writer. And that day is just around the corner; I can taste it. The smell of a fresh breeze and the tingle of life flutters in the air. I will make money with my stories, and I will have time to run and play and live like most people.
I want that day so much I am willing to sacrifice. Yesterday, we signed the papers to move our large family into a small apartment, and tomorrow we pick up the keys. That's about $600 savings a month and one step closer to being less dependent on my income.
To make this move possible, we've given up more stuff than I ever knew we had. We have spent long hours over the last few weeks to organize, make piles to go to Goodwill, and throw things out. For Pete's sake, I don't need an egg separator! I'm allergic to eggs, and we haven't had any in the house for over a year! It's not like I'll ever make Angel Food Cake again.
You don't have to be foolish to follow a dream, but you have to want it with all your heart. If you throw your money on 50-inch screen TV's and motorboats and large houses and fast cars, you're not likely to get there.
Step One. Keep working while I write in the evenings.
Step Two. Learn to live on less.
Step Three. Find an agent/publisher. Start making money at writing. ** This is where I am at now. **
Step Four. My husband, the wonderful stay-at-home dad, gets a job.
Step Five. Buy a discounted house with cash. There's a lot of foreclosures / short sales in our area right now. Without a mortgage or rent payment, we won't need much to live on.
Step Six. I quit and take a nice month-long vacation.
What will I do that month? Play in my garden. Take long walks. Run with my kids in the park. Clean my house from top to bottom. Bake something yummy. Learn how to dance again.
What about you? What are your dreams? What is your plan to get there?
I believe in living on the edge. To follow your dreams is to abandon the world of security, but that doesn't mean you have to be foolish about it.
In the last 3 years, I have written 4 novels and countless short stories, edited novels for friends, published an anthology, and marketed myself as a writer. While working to become a writer, I have also been a wife and mother, an employee, a friend, and helped my husband homeschool the kids. This has been an insane amount of hours of work, and I have often forgotten I am human. Sitting at my desk, writing and editing, I sometimes forget I have legs, that I am something more than a brain full of words and fingers propelling those words onto the screen permanently attached to my body.
Someday, I will be more than a writer. And that day is just around the corner; I can taste it. The smell of a fresh breeze and the tingle of life flutters in the air. I will make money with my stories, and I will have time to run and play and live like most people.
I want that day so much I am willing to sacrifice. Yesterday, we signed the papers to move our large family into a small apartment, and tomorrow we pick up the keys. That's about $600 savings a month and one step closer to being less dependent on my income.
To make this move possible, we've given up more stuff than I ever knew we had. We have spent long hours over the last few weeks to organize, make piles to go to Goodwill, and throw things out. For Pete's sake, I don't need an egg separator! I'm allergic to eggs, and we haven't had any in the house for over a year! It's not like I'll ever make Angel Food Cake again.
You don't have to be foolish to follow a dream, but you have to want it with all your heart. If you throw your money on 50-inch screen TV's and motorboats and large houses and fast cars, you're not likely to get there.
Step One. Keep working while I write in the evenings.
Step Two. Learn to live on less.
Step Three. Find an agent/publisher. Start making money at writing. ** This is where I am at now. **
Step Four. My husband, the wonderful stay-at-home dad, gets a job.
Step Five. Buy a discounted house with cash. There's a lot of foreclosures / short sales in our area right now. Without a mortgage or rent payment, we won't need much to live on.
Step Six. I quit and take a nice month-long vacation.
What will I do that month? Play in my garden. Take long walks. Run with my kids in the park. Clean my house from top to bottom. Bake something yummy. Learn how to dance again.
What about you? What are your dreams? What is your plan to get there?
A Reminder of Who I Really Am
I got reprimanded at work today for going above and beyond the call of duty and being detailed, precise, and careful to do my job.
In need of reminding myself what my goals really are and where I am going, I wanted to share with you an excerpt from the novel RESURRECTION I am working on. I hope you enjoy:
So who am I? I am a writer, an author, who makes a little money testing software on the side. They don't own me.
In need of reminding myself what my goals really are and where I am going, I wanted to share with you an excerpt from the novel RESURRECTION I am working on. I hope you enjoy:
She put her arms around him and pulled his head close. And kissed him. Good and hard. His body answered, heat spreading through him, waking something deep inside. Something stronger than he had ever known. Before he could respond, she pulled away. Her chin trembled. "I'm not Chester. I'm not Jadon. But I'm still a woman."
He pulled her back to him. She wore some kind of soft gown, and underneath, she was naked. Not quite sure how he knew that, but he did. His hands ran down her side. The curves of her body fit perfectly against him. He didn’t know what to do next. Desire and fear warred inside him.
"You're looking at me."
He blinked his eyes. Lelea wasn't in his arms. She stood across the room, in front of the computers, staring at him, her eyes wide, her mouth open with surprise, as if his thoughts flashed like lights above his head.
He cleared his throat. His face burned. It had all been some strange dream. A living dream. He shook his head, trying to wake up. "No, I—"
"You looked at me."
Even now he could see the shape of her breasts through the gown. Her nipples stood out—beautiful, innocent, pure, like a fresh water stream hidden in the rocks. A wild stream that no one could tame. He couldn’t breathe.
"The way a man looks at a woman."
"I'm sorry." Ahern glanced at his feet. Shame gnawed at him. He had no right to think such thoughts; Lelea wasn't even the one he wanted. Nor had he taken her into his tent, presented her to his mother to bind them.
But his mother was dead now, murdered, along with all their people. He alone survived, and he had a vow to fulfill—to kill this girl's father. He must fulfill his oath—before he could ever consider binding a mate.
"No," she said, her voice harsh.
He looked back at her, surprised.
"No. You honor me, Ahern." She had come very close. He could have touched her, pulled her close like he had dreamed. She touched his face and smiled.
This can't be real.
She took his hand and put it on her breast, as soft as he had imagined. His hand tingled; they could have melted into her skin. She turned her head towards his and met his lips with hers. Gentle. Like a soft breeze.
"This can't be real."
"What's not real?" Lelea stood on the other side of the table, holding the plug that she had pulled out of Jadon's neck. A black jumpsuit replaced the soft dress he had imagined.
So who am I? I am a writer, an author, who makes a little money testing software on the side. They don't own me.
Guilty of Dreaming
I am currently reading Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card and came across this quote:
Note: I am actually reading this as a book on tape in my car, so these typed words are from dictation. The punctuation and name spellings may be different from what is in the actual printed book.
Pippo was questioning her motivations, forcing her to expose the very core of who she was, and out of that came some powerful dialog. And very intense. You can feel the characters' hatred, fear, anxiety. Card does an excellent job playing up the struggle between the two characters.
I wanted to share every word of this scene here in this blog. Partially, to analyze the dialog from a writer's perspective. But mostly to consider the wisdom of what was being said. Card seems to really be a philosopher at heart, and he's using his story to share something very profound with us without falling into exposition.
Dreams. Something that I crave to follow. And it is my hope in my writing to push people to find their dreams, to follow them, to give them hope, to reach into an empty place deep inside and make that place ache with longing for something more than this world has yet offered.
Which is the very thing that this sentence did to me: "I find you guilty of dreaming good dreams..."
So I want to ask you what Card's character Pippo was asking Nivenia: who are you?
"You had the examination ready," she said. "You were all set to go. You knew that you'd let me do it all along."
He shook his head. "I hoped. I believed in you. I wanted to help you do what you dreamed of doing. As long as it was something good."
She would not have been Nivenia if she had not found one more poisonous thing to say. "I see. So you are the judge of dreams."
Perhaps he didn't know it was an insult. He only smiled and said, "Faith, hope, and love: these three. But the greatest of these is love."
"You don't love me," she said.
"Ah," he said. "I am the judge of dreams, and you are the judge of love. Well, I find you guilty of dreaming good dreams and sentence you to a lifetime of working and suffering for the sake of your dreams. I only hope that someday you won't declare me innocent of the crime of loving you."
-- Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card
Note: I am actually reading this as a book on tape in my car, so these typed words are from dictation. The punctuation and name spellings may be different from what is in the actual printed book.
Pippo was questioning her motivations, forcing her to expose the very core of who she was, and out of that came some powerful dialog. And very intense. You can feel the characters' hatred, fear, anxiety. Card does an excellent job playing up the struggle between the two characters.
I wanted to share every word of this scene here in this blog. Partially, to analyze the dialog from a writer's perspective. But mostly to consider the wisdom of what was being said. Card seems to really be a philosopher at heart, and he's using his story to share something very profound with us without falling into exposition.
Dreams. Something that I crave to follow. And it is my hope in my writing to push people to find their dreams, to follow them, to give them hope, to reach into an empty place deep inside and make that place ache with longing for something more than this world has yet offered.
Which is the very thing that this sentence did to me: "I find you guilty of dreaming good dreams..."
So I want to ask you what Card's character Pippo was asking Nivenia: who are you?
"What I wanted to hear," said Pippo softly, "was the name of what you are rather than all the things that you are not. What you are is the Hive Queen. What you are is the Speaker for the Dead. It is a very small community—small in numbers—but a great hearted one. So you chose not to be part of the bands of children who group together for the sole purpose of excluding others, and people look at you and say, 'Poor girl, she is so isolated.' But you know a secret. You know who you really are. You are the one human being who is capable of understanding the alien mind because you are the alien mind. You know what it is to be un-human because there has never been any human group that gave you credentials as a bona fide homo sapiens."
-- Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card
Shoot for Mediocrity: B A 3
Today's guest writer Joseph F. Gergis agreed to share this with you, at my request. Joe is a professional software developer that I have known for a few years now. We've actually been through a lot together, working at the same job we were both on the canned list. He is also one of my editors, a great friend, a fellow dreamer, and an awesome musician.
There are those who would call me a talented software engineer. I am grateful for the compliment. If one assumes for a moment that their assessment is accurate, one would expect to find a rather successful, reasonably wealthy individual with stature and prominence in the field.
Poppycock.
The truth of the matter is, I am not successful in the material sense. Nor do I have wealth that rivals Bill Gates, nor am I really all that known in my field. I have made impressions at every position I have ever held, but my name is not spoken at the various software conferences nationwide. And why is this? Because every position I have ever held has been as an employee for a company. And it does not matter if the company is large or small; either way, I have still been a slave to the desires of some corporate machine.
Let me share an example from my past.
One day, Rita stopped by my cube, and saw a rather interesting quote on my whiteboard. Aside from the various bits of code which littered most of its surface, a quote, outlined in the corner, read: “BE A THREE.”
“Be a three? What does that mean?” she asked, with a puzzled look on her face.
“Oh, that.” A mischievous grin appeared on my face in response, for the quote had produced precisely the response I’d wanted. I proceeded to explain what being a three meant.
The traditional model of work involves an employee starting at a new job and making a good impression. This means working extra unpaid hours, showing that the new employee is dedicated to corporate goals. Before too long it is virtually assumed that said worker will always put in extra hours. This employee is dependable. Soon, said employee is now being overloaded with up to twice the normal workload.
What explains this is a curious twist of logic: do a good job so you’ll do well on your evaluation. That’s what this is about. Evaluations.
In the past year I had worked well over and above what any sane person ever would consider. I took work home. I would be up at 2AM driving to the office just to check on the status of a job I’d started before leaving earlier that day. And why? Because I wanted a good evaluation.
Public schools teach children to please their teacher. Do well to get a good grade. As children mature, it becomes more about standardized test scores (1600 on your SATs! 5 on your AP exams! Push! Harder! You need to do this to get into a good college!) and less about pleasing people, but don’t worry! The drive has been ingrained. I am not in the least bit ashamed to admit that I, too, am a product of this engineering. The result of this engineering, the schooling, the years spent in college, the training, the internships, all of this, is for one goal:
Folks, let me shatter your illusions. I did this. I did a phenomenal job. I made sure the team met its goals and deadlines. I wrote some great code, and furthered the the project along with everyone else on my team. I fully expected a grade of 2 on my evaluation (on a scale of 1 to 5 with a 1 being the best you can get).
Imagine my dismay when during a staff meeting, it was hinted that upper management was rather unhappy that my manager has passed too many “2” evaluations, and that many were sent back to be “normalized.”
My question of “What’s the problem of having a bunch of neurotic overachievers for a team?” went unanswered and should have been my first clue.
Now, as a minor aside, please let me point out that I have no illusions about my role there. I was a cog in the machine. I was a corporate tool. My job was to produce code, and produce code I did. But I never felt any true loyalty to where I worked (I did towards individuals but not to the corporate entity itself), not in the sense that I felt the company took any loyalty to me. And yet, I am still a product of my environment. Like everyone else, I fought for the evaluation grade.
After all that work, all I got was a three. A THREE! I was ‘meets expectations’.
The day that occurred, I made a decision. If all I rated was a three, all they would get was three-level work. Never was I staying late again. I would not push any harder than I had to in order to ‘meet expectations’. If a three I was rated, a three I would be.
The end result of all of this was that I was laid off. For all of my hard work, I was tossed aside with everyone else as the company moved in pursuit of ever higher profits, and had to cut expenditures such as the salaries of most of their employees. In retrospect, I was very pleased that I did not push as hard as I could. I did not bleed myself for the company’s profit and benefit. I’ll explain why this is important further down.
I sound bitter, don’t I? I sound like a man at the end of his years looking back at a field of broken dreams. Truthfully, I was more angry, than bitter, because I cannot abide stupidity. But I was actually elated to be on the layoff list, because all I could see was that things would only get worse. Besides - after I’d made my decisions after ‘being a three’ I’d already known I’d never be able to be to view my career the same way again.
What had I done instead of pushing harder and harder, ever in pursuit of that ‘2’? I travelled a bit. I enjoyed my evenings, for a change. And I took an opportunity to pursue a love of mine: music. I produced and released an album of music (find it on iTunes or Amazon.com), something I never thought would happen anytime soon. How could I have done this, by being the employee dedicated to his own demise?
The lesson I learned is this: know to whom you are investing your dreams and efforts. No one else but you will protect your aspirations. I am not suggesting that people should, en masse, quit their jobs and head for the hills. Bills need to be paid. Food needs to be bought. But the pursuit of these mundane tasks should not overshadow or otherwise replace those dreams where your heart lies.
Dream big. Do what you need to do to survive, but dream big. And remember to chase those dreams. No one else will do it for you.
Check out Joe's music on iTunes or here on his mySpace.com profile.
There are those who would call me a talented software engineer. I am grateful for the compliment. If one assumes for a moment that their assessment is accurate, one would expect to find a rather successful, reasonably wealthy individual with stature and prominence in the field.
Poppycock.
The truth of the matter is, I am not successful in the material sense. Nor do I have wealth that rivals Bill Gates, nor am I really all that known in my field. I have made impressions at every position I have ever held, but my name is not spoken at the various software conferences nationwide. And why is this? Because every position I have ever held has been as an employee for a company. And it does not matter if the company is large or small; either way, I have still been a slave to the desires of some corporate machine.
Let me share an example from my past.
One day, Rita stopped by my cube, and saw a rather interesting quote on my whiteboard. Aside from the various bits of code which littered most of its surface, a quote, outlined in the corner, read: “BE A THREE.”
“Be a three? What does that mean?” she asked, with a puzzled look on her face.
“Oh, that.” A mischievous grin appeared on my face in response, for the quote had produced precisely the response I’d wanted. I proceeded to explain what being a three meant.
The traditional model of work involves an employee starting at a new job and making a good impression. This means working extra unpaid hours, showing that the new employee is dedicated to corporate goals. Before too long it is virtually assumed that said worker will always put in extra hours. This employee is dependable. Soon, said employee is now being overloaded with up to twice the normal workload.
What explains this is a curious twist of logic: do a good job so you’ll do well on your evaluation. That’s what this is about. Evaluations.
In the past year I had worked well over and above what any sane person ever would consider. I took work home. I would be up at 2AM driving to the office just to check on the status of a job I’d started before leaving earlier that day. And why? Because I wanted a good evaluation.
Public schools teach children to please their teacher. Do well to get a good grade. As children mature, it becomes more about standardized test scores (1600 on your SATs! 5 on your AP exams! Push! Harder! You need to do this to get into a good college!) and less about pleasing people, but don’t worry! The drive has been ingrained. I am not in the least bit ashamed to admit that I, too, am a product of this engineering. The result of this engineering, the schooling, the years spent in college, the training, the internships, all of this, is for one goal:
Get a good job, make your boss happy, and do well on your evaluation. After 40 or so years, you’ll retire on your pension or 401k. And if you do lose your job on the way, it’s ok, you’ll just get another job and keep going.
Folks, let me shatter your illusions. I did this. I did a phenomenal job. I made sure the team met its goals and deadlines. I wrote some great code, and furthered the the project along with everyone else on my team. I fully expected a grade of 2 on my evaluation (on a scale of 1 to 5 with a 1 being the best you can get).
Imagine my dismay when during a staff meeting, it was hinted that upper management was rather unhappy that my manager has passed too many “2” evaluations, and that many were sent back to be “normalized.”
My question of “What’s the problem of having a bunch of neurotic overachievers for a team?” went unanswered and should have been my first clue.
Now, as a minor aside, please let me point out that I have no illusions about my role there. I was a cog in the machine. I was a corporate tool. My job was to produce code, and produce code I did. But I never felt any true loyalty to where I worked (I did towards individuals but not to the corporate entity itself), not in the sense that I felt the company took any loyalty to me. And yet, I am still a product of my environment. Like everyone else, I fought for the evaluation grade.
After all that work, all I got was a three. A THREE! I was ‘meets expectations’.
The day that occurred, I made a decision. If all I rated was a three, all they would get was three-level work. Never was I staying late again. I would not push any harder than I had to in order to ‘meet expectations’. If a three I was rated, a three I would be.
The end result of all of this was that I was laid off. For all of my hard work, I was tossed aside with everyone else as the company moved in pursuit of ever higher profits, and had to cut expenditures such as the salaries of most of their employees. In retrospect, I was very pleased that I did not push as hard as I could. I did not bleed myself for the company’s profit and benefit. I’ll explain why this is important further down.
I sound bitter, don’t I? I sound like a man at the end of his years looking back at a field of broken dreams. Truthfully, I was more angry, than bitter, because I cannot abide stupidity. But I was actually elated to be on the layoff list, because all I could see was that things would only get worse. Besides - after I’d made my decisions after ‘being a three’ I’d already known I’d never be able to be to view my career the same way again.
What had I done instead of pushing harder and harder, ever in pursuit of that ‘2’? I travelled a bit. I enjoyed my evenings, for a change. And I took an opportunity to pursue a love of mine: music. I produced and released an album of music (find it on iTunes or Amazon.com), something I never thought would happen anytime soon. How could I have done this, by being the employee dedicated to his own demise?
The lesson I learned is this: know to whom you are investing your dreams and efforts. No one else but you will protect your aspirations. I am not suggesting that people should, en masse, quit their jobs and head for the hills. Bills need to be paid. Food needs to be bought. But the pursuit of these mundane tasks should not overshadow or otherwise replace those dreams where your heart lies.
Dream big. Do what you need to do to survive, but dream big. And remember to chase those dreams. No one else will do it for you.
Check out Joe's music on iTunes or here on his mySpace.com profile.
Teenagers, Follow Your Dreams!
SarahK posted this comment to the blog post about writing the teenage perspective:
I wish I had financial security. It would make following my dreams a whole lot easier. I also wish I had continued to write and follow my dreams ever since high school, rather than waiting until my thirties to start trying. I wish I had had more financial sense and understanding. There are so many things I would have started to do ten years ago rather than now when I have 3 children and a house and responsibilities. But I would rather be free to pursue my dreams than to be secure in a dead-end job.
I am seventeen, in High School and am trying to deal with social and family pressures while trying to write my novel. Every person around me tells me that I am too young and that I should wait until I have some "Financial Security."
I wish I had financial security. It would make following my dreams a whole lot easier. I also wish I had continued to write and follow my dreams ever since high school, rather than waiting until my thirties to start trying. I wish I had had more financial sense and understanding. There are so many things I would have started to do ten years ago rather than now when I have 3 children and a house and responsibilities. But I would rather be free to pursue my dreams than to be secure in a dead-end job.
The better path is to follow your dreams and educate yourself on wise money management.
The people preaching "financial security" are both right and wrong all at the same time. The typical path to financial scurity:
Get a job so you can have a high-paying salary, benefits, 401K, and a pension plan. Your employer and the federal government will take care of you. Then you will be secure.
Hogwash.
Tell that to the unemployed who've been laid off after slaving away for years for companies who barely paid them enough to feed their families. Tell that to my father-in-law who is dying from asbestos exposure after working in a power plant all his life.
I worked for ten years at a prestigious information technology company for less than standard pay for a software test analyst and then was laid off after training my incompetent replacement. The company would rather have cheap incompetence from India (not all Indians are incompetent, but these ones were) than to pay a fair price for a good product.
So I got my severance package. I was planning to use it to live on while I started my career as a writer. After 10 years of working for them, it should have covered almost six months of salary. But the government took almost 50% and left us with enough to survive for just a few months. We are in the process of losing our house to foreclosure now.
One of my coworkers who was also laid off had only been there a few years, not long enough to keep the company's matching part in his 401K. Because of the downward spiral of the economy, he'd been losing money, and when the company took back their share, they did not prorate for what was lost. They took 100% of their money and left his 401K empty.
And yet it was the people who stayed--the ones that weren't laid off--that I felt sorry for. They now had to depend on incompetent teammates to get the job done or do it all themselves, working longer hours, weekends and evenings. It was those that stayed that were the bitter ones, trying to keep afloat a sinking ship.
So now I can say: Security is a cheap substitute for freedom.
A Better Path
There has to be a better way. In pursuit of finding a better way, I started studying the Rich Dad series. Rich Dad, Poor Dad is a book about a man (Robert T. Kiyosaki) whose father was poor but his friend's father was rich. Rich Dad made it through 8th grade and then built a multi-million dollar empire. Poor Dad lived the system I described above and died penniless.
Rich Dad mentored Kiyosaki and helped him to find the path to riches. The books are about the lessons that he learned along the way--the struggles, the failures, the successes, the wisdom, the learning that he gained as he built his own empire, following in the footsteps of his Rich Dad, listening to the wisdom of one who had gone before him.
To end, I want to include this quote from Mark Twain:
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
The people preaching "financial security" are both right and wrong all at the same time. The typical path to financial scurity:
- work hard in high school
- go to college
- get a good degree
- get a high paying job
- work hard to make someone else rich
Get a job so you can have a high-paying salary, benefits, 401K, and a pension plan. Your employer and the federal government will take care of you. Then you will be secure.
Hogwash.
Tell that to the unemployed who've been laid off after slaving away for years for companies who barely paid them enough to feed their families. Tell that to my father-in-law who is dying from asbestos exposure after working in a power plant all his life.
I worked for ten years at a prestigious information technology company for less than standard pay for a software test analyst and then was laid off after training my incompetent replacement. The company would rather have cheap incompetence from India (not all Indians are incompetent, but these ones were) than to pay a fair price for a good product.
So I got my severance package. I was planning to use it to live on while I started my career as a writer. After 10 years of working for them, it should have covered almost six months of salary. But the government took almost 50% and left us with enough to survive for just a few months. We are in the process of losing our house to foreclosure now.
One of my coworkers who was also laid off had only been there a few years, not long enough to keep the company's matching part in his 401K. Because of the downward spiral of the economy, he'd been losing money, and when the company took back their share, they did not prorate for what was lost. They took 100% of their money and left his 401K empty.
And yet it was the people who stayed--the ones that weren't laid off--that I felt sorry for. They now had to depend on incompetent teammates to get the job done or do it all themselves, working longer hours, weekends and evenings. It was those that stayed that were the bitter ones, trying to keep afloat a sinking ship.
So now I can say: Security is a cheap substitute for freedom.
A Better Path
There has to be a better way. In pursuit of finding a better way, I started studying the Rich Dad series. Rich Dad, Poor Dad is a book about a man (Robert T. Kiyosaki) whose father was poor but his friend's father was rich. Rich Dad made it through 8th grade and then built a multi-million dollar empire. Poor Dad lived the system I described above and died penniless.
Rich Dad mentored Kiyosaki and helped him to find the path to riches. The books are about the lessons that he learned along the way--the struggles, the failures, the successes, the wisdom, the learning that he gained as he built his own empire, following in the footsteps of his Rich Dad, listening to the wisdom of one who had gone before him.
To end, I want to include this quote from Mark Twain:
What work I have done I have done because it has been play. If it had been work I shouldn't have done it.
Who was it who said, "Blessed is the man who has found his work"? Whoever it was he had the right idea in his mind. Mark you, he says his work--not somebody else's work. The work that is really a man's own work is play and not work at all. Cursed is the man who has found some other man's work and cannot lose it.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
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Self-Investment
I am in the unique position of being able to ask myself,"What do I want to be when I grow up?"
If I could be free to choose, I'd choose to be everything. I'd want to live in such a way that I could live on my creative efforts. I'd like to sew a quilt and sell it on E-Bay. I'd like to write a novel, weaving a tale that keeps people spellbound, and get it published. I'd like to buy an old house and fix it up, make it something beautiful once again for someone to make into a home. I'd like to invent something and market it. I'd like to paint beautiful art and display it in a gallery. I want to have a greenhouse and sell my flowers and fresh produce at a farmer's market. I want to learn to develop software and come up with a great web site that people will love. I want to be a freelancer, writing articles about home schooling and about life. I want to be a teacher and teach classes on writing and scrapbooking and home schooling and whatever else I have learned. I want to be a psychologist and study child development and help parents learn to understand their children.
Why not? Why does our society say that we must get jobs, work for someone else, doing the same thing year after year, until we're old, and then retire when life is gone? We're slaves to someone else's agenda. I could have been done with my work 5 hours ago because I'm good at what I do, but I still have to sit at my desk to fill up my 8 hour day. They own me for 8 hours. And responsibility is the task master that keeps me in my seat. If I were to fail on my own, 3 little children would pay the price for my selfishness.
After all, I am the sole bread winner for my family as my husband is the wonderful stay-at-home dad. That is, until one week and two days from now. Then they lay me off and I step into the great world of unemployment.
Hoping that somehow I can put food in front of a family of five. Hoping that we won't be living in our van, bankrupt and homeless. Hoping that life has something more to offer than busy-ness and frustration and stagnation. There's gotta be something more out there!
The Betrayal of College
"Look to the person on your left and the person on your right. They won't be here when you graduate," this is what my husband TJ was told in his college orientation class. He was attending a major university to study architecture. They bragged up front that their goal was to make him fail.
And every class he took, he realized just how much they meant that.
He had stacks and stacks of note cards about skyscrapers that seemed to look exactly alike. He had to memorize the architect, the year it was built, and the reason the building is significant for hundreds of buildings so that he can answer only three questions on his fifty question test. Each test had a larger stack than the test before.
Then he had art teachers that seemed to enjoy finding fault with his projects over little things that had no rhyme or reason. My husband had this wonderful model of a restaurant or night club that had a stage for a musical band. It took him all quarter to design and put together, and one week before it was due, they made him start over.
"You should separate these stairs so that you can put tables on the steps," his teacher told him.
In one week, he had to recreate what had taken him months to do because of this one change. Funny thing is, I could see several, very good reasons why separating the stairs was a very bad idea:
TJ was not the only one who had to restart projects from scratch. Architecture students spent every waking hour in the art lab. Let me rephrase that: architecture students spent EVERY hour in the art lab. There was no sleeping. TJ jokes about how this was a psychologist's fantasy: an experimental study on the affects of sleep deprivation on a large group of people.
Some students would take No-Doze with a jug of Mountain Dew. Oh, they'd be awake! But they'd also be so shaky they couldn't hold a pen. No sleep AND no progress on their project. Others would fall asleep with their heads in their projects.
"Should we wake him?"
"No, his project's already ruined from the drool. Just let him sleep."
Then came time to present their final projects to the class. Those that slapped their projects together without giving it any effort got A's. "Yes, this ink smudge over here represents my mood that day." And those that poured their hearts out into their projects failed because they were too tired to B.S. their way through the presentation.
After two years, TJ failed architecture, and it took him close to five years before he was even willing to pick up a pencil again. They killed his love for drawing and for art, and they gleefully bragged about it before they did it.
Having failed architecture, he went into environmental science. Now he had math and science teachers that barely spoke English who would mumble into the chalk board and then erase the notes before the students had a chance to see them because they stood in the way.
Furthermore, changing majors caused a great deal of trouble. He had to retake electives to meet new graduation requirements, and he needed new paperwork. It was like changing colleges rather than changing majors. But then there was the hassle with getting the right class at the right time to finish his degree. Again and again, they screwed him over, canceling classes he needed or scheduling two classes at the same time, delaying his expected graduation date.
"Nope, sorry, you will have to take that class next quarter, and graduate next year. That will be an additional $1000. Thank you. Have a nice day!"
Finally after seven years, he finished college with a Bachelor's of Science in Environmental Science, a degree that actually did not prepare him at all for the direction he wanted to take. The science program was mis-advertised. He had planned on working in parks and with animals, and instead he was trained for water sewage plants.
And TJ was the lucky one. He could have been one of those upper-classmen architecture students who got in a car crash when they drove themselves on the class field trip. It wasn't drugs or drinking that made them ram the semi in front of them. It was lack of sleep. The driver fell asleep at the wheel.
After four years in architecture, enduring to the end, one student lost his right arm, and he would never be able to draw again. So much for a career as an architect. The other occupants of the car were all seriously hurt or maimed, including paralysis.
"Look to your left. Look to your right. Your classmates won't be here when you graduate."
The Frustration of the Work Place
"You wrote an awesome performance appraisal this year," Kevin said to me. "Lisa asked me to review it. It was great. So how'd you do?"
"She gave me a three," I answered. A three. It means that I met expectations. I saved a project from utter failure while balancing two other projects that I was also responsible for. I wrote over a hundred defects for one release alone. I talked Product out of not releasing a project by explaining why one bug could be a very nice product feature.
I was so proud of my performance, but my boss saw all that I did as nothing more than what was expected of me.
Being a three means no promotion this year. Being a three means I only got a very small merit-based raise. The raise was eaten up by the increased cost of health insurance. I actually got about $100 less this year per paycheck than I did last year. Being a three means I was included on the list to be canned. I wasn't valuable enough to the team.
Looking back at our last few product releases, I shake my head in disbelief. I cover two-thirds of the product functionality, and we have a team of three. This means that the other third is split between two other employees. That does not include the other projects I cover where I am 100% responsible for the functionality.
But I am not valuable to the team.
I was proud of my work. It felt like the projects I was responsible for were my own. For years, I nurtured them like babies. I planned the tests. I ran them. I verified the results. I researched the defects. I wrote careful documentation so that developers could easily fix the problems. I was good at what I did. And I was proud of that.
It was mine. My very own. Dare I say, "My precious?"
And then it was theirs. They snatched it away and gave it to contractors in India who had no clue what they were doing. And I was expected to continue my duties while training my replacements. I spent 3 hours explaining the same functionality, and after three hours, they asked the same questions as when we started the training session. Didn't they get it the first five times I explained it?
One week and two days, and I will be on my own with no job lined up. I have tried to find another testing job, but I have been met with one closed door after another. The city where I live isn't hiring testers. I'd have to drive to a neighboring city to get a job. If I'm lucky, that will add only an hour to my commute.
To find a job, we may have to move, cramming our large family into a small apartment. Because we couldn't afford to keep an apartment and the house on one income, we would have to try to sell, and as this is a slow market and our neighborhood is deteriorating, we would probably have to abandon our house. This could mean foreclosure and eventual bankruptcy.
I feel trapped and frustrated, and I don't really like software testing anymore. I yearn for something more than jobs and the rushing around that we do. Yet I have to feed my children, and I like having a warm home to live in.
The Disappointment of Retirement
My father-in-law worked at a major power plant in Ohio until he finally retired four years ago. He had worked swing shift that required long hours, and overtime was often not optional. You did it, or you lost your job. So he was often not home. He barely got to enjoy his children growing up, but he plugged away, just thankful that he could put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. And he dreamed about someday, when he retires.
It was shortly after retirement that he found out that he has emphysema and lung damage caused by years of exposure to asbestos. The plant never told their workers that they were being exposed to very harmful material. Now he is on oxygen, and those dreams of gardening and bowling are marred by the difficulty of breathing. The doctor says he won't make it to 80.
And his father before him retired from coal mining in Pennsylvania with third-stage black lung. Selling your soul to your job doesn't pay in the end.
"Look to the person on your left and the person on your right. They won't be here when you graduate," this is what my husband TJ was told in his college orientation class. He was attending a major university to study architecture. They bragged up front that their goal was to make him fail.
And every class he took, he realized just how much they meant that.
He had stacks and stacks of note cards about skyscrapers that seemed to look exactly alike. He had to memorize the architect, the year it was built, and the reason the building is significant for hundreds of buildings so that he can answer only three questions on his fifty question test. Each test had a larger stack than the test before.
Then he had art teachers that seemed to enjoy finding fault with his projects over little things that had no rhyme or reason. My husband had this wonderful model of a restaurant or night club that had a stage for a musical band. It took him all quarter to design and put together, and one week before it was due, they made him start over.
"You should separate these stairs so that you can put tables on the steps," his teacher told him.
In one week, he had to recreate what had taken him months to do because of this one change. Funny thing is, I could see several, very good reasons why separating the stairs was a very bad idea:
- Waitresses, carrying heavy trays full of food, would have to navigate these stairs that are placed at random intervals. They would have to watch their feet and watch their trays and watch for people just to be sure that they don't trip.
- Patrons probably would not be as alert for the stairs as a waitress would be. This would make it more likely for a patron to fall, a recipe for disaster and a very good way to get sued.
- People sitting at the tables on the bottom level will probably not be able to see the stage. That is the reason that stages are elevated, so that people can see over the heads of others.
TJ was not the only one who had to restart projects from scratch. Architecture students spent every waking hour in the art lab. Let me rephrase that: architecture students spent EVERY hour in the art lab. There was no sleeping. TJ jokes about how this was a psychologist's fantasy: an experimental study on the affects of sleep deprivation on a large group of people.
Some students would take No-Doze with a jug of Mountain Dew. Oh, they'd be awake! But they'd also be so shaky they couldn't hold a pen. No sleep AND no progress on their project. Others would fall asleep with their heads in their projects.
"Should we wake him?"
"No, his project's already ruined from the drool. Just let him sleep."
Then came time to present their final projects to the class. Those that slapped their projects together without giving it any effort got A's. "Yes, this ink smudge over here represents my mood that day." And those that poured their hearts out into their projects failed because they were too tired to B.S. their way through the presentation.
After two years, TJ failed architecture, and it took him close to five years before he was even willing to pick up a pencil again. They killed his love for drawing and for art, and they gleefully bragged about it before they did it.
Having failed architecture, he went into environmental science. Now he had math and science teachers that barely spoke English who would mumble into the chalk board and then erase the notes before the students had a chance to see them because they stood in the way.
Furthermore, changing majors caused a great deal of trouble. He had to retake electives to meet new graduation requirements, and he needed new paperwork. It was like changing colleges rather than changing majors. But then there was the hassle with getting the right class at the right time to finish his degree. Again and again, they screwed him over, canceling classes he needed or scheduling two classes at the same time, delaying his expected graduation date.
"Nope, sorry, you will have to take that class next quarter, and graduate next year. That will be an additional $1000. Thank you. Have a nice day!"
Finally after seven years, he finished college with a Bachelor's of Science in Environmental Science, a degree that actually did not prepare him at all for the direction he wanted to take. The science program was mis-advertised. He had planned on working in parks and with animals, and instead he was trained for water sewage plants.
And TJ was the lucky one. He could have been one of those upper-classmen architecture students who got in a car crash when they drove themselves on the class field trip. It wasn't drugs or drinking that made them ram the semi in front of them. It was lack of sleep. The driver fell asleep at the wheel.
After four years in architecture, enduring to the end, one student lost his right arm, and he would never be able to draw again. So much for a career as an architect. The other occupants of the car were all seriously hurt or maimed, including paralysis.
"Look to your left. Look to your right. Your classmates won't be here when you graduate."
The Frustration of the Work Place
"You wrote an awesome performance appraisal this year," Kevin said to me. "Lisa asked me to review it. It was great. So how'd you do?"
"She gave me a three," I answered. A three. It means that I met expectations. I saved a project from utter failure while balancing two other projects that I was also responsible for. I wrote over a hundred defects for one release alone. I talked Product out of not releasing a project by explaining why one bug could be a very nice product feature.
I was so proud of my performance, but my boss saw all that I did as nothing more than what was expected of me.
Being a three means no promotion this year. Being a three means I only got a very small merit-based raise. The raise was eaten up by the increased cost of health insurance. I actually got about $100 less this year per paycheck than I did last year. Being a three means I was included on the list to be canned. I wasn't valuable enough to the team.
Looking back at our last few product releases, I shake my head in disbelief. I cover two-thirds of the product functionality, and we have a team of three. This means that the other third is split between two other employees. That does not include the other projects I cover where I am 100% responsible for the functionality.
But I am not valuable to the team.
I was proud of my work. It felt like the projects I was responsible for were my own. For years, I nurtured them like babies. I planned the tests. I ran them. I verified the results. I researched the defects. I wrote careful documentation so that developers could easily fix the problems. I was good at what I did. And I was proud of that.
It was mine. My very own. Dare I say, "My precious?"
And then it was theirs. They snatched it away and gave it to contractors in India who had no clue what they were doing. And I was expected to continue my duties while training my replacements. I spent 3 hours explaining the same functionality, and after three hours, they asked the same questions as when we started the training session. Didn't they get it the first five times I explained it?
One week and two days, and I will be on my own with no job lined up. I have tried to find another testing job, but I have been met with one closed door after another. The city where I live isn't hiring testers. I'd have to drive to a neighboring city to get a job. If I'm lucky, that will add only an hour to my commute.
To find a job, we may have to move, cramming our large family into a small apartment. Because we couldn't afford to keep an apartment and the house on one income, we would have to try to sell, and as this is a slow market and our neighborhood is deteriorating, we would probably have to abandon our house. This could mean foreclosure and eventual bankruptcy.
I feel trapped and frustrated, and I don't really like software testing anymore. I yearn for something more than jobs and the rushing around that we do. Yet I have to feed my children, and I like having a warm home to live in.
The Disappointment of Retirement
My father-in-law worked at a major power plant in Ohio until he finally retired four years ago. He had worked swing shift that required long hours, and overtime was often not optional. You did it, or you lost your job. So he was often not home. He barely got to enjoy his children growing up, but he plugged away, just thankful that he could put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. And he dreamed about someday, when he retires.
It was shortly after retirement that he found out that he has emphysema and lung damage caused by years of exposure to asbestos. The plant never told their workers that they were being exposed to very harmful material. Now he is on oxygen, and those dreams of gardening and bowling are marred by the difficulty of breathing. The doctor says he won't make it to 80.
And his father before him retired from coal mining in Pennsylvania with third-stage black lung. Selling your soul to your job doesn't pay in the end.
How It All Began
It was August 2007. The big honcho sent an email, announcing the decision to analyze the pros and cons of using a third-party offshore company to replace us. People were shocked. Angry. Depressed. Some of my coworkers had been there close to twenty years and didn't believe life could exist outside of their four gray cube walls. Most people didn't think management would do it, and if so, they were too important to be canned.
It took them until May the next year to announce their decision, but I already knew what their decision would be and that I'd be on that list. I knew this was going to happen four years before it did, and I was ready to move on.
I hated my job. I hated working for someone else, living on their schedule, punching my time card (figuratively speaking), running the same tests over and over. Computers don't talk back. People do. And I discovered long ago the futility of my job.
I discovered that when I left my first child at home with her daddy and drove away to go to work. And again, when my second was born and my maternity leave was over and the little girl refused to take a bottle and would starve all day while I was gone. And again with my third.
My family. That is what was important.
And I prayed to be set free. And God promised to move on my behalf.
So I knew I would be free someday. And when they announced the possible layoffs, I knew I'd be on that list. I would collect my severance and go home to my family. One door closes and another always opens. There is always something new to face. A new challenge. A new phase of existence.
But what about money after the severance check was gone? What if being home with my kids wasn't possible? What if I still need to bring in money?
And that is when I was faced with the question: What do I really want to be when I grow up?
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