Finding Your Why to Handle Your How

Posted on by sereichert

Hey kids. It’s been an interesting couple of weeks. From a near breakdown (I have a blog on that I’m trying to work the courage up to post) to a long and quiet return to my roots, to the challenging journey into sobriety, I feel like I’m walking a strange and wobbly tightrope. Teetering between okay and falling to my death.

So here’s what I’ve been doing. Reading. And writing. And planning classes. Struggling with knitting and walking my dog, giving back to my writing community in any way I can, and being present for my kiddos. I sometimes have to make myself do the things, and fight to keep the engine running. I’m keeping my hands and my heart busy and I know that’s not always the way to healing. But its a way to keep living, and right now…that’s got to be my only focus. Living. Hanging on, by full-arm embrace or bloodied fingernails.

Let’s go back to the reading part.

I’ve been going thoughtfully through Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. (I know– ‘Human’s’ search would be better, but I’m giving him grace, because I know he means us all). And it’s full of interesting and useful psychological studies and logotherapy as a means to find focus. But there’s this theme that’s been popping up, that he derives from Nietzsche, and that is when a person has a why, they can bear almost any how. And that even when we suffer, we can create of our suffering a purpose. That the suffering itself is a reason. And moving from there, we must think about our own personal meaning of life not only in total, but in every moment. Individual to us. Because without it, it doesn’t take much to drop us into a pit of despair and self-sabotage. What is our Why? Why do we exist, beyond what’s just pleasurable. What purpose do we serve in this moment and in the future?

He told stories of men in the concentration camps he was in, and their death and survival seemed to correlate (barring outside, violent factors) with whether or not they felt they had a purpose and a focus. When we have a why, we make the how possible. That when we lose hope, we start to disintegrate. More than just personal will and physical strength, it is the belief that we still have work to do.

I’m really not certain of my exact and ultimate why. I’m not sure that’s the point, and on the path to healing I’m granting grace to myself.

So instead I try to find a why in every moment. I eat better to keep my brain chemicals balanced. I work out to help my healing heart and feel strong. I kiss my children and hold them to make as many memories as I can. I write, even on days I feel drained because some days that’s when the truest thoughts come out. Some days I can only deal with one why. Some days I have the vision for all of the whys at the top of a mountain and I keep up steps towards them. Some days rest is my why….

I have important why’s in my life. Two of them to be sure, who walk on two legs and call me Bro (this generation’s affectionate ‘mom’) But beyond that (because as we know, everything in life changes and grows and evolves and we are not in homeostasis, we are in a constant state of morphing) what is buried in my own soul, the one thing I will take with me from point alpha to point omega, is not always clear. (Did I just mix German philosophers and Greek lettering systems? Maybe…it’s late.)

I could say writing, but its more than that, isn’t it? Because writing is storytelling, and storytelling is communication, and communion with other humans, and touching an empathetic center that says, I see you. I am you. I understand fear and love and the need to belong, and I will sit with you in all of these moments. Maybe it’s not so lofty and introspective as that. Perhaps its just kindness. Human compassion. Love. Who knows, that’s a 6 hour drive by yourself kind of question.

Ultimately, I find some why in every day. All the better if it lights even the smallest flame in an otherwise dark world.

What’s yours? Beyond the physical or environmental. Beyond your skill or your education. What drives you to wake up in the morning? To get up. To keep putting on pants and brushing your teeth.

Think about it this week. What’s your Why? What will make any how bearable?

Pssst…Hey Kid, Do You…NaNo?

Posted on by sereichert

It’s that beautiful time of year again. When the leaves turn from green to brilliant oranges and bright yellows. The air turns crisp and the days beg us rest with the early setting of the sun. It means right around the corner of October will be the holidays, the hustle and bustle (and ensuing anxiety). But somewhere, wedged between this magical era of slowing into repose, and the mad dash to satisfy a ridiculous sense of commercialism, lies an opportunity. To sit down, carve out time, and *hopefully* write that novel that’s been tickling your gray matter for too long a time.

If you’ve never tried National Novel Writing Month, you’re not alone. I know brilliant writers who have shrugged it off as gimmicky or too much pressure. I know nervous neophyte writers who can’t even contemplate producing a novel in 30 days. Some don’t think they have the time. Some worry they will ‘fail’. Some might even worry that they’ll succeed (then what? I’ll have to edit it? Sell it? Pull my hair out over reviews? Who am I? Stephen Frickin King? no. you’re not.)

But if you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to sit down and face those fears and insecurities and test your wits as a writer, consider this your gentle push from someone who cares about your words and your voice in this world.

NaNoWriMo feels daunting in part, because many people think they need to produce a fully functioning, ready-to-read novel in 30 days. They know (as they should) that it will not be perfect and so why bother? But I’m here to tell you from over 10 years of experience in the process, that NaNo is actually about producing the hottest mess of a manuscript you can. The Absolute WORST. And that is why we bother.

Because a hot mess of a first draft…can be edited. A blank page, cannot.

You see, it’s not about a perfect draft, it’s just about words, strung together, that tell a story. It’s about taking off the binding of expectation and polish, and letting your creativity go braless. Free. Unrestrained. Bouncing all over the place. That’s what NaNo is. It’s permission to explore, play, and pretend. When do we get that as adults? Practically never.

So, if you’re thinking of trying out the challenge, I encourage you to sign up here. I’ll be offering a few more tips in the coming weeks AND I’ll be hosting a CRASH COURSE in NaNo on October 28th with the Writing Heights Writers Association. It’s running concurrent with a great class by Amy Rivers on Suspense (she knows, trust me). Here’s the link to register. You can attend in person or on-line from anywhere. I’ll be walking you through the basics, giving you inspiration and helpful tips, and resources for staying strong throughout the month.

Isn’t it about time you wrote that book? I mean really, we’re not promised another goddamn day…so don’t wait to do the things you’ve filed under “someday”. Worst case, you learn something about yourself, you get to write, and you find a community. Best case, you get all of that, and a first draft. What you do with it after is completely up to you. But to have it out, in the world? There’s no better feeling than that.

I’ll also be blogging about some things in the next coming weeks to help you prepare and posting weekly inspiration during November to keep your spirits up.

Go register. You’re not getting younger and the world needs your voice.

What’s Happening?

Posted on by sereichert

Hey kids, just a quick little catch up blog to let you know some things going down, and give you a heads up for some events. Also–A poem.

First, a huge thank you to Bookmarked Literary Festival in Lander, Wyoming. The organizers, sponsors, and community made it such a memorable and fun event. It’s a beautiful thing when readers and writers can come together and share their joy of literature and their support for all voices. I was so impressed by the participating writers and poets and the new voices and fresh perspectives I heard.

If you don’t have a festival like this in your town, talk to your librarians and local writers. Now, more than ever, we need people who love books and the people who believe in reading them instead of banning them. No one who ever banned a book, in the history of the world, was on the right side of things. And as writers and readers, it’s our duty to protect the free flow of ideas to be written and words to be read. Free will gives everyone a choice as to what they read, we have no right to take away the choice of someone else.

Um…what else? Oh! I have some books coming out!

Composing Laney It should be up for presale soon and book signing dates will be forthcoming. I also have a new saccharine holiday short called Rewriting Christmas with Kerrie Flanagan. If you like Hallmark and a bit of my snark, you’ll probably like it. I’ll be posting the cover reveal soon on that one. I have a new Vella out The Three Hearts of Eve which is a quick-reading adventure into the perils of genetics, assassins, and free will. It’s about to heat up, so don’t miss out. And remember the first three are free!

As always you can find my other novels, poetry anthologies and writings here on the site, at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and 5 Prince Publishing.

The LAST thing to announce is that my Youth Writing group will be participating in an Anthology due out in 2024. These talented kiddos are learning the ropes from writing to publishing and everything in between. If you know a youth who wants to be a writer (or is one), between the ages of 12-17+, send them the link here: WHWA Youth Writers. We’re still in need of entries for the anthology that will be published in May or late June. All writers will be paid for accepted submissions, and any proceeds from book sales will go directly back into the youths’ writing group for supplies, trips, and conference fees. It’s free to sign up with the youth program and there are no requirements except to enjoy the writing and be kind to one another.

Whew!

And now… Poetry

You Needn't

You needn't worry about me anymore
I'm quite moved on
without you

I've folded up my broken heart
and stuffed it in a drawer
with all my too tight sweaters
and kindergarten art work

things once mine
that do not fit any more

You needn't try to pretend we are friends
or play my sympathies
with your most recent tragedy

I've washed those away
with the news of your betrayal

down the drain they spiraled
to settle in the dark and moldy pipes
where such sympathies belong

You needn't worry for me anymore
I am an empty vessel
properly left to collect dust
on someone else' shelf

a picture of once beautiful,
chipped and worn
and waiting for something worthy
to fill me up again.

The Best Advice

Posted on by sereichert

You all know I’ve been going through some stuff. And there are good days and bad days that cycle through (sometimes it seems endlessly). I’m more than certain that friends are getting tired of my shit. I’m tired of my shit. I’m tired of the ceaseless parade of thoughts that run over, and over, and over in my head. The same story, and the injustice that it carries. And my powerlessness to fix it, to solve it, to gain back my power.

And my friends have been wonderful. They’ve listened they’ve helped me get through the toughest points. They have been soft and understanding. They’ve allowed me space to rant and cry and feel all the things. But I’m getting tired of my own emotional stink. I reached a breaking point last night. I was laying in bed, hoping I could somehow manifest a small tear in my own heart. A weak blood vessel wall in my brain. Anything that would silently open in the night and insure I wouldn’t have to wake up today and face another round of my emotional baggage. That’s how exhausted I am of all of this.

But I did wake up. I woke up and my depression sat heavy on my chest and begged me to stay in bed. But I know if I don’t get up and move in the morning, it will hold me hostage for the whole day. So I got up, dressed, checked my email and had a response from an older lady in one of the groups I’m a part of. I’d written her, irate, and kind of rudely (not proud of that) last night about some issues with the group.

I expected her response to be in kind. But it wasn’t. But neither was it coddling to my tantrum. In essence she grabbed me by the shirt front, pulled me up off the floor, looked me in the eyes and said: Yeah, you’re going through it. We all do. It’s not the end of the world, stop being a little bitch about it and do something. (This is complete paraphrasing). She’s too decent to use that kind of language, but the salt-of-the-earth response was the same.

We all suffer. Get over yourself. You’re not going to get better sitting in your self-pity. We can’t change the way of the world but we get to decide how we let it change us. So stop being a little bitch. Do something about it.

I dunno. I think that’s actually the thing I needed to hear. Pull yourself up kid. You’re tougher than this. So you took a loss. Don’t we all? Move the fuck on.

So this morning I worked out, went through the normal morning routine and looked at my to do list as a series of steps towards something better. Even if it’s just more sanity. Even if its just away from the pit of vipers I barely escaped. Even if its just a step towards something else to be determined. It’s better than sitting still, with the loop of regrets and hurt running over and over in my head. Some days we step far, some days we shuffle a few inches. But today when that loop threatens to run, a broken megaphone on repeat, in my head…I’m going to give it that response… Stop being the victim. Get over yourself. Get back to work.

Poetry 9-21-23

Posted on by sereichert

Hey kids. Just a quick note to remind you that my next, unrelated Vella The Three Hearts of Eve is up and available (first three are free) at Amazon. It’s a fun little romp into espionage, genetic experimentation, forced proximity and questions of ethics. Still, oddly light hearted.

Also, I’ll be in Wyoming the weekend of September 29th through October 1st to celebrate their annual Bookmarked Literary Festival. If you’re in the area, come check it out, lots of awesome writers looking to connect with new and equally amazing readers.

And now, enjoy some Verse:

The Heart is A Terrible Driver

I am the owner of a body in the trunk
the forgotten musty trunk
in recesses of my memory
muffled and tied up
speechless to the ways my heart fell

Hearts do what they do
and mine
she is so big
so eloquent a speaker
so deviously soft and swaying...

she convinced me that 
she was the only one 
who could drive the beast of me 
through life, and it would all
work out

while my brain 
sat in the back seat,
shaking her head and looking at me 
in the rearview mirror
mouthing the words

You know better
Your gonna hate yourself for letting her drive

Brain was right
Heart took us off a fucking cliff
the first chance she got
giggling with the thrill
the free fall of Love
drunk on its chemical cocktail

all the way down
Brain stayed silent, 
arms crossed over her chest
as if to say

nothing I tell you will matter anyway
We were already over your head
the minute you gave her the keys

the carnage at the base of the canyon
was ruinous
the destruction, 
complete
Heart took the hardest hit
split down the middle in two ragged
pieces of desiccated meat
devoid of reason, or rhythm 

Head pulled her from the car, drug her through
the sharp pebbles and burning metal
shook with disappointment and 
carried her to a lesser used path
and I followed complacently
my own wounds stinging

Brain barely spoke, 
in all of those tender months-turned-years
up from rock bottom
winding on trails
of drunken malestorms 
and pious sobriety
We are a heavy load

Heart sometimes regains consciousness
and clings to the brush, on the side of the trail
striking out with bloody, broken hands
against the pull
trying always trying to get back
to the wreckage
to somehow make it all work out
make that car and joyous ride
run again

Brain cuffs her, hard
Sometimes it's just easier to knock her out
and keep her from making any decisions
then to try and reason 
with her stitched up pieces

from here on out,
my heart must remain bound and gagged,
the body in the trunk

we won't survive another crash like that

Learning to Say Yes Again

Posted on by sereichert

Gentle readers, its been a tough 9 months to say the least. In all actuality, it’s probably been more like a tough year. Year and a half? The point is, I can’t remember feeling good, and so this haze of depression and anxiety has been with me for too long a while. It transcends my short term memory cut off date.

Photo by Evelyn Chong on Pexels.com

That’s not to say wonderful things haven’t happened this year. They have. I’m eternally grateful for the opportunities and experiences I’ve been given (and earned). But all totalled, this last year has been the equivalent of having half my heart ripped out while the other half worked in vain to make up the difference. It was doable, it was survivable, but it wasn’t living.

Time may not heal all things, but time gives you the tools to learn how to go on living despite your losses, and the perspective to help you learn from those losses. In that period of learning and readjustment, I didn’t do a lot of saying yes. Only when absolutely necessary. Only when I couldn’t afford not to. And rarely to things that threatened to open the stitches of my past wounds. I just didn’t believe I was strong enough to suffer that kind of blood loss. I was barely strong enough to make it through the benign and even the enjoyable events of my post-loss world.

Photo by George Shervashidze on Pexels.com

But a few weeks ago, I said yes. To something I thought I’d never be able to do. A small step. Hardly a big deal for most people on the outside of my traumatic experience, but kind of an epic ordeal for me. And it brought up a lot of feelings and emotions and tugged at those stitches, now solidly grown into my heart and skin…but it did not tear them. And it did not sign a contract, and it did not change my mind about certain things. But it wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be, as I feared it would be. It wasn’t impossible.

That one yes, opened opportunity. Not to go backwards, by any means, but to have the choice to go forwards. Sometimes saying yes, reminds us of our ability, our strength, and the experience we earned through going through some kind of awful shit, that leaves us stronger and more prepared to set boundaries and protect ourselves.

Photo by Stijn Dijkstra on Pexels.com

I’m saying yes more now. Yes, to events I would have bypassed before, yes to opportunities and possibilities. Yes to challenges that keep me from being stagnant. Yes to moving on. Yes to resting when I need to rest, and yes to pushing my comfort level when I’ve grown too at ease.

Yes to myself. To my future, to the things that I want as part of my distant horizon. I’m leaving the no’s behind me. The ones that showed me what wasn’t meant for me. What didn’t deserve me. I’m leaving behind old hurts, but taking the scars to remind me. How strong I am. How capable I am, How I own the capacity to say yes, and mean it.

Poetry 9-7-2023

Posted on by sereichert

These are a pair. And a combined homage to a novel I’m currently and carefully crafting. One that’s been itching in my soul for over twenty years probably. I’m out of words for a scholarly post, so I’ll leave you with these instead. May you always tag along in all the adventures you can… and when you are weary, may you always find a port in stormy seas. 

She confesses, if Only to Herself...

I have always loved you.
In darkened closets, 
in alleys devoid of hope
in all the twisted ways 
propriety and opportunity
told me to back away
slowly

my heart connected 
and remembered
would not let go
through a thousand days and
the ups and downs
of a character arc
I never felt I was writing
myself
Still you saw me, front and center
wasting time on fallible side characters

You were there…
a reasonable voice
that seemed crazy
but for an unreasonable world
you were a calm sanity
a smile
I can’t help smiling
a joke at the ridiculous
that no one else sees
a port...
my port
in such an unimaginable storm

and I thank the universe
that I could read your stars
between the angry clouds
and find myself
in you
 


When He Looks at Her, the Voice Inside Says...

years are unkind
to souls that sit 
stagnant in their fate
you and i were dreamers
swaying towards
stories in the stars
to the detriment of the souls
already in our company

i never saw you coming,
didn’t know your name
or the hurt you spawned from

i didn’t know, because
you hid the scars so well
until we were thrown together
and i wondered,
where your prologue was
beneath them all
where did you begin?

i have always loved you
in quiet acquiescing,
of what i could not have
from afar,
a statue, ever smiling and dancing
round the fountains
a muse to keep me enamored
with a life i was resigned to grow still in

you made me feel 
young
as though I could tag along with you
on every adventure
even when my ship had long since sailed
you were the coastal drift
keeping me afloat

The Tumultuous Writer’s Mind

Posted on by sereichert

I’ve struggled with a post this week. Either to launch into some deft and cuttingly beautiful poetry, or as Melanie Griffith once said in “Working Girl” to hit you with my smarts. I don’t have a lot of poetry or smarts today. Sorry.

Life has been chocked full of events. Some of them are little, and benign. Some of them seem like…not a big deal, but they rift something deep within the surface and you end up spending the week dealing with the ripples that have become tsunamis. Part drowning, part relishing the destruction of old temples and ideals that held you for far too long in subjecation. In any case…you start to question, where you’re at. What you’re doing? Are you living well? Are you loving well? Are you taking all the advantage of this one wild life? Or are you… stagnant? Have you slept too long in comfort and stopped fighting for something…far greater? Have you given up truth and freedom for discomfort for blissful ignorance?

And why not? Out of fear? Out of habit? Out of…this is how it’s always been and why should I wish more for myself?

It’s hard. As humans. As writers. To trust our own individual worth. Our creativity. What we offer the world. Why does it even matter in dark and vast sea of a million different voices?

Especially when cookie cutter, and formulamatic fiction seems to be the thing that draws in the most eyes… Well…shit I don’t know. There’s very little money in truth. There’s very little fame or fortune in telling the general masses something interesting and thought provoking and…god help us…challenging to their idiom. Please, as the Briar Rabbit once cried, don’t throw me into the thorn bush…Please don’t make me…think…

Is there room for the artist in this world? Is there room for the intellectual? The person disconnected from the constant spin and pizzaz of what constitutes journalism and entertainment (trick question, there’s no difference between the two now) these days. Is there room in the world for the person who chooses to turn of their screens and the voices and the barrage of constant, dumbing down information to sit still…and think… and write? About an original idea, about the absolute absurdity of life? To write something that makes us think? When was the last time you read such a thing? Such a strange soul-stirring thing? When was the last time you sat in silence, and contemplated the idea that in your not-so-distant-past, your brain kept you alive in a world full of real dangers and still managed to tell a decent story. That you were designed…for far better things. Not monetary, not status related. But…soul worth…When did you last wonder if all of this noisy bullshit was beneath you? Because I’m pretty sure it is.

I am weary of this world. It holds so little that matters. It has become so much neon pink and drowning narcissism.

I don’t have a blog for you.

I’m too busy thinking. On my own. Observing, with eyes, not videos. Listening to all perspectives, shouting to be heard… And even if I had something worthwhile to tell you, about you, your existence, about the white washed reality you’ve been fed, all the anxieties they’ve readily given you to keep you engaged on numbing little pills, I’m not sure anybody is ready to listen.

Poetry 8-24-2023

Posted on by sereichert 
Discovery

I did not find myself
in the bottom of a glass
The burn to numb poison
and all the untethering promises
she made

I did not find myself in 
the narcissistic hearts
parading in poets' clothing
promising ideas of my self-worth
while making me kneel before them

I did not find myself
by losing pounds
or cutting hair
or searing the wrinkles of 
a thousand laughs away

I did not find myself
by giving my love and my years
away to those who only wanted
to own me
collect me, 
objectify and fantasize
who never gave credit to the soul within 
only loved
the pretty, fading paper

I found myself beneath
the starlit sky, high up
in a meadow between mountains
cold and alive
brave and scared
breathing deep as though
it was my first air taken

I found myself in tumbling footfalls
one after another, up and down
careening not controlled
alonside pain
pacing with anxiety
but listening to my own heart
beating out

you can
     you can
         you can

I found myself in the holy land
of pine needles 
and mocking bird cries
silent stage, calm in a chaotic world
and herons in silent coasting flight above me
communing with their soul's solitude
in search of quiet shores

I found myself between pages 
and tattooed in ink
words and ideas and truths 
unknown to any other heart but my own
learning that, 
without meeting requirements first

I am enough
     I am brave
         I deserve love

I found myself in the faces
of women I've raised
to listen to themselves in ways
I am still learning
I found myself in their beautiful complexity
knowing I would never allow them to be hurt
in the ways I have accepted hurt for myself

I am finding myself 
and it has taken a lifetime
I just hope
I can take my heart
and lead her away from the dark

I hope I can find myself 
in time.

What’s in a Name?

Posted on by sereichert

Good morrow sweet readers. Today I’m going to talk about the importance of names in your fictional writing. Every writer has a process, and some of them are very organic while others are tortuous. I have been in both of those phases. Sometimes a character is just who they say they are when they pop into my head. And even if I wanted to change the name, I couldn’t. Sometimes the same character goes through an evolution of two to three (to seven–jesus, Elle Sullivan) names before the right one lands.

So how do we do it? Well… Here’s a bullet list because… we love bullet lists. Keep in mind that a character can be named for one of these reasons or for a combination of them.

  • Naming your character with meaning
    • This is where we get into the baby name sites and books and start with a meaning and back search what names correlate. I’ve done this a lot with my more urban fantasy/paranormal characters. I’m pretty sure none of my readers go around looking up the name and finding the little easter egg of their arc and purpose matching up. I do it more for me.
  • Naming your character Regionally/In Situ
    • Naming your character something that originates from their homeland, family, or region. This is important in some cases, to ‘show’ the reader a little bit about who they are by where they came from (like dialect but in a word).
  • Naming your character with sound
    • I think this is especially important in childrens’ and middle grade books. Lemony Snicket, Severus Snape, Skippyjon Jones. Not only does it make it more fun to read outloud but if you do your job right, you can intonate character with name. Severus Snape, ‘esses’ like a snake on your tongue.
  • Naming your character in tribute
    • There’s absolutely nothing wrong with this when it is done out of love and respect. My grandma Emma became Em. I even inadvertently wrote in a dear friend’s mother, Carmen into Back to the 80s. I know a Jamie, and love the name and fella but since it would be weird to write him as the MC, I made sure it was ‘Jameson’ in Composing Laney. I’ve used friend’s last names or nicknames. Sometimes its a way to pay tribute to them and be a little lazy.
  • Naming your character for foreboding
    • Gage in Pet Cemetery. Hodor from the Game of Thrones. Damien in The Omen. Even Remus Lupin, gave us some insight into the direction of the character. You can either spoil plot twists with this one or make your readers stop mid page to gasp at your cleverness. The trick is subtlety and not thing more than the name away before the twist. It could even be that an evil name (Severus Snape) is actually not attached to a villian.

Well, there you go. A few ways to start thinking (and probably overthinking if you’re like me) about how to name your next character. For a few more resources, check out the list below. Some of these are way more in depth than I like to go, some are fun and you can just keep spinning the wheel until the right one comes up. Good luck out there.

  1. Masterpiece
  2. Fantasy
  3. Listophile
  4. The Story Shack
  5. Reedsy Villains