Come and Join the Writing Conversation!

Writing tips.

Ways to tap into inspiration.

Glimpses into the beautiful and messy life of a writer and mother.

Insight into why our life stories matter.

If you’re passionate about any of these things, I invite you to join me on www.katemeadows.com.

I’ve had such a blast getting to know my followers, commenters and readers by connecting on wordpress.com. Recently I switched my site to wordpress.org, and if you haven’t already, I hope you’ll come follow me and connect with me there. The content, the theme, the pictures – it’s all still there, along with a few new features including information about my books, Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood (published by Pronghorn Press this fall) and my self-published small business history, Bucky’s: Stories and Recollections from 50 Years in Business.

My site, Kate Meadows Writing and Editing, is a place where I hope conversations will take root. It’s a place where I hope beautiful words will be shared and connections with others will be meaningful. Hopefully, you’ll hear some good stories along the way.

You can follow my blog by visiting www.katemeadows.com and clicking the “Follow” button on the bottom right. (When I switched my blog from www.wordpress.com to www.wordpress.org, I lost all of my followers. So even if you followed me before, I don’t have you on record as being a follower now.) For every new follower from now until the end of the month, I will donate $1 to Superstorm Sandy cleanup efforts. 

And if you haven’t already, you can “Like” my Facebook page, Kate Meadows Writing and Editing, by clicking here. For every new “Like” from now until the end of the month, I will donate $1 to Superstorm Sandy cleanup efforts AND enter your name into a random drawing to receive a free copy of Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood.

Finally, if you are interested in receiving a periodic newsletter in the future, please let me know. Of course, I will not share your information with anyone.

So come on over, and let the conversation begin! Happy Thanksgiving!

 

Book Publication and Birth: A Tale of Two Converging Loves

I never meant for it to happen this way.

I couldn’t have planned it if I tried.

Indeed, truth is often stranger than fiction.

Here I am, though, with a new baby and two books being published this month. Yes, two.

How? I don’t quite know, except that life happens.

Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood, published this month by Pronghorn Press, recounts my experience as an only child growing up among the raw and grisly characters in rural western Wyoming. It began in 2008 as a collection of essays for my Master’s thesis in creative nonfiction writing. I knew from the get-go I would go all the way with it, writing the pieces one at a time, piecing them together with a thread of a theme (what does it mean to be tough?), and eventually pursuing publication, sending out query after query until a “yes” finally came.

The “yes” did come – but, unexpectedly, so did a positive pregnancy test, three days later.

That “yes,” along with the blue “+” sign on the stick, came while I was knee-deep in work on my family’s small business history. Bucky’s: Stories and Recollections from 50 Years in Business, commemorates the grit and determination of a small-town service, repair and retail shop doing whatever it took to survive off of a quiet western main street. I began the project while Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood grinded its way through the query mill, back before a pregnancy was even on the horizon. The business history was a grand effort in helping my family carve out its well-deserved legacy. It was to be for me a venture in self-publishing, my intention to learn the ropes of the trade to be better informed and equipped as a writer during this tumultuous time in the publishing industry. I planned to publish the “Bucky’s book,” as it affectionately came to be called, in June 2012.

Then the nod came for Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood.

Then I got pregnant.

In other words, life happened.

And here I am, with a baby who was born the end of July, a book of essays to be published on schedule by a traditional publisher, and a self-published small business history that, due to life circumstances, was postponed for release until September – the month of the business’ annual grand open house.

So we leave next week, traveling from California to Wyoming, where for the better part of the month I will be promoting my work. September will be a crazy month. But I can’t wait.

I go into it with heart racing and eyes bright with excitement. Here are the moments where the hard, dogged work will be worth it. Finally, I will meet the finished products.  Works of art into which I put my whole self. I will get to talk about this craft I love so much. I get to share words, encourage others to share theirs, and talk about the value of preserving life stories and leaving legacies.

This is work that I love. I am packing my bags now.

Please, join me if you can. Click here for a list of events.  Stay tuned for upcoming readings and get-togethers in California. And, if you’re interested in using Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood as a pick for a book group, ordering copies of either book, or learning more about the crafts of creative nonfiction writing and/or telling your own life story, please get in touch.

Writing, at its very core, is about communication. If I can reach people, if I can inspire and encourage, only then can I smile and say to myself, “Job well done.”

How to Leave a Legacy

The other night, I was talking to some friends of mine in our living room. My college roommate and her husband were visiting from Albuquerque, and the late evening had finally cooled off enough to that the house felt good and airy, not stifling of the day’s summer heat.

Copyright 2011, Kate Meadows, Joshua Tree National Park.

It was strange, the topic we had stumbled onto. We found ourselves in a conversation about dying doing what you loved.

A brother of my friend’s co-worker had recently met this fate, drowning on one of the Great Lakes during a sailing outing. A wind had come up and tossed the life vests overboard. Not wanting to be out $25 – the cost of the life vests – he turned the boat around in the increasingly bad weather to retrieve them.

That was the move that cost him his life.

The irony is terrible, but that man is now lauded – celebrated in his death for dying doing what he loved. He will always be remembered for his passion: sailing.

Weren’t that we all could be remembered that way, for claiming our life’s passion and running it out with abandon.

And I ask: Why can’t we?

It’s not that we will all die doing what we love.

But we can, each of us, be remembered for our fierce love of something.

That “something,” of course, is different for everyone. But that’s what makes the world such an intriguing study. It takes loves of many things to make the world go ‘round.

For my friend’s co-worker’s brother, that fierce love was sailing.

For my dad, it is snowmobiling.

For me, it is writing.

What love will you be remembered for? How are you living out that love today?

Imperfect Books

I have a confession to make.

I published an imperfect book.

Why do I tell you this?

Because, if I’m honest, it’s a bit of a jubilant thing for me.

I am so much a perfectionist that I miss sometimes the whimsy, the messy and out-of-place pieces of life for what they really are: reflections of reality. I am known to take things too seriously, not laugh enough, not cut myself any slack.

I had a vision when I set out to piece together the history of my family’s small business. That vision, after a year and a half, is nearly realized. Bucky’s: Stories and Recollections from 50 Years in Business, is finished. Soon a box of what I hope to be beautifully crafted books will arrive. The moment of truth awaits on the doorstep.

Will this book be loved by those who have a stake in it? Will it be treasured by those who have already purchased a copy?

Even with its surefire blemishes – certainly there is a comma missing here, a missed paragraph indent here – I am daring enough to think so. I am also daring enough to say there is no such thing as a perfect book – because there is no such thing as a perfect human or a perfect life – and that, in the end, it doesn’t matter.

You know why?

Because the readers of this book will focus on the meat of the thing – the language and the real-life stories that have stitched together a half-century of awe and struggle in a slice of small town America.

The readers will see past the missed commas and indents and any other small slight to what really matters: lasting stories that are communicated on the page, a shared dialogue.

A writer can work and work and work on a book and still, it will never be fully ready to enter the world. It’s a bit like having kids: you’re never truly ready to become a parent.

But at some point, you set aside your fear and insecurities, the need for everything to be just so, and you say a prayer and you jump.

If you can look beyond the missing comma, the stray hair – or, staying with the parent metaphor, the kitchen floor that is sticky with spilled orange juice – you will see a bigger, messier and more beautiful picture that is entirely worth embracing.

You might smile to yourself, allow yourself a sweet deep breath and think, “Yes. This, this is worth it.”

 

 

Life in the Trenches

Mark Twain is known to have once said this: “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

When we sit down to write, be it fiction or nonfiction or something entirely different, how important it is that we are cushioned by some life experience. How important it is to our careers as writers that we spend time in the trenches, digging through the dirt and getting dirty, beautifully dirty.

Copyright 2011, Kate Meadows, southern California.

I think about this now, as I am deep in the trenches of motherhood and daily trying to find my way through new struggles and questions surrounding life with a new baby and a toddler. Part of me is anxious that my time to write is less, the demands of being mom more.

But right now, “Mom” is the life part that will inform and is informing my writing. And there are so many themes to explore with that: identity, stereotypes, love. The list goes on.

Last week, my cousin – who is also a journalist – encouraged me to write from my sweet spot. It’s that spot where you find your life thrumming, where you find the struggles to be had and the lessons to be learned. We had been chatting about our own recent struggles as writers, and mine entailed a potential story for Highlights Magazine that had fallen through. I suspect the magazine’s editor had turned down the piece because she saw through the curtain: there wasn’t an ounce of passion in it.

In other words, I had pitched an idea and written a story about something that did not at all inspire me, a topic I knew something about but had little connection to at this stage in my life. And I was pitching it to an audience with which I have little experience and, admittedly, little desire to reach.

I am not a children’s writer.

The story lacked the zest it needed because I was reaching too far for it. I wasn’t writing from that sweet spot.

Admittedly, the sweet spot, that place where I find I have so much to explore and process and so much learning to do, is not easy. But it is necessary.

Copyright 2011, Kate Meadows, southern California.

It is necessary for me to grow, both as a person and as a writer. I am hard at work in the trenches, drumming up some good old life experience that I hope will make for some sparkling words and killer story ideas later.

Can you imagine what would happen to your writing if you didn’t get out and live a little, if you rode only the ripples of your ocean as opposed to the crashing waves?

Take time to write, always. But always, too, take time to live and to fully experience the moments – the great ones, the hard ones, and all of the ones in between.

Slow Motion?

I forget how the pace of life slows in the breathy moments of adjusting to a new baby. Moments – on life’s grand scale, that is what they are, fleeting ticks of the clock that will pass in and out, and life will go on. Already time is moving fast – our Elijah Owen is almost two weeks old, and my husband, my sweet and giving husband who has poured himself out in servanthood this week, will be returning to work soon.

Time. One of the many paradoxes of motherhood. How can the minutes slug away and fly by at the same time?

Life resumes here. Slowly we must ease ourselves into a new normal. There are sad moments and confusing moments, funny moments and ecstatic moments. I look back on little Eli’s birth with a sort of muddy joy. Always I will remember how Bryan and I played gin rummy as we passed away the afternoon hours in the big hospital room, pausing for contractions as they passed. I will remember how the doctor came in and broke my water with what had to be chop sticks, saying something about speeding the process along. She was in and out of our room so fast, and the rush of hormones and fear overtook me, and I remember thinking (not for the first time that day) how odd it is that an act or a thought done out of routine or convenience for one person can be something entirely momentous and huge for another.

I remember how the evening hours of July 25 passed so quickly, so fluidly, both Bryan and I thinking our baby would be here within the next hour, every hour. How, at 8:00, her hurried down to the hospital cafeteria to grab a bit and hurried straight back, knowing his son could be here at any time. How I finally started pushing at 10:30 that night and how, at a quarter to midnight, I had to stop, because it was time for the doctor and the doctor was in the room next door delivering another baby. How four babies came that night within 15 of each other, and how we were third in line. Eli was the only boy born in the hospital that night.

And he came, beautiful and wet and big. His body was hot and alien on my stomach. I couldn’t see his face at first, but I didn’t care. He came. He was here, and that’s all that mattered. He made a July 25 birthday by two minutes; he was born at 11:58 p.m., 8 pounds 6 ounces and 21 inches long. And when I did see his face for the first time – smoke blue eyes and tiny pink mouth and shock of dark hair – I cried. Because he was mine, and he was beautiful.

Now the days pass, some moments quietly and other moments chaos, as what once was a family of three gets used to being a family of four. A million questions linger and yes, sleep is a sweet sweet thing. But this job of parenthood is in full swing. It’s intense and tough and messy. But it is worth every minute.

Welcome, sweet baby.

Waiting on a New Life Story

Still, our baby is not here.

He will be, any day now.

We wait, and work, and wait some more.

The hours float by, some hazy, some sharper. Some are full of blissful sleep; others writhe with restlessness.

I will be away from here for a while, as birth happens and we claw and smile our way to a new normal.

But be assured I will not become a stranger. Exciting things are happening. Our family is expanding, yes. But so, too, are opportunities to share words and creative sparks with my world.

Some changes will be coming to this site, changes that I hope are subtle but more functional. For now, if you know my site as http://www.katemeadows.wordpress.com, please be aware that my domain has changed to http://www.katemeadows.com. More details – including information about my upcoming book, events and signings – to come.

For now, the wait continues. It’s a hard one, but I am trusting my God has it under control. To all who have expressed heartfelt, genuine thoughts and prayers, thank you. I am so humbled by the way people care and come together over life’s unforgettable moments.

We wait here, with anxious yet joyful anticipation, for a new life story to begin.

A Mother-Daughter Book Giveaway

Speaking of your story being bigger than you, a friend of mine, Emily Cook, is giving away Kindle copies of her book, Weak and Loved: A Mother Daughter Love Story, this week. The week marks three years of seizure freedom for her daughter, Aggie.

Here is a taste:

“In October 2008, shortly after her fourth birthday, my daughter Aggie was diagnosed with epilepsy.  The year that followed was one of the most difficult years of our lives.

 Aggie’s early seizures were short and mild.  At first, we thought she might be just daydreaming.  As the months passed and medicine after medicine failed, her seizures kept getting more dramatic and more dangerous.

Seizures are like time-thieves.

They robbed her Christmas moments.

They tipped her off a diving board

They pushed her off a bunk bed.

They sapped her energy.

They stole her breath.

They shattered my heart.

As I struggled through those awful days of testing and waiting and fear, my Aunt encouraged me with the following words:

“People say be strong. I say be weak and be loved.”

So this story is not solely about Emily’s daughter’s condition, fight and brain surgery, but embraces a larger theme of motherhood and how to embrace weakness when all around us society says to “be tough.”
“I am hoping to get my book into as many hands as possible,” Emily recently wrote in an email.

Here’s what one reviewer said on Amazon: “…when she was often reduced to nothing, God carried her through, with or without her cooperation, her understanding or acceptance. This book helped me understand what true grace really is – the totally undeserved, bountiful love of God, which no circumstances can ever take away from us.”

You can pick up your free copy here.

To learn more about the book, this sweet little girl, and the author herself, visit www.weakandloved.com.

Your Story is Bigger Than You

What if your story, whatever life story you have to tell, is about more than you?

I speak about and advocate for telling our life stories. At a recent workshop, I encouraged attendees to think outside of themselves when they resolve to put a story down – be it their own, their family history, their small business, what have you.

One man, who has been at work on his family history for 30 years, asked why.

Why do I need to think about others, he asked, when my primary motivation to explore my family history is to learn more about who I am?

New York fountain. Copyright 2010 Kate Meadows.

It was a good question, and I wasn’t shocked to hear it.

But I think we so often fail to think outside of ourselves when we pursue our own endeavors. So often, we think, a) no one else will care; or b) this story won’t do anyone else any good, when in reality, the opportunities to speak to others through are stories are simply untapped goldmines waiting to be explored.

This same man, in his tireless pursuit for names, dates and places of long-dead or long-lost family members, found a treasure trove of stories lurking beneath that hard data – stories I don’t think he necessarily bargained for. He wrote letters to people asking for information, and received stories and memories in return. You know what that tells me? Others in the family besides him have an interest in the family legacy.

When I suggested this to him, he nodded, as if giving me the benefit of the doubt. Then, he was quiet for a long time.

A year and a half ago, I set out to piece together a complete small business history. I wrote letters to 250 of the business’ mainstay customers, asking for their stories and memories of how the business had been a part of their lives.

I had no idea who, if anyone, would respond.

For a while, no one responded.

Then, some stories started to trickle in. Followed by more. And more.

In the end, thanks to the submissions I received, the history of the business was, in page numbers, twice as large as I had bargained for.

Know what that means?

People besides myself and my family became invested in the larger story. People had something to say; they wanted their hand in it. Now, still pre-publication, the book has sold almost 150 copies.

That tells me this small business history is about more than just the business itself. It comprises threads of numerous people’s lives, people who care about their part in the larger story.

Consider your own story. Who is a part of it? Would they care to know it? How can you reach out to others with your own message?

Disorder: The Beauty of Chaos

Joshua Tree National Park, Copyright 2011, Kate Meadows.

It is through his work as a snowmobile repairman that my dad learned an important life metaphor: Sometimes, in order to get something to work right, to bring it back to top-notch condition, you have to take it completely apart.

It’s the idea that beauty is so often born out of chaos, that having complete order sometimes first requires complete disorder.

If a snowmobile is not working properly, my dad knows to take the entire thing apart, to splay out all of the pieces in parts in a mess around him and, little by little, put the thing back together. It is a messy process. But in the end, he always succeeds in discovering what fix is needed, which part or piece is not working.

In the end, he never fails to get that machine back to its top-notch condition.

It’s probably because I am the daughter of this snowmobile dealer that this metaphor works so well for me. Here is how it plays out on the personal front:

Right now, I feel like my life is splayed out before me in pieces and parts. Mother. Writer. Wyoming native. City dweller. And here I stand in the middle of the chaos, a place with lots of questions, trying to figure out how all these parts fit and function together.

These roles and identities have worked together before. I have been a mother for almost three years now, a writer for my entire life. My husband and I – and now our entire little family – have bumped around from place to place across the country, as my husband’s job demands we go where the current engineering project is.

With each move, I question my identity, how a place shapes and defines me, us. With each transition, I question how these roles shift and move to make room for what’s most important.

But here I am again, at a place of uncertainty. In California for barely a year, rootless and far away from family. Soon to be a mother of two, with the need to write still fierce and alive. Homesick, but for what? The Rockies where I grew up? The Midwest, where I have spent the last 10 years? I don’t know. Perhaps simply a place with roots.

What I do know is that out of chaos beauty can and does come. Out of disorder, order can blossom and thrive. How is it that our two-and-a-half-year-old son, who was once a messy cluster of cells within me, is now walking and running and playing, hugging and loving and saying things like, “I am happy?” How is it that we have managed to meet such compassionate, loving people no matter what community or region we find ourselves in? How is it that words manage to come together, to flow in avenues of conversation no matter how tired or uninspired or anxious about the future I am?

Omaha, NE. Copyright 2010, Kate Meadows.

Sometimes, we have to take a thing completely apart and closely examine all of the pieces before putting it back together to get it into a thrumming order. I am here, in this messy place. Tools at my side, I am chiseling away. The baby will come, any day now, and we will grope around to find a new normal, a “normal” where the roles of parent and writer function beautifully, hand-in-hand. Like my dad and his disassembled snowmobile, I will put these pieces back together, fire up the machine, and see how it runs.