Rumination

I am a ruminator. In fact, I have been called the “Queen of Rumination.” For those of us who grew up on a farm, we all know that cows ruminate their cud, over and over and over. No, I am not sitting here chewing; I am sitting here thinking, over and over and over.

I ran across an article in the Huffington Post by Robert Leahy, PhD., which explained a lot about thought processes. He discussed the problem of rumination. It seems that some of us (mostly females) keep going over and over a problem trying to figure it out. Most of the problems are negative thoughts, i.e. a past conversation, a slight, something that is bothering us. Instead of saying that it is in the past and there is nothing I can do about it, we ruminators tend to go over and over it, applying different angles and trying to solve the problem in another way than the way it was handled. I have been accused of taking a situation and turning it inside out, upside down and sideways in order to figure out exactly how it went wrong.

According to Leahy, that is okay if you actually have a problem to be solved. If there is not a problem to be solved (it’s pointless and you can’t change it) and you are constantly going over it, then YOU have a problem. He suggested that you look at the subject of your rumination and see if there is a solution and if there isn’t then you need to let it go. Going over and over the same thing with no solution can lead to depression. Rumination is focusing on goals that you cannot achieve, like changing the past. You should instead focus on the here and now. Live in the present.

Being a ruminator did me a great service when I was practicing law. I could take a problem, examine it, go over it and keep going over it until I had an answer. So maybe if I didn’t have an answer, I was at least prepared for whatever Red Herring (legal term – means SURPRISE) I was going to get sideswiped with in court. It gave me all the options and I could anticipate the way I would react. Not so true as a writer.

As writers, we are all subject to rejection (I’ve had quite a few of those – lol). I think that as a group we are all driven individuals – we have a need to get those stories out there and we work furiously doing just that. When we are rejected, we tend to ruminate: what was wrong with the story?; what did I do that didn’t sell it?; and how can I make it better? We take the thing apart, examine it and go over it and over it in our heads. Sometimes there isn’t a problem to be solved – the editor or agent just didn’t like it (you can’t make someone like something). Sometimes there is a problem with the story and by ruminating you can fix it. Sometimes I just feel like taking a gun out and shooting the problem. At any rate, the moral of the story for all of us is quite simple – we need to learn to let go if there is nothing we can do to fix the problem. Sitting and thinking about it over and over is not going forward. Going forward is when you get that fresh new page and you start to fill it with your next masterpiece.

Do you ruminate? Over your work? Over a social slight? Over anything? Have you caught yourself doing this? What do you do to distract yourself from sitting and mulling the would-ofs and could-ofs over and over? Have you learned to let go?

Words

Jean blogged yesterday about words she despised and that got me to thinking.  Words are seductive, addictive things.  They enrage people to riot, sculpt youthful minds, encourage the downtrodden, and heal the infirm.  Words, no matter how they're used, pack a punch.  Writers know that better than anyone.  We struggle with active vs passive words, showing vs telling words.  The only people who might not struggle are lawyers, who create legal documents with an appreciation for words no one can understand, except... well, lawyers.      

How words are strung together whenever we talk or write says a lot about us as individuals.  Words carry our voices into the future, whether on the page or in memories.  The longing mankind has to be remembered is a common theme carried throughout the centuries, teaching us never to underestimate the power of language, storytelling or these days, the power of the Internet.

I've been collecting quotes lately to inspire and motivate me when I'm feeling low, or when I simply need a gentle prod.  Quotes are a great way to jump start motivation and connect to people who, whatever they experienced, past or present, found the strength and spirit to fight their way back through the hardest of times.

Here are a few of my favorites quotes:

"If you are going through hell, keep going." Winston Churchill

"Do one thing everyday that scares you."  Eleanor Roosevelt

"Never, never, never, never, never give up." Winston Churchill

"Energy and persistence conquer all things." Benjamin Franklin

Here are some favorite quotes I've posted to pinterest.com.

It's hard to keep going when times are tough. Listen to Winston Churchill. Never give up!

Do you have a special quote that comforts or motivates you? Do share! The more words we have in our arsenals, the better equiped we'll be to face life's daily challenges.

Words I Hate By Heart

Precious Angel was four and just starting to sound out words. He and I were in the car alone. (That used to happen a lot. Then he got his driver license. I miss it.) Anyway. I pulled up in front of the grocery store and proceeded to free him from all the buckles, locks, and iron bars designed to protect him from my driving. Meanwhile, he was looking around at signs for new words to master.

"Eek, eek, eek," he said hesitantly. "I can't. What's it say, Jean?" I glanced down the way.

I was never one to make this kid belabor a point with, "Come on! You can do it!" He'd already said he couldn't. And he never lacked faith in himself, so that wasn't as issue. Besides, he was four.

"Ekherd's Drugs," I said.

His eyes got big. "That's a bad place!" he said.

I got back in the car and we had a discussion about good drugs versus bad drugs. I even went into how a drug could be good if a doctor said you should have it, but bad if you bought it on a street corner. I don't know if he understood all that at the time, but I can only assume that eventually it sunk in since he's never failed a drug test administered though the athletic department of Decatur High School or refused his allergy medicine.

It's all in the connotation that makes us dislike a word. Language is every changing. Stoned and gay have evolved. You have to be careful with screw and hoe. Probably, Coke has another first meaning in other parts of the country, but here in the south it still means a soft drink—any soft drink. These are society wide changes.

Then there are words we personally hate because of personal connotations.

I have three. They aren't even particularly vulgar words, but I dislike them so much, I will not type two of them here. The other—belly—I dislike only if applied to a human. I don't mind, "I scratched the dog's belly and he went into fits of euphoria."

Unfortunately, I can't keep my mouth shut and I disclosed years ago to my inner circle my hatred for these words. You'd think they would love me enough not to taunt me with them. Especially, if they were willing for me to be godmother to their child, to entrust me to raise him as my own should the need arise.

But no. Godson's Dad has never gotten tired of mocking me. Not in close to twenty-five years. He did it two weeks ago. We were having a serious conversation and right in the middle, he paused and intoned the three hated words. I slapped my hands over my ears—like I always do—and squealed, "No, no, no!" If could stop doing that, he would stop taunting me. But I cannot. I've tried.

What words do you dislike?

Whacked-out? Here I Go Again....

I am my own worst, whacked-out enemy. It’s all that planning and organizing that lurks and haunts the walls inside my brain cells. See, with Christmas stored away, now I rearrange. And it’s not the put-everything-in-its-right-place kind of rearranging you’d expect from my not-so-librarian self. Oh no! It’s the Christmas-is-safely-out-of-the-house-and-now-I-can-REDO-everything kind of arrangement! Sigh. I exhaust myself.

Sadly, this is what I have become after years of training. It hits me every year, mid January. You’d think I’d have learned to expect it by now. But no….it broadsides me yet again like a Mac truck slip-sliding in a mid-winter ice storm in Atlanta, GA! And it will dominate my schedule until I cave in and do it, just like Ella Enchanted, slave to her curse. I won’t be able to accomplish anything else until it’s done, so I might as well get on with it, right? And so I give over to writing in the mornings and the “project” in the afternoons.

Here’s what’s happened so far. All of the Peacocks are happily enjoying their new environment. They now live in the west bedroom overlooking the riverbed with Alphonse Mucha’s Dawn as their hostess. I have no idea why I thought the Peacocks would love the dining room (and for so long a spell), but the glee they feel now is beyond my wildest dreams. I suspect they remembered that story I told of peacocks being served for dinner in some book I read! Gasp! Anyway, Tiffany Peacock is shining and glistening in the sunshine. And oh, how he parades his beauty! The Peacock Illuminator had to go to the hospital, but he’ll return soon, fresh and revitalized. ; )

Then there are the Iris’. They weren’t happy at all about their move. So, I gave in and moved them back to the powder room where they blossom and grow for all to enjoy who happen by. I’ll give their walls a fresh coat of paint soon, periwinkle in color, and new towels to match. They’ll love that. Oh and they have the new Austrian Morning Glories with them now, too.

The roses are moving in right next door in my brand new office space. (WooHoo!) Surely the Iris’ will enjoy their sisters nearby. Well, that is if the Roses ever cooperate! Who knew they could be so temperamental? I mean, geeze! They push and shove and squawk at every turn to get them in. And I thought they’d love the bright sunshiny space! Well, we’ll just see who’s the boss of them! They can stick their thorns right back down to their sides, yes they can! And then there’s a lovely window seat for Pepper and Chali2Na (my cats) to lap up the warm sun while I work. It’s really all for the best….it’ll all be fine. You’ll see. I have lovely stories to tell from that room, I do!

Last, but by far the greatest project, is the Man Cave. Really, all I have to do is remove the few lingering pieces of my stuff. See, that room has been my office (if you want to call it that) for the past 5 years. It’s a dreadful room that my belongings (not I myself) occupied in the upstairs of the detached garage. My honey loves that space, so Voila! It’s his! He can take ownership and dominate that cold and leering space. Yep! It’s man material through and through! Grey and bleak, stark and detached. Ewe! I don’t want to write the stories it inspires. They scare me!

And so soon (by the end of today, I promise!!!), I myself will mingle with the Rose and the Iris, the glory of the morning shining through each day ahead, with languishing kitties and stories of love and romance coming about on my computer screen, and the business of writing filling the afternoons. And my world will be complete again. Until January 15, 2013, that is. (I roll my eyes heavenward and ask for mercy.)

What haunts your life? Are you run by internal pre-programming such as I? Do you cave to the wiring or send those whacked-out, nagging thoughts running and screaming into the night?

The Trophy Wife Rocks!

Today I would like to review a fantastic new book from Harlequin Presents, The Trophy Wife by Janette Kenny. If you have visited here with us much at all you will know that I am a huge Harlequin Presents fan. They were the first romance books that I ever read and while I don't think I could ever write one, I love the way they sweep me away to wonderful worlds of romance and excitement!

The Trophy Wife delivers all of the glorious settings and glamor that you would expect from a Presents book. What stood out about The Trophy Wife, is how it deals with the struggle that is often common for couples in any income bracket--feeling as if they are losing each other, but being fearful of revealing private fears and vulnerabilities. Even though the hero, Rafael, is a super wealthy businessman, he is afraid that he will never be enough; meanwhile, his supermodel wife, Leila, is terrified of losing control of her life. The way they love each other so much and yet try so hard to keep their facades up is a true slice of reality. I won't spoil the story for you, but I will say that I loved how, in the end, love conquered all. After all, that happily ever after is what we all want!

The Wonderful Janette Kenny

The Trophy Wife was a December release but I am sure you can still

order it and, in my opinion, you won't regret going that extra mile to get

a great story!!

Do you enjoy the glamor and glitz of a Harlequin Presents style romance or do you prefer your romances to be more of a slice of real life?

The Good Old Days

Ah, the good old days…I started thinking about them when I was dialing my son’s cell phone for the fiftieth time, trying to find out if he was all right. Being a young adult, he doesn’t cotton to Mom checking to see if he is lying on the floor, dead, and being eaten by his cats (my mind does go there when he doesn’t answer the phone). I finally got a response when I texted him and told him if I did not get a call back within five minutes that I was turning his cell phone off. Poof, magic, he called. I remember at his college orientation that one of the professors called my generation the “helicopter generation” because we constantly hover. Odd, but true. My parents didn’t hover; they turned us loose and told us to go “play,” kind of like a missile – seek and destroy.

That got me to thinking of all the brain-damaged things we used to do as children; before the days of child abductions and warning labels. My earliest memory was my older sister making mud pies and I, stupidly trusting her, ate them. Not bad, could have used a little salt. Today, parents, upon learning that their child ate dirt would rush them to the hospital and have the poor child’s stomach pumped. There is also the memory that every year when I got shots, I also got a worming. Maybe the doctor knew about older sisters, water and dirt.

Seatbelts. We never wore them as children. I can remember jumping all over the back seat, hanging out the window (bugs in the eye didn’t bother me) and lying in the floorboard against the hot transmission hump, dozing and thoroughly enjoying myself. Jeff Foxworthy made a comment about this: he rode in the rear window deck of the car from Texas to California. I remember doing that because my sister wouldn’t let me sit on the car seat. Sometimes I wonder where my parents were or exactly who was driving the car. Today children are strapped in, harnessed and hog-tied to prevent them from becoming projectiles. The rule is even a booster seat until they are over four feet eleven inches tall. Geez, I barely make that now – maybe I need a booster seat.

Bike Helmets. The only person I knew who had a helmet when I was growing up was Evil Knievel and we all know that worked out well for him. I can remember racing down a hill on my bike, loosing control and crashing into a tree. Being at least five miles from home, I nearly bled out trying to reach the medicine cabinet and the mecurichrome. Who needed stitches? Today, children have to wear a helmet to sit in a shopping cart, let alone to ride a bike. I don’t think I’m brain damaged from hitting all those trees…well, you judge.

Wandering the neighborhood. Early in the mornings during the summer, my mother would open the back door and tell us to go find something to do. Implied in that statement was not to come back until lunch or if she called (she never did). Off on a grand adventure, my sister and I would go looking for soft drink bottles to take to the local grocery store to get the deposit. If we got enough, we could buy candy and drinks or at least there’d be enough for her to have them. I was a scrawny kid and she definitely had the upper hand. Or, we would go to some construction site and get into dirt clod battles with the boys who lived down the street. I can remember my blond hair turning beet red from the clay but it didn’t bother me. No one worried about getting abducted or killed or anything. We were having fun. Today, I think parents can have GPS locators implanted in there children, just in case the little boogers get passed the fifty locks and alarm system on the house. I know, there are a lot of bad things out there to protect kids from but I do long for the day when a child didn’t have to be afraid.

Burn Piles. Spending part of the summer with my grandparents, I got to be out in the country where there was no civilization for miles and certainly no garbage pick-up. My grandparents had a place where they dumped their garbage and also a BURN PILE where the paper wastes could be disposed of. Gleefully taking matches (I couldn’t have been ten) and going out to do the chore of burning the paper, I would spend all morning finding things to burn. Sometimes, my grandmother would miss the steel aerosol can of Lysol and, wow, I would get to have a real explosion. Okay, so maybe there is something about me hitting all those trees. Today, no child is allowed to have matches. And a burn pile? Forgeddaaboutit. Kids today do not know the joy of watching Styrofoam melt in a hot fire (think of the carcinogens).

Cake batter. One of my favorite things (before I started worrying about weight), was to lick the bowl after my mom made a cake. It was actually better than the cake itself. My sister and I always fought over who got the spoon; I usually lost. Today, the threat of salmonella from raw eggs prevents parents from even letting a child near a fresh bowl of cake batter, sigh. Maybe we didn’t get sick because of all the dirt we ate; salmonella didn’t have a chance against things living in the dirt. There could be a correlation.

Monkey bars and swings. Ah, the playground was the place to hang. Literally. Upside down for hours. Maybe all the blood rushing to my head saved me from severe brain-damage. Swinging high on the swings and then launching off was also a big thrill. Landing wasn’t so great if you chose not to tuck and roll. Kids today are definitely not allowed to be anywhere near such dangerous apparatuses without helmet, adult supervision and an ambulance on stand-by.

Do you have any fond memories of being a child? Were any of them “brain-damaged” stunts that make you shudder now that you have children and can see the dangers? Share some of your stories with us under the tulip tree (which now we are not allowed to climb without a helmet).

Early Contra-what?

I love history!  Scouring history books often leads to the discovery of fascinating information, which can legitimize ideas, flesh out characters or provide plot inspiration.  And sometimes... well, sometimes you simply learn the darndest things whether you want to or not.

Take yesterday, for instance.  I found a great book at Cosco, The Book of Amazing History by Publications International, Ltd. 

You can find it here: Amazon.com

Of course, I couldn't resist tapping into this resource for historical insight.  After flipping through several pages, I landed on this topic: Early Contraception.

Sex and contraception are topics romance writers juggle every day, not to mention the fact that billions of people deal with this very issue on a daily basis.  It appears preventing pregnancy has always been big business.  Check out the amazing things I learned about this topic.  I think you'll find them v.e.r.y. interesting.  ;)

Did you know:

In ancient Greece, women who wanted to conceive were told to jump backwards 7 times after intercourse?  As opposed to tying a bag of cat's liver to your left foot or spitting into a frog's mouth to prevent pregnancy.  (Was this the ancient way of snagging a prince?)

Barriers used in ancient times?  Yes!  Pebbles, lemon halves, dried elephant or crocodile dung were used.  (A new perspective to skipping stones, making lemonade out of lemons, and trailing behind Big AL or Crocodile Dundee.)

In 1550 B.C. a mix of ground dates, acacia tree bark, and honey were applied to a woman's, dare I say it, lovenest.  High in lactic acid, the acacia plant provided a perfect source for stablizing PH balance.  (Or attracting bees.) 

Aborginis in Eastern Canada believed tea brewed with beaver testicles would prevent pregnancy.  (Tea time must have meant something completely different in those days.  Don't tell the ladies at Downton Abbey!  In the meantime, I'll try not to think about it when I drink tea in the mid-afternoon.)

In 17th Cent. B.C., silphium was discovered in the Libyan mountains.  The plant, part of the fennel genus, was cultivated to work like a morning after pill and was extremely successful.  Unfortunately, it could only be found in Libya and was harvested into extinction by the 2nd Cent.

Men have been using shealths since 1,000 B.C.  Romans and 17th Cent. British used animal intestine.  (Was there a reference to pigskin before this or is this where the diddy "little pig, little pig, let me come in" came from?) 

Fabric soaked in spermicidal liquid was used by Egyptians and Italians until vulcanized rubber bounced onto the scene in 1844.  To this day, the shealth remains the primary contraceptive used around the world.

Now I don't know about you, but I'm surprised any of these people still wanted to have sex! 

As they say in Jurasic Park, "Nature found a way."

I've heard debates on how much emphasis should be given to contraceptives in romance novels.  What are your thoughts?  Are romance authors accountable for promoting contraceptives?  Or is this something left to the reader's imagination?