In 2005, I was downsized from a career in education. The campus where I worked for many years chose to move to a different state. Since my husband had a good job, making much more than I did the decision to remain in South Carolina was an easy one. And so, when my position downsized, I closed the window, locked it, gave my key to the office back, locked my heart away and walked away with a sigh of relief. June 2005, I kissed Corporate America goodbye, and I haven't looked back. I believe in the philosophy of 'when a door closes, God opens a window.'
My friends were concerned. Just what would Barbie P. Cooper do without a life where she worked morning, noon and night (including weekends) recruiting, administering and working my fingers to death to recruit and service college students. It is true, I was married to that position and in 2005, I chose to divorce it, close the door and pray that God would open a window to a new career as a travel writer.
I read reports stating that I should have at least three years of $$ stashed away, to survive. I laughed, while my fingers shook with fear. My husband thought I was nuts. On one occasion he suggested I needed to find another job because I had nothing promised or committed in my writing career. To those of you who do not know me, let's just say, I can be very stubborn, independent and persistent. I sent queries to publications, marketing my writing services and story angles. At times, I stood by the mail box, tapping my toes impatiently, in hopes that today a letter would arrive and I would become the next successful writer.
DREAM ON.
Nevertheless, I have taught myself self discipline and I work extremely hard to market, and publicize to get my name in print. Success isn't something that happens overnight.
Flash Forward to 2009
It has been four years of pulling my hair out, screaming my lungs out on the highest mountain (and there aren't any mountains in my home in Mt. Pleasant, SC) talking to my pups and doubting, but I believe that 'good things come to those who wait.'
Now friends encourage me, recognizing that this year appears to be the year that I might achieve a few of the goals established. I made a promise to myself that this would be the year, or this time, if I didn't succeed, I would definitely throw in the towel and find something else to do. Maybe I will spend more time on the beach, in hopes I will find a "Message in a bottle."
Years ago, when I was in college, an English professor wanted to know if anyone in his class thought, or wanted, to be a writer. Silly, gullible me! Always wanting to be the center of attention, I raised my hand. The professor reminded me of a George Carlin look alike, complete with graying hair, emaciated body frame, and stress filled, swollen eyes. He approached me.
"So, it is you who wants to be a writer."
"Yes," I replied. My heart was slowly crawling down into my toe nails. "I am a writer. I published my first story in the third grade of elementary school."
Intrigued by my reaction, the professor turned to the class. "Did you hear her, class. She published her first story in kindergarten." He smirked, rubbing his bushy beard.
"Third grade," I interrupted.
He laughed. "So, Ms. Cooper --- tell me --- do you love to write?"
"Ms. Perkins-Cooper," I spat. "You may call me Barbie, and to answer your question, yes, I love to write. It's my passion."
Within seconds I regretted my response.
"Oh class. Just listen. She loves to write. It is her passion, and her name is Barbie.... Humph! You are not a writer. Real writers HATE TO WRITE."
Defeated, I chose to hang my head and slide under my chair, hoping and praying the George Carlin wanna be would pick on someone else.
Now, years and many rejections later, I understand what the professor was teaching me, and I must say, he is right. True writers HATE to WRITE.
To those of you new to the industry, writing is an arduous task and there are many days where I would love to surf on the computer, play games, and feed my addiction to e-mail. It is so true. Writers hate to write -- especially when the words refuse to enter the brain, or when we struggle to send out queries, market our talents and work on assignments. Previously, when this happened, I would bite my fingernails, gnawing each manicured acrylic beauty until they were chipped and ugly. I would stare out the window, and when Shamus and Shakespeare tapped my foot for attention, I ignored them. Now, I have learned the art of inspiration and motivation. When stressed, I take a break. Grabbing the leashes, I prepare the dogs for a walk, while thoughts dance inside my head. Breathing in the sea breezes and fresh aromatic senses of the world outside, I am able to work out the hooks, characters and stories. Arriving home, I rush to the computer while my fingers dance a finger ballet across the keyboard.
Working as a travel writer, I am able to see and appreciate the beauty of life, characters, and the products of the struggles of life. I have stayed at some of the finest hotels and bed and breakfast inns along the East and Gulf coast. I suppose you could say I am living my dream now -- a dream that took me years to fulfill, but like all things in life, good things come to those who wait.
If you have a passion for writing, don't just dream about it. Like the Nike slogan says, "Just do it." There will be times of self doubt and defeat, but when this happens, dust yourself off, smile your biggest, most welcoming smile and whisper, "This too shall pass." Life is not easy. It is how we choose to believe in ourselves and our self worth that help to develop us into the person we want to become. We can choose to give up, defeated, or we can take one step forward, continuing the journey. Life is an adventure. Just do it!
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
WRITING ABOUT CHARACTERS:
When I speak with others about writing, I encourage them to write about characters in their life, failing to recognize, I have many characters to write about, including an extremely interesting character I know – my husband, Phil.
When others tell me what a great husband I have, I encourage them to take him home for a week. Live with him. Cook for him. Clean up after him. Tolerate him. Quickly, almost faster than the speed of light, I get a response stating, “No thank you.”
I’ve often wondered why these kind women never take me up on my plea. The longer I live with my husband, the more I appreciate who, and what he is – even when he is driving me crazy!
Husbands are interesting characters, and most wives who live with them, learn to appreciate, or tolerate them, their habits of polluting the air with toxic gasses, explosive belches and behaviors that only a long-term wife can tolerate. My husband is filled with character. Always joking and teasing me, to the point of what some might refer to as rudeness I suppose I’ve adjusted, learning to put up with his macho behavior. I am supposed to laugh at his jokes, smile when he is teasing me, and be nice to him. What planet is he on?
Those who know me realize, I am a woman who speaks her mind. Independent beyond my means. Once, my psychotherapist said ‘I was the most independent woman she’s ever met.’ I thanked her. I suppose that is a true statement. Although I had three sisters, I was the middle, and I was the one who took care of the others, doing laundry and cooking when I was little. Sometimes I feel as if I have been the caregiver to everyone I know. My take-charge personality kicks in when I see someone in a walker or crutches struggling to open a door. Once while I was approaching the entrance to the office building where I worked, an older, debonair gentleman rushed to beat me to the door, to open it for me. When I reached the door first, I smiled and invited him in. “Gentlemen first,” I said. He paused, encouraging me to enter. Again I repeated “Gentlemen first.” He grunted, turned to me, and said, “But I am always a gentleman and I always open the door for ladies.” I smiled, letting him know it was now time for women to return the favor. “Women,” he growled.
I suppose I showed a part of my character to him that he was not too thrilled with – the feminist. That part of my personality drives my husband crazy. Oh well. He knew this about me on our first date. When he opened the car door to let me slide inside, I grumbled, telling him in a non-nonsense matter of fact way that “I can open my own door. Thank you.” He’s never offered to open the door again. C’est la vie! During the early days of marriage I would pick up the check to pay our bill and Phil would grumble saying he was the man and he would take care of me. My reply – a simple, “Excuse me, I can take care of myself.”
When I met my father-in-law, an angry man who enjoyed keeping women where they belong, I heard him describe me as ‘a woman who has a mind of her own. She uses seventy-five cents words.’ My reply was a tenacious, ‘what am I supposed to do? Should I sachet around you like a demure Southern belle, and walk five steps behind my husband? A Southern belle I am not, and I will not behave like Scarlet O’Hara, or a second-class citizen. What orbit are you on?’
My father-in-law obviously did not realize I was entering the room, and when I stood next to him with such an outspoken voice, he backed down. Until the day he died, he was careful what he said about me and when his health was bad, I was the first person he called to rush him to the hospital, or to check on him. OK – maybe Phil didn’t exactly get a Southern belle in marriage. And maybe it is true that I am nothing like my mother-in-law or my mother. I am a woman with a mind of my own, and the more I write, the easier it is for me to communicate and to speak my mind.
Raised to be quiet, I preferred to be heard. The old cliché, ‘children should be seen, and not heard,’ did not apply to me. In school, I was the first to respond to a question, and the first to voice an opinion. That hasn’t changed for me. It is part of my character.
While it is true that as a young bride (I was seventeen when I married) I did keep many of my feelings inside, over the years, I have learned to speak up and let my voice be heard. My father instilled that belief in me. He was the first to beam when I won debates in school, and the first to congratulate me for ‘being a voice to the world.’ My father was a role model to me, and in many ways, my husband has a few of his characteristics, although Phil is not the type of man to walk on stage and speak aloud, he does voice his opinion.
Writing is a process I find intriguing. Phil has an inquisitive mind – and he is always the character to tear something open to see what is inside. I, on the other hand, sit back and observe others, making mental notes about their mannerisms, voice, pitch, and body language. I get enjoyment watching the character traits of people, and when I can bring a character to life, I find it euphoric.
Perhaps there will come a day when I tell another woman (in a joking manner) to take my husband home for a week, just to see if he is as kind as they say he is. I doubt it. Once, when he was headed to Europe with one of the women he works with, I jokingly told her she would be able to see his true colors now, while he was traveling. She laughed, saying, “Oh, he can’t be that bad.”
“You wait. I want to hear you say what a swell guy he is while in Italy where he cannot get American food. He doesn’t like pasta. You’re gonna get sick of hearing his complaints about food, especially pasta. He’s a meat and potatoes man.”
Thirty days later when they arrived home at the airport, her look said it all to me.
“You deserve an award,” she whispered in my ear. “How do you put up with him, especially at the dinner table.”
“It’s called marriage,” I said. “You put up with a lot, just to keep it going.”
She winked and whispered, “I never plan to get married.”
Smart woman!
I am proud to say we have been married to each other for as long as we have. While there have been problems, and there have been times I’ve wanted to toss a white flag into the argument and say, “I’m done. I surrender,” I cannot. After all, I am a woman of independence and I will remain this strong-minded woman until I breathe my last breath. I suppose you could say, my father taught me well, and I will walk along in the memory of my father and the rules of life he taught me.
For writers, I encourage them to be an observer of life. Listen to people when they speak. Watch their actions. Sometimes their body language says more than their lips, revealing character. When working out at the gym, notice the characters, because they are there. Maybe it’s the guy who grunts loudly while struggling to lift weights. What about the athletic young girl who complains about gaining two pounds over the holidays. When standing in line, does someone pace back and forth, telling you to hold his place? And when he finally makes it to the bank teller, is he rude to the teller complaining that time is money and he needs her to hurry the transaction? Once while relaxing on the beach I watched a beautiful five-year-old as she rushed toward seagulls. “Look Mommy,” she squealed. “Beach ducks.” My listing of characters could continue to fill the page, and I hope this essay will encourage you to open your eyes, listen, and watch the behaviors of others. Character, and CHARACTERS are everywhere. Moreover, when you meet them, jot them down in your day timer, on a napkin, or in your mental memory bank.
When others tell me what a great husband I have, I encourage them to take him home for a week. Live with him. Cook for him. Clean up after him. Tolerate him. Quickly, almost faster than the speed of light, I get a response stating, “No thank you.”
I’ve often wondered why these kind women never take me up on my plea. The longer I live with my husband, the more I appreciate who, and what he is – even when he is driving me crazy!
Husbands are interesting characters, and most wives who live with them, learn to appreciate, or tolerate them, their habits of polluting the air with toxic gasses, explosive belches and behaviors that only a long-term wife can tolerate. My husband is filled with character. Always joking and teasing me, to the point of what some might refer to as rudeness I suppose I’ve adjusted, learning to put up with his macho behavior. I am supposed to laugh at his jokes, smile when he is teasing me, and be nice to him. What planet is he on?
Those who know me realize, I am a woman who speaks her mind. Independent beyond my means. Once, my psychotherapist said ‘I was the most independent woman she’s ever met.’ I thanked her. I suppose that is a true statement. Although I had three sisters, I was the middle, and I was the one who took care of the others, doing laundry and cooking when I was little. Sometimes I feel as if I have been the caregiver to everyone I know. My take-charge personality kicks in when I see someone in a walker or crutches struggling to open a door. Once while I was approaching the entrance to the office building where I worked, an older, debonair gentleman rushed to beat me to the door, to open it for me. When I reached the door first, I smiled and invited him in. “Gentlemen first,” I said. He paused, encouraging me to enter. Again I repeated “Gentlemen first.” He grunted, turned to me, and said, “But I am always a gentleman and I always open the door for ladies.” I smiled, letting him know it was now time for women to return the favor. “Women,” he growled.
I suppose I showed a part of my character to him that he was not too thrilled with – the feminist. That part of my personality drives my husband crazy. Oh well. He knew this about me on our first date. When he opened the car door to let me slide inside, I grumbled, telling him in a non-nonsense matter of fact way that “I can open my own door. Thank you.” He’s never offered to open the door again. C’est la vie! During the early days of marriage I would pick up the check to pay our bill and Phil would grumble saying he was the man and he would take care of me. My reply – a simple, “Excuse me, I can take care of myself.”
When I met my father-in-law, an angry man who enjoyed keeping women where they belong, I heard him describe me as ‘a woman who has a mind of her own. She uses seventy-five cents words.’ My reply was a tenacious, ‘what am I supposed to do? Should I sachet around you like a demure Southern belle, and walk five steps behind my husband? A Southern belle I am not, and I will not behave like Scarlet O’Hara, or a second-class citizen. What orbit are you on?’
My father-in-law obviously did not realize I was entering the room, and when I stood next to him with such an outspoken voice, he backed down. Until the day he died, he was careful what he said about me and when his health was bad, I was the first person he called to rush him to the hospital, or to check on him. OK – maybe Phil didn’t exactly get a Southern belle in marriage. And maybe it is true that I am nothing like my mother-in-law or my mother. I am a woman with a mind of my own, and the more I write, the easier it is for me to communicate and to speak my mind.
Raised to be quiet, I preferred to be heard. The old cliché, ‘children should be seen, and not heard,’ did not apply to me. In school, I was the first to respond to a question, and the first to voice an opinion. That hasn’t changed for me. It is part of my character.
While it is true that as a young bride (I was seventeen when I married) I did keep many of my feelings inside, over the years, I have learned to speak up and let my voice be heard. My father instilled that belief in me. He was the first to beam when I won debates in school, and the first to congratulate me for ‘being a voice to the world.’ My father was a role model to me, and in many ways, my husband has a few of his characteristics, although Phil is not the type of man to walk on stage and speak aloud, he does voice his opinion.
Writing is a process I find intriguing. Phil has an inquisitive mind – and he is always the character to tear something open to see what is inside. I, on the other hand, sit back and observe others, making mental notes about their mannerisms, voice, pitch, and body language. I get enjoyment watching the character traits of people, and when I can bring a character to life, I find it euphoric.
Perhaps there will come a day when I tell another woman (in a joking manner) to take my husband home for a week, just to see if he is as kind as they say he is. I doubt it. Once, when he was headed to Europe with one of the women he works with, I jokingly told her she would be able to see his true colors now, while he was traveling. She laughed, saying, “Oh, he can’t be that bad.”
“You wait. I want to hear you say what a swell guy he is while in Italy where he cannot get American food. He doesn’t like pasta. You’re gonna get sick of hearing his complaints about food, especially pasta. He’s a meat and potatoes man.”
Thirty days later when they arrived home at the airport, her look said it all to me.
“You deserve an award,” she whispered in my ear. “How do you put up with him, especially at the dinner table.”
“It’s called marriage,” I said. “You put up with a lot, just to keep it going.”
She winked and whispered, “I never plan to get married.”
Smart woman!
I am proud to say we have been married to each other for as long as we have. While there have been problems, and there have been times I’ve wanted to toss a white flag into the argument and say, “I’m done. I surrender,” I cannot. After all, I am a woman of independence and I will remain this strong-minded woman until I breathe my last breath. I suppose you could say, my father taught me well, and I will walk along in the memory of my father and the rules of life he taught me.
For writers, I encourage them to be an observer of life. Listen to people when they speak. Watch their actions. Sometimes their body language says more than their lips, revealing character. When working out at the gym, notice the characters, because they are there. Maybe it’s the guy who grunts loudly while struggling to lift weights. What about the athletic young girl who complains about gaining two pounds over the holidays. When standing in line, does someone pace back and forth, telling you to hold his place? And when he finally makes it to the bank teller, is he rude to the teller complaining that time is money and he needs her to hurry the transaction? Once while relaxing on the beach I watched a beautiful five-year-old as she rushed toward seagulls. “Look Mommy,” she squealed. “Beach ducks.” My listing of characters could continue to fill the page, and I hope this essay will encourage you to open your eyes, listen, and watch the behaviors of others. Character, and CHARACTERS are everywhere. Moreover, when you meet them, jot them down in your day timer, on a napkin, or in your mental memory bank.
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