I bring forth writing to the table. It’s an act of creation…something wasn’t there, and then I ticka-tacka on the keyboard a bit and wall-ah! A novel!

Um…actually, it’s more like I get lost in the foxholes of my mind, chewing mindlessly on the ends of my own hair, don’t eat shower talk or sleep, occasionally laugh maniacally to myself, occasionally sob endlessly curled up in my office chair…surviving for days on jalapeno Cheetos and the food I snatch from my kids as they walk by…

Okay. hehe. It’s not quite that bad.

But still…writing. Not easy. But it’s not all that hard, either. It’s fun. I like it. So I do it.

All that to say…it’ll never be the best thing I’ve done.

No, that happened 5 yrs ago on November 3rd.

Baby Adara

See that kid? She wouldn’t be here if not for me. I had the joy and the agony of bringing her forth into the world.

And guess what? She’s one million times better than anything else I could ever produce.

So I have this sense of done-ness. This sense of completion. I’ve already taken part in the most amazing creation experiences of my life…and now I can just Rock and Roll.

So when I think about my writing, I feel like the pressure’s off. I’ve already done the coolest thing I’ll ever do. So I can just sit back and enjoy myself now.

I used to think it’d be great to be “the best” as something. That I should be “the best” fantasy author, or “the best” basketball player, or “the best” at making Ramen noodles with meatballs and celery. But now, now…I’ve realized that I don’t want to be the best anymore. I’ve stopped striving for it and now I just want to BE.

Be me.

Be free.

That little poem just came outta nowhere. You can have it.

But anyways, I hope all y’all get a sense of release with your art. You don’t have to be the best, you should just tell your story. Although I know the power of a good story, I still know that it can’t change my life like my husband and children do. So that’s why I put them first. And…I was just kidding up there about stealing their food as they walked by. I would never do that.

Unless it was Jalapeno Cheetos.

(and just because I’m a MOM I’m going to post baby pictures of my two other kids, Lilia and Darius).

Lilia. She’s a rapscallion, as you can plainly see.

Darius. He’s chill.

Did parenthood change your view of life accomplishments?

Do you feel a sense of release over your art?

So, I’m a thriller writer.

And the thriller genre is so funny because how do you know what will thrill someone, you know?

For some, it would be locking eyes with Channing Tatum.

For others, it would be locking eyes with Santa Claus.

For some, it’s finding a spider on your back.

For others, it’s finding your ex at your back.

For some, the ultimate thrill would be parachuting off a great height. But that would do nothing for someone else. They would be thrilled if they were on Mars and heard a strange bee-boop noise.

You know who would be hard to thrill?

Armstrong.

I freaked out when I watched I Am Legend. Like … hyperventilating and scrunched eyes and panting, the whole bit. But it didn’t even SCARE my brother, which I find hard to believe but it might be true. So weird. People are different I guess.

Due to my extensive research (aka, reading the tabloid magazine covers in grocery stores) I have found out that Kristen Stewart has cheated on Robert Pattison.

Were they ever dating? I thought were only in true love in their Twilight movies, but I guess I was wrong or something. Turns out they really were a couple in real life.

But then, just as fast as you can say spider monkey, their relationship is over.

Due to more extensive research (aka, reading this huffington post that I completely disagreed with in every way, mostly due to its pretentiousness), I found out she had an affair with a married man.

So, what? I say.

Her bidness is her bidness. I have enough friends with relationships-on-the-rocks in my life, I don’t want to borrow any from the celebrities. And besides, what she did is personal. As my 3 yr-old daughter said when she saw one of the pictures of Kristen Stewart that looked like she just slept with the raccoons, “Mama, did she just go to jail?” NO. No, she did not. What she did was personal, not public. If a celeb drives while intoxicated, DUDE, that’s public! You could kill a kid doin’ that! If a celeb takes drugs. Dude, that stuff is a destroyer and the negative publicity is due to you. But having consensual sex with another . . . I don’t wanna hear about it.

So why is the media crucifying her upside down, like the Romans did to Apostle Paul? Because just like the Roman Tribune thought that Paul was a liar and troublemaker, the media does NOT like Kristen Stewart. And it seems all the mags and celebrities and fans are totally torn up about it.

But you know what it all comes down to?

Really, it all comes down to one thing.

Can you guess what it is?

Nooooo, it’s not that she’s a trampire.

Nooooo, it has nothing to do with Pattison’s boyfriending skills.

Nooooo, it doesn’t have to do with the fact that the man she had an affair with was her director, in a position of authority over her.

Nooooo, it doesn’t have to do with the fact that she never smiles.

Oh, wait.

Yeah . . . it was that.

It’s all because she doesn’t smile. She looks like she walks down the red carpet with a stink bug in her mouth.

Oh wait! There’s a smile!

Granted, she’s in front of the camera all the freakin’ time. And it looks like she resents it. Just a tad. Which is fine, but since she didn’t do the media any favors, they aren’t gonna give her any favors, either.

Snow White and the Huntsman supposedly dropped her for the sequel. It’s now called The Huntsman. I don’t think they did this because of the affair, I think they’re using the affair as an excuse to drop her.

Because likability is everything.

You get what you put in.

When you smile you get smiles in return. When you practice acting, you get better at it. When you choose to be faithful, you are. I can relate to that. When I don’t give anything to a project, to a friend, to cleaning the floors, I don’t get squat in return.

And right now, Kristen Stewart’s gettin’ squat.

So I guess the moral of the story is to smile more.

Either that, or to stop looking at tabloid magazines at the grocery store.

I have two black hairs on my chinny chin chin.

No warts or moles are involved. They are rebels, growing amongst a field of tiny blonde invisible hairs. Thick and silky, I’m sure they would grow to my belly button if I let them. But I don’t. I pluck them.

*audience heaves a sigh of relief*

But they’re always on my mind. It’s embarrassing to have chin hair, especially two black, thick rebellious chin hairs. I’ll be waiting in the doctor’s office, and someone will give me a weird sidelong glance, and I’ll think, “oh my gosh did I forget to pluck my chin hairs?”

Ladies aren’t supposed to suffer from black chin hairs.

I’ll be wrestling with my daughters and they’ll grab my chin in a headlock (“Let go, sweetie. Mommy needs to breath.”) and I’ll think about whether they feel those hairs.

Or when I’m with Michael, having a deep talk or … our quiet time. And he’ll be staring at me with eyes full of love and I’ll just be thinking about whether he can see those hairs. Even if I plucked them that morning, I still wonder if they’re there and are so ugly. What if he sees them? What if he’d be so put off he wouldn’t look at me that way again?

The worst I can think of was when I went to a concert, a Nickel Creek concert, way back when I was in college. And I got to meet the band. I was on cloud nine. But just as I walked away from shaking their hand and telling them they were God’s gift to mankind . . . I wondered if they saw my chin hairs.

Those blasted, bloody chin hairs.

Isn’t that crazy?

I mean . . . as I’m writing this I’m shaking my head at how self-involved it all is. Michael’s seen much worse on me than two black chin hairs. My girls wouldn’t care if I had a fu manchu mustache much less two hairs. And my favorite band–I don’t think they were staring at my chin the whole time, considering the hundreds of people crowding around them wanting their autograph.

Mommy?!

(photo by stylewithfashion)

If wonder if everyone has something like that about themselves? That sixth toe or red mole or lightning scar or stretch marks or extra-fifteen-pounds that you feel self-conscious about? That you fixate on when you’re feeling less-than-stellar about yourself?

So I just need to let go of this shame and self-involvement.

I need to believe that others will love me no matter what, chin or no-chin hair.

NO, I won’t prove to the world that I have great self-image by growing out my chin hairs.

*Michael heaves a great sigh of relief*

But I’m going to trash those thoughts about them. When I’m with others, it will be about them and me, and I won’t let my self-esteem butt in between us.

Out of all the critiques I’ve heard about The Amazing Spider-man, the most common is that it’s the same story as Raimi’s 2002 version, Spider-Man. Same ol’ same ol’, people say. This is quite a heavy charge to lay against a movie, because everyone knows Hollywood hates coming out with the same story more than once, amIright? For me, the similarities between the films weren’t big enough to crush the tension or make me lose interest. But here I want to compare and contrast the films . . .

Read more at Blind Scribblings and Incoherent Grunts…