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Archive for April, 2019

This week has been a struggle, depression- and work-wise. I won’t bore you with the details, but it did come to a head a couple of nights ago when I spent a while railing at God in the bathroom and crying puddles of tears that I had been holding back all that day. It has lessened since, but the shadows have lingered. Thankfully, my puffy eyes have not.

Every time I have a bad day, it feels like it will never get better and then, when the demons are kept at bay, I can’t understand why I’ve ever been sad. Many times, I can avoid triggers, but there’s often no rhyme or reason to it. Out of the blue, I feel worthless, I feel fat, I feel untalented, I feel old, I feel like I’m a horrible mother, a horrible wife. I feel overwhelmed, I feel unqualified, I feel like curling up in my bed and never coming out.

Most people would never know I have depression, I’m very good at getting through my day. My husband knows, though,and he’s very understanding, although I hate that he has to see me when I’m like that, uncommunicative and sad.

Depression is not for wimps.

What I’ve learned is that I need to wait it out, that it will get better, even if it doesn’t feel like it. Usually, my “holes” last only a few hours, this last one was worse than usual and it sucked. Majorly.

It’s getting better, it’s just passing more slowly than usual. It takes time, it takes patience. I have a wonderful therapist who teaches me strategies. Soon, I’ll be whole again. I’m almost there.

If you have depression, get help. If you know someone with depression, let them know you care.

Depression is not for wimps.

 

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On my Facebook Author page (@JulieBallantyneBrown), I posted this question tonight:

SATURDAY NIGHT QUESTION TIME!!! Name a book that changed your life. One of mine (I have several books that have changed my life or have caused me to reflect.) is Faith Unraveled by Rachel Held Evans.

I’m posting this because Rachel Held Evans needs your prayers, good thoughts, and/or vibes tonight. She is currently in the ICU in a medically induced coma, according to her husband, Dan. (https://rachelheldevans.com/blog/health-updates) I don’t know her prognosis, but it does sound extremely serious.

I wrote the truth in my post. Her book, Faith Unraveled, did change my life. While growing up, I had questioned so many things about my faith and most of the time, I felt alone. I felt like I wasn’t allowed to question my faith, that I was supposed to see everything in black and white when it came to religion. As I have written about before, I was raised fairly fundamentally, leaving that behind when I had my own family because i didn’t want to raise my kids with the levels of fear and shame that I had grown up with. To me, God was not supposed to be a terrifying entity who sent people to Hell on a whim, but a loving presence who wanted the best for me, for all of us.

Those thoughts of a dreadful God  stayed with me for years, even though I had physically moved on. Then, one day, a friend of mine recommended a book online. It was A Year of Biblical Womanhood. In that book, I was introduced to someone who spoke what I was feeling: my doubts on my faith, my thoughts. I eagerly devoured her other books, but Faith Unraveled really resonated with me. While our experiences weren’t exactly the same (I was never the astute Bible student that she was), it spoke to me that I was not alone, that it was okay to question religion, to question, gulp, God, and to be okay with it because He welcomed our thoughts, our questions, and even our doubt.

I’m not writing to preach tonight, but to ask for help for a woman who has given me a new perspective on faith. It doesn’t matter what religion you are, or if you have any at all. I’m quite positive that she would agree with that.

Shalom, A Blessed Passover, and a Happy Easter (Buona Pasqua, Sabri) to you all.

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As I write this, it’s a grey, rainy day. It’s cold, too, which doesn’t help much. I’ve been sequestered inside for most of the time, finishing online homework and (gasp!) reading a book, building a fire, making dinner. Bacon and potatoes. It was lovely.

I also took a quick walk around Greenfield Village. If you’re not from my neck of the woods, Google Greenfield Village, or The Henry Ford, as it’s known today collectively with the other attractions it’s partnered with. Yes, it was rainy and crappy out, but that’s one of my favorite times to go. For one thing, I get the whole place to myself. No people to dodge, no trying to ignore inattentive parents letting their kids do things that aren’t allowed, like feeding the geese or climbing trees. I don’t have to talk to anyone, I can just soak up the whole place, the ambiance, be myself and let the memories of working there for so long come flooding back.

They’re good ones, the memories, especially those from days like this at the farm. We’d hardly get any visitors, only a few brave ones dared to squelch their way down the dirt path of the farm lane to us. When they did come, we would welcome them warmly into the toasty kitchen and because there wasn’t a line out the door, we could spend some extra time talking with them. It was nice, like having company over.

Many times, though, on days like this, we’d barely see a soul and those were days when we became family. Of course, all of the chores would still have to be done. This isn’t Disneyland, it’s a real working farm from 1885. Animals have to be fed, stalls mucked, fields plowed, the stove and fireplace cleaned out and lit, water pumped, cows milked, dinner cooked, dishes washed, all of the things that made, and still do make, it real. On days like this when I had to work outside, it would be miserable. My boots would be soaked through with wet from the barnyard, full of poo and mud all mushed up together, the hem of my dress in deplorable condition. The Period Clothing department that made all of our clothes would look at us in dismay when we’d bring things to be repaired, but hems and pant cuffs got the worst of the abuse from the manure/mud combo we’d put them through. (Pigs would also bite our clothes, or cow horns would rip something. We were not Period Clothing’s favorite people.)

At the time when I worked there, the draining system hadn’t been improved yet, so we had to wade through a small lake to get from the house to the barn and back. Even the chickens were smart enough to stay in their coop or the barn where it was warm and dry. None of the animals wanted to be outside, but we still had our work to do.

Milking the cow, or cows, was a job we’d fight over on these raw days so that our hands would be warm, although I was felt badly for the cow in question. We’d get our bodies warmed up with the physical work, but our fingers and toes would be frozen and soggy. When it was time to come in for a quick break, we’d be so grateful for the warm wash water put out for us by the ladies in the house. We’d scrub up the best we could and come into the sitting room to dry out by the fire for a while, boots off, sometimes stockings and bonnets, too, hung over the fire screen and placed close to the flames, steam streaming up from the wet things.

We’d drink coffee, eat some cheese toast or cookies, and just talk while our things dried and we watched the rain come down. If it was dinner time when we came in, dinner could last a long while, especially if there was nothing pressing that needed to be done in the barn or the manure wagon didn’t need to be emptied out in the back forty or in the fields, as it often did. It was during one of these rainy days where I slipped on a wet wagon wheel while climbing back into the manure wagon and would have bashed my forehead open if it hadn’t been for my friend and supervisor quickly grabbing me by the wrist and yanking me to safety. Usually, though, unless absolutely necessary, those things would be put off a day or so until it was a bit drier. Hopefully, there would be a bit of dessert left over from a baking day and we’d boil another pot of coffee. I can still smell the combination of coffee, fire, food, and wet wool drying by the fire.

There were other buildings in the village where it was lovely to be on a rainy day, such as in the Gristmill. One could spend an entire day in there without seeing anyone except for when you went to have dinner at the farm with everyone. I used to get a lot of reading done on those days, or crochet, or cross stitch. I would sing entire musicals to myself with no one to hear me but the ghosts. I wouldn’t have wanted all the days to be like that, but sometimes, when it had been crazy busy with school children and other visitors for days on end, a quiet, rainy day was delightful.

The temperature will be going up this week and the sun will eventually come out. Greenfield Village will be full of visitors again, as it should be. Geese will be teased, trees will be (illegally) climbed, but most importantly, more people will fall in love with the place, as I and so many others have over the years.

Maybe they’ll learn what I already know: it’s a wonderful place to spend a cold, rainy, day.

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I got another rejection for a novel yesterday. It’s nothing new, nothing unexpected, but for some reason, it really did hurt. It’s a reality in the life of a struggling writer and, like I said, not unexpected. I joked on Twitter (@BrownBallantyne, in case you’re interested) that I was going to wallpaper a room with rejection emails and in reality, I’d probably have at least a good two walls worth. J.K. Rowling, with her twelve rejections, has nothing on me!

It frustrating when kids at school, my target audience, read it and love it, but I can’t find an agent or publishing company that will take the chance. I know, it’s all a part of the deal, and usually I take it in stride, but sometimes it just really gets to me. I start wondering if I’m any good, if I should just quit putting myself out there. It makes me wonder if people really mean it when they tell me that they love it or if they’re just wanting to spare my feelings. I mean, I get it. It’s hard to tell someone that they suck, especially when you know them.

I know that the biggest part of writing should be for the sheer joy of it, and I do love writing, but the goal is to actually make it into a career, i.e., the proverbial “do what you love” path. I would, eventually, before I die, like to do what I love for a living. It’s just taking a really long time to get started, or to even get noticed in this super-competitive world.

I’ll admit, I was a little spoiled because my first book, Put Up Your Hair, was picked up almost immediately by the first company I queried, Heritage Books. I was confident, overly so, that my success with fiction would come just as easily. The past few years have taught me some hard lessons on that front. Apparently, I needed a little humility. I definitely have it now!

And then, I remember the student who ran up to me after she read Traveler, begging me to write the sequel, or the class that looped with me who wanted to hear it all again during read aloud time the following year, telling the new students that it was such a good story. I think about the students to whom I gave samples of other stories, who clamored for more. (I promise that I’ll finish the paranormal book after the Traveler sequel, N.!) That kind of thing gives me a little boost each time it happens and encourages me to keep putting my thoughts into words.

I don’t mean to sound discouraged, just letting off a little steam. I’ll shake it off and move on, hoping to write another few thousand words this weekend. I’ll keep sending out the queries, each one with a little prayer, and hope that one day, I’ll catch the right agent in the right mood and things can progress the way I’d love for them to go.

One day…

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New Novel Meme

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True words.

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