Worry

I saw this on a friend's facebook wall: Worrying is like praying for what you don't want. I have no idea who first said it, but it's really true.

I've been thinking about this a lot recently. There's a lot of stuff out there that we can worry about. What if I never get an agent? What if I never sell a book? What if nobody else likes my writing? What if? What if? What if? And that's just the beginning. From what I understand, the fears and worries don't quit just because you pass one stage for the next. (I don't know this from personal experience in the publishing industry, but it sure happens in other places. Dating to marriage to motherhood, anyone?)

The thing is, if we only focus on what we're worried about, how can we ever focus on what we actually do want? So instead of saying, "What if I never get an agent?" we should be saying "I want an agent." Take every worry, every fear and turn it into something you want instead. It's amazing how much difference that can make.

What are you worried about? What do you want instead?

Monday's Muse #2

Sorry we missed last week, everybody. There was a trip to see doctors and dentists and also sick family and all kinds of things. But enough of that.

Here's this week's inspiration:

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Flash Fiction Fridays #1

Hello all! Welcome to the first installment of Flash Fiction Fridays. The goal here is to just get words flowing. Start a habit of writing again. So each week, the inspiration is posted on Monday and the inspired work goes up on Fridays. If you want to participate, you are welcome to link to a post of your own or put your piece in the comments.

Before I get to the FF today, I just have to give my mom and hubby and shout-out. Mom is graduating from college after years of waiting, raising a family, and trying to fit in school with teenagers and schedules and  so proud of her for committing to a dream and following through. She's inspiring to me! And tomorrow is hubby's birthday. We may or may not be buying a car in Vegas tomorrow, so birthday plans are pretty vague, but it's still exciting.

And now:

The Scent of Lilacs

Mary had always loved the way the lilacs blossomed in the Spring. The scent filled her room when she left the windows open at night and gave her such nice dreams. That fake, lotiony smell wasn't the same. It never lifted her out of the dumpy trailer and into a fairy castle like the real thing did. 

The window was open again. Somewhere down the street, she could hear kids playing "Steal the Flag." They shrieked and whooped at each other. She'd never been invited to come and play. When she was younger, she couldn't understand why and she had cried herself to sleep as the lilac scent washed over her. Now she knew it wasn't her fault. She couldn't help it that her dad was in jail and her mom drank too much. 

Still, she listened to the game and wished she were out there. She wished she didn't have to take care of her mom after a night at the bar. She wished her dad had never met that guy who needed a body guard. She wished that she didn't live in the beat-up, rundown trailer with trash in the yard. And most of all, she wished that the lilac dreams were real and she could fly away to a better place.

"Mary! I need you." Her mom retched a few times, the sound echoing from the bathroom. 

She got up from her bed and crossed the small hallway to the bathroom. Her mom rested her head on the floor, right next to the cold bowl of the toilet. A dribble of pinkish slime ran down her cheek. Mary took the closest towel in her hand and gently wiped her mother's face clean. She got a bottle of aspirin from the medicine cabinet and filled the glass of water that sat by the sink. She helped her mom sit up and swallow a few pills and covered her with a blanket on the floor again.

Back in her room, the lilacs washed the tinge of alcohol from her nose. She closed her eyes and hugged her pillow close, letting the dream take her away again.