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This post may not be what you expect. I’m trying to be me, but it’s hard. Most nights my brain won’t turn off. I worry incessantly. Over things that do not need to be worried about.

I think it’s because I know I am in the midst of a crisis. Be it middle age or artistic angst, it really doesn’t matter what you name it. The point is, I’m here. Looking at my life and wondering. Wondering. And wondering.

People who don’t write think it’s easy. That putting yourself out there as a “writer” is just writing words. But no, it’s not just words. It’s the excavation of the self. Laying your soul and self out, butt naked, for the world to see.

Yet, it’s also beautiful and lovely. I love the process. Even when I’m writing on my phone in Vegas (like now), for the moment all is still. I’m engrossed in it. I lose myself. My brain stops spinning and I’m using that part of the cerebral cortex that some call the subconscious.

That’s why I write. To feel present.

This is not me you’re seeing. Know that. It’s the version of me that I’m allowing you to see. There’s many versions, and many iterations and who knows which one of them I really am.

What I do know, is that I’m here. Writing. Thinking. Feeling like life is good. Whatever decision I make about my future, the fact is I’m privileged. Plenty of people would love to be in my position and although I still feel, at times, unworthy, I know my value.

I really do.

Chicken Little

The other day someone called me Chicken Little. At first, I reacted with annoyance. "What does that mean? What is the point of saying that?" I said via text. "You sometimes act as if the sky is falling..." was the reply.

Initially, I brushed the comment off. Later, it made me think. Have I become a worrier and over anxious? Do I blow things out of proportion and engage in catastrophic thinking? Yes and yes.

Have I, and I shudder to think of it, become a pessimist?

Life has gotten me down lately. My brother in law's death last year, along with my infertility, has led me to live life without my usual rose colored glasses. I used to be a total optimist, that's how I got so far in life. No matter what was going on in my life, I felt that it would okay. It didn't matter in my waitressing days if I had no car and had to beg for rides or take the bus, or had to pick up shifts to have money for rent, I knew it would be okay.

When I was in law school, those first two years were hard, always scrounging for food, gas and other necessities. But again, I always knew that I would be okay.

Now, even though I am far more financially comfortable, I am not so sure it will be okay. Perhaps, I have begun to face my own mortality. I keep asking myself, why am I here? What am I meant to accomplish if I cannot have a child? (Obviously, this is a personal issue and I am not in any way saying that every woman's life is for procreation.)

My point is this: my yearning for and then my quest and inability to conquer that elusive windmill of having a child, has made me question my very purpose in life.

While a dog is not a baby, at least not a human one, my two shih tzus Frodo and Chewbaca are two of my great loves. Yesterday, I had to take Chewbaca to the vet because I found a lump. The vet is a good friend of mine and he tried to aspirate it, but ultimately, he decided Chewie needs to have it removed and biopsied. I tried not to over react. Inside, I am terrified that this is bad.

After the vet visit, I made a conscious decision to try and be optimistic. Instead of freaking out and crying in my car after the vet visit, I took Chewie to Starbucks and got him a whip cream treat. I sipped my espresso listening to The Strokes while he licked his whip cream cup almost bare. At one point, I looked into his caramel colored eyes and said, "You are going to be okay. We are going to be okay.”

And, I meant it.

Coffee Fueled Thoughts

The only coffee cup to go available with a lid at the AM PM in downtown San Bernardino was the mega size. I knew it would keep me up but I was cold, hungry and on my way to a workshop and reading. Plus, they had non dairy creamer and Irish Creme flavored syrup that was vegan.

Truth be told, the problem was not the size, but the fact that I drank it all. Every last drop. The coffee was delicious. I had outdid myself in its preparation.

The workshop and readings were engrossing. I left inspired. Walking into my house, my husband Adrian chatted with me. We went to bed early but I couldn’t sleep all night. By two am, I gave up and went downstairs to try to fall asleep. Work issues with a special client weighed on my mind. I was suspicious. My inner voice was telling me that something was going to go wrong in his case. I had learned to trust my gut, so the anxiety of that with that damn cup of coffee meant that I didn't sleep at all.

The next morning, groggy and irritable in court (seriously half asleep), I found out that my instinct was, of course, right on. After being a deputy public defender for a decade, I am rarely surprised and it is par for the course to be disappointed, but this got me. It really got me. I was so upset at the situation and outcome (one that I could not control) that I had to take a walk in the middle of my court day.

As I walked down Main Street by the courthouse, I thought about the real decision I had to make that weighed in the back of my mind. Would I follow my dream and try to be a writer full-time? Or I would I stay in my safe, and rewarding, albeit stressful lawyer public defender gig? My inner voice, or gut, or higher power, what some call God,  or whatever you want to call it, was telling me to go for my bliss.

I know what I want to do. But at forty-seven years of age, taking big risks is much scarier and dangerous. I am having to weigh the costs of my dreams and passions.

And that would keep anyone up for days.

Falling In Between Roses and Headboards

Last night, I was upstairs watching Top Chef when my dog Frodo rolled over and fell in between the mattress and headboard. He looked at me with his wide black shih tzu eyes as if pleading “Help!”

I jumped up and pulled him up. He almost broke his neck.

That's how I feel most days as a forty-seven year old lawyer and writer. I am mother to none except my fur kids. My quest for children ended in heartache. The details are too much to share in this essay, but if you've read my work, you know.

My latest quest is to finish my book. And perhaps, to go back to school for my MFA in creative writing. I have always been a dreamer. I think my dreams are what got me this far. A high school dropout turned waitress turned USC educated lawyer. A corporate lawyer turned deputy public defender. And now a lawyer turned writer. Quests are part of life and I always need one to keep me going.

But, sometimes, just sometimes, it's all too much. Yesterday, I had a full court calendar and then a very important policy meeting about my incompetent clients. And then, I had to prep for today's calendar which was going to be ridiculously busy. Traffic was wicked going home, so wicked that I even hit my hand on my steering wheel in frustration.

And, it was Valentine's Day. I yelled at my husband Adrian over the phone about something petty then came home to fifty roses.

"Fifty," I said in my usual sarcastic way, "that better not be a reference to my age." (Adrian will say I am almost fifty when he wants to piss me off quickly-it is almost magical how fast I will blow up.)

But, I was joyful to see the flowers. I couldn't stop smiling and singing to myself (I always sing when I'm happy). The roses were red and long stemmed, and fragrant and lovely. Adrian had stuffed them all into one vase so I separated them into two large vases and counted them to make sure the florist had not shorted him. Yep, fifty!

Flowers make me happy. To me they are a reminder of the beauty in life. The flowers also reminded me that you can't get caught in between life and a headboard. The "in between" parts, all of the sadness and losses that are inherent in life, are what tries to drag you down. But, you can’t let it. You must resist the pull and fight your way out.

Because you see dear reader, the beauty is in the small things. Like when you are lying in bed with your husband and dogs by your side listening to The Smiths. Those are the things to remember.

And of course, the fifty roses.

Cliches

I feel like I’m in a country song. Title: “Sittin in a Bathtub, Bubbles Mixin with Tears.”

It’s been a hard week, a hard month, an even harder year. 2019 has to be better right?

I practice appreciating my blessings. Name them. Beautiful home and endearing husband, stable and fulfilling career, mom, sisters, nieces, and two best friends I adore along with many other close friends. And, my writing. Be grateful for them. I am.

But even with all of these blessings, some days, only some mind you, I think what’s the damn point? Is it middle age? A mid life crisis? Depression? I’m not sure.

What I do know for sure is that life is hard. Half the time I’m too tired to do much of anything. My sleep is off so I take Benadryl before bed. Hubby disapproves, but I tell him, I need to sleep. I have to work in the morning.

Work is a relief because there, for the most part, I pretend. The distraction of court and my client’s problems are a relief from my own maudlin thoughts. Occasionally, however, I get lost in my thoughts there, picturing myself at home with coffee writing on a typewriter (I know it’s an antiquated dream but just substitute in a laptop in the daydream instead).

Speaking of laptops, my screen died this week on my MAC book. I panicked. It went down right in the middle of me writing a story. Is this a sign I thought? My writing is so awful that even my computer can’t stand it.

The worst thing is the self doubt. I want to believe in myself. I want to be the girl who applied to USC Law on a lark and got in. But I fear I’m becoming a pessimist. My infertility, along with the deaths and sadness in my world have almost made me give up on God.

Then, a new day comes and I know that it will bring miracles at times. A forty seven year old woman trying to make it as a writer may be a cliche but cliches are based on truths. And, I may just be the one who makes it.

Changes

I’ve decided to dedicate myself to my writing.  I’m diving in. And hoping not to belly flop.

Last week, I finished my applications to UCR’s high and low residency MFA programs. It felt liberating. Like I was finally making a choice to live my life artistically. And it wasn't as onerous as I thought.

I have been working on my writing for more than a decade. The writing sample was a matter of cutting and pasting stories into a single document. Asking for letters of recommendation around the holidays wasn't ideal, but I have writing mentors and teachers that I felt comfortable asking and they agreed. And, the statement of purpose is the kind of thing I relish writing. It was a joyful experience to do these things. Then came the monotonous task of transcripts. But that didn't take too long. It all felt like it was meant to be. Kismet.

It has been a long road to get here. In Houston, I had started writing poems in my first large law firm staring out my high rise window late at night. But it really started after my father died. When I found out that my dad had cancer, I was working at a civil litigation boutique in San Francisco. I rushed home for a week and cared for him. Then, again two weeks later. He died within three weeks of getting diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I was there when it happened.

His death changed me. I was devastated. I couldn't breathe. It felt like the walls were caving in on me. I moved home leaving Adrian to finish his last year of dental school alone. Yet, I still hadn't figured out that civil litigation wasn't for me and off to another large law firm I went, this time to one at home in the Inland Empire.

By the time I reached the Inland Empire law firm, I was writing all the time. My poems morphed into stories. On a lark, I sent some of my stories and was accepted to a summer writing program called VONA. VONA changed everything for me. It gave me a community. And told me that my voice mattered.

My fellow law firm lawyers thought I was crazy to take a week off to write creatively. They thought I was even crazier when I left the law firm to be a deputy public defender.

Change has always resulted in good things for me. Being a deputy public defender is a gift. I love to help people. In my role as a mental health court attorney, I get to save lives or at the very least help people put their lives back together.

But still, something is missing. A child would fill the void, I know, but after years of infertility and lack of success with in vitro, I also know that shop is closed.

At this point, I am middle aged and yearning for something.

That something is my writing. I have to finish my book. When my brother-in-law died recently, it changed me again. It made me realize how fleeting life is. I had a very deep conversation with my husband. We have had many of those lately, and I told him that my one regret if I passed would be not finishing my memoir. Yes, it is almost finished. But not. I have a draft, but it is not where I want it to be. And time and motivation is difficult to find.

This summer I went to the Macondo Writers Workshop in San Antonio, Texas and I was changed again. I connected with old friends and made new writing friends and met my literary idols. Standing with Sandra Cisneros in a room talking about writing made me realize I am already living my dreams, I just need to take it a step further.

And, here I am. I am at a crossroads of sorts. I could spent the next two or three years moaning and groaning that I need to finish my book. Or, I could apply to a MFA program and just complete. it. So I applied. They say you should only do writing full-time if you have to. And I have to.

I am a good lawyer. I love my job. But I know I am an even better better writer and artist. It is in my soul. I need it for me.

So, here's to a new year and changes on the way. May all your dreams, and mine, come true.

It’s the Great Pumpkin Juanita Mantz

I’m in Vegas with my hubby and the moms. And, I’m missing my dad today.

Dad loved Vegas and would have loved to go with me to Vegas if he was alive. I imagine us sitting at the bar playing Keno together or side by side at the blackjack table. I imagine myself pointing at him and telling the table, “that’s my dad.”

We would both be up early and eat breakfast together. He would order hash and eggs or pancakes.

Dad’s gone so it’s not to be. But my mom is still here and part of writing this is to remember that and savor my time with her.

Dad also loved him a thanksgiving. Dad would cook for hours every thanksgiving. He would make a turkey, mash, a ham, potato salad and more including his ambrosia fruit salad served with orange jello. As a kid, as I have said before, I never appreciated it. But I do now.

Dad would always watch It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown with me and my sisters when we were little. To me, the moral of that cartoon, if indeed there is one, it is that sometimes faith is not rewarded. But that doesn’t mean you stop believing.

And dammit, I’m a believer. Just like Dad.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.