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Posts Tagged ‘goals’

  1. Discouraged? These three magic words will make you feel better

    March 19, 2017 by Diane

    Words have power on wooden table

    Do you ever tell yourself…

    “I’m a failure,”

    or

    “My work is mediocre at best, I’ll never measure up,”

    or

    “I can’t make a living doing what I love, I’m wasting my time.”

    Do you hear words in your head that sound like your third-grade teacher, your high school coach, your fill-in-the-blank who doled out messages back in the day when you were a tender young sprout building dreams, words like:

    “You might fail, so why even try?”

    Those are words of envy, of someone who’s faced failure, cringed, and retreated. Those are words you absorbed and squirreled away and overheard in your head when you sat down to rewrite that novel, or compose that blog post, or start that home business, or face that empty canvas, or practice that trombone.

    Spit them out.

    They’re bitter. They need to be boiled down to an edible consistency so they’re easily digestible.

    Sometimes, those words are offered as a way to protect you from disappointment, like when you announced: “I’m quitting my job so I can write The Great American Novel, and I’ll support my family on the advance check alone.”

    Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never said that to yourself. Or something like it.

    “I’m going to open a food truck, get discovered on Shark Tank, and open a fleet of food trucks.”

    Okay, somebody actually did that.

    The point is, sometimes our dreams get too big for their britches. Doesn’t mean we should stop dreaming them. We just need to decide where to best focus our energy.

    As a good friend recently told me, quoting the author of Wheels of Life: A User’s Guide to the Chakra System:

    And then there are the little dreams, like…

    Getting picked for the high school basketball team. Not.

    Getting that part-time job that paid more than your full-time job. Think again.

    Getting the lead in the local community theatre production. Know how to carry a spear?

    Disappointing, right?

    Makes you want to sink into the sofa with a Cotsco-size bag of Cheetos.

    Here’s another quote, from a Buddhist nun:

    When there’s a disappointment, I don’t know if it’s the end of the story. But it may be just the beginning of a great adventure. – Pema Chodron

    There will be times when we dream big and fall short, or try something and fail. Rather than wallow in discouragement, I’ve found the antidote. Three magic words. Three words so powerful, they erase any self-doubt, unstick any stuck places. Words so powerful, whenever you use them, you’ll shoot past that naysayer, you’ll straighten your spine and look that doubter dead in the eye and smile with knowing, then spread your fingers on the keyboard, the trombone keys, around that paint brush, and do what you were meant to do.

    What are those three magic words?

    At. This. Time.

    Huh?

    AT THIS TIME.

    I’m doing the best I know how, AT THIS TIME. With the skills and knowledge I have AT THIS TIME, I’m doing all I can do. As I acquire more skills and knowledge, I’ll do the best I can to at THAT time, which will be THIS time, only THEN.

    Confused?

    Yeah, me, too. But that’s okay.

    Those three magic words act like jet fuel when you’re on the fiftieth rewrite of a ten-page story.

    Oh, you don’t rewrite fifty times?

    Huh.

    Well, anyway, instead of rewriting fifty times like I do, you (or, ahem, I) can stop at the tenth time, saying, “Let it go. You’ve done the best you can do at this time,” then submit it to a literary journal. Off it goes!

    AT THIS TIME keeps you in the moment. Not somewhere in the future, or with Joe Schmo the bestselling author, or with Lucky Leo the ace tennis player. It keeps you with you, at your current level of experience.

    Now, that’s not to say you stay stuck in this moment forever. This moment becomes the next, and you flex your muscles a bit more, stretch a bit farther, and take the next step into the next moment, building your skills as you go. You’re in competition with nobody but yourself. Nobody else can fit in your shoes as long as you’re wearing them.

    So the next time you give your heart to a project and it doesn’t pan out, or your kid does something that leaves you doubting your parenting skills, or the cake you bake for your spouse’s birthday falls flat; the next time your blog post is anything less than stellar, or your rewrite is going badly, or your trombone-playing makes your brother lob a ball at your head; the next time your cold-calling results in a dozen hang-ups, or you slave over a report and your boss makes you do it over–don’t despair. Take a deep breath, straighten up, and say, “I did the best I could do. At this time.” And pat yourself on the back.

    Because the truth is, we’re all on a learning curve.

    And next time, we’ll do better.

    Now that you have those three magic words to propel you onward, what dream, big or pint-sized, will you take on this year? Tell me in the comments. 


  2. Friends by Default: Confessions from the Seventh Grade

    February 19, 2017 by Diane

    team huddle in color

    In seventh grade, I played quarterback in gym class. This was remarkable, as I usually landed on a team by default. When it came down to me and the girl who played tuba in marching band, tuba girl got picked every time. But one day Mrs. Wattenburger, our P.E. teacher who resembled a football, assigned me to play quarterback for one of the teams. And the other girls looked at me like, “Who are you again?”

    Football for girls wasn’t the same as football for boys. We didn’t make actual body contact like boys did, pitching ourselves onto whoever carried the ball, piling up like dirty laundry. What the girls played was flag football, a delicate version of the more masculine butt-slapping, full-body tackling sport. The “flags” were two strips of cloth hanging on both sides of our waists, Velcroed to a belt. To tackle someone meant ripping off a flag, holding it aloft, and doing a happy dance.

    My job as quarterback, in addition to pitching the ball, was to generate plays. Since the only athletic feat I had at the time was balancing on one foot, my ability to dream up plays involving pigskin was somewhat limited. But I soon discovered that I aced the huddle. Stick me in a group, and I’ll seize the leadership role, barking orders.

    In the huddle we draped our arms over each other’s shoulders, something I hadn’t experienced since third grade when Stacey and I paraded like big shots around the playground, forever linked, until my family moved to the mountains and I never saw Stacey again. But in the huddle, we nestled under each other’s sweaty armpits—the cheerleaders, the drama club members, the science geeks, the tuba player, and me—all eyes focused on me, just me, for ten seconds while I spelled out the play.

    “I’ll pretend to throw the ball to you, but instead I’ll run with it myself.”

    And everyone nodded like this was a solid idea.

    We clapped once to signify the end of the huddle, and got into position.

    I hunkered over the ball, counted down, “Hike one, hike two, hike three,” then tucked it under one elbow and plowed head-first into a solid mass of female. When I picked myself up, still hanging onto the ball, I ran in the opposite direction, toward the wrong goal, then doubled back, everyone shouting and trying to catch up until the tuba player, who hadn’t moved since she took her position as tight end, ripped off my flag as I ran past and did the happy dance. My own teammate!

    At least that’s the way I remember it. The reality is probably somewhat different.

    But I do remember the huddle.

    And calling the play.

    And flubbing it.

    The next day, the girls promptly forgot who I was, and I went back to slinking from class to class, berating myself for having failed to reach yet another dream. Not that I dreamed of being quarterback. But still. Anytime a dream seemed within reach—like when that curly-haired guy at the school dance settled his gaze upon me and it was love at first sight until his gaze skittered elsewhere, yeah, that close—when I failed to reach the dream, I kicked myself in my bell-bottom pants the whole way home. I muttered stuff like, “You stupid-head. Nobody wants to dance with you. Nobody wants to go out with you. Nobody wants you on their stupid, stupid team.” With a lot of sneering. Because failing wasn’t bad enough.

    I did console myself with the fact that at least I wasn’t google-eyed over Tom Jones, like Jill Slater. She owned all his records, and watched his weekly variety show where he sang “It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone,” as he snapped his fingers and swung his hips, head slung back, white ruffled shirt split open. Because she hung out with me, I overlooked that minor flaw. Because I hung out with her, she probably overlooked my striped bell-bottoms, and the chain I wore around my wrist for three days thinking it was cool, until it turned my skin green.

    Sometimes we don’t pick our team. Sometimes we’re the last two standing on the sidelines and we look at each other and say, “Wanna play?” I knew my friendship with Jill wouldn’t last long. The only thing we had in common was being misfits. And at some point we’d drift apart, when one of us met a girl who really was our tribe.

    Secretly, I hoped I’d be the one to meet her.


  3. How Will You Spend Your Time This Year?

    January 29, 2017 by Diane

    Two coffee cups

    So, Diane. Here we are. A brand new year.

    2018.

    Well, 2017 for me.

    You’re absolutely right.

    Tell me something good. Tell me I get more than one copywriting client.

    You get more than one copywriting client.

    YES! I knew I could do it! It’s the one-task-a-day routine. It’s working!

    It’s working.

    Did I give up the blog once and for all?

    What do you think?

    I think I’m having too much fun blogging. Jumping in mud puddles. When the puddles dry up or it’s no longer fun, I’ll stop. Do I have more than sixty-eight subscribers?

    You have more than sixty-eight subscribers.

    And I stopped watching The Bachelor. Tell me I stopped watching The Bachelor.

    Can you look me in the eye and honestly say you’ve stopped watching The Bachelor?

    Well, no. But I don’t turn it on until I’ve completed my copywriting task for the day.

    This is true. You even missed episodes, for that very reason.

    Thank GOD! And the short story? Did I send it out?

    You sent it out.

    Did it get published? Tell me it got published.

    We’re not here to talk about the short story.

    The novel? Did I rewrite the novel?

    About the novel—

    It was the logline. That’s what held everything up, back in 2016. You should talk to Holcomb about that. She blabbed on the blog about how to rewrite a novel. She got as far as step four: the logline. And that was it. Oh, she tried to convince herself that she’d chosen an acceptable logline, that she was ready to move on, but did she? Was there ever a step five? NO.

    2016 is over. We don’t need to revisit it.

    Oh, yeah. You’re right. Phfft! It’s gone. So, what about the novel?

    Overwhelmed. Sound familiar?

    I’ll say. It was Holcomb’s most-used word in 2016. I’m still overwhelmed.

    Watch out for that.

    What are you saying?

    You need to respect boundaries. The ones you decided to set. Like not blogging at midnight.

    Oh. Is that what time it is?

    Yes. The key is to focus on one thing at a time. One thing.

    And what is that one thing?

    You’ll know.

    Copywriting! That’s why I have more than one client. Or is it something else? Oh, I’ve got it. I finally pitch that reality show concept, the one the networks will be fighting over.

    Well—

    Or I dig out that radio script and send it to NPR. You remember—The Family Nude Show.

    I do.

    The game show where families play…in the nude.

    I remember.

    Because who’s going to know if the contestants are nude? It’s radio, fer cryin’ out loud!

    Diane, Diane! National Public Radio is not going to air The Family Nude Show.

    Oh. Well. You really know how to burst a girl’s bubble.

    I’m sorry.

    So what is the one thing? Do I publish The Best of Squirrels in the Doohickey? No, wait. I’ll bet I submit all those writing tips to magazines. Or I finally rewrite the ding-dang-darn novel once and for all. Is that it? Is it the novel?

    You’ll know.

    Oh, please, please, please tell me.

    See you in 2018.