I'm Not Qualified for Anything, But I Do It Anyway.

Amy Ferris and I had this  conversation the other day and decided we'd blog about it together. Mine is below, and Amy's is linked at the bottom.

Every time I start to panic about money, and start looking for “real jobs”, I am daunted by how unqualified I am - for everything.  I truly am. I’ve joined every networking and job search site. I spend hours going through the job opportunities but don’t qualify for a single one.

You see, back when I was a youngster in college, I believed I wasn’t as good as the other bright young kids. I was damaged, flawed, hiding a terrible secret about who I really was -the daughter of a convict. I let that feeling overtake me, until the anxiety attacks caused me to drop out of college. So I never got a degree. And these days, you can’t get any kind of decent paying job without one. I was a college dropout with no experience, other than waiting tables. I ventured out into the world with nothing but my heart’s desires to lead me.

I had no business experience, but at 20 I started a craft business, selling at fairs and local shops.

I had no design degree and couldn’t sew,  yet at 27, I started a children’s clothing business. When I couldn’t find fashions I liked for my two kids, I designed my own. I didn’t know anything about the clothing business, but I asked. I learned. I read. And within a few years my fashions were in Fred Segal and Macy’s and in the window of Barney’s New York.

I don’t have an MBA or any music education. I can’t even read music. But at 32, when I couldn’t find anyone to put my music out into the world, I started my own record label. I ran a small ad in the local paper stating that I was doing business (DBA), and got a business license. I found a manufacturer who did small runs at a decent price. I had a friend who wanted  an “executive producer” credit, so he paid the $3000 to manufacture the Cds. I had no right to, but I put out two albums on my own record label, and got them into Tower records and selling worldwide at CDbaby.com.

I’m not a licensed teacher, have no degrees in social work. But at 37, I wanted to use my music to help kids, so I started a nonprofit, teaching music and art to teens in foster care. I knew nothing about nonprofits, how to set them up, how to run them. I found a free seminar put on by L.A. County and they taught me everything I needed to know.  I called the head of music therapy at Cal State University of Northridge, set up a meeting, pitched my idea and we shook hands on a deal. He put his faith in me based on not my experience, but my intent, my sincerity and my true desire to help. Later that year, we put on a fundraiser. I had never done a fundraiser. I had no marketing degree or experience in that arena. I bought books. I called people who knew how to do this. I took them out to lunch and asked questions. What I’ve found is that, generally speaking, people are happy to share their knowledge. We got Michael Mc Donald, Christopher Cross, Dave Koz, Karla Bonoff and Stephen Bishop to perform at CSUN, for free! We raised enough money to provide a full year of music therapy to autistic children.

All from a girl with no qualifications.

I don’t have a BA in English or MFA in creative writing. I just write. Every day. Ten years ago, I found the only writing group in town- a Senior Citizen’s community writing class. I went every week for two years, just me and all my adopted grandparents. Eventually, I wrote a book, and started a blog, and sold some essays.  And now Amy Ferris and I have sold an anthology.

Would all this have been easier with a college education? Hell yes. But just because something isn’t easy, doesn’t mean it isn’t possible.

I’m not qualified for anything, but I do it anyway.  And yet lately, I feel depressed and worthless because I don’t get callbacks from the jobs I’ve applied for, because according to them - I’m not qualified. Six months with no response. I’ve let it make me feel worthless, even though, when I think of my past accomplishments, I know rationally that’s not true.  But when life knocks you down, it’s easy to forget what you’re capable of.

I think it’s important for all of us to keep a mental running list of the things we HAVE done, the things we never believed we could accomplish: Raising a kid, keeping a marriage together, surviving disasters, landing jobs, volunteering, working, refurbishing a home, learning a skill… I mean, think back to when you were young. Did you ever in a million years think you’d _______(fill in the blank). We all surprise ourselves by doing things we  never knew we were  capable of. And yet society, and even well meaning friends and family, will try to dissuade your from following your dreams. I say f*ck that. Do what you want to do. If you’re not qualified, and have no money, and no one supports you, do it anyway!

If we limit ourselves by what society wants us to believe – that there is only one way to success, that we don’t have the qualifications it takes, that our dreams are impossible -  then we  miss out.  As far as I know, this is the only life we have, and all those “one day…” and “someday…” dreams? If you’ve hit middle age like me, Someday is Today. Right now. So do what you have always wanted to do, and don’t let anyone tell you you’re not “qualified”. 

You are here,  you’re alive,  you have dreams- that qualifies you.

Step into your full power. I dare you.

(are you listening, self?)

Please share with me today…I’d love to hear about something you’ve done in your life, that you never imagined you could. 


For Amy Ferris' brilliant companion blog "When I Grow Up", click here:
http://marryinggeorgeclooney.com/blog/2011/07/17/when-i-grow-up-2/

When It Rains, It Pours.

Just as I hit the submit button on my "gratitude blog" yesterday, a pipe burst in the ceiling of Evan's room, black stinking liquid gushing through his ceiling fan and the air vents in the walls, then traveling through the air vents to my art studio.

If there is such a thing as "The Secret",  I suppose I'm not very good at it.

This is what was dripping on us from the ceiling. I hopefully asked Troy, "Am I being too Pollyanna to think we might have struck oil and are going to be millionaires?" (Oh but oil doesn't smell like this) Demolition crews are on the way to rip out the ceilings in Evan's room and my art studio. Carpets are already gone.

Troy and I were feeling very, very beat down yesterday. Depressed. And it happened to be our son Taylor's 21st birthday. (Sorry for the crappy birthday, Tay) But you know...we keep reminding each other, we have love, and we have our health. All the crap that's happened to us is just a huge hassle.  My friend Anita lies in a hospital bed fighting for her life. Now that's a problem.

So we keep trudging...through the muck. Literally.

I have no explanation except that life is just a freekin' rollercoaster ride. What can we do but make the best of it? Hands in the air everybody...Here we gooooooo....

Evolution of a Blog

Thank you for the gift you have given me.

When I started this blog a year and a half ago, I was writing about the trials and tribulations of the writer’s life - the agent rejections, the self-doubts, the pressing urge to write anyway. Never in a million years did I think this blog would become the Dexter SAGA. Never did I imagine I would be on the frontlines of animal activism. But, like my friend Monica Holloway said to me, sometimes life taps you for a cause. You may have never seen it coming but one day there you are, rising up to a fight you didn’t know was in you. Monica is now one of the main spokespersons for Autism awareness. It certainly wasn’t what she had dreamed of as a little girl, but life, as they say, is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.

So here I am.

For anyone who is new to this blog, suffice it to say the past two years have been a whirlwind of drama (and yet blessings sandwiched in there, somehow).

Just a few weeks ago, for instance, I had an amazing miracle of a day: I was Monica’s guest at a private luncheon for Michelle Obama. I was on cloud nine. We laughed and ate and drank wine and were transfixed and inspired by Michelle. Then, as soon as I got home, still walking on air, I got an email from my attorney that our request to keep our dog Stitch during the appeal process had been denied, and now we had to appear in court to beg again. Right after that I got a phone call that the job I had just clinched (which was going to pay for my attorney) had fallen through.  For some reason, that’s how most of my days have been for the past two years. I can’t even bask in a happy moment for a full 24 hours before the next storm hits.

My life hasn’t always been this way. Thank God I’m an obsessive journaler. I can look back at the years 2005-2009 and see what peaceful, happy years they were. But 2010 and 2011…not so much. Luckily (or actually NOT luckily) this has happened to us before. 1995 and 1996 were hellish years. Our house burned down with both our businesses in it, so we were homeless, jobless, hopeless. But we made it through those times, and that is how I know we will make it through these. I learned then that when you are walking through the dark valley of your life, there is no other way but through. You may look for a way to catapult yourself over it, to fly over it, to avoid it by numbing yourself with substances or addictions…but it doesn’t work. You just have to keep trudging through the muck. So that is what we’re doing. And that’s what this blog is for me…a place to trudge through, to sort it all out in my head. If I was walking through life with all this trapped inside me, my brain would be like a hornet’s nest, full of confusing angry thoughts. But instead, you’ve given me a space to put it all out there and connect to others who “get it”.

So for that I want to thank you today. Thanks for sticking with my blog through it’s evolution, and all it’s ups and downs. Thank you for caring, for reading, for commenting to let me know I’m not the only one toughing it out right now. You have been my safety net over troubled waters, and I hope I return the favor.

You've given me a true gift. You guys rock.

Reclaiming My Yard, Reclaiming My Life

On Tuesday, I sat with my fingers poised above the keyboard for hours, but nothing came out. I was stuck. And that’s because something in my life was stuck. I looked out the window at the barren sad landscape that used to be my yard, a place Evan played and we had birthday parties and BBQs, but no more. You see, last Summer was the pinnacle of one of the worst years of our lives. 2010 - the year of the lawsuit, attacking pitbulls, restraining orders, heart-breaking betrayals, the Septic explosion (and the flies and maggots that accompanied that), our dog Brandy getting cancer (and dying), the financial catastrophes, and the horrible and shocking loss of our good friend Greg. It was Summergeddon.

Before 2010, our yard had a cute patio with decorative brickwork, and scalloped garden areas. After the septic disaster, they ripped out the entire yard to find the problem. $10,000 later we were able to flush our toilets. That’s it. And this is what we were left with.

The result of Summergeddon. We used to have jacuzzi parties here.

This used to be a garden, now hard barren earth.

We never were able to put our yard back together, as our life since dealt us one financial blow after the next, and our focus was on simply keeping our heads above water. But every time we looked at that yard, it was a sad reminder of all the pain and loss of last year.

We were sick of it, and sick of waiting until we had the money to do something about it. So I closed my laptop, and off I went with my hoe and shovel. Troy and I spent this entire week in 100 degree weather, digging trenches, dragging enormous rocks around, leveling dirt, reclaiming our yard. It’s amazing what you can do with some determination and a few bucks.

You can drag rocks off the mountain and create a zen garden with plants you already have and a $6 bag of pea gravel.

You can create a play area with two $5 bags of mulch and a couple 2x4 boards.

Play area surrounded by zen garden area and what will eventually be a flagstone pathway.

You can make your Jacuzzi look brand new with a $10 can of redwood stain and a lot of elbow grease.

Jacuzzi before

Jacuzzi after the $10 can of stain.

Reclaiming our yard meant reclaiming our life. I’m wiping 2010 off the soles of my shoes, and moving on. New life has been planted in my yard. And hopefully when I sit down to write next week, something new and fresh will take root.

Sometimes a project seems so daunting,  I think it's impossible. It's like looking at a mountain, thinking I have to tackle the whole thing at once. But I learned in therapy that you climb a mountain by putting one foot in front of the other,  one step at a time. Sometimes taking a baby step is the most powerful thing you can do, but if you keep moving you'll get there. So I just keep moving. 

Today I’m off to help a friend reclaim her life, taking my proverbial hoe and shovel with me. Together, we're going to tackle a mountain, one step at a time.

How I Got Published (in a Totally Random Way)

When I got the phone call that Seal Press had bought our anthology Dancing at The Shame Prom, I was cautiously optimistic. When I got the email, I smiled…a little. When my agent sent the contract for review, I carefully read it over and asked the pertinent questions. And when my writing partner Amy called and said, in so many words, WHY AREN’T YOU OVER THE MOON? THIS IS GREAT NEWS! I, the girl who’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop said, “I’ll believe it when I have the signed contract in my hand.”

So…here it is. The signed contract. In my hand. And after I exhaled, I started to smile a little, then a lot, and finally decided to let myself celebrate this. My husband and I toasted, and I took this picture, wanting to remember the importance of the moment.

I lied in bed last night reflecting on the journey that led me here, and I realized that nothing happened as I had planned. It didn’t go the way the “How To” books said it would, nor the way I plotted it out in my head, and maybe that’s why I didn’t quite trust it. I wasn’t in control!

I had spent a grueling six years writing and rewriting my memoir Only Good Things, never intending to publish it. I wrote it because it was in me, and I was compelled to get it out. And then, for my birthday in 2009, I took an intensive writing workshop at the home of a writing hero, Joyce Maynard. A few weeks later she asked if she could share my work. I assumed she meant with future classes, and said of course.

Months later, I got an email from a literary agent in New York, saying she had read my work and wanted to read more. I ran around the house jumping and shouting, out of my mind with excitement. Never in a million years did I think anyone would be interested in reading what I wrote. It was just therapy for me. But now it looked as though my life was on the verge of a big change.

I took that as a cue: time for me to take the helm and chart out my course. I worked my butt off, writing every second my son was in preschool, never answering the phone, letting the dust bunnies take over the house. Back and forth the manuscript went for six months, and in the interim, I read all the "How To" books and queried a few other agents as well. But this agent, she was my DREAM agent. She was the one I had to have. She was part of my “plan”.

And then the plan….crashed.

I started this blog two years ago because of the crushing (but kind) rejection I finally got from that dream agent. (that blog is here:http://hollyedexter.blogspot.com/2010/02/crushed.html) She liked the writing, the story, but she said that ultimately, it was just too tough in today’s market to sell a memoir without a “platform” (think Snooki, Bristol Palin…) and she couldn’t take that risk.

I was overwhelmed with feelings of failure and had nowhere to go with them. So I blogged for the first time, and sent it out into cyberspace. And this amazing woman who I had just connected with on She Writes, commented on my blog. This is what she said:

HOLLYE: never ever ever give up! i am actual proof of two agents saying no to my book, one to my face, and that was hard ... and then i got a fabulous agent, and then i got an amazing publisher ... and now my memoir is out in the world and it's so frickin' liberating and scary and writing memoirs is scary scary scary...so DON'T GIVE UP. WRITE. be brilliant. be bold. fuck 'em. something amazing will happen. love, Amy Ferris

I was wowed by this new friend who barely knew me, being so supportive, and not competitive. And so I bought her book Marrying George Clooney, which I devoured. Her writing was so honest and accessible, reading it felt like having a chat with your best friend. I added Amy on facebook, and discovered that we had the same birthday. Long story short, Amy Ferris and I became the best of friends after that. We would have long talks about life, and love and disappointments and courage. We started to write a few essays and blogs together, never competing, always championing one another. And one thing we agreed on – as writers we were going to be bold, be brave, and always tell the absolute truth. We challenged each other to write truthful essays about things we had tried to hide in the past. We’d agree to put a scary, revealing blog out on the same day….and WOW- the responses we’d get were overwhelming. Mostly private messages, people would reveal their innermost secrets to us, and it became clear that everyone was carrying some degree of hidden shame, and thought they were the only one. Now we had a mission. It wasn’t about making money or getting published. We had to keep writing in this vein to let others see they weren’t alone. And as we wrote these revealing pieces, other outlets started picking up our blogs. Before you knew it I had essays published and online webzines asking me to write for them. (And all I had ever wanted to do was to blog about my rejection!)

I diligently edited and reworked my memoir all year long. Meanwhile the phone conversations and blogs with Amy continued until we realized, after seeing one public persona after the next fall on his sword with shame, this was not just a year-long phone conversation that two women were having. This was a conversation that the whole world needed to be having. It needed to be a book. We knew amazing writers who could write brilliantly on this subject. And so, together Amy and I wrote a proposal, and the agent loved it, and the first publisher we went to – the one we really wanted- bought it! (and by the way, everyone told us it was impossible to sell an anthology in this market.)

Suddenly the memoir I had just spent eight years obsessing over was not the centerpiece of my life. The “plan” I made was scrapped, and in its place, something else popped up and tapped me on the shoulder. A calling, I guess you could say.

So what is the moral of my publishing story? When I was fixated on the ONE way my writing career was supposed to go, I almost missed something that was right in front of me, or in our case, something that was always inside of us. Amy said in that first blog comment “Be bold, be brave, something amazing will happen.” And something amazing did happen. I found an amazing friend, we’re writing an amazing book, we’re surrounded by amazing writers, and I have a fucking contract in my hand!

Now that is AMAZING!

I haven’t abandoned my memoir. I still believe it will find it’s way into the world, but I also believe the timing wasn’t right, and I couldn’t push it no matter how I tried. It was a hard lesson in “Surrender 101” for me. I now understand that I can’t push a flower to bloom, and likewise, my life path unfolds at it’s own pace, in it’s own unique way. I learned to write only what was true for me, no matter what the industry, or the books, or “they” said. I learned to stay true to myself, to keep writing in the face of rejection, and to do what felt right instinctually. I still don’t have a “platform”. Let’s face it, I’m never gonna be Snooki…and that’s a good thing.

"I've been rich, and I've been poor..."

Troy and Hollye, making music together.
(photo: Alex Sears)

The opening scene in Slumdog Millionaire is a montage shot in Calcutta: the scenery rich with color and filth, young people marrying in traditional silken dress draped in chrysanthemums, barely clothed children running in packs, laughing and playing, oblivious to the poverty around them, beggars lying in the street while old women sell their wares and prepare food in roadside carts. I welled up watching this montage, because that is life. Calcutta is a perfect example of the heartbeat of humanity in all its beauty and tragedy.

Maybe this scene touched me so deeply because all my life I’ve walked the line between extravagance and poverty. Even though I grew up poor with a single mom who worked nights, I still had opportunities to dine in French restaurants, mingle with the elite and ride in limos. And today, though we ride the financial rollercoaster being artists and raising a family, we’ve traveled the world, been treated like royalty, hung out with celebrities, performed in top venues, slept on three million-thread count sheets in the finest hotels.

Straddling both worlds, what I’ve noticed is this. When I am in a five-star hotel, or lush resort or country club, I feel safe. I am lulled into a feeling of serenity by the trio playing live jazz in the background, the fine foods, the impeccable service. And I realize that this false sense of security comes from the fact that the rich use their money to keep themselves immune to the real world, and when I am in their world, I share the immunity. If only for those moments, I can exhale and forget about the pain and struggle. They live in gated communities sealed off by walls, they spend their time in private country clubs and resorts where the other 98% can’t get in, or the finest restaurants where only their kind can get a table. When they have problems, they pay other people to handle it. Their money is a buffer that keeps them at a distance from the everyday squalor, the heartbeat of humanity. So maybe they can avoid suffering, but they also avoid the richness and depth that comes from it.

Although I have always been a performer, my dream was never to be famous. I grew up around celebrities whose fame sealed them off from the world, isolating them from reality. But I always wanted to dive into reality, to understand life and people. I was not born to be a princess in an Ivory castle, protected from the world. I was meant to dig in with both hands, and to get those hands dirty, to feel, taste, experience it all.

Had I grown up a child of privilege, I would have missed so much. Take right now, for instance. If we were rich, we could have called our maintenance man or gardener when there was a five-foot snake in our yard, but instead, my husband wrangled the thing with his bare hands and relocated it himself. Or when the sink backed up last week, we would have called someone instead of having my husband under the sink with wrenches and pipes. And we could just throw money at an attorney to handle our case, rather than me having to practically become one myself. But…on the other hand, now I know a lot about the legal system and how to protect myself, and my husband can wrangle snakes, pipes, threatening neighbors and washing machines readily. We’ve also learned that you can lose everything you own in a fire, be bankrupt and homeless, and not only survive, but thrive.

Like a funeral pyre on the banks of the Ganges, we’ve risen from the ashes, literally, and figuratively, several times over. But now I say this to life….enough with the lessons. I’ve got my PhD in hard knocks. I’d like to rest on my laurels for a while. After all, I’ve earned it.

Gertrude Stein once said, “I’ve been rich, and I’ve been poor. Rich was better.” Yes, I’d have to agree that’s true. But then again, if you were stranded on a desert island, who would you want there with you? The guy with the trust fund and pockets full of useless, green paper? Or the guy who can wrangle a five-foot snake?

Personally I’m glad I picked the snake wrangler, who can also write me a song and serenade me to sleep. He makes me feel like a millionaire.

Troy Vs. Snake

A Bully Story

When I started the seventh grade all the other kids seemed to tower over me in the halls. The girls had women’s bodies, and the ninth grade boys had peach fuzz moustaches. But me?  I was just a skinny little kid with the unfortunate nickname of Hollye Smally.

I was a friendly girl, well-liked by most of the kids. I made friends with the nerds, stoners, surfers, black kids, white kids, everyone. It was my outgoing nature, and also a good survival tactic. So I kept smiling and waving, smiling and waving…But there was one girl, Liz Baker, who just hated me. I mean, hated. And the strange thing was, I didn’t even know her.

Liz was a tough, mean, athletic girl, and a ninth grader – which meant she was untouchable to a scrub like me. She also happened to be twice my size. Whenever she was hanging out with her friends from the softball team and I walked by, I was sure to get thumped on the head followed by a stream of insults. She went on relentlessly about my prissy ways, my long hair, my walk, my skinny ass, you name it. She always called me stuck up, which was almost laughable, since she didn't have a clue about my life: my single mother worked nights in a bar, my dad was in prison, and we were on food stamps.

One day I saw her writing “BITCH” on my locker. I waited until she was done, then tried unsuccessfully to scrub it off with wet paper towels. After that I stopped using my locker and carried my books all that year even though my back ached from the weight of them. There wasn’t much I could do but endure the year, and try to avoid running into her around campus. Oh, how I rejoiced on the day she graduated, knowing I’d never have to see her again! Finally, freedom was mine!

Fast forward to thirty years later. I was at a party - a reunion of my Junior High friends. I walked in, no longer Hollye Smally, but an average sized woman with a full life. We were having a great time telling stories from the old days, when I mentioned mean-girl Liz Baker.

“Oh, you mean Larry?” said my friend Kenny, and everyone laughed, but I didn’t get it.

“Are you kidding- you didn’t know?” he howled.

“Know what?”

“Liz had a sex change operation. She’s Larry now!”

Everyone whooped and hollered as the jokes flew around the room.

This was my big moment – my chance to finally laugh at Liz and feel victorious. But I didn’t laugh. I felt sad, because in that moment I realized that Liz was just a tortured soul, trapped in the wrong body. She must have really hated herself. And there I was, the embodiment of everything she rejected in herself, with my “prissy” ways, my “long hair” and all my girly-ness. I was a walking bulls-eye. But hearing this news did give me a sense of peace, because I finally got it. It never was about me. It was always her problem.

As an adult, I’ve learned how to tolerate bullies. I never engage in conflict with them nor do I let their taunts and insults settle under my skin, because they aren’t mine to own. I simply won’t swallow the poison they dole out. That ugliness belongs to them alone.

It saddens me these days to read about girls bullying one another. When you’re young, you don’t yet know that one day you will desperately need other women to survive. Whether your relationships are falling apart, you’re raising children, you have health scares, or times of terrifying self-doubt, you’ll need the wisdom of women who’ve been there before you. My sister-friends help me to understand my own heart and mind. I need them like I need the air I breathe. Liz Baker never understood that. The sad irony is I’m a person who would have empathized with her. I have two gay brothers. I’m a huge supporter of the LGBT community. I could have been her ally, had she ever taken the time to know me, but she never did.

I later did a search for Liz-Larry but could never find him. But if I could talk to him today, I would tell him this:

I hope you realize now that there is room for each of us to stand tall, unique in who we are, in this vibrant, diverse garden of humanity. Surround yourself with others in bloom, and when bullies creep up like weeds, even the ones in your own heart, rise above, always keeping your face turned toward the sun.

And finally, I forgive you Liz-Larry Baker, and hope you’ve forgiven yourself. I wish you nothing but peaceful days in your garden.

*(name was changed to protect his identity)