My Cheerleader

Every writer needs a cheerleader. Chances are, unless your name is Baldacci, King, or Steele you aren’t writing for money or fame. Sometimes you need a cheerleader to encourage you to persevere. Like when you spend all day at an author event and sell one book. Like when you read your published novel for the first time and discover ten typos.

My husband, Carl, is my cheerleader. Does he perform jumps and cartwheels? No. Does he shout and clap when I publish a new novel? No. So, how does he perform his role as cheerleader, you ask? In silence, of course. That’s right. He gives me the gift of silence so I can retreat into my fictional worlds of scenes, characters, and dialogues. When the door to my writing space is closed, Carl knows his life is in danger if he dares to enter. Writing is a solitary profession that requires … well … solitude.

There are so many other ways my husband cheers me on as a writer. Since he’s a techno-geek of the highest order, I rely on him to keep my computer, tablet, and credit card reader running smoothly. Without him reminding me, I’d never think to update my devices. I barely remember to charge them. I don’t have enough fingers to count the times I’ve texted or called him from a book show to say, “Help, I can’t get on the internet” or “Help, I don’t remember how to access PayPal” or “Help, my hotspot isn’t working” or “Help, I forgot my password.” He’s always there to talk me through a problem. 

Granted, sometimes Carl's reminder of “I’ve showed you how to do that a million times” makes me feel stupid, but how can he understand that my mind is too full of outlining, plotting, grammar, syntax, tense, synonyms, elevator speeches, proofreading, revising, and meeting deadlines to remember how to process a credit card purchase? If he could climb inside my head, he’d see what a crazy mess it is in there.

It’s hard for me to promote myself as an author. It feels like childish bragging. Yet self-promotion is what we authors must do to market our books. We must create and maintain an author platform. Jane Friedman, one of the world’s leading English-language publishers, defines author platform as the “ability to sell books because of who you are or who you can reach.” If I want to sell my books, I must create an author platform for each book I write and promote it through a website,  blog site, social media, email blasts, local author events, and book signings. Marketing is another full-time job, it seems.

My cheerleader tells everyone he meets that his wife is a published author and that they should read my novels and blog posts. In fact, he introduces himself as Mr. Cindy Freeman. As a former rocket scientist/systems analyst, Carl is secure enough in himself to promote his wife without feeling a threat to his self-esteem.

My cheerleader helps me with launches—book launches, not the rocket variety—also inventory, bookkeeping, and taxes, to satisfy the IRS. Did I mention he does the grocery shopping and cooking? With a cheerleader like him, who needs cheers, jumps, and cartwheels?  

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/cindy.l.freeman.9. Her books are available from amazon.com or hightidepublications.com  

Food: Friend or Foe?

I used to think food was my enemy. When anyone would talk about enjoying a normal-sized meal, I couldn’t relate. How could they refer to food in a positive manner? Food was bad, right? Food was the enemy that I battled day in and day out. It was responsible for my weight problem.

Even when I wasn’t fat, I thought I was. I would look in a mirror and see an overweight person. I felt ashamed, embarrassed, and overwhelmed by my latest binge. Ironically, now when I view photos from certain periods of my past, I realize that my weight was perfectly normal, and I didn’t look fat at all.

The condition is called body image dysmorphia. For me, as for many—especially girls and women—body image dysmorphia often results in one of several eating disorders, primarily anorexia nervosa, bulimia, or compulsive over-eating.

For most of my life, I’ve been a compulsive overeater. Always hungry, always thinking about food, I often indulged in binge eating, especially during stressful times. I knew if I started eating sugary or starchy foods, I wouldn’t be able to stop until I felt like I might explode. While I was binging, food provided comfort, but afterward I felt ashamed and worthless. It was a vicious cycle having something to do with the addictive property of sucrose, but more with unaddressed emotional issues. 

If I had an event coming up for which I wanted desperately to appear slim or to fit into a certain outfit, I would engage in a starvation diet, losing from two to five pounds, depending on how many days I gave myself to prepare. During this time of fasting, all I could think about was how hungry I was and how deprived I felt. My blood-sugar would plummet, my head would pound, and I felt like I might pass out.

Throughout young adulthood and middle age, I yo-yo dieted, trying to keep my weight where I thought it should be. I exercised faithfully, but my weight continued to creep higher and higher. Honestly, I thought it was hopeless. I couldn’t see my way out of a condition that controlled me all day, every day. For me, food—particularly sugar—was an addiction as powerful as alcohol for an alcoholic or cocaine for a drug addict. The problem with food addiction is that you can’t simply stop eating.

Finally, at the ripe old age of seventy, my eating is under control. I feel okay about my body image, and I have no urge to binge. So, how did I finally achieve a healthy relationship with food? First, through journaling, I addressed unresolved emotional issues from childhood. By consciously recognizing my binging triggers, I gave myself permission to feel anxiety, fear, anger, disappointment, frustration, and regret. In childhood, I was not allowed to feel or display negative emotions. Authenticity was discouraged and even ridiculed by the adults in my life. Not that my situation was unique. I grew up during a time when emotional repression was the norm. 

For years, I heeded messages about eating a low-fat, “lite” diet to be healthy and slim. Recognizing I was addicted to sugar, I tried more than once to purge it from my system, but I loved dessert. I’d stay on a sugar-free diet for six months or so, replacing sucrose with unhealthy sugar substitutes so I could get my dessert-fix. Then, like an alcoholic, I’d fall off the wagon and end up binging on sweets, feeling shame, and gaining weight. Again it seemed like food was the enemy.

Nothing changed until I started eating more fat. That’s right, more fat! Without mentioning a specific program, let me just say that embracing fat has changed my life for the better. Fat fills me up so I don’t feel hungry ten minutes after a meal. Since I’ve always had high cholesterol, I became concerned about raising it further. I wondered if I was doing more harm than good by increasing my fat intake. But eating more fat is what helped me finally give up sugar forever. The best news is I’ve lost sixteen pounds, and my cholesterol and blood glucose levels are the lowest they have ever been.

 

I limit simple carbohydrates like bread and cereal. But, honestly—and I can’t believe I’m writing this—I don’t miss them or sugar. I’ve found a recipe for delicious waffles made from almond flour that I eat twice a week. I allow myself pizza once a week and enjoy a glass of Prosecco nearly every evening. I smother my waffles and pancakes with real butter and all-fruit jam. I snack on nuts or cheese or veggies with dip. I enjoy chocolate milkshakes made from frozen bananas, whole-milk yogurt and cocoa sweetened with stevia. I eat real bacon and eggs once or twice a week and best of all, I enjoy my food more than ever.

Food is no longer my enemy. Instead, I embrace it, enjoy it, and eat without shame. How liberating!

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/cindy.l.freeman.9. Her books are available through amazon.com or hightidepublications.com

Rainy Days

Remember the song, “Rainy Days and Mondays” by the Carpenters? Before I retired, I often dreaded rainy days, especially Mondays. Like the Carpenters, they always got me down.

When I was teaching full-time, rainy days meant that my classrooms looked dreary and my students would arrive dripping, droopy, and lethargic. I understood because I, too, lacked energy. On rainy days, I had to work twice as hard to infuse vitality into my teaching and engage my students’ interest and enthusiasm. 

 

Now that I work from home, all that has changed. I look forward to rainy days. The sun room where I write is cheerful, rain or shine. The teasing sun calls me outside to play, but a hypnotic pitter-patter against the windowpanes relaxes me and bids me to recline with my laptop and enter the worlds of my imagination.

I gaze upward through the arch of a high Palladian window and watch clouds rushing by. Even gray clouds remind me that all of life is movement--forward movement of mind, body, and soul. I think about the blessings that rain brings to the earth as it waters the trees, flowers, and grass, providing life-sustaining hydration for animals and humans, alike.

Tree branches catch the wind and dance freely, reaching outward and upward. They appear to be swirling in space, unattached. I stop to watch God’s ballet recital, no admission ticket required.

I offer a silent prayer of thanks for life and sustenance, for meaningful work both present and past, for whatever the future holds. When a stray sunbeam peeks through the grayness, ephemeral yet piercing, I’m reminded of how God’s love can penetrate even our darkest days…if we are ready to receive it.

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of three award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/cindy.l.freeman.author. Her books are available through amazon.com or http://hightidepublications.com/

Animal Whisperer

I live with an animal whisperer. My husband talks to the wild animals that gather around our condo building, and they come to him without hesitation.

The main thing Carl misses about our former house and backyard is observing and interacting with the animals: squirrels, rabbits, owls, deer, raccoons, and numerous birds. He claimed them all as his friends. He used to sit on the deck and enjoy the wildlife. He insisted he could tell one squirrel from another, naming them William, Kate, Harry and Jake. Jake was the troublemaker who often robbed the bird feeder. Jake required regular pops from Carl’s pellet gun because Jake's memory of the disciplinary act lasted no longer than two days.

Carl named the rabbits Blackie and Brownie and the owls were Hooty and Screech. Unfortunately, Blackie and Brownie and their progeny were no match for Hooty and Screech. I’ll spare you the fur-flying details. Then, there was Rocky the raccoon who visited whenever we had fish for dinner. In the evening, Rocky would show up at the edge of the woods, waiting for his culinary treat of fish skins.

Nearly every morning, Carl took the strawberry tops from our breakfast and spread them in the backyard to feed the prolific deer population. Although I didn’t appreciate sharing my flowerbeds with them, they were, after all, invited to breakfast. How were they to know my flowers and shrubs weren’t on the menu? 
      
One night a doe gave birth in our backyard. Sometime after midnight, Carl had gotten up to watch a rocket launch on TV when he heard what sounded like a baby’s cry. He had just stepped onto the deck to search the backyard when a meteor streaked across the sky. 

The next morning, we found a tiny fawn curled up on our front porch. Carl named it Shooting Star and watched over it for two days. By the third day, he wondered if the mother had lost track of her baby, especially since it had somehow made it from the backyard to the front porch. He shooed it off the porch, and it bounded into the woods. The next day, we spotted Shooting Star with its mother. So, all was well. 

When we moved to our condo, my husband began to think his days of animal whispering had come to an end. No more staring contests with owls that perched on the deck lamppost right next to his head; no more squirrels arguing with him about which food was intended for them and which was for the birds; no more fawns curled up on the front porch or herds of deer waiting in our driveway to welcome us home in the evenings. 

One morning, Carl stepped outside the condo to fill the birdfeeder, and a wobbly newborn fawn walked up to him, sniffed him, and licked his hand. They conversed for a while. Then, worried that the baby might get hit by a car, Carl led her back across the street, down the ravine and into the woods. He named her Sweetie Pie and gave her strict orders to stay away from the street. Sweetie Pie seems to have followed his cautionary directions.

Yesterday, Carl went outside to water the potted plants. Rounding the corner toward the garage he spotted two rabbits. One hopped up to him, sniffed his shoe, then looked up with large round “sad” eyes. The animal whisperer chatted with him, requesting that he not eat the tiny crop of jalapeño peppers he had planted in a pot. Then, his furry friend called to a buddy who also came for a chat. Brownie and Blackie reincarnated? I wonder.

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/cindy.l.freeman.9. Her books are available through amazon.com or hightidepublications.com

Music or No Music?

My husband, Carl, finds it strange that I don’t listen to music as a pastime, especially since I’ve been a musician my whole life. He fills every waking moment with music playing in the background while I prefer silence, especially when I’m writing.

Carl doesn’t understand why I don’t enjoy listening to music, and I can’t comprehend how he functions with constant auditory stimulation in his environment. Now that we’re retired and spending much time at home together, we’ve had to compromise on this diametrically opposed preference.

As a former educator, I’ve been curious about this phenomenon, wondering if it is related to individual learning styles, right-brain/left-brain functions or simply long-established habits. Carl claims he’s more productive when his “tunes” are playing. Yet, he doesn’t seem to notice what he’s listening to. For him, music acts as white noise blocking out other sounds that he might find distracting.

For me, music—particularly if it’s music I like—absorbs my full attention, making it hard for me to carry on a conversation or accomplish a task that requires concentration. For example, when we are cooking together, Carl likes to have music blaring in the kitchen, whether classical, blues, ’60s rock ’n roll, or Celtic. I, on the other hand, find it difficult to attend to the recipe because I start analyzing chord progressions, musical form, orchestrations, and meter. If it is choral music—my favorite—I become positively useless as a sous chef.

When I was a Musikgarten teacher, one of the most important skills I taught my young students was to be active listeners. I encouraged them to pay attention to the elements of music as they listened. Before playing a musical example for them, whether live or recorded, I would suggest something specific for the students’ focus, like a repeating melodic motif or rhythmic pattern. I might ask them to identify an instrument or the family of instruments or listen for the form of a piece, devising a characteristic dance movement for each section. I taught them conducting patterns to help them determine the meter. But the most effective means of response was through free movement, when they were encouraged to use their whole bodies. After they moved in response to the music, the children were able to identify whether it was quick or slow, light or strong, loud or quiet, smooth or jerky. With this method, they could relate to musical terms like legato/staccato, forte/piano, allegro/lento and others so that even four-year-old children connected with the concepts in a functional way.

I enjoy performing music, and I appreciate live concerts where I can focus on the musicians, instruments, and compositions, but I find background music to be an unwelcome distraction to my thoughts and an interruption of my tasks.

Carl’s premise is that because he doesn’t know enough about music theory to indulge the technical aspects of music, he simply lets it happen without analyzing why he likes or dislikes it. He compares it to my disinterest in science fiction, one of his favorite subjects. Since I’m not a scientist, I don’t understand enough about the technical aspects of spaceships, orbital mechanics, astrophysics, and quantum mechanics to know what’s real and what’s fiction. To me, one rocket launch looks the same as any other rocket launch. 

It would make an interesting research study. As for me, I require silence for my right brain to be productive. Thankfully, Carl’s office has a door I can close. 

Cindy L. Freeman is the author of two award-winning short stories and three published novels: Unrevealed, The Dark Room and I Want to Go Home. Website: www.cindylfreeman.com; Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/cindy.l.freeman.9. Her books are available through amazon.com or hightidepublications.com