"HEY EVERYBODY--COME AND SEE HOW GOOD I LOOK!"

This photo has nothing to do with the following post. 

I'm terrible at self-promotion. It feels dirty and awkward and wrong and a little bit like Ron Burgundy from Anchorman, yelling, "HEY EVERYBODY--COME AND SEE HOW GOOD I LOOK!" It just feels kind of skeezy and self-centered. But....the more I am in this "business" of free-lance writing, the more I realize that promoting my writing is very different than promoting myself AND my work will be buried if I don't promote it in some way. So...this is my awkward invitation to you to "like" my Facebook page boiled down to three reasons: 

1. Your "like" could help save millions of people approximately 124 people. It probably won't...but, one of your Facebook friends could see your "like" and stumble on over to my Facebook page and read one of my articles and then they could suddenly feel not so alone in this world. I'm totally aware that this is border line slippery-slope reasoning. All jesting aside, as my work has reached a wider audience, I've received many emails and Facebook messages from total strangers (and non-strangers....I guess a normal, more articulate person would call these people acquaintances) thanking me for writing about the hard stuff of parenting foster kids, infertility, living with anxiety, and continuing to be faithful when the world around me is crumbling. These messages remind me of how isolated I've felt during different periods of my life, and how badly I just wanted to connect with someone, anyone who was in a similar situation. I write primarily so it will help others to feel some sort of solidarity. Your "like" on my Facebook page could help me reach a wider audience of folks who might need to feel a sense of community. 

2. KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. Do you remember those "The More You Know" commercials from the 90s?!? My Facebook page is more or less like these commercials without mustaches and shoulder pads. On my writing likeness Facebook page, I post my writing and links to other articles on topics that are worth learning about--things like foster care, simple living, spirituality, mindfulness, etc. And fo' real--who doesn't love to learn?!?

3. Your "like" could help me achieve my dream of having my own reality TV show. I'm just kidding. I don't even have cable. But....I do have a big dream someday of writing a book. The "experts" (I guess publishers are considered experts these days...) say before I can write and publish a book, I need some sort of willing audience who can give me feedback....but if your feedback is negative, you can be damn sure that I'll delete that crap in a snap (RELAX. I'm kidding....I will not delete it. I'll just eat my feelings instead.)

So...go ahead and just do it (and by it...I clearly mean click "like" on my Facebook page). Chances are if you're my friend on normal Facebook or if you recently "liked" one of my posts on my writing likeness Facebook page, then you have an invite. Check your notifications icon on Facebook. Scroll down...past the invitations to play Farmville from your Great Aunt Jane.  Do you have an invite to "like" my page lingering??? Take the plunge today and click "like." You probably won't regret it. Who knows....maybe if I reach 250 likes, I'll sport some shoulder pads and a mustache just to make y'all laugh.

Learning to accept criticism

A few weeks ago, my first piece went live on the Huffington Post blog. It was a narrative about what it's like to parent children with Reactive Attachment Disorder, and for the most part, I've received a surprising amount of encouraging comments. Many folks commented with appreciation for writing about such a tough topic and for giving them something they could relate to. A few folks went even further and reached out in private messages to engage in conversation about their own struggles parenting children from similar backgrounds.

On Bravery

Here's a bit of a confession for the day: I am a worrier...a brooder...a dweller...a nervous Nelly.

I don't know where this stems from since my parents seem to be fearless and for as long as I can remember, I've been performing. Throughout elementary school I was a competitive gymnast and had no problems flipping and jumping and balancing in front of a crowd. I loved the thrill of performing. I remember watching my older cousin's volleyball games and doing back handsprings and cheers on the sidelines simply because I LOVED being watched by a crowd. In middle school I bravely donned my olive green cargo pants and crop-topped Calvin Klein baby doll shirt to sing "Hit Me Baby One More Time" in front of the entire student body (DON'T JUDGE). In high school, I performed in musicals and ran varsity track--getting a thrill at each round of applause and sound of a starter's gun. I even gave a speech at my high school graduation in front of nearly 300 of my peers and even more of their friends and family. Like most folks, I remember the proverbial butterflies before public performances, but I don't remember freak-outs prior.

Maybe time has just given me a set of rose colored glasses (has it really been twelve years since I graduated?!), but I feel like my sense of nervousness has increased post high school.

Taking a leap

Taking a leap

In November of 2015, a friend and I held each other accountable for writing at least 750 words a day. Engaging in a daily habit of writing made me remember how much I love writing. It reminded me that writing is reflection; it's the only chance I get to slow down enough to think. And the deeper I get into this motherhood gig, the more I'm relying on writing to survive. So, in December I made a commitment to myself to write more.

December is the month of publishing

I made it a goal of mine this month to send out pieces for publication on blogs. I sent one to Scary Mommy (a long shot publication) and another to Her View from Home (one with more local roots). The editors at Scary Mommy sent back a prompt and kind reply that while they liked my piece, they didn't have room for it at the time (it was a holiday piece). The sting of rejection didn't hurt so bad because, honestly, I anticipated it. My piece was still a bit sloppy and it was long, and it was Scary Mommy--a blog with over a million followers on Facebook.

A few days later I heard back from the editor of Her View from Home with a note saying they'd run the piece I sent. My essay about parenting was published on December 12th, and I have 30 days to rack up the views (the more views I receive, the greater the chances that I can have more work published....and the more I'll be paid). If you're interested, click here to read it. I'll have another piece posted on January 3rd, so if you like what you read in the first post, watch the interwebs for a link to my next one. And be sure to check out other posts on Her View from Home; there are some captivating pieces published there.

750 Words a Day

For the past month, I've been in a writing challenge with my friend, Jenny. Our goal was to write 750 words a day for every day in November. We used the website 750words.com to do our writing because it keeps track of how many days you've written, the themes of your writing, and gives a little congratulatory message when you've reached your 750 words.

There were days that I absolutely did not want to write, but I managed to meet my 750 word goal all but one day of the month (we had a family funeral that day, so the entire day was spent with family, and I was simply too mentally exhausted to write). The accountability part of having a friend who was also doing this with me, helped motivate me. When we finished our piece for the day, we sent each other a text message with a series of icons symbolizing that we accomplished awesomeness managed to write 750 words. This month I wrote lists, essays, blog posts, and poetry. Some of the writing was total crap, but I do have some salvageable pieces. My favorite was a creative non-fiction piece about building a tree house in a tree at our grandma's house out of cardboard scraps with my cousin. Coming in close second to my favorite piece was an essay reflecting on the path my life has taken since I've graduated from high school twelve years ago.

The disciplined act of writing 750 words each day gave me time to reflect on things that have been suppressed for years. It became my therapy during a difficult month. And now, 750 words feels like a piece of cake. If you're looking for a way to discipline yourself in a daily writing habit, consider grabbing a friend and creating an account on 750words.com.

On Rejection

I spent nearly five months writing, revising, and editing a piece that was organized into 17 vignettes about our experiences adopting our children. The piece was difficult to write because my goal was to keep it honest so I could inform folks about what it's like to adopt children from the foster system and to come to foster-adoption through infertility and failed infant adoption. Out of all the thousands of pieces I've written, this was by far the hardest to write because, quite honestly, it just hurt. It required me to relive our infertility, the little boy we almost brought home and then lost, and remember our kids' broken lives and the struggles we've had and still have because of their pasts.

Bathroom Fears

It's been too long since I last posted here. I've been consumed with kids and another writing project that's kept me from posting on this blog. This morning I found a few spare minutes before I head to a sub job, so I thought I'd break the silence today with a poem I wrote a few weeks ago--it's not great, but it's different from anything I've written before, so I kind of like it.

Do I hear five dollars? Five dollars?

Author’s Note: It’s been a while since I posted any of my personal writing that goes beyond thought spewing or a chronicle of life’s happenings, so I took time today to work on a poem to get it ready enough to be posted on my blog. This is the second draft of a poem I wrote after my grandma’s auction last month. It’s not perfect yet; it needs at least one more round of revision. I didn’t think her auction would be difficult, but, apart from the funeral, this day turned out to be the hardest part of saying good-bye to my grandma.

Do I hear five dollars? Five dollars?

Unfamiliar with the narrative behind each item

the auctioneer held out each thing or box up for grabs

and simply spit out descriptions and dollar amounts to start the bidding

Lining one room in the exhibit hall at Ag Park in Columbus were

rows of banquet tables, 35 total tables separated into sections--

knick-knacks, kitchen items, antiques, toys, electronics, books, glassware

each table piled high with Corningware, brass figurines, china,

stuffed animals, pots and pans, VHS movies, toys, baskets, afghans, and other trinkets

One smaller room connected to the larger exhibit hall contained furniture

Appliances and antique chests and chairs and benches and upright radios

stood like soldiers around the tables

and a 1961 Oldsmobile Dynamic 88 was parked in front of it all

gleaming white, hood propped open for passersby to examine

an American flag stuck proudly in its antenna hole

and the doors open displaying the car’s maroon leather interior: flawless

Strangers and a few distant relatives and family friends filed in and rifled through boxes

turning things over to examine and then dropping the items carelessly back in boxes

making lists of what they’d bid on

I weaved in and out of the aisles thinking of the memories attached to each item

the apple peeler---

that peeled the skin from Red Delicious apples--

a luxury our parents denied but grandma gave into

the multi-colored afghans---

my cousins and I layered on the living room floor,

enough to make us feel like we were sleeping on a mattress

sleepovers at grandmas watching

The Sound of Music, Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead, Lion King, and others all on VHS

a cast iron skillet---

grandma used to teach Shantelle and me how to fry an egg

7 years old, pieces of shell stuck in the yolk,

the eggs scrunched into an accordion

as we made our first attempt at flipping an egg.

Corningware--

that held orange jello salad, deviled eggs, tortilla roll-ups,

cranberry jelly in the shape of a can, and instant mashed potatoes at every Thanksgiving.

A clear coffee mug--

the only mug I ever saw grandma drink from,

coffee, hot water, or a little boxed wine.

I moved to sit on the side with my kids resting next to me,

coloring quietly in their notebooks unaware of the significance of this day

and I watched the items disappear from the tables and into the hands of strangers

the remnant of my grandmother fading

and suddenly I found myself desperate and frantic to hold something of grandma’s

My legs wobbly, my hands shaking, I hurried to the row of kitchen items

Where’s grandma’s clear coffee mugs? I asked a cousin, my voice breaking

She reached into a nearby box and withdrew the only clear coffee mug left

Do I hear five dollars? Five dollars?

Unfamiliar with the narrative behind each item

the auctioneer held out each thing or box up for grabs

and simply spit out descriptions and dollar amounts to start the bidding

and strangers and a few familiar faces held up numbered slips of papers

and carried away the apple peeler, afghans, skillets, and Corningware

back to their homes where the items would take on new narratives

but the clear coffee mug rested safely in my bag

After the auction ended, and the stuff in new homes,

I slowly sipped my coffee from the clear coffee mug

watching my kids play the night away

Mom, that’s a weird mug, my son quipped as he pumped his legs on the swing

My voice steady, I replied It’s from Great Grandma Kush

and satisfied with that answer, he went back to his swing

another sun setting

another day gone.

what i miss about western nebraska--REVISED

Note: In class today we discussed poetry and read several different pieces. One was by Sherman Alexie, one of my favorite writers. The piece really twisted the traditional concept of poetry. It blended traditional line breaks with rambly, poetic prose. I kind of thought my list piece would fit with that format. So tonight I played around a bit. Here's a revised version...the form has changed, but I've also tightened in a few spots. 

what i miss about living in western nebraska:

the streets cracked and pot-holed,

about three stop lights in the whole town.

a slow fade into gravel--

the gravel roads placed in neat rectangular grids

surrounded by fields of corn.

a five minute grocery stop

turned into twenty-five minutes

because nobody goes unnoticed in a small town.

our students--a wonderful mix of quirky and serious with a longing to connect to something outside their small town. many lamented their rural upbringing and dreamed of cities like denver as their escape. our students, who initially resisted our ideas. “we’ve never done it that way” or “we don’t usually do this much work in class” or “you want us to do what?!” like most kids, we invested in them long enough and they bought into what we were selling: fight apathy, work hard, be respectable and respectful, make a difference. the crazy group of kids who’d show up at our house dressed as sailors, plainsmen, indians, pandas, and construction workers in March. students who’d sit on our back patio at 6 am playing chess and drinking coffee. their weird antics an odd sign of affection.

kristin,

my first running partner.

my 4:30 am, 20 mile running partner

who showed up midway through my long runs

with gatorade and water and companionship

just when i needed her most.

who listened for hours,

who taught me what it means to listen and not just hear.

cameron,

our tomboy neighbor girl we watched grow up---

5 to 9 in the blink of an eye.

with a curiosity like scout finch--

always outside when the weather invited her out.

cameron,

who knew we were a sucker for her brown eyes

and anything she was selling---

wrapping paper, girl scout cookies, candies, candles.

who dragged her shy, hesitant older brother

(our student) to our house to say hi.

judy,

whose husband died a few years before we moved in.

who kept a wonderful garden every year--

tomatoes, eggplant, cucumbers, peppers,

who swore every year,

“god damn it. this garden’s too much damn work. it’s the last year, i swear.”  

judy,

who fed our terrier extra large milk bones--

so many he couldn’t keep up

and turned to burying them in holes throughout the yard.

judy,

who found our dog after he’d gotten loose

on her front porch waiting patiently

for perhaps another milk bone.

85 year old ruth, a long time smoker, a transplant from baltimore whose husband died two months after they moved to town, unaccustomed to the dry air and the peace. ruth, who shared stories about city life--about crack houses and gang violence and falling down houses. ruth, who fattened our dog that eventually learned to just sit at our shared gate, his body pressed on the fence, fur sticking into her yard, yapping until she caved and brought chicken nuggets, pieces of hamburger, bread, and anything else she had at the moment.

bob and shannon our western nebraska parents who fed us on the weekends and watched out for us, made sure we had our fill of good wine and music and the stars that could be seen in an abundance pricking the black sky on a clear night. who developed the wrinkles around our eyes from late nights of laughing.

ryan and tracy

who taught us what it truly means to work hard and invest wisely.

ryan,

late twenties but already a businessman--

five gas stations and a home medical supply store--

with dreams of owning his own ranch.

tracy--

a farm girl, a compassionate but strict first grade teacher

who took no bullshit from anyone, including her husband.

our first taste of ranch life---

using horses and dogs to herd cattle from the pasture.

ryan and tracy

who attached spurs to my nikes

and set me atop an embarrassed horse on their family’s ranch land.

the only people who ever trusted me with a gun--

shooting rusted, homemade targets listening for that magic “ping.”

big lake mac--in winter or summer, a 22 mile spectacle. in the wind, the wild grasses bowing to the lake’s beauty. beaches of powder white sand. the tops of trees poking the surface of the lake recovered from a ten-year drought. an entire town submerged in the waters, myths of rooftops peeking above the waves. the canyons begging me to jump the fence and sit a while.

our tiny, two-bedroom home. 1950s ranch, original wood floors, kitchen so small not even a table could fit in it. pool blue, obnoxious green, burnt orange, deep red, chocolate brown, slate gray--each room a different hue to soothe my gypsy soul. our first home, $400 mortgage payments. the home where my husband and i finally fell into a rhythm, discovered what it meant for two to become one--where we learned what it meant to be in it for the long haul.

being a wonder in a small town--

one of three 68 county subarus.

our keens and chaco sandals were definitely not boots,

were not functional,

could not be worked in.

“are you from boulder?”

a game and parks officer asked skeptically,

nodding to my tie-dye shirt and hiking pants.

the people--

honest and genuine,

sprinkled throughout a misunderstood landscape.

the 6 pm slowdown.

businesses closed,

streets nearly empty.

quiet.

the stillness of an early morning run,

the crunch of gravel the only sound.

What I miss about western Nebraska

note: in an earlier post, i committed to sharing some of my writing from the class i'm helping facilitate. however, the pieces i've written have either been lesson plans, crap, or family narratives that probably aren't appropriate to share in such a public space. i do have one though...this is a list i’ve been working on during free-writing time throughout the institute. i tend to get nostalgic and a bit syrupy when i think about living in ogallala. this is actually a third draft of the piece that i'll take to my group to receive more feedback. there's more elaborating to be done, but for now, this is where the piece is.

the streets cracked and pot-holed, about three stop lights in the whole town. a slow fade into gravel--the gravel roads placed in neat rectangular grids surrounded by fields of corn.

a five minute grocery stop turned into twenty-five minutes because nobody goes unnoticed in a small town.

our students--a wonderful mix of quirky and serious with a longing to connect to something outside their small town. many lamented their rural upbringing and dreamed of cities like denver as their escape. our students, who initially resisted our ideas. “we’ve never done it that way” or “we don’t usually do this much work in class” or “you want us to do what?!” like most kids, we invested in them long enough and they bought into what we were selling: fight apathy, work hard, be respectable and respectful, make a difference. the crazy group of kids who’d show up at our house dressed as sailors, plainsmen, indians, pandas, and construction workers in March. students who’d sit on our back patio at 6 am playing chess and drinking coffee. their weird antics an odd sign of affection.

kristin, my first running partner. my 4:30 am, 20 mile running partner who showed up midway through my long runs with gatorade and water and companionship just when i needed her most. who listened for hours, who taught me what it means to listen and not just hear.

cameron, our tomboy neighbor girl we watched grow up---5 to 9 in the blink of an eye. a curiosity like scout finch’s--always outside when the weather invited her out. cameron, who knew we were a sucker for her brown eyes and anything she was selling---wrapping paper, girl scout cookies, candies, candles. who dragged her shy, hesitant older brother (our student) to our house to say hi.

judy, whose husband died a few years before we moved in. who kept a wonderful garden every year--tomatoes, eggplant, cucumbers, peppers, who sweared every year, “god damn it. this garden’s too much damn work. it’s the last year, i swear.”  judy, who fed our terrier extra large milk bones--so many he couldn’t keep up and turned to burying them in holes throughout the yard. who found our dog after he’d gotten loose on her front porch waiting patiently for perhaps another milk bone.

85 year old ruth, a long time smoker, a transplant from baltimore whose husband died two months after they moved to town, unaccustomed to the dry air and the peace. ruth, who shared stories about city life--about crack houses and gang violence and falling down houses. who fattened our dog who eventually learned to just sit at our shared gate, his body pressed on the fence, fur sticking into her yard, yapping until she caved and brought chicken nuggets, pieces of hamburger, bread, and anything else she had at the moment.

bob and shannon our western nebraska parents who fed us on the weekends and watched out for us, made sure we had our fill of good wine and music and the stars that could be seen in an abundance pricking the black sky on a clear night. who developed the wrinkles around our eyes from late nights of laughing.

ryan and tracy who taught us what it truly means to work hard and invest wisely. ryan, late twenties but already a businessman--five gas stations and a home medical supply store--with dreams of owning his own ranch. tracy--a farm girl, a compassionate but strict first grade teacher who took no bullshit from anyone, including her husband. our first taste of ranch life---using horses and dogs to herd cattle from the pasture. who attached spurs to my nikes and set me atop a horse on their family’s ranch land. the only people who ever trusted me with a gun--shooting rusted, homemade targets listening for that magic “ping.”

big lake mac--in winter or summer, a 22 mile spectacle. in the wind, the wild grasses bowing to the lake’s beauty. beaches of powder white sand. the tops of trees poking the surface of the lake recovered from a ten-year drought. an entire town submerged in the waters, myths of rooftops peeking above the waves. the canyons begging me to jump the fence and sit a while.

our tiny, two-bedroom home. 1950s ranch, original wood floors, kitchen so small not even a table could fit in it. our first home, $400 mortgage payments. the home where my husband and i finally fell into a rhythm, discovered what it meant for two to become one--where we learned what it meant to be in it for the long haul.

being a wonder in a small town--one of three 68 county subarus. our keens and chaco sandals were definitely not boots, were not functional, could not be worked in. “are you from boulder?” the game and parks officer asked skeptically, nodding to my tie-dye shirt and hiking pants.

the 6 pm slowdown. businesses closed, streets nearly empty.

quiet. the stillness of an early morning run, the crunch of gravel the only sound.

Window of Opportunity

I started co-facilitating a Nebraska Writing Project course today. The class has a focus on connecting literature and writing, and like any NeWP course, we are expected to bring a new piece of writing each day to share with our writing groups and engage in giving and receiving feedback. We are studying a graphic novel called The Arrival (I recommend it..it's beautiful). Our assignment for today was to choose an image or a page from the text to use as inspiration for a creative writing piece. This isn't my best work, but I figured select a piece or two each week to post on the blog. The image I used as inspiration for the poem is the last one--the wall of windows. I focused particularly on one window that appears to frame a woman looking out.

From The Arrival

Window of Opportunity

In this window--

a woman sits staring into the streets.

She smiles

at the stray dog,

at the child

hitting a stick against a nearby fence

just to hear its rhythm.

As quickly as the smile comes,

it fades

as she remembers her home.

This is not her home.

This is a shell.

A cage twenty stories up.

She does not come down.

She wants to be there--

home--

where the houses are yellow and green and pink

and have bedrooms

and are not high-rise apartments

with people cramped,

sharing hallways and bathrooms and cups of sugar

attempting to be neighbors.

She wants to tend her garden

with, Theadosea, her sister.

She wants to smell czarnina soup

boiling on the stove,

hear her mother’s cackling laugh.

Instead, she’s here,

in the “land of opportunity.”

But opportunity looks different

than she imagined.

It’s crowded

and smells a lot like dust and iron.

My new job

This summer I'm working part-time as a consultant at Omaha Metropolitan Community College's writing centers. I'm happy to still be using my Masters Degree, and this writing center gig seems to be a great blend of writing instruction meets social justice. It allows me to talk with writers about their writing rather than talk to/at writers about their writing. I've only had four consultations so far, but from what I can tell--I'm not as good at this as I thought I'd be, and I think my experiences as a high school English teacher have contributed to this.

I'm learning that a writing center consultation should be writer-centered. As a consultant, I should work to understand (via questioning and listening) the writer's background, context, and the institutional demands of the assignment. My goal seems to be to help students creatively and critically negotiate these concepts through their writing. This seems difficult to me because there is no concrete blueprint of what this looks like. I've read about five articles on writing center theory and practice, and while they were provocative, I struggled through each one. Maybe it's because I'm not as intelligent as the people meant to read each article, or maybe it's because I'm accustomed to teachers' guides filled with suggestions and tips--but what I really wanted was a list of questions I could ask each writer during a consultation. Of course, these probably don't exist because each consultation will be different since each writer is different. I have to rely on my own intuition, education, and knowledge, which, for someone who is a bit overly analytical and self-conscious, can be intimidating.

You might be thinking: Helzer, you're an English teacher! Don't you "consult" with kids every day about their writing? The truth is, no, I don't. I can't always do this work in the traditional high school English classroom because of the institutional demands I face: timeliness, curricular confines, pressures to be on "the same page" as the other section teachers of my class, expectations of administrators/parents/students, etc. It is a teacher's responsibility to be critical and negotiate these demands with her own background, strengths, student make up, knowledge of best practice, etc. However--depending on the space and its culture--teachers are limited in what they can do. I would've loved to have sat down with all of my 110 students each time we wrote to talk with them about their writing before they turned it in; perhaps if I had stuck around Gretna long enough, I would've learned how to navigate this. But I just didn't have time. I felt like I was racing through the year from one assignment to the next (I can't imagine how my students felt!). When I did get a chance to talk with my comp. students about their writing, it was clumsy and awkward because we simply didn't do enough of it. Oftentimes I handed back writing assignments with editing marks and a brief justification of their grade scribbled at the bottom. I felt like a gatekeeper who controlled everything; admittedly, the writing process was not very democratic in my classroom.

Thus, the opportunity to work as a writing center consultant is an exciting challenge. I'm hoping to learn how to do this "negotiating" business so I can help students develop agency in an institutionalized setting. I suspect that when I return to the high school classroom I'll be more equipped to navigate the system so I can help my students more democratically. Hopefully I'll get better at this writing center business as the summer progresses!