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A little diddy about writing, for the following: You Are Enough, hosted by Positive Writer.

If you think you aren’t good enough, what’s the point? You write because you are driven to do so. You love words. You love choosing just the right combination of words. You want to connect with those words. Start with that being enough.

Comparing yourself to others is self-defeating. Only you can write your story, your perspective, your voice. Be true to yourself. That will be enough.

Your personal story is enough. Your voice is unique. Getting your story down is akin to baring your soul. Let it fly. It will find a home.

“You are enough” does not mean you can’t benefit from constructive criticism and good editing. Strive to be the best writer you can be. It is a craft that improves with age. Let go of defensive listening when you get useful input. Take time to assess if that input serves your writing well. Use every tool that benefits your skill set. You have all the power.

Never take rejection personally. Writing/art/humor etc. is totally subjective. Sometimes your writing simply isn’t the right fit. If you are fortunate enough to get feedback in a rejection, see it as a gift. It actually suggests you have talent worth tweaking.

Revel in completing any piece of work. That alone means you are enough. That means you are committed to writing and poised to be ready should an opportunity come knocking.

Let go of any preconceived, clichéd ideas about what a writer is. There are as many different writing styles and abilities as there are people on the planet.

Surround yourself with other writers. They are your tribe. They get you. All writers suffer from self-doubt. Other writers can be your support, and you can be theirs. Helping other writers can make you a stronger writer.

Writers recognize the power of words. “You are enough,” may be the most powerful in your arsenal. Make them a mantra. Writing takes discipline. Bolstering yourself is a neglected discipline that leads to better writing.

Say it out loud, “I write, therefore I am a writer.” And that is more than enough.

Courtesy golf carts in the parking lot to give people rides to the stadium from their cars.

Warning announcement about the lights dropping abruptly as the concert will be starting shortly.

No need for earplugs.

Concert-goer wheeled out on a gurney. And not at an emergency pace. (Golf cart ride looks better and better.)

Calm, well-behaved crowd. More singing than dancing.

His backup singers are no Spring chickens.

He’s still super hot, channeling a silver-haired, silver-bearded Sean Connery.

He clearly took good care of his vocal chords. (He’s 76.)

He makes an aging fan base feel young again.

Yes. I marched in DC the day after the Inauguration. It was an event that will be forever in my heart. But what struck me most about the day, was the ripples around it. Waiting to board the flight at O’Hare, I was aware of all the women who were flying to Washington to participate. One young woman and I shared a few words and she started to tear up. She is a grad student.

“I’m sorry.” She wipes away a tear.

“No. I get it. I’ve had some really dark days. It’s been tough.
But here we are! Are you going alone?”

“My husband is flying in later tonight.”

“Outstanding.”

Surrounded by energized women, many in pink pussy hats, it is a feeling of great pride and hope. We fill the aircraft to capacity. As a former flight attendant, I have never seen a flight with this percentage of women. There is a smattering of men. Some along for the march, others just quietly wishing to get to their destination.

Everyone is upbeat. People are bonding with strangers. My seatmate and I share stories. She is a working mother. She has a daughter. And SHE is loving being alone for the first time since her daughter was born, give or take. She has the power to get up early, proceed to the stage and get premium access without worrying about or accommodating friends who backed out. I get that.

Upon landing, the flight attendant makes a P.A.
“Thanks to all the Nasty Women who flew American today.”

Big cheers.

On the way to the March with my friends, following the river of pink knit hats, with one million plus women making their way to the rally, my young grad student sees me with delight.

“OMG! Guys! This is the grad student I was telling you about!”

“You told them about me?”

“Of course!”

We hug. She introduces me to her husband.

“What are the ODDS of running into each other again?”

All smiles. We say goodbye. I’m afraid of getting separated from my friends.
Walking towards the rally there are metro buses and rally buses along the way. Honks and screams fill the air. It is joyous.

We walk until we can walk no farther. That’s how it works. You just keep going until space is filled up.

We passed some pro-lifers with signs. They are kept behind a chain link fence.

“There they are.” We look and move on. No acknowledgement. They mean nothing. They cannot rain on this moment.

We stop to take pictures with a sign a woman is holding up. It has a cut out for your face with the words, “The Face of Feminism.” Lots of people are taking advantage of it.

“I feel like I should pay you.” As I’m sticking my head in the hole.

“Your smile is all I need.”

THAT. THAT is what this march is about. Everyone participating is in it together. Everyone is in it for each other. Everyone wants every man, woman and child to succeed. In America. And around the world.

The day is long. The crowds are tight. We were unable to hear the speakers but we all patiently wait the hours it takes for them to finish. Then word comes through the crowd via a Washington Post tweet…the march is cancelled. We filled the entire route. Holy wow.

With a mix of pride and disappointment people start moving. Then it happens. The March. Organically because people had to leave the rally.

Chants keep repeating…

“Tell me what democracy looks like?”
“THIS is what democracy looks like!”

And many more. You don’t even need to shout. Enough voices respond to make it clear what the message is.

Reading all the signs is a highlight of the day. We marvel at the meaning and creativity that oppression brings out.

For me, it’s easy. I’m retired. I can afford to be here. What slays me are all the working women, young mothers, families, men and children who make the supreme effort to be here. They are my heroes. I march for them.

One story told, is a woman in a car near the march yells, “You wouldn’t be here if you all worked. Get a job!”

One woman walks past her open window…”Bitch. It’s Saturday.”

Love.

Someone chants behind us…”Gays hate Trump!”

I respond, “We ALL hate Trump!”

Laughter.

And those are the ugliest stories I have to share.

At the end of the day, we put our tired feet up and watch the news. We were in our bubble during the march. We had no idea of how widespread the turnout was. To see other countries stepping up is stunning. Our room alone has a Californian, Washington State citizen, an Illinoisan, and a young man from New York City. We couldn’t get enough of reports on all the cities huge turnouts. I relish knowing my sister marched in Los Angeles. Watching world news and we are a part of the story. All those marches. Millions of people. All pulled off without a hitch. It. Is. Magnificent.

At the end of the night, I make it a point to lay my sign amongst all the others being displayed by a local monument. I did it with a solemn pride that makes me tear up as I write this.

DC is quiet. Anyone out walking is there for the same reason. Many still sport their pink hats. We all smile at each other. We all feel it. Nothing but blind love, coupled with “We did it.” Knowing full well, it is just the beginning.

Glory be to Women.

For anyone who gives an inkling of a crap, here is my update on going grey. It is a slow process, but I am keeping my eye on the prize. If you care to see the start, go ahead and see the pictures in the first piece…Aging Graycefully.

This is the current look. There are days the grey is like a sparkly diamond under showcase lights. But mostly it is simply old-lady hair. What it isn’t, is normal for me. I have never had anything but almost black, to reddish brown hair color. Blonde simply wasn’t an option without Kardashian kash. And that kind of high maintenance would never suit my fly-by-the-seat lifestyle anyway. So this is as close as I will ever get to altering it drastically, good or bad. Flashbacks of my grandmother are haunting me, but she knew how to rock a turban, so that will always be an option should I need it.

I don’t think anyone really notices yet.

Yes, that is a giant cock in our kitchen. If you’re going to do the rooster thing, do it big.

My mob name would be “Amy Two-tone.”

Dear Mommies, Menopausal Women, and other Blogger Beotches,

I truly believe in the old adage, “write what you know.” And I encourage anybody taking to their keyboards to do so. But here is a little secret I would like to share with you…it is also important to write what your reader doesn’t already know.

There are recurring themes to many women’s blogs:

  1.   Kids suck. They mess up your life. They say the darndest things.  
  2.   Women’s bodies change with age, pregnancy and general neglect. Wine, chocolate, and hiding are the best defense. 
  3.    We bleed, we battle hair growth from every possible epidural inch, we stop bleeding and we grow more hair. Oy. 
  4.    We need to love ourselves. But our talk is bigger than our actions.
  5.    Men can be the wind beneath our covers and we can match them fart for fart.

Which brings me to the phrase, “beating a dead horse.” Please stop pointing its decaying carcass out to me as if it is fresh and new. It’s been seen. It’s been hit. It’s become a bloody mess just like your worst period. Move the fuck on.

Women have so much to offer. We can be funny, insightful and downright brilliant. We are the best at cutting ourselves down and building ourselves up. We are our own worst enemy and our own best friend.

So, for the love of Madonna and all that is holy, dig deep and stretch. Look for unique and powerful angles that will enlighten, encourage, and entertain. Move us, not the damned dead horse. Look beyond our basic commonalities and speak to issues that endure longer than our menopausal hot flashes. Let’s get past our bodies and delve into topics beyond fluids, flatulence, and floppy boobs. We’ve come a long way, baby. Let’s keep going.

And remember, “A smile is the most beautiful curve on a woman’s body.” Author unknown

A friend posted a piece I wrote on her blog, as a guest. Please head on over to Elaine Ambrose’s site.http://elaineambrose.com/blog/matriarch-in-the-making/