To Get Your Personal Essay Published, Try This.

If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter, you might have noticed that an essay I wrote got published at the Washington Post. (Click here to read it). It explores why, as someone who eschews mainstream sports, I find so much joy in my young daughters’ loyalty to the Red Sox.

In it I write, “This morning I received a text from my dad, asking me to tell the girls the Red Sox won the World Series…”

Do not think for a minute that I received that text, enjoyed a visit with my creative muse (PS if she’s reading this, WHERE ARE YOU, B***H??), banged out that essay and submitted it while my kids made their own breakfasts and reminded themselves to brush their teeth, wear pants, and to at least stuff a jacket in their backpacks.

Because that is so not what happened.

I don’t know about you, but I sometimes find myself looking at other writers’ wins and thinking they’re lucky, they’re talented, they write faster than I do, they need less sleep than I do, they have more childcare than I do or… you get the idea. The truth may be some combination of any or all of those things but it’s also that they worked hard.

And while I can’t speak for all writers, I can speak for myself when I say, behind every success is a combination of a little luck and metric shit-ton of hard work. It was lucky that the Red Sox won the World Series after I’d been tinkering with that essay for six weeks. But all the luck in the world wouldn’t have helped if I hadn’t started the process of writing and rewriting six weeks earlier.

How exactly can you make luck and hard work work for you to get your work published? Here’s my advice.

1| Write about something you care about
It doesn’t matter what it is. But if you don’t care about it before you begin the excruciating task of writing about it, there’s no way you’re going to care about it when you’ve read it so many times your eyes are bleeding and you don’t even know what the pages say anymore.

I literally cannot get over the beauty in the bond between my kids and their grandparents. I’m getting vehrklempt just writing that sentence. That’s why I started exploring the topic of this essay in the first place. I have no interest in sports. So why do I love that my kids root for the Red Sox?

What started as a bunch of word vomit in a spiral notebook became an exploration of my relationship with my dad, a guy whose idea of a perfect day is sitting on the porch with an ocean breeze, a cigar, and the Red Sox on the radio. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to say at first, but because I was curious about the topic, I kept writing until I knew what my message was.

2| Accept feedback
I wrote a version of that essay and showed it to Dan. He said something that sounded like “Blah blah blah blah… and I’d delete the paragraph that just might be the best thing you’ve ever written in your life.” I ignored him. Then I showed it to my writing friends, who both said it kind of sounded like two different essays, so I needed to pick one and go with it. And also, that paragraph I was so in love with didn’t fit. I told Dan what my friends said and he said, “So they agree with me.” Doh.

I rewrote it and showed version two to one of my writing friends. She said it still wasn’t done. I wrote version three and showed it to her. She said she thought it was done. (Neither of us quite realized the Red Sox were playing in the final game of the World Series at that very moment.)

3| Be flexible
When my dad texted me that the Red Sox won, the first thing I did was tell my girls. The second thing I did was rewrite a paragraph to include that piece of important,  timely information. Then I submitted it.

But what if the Red Sox hadn’t won? As a friend recently suggested, I certainly could have hit Control + F and replaced every “Red Sox” with “Dodgers” (In which case the essay would probably have been published anyway and my dad would have disowned me). Alternatively, I could have tinkered with the ending. I could have said that no matter who wins the Series, nothing can break the bond between my kids and their Papa. And who knows, there’s always next season. Then I could have waited till next season to submit it. I might have tried to submit it for Father’s Day or made it relevant to some piece of Red Sox news. I would have even read the paper (or more likely, relied on my dad) to keep those events on  my radar.

Or perhaps I would have shifted some of the story to focus on football, depending on my kids’ interest in the Pats this winter, and submitted it around the Super Bowl.

To get your personal essay published try this

If you try my tips, let me know how it goes. If you have others, please drop them in the comments. And for a fabulous resource written by a seasoned pro, I cannot recommend Susan’s Shapiro’s The Byline Bible highly enough.

 

 

 

 

 

What happened when I quit Instagram

Instagram and I had a toxic relationship. It started innocently enough. when I joined in late 2016, thinking it would be a fun way to connect with other runners, CrossFitters, book lovers, writers, and the odd friend or family member. I thought I might find writing, speaking, and run coaching clients on Instagram, too. I thought it was going to be fabulous, and it was… at first.

But it quickly got out of hand. I found myself mindlessly watching videos or looking at pictures that Instagram had thoughtfully curated just for me. I’d be reorganizing my closet, then I’d be searching #blackcardigan (maybe there was some interesting way to wear a black cardigan with which I was previously unacquainted and therefore I should not give the black cardigan I never wear to Goodwill??). And #blackcardigan was just the beginning. Twenty minutes later, I’d be drowning in random people’s random ass feeds looking at random stuff that was less important than just about every other thing I could possibly be doing at that moment.

If I was waiting for a pot of water to boil? Just gonna see what’s happening in my Instagram feed. Stuck at a red light? Tap that Instagram icon. And if I’d recently posted… forget it. I’d stop brushing my teeth for a quick second to see if anyone had liked it in the last 48 seconds.

I tried to change my habit but was never successful. When I considered getting off Instagram altogether I told myself I couldn’t because I needed it for work. But the fact is, I’ve never gotten work through social media.

Meanwhile, Instagram was robbing me of my precious time and attention.

And it wasn’t just Instagram; it was my whole phone. And maybe it wasn’t Instagram or my phone. Maybe it was me. Although I’m inclined to think it wasn’t. It is well-established in the medical literature that our brains are wired to become addicted to the random rewards we get from our phones (e.g. unpredictable likes, texts, comments, etc).

In any event, I knew something needed to change. First, I got a flip phone.

Once I had my flip phone, my iPhone became my mini-tablet; something I use it when I’m on Wi-fi, but I can literally take it or leave it. I have been finding it very peaceful to go places without it or to simply turn it off anytime I don’t want to be distracted. (I still get What’s App and Voxer notifications on it because the fact is, typing out a text message on a flip phone is a bitch, and I also find it hard to resist the impulse to check email on it. Mostly I use it for apps like My Fitness Pal and Spotify and as a camera).

Though I have Instagram on my iPhone, I logged out when I got my flip phone and I have yet to log in. The first time I considered logging back in, I thought “Instagram has taken up waaay too much of my time and I hate how I feel after I’ve been on there for too long. I think I’ll wait another day to log in.” The next day, I thought the same thing. The third day, I thought, “It’s been a couple of days. What if I waited a week?” The following week I was camping in Montana with no W-Fi so the point was moot. When I returned from Montana I realized I felt better without Instagram in my life. At this point it has been almost a month since the Montana trip and I hardly think about Instagram anymore.

That said, I’ve given some thought to what my life has been like without it and here’s what I’ve come up with.

Things I miss about Instagram
-My friend Kelly’s feed
She is an excellent photographer. When I see her photos, I’m not only impressed by their beauty, but I also see a kindred spirit and I send her a mental high five. Kelly and I went to occupational therapy school together and have since traded our scrubs for artistic pursuits. I love seeing what she’s creating and (selfishly) feel validated when I see another fomer OT using her creativity to make art.

-My sister’s feed
She’s not on Facebook and she’s one of the few people I know IRL who I follow on Instagram. Even if she’s posting photos of what she ate for lunch or photos of her kids (aka things I would find boring on almost anyone else’s feed), I’m enthralled by the details of her life. You might think I get enough of the details based on the amount of time we spend on the phone together but it’s never enough, considering we live thousands of miles away from each other. Plus, her kids have some of my DNA, which makes them part mine, so how could I not want to see pics of them. #psychoauntie.  I also miss coming up with  inside joke hashtags when I comment on her posts.

Things I don’t miss about Instagram
FOMO
There will always be more in my Instagram feed than I can keep up with and there will never be anything I need to know right now, or really ever. And yet. The scrolling. It was like some outside force would attach itself to my thumb and despite every rational thought in my brain— This is unimportant. This is probably photoshopped to death. My kids are trying to talk to me. I should be emptying the dishwasher. Dinner is not going to make itself. PAM , WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING ON INSTAGRAM!? — I couldn’t stop.

The anxiety
Instagram is, at first glance, an easy escape. You can be in your own messy kitchen surounded by whiny children and a sink full of dishes while your mind is on the runs, the squats, the yoga flows, or the coconut cream pies that come up in your feed.

But that “escape” doesn’t offer the same mental break as a soak in the tub, or a  few stolen deep breaths in your bedroom. Instead of giving our minds time to be still, to think, or just wander, it floods them with information. There is a reason people say their best ideas come to them in the shower or on a run. We need time and space to let ideas and experiences marinate in our brains before we can create new ones. This isn’t new age nonsense, it’s science.

Not only that but this so-called “escape” fueled my anxiety. Looking at everyone else’s life (e.g. the life they chose to share online) often made me wonder about my own life. Even if my questions were fleeting, lasting only the fraction of a second until I scrolled down to the next post, they were there. Should I be doing that workout? Should I be wearing those shorts? What if my house was that clean? How is her forehead so perfectly blank? Should I get Botox? Maybe facial acupuncture? What if I had abs like that? What if I had a writing space like that?  Each of these questions carried so little weight on their own, but their cumulative effect was heavier than I realized until I stopped feeding them entirely (no pun intended). Again, this experience is not uniquely mine. Science has shown a positive relationship between smartphone use and anxiety.

Hashtagging my life
Being on Instgram meant that anytime I saw something beautiful, did something interesting, or ordered a craft cocktail, I felt the urge to post it. If I felt like posting it, I would momentarily check out of the actual experience to take a photo, find the right filter, compose a caption, and of course attach the perfect hashtag or 20.

If I didn’t decide to post it, I was nevertheless momentarily checked out of the actual experience as I asked myself whether I really wanted to share it, if I could even capture the beauty in a photo, or if posting it might annoy or offend the person with whom I was sharing the experience. Posting selfies also made me overly self-conscious of my wonky eye (e.g. the residual effect of Bell’s Palsy).

And then there were the running posts. Before Instagram I never took my phone on a run. It was one of the only times I’d ever fully unplug. Running means lots of things to me, but one of the most important is that it’s a time to just be. Stopping to take a photo (not just a photo but the “right” photo, optimally one that I am actually in, let’s not even talk about the gymnastics that requires) is my anti-running.

There is no contest. I prefer being (more) present in my own life and (trying to) stay focused on my own pursuits over checking on everyone else and hoping they like my feed.

Why I’m Using a Flip Phone

It’s black, shiny, brand new, and it’s a relic. It’s modern technology as far as the year 2005 is concerned.

It’s my new flip phone.

I never took an online quiz to see if I had a phone addiction. Dan never said he thought I loved my phone more than I loved him. I never got in an accident because I was texting and driving, though that’s not to say I never drove while distracted.

I was living distracted and I hated it.

I hated the feeling that there was always to do, more to know, more messages to reply to. I hated how I felt after I’d brushing my teeth and set my alarm for the next morning, standing in the bathroom with my phone plugged into the wall, idly scrolling through Instagram, absorbing the details of other people’s lives while I disengaged from my own life.

Dan would call from the bedroom, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I’d call back, too ashamed to tell him the truth: Nothing I’m proud of, nothing that deserves my attention, nothing that’s more relaxing than reading my book or cuddling in bed next to you… Then I’d put my phone on airplane mode and crawl into bed, wishing I’d put my phone down earlier.

When my phone is around I can barely be still enough to think my own thoughts, feel my feelings, or appreciate what’s around me. I hate it.

I find myself Googling every question the second it pops into my mind. One minute I’m ordering the double A batteries I need on Amazon, and 15 minutes later I’m poring over product reviews of a coconut shampoo that could be a cheaper alternative to my pricey Deva Curl products, even though I know I’ll stick with the tried and true expensive brand. I’m searching for the recipe for a flax egg and next thing I know I’m pinning a Paleo brownie recipe I’ll never bake and the dishes still aren’t done, the laundry is still waiting to be folded, and my daughters are still reminding me they need a snack.

Before I can even feel crappy for a minute or two, maybe even let the feeling pass, I’m texting my sister or my best friend every single “WTF”,  “I can’t even,” and “CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS CRAP!?”  

In front of me is a sunset, a delicious meal, the morning sun casting a pink glow on the Flatirons and I’m wondering how to capture it for an Instagram post, thinking of hashtags.   

My kids want to show me their art, their forts, their dances, and I give them a cursory look and a distracted “Uh huh”  while I scroll through photos of other people’s kids on social media. When I let myself imagine how this scene would look from the outside I am disgusted. I didn’t let myself go there too much.

I didn’t need a Buzzfeed quiz to tell me I’m not happy with the way I used my phone, so I started a new ritual this spring: a digital sabbath. I’ll never stop eating bacon or lobster but I love my version of Shabbat. From Friday night to Saturday night my phone is off. It’s not that I don’t want to be connected to my friends and family. It’s just that I have not found a way to use my phone for the things it was originally designed for—texting and talking—while avoiding the Pandora’s Box my sexy little rectangle holds inside its hard, smooth exterior.

The objective of my most recent Toastmasters speech was to persuade my audience. I decided I’d try to persuade them to shut their phones off—for a day, for a night, or for an hour. I told them stories about my own digital sabbath and how I feel after 24 hours of being phoneless.

I described the feeling of just being wherever I was, enjoying things like a novel or a movie instead of battling the nagging urge to check my phone. I described the discomfort of being stuck in a crappy situation with no way of texting my husband and begging him to bail me out, only to be pleasantly surprised when he showed up and saved me of his own accord. I described the peace I found in starting my day without the distractions of everyone else’s agendas the second I looked at my email.

I described the clarity, the connection, and the gratitude I felt when my phone was off.

I cited research on the addictive nature of phones, including this staggering statistic: The average American checks their phone 150 times a day. That’s once every six waking minutes.

While I practiced my speech, it hit me like an Amber alert in the middle of the night. I could feel as good as I feel on Saturdays every single day… if gave up the convenience of having access to the entire world in my pocket. In return, I’d have my attention back. Sure, I might still be distracted—life’s messy and I’m no Buddha— but at least I wouldn’t have to fight an ocean of information I held in my hand to stay focused.

Two weeks ago I went to the Verizon store. The manager could not move my contacts from my iPhone to my flip phone.

“We’ve never seen anyone go backward before,” he said.

Today I’m fumbling over the keys of my new phone, composing clumsy, time-consuming two-sentence text messages devoid of smiley faces, thumbs ups, or heart emojis. I’m not checking my email constantly, mindlessly looking at Instagram when I have a minute here or a minute there. I’m keeping a notebook and a pen in my bag so I can write down ideas, to-do’s, and questions. I’m looking at my kids when they talk to me instead of my phone.

It has been less than a month since I activated my flip phone but I feel like I’m moving forward.

6 Books for your Summer Reading List

As a kid, I loved the thrill of the last week of school. It wasn’t just the excitement of standing at the precipice of a new grade, an entire summer of freedom, and long, lazy days. There was something else I longed for…

The summer reading list.

I was curious to know what the required reading was but it was the optional list that really grabbed me. There’d be a list of anywhere from 12 to 20 books, of which we were supposed to pick just a handful. It was like choosing an ice cream flavor. There were always a few I could eliminate right away; anything that fell into the science fiction or fantasy genre was the book equivalent of sorbet (why bother). But the others… it was so. hard. to. choose.

If you’re having a hard time choosing a book to throw in your beach bag this summer (or if, like me, living in a land-locked state has you looking at your pool bag), here are some of my favorite summer picks.

They’re not so heavy you’ll forget what’s going on if you have to pause to re-sunblock your little people or fish around for the grapes at the bottom of the cooler, but substantial enough hold your interest.

6 books for your summer reading list

1| Eligible by Curtis Sittenfeld
Sittenfeld’s modern adaptation of Pride and Prejudice is genius. It’s wickedly funny and totally un-put-down-able.

2| Young Jane Young by Gabrielle Zevin
It’s about feminism, politics, and identity, but it’s also fast-paced, scandalous, and surprisingly light considering the heavy-ish themes.

3| An American Marriage by Tayari Jones
You might want to read this one with your sunnies on. (I prefer not openly cry in public, personally). It’s a tear-jerker and poignant commentary on race in America but it’s also compelling and juicy. You’ll wish you had time to read it in one sitting.

4| Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann
Your body may be on a chaise by the pool but your mind will be in New York circa 1960. If Mad Men and The Bachelor had a baby it would be this book.

5| You by Caroline Kepnes
If you’re into creepy page turners with nuanced characters and pitch perfect dialogue, this is your book. Read this by the pool, not right before bed, and you (probably) won’t have to worry about nightmares. But the nightmares are worth it. Kepnes is a master. (I’m currently reading her latest, Providence, which was just released in June.)

6| All the Ugly and Wonderful Things by Bryn Greenwood
Okay this one is not light at all but it’s so damn good I can’t keep it off this list. I read it over a year ago and I still feel so connected to the characters. It’s a story of love and redemption and it makes you question your ideas of right versus wrong. This is another one you’ll want to devour all at once.

BONUS: Shameless plug: Have you read There’s No Room for Fear in a Burley Trailer yet? Get your copy here.

What books would you add to the list?

Race Report: 2018 Urban 10 Miler

Planning
Remember that time I signed up for a race, trained for the race, and then failed to read my emails (yes I am one of those people who has thousands of unread messages and no this does not keep me awake at night), which caused me to be unaware I could not pick up my race packet on race morning until 12 hours before the race and I didn’t get to pick up the packet? And then I raced anyway and I had a PR for the ten-mile distance but it wasn’t official?  I sure do.

And remember how I love to run and I run for running’s sake but I’m also extremely competitive and no matter what kind of shape I’m in or how my training is going I’m always hoping to run faster than I did before? Well, that’s me in a nutshell, running-wise.

Training (a.k.a. Keep reading to find out if CrossFit helped my running)
I signed up for the Urban 10 Miler, same as I did back in 2013, but things were a little different this time. For one thing, I made it my business to read every single email from the race directors and I picked up my packet, as instructed, the day before.

I also trained a lot differently. In 2013, Sweet Pea was just over a year old and I’d had a fabulous post-baby comeback, ran the Santa Barbara half marathon that fall and had a major PR there. I was in some kind of post-baby/breastfeeding calorie burning bonanza, the likes of which I’ve (sadly) never seen before or since. I also wasn’t plagued with the issues I’ve been managing ever since Ladybug was born. Whether or not my 5’0″ body was meant to birth a 9 lb 6 oz baby is debatable but it seems clear that after nearly four years of attempts at physical therapy, massage, acupuncture, chiropractic, and strengthening, nature is telling me I was never meant to carry her, deliver her, and return to running any more than 15-20 miles per week.

My baby (a.k.a. Ladybug) just turned four and I’ve decided to listen to my body’s cues and stop trying to force it to run more than it can handle. That began with a big break from running, beginning last April. With the exception of a summer 5k and any running I did as part of my CrossFit workouts, I did not run at all until January. I just wasn’t in the mood.

Since I started running again, the overwhelming majority of my runs have been easy (e.g. very few tempo runs, track sessions, or hill repeats). I’ve done a few workouts when my body felt good, but I haven’t tried to schedule track workouts, tempo runs, or hill repeats with a real strategy because I’m so burnt out having to change plans to accommodate some new (or old) ache, pain, or strain. Since last summer, I’ve been consistently CrossFitting about twice a week, teaching spin class once a week,  running anywhere from zero to 3 times per week, and maybe biking, swimming, or hiking occasionally. In a typical week, I’d work out five to six times a week. I’ve also been doing core strength work regularly.

In comparison, in 2013 I was running 4-5 times a week, biking once or twice a week, doing some form of strength training approximately never, and working on my core when I felt like it, e.g. rarely.

I wasn’t sure if I had any business trying to run as fast as I did in 2013. On one hand, I’m stronger than I’ve ever been. I might be the weakest person at my gym but I can help Dan move the chicken coop, which is not something I could say a year ago. I can now do 5 pull-ups (in a row); a year ago I couldn’t even do one. On the other hand, I’ve never heard of a runner who uses pull-ups and deadlifts to gauge her running fitness. I had two data points:
-After three months of doing nothing but biking riding and CrossFit, my 5k speed had declined.
-During a recent track workout, my 800 speed was 10 seconds per 800 slower compared to last year.

Clearly, CrossFit and running are two very different sports… or are they?

In the ways that matter, they are exactly the same. They’re both about showing up and doing the work. They’re both about trying your best. They’re both about being the best version of you that you can be. They’re both about finding your limits and tolerating discomfort.

Would my determination to do pull-ups and pushups and lift heavy things translate into seeing an hour and twenty minutes on the clock at the finish line of a 10-mile road race? There was only one way to find out.

Racing
I slept horribly the night before the race but I took solace in the fact that the night before the night before is the most important night of sleep and I’d slept like a rock the previous night. As usual, I ate my pre-race breakfast of instant oatmeal and instant coffee. I added a scoop of whey protein powder to my oatmeal, which was unusual as a pre-race breakfast, but something I’ve been doing before workouts for a few months. You can read a little more about my nutrition strategy and the reasons behind it here.

I left the house and realized it was not just gray and cloudy, but it was actually raining. Like I could have used a hat with a bill, I was going to be freezing in my shorts, tank, top, and arm warmers, how did I not realize it was raining till now, raining. I was picking up friends on the way and I didn’t have time to go back in the house and get my accouterment so I told myself I can be uncomfortable for ten short miles, just make the best of it.

Because the ten milers were starting the race at the 16-mile mark of the full marathon happening that day, they had us start in waves, three people at a time. After a short warm-up (during which I was pleased to find my legs felt snappy despite), I lined up with my wave. When I registered, I said I thought I’d finish in 1:25. Though I hoped to do 1:20, I said 1:25 because I knew that was achievable and because I much preferred the idea of starting out with people whom I’d eventually pass, rather than get passed when I was already physically spent.

I love the ten-mile distance because it’s so straightforward, and this race was no different; I had a plan and I followed it and it worked. The plan was super simple. I’d go purely by feel (not pace). The last thing I wanted to do was commit to an 8:00/mile pace for the first couple of miles, blow up and hate life for the next eight miles, not to mention having to pay $100 to do it. I wanted the first three miles to feel comfortably hard, the miles three to six or seven to feel pretty hard, and miles seven-ish to nine to feel horrible, and the final mile to feel like death and destruction, and I am proud to say I nailed it. I didn’t let myself look at my watch until exactly six minutes in, at which point my watch read .75 miles and I thought, “If I can just stay right here, I’m good.” And that’s what I did.

I made sure to let my watch display the elapsed time and the mileage, but not the current pace because that’s too distracting for me. I encouraged every single runner I saw, whether we were running opposite directions or if we were passing each other. Because I seeded myself at a slower pace than what I actually ran, the only people I remember passing me were doing the marathon relay. (It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out why some people were running really fast and holding sticks.) At every mile marker, I’d look at my watch, and though my math skills could use some work, it was clear, even to me, that I was killing it as far as pacing.

At the ninth mile marker my watch read 1:11 and change and as miserable as I felt—my legs were like two sticks of lead and my breath was coming out in gasps—I knew that I only had to run a nine-minute mile to make it to the finish line in time to meet my goal of 1:20. As I put one foot in front of the other I thought to myself, “This is what I came for.”

I came to feel this pain, to keep pushing when my body was begging me to stop, to see where the edge of my ability lies, and I was lucky and grateful to do it. Even on this gray miserable day, as my left arm warmer left rubbed against my side, creating a burning red crater where a layer or two of skin was supposed to be, even though I’m supposedly “middle-aged”, there was nowhere I would rather have been, nothing I’d rather have been feeling during that final mile.

I crossed the line in 1:19:01, a 7:54 pace, which was a 34 second PR, earning me fifth in my age group (women 30-39), and 15th woman overall. I was spent and I was happy.

Side note: I am now convinced that, as I wrote about for Colorado Runner Magazine, there’s something to be said for lifting heavy things as a time-efficient way to train to endurance sports when you have experience as an endurance athlete.