Pearls, Nail Polish and Horoscopes: What Every Archer-girl Needs

It started with a hole-in-one, or a ‘bullseye’ as it were. Golf and archery are very different, but both dictate that putting something in the middle – in the center – is a good thing.

But at that moment, it wasn't such a good thing.

It was Sunday morning and the weather forecast was calling for high, high HOT temperatures. But days of the week and high temperatures were not my concern right then. I was about to participate in an archery tournament and my nerves were a bit...off. The tournament was distance-challenging and feelings of ‘I’m not experienced enough to tackle distances my bow isn’t strong enough to do’ had me inhaling antacids by the bottle-full. I shoot recurve bow with a draw weight of 20lbs, and since I've only been at this whole archery thing since January, I think I was allowed my over-the-top angst. I hadn’t planned on doing this particular kind of tournament for at least a year or so, but my loved ones – along with my adventurous side – talked me into it.

And I guess deep down I was a tad excited as the true archer I am painted my nails blue to match my bow (it was fluke or fate that the blue nail polish I bought on a whim about half a year ago sort of matched my bow). As I continued with my pre-archery beauty regime, I was sure not to forget my pearl earrings. I have made it my personal ‘cheeky statement’ to always wear pearls to archery.

That’s right – PEARLS.

But that day I chose to go ‘all out’ in honour of the tournament and opted to also wear a pearl pendant saved only for special occasions.

Just as I was clasping the necklace around my neck it snapped and the pearl pendant slid down and off the chain. The pearl bounced and spun and twirled around the bottom of the rounded sink faster than my hand could clamp down and stop it from its dreaded destination – the drain.

Yup, down it went.

It was fate! It was karma! It was a sign I should NOT be participating in the tournament! Serves me right for making a cheeky statement I thought as I stared at my pearl sitting in the bottom of the pipe. It was silly of me to think I, of all people, could compete in such a tournament. Who did I think I was? All the confidence-building techniques I had worked on (and wrote about) throughout this new sporty venture of mine went right down the drain as well.

I couldn’t get at the pearl without risking forcing it further down the pipe. The onsite/in-house repairman kindly offered to dismantle the pipe – just for me. “We can’t do that NOW!” I shrieked. “There’s no time! We have to GO! Oh this is DEFINITELY a sign I shouldn’t be doing this tournament! Oh what was I thinking?! What am I DOING?!” I wailed and moaned all-but renouncing the sport of archery right there in my tiny office/bathroom.

As I downed a few more antacids in angst, the onsite/in-house repairman promised he would work on the pipe after the tournament and proceeded to leave DO NOT USE signs over the sink.

With reassurances and promises of ‘it’s an easy fix’ and kind words of encouragement about my archery skills to coax me out the door - along with the promise of an Ativan-enriched smoothie on the way (well not really, but I sure could have used one right then) – we loaded up the car with our archery gear and snacks and off we went.

But all that pre-tournament excitement had made me a hungry momma, so first was a stop at the good old ‘golden arches’ for a breakfast sandwich and a DECAF coffee (and no, they don’t sell Ativan-enriched smoothies) (I asked). True, my stomach was already in nervous turmoil which for anyone else would ruin their appetite, but I’m an athlete, you see: I MUST fuel-up.

The morning news was playing on the in-restaurant TV screen and just as I was about to sip my coffee a commercial came on – for nail polish of all things. AND they showed a shade of blue even closer in colour to my bow than the shade I was wearing! What were the odds? Was it a sign? I was still rattled by the pearl-down-the-drain business, but the ultimately PERFECT shade of blue nail polish? Now THAT was a sign if I ever saw one!

So a plan was hatched to visit the neighboring drug-store for a bottle of the blue goo. As an archer I know to always go prepared; the nail polish would not only be good for touch ups on my nails, but for any scratches on my bow, as well.

As we dove into our breakfast sandwiches the onsite/in-house repairman passed me the newspaper (he, too, was in the tournament but our young offspring archer was sitting this one out). That’s a good idea, I thought. Some nice quiet pre-tournament newspaper time might do me wonders.

And then inspiration struck.

I quickly flicked through the newspaper to the horoscope page. I don’t regularly read horoscopes but on a significant day, I will.

And I choked on my coffee as I read the first line. By the time I got to the end of the horoscope, I was speechless (which is rare).

I showed the onsite/in-house repairman and he, too, was mystified.

“Well,” he started. “I guess that’s a sign, for sure!” (He isn’t as into signs, luck, superstitions or anything-that-can’t-be-explained, like I am)

So with our bellies full, my nails re-painted and my Scorpion zodiacal sun in astrological alignment (or whatever it is) off we went.

The tournament started after an equipment check and practice and as the tournament progressed, I was calmer than I had been all morning. But the various ‘signs’ – good and bad - that had started before the tournament were not to leave me yet. At about the ¾-mark of the day my BELOVED onsite/in-house repairman sheered a fletch right off my arrow with one of his, embedding the plastic little arrow-wing in my target (three of us shot on one target).

(note: an arrow has three 'fletches' or the little wing-things at the end - I was by then down to two)

I was doomed! Destroyed! Defeated! My archery career was over before it even began! Although I had tried to be prepared what with the nail polish and all, I had no back-up arrows – a mortal sin in the archery world.

“Just keep shooting,” ordered the unflappable judge Helena Myllyniemi as I panicked and wailed about my faulty arrow. “It will shoot fine,” she pacified as she gave my arrow a twirl to test for straightness.

“But what about…”

“Just shoot it.” She interrupted with an order, handed me my arrow, and sent me a penetrating stare. “It will shoot fine.”

Sabotage! I thought as I sent my onsite/in-house repairman the most deadly 'you will die'-glare of all time. I won't disclose the retaliation I planned as we walked back to the shooting line. But I was also worried - and panicking, of course. Would the arrow shoot okay? Was the tournament over for me that day?

And Helena was right (of course). The arrow shot MORE than ‘fine’. I got quite a few ‘10’s’ with that arrow before the tournament was over – a ‘10’ being the highest score you can get (aka: a bullseye, or an ‘X’). I deemed it my lucky arrow.

And after all was said and done I came home with a wicked sunburn, a feeling of pride and accomplishment that I even participated in the tournament at all, and a score of 779 out of a possible 900 on the three target distances of 35, 30, and 25 meters. I had a fabulous time and my pearl earrings and blue nails were a hit (well not really; I was the only girl in the tournament. I sure showed those guys!), and we DID eventually get the pearl out of the pipe.

The lesson learned? Even when things seem to be going down the drain, keep aiming forward. You’re bound to hit something good, eventually.

For results of the tournament, visit The Victoria Bowmen Archery Club.

The Parade Marches On

It was the morning of the Victoria Day Parade, May 18, 2015, a parade to mark the holiday honouring Queen Victoria’s birthday (which is actually May 24, 1819). Although I never met Queen Victoria I’m sure she was lovely and it’s always nice to remember someone’s birthday, but I wish someone would have a parade for me. Queens and birthdays aside, however, that morning I was going downtown, but NOT to watch the parade. Our family’s parade-watching days are over; my kids too ‘old’ and too ‘cool’ for such things. I suspect the next time I watch a parade with either of my strapping young offspring it will be with their kids – my grandkids.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let me get through the tumultuous teen years, first.

As the bus rumbled along bringing me closer to my destination, my heart and stomach were going ‘round faster than the wheels on the bus. You see, on one hand I was very much aware of a parade I would likely (sadly) not watch, yet I was also aware of a great transition about to happen.

I was getting my hair cut – and in a big way.

About six inches of hair was going to be removed from my head – as in GONE – and I wouldn’t be able to put it back if I changed my mind.

I was nervous, determined, scared, yet excited all at the same time.

Yes, I know I have written about my hair many times before. I don’t get it cut very often, and when I do it’s a BIG DEAL – to me at least. Where Queen Victoria likely had people to do her hair for her, I am lacking in royal parade-worthiness so I have to rely on my own two hands to do my hair. I’m a busy momma, so although I treasure my tresses and worry about them daily, I don’t have time to fiddle with my quickly greying strands. Keeping things simple by keeping my hair pony-tail-worthy long has always been the easiest.

But it was time to let go and make a change.

Just as we neared the outskirts of downtown and my whirling nerves were picking up speed, we slowed down. I had left the house early to accommodate for any parade-required street closures, so I wasn’t worried about being late for my hair appointment. Traffic was almost at a stand-still and as we inched along I saw the cause of our delay.

The parade participants – bands and floats and so on – had convened near the start of the parade in an empty parking lot of a shopping mall. It was an organized chaos of folks practicing their moves, getting in line, and doing last-minute checks of their parade floats. Excitement hung like a cloud over the parking lot, and I had no doubt many participants were as nervous as I was. As the bus trundled past I looked out over the floats, marching bands and performers with envy and longing. My heart was heavy with the reminder that parade-watching with my kids was over.

Traffic thinned and we started to speed up. As the parade convening area (is that what you call it?) slowly disappeared out of sight a procession across the street caught my eye. A school’s band was marching their way to the parking lot, complete with instruments, gold-buttoned/double-breasted blazers and feather-adorned marching band hats.

As I admired their blindingly clean, white pants (and wondered what stain remover their parents used), I realized that although we were going in opposite directions, we were both marching toward the start of something great.

I had been wanting – no needing ¬- to get my hair cut for a long time. I knew it was time to put an end to something and start anew. Just as parades have a start and an end, and just because my parade-watching days were over with my kids, didn’t mean there wouldn’t be other memorable moments with them down the road. And just like I knew it was time to lose my too-long locks and go for a change, it didn’t mean it would be forever; hair grows. But it WAS time for a change – for a new start.

Not only is Crescendo For Hair Salon near the ‘end’ of the parade, it is also outside the exact spot where my kids and I used to sit and watch many parades. To be making a change at the same spot from something I knew I had to move on was bittersweet. I had to let go of the nostalgic heavy heart that would drag me down every time there was a parade I wouldn’t be attending with my kids.

Just like I had move on and accept that my kids were growing, I had to let go of my hair. Hair always grows back, but kids grow and don’t stop. I was lucky to be able to have the parade days I DID have with them, but it was time to stop pining for the past, and cherish the NOW and what I could have with my kids.

Life has a way of forcing us to ‘let go’ – and always when we least want to. But that day I made a choice to let go of something that was weighing me down – my hair.

The day before my big downtown non-parade-hair-salon adventure, I found a quote by Coco Chanel:

Finding that quote was like a sign. I realized I was doing the right thing at the right time in my life – for so many reasons.

Once downtown, determination to let go and move on had me impatiently picking my way through the fast-growing crowds lining the by-then closed down street. But by the time I walked through the hair salon doors, despite my nerves still a teensy aflutter, I knew the time was right. It was time to march on.

With every snip of the scissors, Chris at Crescendo For Hair Salon watched for the merest hint of a quivering lip or a filling tear duct. The master he is knew cutting off THAT much hair was a big step for a girl. We could hear the parade outside – he even stopped to listen: "Yes, it sounds like it's started!" – and after an hour as the parade still marched on outside, we were done. And I didn’t cry. And in fact, I actually wanted more cut off.

But given the amount of hair already piled on the floor we decided to give it a week to a/make sure I didn’t cry and b/make sure I truly DID want more cut off. I would, indeed, go back and already, now, a week after THAT, I still want more.

With a new bounce in my step – heck, who wouldn’t with all that extra weight, gone? – I left the salon. The parade was still going on, so I figured, “Well, while I’m here...” and made my way to OUR parade-watching spot. A band marched by, some fire-trucks trundled past, and a little boy in his daddy’s arms beside me waved at the passing procession. I clapped at the right time, took a few pictures, and kept patting my hair while wondering if anyone could tell I had just changed.

And I didn’t cry, I didn’t long, and I didn’t stay for the end, either.

I turned around and moved on with my own parade.

I left.

Adult Colouring - Maybe it IS for Me (Part 2)

Okay – so after all that stress, I gave the colouring ‘thing’ a new start (see 'Adult Colouring - Maybe It's Not For Me - Part 1). I was drug-free (Valium was making me too dopey), caffeine-free (too jumpy), and I had plowed through a few self-help books renewing my self-confidence with positive self-talk. I could do this! So the night after my pencil sharpening debacle (see previous blog, Stress-Free Colouring: Part 1) - and yes, I had to wait a WHOLE day to start colouring in earnest - I got busy.

The reading glasses were on, everything was positioned ‘just so,’ I was relaxed and calm and you know what……?

It wasn’t so bad after all.

I had previously flipped through Johanna Basford’s book, ‘Enchanted Forest,’ and found a not-too-complicated design, something not too intricate, and something not too....busy. I told myself this was for no one’s eyes but mine – I did NOT have to show anyone. I wasn’t striving to be displayed in an art museum (my coloured piece, not ME), and I wasn’t being graded. No one was looking over my shoulder telling me what was right or wrong, and if I wanted I could colour in wax crayon (a true artiste can use any medium to create a work of art, but an artiste I am not, so I stuck to half-used pencil crayons). I could do what wanted, how I wanted, and at my own pace.

And as I worked, focusing on one bit – one leaf, as was in the particular design – at a time, I got into a rhythm. I didn’t over-think what right colours were to use, I didn’t second-guess my choices (okay, maybe I sometimes did – but heck, that’s what erasers are for!), and I concentrated on just enjoying it. I found it relaxing, calming, meditative and...addictive.
I couldn’t stop.

But as I coloured, the clock ticking well past my bed-time – ‘Just one more section, MOM’ (um, that was ME) – my mind started to wander.

As I said in my previous post I had been previously been in a creative slump: the whirlwind of this thing we call LIFE was nudging its way into my creativity and threatening to knock it on it’s you-know-what. I was getting antsy: nothing was working in my writing projects, or anything else I was doing. I was cranky, whiney, bitchy, cranky, and antsy – all at once.
It was not pretty.

Hence, the colouring thing.

And as I progressed on that first real colouring night I didn’t completely ignore my family around me: I didn’t. But as I coloured, my mind started to wander. With conversations around me and the TV on in the background I would pick up bits and pieces of this-and-that and....I would get ideas.

For my creative writing.

Out of nowhere would pop a great name for a book title, a concept for my novel-in-progress, or a great name for a character. I had been concentrating on shading an ivy leaf in the design with Forest Green, and my mind was free of everything else. I wasn’t trying to come up with writing stuff – it just happened.

I refused to make notes in my too-fancy colouring book. So on a random piece of paper on the end-table beside me (it was article on tennis elbow common to archers – go figure) I would jot down my writing ideas in Taupe, Raspberry, or Peacock Blue. The tennis/archery elbow article became a rainbow of pencil crayon test scribbles intertwined with all-too important writer’s idea/notes.

And I kept going.

And coloured some more.

And I didn’t cry if I went outside the lines.

And I kept the eraser handy.

And I kept jotting ideas.

And when my arm got too sore (I have to preserve my writers/archery arm, you see), and my neck got too sore (I was starting to nod, even WHILE doing something I loved), I reluctantly put everything away.

And realized one thing I had forgotten to remember: creativity begets creativity.
One thing I have always known and had often preached is when in a creative slump, go do something ELSE entirely different. Knit, sew, write, paint, draw, bead – anything. Renowned creatives (think Julia Cameron, ‘The Artist’s Way’) have for eons taught, written about, and preached about creativity fostering creativity. And as an aside, writers have for eons wailed, “Why do I get my best ideas while driving/showering/mowing the lawn?” Well, as far as colouring goes, not only is doing something else creative fostering creativity, but doing something repetitive relaxed me enough to allow something else other than life’s little hiccups to come to the forefront of my mind.

Wow.

That is some heavy stuff.

(For a more detailed, educated, analysis of creativity, check out Julia Cameron’s book, ‘The Artist’s Way’ and visit her blog at Julia Cameron Live.

So now when I colour I keep a notebook beside me (duh, isn’t that what ALL writers are supposed to do?), focus on staying un-stressed (duh, isn’t that what colouring is SUPPOSED to do?), and just colour....

And if they ever have a colouring contest for a 40-plus age group, I won’t be entering.

I won’t be able to handle the stress.


Thanks for reading!
Lisa

Adult Colouring - Maybe It's Not For Me.... (part 1)

For the first time in just over 35 years, I have one - and my how they’ve changed!

But these days I now need reading glasses to use one, my youthful near-20/20 vision gone. And I don’t go outside the lines provided I have my reading glasses on – most of the time. On the odd occasion I DO gone outside the lines - a slip of the hand from too much caffeine or a nod-off too late in the night after too long a day at work - my peri-menopausal hormones practically send me into a crying fit, something resembling a toddler-like tantrum. Sort of.

So what is it?

It’s a colouring book.

No Little Red Riding Hood, Bugs Bunny or Mickey Mouse pages for me, however fun those might be. This is what is called these days as an ‘adult’ colouring book.

My first colouring book as a 40-something is Johanna Basford’s ‘Enchanted Forest.’ It’s the follow-up book to her worldwide bestseller, ‘Secret Garden,’ which was sold-out EVERYWHERE when I initially got wind of the pencil-crayon phenomenon a few weeks ago. Both books feature whimsical, charming black-and-white drawings just waiting to be coloured. Colouring for adults has long been reputed as a de-stressing activity, many adult-type colouring books featuring black and white zen-like mandalas having been around for years.

But when needing to fulfill the creative urge, and wanting to break-out of the repetitive, yet soothing, way of the mandala, these new colouring books (along with many others) have taken the publishing world – and suppliers of felts and pencil crayons – by storm.

And I’ve gotten caught up in that storm.

And I love it.

I’m a ‘creative’ so doing something like this isn’t new to me. I used to do a lot of scrapbooking and card-making which lead to ink stamping with shading and colouring-in of the stamped images. But I am no artiste. Colouring is for everyone; anyone can do it. If you can scribble, if you like adding colour to your life and, then the new-wave of colouring is for you.

But when I came home with my first colouring book a few weeks ago excited with my purchase, and confident in my colouring ability, closer inspection of the colouring pages sent me in to a panic.

There’s a lot of detail, big and small, I thought with a gulp as I browsed through the book that first night while curled up on the couch. And there’s only one of the design in the whole book! If I mess up, THAT’S IT!

What had I gotten myself into? I tried not to cry. I thought colouring was supposed to be de-stressing, not STRESS inducing!

I never thought I would associate the word ‘intimidating’ with a colouring book….

But I was excited AND curious! I was in need of something de-stressing. I was eager for a new creative outlet (like I needed another one!). I had been in a creative slump lately, detrimental to a writer, and was looking for some new action - but between the pages of a different kind of book.

I could do this! I told myself. It’s JUST colouring!

So after taking a deep calming breath which is weird in itself given I was about to DO something calming, I picked through the zillions of old pencil crayons from my kid’s school leftovers eager for a few semi-sharp ones. Our pencil sharpener at home is awful, and I knew the one at work would do a better job. I would have to wait until the next day when I could sharpen them.
Okay, I thought. No problem. I was just in a ‘testing’ phase, anyways. (Yes, I am well aware I over-think things).

I swallowed my panic, opted for a least intricate design, and got busy with the few decently-sharp pencil crayons.

The reading glasses were on, the tongue was poised outside the corner of my mouth, the couch was at it comfiest, and I was colouring! What more could a girl ask for?

And then I went out of the lines – not once, but twice. I had to slow down – I had to calm down. And I had to remember it was OKAY to screw up – pencil crayons DO erase (but not felt, as I had learned). As I coloured – as I screwed up – I had to keep in mind this colouring page was ONLY for me. My intention wasn’t to frame any finished pieces – unless I wanted to. This was just supposed to be a relaxing venture – a calming activity.

But then I got so stressed out with my dull pencil crayons I had to stop and wait until the next day when I could sharpen them at work. It was getting to be too stressful colouring with dull ones.

So the next day I loaded up my BIG BAGGIE of pencil crayons, brought them to work, and got busy sharpening with one of those old-fashioned hand-crank sharpeners. Those hand-crank sharpeners are the best – truly, they are. But I had A LOT of pencil crayons, you see, which meant A LOT of cranking, turning, cranking, and turning.

Well, that didn’t work out as planned, either.

If you have read any of my previous posts you will see I have also taken up archery. Yes, I am a woman of the world.

But as I am relatively new in the sport of archery, my muscles - at least, the ones I have started growing in my arms since taking up the sport – are tender, sore, and easily tire. I have to baby them, you see, and take care of my precious arms for not only writing, but archery. My muscles ARE getting better, but so conscious am I of my archery-needed arms and their constantly sore muscles, that manually sharpening a zillion pencil crayons with a hand-crank sharpener with my ever-sore, bow-holding arm proved to be a bit taxing. Not only did my arm tire all-too-soon into my sharpening task, but I remembered that I had practice that night and couldn’t bear the thought of wrecking my important archery arm by over-sharpening.

I started to worry: would I have to eventually choose between archery, colouring and – GASP - writing to preserve my arm?
So stressed-out and concerned about my arm I became I took to the task in increments: sharpening a few – resting; sharpening a few more – resting; sharpening a few more – resting.

But what about my new colouring thing? I wailed. I had to get these sharpened! I moaned as I accidentally stabbed myself with a sharp tip.

Now before you start to think I’m a lazy lout at work, I did this all BEFORE my shift.

Finally done, all while pretending to have downed a few Valium to get through the stressful task, I was content with the fact that not only would I be able to colour, but my bow-arm would go on to shot another arrow. I would live to write another word.

But then...

I immediately realized because of archery practice later that night, which goes relatively late, I wouldn’t have time to do any colouring that night, after all.

My shoulders slumped.

That’s fine, I figured. I needed to give my archery/colouring arm a rest, anyways. A little de-stressing time away from the colouring would do me a world of good, I figured.

I have enough stress with archery, as is (and that’s another story in itself).

Finally, the NEXT night came around, and I was free to do all the colouring I wanted.

And then everything changed.....

(stay tuned for part 2)

Thanks for reading!
Lisa

Nasty Four-Letter Word

I started swearing this year - yup, I did - and it’s a nasty four-letter word.

For some people, their New Year’s resolutions involve vowing to start, stop or at least cut-back on doing something. As for me, I planned a little bit of everything, but just not saying a particular word.

I had great plans of starting – or at least trying – something new this year. But I didn’t exactly count on adding a swear word to the mixture. But what bugs me most about my over-abundant usage of the word is that it’s a word I have often written about NOT using.

Plug your ears, close your eyes, and get out the soap to rinse-out my mouth.

The word is CAN’T.

So far 2015 has been a time of trying new things; but doing so has not always come easy for me. ‘Fear of the unknown’ was one of many roadblocks I often allowed to stop me, but age has given me confidence, and various life experiences has given me perspective to be more adventurous and less restrained. ‘Who cares about what anyone thinks’ and ‘who cares if I make a fool of myself’ are phrases I now frequent. Life is short; I want to do things and be able to say ‘at least I tried.’ And if there is any hesitation or second-guessing before trying something new, I never regret trying – even if I wasn’t exactly the greatest at whatever it was.

But lately my can-do/positive attitude I try to always portray has been shaky. I wonder if it’s because I’ve been attempting so many new things all at once – however exciting, adventurous and progressive they might be. Fear and uncertainty have been trying to knock me down, and can’t has been rudely – sinfully – uttered from my mouth one too many times; too many times, in fact, that I feel as though I am bordering on being a fraud.

Since January I’ve taken up archery. For four years I sat on the sidelines watching my son perfect his skill at the high-focus sport. ‘I’m a mom; archery is HIS thing’ was always my response when someone asked me if I, too, participated in the sport. But I now know that nasty word can’t had been hovering in the background. But on a whim one day last summer I tried it – and I loved it. I got my own bow for Christmas – although I panicked about using it when I opened it Christmas morning – but through support and assistance from my son and other members of the archery club we belong to I’ve been learning. There have been various hurdles to overcome, but I’ve persevered. Trying new equipment and subsequent equipment malfunctions, strength and endurance development, and skill and technique-perfecting have all played a factor in testing my confidence.

But true to my can-do ways I participated in a tournament – just to say I did it. Gosh – I COMPETED IN A TOURNAMENT?! What’s my problem then? What am I so worried about?

But still when new equipment or techniques are presented to me, I struggle/panic/stress about something new and that four-letter word can’t comes out, only to have me beating myself up for saying the horrid word in the first place. Then ‘I can’t’ and ‘who do I think I am?’ play tag in my head and some days they win, and some days I win, but I keep going – I keep trying.

I can’t do what I don’t try.

But it’s hard. That word keeps trying to bring me down.

During all this I was presented with a writing opportunity way outside my comfort zone, knowledge or experience; I was asked to write a short science fiction story. I gulped in trepidation but then looked at it as a chance to stretch my wings and figured: What the heck? I’m used to writing slice-of-life stories, as well as contemporary fiction for kids. I’m no expert in either and honing my craft is on-going – I get that. But I have never tackled writing anything science fiction, and my knowledge/expertise/experience is limited. Well, I figured, why not give it a try? It’s all part of my ‘trying something new’ mantra for the year.

Well, I’ve struggled and struggled with the piece I’ve been working on. I’ve wrote, re-wrote, started, stopped, stalled and re-started too many times to count. Can’t has been clouding my brain, and I have nearly given up a zillion times. But I can’t do it – I can’t give up, I keep telling myself. I won’t. The thought of doing so bugs me.

That word can’t has been really getting to me.

So I’ve decided to snuff it out – completely.

Archery and writing are each about intense focus. I can focus not on what I can’t do but what I CAN do. Maybe I put too many irons in the fire and got overwhelmed – I don’t know. So I have taken a step back and have done what I’m comfortable with; first thing first was writing this. I have further decided I will write what I want, when I want, how I want; I will shoot how I want, when I want, and progressing with what equipment I want – all in my own time. I don’t HAVE to try any new archery equipment or techniques. I can strengthen what I already know, and when I’m ready, I will try something new. It won’t kill me; it’ll only make me stronger.

Recognizing this nasty word usage and writing about it here has given me the much-needed boost. Whether it will be a new piece of archery equipment or a technique, or if it’s that writing project that keeps tripping me up, focusing on what I can do and not caring about anything else will only get me farther ahead. Focus, perseverance and mental strengthening skills learned from each archery and writing can be applied to the other, only enhancing my performance, output, and over-all enjoyment. It's all in the approach.

And if and when that nasty little four-letter word creeps back into my vocabulary just when I have gotten tough and have all but exorcised it out of my life, I will take a step back, remember to focus on what I can do, and then move forward again.

I realize now that part of winning the ‘battle’ has been in educating myself; knowledge is power, and all that. I realized I had to learn WHAT about trying something new in archery or writing was scaring me, preventing me from progressing and moving forward. I have taken the time to learn about the new piece of equipment or technique before trying it; I have taken the time to learn more about writing science fiction and have learned it doesn’t have to be any one certain way. And I have to remember I’m not competing with anyone else and I’m not doing any of this to please anyone. I can do my own thing – learn archery at my own speed and write whatever story my heart desires. It doesn’t matter what I do, just as long as I do it. As long as I follow through; as long as I finish. Arrow after arrow, word after word, I WILL get there. I WILL get through and surpass what’s slowing me down, and I WILL replace that four-letter word can’t with another four-letter word.

WILL.

Bestseller list? ME?

So happy to share that my young adult ebook, 'Newbie Nick,' is FIFTH on the publisher's BESTSELLER LIST and I am a tad in shock - and for once speechless!

Check it out at Breathless Press(Breathless Press encompasses all their lines including those of their off-shoot, Lycaon Press, who published the book)

Thank you to everyone for your support and congratulations to all!

My First Time

2014 was a year of firsts for me: first novel published (‘Newbie Nick’, Lycaon Press), first time meeting a wing-walker (Carol Pilon, my inspiration for being bold, brave, and fearless), and first time shooting an arrow from a bow (thanks to my pals Bradley and Matthew). Although I’m still writing, yet haven’t taken-up wing-walking (I said yet), the archery thing kind of ‘took,’ so for Christmas Santa was kind enough to bring me a recurve archery bow.

And so 2015 has continued with the theme of ‘firsts’…

My husband and I joined the Victoria Bowmen Association, an archery group that my son has been involved with for the last few years. He has won, or placed, in numerous tournaments and continues to excel in the sport, impressing me with every arrow shot. I love watching him and will always cheer him on, but I guess something had been itching inside of me all along to try it. It was an itch I had to scratch, and my dabbling in the sport became something more. My practices became an escape, a challenge and an adventure. Archery was something I had never done before; had never entertained even doing before. I had no aspirations other than just enjoying it.

Then I did something I never dreamed I would do – compete.

As in be in a competition – a tournament.

My son had signed up for a yearly tournament called the MICA – Multi-sites Indoor Championship of the Americas. All archery clubs throughout North and South America host their own tournaments between January and April, and at the end all of the competitors in all the Americas are ranked.

All clubs host the same tournament - 60 arrows are shot from a distance of 18m at a 40cm target. What’s that you ask? Per round, or ‘end,’ three arrows are shot at a target 40cm wide at a distance of 18m away from the archer. So after 20 ends of 3 arrows each – the scores ranging from a 10 (that’s the center yellow) to a 1 (that’s the white outer last ring) – there’s a potential to get 600 points (for the ‘perfect’ archer, of course). (I’m new at this, so any errors in exact description are mine – but that’s the gist of it)

When I realized the tournament was exactly what I had been practicing with anyways (distance and target size) I figured what the heck?

I didn’t tell my husband or my son my intentions. Only the tournament registrar knew – and he knew my apprehensive, amateur, newbie fears. I’m a writer, after all, not a sporty kinda gal – and definitely not an ‘archer.’ I’m just a mom who, at 40-something years old, learned she kinda likes shooting arrows at a target. But I didn’t tell either of my men about my competitive intentions because a/in case I chickened out, b/I didn’t want them putting pressure on me by bugging me about it, and c/in case I chickened out. This was new, fragile territory for me – I didn’t want anyone, or anything, messing with my first time.

But at T-minus 2 days before the tournament, I told them. I realized I didn’t want to surprise the young lad at the last minute with my intentions. I was worried that the novelty and presence of his mother competing with him (not against him) would throw off his game. His tournaments are much more important to his long-term goals. Me, well, I’m just happy if I hit the damn target.

So when I told him I then quickly offered to withdraw if he felt awkward about his mother being in the tournament with him – because really, who wants their mother in something like that with them?
After they got over their surprise and shock, they both encouraged me. I assured my son I would make sure I would be nowhere near him and, in fact, I wouldn’t even look at him. When I was told “Don’t worry Mom, you’ll just be like one of the other guys” I knew I had his blessing and the rest was up to me.

But as fate would have it I got very sick that week, and my pre-tournament practices were horrendous. I wouldn’t learn until after the tournament that a sinus infection attempted to sideline my (Olympic) archery career. But sick or not, I was determined to participate.

The day before the tournament my son gave me some last minute tips that helped out my ‘game.’ I got myself in order, despite being so sick, and got my ‘mental game’ in check. Focus is huge in the sport – I wasn’t about to let some boogers bring me down.

So on the morning of my first archery tournament ever, where my son was calm, cool and collected, I was a wreck that managed to keep some semblance of calm and serenity displayed on the outside. Having wrapped my hair in the most perfect bun ever sure helped.

Once we registered at the tournament we got our archery gear in order and then had the chance to practice for 45 minutes before the start. I worked hard at ignoring how sick I was and I focused on my practice (and did very well). I kept my jangled nerves at bay and knew that anything valium-related, never mind cold-medicine-related, would only hinder my aim (and have me falling asleep at the shooting line).

But when it came time for the tournament to start my nerves got the better of me and a sweaty hand was responsible for the first 2 ‘ends’ to go askew. In archery even the slightest alteration in ‘grip,’ ‘release’ or ‘stance’ can throw off your shot. My ‘grip’ hand was so sweaty that it mucked up how I held the bow and my previously-practiced perfect shots went all over the place.

My confidence plummeted.

Once I figured out the issue, I concentrated on keeping my hand sweat-free. I kept my clogged/sore/sneeze-ready sinuses at bay, focused on everything I had learned to that point, and continued with the rest of the tournament – with whatever style and grace I could muster. I don’t think I breathed through the whole thing – I could barely, anyways. I was determined to not only finish the day, but finish it semi-un-embarrassingly. I still don’t know what drove me to even compete in the tournament in the first place, despite how ‘new’ I was to the sport. But nothing – no sickness, ailment, or overnight-loss-of-limb – was going to stop me from competing that day. I just wanted to try it – just once – even if I never did it again. There was a first time for everything, and I wasn’t about to let my first time be ruined by a mere sinus infection.

I managed to stay ‘in the yellow’ and ‘in the red’ for the most part, which is good. I finished with a score of 442 (out of 600). I did better than I had ever imagined and after it was over, even though I felt like crap and the next day DID get a prescription for some lovely antibiotics the size of horse pills, I knew…

I would never forget my first time (and I’d be going back for more).

For scores and additional photos, please click here.