tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57743631783708295582024-03-19T01:43:51.204-07:00Between Fact and FictionNatalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.comBlogger743125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-60269936695971907802019-03-08T09:59:00.001-08:002019-03-08T10:17:28.101-08:00Checking BoxesThe older you get the more forms you have to fill out. And they frequently have these "race" boxes on them—check the one that most applies. I hate those boxes. I am most grateful when the directions read "check all that apply." It's interesting how the first format forces us to only claim one thing, and the other acknowledges that we can be many.<br />
<br />
Over my life, I have filled out all these forms in different ways. Sometimes I've marked "Asian/Pacific Islander." Sometimes I've marked "White." I am happy when I get to mark both, but it's still complicated. And there was a moment in my life when these darn boxes became a huge stressor in my life.<br />
<br />
College applications.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB17QhUhijmJYL2BkWHD3xa-YqP7pJox0UBBkjfSNw9gqT2yXhytiFVpN2F4Qn1Ohn3IPoFnugRi4MmqnFQ2sWH9Dwaqt2Fv2s_xBxEB7awn04ElOpNLcW-avTWRLDl_Gx8sDPdIulKkc/s1600/Ben+%2526+Carole+at+Natalie%2527s+Graduation+2002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1042" data-original-width="1600" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB17QhUhijmJYL2BkWHD3xa-YqP7pJox0UBBkjfSNw9gqT2yXhytiFVpN2F4Qn1Ohn3IPoFnugRi4MmqnFQ2sWH9Dwaqt2Fv2s_xBxEB7awn04ElOpNLcW-avTWRLDl_Gx8sDPdIulKkc/s320/Ben+%2526+Carole+at+Natalie%2527s+Graduation+2002.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my dad's parents at my high school graduation.<br />
I will be talking about them soon:)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was a great student who wasn't the greatest test taker. Now, I wasn't terrible, but my ACT score of 24 wasn't "up to snuff" for schools with tough competition in applicants. I was bemoaning this to a friend, and her reply was quite surprising.<br />
<br />
"Oh, don't worry! You can just check the Polynesian box and you'll get in."<br />
<br />
This statement was jarring for me. I didn't really understand why at the time, but I would hear it <i>repeatedly</i> from other people who knew my background. Just check the box! Free admission! It was strange, since these same people didn't even <i>believe me</i> when I first told them. Now they were so certain I was that I could use it on my college applications.<br />
<br />
I spent months trying to decide if I should really check that box or not.<br />
<br />
On the one hand, yes, I had Maori heritage. On the other, I looked white. There are a lot of other complicated things that I <i>felt</i> but didn't have words for at the time. I think many view diversity in college as "taking spots of more qualified just to fill a quotient." But I didn't see it that way—I didn't want to take the spot of a Pacific Islander who might have needed it? It's still hard to explain, but I think I felt like I had already been set up for success. But then that sounds like I'm judging others who might "need that spot."<br />
<br />
Ultimately, I chose not to check the box.<br />
<br />
I don't know what the right choice was to this day. But that was the choice I made. I didn't feel like I "deserved" to check that box for whatever reason. I wasn't allowed, not when it came to something so big. Because I didn't really belong, did I? All throughout my life to that point, people hardly believed when I spoke about my heritage. How was I supposed to explain it all through college, too? It was time to just accept that white box.<br />
<br />
It turns out I got into that competitive school anyway. No scholarship or anything, but I got in to Brigham Young University (the LDS school of LDS schools). My parents agreed to pay for my first year. I would live at home, get a job, and save up for the next year.<br />
<br />
So we went to campus to have lunch with Uncle Vernon, who worked in the Dean of Students office at the time. It was nice to catch up with him and we talked of my grandmother and how things were when Vernon first started school in the states. It was nice, and it helped me feel a bit less nervous to start the big adventure of university and being a baby adult.<br />
<br />
My parents brought up the question of where to find a job on campus, and this was where things got weird for me.<br />
<br />
"I have just the thing," Vernon said. "We'll go right after this."<br />
<br />
I expected Vernon to take me to the job listings, but instead he marched me and my parents down to the Multicultural Student Services office. My eyes grew wide as we walked in, because I had always been told I didn't belong there (until it came time for college applications...).<br />
<br />
Everyone greeted Vernon with smiles and hellos, as he had once worked in that office. My heart raced as people looked at me. Surely they wondered why he would bring me there. Surely they thought this was as wrong as I did. Vernon sat me and my parents down in an office with a woman named Lynette. He told her I was his cousin and that I liked to write—I might be a good fit for the magazine.<br />
<br />
Then he left us there to go back to work.<br />
<br />
Lynette was intimidating, but also I could tell she was someone who might teach me a lot about work and life. She told us about Eagle's Eye magazine, the student-run publication they sent out for Multicultural alumni. It was a program funded by grant money, to give multicultural students real world skills in publishing. We would write articles, interview alumni, go to multicultural events to report on them, edit and design the publication, and all that jazz.<br />
<br />
It legit sounded like the best job I could ever dream of having in college. Up until then I pictured working in retail or being an early morning janitor on campus.<br />
<br />
"I rarely take on freshman," Lynette said. "But this is how you apply. There are still two weeks before applications close."<br />
<br />
"Okay." I took the application, and we left.<br />
<br />
My parents were thrilled and thought I should apply right away. They went on and on about how it was a great opportunity and so perfect for me and all I wanted to do. I nodded though a pit was forming in my stomach. I couldn't apply for this. I shouldn't. I didn't belong in an office like that when I looked the way I did.<br />
<br />
I dragged my feet over putting together an application and portfolio. Finally, my parents noticed, and I had to come clean about how I felt. I <i>wanted</i> that job. But I felt like I could not apply.<br />
<br />
My mother looked sad, but she said the exact thing I needed her to say, "How would your grandmother feel hearing you say that you don't belong there?"<br />
<br />
I knew what Grandma Dorothy would say, even though it had been 10 years since her death at that point. She would have done precisely what Uncle Vernon did—she would have marched me down there, and worse, would have declared my whakapapa to everyone there who was skeptical. She would have told me I was Maori because it was in my blood, and I shouldn't turn away from that part of me.<br />
<br />
So I filled out the application for my grandmother.<br />
<br />
I was so extra on my portfolio, sending my writing, art, and photography I'd done in high school. I nervously delivered the package to Multicultural Student Services for Lynette to look over. I figured that would be the end of it, because she rarely hired freshmen.<br />
<br />
But I got the job, and that job shaped my college career and gave me friends and colleagues that would teach me and love me and help me grow into a better person. I still often felt like I didn't belong or was taking advantage, but in those times I remembered my grandmother and how proud she would be of me.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dgtIDks42CWStCmzZnfZudjaOGZSm6A5MRBw1jAQ9VA7ScRgmUP3KjHrBTR8x40KDFBxbECIKKazpmbVlbXawXsxVtk9nqsjnzdz5dKcTIGbXpwrpZAp3whq7RyvAseNe7vAFqILk5k/s1600/IMG_6762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dgtIDks42CWStCmzZnfZudjaOGZSm6A5MRBw1jAQ9VA7ScRgmUP3KjHrBTR8x40KDFBxbECIKKazpmbVlbXawXsxVtk9nqsjnzdz5dKcTIGbXpwrpZAp3whq7RyvAseNe7vAFqILk5k/s320/IMG_6762.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my brother in Raglan, NZ.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
That job brought many good things into my life, and ultimately connected my family back to New Zealand even more. My brother came to work at Eagle's Eye after I had graduated, and he met his wife there. She was half American, half Kiwi with dual citizenship. They moved back to Aotearoa and my brother got into med school at the university of Auckland. The full circle back to our roots began, my sister eventually moving there permanently after her Master's degree to live with her wonderful husband. They have just started med school, too.<br />
<br />
So I took a job I was terrified to take, but that one choice brought about a series of events I'm so grateful for. My family has gone to New Zealand more than ever now that we have immediate family there. We have connected back to our heritage in a greater way than ever, and my sister-in-law has taught us so much more about our shared Maori culture.<br />
<br />
One thing I quite love, and that is different from America, is that New Zealand doesn't do "percentages." There's no 1/16th or 1/2 or anything else. There is not a "percentage" that means you can qualify for things or not. There, it is whakapapa (genealogy) and tipuna (ancestors), it is knowing your legacy. This brings people in.<br />
<br />
In America, it feels as if we are trying to push people out. We want them to check one box, though a growing number of people are from many backgrounds. While all of these lovely things were happening in my life, there were still not-great things happening as well.<br />
<br />
A guy in my church group was studying agriculture, and he announced he was going to New Zealand on a work study trip.<br />
<br />
"My grandma's from there! I'm part Maori!" I said, too excitedly. I had gotten comfortable around my diverse work environment, and I forgot momentarily that I wasn't there.<br />
<br />
This guy literally laughed in my face. "No you're not!"<br />
<br />
Like, not just a short scoff. A full on burst of extended laughter. Even after how far I'd come, that moment cut deep. But instead of sadness, this one garnered anger. "I am. There are a lot of Maori that look like me."<br />
<br />
"No they don't."<br />
<br />
"You'll see," I said. "And you'll realize what a total jerk you're being right now."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qisphq_iVPBTj8yTDj5iz0Qp62_5RnJTcTPGghvTF1A9XW1wzdieurUa28JrBX9T_Yg8EJTHiCZ3LC3HQ2TkVhCfsyszlVvoxCjjAwGUGJjoQs6Sc5hnuRLKhGf9fkBxRNeTzI0Fk6M/s1600/IMG_2533.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qisphq_iVPBTj8yTDj5iz0Qp62_5RnJTcTPGghvTF1A9XW1wzdieurUa28JrBX9T_Yg8EJTHiCZ3LC3HQ2TkVhCfsyszlVvoxCjjAwGUGJjoQs6Sc5hnuRLKhGf9fkBxRNeTzI0Fk6M/s320/IMG_2533.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my parents at my college graduation. The ones<br />
that gave me such an interesting blend of heritage. (Maori,<br />
Scottish, Polish, German to name a few.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Sure..." The guy went off on his trip, and I went on living my life. I got engaged during that time and was about one year away from finishing my degree.<br />
<br />
The guy came back, and I planned not to talk to him at all. Soon I would be moving and I wouldn't have to see him again. But one Sunday, he came up to me. "I'm sorry, you were right. I was a total jerk. Now that I've been down there, I can see it in you."<br />
<br />
I was stunned. This was the first time anyone had apologized for their doubt in my heritage. And it meant something that he could "see it in me" now. I choked out a "thank you."<br />
<br />
He had seen the New Zealand view versus the American one. Allowing for all facets of one's identity, in comparison to only allowing one part to be dominant.<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Another small moment comes to mind. It was about two years ago, when my husband and I were looking for an axe at a Lowe's. Yes, for real. We were planning to cut down the apple tree in our yard. My husband wanted to use an axe because he's always had a love for dwarves. I was happy to go along. The older man helping us pick one had a familiar accent and an extensive knowledge of axes. I couldn't help but ask him, "Are you from New Zealand by chance?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Yeah," he said. "Glad you didn't say I was Aussie."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I laughed, well familiar with the rivalry between </span>the<span style="font-family: inherit;"> two. "My grandmother was from there."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Maori?" he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Yes."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"What tribe?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Ngapuhi," I replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He smiled. "Me too. We're family."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This was said with warmth and welcome</span>. He likely didn't know how much his simple acceptance mean to me—it was a rare thing in my life. But he knew. He understood what our shared history was.</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"I just married in," my husband said jokingly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The man patted my husband on the shoulder, and in all sincerity said, "That means you're Maori now. Welcome to the family."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I had to hold back my tears in Lowe's. This was such a small and unexpected moment, but one of great revelation. I've spent my whole life worrying over what box to check, but the more I've learned the more I realize that the boxes don't matter to those who are part of you. I spent a lot of time self-conscious about what outsiders thought, forgetting that those who truly matter welcome me (and now my very blond and very pale husband and children) with no judgment. I don't need to worry about anyone else.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.859999656677246px;">This is the fifth post in my series on being a white passing Maori in America.</i><i style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.859999656677246px;"> I do not speak for anyone but myself, and these are personal experiences I draw from.</i> </span><br />
<br />Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-46797719306973057532019-03-04T10:04:00.000-08:002019-03-04T10:04:38.672-08:00Remnants and RevelationsThere's a clear picture in my mind of my Auntie Leah and my mom using poi balls in Grandma's backyard. It was a searing hot day in summer, and laundry was drying on the metal tree out there. They spun the long poi with, what I saw as a young child, great skill. I was especially impressed with the one-handed, two poi, move where my auntie spun them as she moved them back and forth over her head.<br />
<br />
I wanted to learn! And so they taught me the basics of the long poi. I was clumsy and not great, but I picked it up and used them often as a child. I didn't know any songs or official dances—I only knew what I'd been shown. The basics. The remnants of what our family had learned.<br />
<br />
There were short poi. I didn't know how to use those (and they're freaking hard to use!). There were the sticks of the "sticks dances" that I saw in some performances but had never used. I learned some basic skills in a Polynesian dance class I took in college at BYU. Many of the students struggles to shake their hands as is traditional in many Maori song and dance, but I grasped it easily and felt like maybe it was in my blood.<br />
<br />
The strange thing about being white passing, about being severed from the main body of your heritage, is that life becomes a series of "filling in the gaps."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5t5StFvK2MYZ68jwwDXjpBp2F3QGe7MyujH1xKvHZvOzuQZ_NIoLbrV-rkurdZbv58bIQnlYdUReiAq9gMIukzBx_LFwHscWYJHLMnhvn45c2IS1Ndq682h76g-YAPxOmyf8Y_pMWhyphenhyphenI/s1600/IMG_0345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="1000" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5t5StFvK2MYZ68jwwDXjpBp2F3QGe7MyujH1xKvHZvOzuQZ_NIoLbrV-rkurdZbv58bIQnlYdUReiAq9gMIukzBx_LFwHscWYJHLMnhvn45c2IS1Ndq682h76g-YAPxOmyf8Y_pMWhyphenhyphenI/s320/IMG_0345.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not the best example, but the only one I have. The sparse<br />trees I remember. (Also me at 5 days old.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For instance, my grandma would always have my grandpa cut a ton of branches off the bushy Christmas trees of North America. I always wondered at their tree during the holidays, why there was so much gap between the tiers of branches. I once asked my mom why their tree didn't have a lot of branches, and the answer I got was "so we can see the ornaments." Which made sense and I didn't question further.<br />
<br />
But when I went to New Zealand, I saw a strange tree that immediately reminded me of the way my grandmother would demand her tree to be cut.<br />
<br />
"What are those?" I asked my brother, who lives in New Zealand now, as we drove from Auckland to Hamilton. "Those pointy, sharp trees?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8XtizZIBsWLInH6MKsdEKtBzXFtEOY1QQZbN8cUcObre1u-jrgzaBEXXT1lkhTsMdg1lCMo_JLu3vFbTb6tTxBorp1lueChHEb0PBBEdKOJzt9xKkgPtnG-prceZoUPyHSlPUQtPJB7g/s1600/araucaria-heterophylla-tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1048" data-original-width="650" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8XtizZIBsWLInH6MKsdEKtBzXFtEOY1QQZbN8cUcObre1u-jrgzaBEXXT1lkhTsMdg1lCMo_JLu3vFbTb6tTxBorp1lueChHEb0PBBEdKOJzt9xKkgPtnG-prceZoUPyHSlPUQtPJB7g/s320/araucaria-heterophylla-tree.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Norfolk Island Pine, a sharp<br />silhouette in Aotearoa.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Those?" my brother replied with annoyance. "I don't know the name but they're everywhere. I hate them. People use them for Christmas trees here and they just don't feel like Christmas."<br />
<br />
I couldn't help but smile. "Really?"<br />
<br />
"Yup."<br />
<br />
"Grandma used to make grandpa cut her Christmas trees so there were big gaps in the branches. Makes sense now—she must have been picturing these trees as what her Christmases used to look like," I said.<br />
<br />
My mother's face filled with understanding. "I never thought of that! But she might have, maybe without even realizing it."<br />
<br />
It was a small, but beautiful remnant of my grandmother, driving through New Zealand and seeing these pines everywhere.<br />
<br />
Other remnants and revelations aren't so sweet, though. I sometimes wondered why my grandma Dorothy didn't teach her own kids more about her Maori culture. Why didn't she teach them more of the language or insist they learn their culture more deeply?<br />
<br />
It wasn't until the last couple years that I knew the Maori language was banned from schools for most of the 19th century.<br />
<br />
Much like other colonized countries, the Maori were to "assimilate." That's what the Crown wanted, at least. Maori ways and language were looked down on, considered lesser, and were discouraged as a whole during my grandmother's time. As they were pushed off their land and into cities, the governments even place Maori families within white communities, in order to discourage them from reforming their own close ties. My grandmother likely didn't know much of te reo Maori herself. She might have only had remnants, living at a time when another culture was actively trying to eradicate the indigenous ways of Aotearoa.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until the 70s and 80s that the Maori were able to regain some of their standing and rights through activism. I now imagine my grandmother's visits back to her homeland, and what she might have been learning herself for the first time during those pilgrimages.<br />
<br />
It's these big and small pieces that come over time, and each one gives me a moment to feel closer to my heritage. Perhaps we were separated from it, but it never completely left us. And I see that in so many ways.<br />
<br />
I have long known my mother's favorite colors are black, white, and red (she makes many a quilt in these colors). These are also very important colors in Maori tradition and I wonder if she latched on to them early on without knowing.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwdeFkQiZi2f_HZ_SR-oyYP43OxD9oVOEsGhWUAcWqBVbGiF1PhJ7-4PnShcwEEGz66vOx4ADagSpvt-ZViuYsZzbEFGfZho7R_dtcK1wx4U618Ycqo6AZe2zMUuSP6JWc5nfV0oEkFQ/s1600/IMG_6601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwdeFkQiZi2f_HZ_SR-oyYP43OxD9oVOEsGhWUAcWqBVbGiF1PhJ7-4PnShcwEEGz66vOx4ADagSpvt-ZViuYsZzbEFGfZho7R_dtcK1wx4U618Ycqo6AZe2zMUuSP6JWc5nfV0oEkFQ/s320/IMG_6601.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional Maori storage building<br />and garden plot.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have always had this strong desire to garden and grow things. It probably has a lot to do with my grandpa Gene, whose garden seemed like paradise when we visited it. Rows of vegetables, trees and bushes and canes dripping with fruit. It seems whatever he touches grows.<br />
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But I never got to have a garden as a kid.<br />
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We lived in an apartment, and I still remember begging my mom to let me plant seeds in the sad plot of soil outside out front steps. I chose cosmos. The area was too shady and too undernourished for such a tall-growing, sun-loving flower—I was not met with success thought I tried very hard and got several seeds to sprout. They never flowered.<br />
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When we moved into our first house, I asked for a part of the backyard where I could grow things. I did not get my garden. Once again when we moved back to Utah, I asked for a spot in the backyard where I could grow things. I did not get my garden.<br />
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When I married, we moved to a townhouse where I tried over and over to grow things, though I had to lug water from inside to water all the things on my tiny patio.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMdxMdiMC6zsTijISctuRRyuH9s98sZunnMjMaHfsDTSMXJs1K9vn2EzIfFBOce8W4BSjTR6qcipa-rstXmzkU30nf5aSSYZWxPNFdvR5Xg-gPMFJAZeoix4jkd3qwFZHGriFfKJjkQY/s1600/IMG_3902.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMdxMdiMC6zsTijISctuRRyuH9s98sZunnMjMaHfsDTSMXJs1K9vn2EzIfFBOce8W4BSjTR6qcipa-rstXmzkU30nf5aSSYZWxPNFdvR5Xg-gPMFJAZeoix4jkd3qwFZHGriFfKJjkQY/s320/IMG_3902.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first spring in my garden. </td></tr>
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And then finally, after 11 years married, we were able to purchase a modest home with an epic yard. The garden boxes called to me. The fruit trees made my heart skip a beat. This was very much the garden of my dreams, a place I could finally get my fill of working the earth.<br />
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It's been a challenge and a trial, a joy and respite from the world's chaos. If you follow me at all, you have seen many pictures.<br />
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My sister-in-law told me it's a "Maori thing" to like growing plants. She said it's in my blood. I do believe that's true, even though no one in my immediate family likes yard work or gardens. Perhaps I didn't get the appearances, but there has always been something deep inside me that <i>needs</i> to plant things, that wants to care for the land that I have.<br />
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Maori have a deep, abiding respect for the land. Every iwi has sacred sites and locations—mountains, rivers, oceans. As I spent time in that land, I could feel a connection to it. It was spring when I was there, and I could not stop thinking about wanting to plant things. I wanted to see how they would grow in the soil that was laden with water in comparison to my own desert climate.<br />
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I see the legacy of our heritage in my daughter's epic pukana. In my siblings' quests to complete med schoo (my grandma wished to be a doctor, but could only be a nurse in her time). I see it when my family came together for my wedding and my Uncle Vernon brought people to sing. He made my new husband do a haka, which Nick was totally unprepared for though he handled it perfectly.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3j6r5941TzUUKMhILVPZChkVZH4QyVRRRT3T_IcM18mev_Onol9IClT05VecbRtIJ5K1uiIy-OecYdbFY_zvdt6OBzRY-FIv7QiwteKYXSLdnTdMV8PT_ZvkZ7MXBYSVzawLTq-NG960/s1600/IMG_1330.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3j6r5941TzUUKMhILVPZChkVZH4QyVRRRT3T_IcM18mev_Onol9IClT05VecbRtIJ5K1uiIy-OecYdbFY_zvdt6OBzRY-FIv7QiwteKYXSLdnTdMV8PT_ZvkZ7MXBYSVzawLTq-NG960/s320/IMG_1330.JPG" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First haka lesson.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyI3QR2oagtjqUHIMWm1A1HjGDUGfzcEjsTF8yyp3wLL1UETDjTQX7ufbCyPj3WmC0hbv6dhqjsV1BmNxyKIrYKWkODpNQ-mGfKwxw5K2aFOpxCvO-QsiL-ixSF365BlzUTIfwNFTJ4fU/s1600/IMG_1303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyI3QR2oagtjqUHIMWm1A1HjGDUGfzcEjsTF8yyp3wLL1UETDjTQX7ufbCyPj3WmC0hbv6dhqjsV1BmNxyKIrYKWkODpNQ-mGfKwxw5K2aFOpxCvO-QsiL-ixSF365BlzUTIfwNFTJ4fU/s320/IMG_1303.JPG" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clumsily dancing a hula I learned in my<br />Polynesian dance class. (I was too scared to<br />sing in Maori, which dancing comes with.)</td></tr>
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While it might have seemed out of place to some, I was so happy my Uncle Vernon organized such a thing for me. He spoke of my grandmother (who was his sponsor when he came to the states), of her strong will and good humor, of how she helped him adjust to a land far away. He led the songs and helped me feel like my grandmother was there in spirit. She was there that night, I know it, watching on as we honored her memory.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3LIkxlzx2lnh7I30CQE6ZdA8FS-oG8Zvf02wd-iNkfmSFw4396mRB90OOOx9XW2hQNLihJIwIjC-Xa8gYNOdrobHn9JGouE-mtPHfvvIh5vzayrKJ7oURLM8Uu_KA4kcaV_4d9_SyIw/s1600/IMG_1312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3LIkxlzx2lnh7I30CQE6ZdA8FS-oG8Zvf02wd-iNkfmSFw4396mRB90OOOx9XW2hQNLihJIwIjC-Xa8gYNOdrobHn9JGouE-mtPHfvvIh5vzayrKJ7oURLM8Uu_KA4kcaV_4d9_SyIw/s320/IMG_1312.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Uncle Vernon (uncle in the Polynesian sense, aka<br />related more distantly but who cares), speaking of<br />my grandmother at my wedding.</td></tr>
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It has always been hard for me to let moments like this into my life, because I often feel as if I'm not allowed to (which will be the next post), but I am always glad when I ignore that negative voice and let it happen.<br />
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My mother would always tell stories of my grandmother bringing home strangers to feed at dinnertime. Of giving all she had even though she didn't have much. Of comforting and caring for the patients she nursed. This was the kind of deep generosity engrained in my mother from my grandmother, and some of it came to me (though much more of it came to my sisters...).<br />
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Even now, that is my standard. I have to make extra food if I'm serving a meal, just incase there are more to feed than expected. I have the impulse to give, unable to ask for money when many might (be it food from my garden, furniture, outgrown clothes, or writing critiques). Generosity is also a remnant, or perhaps the better word is legacy, of our family. Of the Maori, I believe.<br />
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<i style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.859999656677246px;">This is the fourth post in my series on being a white passing Maori in America.</i><i style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.859999656677246px;"> I do not speak for anyone but myself, and these are personal experiences I draw from.</i>Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-48852280590291172502019-03-01T10:56:00.002-08:002019-03-01T10:56:49.357-08:00Seeing Wrong, Saying Something, Watching Nothing Change<div>
Okay, here we go. Into the super uncomfortable parts of white passing!</div>
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I grew up in the Bay Area, Fremont for almost all of elementary, and then Brentwood (the northern one) for my early adolescence. I was surrounded with people who were different from me in religion, race, class, etc. It felt normal. I had friends from many backgrounds. <div>
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Honestly, I felt more comfortable around people of color as a kid and teen. I didn't really know why, but it might be because of where I grew up and my Maori culture that seeped into me in ways I didn't realize (that's another post in the future). I felt at ease with them, at ease listening to them speak in a different language with their parents. Maybe it reminded me of my grandma singing in Maori. Those different languages and cultures represented love and comfort for me.<br /><div>
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I remember there being some arguments or missteps on these differences (my Baptist friends constantly wanted to save my Mormon soul, for example), but I was taught early on from my family and at school that we could all respect each other. In 6th grade, I remember vividly my history teacher discussing every major world religion. It fascinated me, and the amount of respect in our classroom after was palpable.</div>
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I grew up in a small apartment in Fremont, in a questionable part of town at the time where we weren't completely poor but not really secure in finances either. Currently my old neighborhood is now top school and swanky? It's hard to reconcile when I remember the constant penis graffiti at the elementary they had to clean up, or the known drug house on the way to school, or the terrible case of a toddler being murdered just down the street. When my father graduated with his masters and got a good job, we moved to a very middle class place in Brentwood. I was comfortable in modest circumstances, in having enough but not more than we needed. </div>
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So when I moved to Utah in 1998, I was not prepared for what was waiting in a more homogenous area (white, LDS, upper class). As I walked the halls on my first day of school there (indoor halls! what???), I was taken back by the sea of blonds, by the single shade of skin color, and even the strange way everyone seemed to have the same body shape (knobby tallness for the boys, elven svelte for the girls). </div>
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Though I might have blended in more than ever before (except I was already far curvier than most), I had never felt so out of place. </div>
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Kids made fun of my California accent and "beach clothes." They were great at immediately pointing out what made me different from them, from my interests in Anime to my outspoken manner to the different things I thought were important about our shared religion. They didn't know what to do with me—and I didn't know what to do with them. </div>
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Because, though we might have looked the same, I was very different on the inside. </div>
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For example, I had chosen drama for one of my elections that 9th grade year, and it was one of those classes with a laid back attitude. The teacher hadn't started class right when the bell rang, and kids chatted amongst themselves. I felt slightly out of place not only as the New Kid, but as a person who'd never been in drama and didn't like the spotlight. </div>
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So I was keeping to myself, drawing like I usually did, when I over heard a conversation. </div>
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"What do you call a Mexican who..."</div>
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I stiffened, shocked at the "jokes" that proceeded to come out of this boy's mouth. These sort of "jokes" would have gotten him a fist in the face at my old school. I had heard them before even—but they were almost always called out for what they were. Then he moved on from Mexicans to Jews. No one around me seemed upset. No one did anything but laugh. </div>
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"Dude, that's racist," I blurted out, angry at how long everyone had let this go on. </div>
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The boy looked at me in horror, as if I had mortally wounded him with my accusation. "It's just a joke, <i>dude.</i> Can't you take a joke?"</div>
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The mock surfer accent was not lost on me. </div>
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"If it's so funny, would you say it in front of a Mexican person? Or a Jewish person?" I asked. </div>
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He didn't have a snappy reply to that, and his face grew red. The whole class had grown quiet. I would have gone on chewing him out, but the teacher jumped in and decided to start class right then. She made no effort to correct anything, though she had to have heard the conversation. </div>
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I wish I could say that someone learned a lesson from this, but I was the one who paid for speaking out. </div>
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That kid I stood up to? He was mean to me for <i>years </i>after. Every class we had together, he would call me names and whisper about me to others. No one stood up for me. No one did anything. Finally, at some point in high school, I finally asked him, "Why do you hate me do much?"</div>
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"Because you were born," was his answer. </div>
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It hurt, but looking back it makes me sad for anyone who was different in that area. Whether it was exaggeration or not, I feel like his reply was incredibly telling of the underlying current of the community I moved into. Of course it wasn't <i>everyone,</i> but there was an attitude, a set of "beliefs" that came with being an upper class white kid in a nearly all white community. Everyone patted each other's backs, telling each other they all earned what they had. There's this sentiment easily shared that if "others would just work harder and stop being lazy or degenerate..." There are many instances of the phrase, "I'm not racist, but..." followed by some terrible statement. </div>
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I think that kid really did hate me because I was born—because I was born female in a misogynist society and I dared to stand up to him in public. To him, the "shame" I'd put on him was more than what anyone else would have to suffer ever in their lives, and he would make sure I paid for it. </div>
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I didn't understand that at the time. It's taken years of adulthood and lessons from other people of color to make sense of what I saw as a kid. </div>
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That's the weird thing about being a white passer. You <i>see.</i> You see racist stuff all the time, because you are coded as white on the outside and thus you are automatically "accepted" as someone who would agree with all the crap some can spew. </div>
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But the moment you speak up, they know you're not "one of them." </div>
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You might think this would cause change, but it doesn't. It only causes you to be isolated. You're a danger to the system. You don't comply with the code. </div>
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And that was the thing—I knew if I spoke up, nothing would change. </div>
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Maybe they stopped telling the racist jokes in front of me, but I knew they were still telling them in spaces where they thought it was "safe" to tell them. I could stand up until I was blue in the face, but I was one teen girl against a messed up system I didn't fully understand. </div>
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Because I didn't fit in the system, nor outside of it, I have never belonged anywhere. Because as a white passer, you <i>see</i> the racism a lot...<i>but you never experience it directly. </i></div>
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You can't be in the white community fully because you can't comply with their assertions on a ton of things, and you make them uncomfortable when you let them know. And you can't be in your own cultural community in America, because you know it's true that you don't get the same judgment and persecution. It's like getting the benefits of white privilege AND the benefits of your heritage—and according to pretty much everyone that is not fair. (And even I myself feel like it's not fair, and thus I have an internal reluctance to embrace my heritage. Feels very much like having cake and eating it too.)</div>
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Another example: Anime was not a normal interest in late 90s Utah, let me tell you. And having that interest was another window into racism. I say a window, because once again I saw what people thought of Asians...but it was never directed at me. </div>
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"You like Japanimation??" A kid would stretch his eyes at the sides. "Ching chong chang?"</div>
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Like, seriously. The levels of terrible are mind bending. This was just me as a blond girl drawing Sailor Moon fanfic. Again, I would say they were being racist. </div>
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"It was just a joke, gosh." They would stomp off, never to speak to me again, but happy to do the eye stretch in the hall when they saw me. </div>
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Always, always "just a joke."</div>
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Another another: "You have a crush on <i>him?</i> But your kids wouldn't look like you!"</div>
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Me staring blankly at the level of racism in the girl's assertion. "Uh, they would? And that's pretty racist..."</div>
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"No it's not! It's true!" Yet another person who would never be my friend or talk to me again.</div>
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When these things happened to me, they hurt, but I would always think of how much worse it would be if I <i>looked</i> Maori on the outside. Would I get random hula comments? Talk of coconut bras to double down on sexism and racism? I thought of my Vietnamese, Black, Latinx, Jewish friends in California and ached for how it would wound them so much more than me. I knew they would hear it like I had. I'd seen this my whole life, and I knew it was wrong, and I had no idea how to make it any better. Calling it out hadn't helped—I was alone in doing it, no one ever backing me up—so what else was there?</div>
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White passers don't have tools. And they don't have a full understanding when they're growing up. If their parents are white passing, too, there is often no one to give them context, to provide that other side of the story they feel but don't have.</div>
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I don't know about everyone, but it always left me lost. It left me trying and failing a lot. I had pieces that were right, and I still had the system of privilege teaching me lies as well (for example, I might have been sensitive to race because of my background, but I was utterly clueless about how homophobic my world also was and how much I had absorbed). I knew some things were offensive, but others slipped my grasp. Still, there were things I knew <i>felt </i>wrong, but I didn't have the words or experience to say why.</div>
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And yet, every now and then, there would be someone who would find me eating alone in the halls. </div>
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They would come up to me and say, "Thanks for standing up to [insert name here]. What they said was terrible."</div>
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"You're welcome," I would say with a measure of relief. So it had mattered to someone. </div>
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On my worst days, I would want to ask, "Why didn't you back me up?"</div>
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But I never did say that. Many of these people (not all) who thanked me were people of color. And I didn't fully understand it then, but now I get that they had a lot more to lose when speaking out as the very small minority (we are talking there was only one Black kid at my whole high school of 1500 students, and the others were in handfuls.). These students likely couldn't afford to draw any more attention to themselves.</div>
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It's still hard to talk about this stuff, because I know many will get defensive. I've seen it time and time again in my community. I don't want to make excuses, but I have come to learn that for every unapologetically racist person there is another who wants change and learn. And there is some genuine ignorance even still. There have been terrible moments like those I've given, but there have also been moments when I've said, "Um, so 'oriental' is now considered an offensive term, if you didn't know."</div>
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And the person turns bright red not with anger, but with embarrassment. "Oh, I had no idea. Thank you for telling me. I feel so bad!"</div>
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Because of my strange position as a white passer, I sometimes wonder if my appearance "softens the blow." I have learned since my childhood that telling a white person they are doing something "racist" never goes over well (even when it's true), but offering correction when they know me and know my background often brings a greater measure of reflection. </div>
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Yet...I think people like me are frequently reluctant to offer advice or stand up, because we are so acutely aware that we are not experts, nor are we directly impacted like those in our culture who <i>look</i> as expected. I'm always stepping on toes, no matter where I go or what I do. I wouldn't say I'm fully used to it, but I have come to terms with it for the most part.</div>
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I wish I could say that all of this was in the past, in those long ago 90s, but I think we all know that isn't true. And even in my own writing community, I hear things that shock me at times. </div>
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"Right now, you can't get published if you're white," said a writer in a small group.</div>
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My eyes went wide. I had thought everyone was welcoming of the push for more diversity, and yet again I was reminded that Utah has a long way to go. "I think that's far from true."</div>
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And I was right. People of color still make up less than 10% of children's authors. There's a whole study on these stats. But because of the visibility of the movement, people "see their spots being taken." </div>
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Anyway, I admit I still don't know how best to traverse every situation, but I do know I have a unique perspective and I try my best. I think that's all we can do, even when it sometimes feels like nothing around us changes. Maybe I am viewed as unsettling or unsafe to the majority in my area, but I would rather be seen as a safe place for those who constantly go unheard. </div>
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<i>This is the third post in my series on being a white passing Maori in America.</i><i style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.859999656677246px;"> I do not speak for anyone but myself, and these are personal experiences I draw from.</i></div>
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Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-32578207868090387312019-02-25T11:47:00.000-08:002019-02-25T11:47:26.961-08:00When I Lost What I Once HadAfter my grandmother's death, I was desperate for ways to stay connected to her. I still feel that even now, always searching for something to bring us together though she is not with me physically. I've often felt compelled to visit her grave, and I sit there in the quiet and tell her what I've been up to. I wrote a whole novel about a grandmother and granddaughter and their loving relationship (House Of Ivy & Sorrow). And, of course, I try to connect to her culture.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWVInfsPHQGOPPYRAvL2via_PYQGH87Bx-LMK39NYt_V02IsZzk5lMiRF6CjAkJ8dvgXnF5AAYGASfzGtVap9bH0BTG04dsQU_iq0sFN9iDPuJwENdxqcTgom4oYN1gNYxUIWCLubKkw/s1600/IMG_9556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWVInfsPHQGOPPYRAvL2via_PYQGH87Bx-LMK39NYt_V02IsZzk5lMiRF6CjAkJ8dvgXnF5AAYGASfzGtVap9bH0BTG04dsQU_iq0sFN9iDPuJwENdxqcTgom4oYN1gNYxUIWCLubKkw/s320/IMG_9556.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Maori doll my sister-in-law<br />left in my care. To show the clothing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My mother inherited my grandmother's pari (bodice part of Maori dress) and tipare (headband) after she died. I did not know these words at the time. Nor did my mother. It wasn't as if we had Google back then to look up words, which is what I do now to learn te reo Maori. It was a very small dress, and as a 9 or 10-year-old I could fit in it.<br />
<br />
So I decided I would wear it to school for Halloween.<br />
<br />
"Are you sure?" I'd said something like this as my mother painted a moko (traditional tattoo) on my chin.<br />
<br />
"Yes," she'd have replied. "Many Maori women would have had these. And your ancestors were chiefs, royalty, so you would have had one."<br />
<br />
I took her word for it. And as I looked in the mirror I felt proud. I was descended from royalty? I was basically a princess then, right? Mom found a feather to put in the tipare, and she let me bring a set of poi balls I'd been practicing with. Even though I didn't have the piupiu (flax skirt that goes over the pari), this was as Maori as I ever looked. And I could feel my grandma looking down on me, proud.<br />
<br />
Then I got to school.<br />
<br />
Many of you can probably guess how this story goes. What I was so proud of that morning was not met with the same enthusiasm by my classmates, who had no idea what I was.<br />
<br />
"Why do you have a beard?" some asked.<br />
<br />
"It's not a beard! It's a tattoo!" I tried to defend.<br />
<br />
"That's weird...why do you have a tattoo on your face?" would be the next and not-much-better question.<br />
<br />
"Because I'm a princess! I'm Maori!"<br />
<br />
"Princesses don't have tattoos on their face," would be the assertion.<br />
<br />
And what could I say to that? I had never seen a princess with a face tattoo either. My childhood was filled with the same Disney movies as everyone else. All I had to go on was my mother's word. Had she lied to me? Everyone at school seemed to agree that tattoos and princesses did not mix.<br />
<br />
If it wasn't this conversation, the day was also filled with another one:<br />
<br />
"Are you an Indian?" a kid or teacher would ask. (It was the 90s, and people still said "Indian" more than they used "Native American.")<br />
<br />
"No, I'm Maori!"<br />
<br />
"Maow...ree?"<br />
<br />
"They live in New Zealand," I would try to explain, happy that they were at least not making fun of my moko. "They are part of Polynesia, and my grandma was Maori."<br />
<br />
"You don't <i>look</i> Polynesian," would be the next assessment.<br />
<br />
I don't look Polynesian. I don't know how many times that day I was told this, but it sunk in deep and crushed my sense of self. I had been told I was Maori. I was still young enough that I really only interacted with my family and a few friends, all of whom never contradicted what I was told. So I believed it with my whole heart.<br />
<br />
But after a day of having to explain something far too complex for a 9 or 10-year-old little kid to explain, I had to question.<br />
<br />
Maybe I wasn't Maori.<br />
<br />
No one at school seemed to believe it was possible. I had light skin and blond hair. My eyes were green, not brown. To everyone there, I was dressed up as some weird kind of "Indian" with a tattoo/beard on my chin. It meant nothing to them. I was just a white girl in what might now be deemed a culturally insensitive costume. Not a single person considered that Maori could be part of who I was.<br />
<br />
I washed the moko off half way through the school day. I never wore my grandmother's pari again. What I learned that day was I had no right to claim something that wasn't obvious in my appearance. I now know this was a crap lesson, but it happened nonetheless. And I hadn't realized just how deeply it had affected me until, once again, I visited New Zealand in 2017.<br />
<br />
My sister-in-law, who grew up in New Zealand and knew much more about our Maori culture than I did, wanted to give me as many cultural and Kiwi experiences as I could have while I was there. Which I completely appreciated. But there was one that I dreaded:<br />
<br />
She had scheduled a photo-shoot for me to dress in Maori clothing, so I could connect more to my culture.<br />
<br />
I was having serious panic attacks over it. I didn't want to do it.<br />
<br />
"Why not?" she asked when I told her I didn't want to go.<br />
<br />
This story from my childhood then smacked me in the face. I had pushed it out of my mind for the most part. It had been so painful I blocked it off. But I began to tear up as I told her about my only other experience wearing clothing tied to my Maori heritage.<br />
<br />
She looked so sad and sympathetic. She said that a lot of Maori in New Zealand looked pakeha (white), because colonization was a thing that happened. It wasn't weird there. She got why I felt that way growing up in America, but New Zealand was different. It wasn't about appearance as much—it was about whakapapa (genealogy). She even said my iwi, Ngapuhi, was often pretty pakeha because the British landed on our shores first. We had the longest and most intertwined contact because of that.<br />
<br />
I hadn't known about any of this. That's the strange thing about being cut off from parts of your culture—you often learn much of it backwards. It's a complicated puzzle that you piece together without instructions and often completely out of order.<br />
<br />
Growing up in America, where books are most <i>certainly</i> judged by their covers, I had been told repeatedly that I could not be Maori simply because I didn't look it. Nothing else really mattered. That Halloween was the beginning of many more stories of unbelonging, but as I unpacked what that day did to me I discovered it was so much more than I'd realized.<br />
<br />
I can now pinpoint why that age was when I started to hate my appearance. I even seriously believed for a good few months that I was secretly adopted and my parents were just refusing to tell me the truth. My mother finally pulled out all my baby pictures and my birth certificate to prove to me that she did, in fact, give birth to me.<br />
<br />
I was still skeptical, but I eventually came around.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo9aZfyvUUOnnkrNKI0Xk56Z6oS4dgRepw8IRohSJm_Gp8P1thqZNYLtrm5SdsBkqq_1rCcWhhsIutnXZKM80etNhFBoTsHTHuUQFXq0bfMsksQlhA1H-JMh2qziuN2Gv99lAqzpQ_EP4/s1600/IMG_4217.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo9aZfyvUUOnnkrNKI0Xk56Z6oS4dgRepw8IRohSJm_Gp8P1thqZNYLtrm5SdsBkqq_1rCcWhhsIutnXZKM80etNhFBoTsHTHuUQFXq0bfMsksQlhA1H-JMh2qziuN2Gv99lAqzpQ_EP4/s320/IMG_4217.JPG" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I dyed my hair brown, just to see how<br />it would feel. It didn't bring the magical<br />"belonging" I hoped it would...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For a long time, I wished to have dark hair and tan skin (Honestly, sometimes I still do...). In fact, I even envied my brother and sisters who did have dark brown hair like my parents. I began to notice over the years that they didn't have the same problems I did. When they mentioned their heritage, people were surprised, but they also said, "I guess I can see that now that you say it." Just having dark hair was enough to flip that narrative a little.<br />
<br />
I was particularly jealous and mean to my little sister, and as I've thought about this time in my life more in depth, I wonder if this was part of my trauma I took out on her. She had the dark hair and figure and could tan. She had long hair, in contrast to mine being short (ironically, because my grandma convinced me to cut and perm it into a mushroom top at 8-years-old). She has my mother's cute button nose, while I had my father's more prominent Polish one. She even has my grandmother's smile (and her talent for medical care). Looking back, I was so deeply jealous that she looked Maori and I did not. I was too little to unpack that, but it's come to me backwards like most things having to do with my culture. (And none of this justifies how I treated her and I have no excuses, I'm just diving deeper into understanding my own stupid issues and how I took it out on others unfairly.)<br />
<br />
After that Halloween, I didn't share about my culture to others very often. Each time I got up the courage, I was met with similar skepticism. So I locked it away in my heart, because it was important to me and I couldn't stand being told over and over that I didn't belong.<br />
<br />
That was the baggage I brought to New Zealand, the weight I carried around for most of my life. So it was hard to believe my sister-in-law when she said the photographers wouldn't treat me like I was taking something that didn't belong to me.<br />
<br />
But she helped me gather my courage. And we drove through the oppressively green Waikato region in the cool early days of spring. We arrived at a home and I felt as if my heart would jump right out of my chest. I was trying my best to suppress a panic attack as the photographers finished up their current session. We sat on a well-worn couch and began to look at their portfolios. And, just like my sister-in-law had said, there were many pakeha in those pictures.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4lqPl6S_q9gmOG03ym0N0rXpbBsJ5yx2VNvBuQw2CV_HDmJDxzEy-OCg-IolAE8EtQnRrrjuV2PZP8HrUMOrutUcH3wuN3R8xgpMeLOtPWgH-HloDVxvER2aXvcXFSsKwB2xCEJFots/s1600/IMG_6721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4lqPl6S_q9gmOG03ym0N0rXpbBsJ5yx2VNvBuQw2CV_HDmJDxzEy-OCg-IolAE8EtQnRrrjuV2PZP8HrUMOrutUcH3wuN3R8xgpMeLOtPWgH-HloDVxvER2aXvcXFSsKwB2xCEJFots/s320/IMG_6721.jpg" width="256" /></a>The two wonderful ladies who run Soldiers Rd Photography sat down with me and asked about my heritage. They embraced every piece of it, and not once did they look at me like I was lying or like I didn't belong there. They told me that part of the story of New Zealand, for better or worse, was colonization. I was a product of that, we all were. They wanted to capture all of who I was, both my Maori ancestors and the Scottish part who immigrated to New Zealand long ago.<br />
<br />
I was so self-conscious—I have never loved taking pictures of myself—but they had eased much of my fears already. They chose both English styles and Maori. They added plaid to reference my McKenzie line. I wore my Great-Grandmother Isabella's gloves and held her kete. It was so much more clothing than the single pari and tipare I'd worn that Halloween, but I felt just as exposed. I was quite literally wearing my heritage for all to see.<br />
<br />
Then it came time to do my hair. They placed two red feathers there, a shadow of the feather I had worn that terrible day. Then they came with the black makeup, time to place a moko on my chin. I could feel that little child inside me, scared once again that I could not so boldly claim this. The laughs and questions and skepticism that followed me my whole life stood right there, demanding to be believed.<br />
<br />
They held a mirror up for me to see, and the person looking back was overwhelming. It was me, but it was all the pieces no one ever saw in America. It was a vibrant, visual statement of who I was, and who my ancestors were.<br />
<br />
It's hard to push out a lifetime of American views, but my two weeks in New Zealand certainly helped me understand and unpack a lot of my complicated feelings as a white passer. It was nice to be in a place for two weeks where I belonged, and where my story was normal and believed.<br />
<br />
I had to fly home before I got the final pictures of me, and by then I had fallen back into the American trappings and felt a bit silly for having taken that picture. But when I opened that email and saw myself, I was glad I had done it. One trip and one picture did not fix everything, but it has provided a balm to my soul. It did help me look deeper and find the words to better explain the complexities of my own identity. And for that, I'm especially grateful.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyjM7Qra-hJ_HZmxQvgCa6Fdck7pk2GLSjznyWbM_TAKzYrBUdEvnPv8Hk2xNIdVPxAubL9flIoY5HieGUN3gBMzO5oM1DoF2vfxg6XFiIzH311HWzE__AU-tZoM3o6I5EyNy4G2Tsx5s/s1600/IMG_2068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1029" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyjM7Qra-hJ_HZmxQvgCa6Fdck7pk2GLSjznyWbM_TAKzYrBUdEvnPv8Hk2xNIdVPxAubL9flIoY5HieGUN3gBMzO5oM1DoF2vfxg6XFiIzH311HWzE__AU-tZoM3o6I5EyNy4G2Tsx5s/s640/IMG_2068.JPG" width="409" /></a></div>
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<i>This is the second post in a series about my experiences as a white-passing Maori in America. I do not speak for anyone but myself, and these are personal experiences I draw from.</i><br />
<br />
<br />Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-6776238287673555152019-02-22T19:28:00.001-08:002019-02-22T19:51:06.337-08:00The Beginning: My Grandma Dorothy<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIF6kH-7hmonpzD_hHbkScbSqpTHkf1BYdf3o7tqABVU2mhkiI74bd81ZlZu3ylGtc7F0jVpANeYi6pGQnlvfuAOG1pgjlHNNULHSwvWfn7SiDcLymGCqeAo5Tzz1e26GOXnGsNBLtev0/s1600/Dorothy+Nurse+Pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1572" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIF6kH-7hmonpzD_hHbkScbSqpTHkf1BYdf3o7tqABVU2mhkiI74bd81ZlZu3ylGtc7F0jVpANeYi6pGQnlvfuAOG1pgjlHNNULHSwvWfn7SiDcLymGCqeAo5Tzz1e26GOXnGsNBLtev0/s320/Dorothy+Nurse+Pic.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In nurse's uniform. She studied to be a nurse<br />
in New Zealand, and even qualified for<br />
the extra certification to become a midwife.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have long been thinking about telling my story of being a white passing Maori in America. But it terrifies me. I have held it in, afraid of what others would say. It's a complicated story, with complicated feelings that are hard to express. Some of those feelings I'm just beginning to understand more clearly.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I'm ready to share. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I'm going to use this old blog to do it. Because, back in the day, I was good at blogging. And posts about my life are what often brought other good people into my circle. I hope that will be the same now. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Disclaimer: These are solely my own experiences. I am not speaking for anyone else or all Maori or all white passers from other mixed heritages. The stories I tell are from my own life and memories. Everyone will have unique experiences with this.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So we're going to start at the beginning: My grandmother Dorothy Mary Repia McKenzie Buss. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She was my origin point to the Maori part of my heritage. I didn't understand a lot when I was small, but I loved my grandmother deeply. I don't really know why I was so specifically attached to her, but every minute I could spend with her I would take. I loved to hear her speak. She said <i>to-mah-to </i>instead of <i>to-may-to.</i> I knew she was from a far away place called New Zealand, where my grandfather served a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She laughed often and had a radiant smile.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We would visit my grandparents once a year or so, driving from California to Utah. I was always eager to be with grandma again. I loved the tiny house she lived in, with its safe walls that were constantly close enough to touch even for a child. I loved the garden my grandfather tended vigilantly, a paradise of fresh food. I loved laying on the sheepskin by her bed. I did NOT love how she never let me have more than two inches of water in the bath. "That's plenty to wash with!" she'd say.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My absolute favorite thing was when Grandma Dorothy would tuck us in at night. Because that was when she would sing. And she would sing songs in a language I didn't know, tunes I hadn't heard, but I loved them all the same.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was too young to remember the music now, but I do understand that she was singing Maori songs. She was singing the songs she practiced for the Utah Polynesian Choir she was part of. These songs, just a fleeting memory, are the deepest and earliest connection I have to the world my grandma left to come to America. And still, when I hear this kind of music, something inside me springs up. I'm taken back to that tiny bedroom with barely enough room between two mattresses to walk. I can see her sitting there, her smiling face above me, singing my ancestors into my heart. And I cry nearly every time.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ4F9NFFj7JQUlz0YDoAPABgVS1TBc8-09J8BI7PtE0GZ7y9o5gewWgnNdxW7z-EQIu0hPCsHyYflT16X8JfKJH1ISVMIOUYeF7vKlqgK4z1NnwbUWauhNzTjHKub4BDPzDqZVYDET8rI/s1600/scale-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ4F9NFFj7JQUlz0YDoAPABgVS1TBc8-09J8BI7PtE0GZ7y9o5gewWgnNdxW7z-EQIu0hPCsHyYflT16X8JfKJH1ISVMIOUYeF7vKlqgK4z1NnwbUWauhNzTjHKub4BDPzDqZVYDET8rI/s320/scale-1.jpg" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How I knew Grandma in her later years.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
I didn't know having blond hair wasn't common for Maori people when I was little because when I knew my grandmother she had blond hair. It was lost on me that she had dyed it until after she had left this world and I saw photos from her youth. My Auntie and Uncle had blond hair like me, though my own mom didn't. I felt like I belonged when I was too little to know different.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She was the only Maori from New Zealand I really knew. She was my standard. She was the key for all of us, really. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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And we lost her when I was eight. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have never really gotten over it. Her death was my first experience with a life ending. And, looking back, it was almost as if part of my heritage was locked away with her. I still miss her desperately. I miss all the things I might have learned. I often wonder if I would have had a firmer footing in my Maori culture had she lived longer. Instead, I've had to piece it all together from scraps of pictures and family memories and historical records.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My mother tried. And really she did a good job with what she knew herself. She had been an exchange student to New Zealand her junior year of high school, and she shared many stories of my grandmother and her family. But as all American immigrants of that time, I think my grandma wanted her children to have American opportunities and be "American." Being different wasn't...embraced back then. And even my mother and her siblings could pass as white. Perhaps that is why Grandma Dorothy colored her hair in the end, to blend in a little more. (There is a wonderful story about her accidentally dyeing it green once, because of course she did it herself.) Utah is still quite homogenous today—I can't imagine how much more it was in the 60s and 70s. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It wasn't until long after she died that I learned more about where she came from. Born in Maromaku. Part of the Ngapuhi iwi (tribe). Her grandfather was Hohepa Heperi, an icon of sorts in the LDS Maori circles. My mother would show me a picture of Euera Patuone, one of our ancestors with a full moko tattooed on his face.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I also learned that she would go to New Zealand yearly, leaving her family for a couple months at a time. It likely cost more than my grandparents could afford, and the whole family could never imagine going together on a carpenter's salary. I think my grandma missed her homeland very much. More than she ever said out loud. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know she was far from perfect. I don't envision her in an idealistic way as I did when I was little. She had a hard childhood she didn't talk much about. Her brother died before his time. Grandma Dorothy was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was just 35. My mother was 10. She was ill, and not always there for her family. Yet she was also generous with her time, giving it to care for others. She would love on me, but also be stern, telling me to wipe up my crocodile tears and get on with it. She was that strange combination of hard and soft I also see in myself. Perhaps it is in me because of her. </div>
<div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3AVwVEuzn-cIiz26OJEASSXxyecFoIdPxFvwPzI2_NKdtMHenhQbWoMaH7CQpyYBGW-xoeAaiDZL7XqMN9cBRlObEx-ISYqbZLN7-3UGfGa6sP2HJzTCNp0TU8n1U4T7seB6YkBn_pQ/s1600/scale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="886" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3AVwVEuzn-cIiz26OJEASSXxyecFoIdPxFvwPzI2_NKdtMHenhQbWoMaH7CQpyYBGW-xoeAaiDZL7XqMN9cBRlObEx-ISYqbZLN7-3UGfGa6sP2HJzTCNp0TU8n1U4T7seB6YkBn_pQ/s320/scale.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meeting her first grandchild. (Me.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
I was the first grandchild on both sides of my family, and I feel lucky to have all the memories I do have of Grandma Dorothy. I have discovered not even my closest siblings and cousins in age remember as much as I do. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But it's hard, too. Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier had I been younger, had I not been able to grasp what I lost. And maybe that is why I cling so much to the Maori parts of myself—because it's what connects me to my grandmother. To her legacy. And, ultimately, the legacy of Aotearoa and our people. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've learned over the years that most people don't even know who the Maori are. If they do, we are often lumped into Polynesia as a whole, though all our cultures are unique despite being related. If they know anything, it is the haka perhaps (the most commonly performed one...not the hundreds of others that are all specific to the iwi who used them.). </div>
<div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTjIcGlPst0aTj7LC3DJ_qteIj4ugCUYTkJdzXfLkIlfYwyu8K06l-YTIh2POrMvOOoLXw-2jOa87Xn8C7CvggB2s4Dfn3no6nNcpiyRWpsMty8NLeGGmK2vbSNfL6mA0MI5QOTmYFCsU/s1600/IMG_6683.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTjIcGlPst0aTj7LC3DJ_qteIj4ugCUYTkJdzXfLkIlfYwyu8K06l-YTIh2POrMvOOoLXw-2jOa87Xn8C7CvggB2s4Dfn3no6nNcpiyRWpsMty8NLeGGmK2vbSNfL6mA0MI5QOTmYFCsU/s320/IMG_6683.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great Auntie Claudia slicing Maori bread.</td></tr>
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When I finally had the opportunity to go to New Zealand in 2017, I was going to be with my family (brother and sister live there). I was going to connect to the place of my ancestors, see my great-grandparents' grave, finally get a chance to be in a place that I had dreamed of going my whole life (the trip at 9 months old didn't count because I can't remember!). What did most Americans ask me? </div>
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"Are you going to see the Hobbits?"</div>
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They thought it was funny, clearly. But after about the 5th time (and many more after...), I was deeply upset. This place that meant so much to me and my family was only known for the fictional characters filmed there. I was sure most of the people who asked probably didn't even know who the Maori were. And it made me angry and tired. I dreaded even saying I was going there, because I didn't want to glare at the next person to ask about Hobbits.</div>
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For the record, I did not "see the Hobbits."</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTtOSqtyWlOpkSe-YSK5kVKkv-6RxgyFaCLoVNd6u2lyH5NiUk_q4Tklak0t1iQXAKv_y2GfaKHLZv_6XEEPfrmy1zP7oL7ainVeihTvtb58qzL-VXZS10t4UcQDxU_CyMpX249X4EfA/s1600/IMG_6676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTtOSqtyWlOpkSe-YSK5kVKkv-6RxgyFaCLoVNd6u2lyH5NiUk_q4Tklak0t1iQXAKv_y2GfaKHLZv_6XEEPfrmy1zP7oL7ainVeihTvtb58qzL-VXZS10t4UcQDxU_CyMpX249X4EfA/s320/IMG_6676.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My great-grandparents' grave site.<br />
Dorothy's parents.</td></tr>
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But I did visit my Great Auntie Claudia, my grandmother's sister and only one still living of their family. She shared pictures we hadn't seen, gave me tea cloths from the family, and showed us her well-loved doll collection. For a moment, it felt as if all was right, a bit of my grandma was there in Claudia. </div>
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She lives right across from the cemetery where her parents, my great-grandparents, are buried. And as I stood in front of that gravestone—the physical proof that I was, indeed, tied to this land of Aotearoa after all—I once again felt like I did when I was little and Grandma Dorothy was alive. </div>
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Like I belonged.</div>
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<i>This post is the first in a series about my personal experience as a white passing Maori in America. Stay tuned for more.</i></div>
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Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-11981007653033662072018-11-16T18:30:00.002-08:002018-11-16T18:32:03.928-08:00A Change Of Plans<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="1vhg4" data-offset-key="14rm6-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;">
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<span data-offset-key="14rm6-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes your best laid plans just...poof. I had this whole plan to bust out a ton of sci-fi novels this year to build my pen name, Nat McKenzie. I would have so much time with my kids all in school full time!</span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="1vhg4" data-offset-key="fuj2p-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;">
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<span data-offset-key="fuj2p-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">...and then I went and had a baby.</span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="1vhg4" data-offset-key="b0lak-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;">
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<span data-offset-key="b0lak-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">While I *did* write a ton of novels, they weren't the sci-fi ones I planned to write. They were Fortnite novels I was being paid to write—thus they came first. Now I am so behind on my plans. Plus, my baby is the type who sleeps through the night but doesn't nap for more than 30 mins during the day. And I have to be I'm holding him, or he has to be in the carseat while I walk the track at the rec center/run errands. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="cgunp-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I am well rested and incapable of being productive on my writing. It's an interesting combo. I have lost some baby weight from all that track walking, though!</span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="1vhg4" data-offset-key="1g0tg-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;">
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<span data-offset-key="1g0tg-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">All this to say it's become abundantly clear that my plan for a pen name is just not going to work. It makes a lot more sense to republish THE VENGEANCE CODE back under Natalie Whipple, given the speed I will be getting books out now (i.e. slower than a snail). </span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="1vhg4" data-offset-key="9vvjd-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;">
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<span data-offset-key="9vvjd-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">It's annoying. And I feel a bit silly. But it is what it is. Plans have to change, and the great thing about being indie is I can change them! I do apologize to those few people who have purchased the book, for the odd change, but at this point having all my backlist under one name is the only logical choice.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="351rs-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">With any luck, THE EXECUTION LOOP will be out at the end of summer 2019. I sure wish it was sooner, but at the rate I'm moving...it could very well be later. I'm so sorry, but alas. Life is life. And mine is super weird like that.</span></div>
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Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-69767405566240922882018-06-06T09:55:00.002-07:002018-06-06T10:04:29.344-07:00How To Not Sound Elitist (Intentional Or Not) About Publishing Methods<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8dl4p" data-offset-key="7j7vu-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;">
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<span data-offset-key="caj7q-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I've been debating talking about this because it could hurt feelings/offend, but I gotta just lay it out. While attitudes towards indie have improved a lot over the time I've been a writer, little things still sneak through. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's usually at conferences on panels where no indies are repped but the topic veers that way. Or online when traditionally pubbed people are giving advice they believe is universal but is insulting to indies. It can be in the way we measure "success" in the business. Or what people deem as "writer skills."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here we go!</span><br />
<b style="font-family: inherit;">1. You Have To Have An Agent. </b><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Regardless of changing perceptions of indie, this has stuck around hard. I've had three agents. I currently do not have one. I stayed in my last agent partnership longer than I probably should have because I felt like I would be "less of a writer" if I didn't have one. (And that held me back in a lot of ways I won't go into right now.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just stop telling people you MUST have an agent. If you're traditional and you want to pursue the Big Five, YES, get an agent. But you don't NEED ONE to be a great and valid author.</span><br />
<b style="font-family: inherit;">2. Traditional Is Always A Better Path To Success</b><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Having spent time on both sides of the fence, I really beg to differ at this point. Both are a lot of work, both can find incredible success. What really is a factor? GENRE. Some genres (like YA and MG) still see more "success" in traditional. Others (Romances, adult genre fic)? Holy crap can you do SO WELL as indie. </span></div>
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<b style="font-family: inherit;">3. Only Traditional Publishing Can Provide "Quality Work"</b><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I call bull crap. I've worked in traditional with my own original work, on contracted books, AND in indie. Honestly? The editor I hire for my indie is the BEST one I have worked with. She has time for me specifically. She is efficient and thorough. She is worth more than she makes me pay. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">AND then there's the cover art and other book production factors. Is there a learning curve in indie? Oh yes. But that doesn't mean indies don't improve and find their groove. There is so much quality work out there in indie, as there is in traditional....also, there is meh stuff in both as well.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="f4oo7-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>4. It's All About The Writing All The Time</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The secret indie writers seem to know is this—writing to market makes you money. There's this idea in traditional publishing that "writing true to yourself" is the only way to go and eventually if you wait around long enough some publisher will pluck your brilliance from obscurity and you will be famous.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">How does traditional make you famous? Marketing. Oh, and marketing. Also, some promotion and marketing. It's great if your books are "amazing" but it's better if they fill a niche market or hit a massive wide market. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Indies have their "write to market" strategy and their "passion projects." A LOT of the most successful are incredible and savvy marketers and I admire that skill set SO MUCH. They have the control over their work to advertise it and target their audience at a level traditional authors can't—they're at the mercy of their publisher for the most part.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">(Now, to the meaner more obvious ones.)</span><br />
<b style="font-family: inherit;">5. Indies Are Writers Who Couldn't Get Published/Didn't Try Hard Enough</b><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So not true. Many out there are hybrid. Others found they could produce much faster than traditional could publish. Some wanted the full cut for themselves and knew they were capable of the Whole Job, from writing to editing to publication. Others enjoy that full control and don't want extra cooks in the kitchen. Stop assuming you know why an indie chose their path.</span><br />
<b style="font-family: inherit;">6. "Writing To Market" Is Somehow "Bad Writing"</b><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This happens a lot. We see a successful writer, indie or traditional, and we want to write them off because "Oh, they just hit the market right but they're not actually good." Psh. That's a remark spawned from jealousy. Market fiction, genre fiction, can be both well-written and successful (though maybe not to your personal tastes)—it can also come from indies and traditional. </span><br />
<b style="font-family: inherit;">7. "I've Never Read An Indie Book, But..."</b><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There are so many writers who have lots of opinions on the state of indie publishing but have </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">never bothered to read indie work.</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> And then they ADMIT IT, and somehow BRAG about it, as if they are better off because they haven't tainted their eyes with such "low writing."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">**</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I could go on, but this is a good start. If you can remove those last three from your mouth and brain entirely, that's a decent start. The next step is removing your more subtle biases towards traditional publishing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There truly is more than one way to be successful in publishing. And there are so many indies who love what they do and wouldn't have it any other way. Let's keep pushing for opening our minds to all the options authors have today. It's a good thing! </span></div>
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Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-91489826180296008972018-05-16T10:15:00.005-07:002018-05-16T10:15:50.380-07:00The "Right Way" To Write Sci-Fi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As you know, I've recently made the decision to focus my writing efforts on Science Fiction. I have always loved the genre, but for a long time have been reluctant to fully embrace it despite my long time adoration.<br />
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I mean, when I think about all the stories that stuck out for me as a kid—Dune, The Giver, Anthem, Star Wars, Gattaca, Minority Report, X-Men—they all have sci-fi as that common thread. Then as I grew older that love still remained, coming around to Star Trek, Firefly, Hunger Games, Guardians Of The Galaxy, Ready Player One, Sword Art Online, Attack On Titan, Thor: Ragnorok, and even the reboot of Ghostbusters. Science. Fiction. It's a thing I love. I have always had IDEAS to write in the genre, and yet I would shelve those ideas often before I finished them.<br />
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Really, it was fear.<br />
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Because I bought into this idea that there's One Right Way to Science Fiction. And I was definitely not "doing it right."<br />
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Honestly, being female was part of it. Science Fiction "isn't for me." Even when people don't say it out loud, you feel it in how the stories are told and how women are often tropes at best and sexist cliches at worst. You feel it when you mention you LOVE a franchise, and there's always that one guy who gives you that look like, "Yeah right, she is just pretending to be a nerd." And then that dude proceeds to grill you all night in order to prove you don't belong because you can't remember the name of every episode of the series.<br />
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The fear also came from "not being a scientist with a doctorate in every type of science in existence." Which is silly, but the way the genre has gone, the way society has grown so savvy in tech/science...holy crap have readers/viewers grown, shall we say, "discerning" in how they interpret the scientific elements of fiction. If you are Impeccably! Scientifically! Accurate! for every ounce of your story, someone is gonna let you know. Maybe lots of people. Very loudly. (And if you're a lady who stretches the science to fit the fiction?.....oh are you in for it.)<br />
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I know I'm not the only one afraid to write sci-fi for these reasons. It can be incredibly intimidating! But there was a point when I had to be honest with myself, and myself was so happy when I was writing sci-fi. I get excited to sit down and build the universe in my head. It still takes effort to block out those "I don't belong" voices, but when I do it's amazing.<br />
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I realized I'd fallen for this dumb idea that there's this One True Way to write sci-fi. I'm sure you know exactly what I mean. That same dude grilling me about every episode of my favorite show? Yeah, that guy is also the voice saying, "Only THIS type of sci-fi is good, and the rest of it is trash." And we all believe him because he says it so confidently, as if his opinion is the most important in the entire world. Because he's read all of Lovecraft, you know. And you haven't.<br />
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But why are we believing him?<br />
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This isn't to say that guy has no taste (his taste is as valid as mine, and mine is just as valid even if I can't map out every section of the Enterprise), but we have to start embracing the idea that there is SO MUCH SPACE FOR NEW STUFF in sci-fi. We are talking MULTIVERSES.<br />
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So here I am, giving you permission to write the sci-fi you wanna write. Is it too much fiction and not enough science? WRITE IT. Are you indulging in all that science you got a degree in but not sure what your plot is? WRITE IT. Is there "too much romance" in you sci-fi? WRITE IT. Is it diverse? DEFINITELY WRITE IT. Is it super classic traditional? WRITE IT. Just write the sci-fi. We need to stop listening to whatever voices are telling us to stop writing sci-fi, because this genre is rich with topics and stories and there is room for all of us.<br />
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Once I stopped worrying about the "right way" to sci-fi and started focusing on my own way, I realized this genre has too long been strapped down in expectations. It's high time for a sci-fi renaissance. I think it's already starting to happen. So get on this bandwagon and have some fun! Find those people who are ready for new, different sci-fi. Find the ones who are intimidated like you are, and help them dip their toes into this awesome storytelling tradition. Let's start bringing more people IN, instead of scaring people off.<br />
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And remember: It's fiction. Plus science. As long as you have the two in some combo, you have Science Fiction. Be proud of it, wherever it lands on the spectrum between the two words.Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-19533559332637461062018-05-09T12:08:00.000-07:002018-05-09T12:08:40.823-07:00Find Other Joys That Don't Include Words<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the many berries that grow in my yard.</td></tr>
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Yesterday, instead of heading out in my garden like I usually do, I sat down with a sweet young writer to give her some tips about the publishing industry and all the different paths out there. It was a great talk, but I found myself restless and cranky the rest of the day.<br />
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I couldn't put my finger on why—and then I went out in the warm evening to weed one of my many garden boxes. It was the peas' turn to get cleaned out from all the little grass and weed buds growing in their territory.<br />
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As I picked away, the tension I'd been holding all day dissolved. So that was the answer: I hadn't been out in the garden.<br />
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It's becoming a habit, a much-needed balm, for me to send my kids off to school and then march myself out to my yard to work. I prune and weed and plant. I tend to my chickens. Listen to music. Absorb that inexplicable peace a person gains from being outside in nature.<br />
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None of it is easy (especially being now 6ish months pregnant), but there's something about this work that orients my soul each day. It gives me time to think away from a computer screen. It makes me feel ridiculously accomplished. I get a great workout. And at the end of the work comes delicious things to eat!<br />
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This is all to say: It never hurts to have other things in your life that aren't writing. While I love making stories, that work is dependent on having <i>something to write about.</i> Some of the best things I've done for my writing don't have to do with writing at all—they have to do with long breaks, learning news things, and living a life that is more than the words I put on the page each day.<br />
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So if you find yourself struggling to write, don't be afraid to...stop for a little. Don't be afraid to invest in other aspects of your life. They will all come back to helping with the books. I promise.Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-51602183597426557992018-05-06T15:13:00.002-07:002018-05-06T15:20:34.339-07:00You Don't Have To Want EverythingWhen I was a little baby writer, I began going to conferences and soaking in the advice of others. So much of it was valuable and helped me grow as a writer and find my own process of writing. But there were other tidbits, the off sentiment, that embedded deep into the destructive, self-doubting side of my psyche. Standards that I somehow determined made me a Real Author versus not a real author.<br />
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For some it's the "You have to write everyday to be a real author" that gets them. For others it's the "Only writers of 'serious literary fiction' are real authors." But for me, little did I know that it was this one that got me in the end:</div>
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"You have to be ambitious, profitable, and recognized by others to be a real author."</div>
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You have heard this, as I have, in many forms. Perhaps you went to a class that drove home the importance of having an agent, and it made you feel like less of a writer for not having one. Perhaps you are indie, and you go to conferences only to hear over and over that you can't be truly successful if you aren't traditional...even though you are selling well you suddenly don't feel you are taken seriously. </div>
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Or maybe you love writing as a hobby, and moving towards a professional writing career feels like you'll lose more of the magic than you want. So you drag your feet towards a professional career because it feels like that's what you're *supposed* to do to be a Real Writer. Or maybe you have published quietly and you feel pressure to be bigger, more important, more...whatever. </div>
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There was once a time in my life when all I wanted was one book on one shelf that I could see. That was the goal I had and wanted. Somewhere along the way, I got convinced I should want more. My tiny realistic dream was caught up into the riptide of You! Can! Be! Famous! I bought into it. Because I wanted to be a Real Author and Real Authors were ambitious bestsellers who took their careers seriously and put every waking moment into them. I don't know why my brain latched on this particular "How To Be A Real Author" lie, but I ran with it.</div>
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And I was miserable. </div>
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Because I could not make myself successful. I had no control over being a bestseller or getting all that recognition I thought I needed. Just like some authors kill themselves over not writing everyday or not being the "serious literary writer who wins awards" they believe they should be, I put myself in a misery spiral. If I couldn't make myself into the Real Author I thought I had to be...then what was I doing? Why was I still writing? Last year I was convinced I should quit and spent a lot of time trying. Then attempting to give the Real Author Of My Delusions one more good effort. Then giving up again...but this time with the intent of trying to understand this horrible cycle I kept putting myself through. </div>
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I see it now. </div>
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This whole time, I never wanted the things I thought made me a Real Author. </div>
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I've spent years. YEARS. So many years chasing what I thought would make me into a Real Author, without realizing there's no one way to do that. And it's only now that I've struck out on my own path that I see I don't have to WANT what the industry has told me to want all this time. </div>
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It's okay to want less. You don't have to want big awards or bestseller status. You don't have to want a giant line at every signing you do. None of that is what makes you a Real Author. Writing—that's all that gets you that status. Never forget that, wherever your personal journey takes you.</div>
Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-65164988429811700152018-02-12T09:20:00.000-08:002018-02-12T09:20:27.458-08:00Sara Says Nice Things About THE VENGEANCE CODEGuysssssss. I am so lucky to have great friends who have cheered me on through all the struggles, and one of them happens to be Sara Raasch, author of the bestselling series SNOW LIKE ASHES. (She also has another series out this year with pirates!!! Check out <a href="https://www.amazon.com/These-Rebel-Waves-Sara-Raasch-ebook/dp/B072VFL4XR/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1518455442&sr=8-5&keywords=sara+raasch">THESE REBEL WAVES</a>, coming August 7.)<br />
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Sara was kind enough to offer a blurb for THE VENGEANCE CODE, and here it is in its full glory:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">McKenzie balances epic esports and fast-paced arena matches with the all-too-familiar brutality of class segregation and violent prejudice. Anyone who’s ever wanted to escape reality will find THE VENGEANCE CODE perilously alluring.</span><span class="m_-6065687126056456685gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> </span></i> </blockquote>
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<span class="m_-6065687126056456685gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><br /></span><span class="m_-6065687126056456685gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">—Sara Raasch, NYTimes Bestselling Author of the <i>Snow Like Ashes </i>Trilogy</span></blockquote>
<span class="m_-6065687126056456685gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><br /></span>
<span class="m_-6065687126056456685gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="background-color: white; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">I have all the warm fuzzies. The poor woman had to read the non-line-edited version, so she really is a trooper and I appreciate her seeing the ultimate vision of the novel. Sorry you had to read those extra 7k words my editor cut!</span><br />
<span class="m_-6065687126056456685gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="background-color: white; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><br /></span>
<span class="m_-6065687126056456685gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="background-color: white; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">I'm still wading my way through edits on this beast (which is taking much longer than projected due to some delays), but I believe I can stick on my projected release of April 3rd. Fingers crossed!</span>Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-68334579120072207252018-02-05T09:41:00.001-08:002018-02-05T09:41:49.195-08:00The Transition From Hobbyist To Aspiring To ProfessionalThis is my fifth year as a published author. Five years! I've been a bit reflecty on all the years I've spent in the pursuit of my stories and sharing them with the world. All the little and big mistakes I've made. All the little and big achievements I worked for. It's never been an easy road for me—it's not easy for anyone, really—but it has been ultimately educational and rewarding. <div>
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And today I wanted to perhaps give some perspective for the others coming up behind me on this lovely little road. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRhjDzG_iidIuRn5iRxKDvJDAcGTeAk2Szf5PoKMefmRw1oreMGVG8m2gnISZ3Nvqj74NpWPX1WszN6lxGiTwQ7e6lMvwhXC-jn1KShZgMHUvGmODakUbmiuhP3FL95hIRIU0c9Kxjbs/s1600/IMG_6447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRhjDzG_iidIuRn5iRxKDvJDAcGTeAk2Szf5PoKMefmRw1oreMGVG8m2gnISZ3Nvqj74NpWPX1WszN6lxGiTwQ7e6lMvwhXC-jn1KShZgMHUvGmODakUbmiuhP3FL95hIRIU0c9Kxjbs/s320/IMG_6447.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The very first book signing I attended. Hearing Bree's story<br />gave me hope for myself.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>"A hobbyist writes for fun. An aspiring author writes for serious."</b></div>
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There will be a point along your road where you will want to take things to the next level with your writing. It's part of the process when you're seeking the concept of "authorhood." And in that desire, you will start to do all the things you think proper authors should do. </div>
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Like writing more. And writing more "serious stuff." You may envision that Great American Novel cliche and you being read in English Lit classes for centuries, torturing the next generation with your superior allegories and junk. </div>
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You will start to look at stories not as fun—but instead with a mind to judge them. To learn from them so you can get better, BE better than them. And then you will inevitably reach the phase of:</div>
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<b>"I can write better than that. All of these books are flawed and dumb."</b></div>
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It doesn't matter how great the book is. IN FACT, the more the book is praised, the higher the chances you're going to read it and be all, "Psh, I can do better." And for some reason you're going to go out there and TELL people how dumb these books are, as if you are so much more superior than the books and genres you aspire to be part of. </div>
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I still don't know why this is the case. But I did it. I've seen a bunch of other newly aspiring authors do the same thing. So I've concluded it's part of the process, it's a strange way that they convince themselves to keep going and not lose confidence. I wish we didn't have to tear down others to get there, but it's where a lot of us start, in the <b>I can do better than so-and-so </b>camp.</div>
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But what the new aspiring doesn't really realize is:</div>
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<b>"Oh, shoot, those people I'm dumping on are my future 'co-workers.'"</b></div>
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And the internet is public. And people DO see your crap. And if they don't see it, they will hear about it at conferences and tours and signings. So you have a decision to make and some growing to do. Some writers continue to publicly review and trash on books, others realize that maybe they should keep those opinions to themselves and be more supportive of their co-workers. Because there's a little secret truth in that...people will remember if you didn't like their stuff or you insulted them personally. And you may not get invited to things because of it. Not a pleasant reality, but it's the truth. </div>
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Eventually, you grow out of the "all these books are crap" and into a new phase of: </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZTAqIyO1SoJBooYu6_HJqaaL6-x1Etnta_pQRrz5Mi4E0vnjRvhhx60O3qnHe69suD_V9PFFzkEk6Q7j0-G7QQvjptZOGNZwl1ION8dFSsy7Jfq3dRk-UrOP2Rafc9WLU87AqJrL4Juw/s1600/writerretreat2011_42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZTAqIyO1SoJBooYu6_HJqaaL6-x1Etnta_pQRrz5Mi4E0vnjRvhhx60O3qnHe69suD_V9PFFzkEk6Q7j0-G7QQvjptZOGNZwl1ION8dFSsy7Jfq3dRk-UrOP2Rafc9WLU87AqJrL4Juw/s320/writerretreat2011_42.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These ladies got me through everything.</td></tr>
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<b>"Hmm, so writing and publishing a book is harder than I thought."</b></div>
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At some point in your aspiring career, you will drop the ego you didn't know you had and start accepting that you don't actually know what you're doing. You will think about all those sharp jabs you took at other books and authors and realize the next generation of writers behind you will have their guns aimed right at your words, waiting to rip them apart no matter how hard you have worked to improve. </div>
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The closer you get to that Publishable Book, the closer you get to the Dream Agent and the Book Deal and the Debut Author Status, the less confidence you'll have that you deserve anything. You realize this has nothing to do with "deserving" or "being better than so-and-so." It has everything to do with the READER. And the MARKET. But at the same time, envy and comparison will take over...</div>
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<b>"They got the agent. My friend just got a book deal. When is it MY TURN?"</b></div>
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By the time you've gotten close to crossing over from aspiring to debut, you've probably met a lovely group of writer friends who've been cheering you on while you've also been supporting them. And as you all begin to cross the bridge, it can be difficult to be "left behind." It makes you want to push harder. It makes you feel so close but so far away. You don't want to be jealous, but you are. They have what you want—it's natural. But it also doesn't have to be ugly and it often isn't. Writer friends are happy for each other, and they hurt for each other's struggles as well because we have all been in that dark places. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9JJSlsoud39hJABvALAZLN0n-rpytRqBPrh_pXCQpAJqiWh8m8QPS8SA7Gnkw7Wubd4r56SXuikngFK3zJrD7KCSMSvOcj-6_rCkJLsWCBbiEvxiH9CwCyyAf_UhtW35jp3wo420tAc/s1600/IMG_6930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9JJSlsoud39hJABvALAZLN0n-rpytRqBPrh_pXCQpAJqiWh8m8QPS8SA7Gnkw7Wubd4r56SXuikngFK3zJrD7KCSMSvOcj-6_rCkJLsWCBbiEvxiH9CwCyyAf_UhtW35jp3wo420tAc/s320/IMG_6930.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signing my first book contract, back when I had time<br />to be thin;)</td></tr>
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<b>"IT IS FINALLY HAPPENING OMG IT IS FOR REAL."</b></div>
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Then one day it's happening to you. It feels unreal, and you don't forget it. It was summertime when my first agent called to offer representation. The day my second agent called about an offer for a book deal, I was driving to the dentist on a nice spring April day. It will feel amazing, a culmination of hard work and luck and not giving up. </div>
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<b>"But so-and-so sold for more and got hardcovers and series and and and..."</b></div>
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After the elation comes utter dread. And reality. For me, I quickly realized my book I dreamed of being a "lead title" or a "bestseller" would never be so successful. I wasn't even getting the pretty hardcover I envisioned, but instead would be a paperback debut. Part of being a debut is facing the harsh reality that the publishing industry <b>has a ranking system.</b> All you wanted was to be that published author, and suddenly it doesn't seem like enough. And you feel guilty about that, wanting more when you've already gotten so much. </div>
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The lead up to the debut is filled with so many emotions, so many firsts. I leaned heavily on other debuts as we all navigated the rocky path. Everything felt so important. There's a pressure to market and social media and you fully believe you can have a massive impact on how well your books sells. But post debut, a new reality sets in:</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ukJdOFIp45qNbkWqohUZL-TfsOkq6q7ceVaRHC6EKo6yE7sW2B5iUZTfdhWmqZyrNGBXlqTwk-hM6gAR8rtn66krngNNtoCYsMIRSN9B8GU-IvLQxKWDmK1zKPVjJdVp83kGavmEl5Q/s1600/IMG_0863.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ukJdOFIp45qNbkWqohUZL-TfsOkq6q7ceVaRHC6EKo6yE7sW2B5iUZTfdhWmqZyrNGBXlqTwk-hM6gAR8rtn66krngNNtoCYsMIRSN9B8GU-IvLQxKWDmK1zKPVjJdVp83kGavmEl5Q/s320/IMG_0863.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Debut day! Seeing that book on a shelf was<br />unreal at the time. Still is.</td></tr>
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<b>"I don't actually have any control over sales. Or anything really, except the writing."</b></div>
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Debut hits. The books starts selling...either well or not well. If well, relief sets in but also a new sort of pressure to continue delivering. Because you know how easily is can all vanish. If you don't sell well, it hurts and new barriers to more sales can crop up. </div>
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Fear of being forgotten sets in. You see how your advertising doesn't really give a lot of return in actual sales. Even if you end up "lucky" with good sales and more book deals, you will watch friends struggle and that will hurt you, too. You start to become jaded as you become part of the brutal machine that is publishing, which will soldier on with or without you.</div>
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The first five years of being published...haven't been easy. As an aspiring author I pictured this part of the journey as "smooth sailing," but it is anything but that. The fight never ends, and that is the reality newly published authors have to face. </div>
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<b>"Where did everyone go?"</b></div>
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The support of a debut...changes, to put it nicely. The friends and family that came out for your first book may not be there for your second. And by the time you're on the third or fourth? Well, it'll wane even more. The hope is fans will be there, but that "cheering section" goes quiet once you finally hit the status of "published author." Your writer friends get busy with their own demanding schedules. You non-writer friends are like, "What? Another book? You're still doing that? I thought you had like nine of those already why have more?"</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4yxDaNS8uwY6Vk6Hhz8ZFzXRMTiSA8S-NyhzrbPvGd32Zub6GC5VQPbtaCAO_tkZzUNxytpNh53qnP4gx0YFQIPGLazrdpwD3FiZ6FZ0ZJ6UMdRW8w_AXjvP7YHx6xBTZ5DLP_5Gnxx8/s1600/IMG_6554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4yxDaNS8uwY6Vk6Hhz8ZFzXRMTiSA8S-NyhzrbPvGd32Zub6GC5VQPbtaCAO_tkZzUNxytpNh53qnP4gx0YFQIPGLazrdpwD3FiZ6FZ0ZJ6UMdRW8w_AXjvP7YHx6xBTZ5DLP_5Gnxx8/s320/IMG_6554.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some people stick with you through everything,<br />and these two babies are still cheering each other on.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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It's gets a bit lonely. And, at least for me, I felt like no one was still listening. No one cared anymore, and it was hard to keep going. In a lot of ways, it's like going back to the very beginning when it is just you and the words. You have to rediscover the love of writing in a way, and realize that was why you got into this whole mess to begin with. </div>
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<b>"I don't know anything but I will keep going because I enjoy this."</b></div>
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At some point, you'll realize all the advice you thought you were wise enough to give is...not worth much. Writing is so personal that everything tidbit working for you may not work for the next author. And you're not wrong. And they're not wrong. The envy and the judging fall to the background as you finally embrace the idea that there are many ways to write and there are readers all over who can embrace lots of different styles. They matter more than anything else.</div>
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<b>"Do you."</b></div>
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It will never be easy, but as some point the craziness will die down a bit, you will find a place that works for you. It probably won't be what you expected when you dreamed of it long ago, but it'll be good nonetheless. And then you'll be the old vet watching all the youngins, trying to have patience with them as they navigate the journey. You'll give them advice. They won't listen. And the cycle will continue on. </div>
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Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-34552574841265332612018-01-26T08:45:00.002-08:002018-01-26T08:45:53.589-08:00How I Fell In Love With Esports<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfPQ8BaNpToSZRULf2cVOVITC6xFwK6hMzuKHiuRFQZ6Wy8z02yMUA97X9Bq8SNApLc3Ecmc6pi3WX8Ida9FOVuEyWDmlW2YkW5OUU2jxlmTXJe6eCHGeYgTPnp4dPXjK2mA8n0HORGHY/s1600/IMG_0640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfPQ8BaNpToSZRULf2cVOVITC6xFwK6hMzuKHiuRFQZ6Wy8z02yMUA97X9Bq8SNApLc3Ecmc6pi3WX8Ida9FOVuEyWDmlW2YkW5OUU2jxlmTXJe6eCHGeYgTPnp4dPXjK2mA8n0HORGHY/s320/IMG_0640.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NA LCS Spring Split 2014</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was Season 3 Worlds for League Of Legends. That was wayyyyy back 2013, just after my debut novel came out. I was aware of the MOBA genre of games, but I didn't actually play them because...<br />
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Guys, I'm the queen of sore losers.<br />
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I could see myself being a giant ball of rage, and that just wasn't good for my health or the safety of my family. But my husband played and it looked cool. When Worlds came around that Fall, the hubs turned it on for kicks. I was like, "What is THIS?"<br />
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Then I proceeded to watch it every second I could. I watched more than my husband, and he just laughed because he didn't expect me to be so on board so quickly. Which is silly, because I've always liked gaming...but this did have a "sport" element and I never liked those. Being able to watch an entertaining, informative, professional stream without suffering the losses myself? It. Was. Perfect. That was the year of SKT's first Worlds win, and watching their domination and skill cemented my love for this new thing in my life.<br />
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And then I watched the next Spring split. Even found my way to the L.A. Studio to watch it live. And then the Summer. And Season 4 Worlds. I've been watching ever since—following the leagues all over the world, getting into off-season player moves, watching how the production has evolved, studying the narratives they build around players and teams.<br />
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What I fell in love with first? That the games had commentators who helped me, a relative noob, follow along. It was a bonus that I didn't have to listen to the endless swear words you have to endure if you watch a single player's stream on Twitch. It brought a sense of credibility. Of accessibility. And those casters drew me in until I could understand the game on my own.<br />
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Then I fell in love with teams and players. A story builds as these teams battle on the rift, and the author in me grew to love learning about how each player got to where they were. I love the ones struggling to make their names as much as those who are on the top. I've grown to appreciate the rivalry narrative in a way I never have before.<br />
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I also fell for the production. I was a techie in high school, and all the work that goes into producing a quality show...I notice those things. And LoL put a lot of attention into that side, which made the tournaments look even more legit and credible, because they were presented with good design.<br />
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Naturally, this new passion found its way into my writing, and THE VENGEANCE CODE is a result of that. In fact, I watched a lot of pro-gaming while writing the novel. If you're familiar with LoL, you'll probably see a lot of similarities between the MOBA in TVC (which I call Heroes Of Gaia, of HoG [yes, bad abbreviation was totally intentional]), though I chose to simplify a lot of concepts in hopes of making it clearer for people new to Esports.<br />
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Spring Splits have just started up in League Of Legends, so if you're every curious to know more about what inspired THE VENGEANCE CODE, check out <a href="http://www.lolesports.com/en_US/">lolesports.com</a>. You better believe I'm watching while I draft this sequel! (Watching the new <a href="https://overwatchleague.com/en-us/">Overwatch League</a> as well, if you're into that.)Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-65768291621903161952018-01-08T04:00:00.000-08:002018-01-09T14:31:39.778-08:00COVER REVEAL: The Vengeance Code<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZoAqXOVACIuBu_HgbygRmpvZB-pTYdG5dyLVV8xEY2rxhgfrYgg7FXO44v_AwN99JIvJq5W_BKOjPhlkFXzlAb5gMGUo8JgV_2j22zMy0haLSDmvmZgT9y2viGQilf6bSclgPS48qZ0/s1600/The_Vengeance_Code_Front_High_Res.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1033" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZoAqXOVACIuBu_HgbygRmpvZB-pTYdG5dyLVV8xEY2rxhgfrYgg7FXO44v_AwN99JIvJq5W_BKOjPhlkFXzlAb5gMGUo8JgV_2j22zMy0haLSDmvmZgT9y2viGQilf6bSclgPS48qZ0/s640/The_Vengeance_Code_Front_High_Res.jpg" width="412" /></a></div>
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Cover Copy: </div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
She’s a nobody in the bunker, struggling to survive.</blockquote>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
He’s the heir to a fortune, determined to follow in his mother’s fatal footsteps.</blockquote>
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</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Only she knows her father was murdered, his code stolen.</blockquote>
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His father’s virtual reality program kills people.</blockquote>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Linix can’t possibly trust the heir of the man who destroyed her family. And Cache can’t accept a position in an industry that kills its customers. But when the only thing more dangerous than the games is not playing them, they’ll have to figure out how to win. Together.</blockquote>
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Hi! I figure I just give you the cover first, and if you wanna read more you can. Isn't it AMAZING? My cover artist is the best, and I feel like she only gets better for every book we do together. So a massive thank you to Michelle Argyle (<a href="https://mwbookdesign.com/">Melissa Williams Design</a>) for rocking THE VENGEANCE CODE cover. </div>
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You guys perhaps have a few questions, the first one being: <b>Natalie, why are you using a pen name?</b></div>
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I'm glad you asked, friends. For me personally, taking this pen name is a fresh start. My own name on books has been amazing, but there's a lot of...baggage...as well. Secondly, I didn't feel my name fit in the genre I plan to now focus on: Science Fiction. I don't want to say it was too girly, but well, it was. This one isn't necessarily male, but also not so female either. And it also looked really odd to me when we put "Natalie Whipple" on the cover. It didn't fit. Nat McKenzie is like the cool version of me, and the last name is my grandmother's maiden and chosen with purpose. You will see this name on all my impending sci-fi (Yes, there is so much more to come.).</div>
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Another question you may be asking: <b>Where did this book come from and why haven't we heard much of it?</b></div>
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Well, after facing a lot of rejection in publishing (this book included, having failed in submissions), I began to hold any project I loved very close to my chest. I didn't want to be hurt, and I feared sharing even the smallest pieces of my work because it felt like no one cared...and that was what hurt the most. </div>
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But! THE VENGEANCE CODE was originally a NaNoWriMo project. I wrote the first draft in Nov 2014, which I can hardly believe. It was titled "Punk Gamer Book." And for awhile I called it after its setting, "Bunker 8." It's bred from my love of pro League of Legends, conspiracy theories of secret government bunkers, corporate Kdramas, and a fascination with flawed and evolving technology. So really a whole kitchen sink. Like usual.</div>
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The first seeds of the book grew from my curiosity in developing virtual reality tech. So many stories start in a place where VR has been perfected and works flawlessly. I wanted to take a different approach and place it in a broken state, where the program caused something I call "Virtual Phantom Pain" to its users...and this pain, turns out, eventually kills people. But instead of fixing it, the powers that be decide to use that to control the population in their Bunker. The creator refuses to go along, is murdered, and no one is the wiser.</div>
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It's a story of trying to right wrongs against impossible odds, of being trapped in a scenario everyone hates but doesn't think can be fixed, and finding the determination to face it all head on. Plus video games and stuff. </div>
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Finally, and most importantly: <b>Where and when can I get my hands on THE VENGEANCE CODE? Cuz I need it now.</b></div>
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THE VENGEANCE CODE will be available for purchase in March! Online at most book retailers in both Ebook and Paperback! I am hoping for a mid-March release date, but I'm still in edits so we shall see. Not too long a wait! You guys will be just fine.</div>
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<br />Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-40057933274250926632017-12-29T12:26:00.001-08:002017-12-29T12:26:34.261-08:00Upcoming: The Vengeance CodeWay back during NaNo 2014, I wrote a book. It was a super ME book. (Do I write anything else?) It had an underground bunker where people used "Total Submersion Virtual Reality" to escape their tiny world. But there was one problem—this virtual reality tech wasn't perfected and caused people pain on re-entry to the real world. Pain that eventually killed. There was virtual reality pro-gaming. And a girl determined to avenge her father, who was murdered and his VR tech stolen. And a boy heir to a said VT Tech company he didn't know was stolen.<br />
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It was sticky and odd and had a huge cast and all the other things I write. I loved it. I believed for a long time maybe publishing would love it, too. But, well, I'm me. And for some reason my style and traditional publishing...anyway.<br />
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This year has been a year of trying to figure out what I really want from my writing and my life. I've explored attempt after attempt to sell again to traditional publishers, trying to convince myself this would make me happy again if I'd just get that validation. I took a period of time to consider just quitting writing entirely (that lasted a few horribly cranky months). And I finally came to the conclusion that I need to keep doing what I love—even if I'm moving into more of a "hobby mode" than a "money-making success" mode.<br />
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So I'm publishing that weirdo NaNo book I wrote in 2014 and spent years editing only to watch it fail on sub like so many others. It's now called THE VENGEANCE CODE, and there will be at least two more in the series.<br />
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Expect a cover reveal in early January! (And it is an AMAZING cover. I cannot wait to show it off.) And a release date in mid-March! (So soon...)Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-43608289016901443382017-11-27T08:34:00.001-08:002017-11-27T08:34:33.047-08:00A New Little Venture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you've followed this blog at all, it's no secret that I draw. I've been drawing since I was a kid and once had big dreams of being a comic artist or illustrator or even a concept artist for video games.<br />
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None of those actually happened, since I chose writing over my art in college, but I haven't stopped pulling out the sketchbook for a bit of relaxation time with pencil and paper. Especially when I started my pursuit of writing as a career, I clung to my art as a safe space and a "hobby" of a creative outlet. I was adamant I wouldn't turn both of my loves into jobs, since being a professional writer ended up taking a lot of the magic out of words for me.<br />
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But recently, as I've shied away from writing a bit and found myself in a confusing space where I don't know my next move...I've been drawing a lot. I shared some of those during Inktober and they always get a positive response. Some even said they wished they could buy my artwork.<br />
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While I was skeptical of that sincerity (people say they'll buy creative work all the time and...they don't), for the first time in ever I felt like maybe I could sell my art work. Not that I had any expectation of selling much at all, but I felt like it wouldn't be a bad idea if I could find a simple way to share, if someone wanted, without much effort or attempts at marketing.<br />
<br />
When Shannon Messenger pointed me to Society6, a place where I could upload my art and people could buy prints and other items without my having to deal with shipping, I knew I'd found my little happy medium between sharing and not caring <i>too</i> much.<br />
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So this is my little post to say that, yes, <a href="https://society6.com/talinator">you can buy some of my pieces there now.</a> And I will be adding more as time goes by. There is also a permanent link in my blog's tabs, should you ever want to come back to my Society6 page.Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-39186131094641071292017-11-17T09:40:00.001-08:002017-11-17T09:40:39.196-08:00For The Lady Who Said She Loved My BlogLast night I did a rare thing—I had a book signing. I can't remember the last time I did one that wasn't tied to a conference. It's possibly been two years, maybe a little more.<br />
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I was so nervous. There were five authors at the event, so I didn't have to carry it myself luckily, but I still had so many regrets about saying I'd do the signing. You see, my mind gets to me easily. "No one will come to see you." "Everyone has forgotten you even exist." "Who has even read your books besides family and a few friends?"<br />
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My brain is so mean. I know this, having had social anxiety my whole life, but it's still hard for me to push away all those awful things it tells me. I start to believe them quietly and slowly over time. I don't even realize how much these negative thought cycles have gotten to me until something snaps me out of them.<br />
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That happened last night.<br />
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First, right when I got to the event, I saw a dear friend I hadn't seen in over a decade. She had been a huge part of my life in college as one of my colleagues at the magazine I wrote for. She had always brightened my days there, taught me more about life, and embraced me just how I was. So her smile as the first thing of the night wiped away my anxieties in an instant. She told me she was so proud and that I was a writer and an author no matter how I felt at the time.<br />
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That would have been enough for the night to be worth it, but then the signing bit came around and there was a sweet woman who'd bought all my books but one and was there to snag that last one she did have, SIDEKICK. I didn't know there was anyone who was that excited about my writing that they had ALL of my books! I mean, my mom does, but you know what I mean. It was so awesome to hear her talk about how much she enjoys my quirky style. She said she wait as long as it takes for my next book, even if I needed a really long break. And here I had thought I was already forgotten.<br />
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And then there was a sweet woman who had read all of my ninja books and seeing her excitement for them made me feel like I hadn't wasted my time and money to indie publish them. My brain sometimes tells me that lie. Okay, it tells me that lie a lot. So hearing that she had gobbled them all up one after the other filled my heart.<br />
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She also told me that, even though I hadn't written in a while, that she loved my blog! This little blog. What's funny is that I've thought about writing a post so many times, but my mind would always say, "No one wants to hear from you. No one cares about your blog. People don't read blogs anymore." But today I'm ignoring those thoughts and writing for the sweet lady and anyone else who might still be here with me.<br />
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I had forgotten that book signings aren't just for readers to connect to their favorite authors. A lot of times, they help <i>me </i>as the writer. Even if it's just one person who comes and tells me how much one thing I said meant for them...it always makes me feel stronger, it always makes me feels like maybe what I've done and what I do now isn't a waste of time.<br />
<br />
So thanks to everyone who came last night and made me smile and reminded me that my stories have found eyes and hearts that care about them like I do.<br />
<br />Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-31574991013842094282017-03-30T08:50:00.004-07:002017-03-30T08:58:02.311-07:00The Merit Of Pure EnjoymentWe live in a hyper-critical time. You can find reviews for <i>everything.</i> Like seriously, everything. It used to be that books and plays and movies and restaurants got reviews, sure. But now it's gone full on crazy. You can review literally anything, when you think about it.<br />
<br />
We've seen the Sugar Free 5lb Haribo Gummy Bears reviews. There are reviews for tools and towels and toys. There are reviews for convenience stores! Reviews for TOURIST LOCATIONS. I saw this post on Facebook about bad reviews of places like the Eiffel Tower and the St. Louis Arch and was like, "Really? I need to know what Jim Whoever thinks of the Eiffel Tower before I go to freaking Paris and see it myself???"<br />
<br />
It's ridiculous, guys.<br />
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Our culture seems to be obsessed with "helpful criticism." Okay, sometimes it's just plain critical or even rude. Often when I'm online, I wonder why no one can just ENJOY something for once. It's always a "This movie would have been good if..." or "That game ruined the genre" or "That book is a great example of why publishing is stupid."<br />
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If I mention I'm watching or reading something, often I get a "How is it? Does it get better after this point cuz I stopped cuz ugh." People give live reactions as they watch a Netflix series...often not positive reactions because they aren't nearly as funny. People give out grades for a recent movie they saw, as if their opinion is law.<br />
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Why can't we just enjoy things?<br />
<br />
I killed my own love of reading with hyper-criticism. I used to read a lot. Now, I can barely open a book without bringing a ton of baggage to the experience. Which sucks. I want to enjoy books again, but I spent so much time analyzing them and trying to unlock their "secrets to success" that now I am a giant ball of judgy.<br />
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People told me it would make me a better writer, to analyze all this stuff. Maybe it did. But at what cost? Do I really have to lose my love of consuming stories to tell them well?<br />
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I don't know the answers to this, but I made some decisions after this sad loss in my life. I decided there were going to be some story mediums that I WOULD NOT criticize. I would suspend my disbelief, embrace whatever the creators gave me, and find the entertainment in it all. I chose Kdramas and Anime for my safe and happy places.<br />
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You know what I learned by doing this? I learned you can embrace flaws and enjoy a story AND learn from it. We are so concerned with removing all flaws from our creative work, but in embracing those flaws I am starting to see why people are drawn to certain kinds of stories and mediums.<br />
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Spoiler: It has nothing to do with that story being perfect.<br />
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We as authors tend to want to craft the "perfect story," as if that is a possible thing to do. We also might think that if we achieve it, we will be more successful in some form. But I'm learning that's not true. I'm learning that people who love certain stories love them both for the great bits and the major flaws. Why? Because they suspend their disbelief and just roll with what is put before them. They embrace it. They know this is a tired amnesia plot—but they don't mind because they're having fun and that plot promises a great finish of remembering and likely kissing.<br />
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As I've spent my time exploring the merits of just enjoying something, I've learned or, perhaps, relearned, that stories are fun and amazing and rejuvenating. We often criticize them into the ground and look at them through not rose-colored glasses, but something more like dingy, sooty goggles.<br />
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Maybe take those goggles off for a bit and put on the glasses again. Turns out it doesn't hurt to enjoy stuff for a change.<br />
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<br />Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-23554041953372666842017-01-25T08:44:00.001-08:002017-01-25T08:44:13.205-08:00Coping With Writer Stress: For The Veteran (Part 4)If you've made it this far in the series, I applaud you. I know it's been long, maybe not so entertaining, but this topic is important. You must know that, meaning you have a higher chance of avoiding these dangerous pitfalls. The less stress you have, the better! For life in general and especially here.<br />
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Today we'll be tackling stress management for the Veteran writers. I admit I'm not entirely a Veteran, since I've only been published since 2013, but as I watch my own career change and I observe what others are going through, I hope I can offer some insight into what lies ahead.<br />
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I remember going to a signing with two incredibly insightful Veteran authors—Sara Zarr and Gayle Forman—and listening to them talking about the evolution of their careers. Sara said something to the effect of "the first five years as a published author are the worst, and then you kind of settle in."<br />
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I really hope that's true. I'm in year four here, and I can feel that a bit. The rejections don't gut me like they used to. My failures to remain traditionally published don't haunt me as much. The harsh business doesn't get to me, make me angry at its unfairness like before. I don't feel as helpless, as if I've accepted my fate in ways.<br />
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Basically I'm saying it gets better, stress-wise, for Veterans. At least in some ways.<br />
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That isn't to say there are no major stressors. There are still many, but it seems they are more episodic.<br />
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<br />
<b>Sources Of Stress For The Veteran</b><br />
• Trying to STAY published. I think this is the one that, so far, has given me the biggest source of stress. Mostly because I have failed to do it, but I have seen in my friends that every new project they sub...it causes them stress. The more you sell, the more you realize just how damn lucky you've been because you see other authors aren't so lucky. It's like reapplying for your job every time you write a novel. And yes, a lot of those reapplications get rejected! No one wants to be that author that can't get published again, but some will end up in that category and knowing that alone is a source of stress.<br />
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• The feeling that you can never change where you "ended up" in publishing. When you end up as a "mid-lister" or a "bottom-lister" in my case...well, it feels like you are sentenced to a life of obscurity. You'll never be successful. Never be financially secure. Never be recognized. Or whatever never you want to use. It can get easy to label yourself and lose hope in your work ever doing anything of note. All of this is in your head—you totally can write a book that changes this, you just don't know which it'll be—but it can be stressful to love something and feel like you can't succeed at it the way you want to.<br />
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• OR. You can actually be successful, a big bestseller, and feel incredible pressure to continue to deliver. People underestimate the stress of success in this business. It can wreak havoc on stress levels. Sure, you have a "next book" more likely than most authors, but people EXPECT things of that book. Publishers expect it to sell better than the last. Readers expect to have their minds blows and are disappointed if it doesn't meet their ideals. You can feel like you're at the mercy of strangers who want you to write exactly what they want, not what YOU want. And that is very unpleasant for most creative folk.<br />
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• Travel and events while on deadline. A lot of the time, Veterans have to be drafting the next book WHILE they are promoting the one just published. Whatever writing routine they established? Ha. Throw that out the window. You now have to learn how to write on a plane, in a hotel, driving to events, sneaking it in at the conference green room, whatever snippet of time you can snag. That can be hard for even a Veteran. It's exhausting to travel, the last thing you want to do is use your brain to create, but you don't have a choice when that next deadline is looming and not even half the book is written.<br />
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• Okay, deadlines in general are stressful. Currently, I miss them because having deadlines means you have a job. But that doesn't mean they aren't stressful, especially when the book isn't coming out of you as expected. If you realize you have to rewrite it all halfway into the draft? You don't just get extra time. The deadline is still set. Yeah, extensions happen, but every author I've met who has had to extend a deadline feels awful about it and hello more stress.<br />
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• The comparison game doesn't end. If you haven't figured out how to curb that jealousy and comparison monster as a debut, it certainly has PLENTY to feed on as you continue to author. You can compare yourself into the ground. Sometimes on my worst days I still do this and I know better! It kills you. Don't do it. Keep your eyes on your own paper.<br />
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• Life. Eventually, life is gonna get in the way of writing. You write long enough, and some crisis or hard times will make writing nearly impossible. The first time it happens you may feel guilty. Your routine! You're not doing it! Or you might think people will forget you because you can't be online marketing or you can't be publishing at the same pace. Okay, they may forget you. But it's not so big a deal...or at least I tell myself that. But life outside of writing is also important, and it's okay to step back and take care of things and NOT write.<br />
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<br />
<b>Results Of Veteran Stress</b><br />
More than ever, it really comes down to the person. Some writers figure out how to deal with their stress and have it mostly figured out by the time they've published a few books. Others? Not so much. The not-so-much group tends to have to figure out stress management in this phase of their career.<br />
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Either their health will catch up to them and force them to slow down, or their career will do that for them (meaning it'll slow down and what now?). Or both. I fall into this category. I sort of attempted to reduce stress as an Aspiring Writer and Debut, but not really. I was putting band-aids on a gaping wound that was bleeding out. But I figured if I could just put band-aids on I'd be fine. I treated the symptoms instead of solving to ultimate problem, which was the unending stress I put myself under.<br />
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And then my body fell apart.<br />
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Not only did I hit the worst depression since the one that got me on medication, but I got shingles, then strep four times in three months, leading to a tonsillectomy. Not six month later I lost a pregnancy and was hospitalized for the ensuing infection. Four months later I was diagnosed with Latent Autoimmune Diabetes (some call it Type 1.5). Three hospitalizations in a year, when I have been generally healthy my whole life. I THINK my body was trying to tell me that I hadn't slowed down at all. I was more stressed than ever before all this.<br />
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Oddly enough, being forced to put my writing career on hold—because I couldn't physically write or market or do anything really I was so exhausted all the time—helped me realize I had been pushing myself too hard. My stress levels began to go down as I accepted that work would just have to wait until I got better...whenever that would be...IF I would ever be better...<br />
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My health had to come first. And in putting it first, taking one day at a time, the stress of the last decade finally began to wane. There's so much still left that it's hard for me to face writing still. I just don't want to be stressed! Hopefully at some point I'll find my way back into consistent writing, maybe even get lucky enough to publish again, but right now I still have to take it one day at a time.<br />
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<br />
<b>Ways To Reduce Veteran Stress</b><br />
Sometimes there's no escape for the Veteran, I admit that. When you're on tour? That's high stress with traveling and being "on" and it will drain you. When you're on a tight deadline? You're gonna be under stress and you can't just take a month off to find center.<br />
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It becomes about "self-care" as a lot of people label it now. That means a lot of different things depending on the person, and that's what the veteran needs to find. If it's holing up in your house and not going on the internet until the manuscript is written, then that's what you gotta do because it's the least stressful for you. OR, if those Twitter breaks make the burden less stressful because you miss people, then do it.<br />
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You have to find small ways to cope when your schedule is unavoidably stressful. It could be lunch at your favorite place while you write. It could be meditation in the hotel before/after your event. Or maybe sneaking some gaming in after a particularly hard chapter. Rewards. Tiny breaks. Music you love. Gosh, the list can be endless because it'd personal to every writer.<br />
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And when you DO have time to NOT write? Take it! That whole "you have to write everyday" thing sort of goes out the window when you are a Veteran. If you don't have an immediate deadline or event, that is the time to freaking unwind! That's when you take a month and stare into space or go on vacation or drown yourself in Netflix or get to that place called "outside." And you most definitely DO NOT feel guilty about it. That just ruins it and makes it stressful. You savor that time, because you are refilling your batteries and you can't keep writing without those.<br />
<br />Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-48522974176668241542017-01-23T09:21:00.001-08:002017-01-24T07:00:32.212-08:00Coping With Writer Stress: For The Debut (Part 3)Congratulations! You've gotten that agent, said agent has sold your book, and you're set to debut in 1-2 years! Or, you've finished prepping that indie book, had it edited and designed and formatted, and you're ready to hit "publish" and see what happens next.<br />
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Welcome to being a published author and all the new stresses that come with it!<br />
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Not to say that being published is all bad, but as I said in Part 2, even good things can be stressful because they add more tasks to your life and you have to figure out how to get them all in. This is especially true as you start your path down the Published Author Road.<br />
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If you haven't prepped as an aspiring author to handle the stress, debuting may put you over the edge. The stress can be so overwhelming. I've seen friends' bodies melt down under debut stress (mine included). I've seen authors get hives right before launch, Bell's palsy (where one side of your face become paralyzed), shingles, horrible colds, intense bouts of anxiety or depression or both, panic attacks, or even just crying "for no reason" they are so stressed out.<br />
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Let's review the added stressors for the Debut.<br />
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<b>Sources Of Debut Stress</b><br />
Please note that these are added ON TOP OF what is listed for the Aspiring Writer. You have to keep doing all those Aspiring Writer things because they're really just writer things. The stress of creating, editing, and submitting a novel never goes away.<br />
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• Pressure to do well. You feel it about four hours after you get that call/email that you have an offer from an editor (or a couple editors, or a slew of them!). Or you've just hit "publish" on your Indie title and now you have to sell it to readers. It's hard to put in words just what it feels like, but it's sorta like you want to impress people and somehow prove that you were worth the investment. Except much of this is out of your control but you don't know it yet. You honestly think you can <i>make</i> your book successful and you WILL do it.<br />
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• Realization of the Publisher's "Author Monetary Ranking System." That's not a real name, it's just what I'm calling it. They don't really rank authors...it just feels like it. Because you will start hearing stuff—this author at your publishing house got five times your advance and is a lead title, that author went to auction and for a six figure deal, that other author is getting rushed publication because their house is so excited about their book, etc. and so forth. You might start to think, "Why didn't I get that? Do they think my book sucks? Is my book going to FAIL?" Enter stress monster.<br />
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• The strong urge to compare. Speaking of comparing your book deal to others (or lack of a book deal at all because you went Indie), there's about a billion things you can start comparing when you are a debut. Covers, print runs, marketing plans, who's going on tour and who isn't, swag, contests, reviews, blurbs, conference appearances, signing audience sizes, how many bloggers are talking about your book, and the list goes on. You can fall into this and begin to think that your work will never be seen or how in the world do you stand out in all the noise? It can get ugly fast if you aren't careful, and this kind of toxicity can stress you out and kill your creativity especially.<br />
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• Taking criticism you can't fix. Once it's published, you can't go back and change it. Then you get a one-star review—and you're naive enough to read it though most authors will tell you not to—and it guts you. Of course you pretend it didn't, but the words repeat over and over in your mind. That person HATED your book. And they flamed it. With gifs, even. And lots of swear words. Other people will read that review and might not read your book because of it. And there's literally nothing you can do.<br />
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• Marketing. On top of writing books, you are now expected to talk about those books and sell them as much as possible. Some people are super good at this and aren't stressed at all. Others, like me, dread this and melt their brains over how they could possible talk about their work without sounding like a conceited idiot. It's hard to know how stressful it'll be for you until you get here.<br />
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• The sheer busyness that will crash on you. Because you're supposed to be WRITING ANOTHER BOOK during all this! While you're distracted with interviews and promotions and contests, you're also supposed to write that sequel or the next book. Oh, and live the rest of your life that isn't writing.<br />
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• The feeling you have to best yourself. It feels like a miracle that you even pulled off the first published book—now the next one has to be even MORE awesome and MORE everything. And how did you even write a book in the first place? You can't write another one that good. People are bound to be disappointed in you, right? Cue negative thought spiral while watching Netflix.<br />
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<b>Results Of These New Stressors</b><br />
Mayhem. I mean, I wish I could say that debut is a perfectly graceful time for some writers, but from what I've seen everyone is a tense ball of terror and stress. It doesn't matter what kind of publishing you pursue—it's NEW and your FIRST TIME and thus it is a frenetic, joyful, awful, confusing, hilariously clumsy time.<br />
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Yes, you ARE going to make too big a deal out of stuff. You are probably going to be jealous of at least one author and probably more. You will have doubts about if your book will ever be read. You will feel like crap over a review. You might not handle any of this well.<br />
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I think that's where the stress gets even more compounded—Debuts are usually trying really hard to be the PERFECT Debut. They don't want to be THAT Debut, the one I just described that is a mess and crying and stressing and losing their mind over all this. And in trying to hide all this stress and pretend it's not there...<br />
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Well, you're gonna make it worse.<br />
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There's an interesting phenomena in humans. We think that if we stuff the emotions down that they will eventually go away. Spoiler: That is <i>never</i> true. If you're pretending you're not jealous of anyone, if you're pretending you feel like your publisher loves you the most, if you're pretending that those means reviews don't cut...eventually all those bottled up emotions are going to burst.<br />
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And then what might have been a small outburst three months ago becomes a huge outburst instead. For some reason you're yelling at your mom for reading said bad review and bringing it up and WHY DOES SHE HAVE TO CARE STOP TALKING ABOUT IT. Not that I've done that...Or your friend or spouse or kids get the outburst instead of your mom. And after you feel really bad and why can't you control yourself?<br />
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So you double down on hiding the stress because you need to be the Perfect Debut and this is certainly not Perfect Debut behavior. You're supposed to be better than this.<br />
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<b>Reducing Debut Stress</b><br />
With the pressure to be the Perfect Debut being probably the overarching stress, I think the biggest way to reduce stress if to <i>talk it out.</i> Find a safe space, safe people, who you can TALK to about all this stuff. Maybe it's another writer, maybe a friend who isn't a writer, maybe a spouse or a parent or a sibling. But find someone.<br />
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Because just talking about all these feelings helps reduce stress. Notice a lot of debut stress doesn't necessarily come from outside, but instead from inside. Yes, there are additional activities to add to the schedule, but really mentality takes a big role in this. Some do better at staying positive and hopeful than others, some death spiral into doubt and despair long before the book even comes out (that would be me).<br />
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So find someone. Say these though thoughts OUT LOUD. Say you're jealous of so and so even though they're the nicest person, but you wish you had that book deal. Say you're scared everyone will hate your book. Say you have a sneaking suspicion none of these interviews you're doing will actually help sell your book.<br />
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And then pick up and move on, feeling a bit lighter.<br />
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The wait can be long for traditionally published debuts (not as long for Indie, but that fast pace comes with it's own stressors!), so don't forget to slow down! Debuts were just recently Aspiring Writers who had control over when to send out queries and when to write a new project and get it critiqued. Now? You have to wait for your editor. And they can take months before you see that first edit and another few months before the next. It can feel stressful to have <i>nothing</i> to do all of the sudden!<br />
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So have things prepared. Projects you can do as you wait—they don't have to be writing but they can be. But be prepared to "sit on your hands" with writing and maybe do something different. Don't feel guilty about it! Take it as a reward, a break now that you've sold a novel.<br />
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Another important thing to do as a debut is to cut stuff. Debuts tend to think maybe they have to do everything to promote their book, or they have to go to everything, or they have to always be online replying to every comment. Where Aspiring Writers have to learn to fit the basic writing tasks into their life, debuts need to remember to KEEP the basic writing tasks as a priority. The rest doesn't matter nearly as much.<br />
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It's more important to write the next book than to hold a contest for your arc. It's more important to edit your sequel than to do a Q&A. It's more important to love writing than to let that love die because you have to sell those words.<br />
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Take a deep breath. Turn off the internet (even me). And never forget why you got into this mess to begin with. The words should always come first.<br />
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<b><br /></b>Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-89020899595832057452017-01-20T09:54:00.003-08:002017-01-20T09:54:54.344-08:00Coping With Writer Stress: For The Aspiring Writer (Part 2)Welcome back to our discussion on the impact of writer stress and how, hopefully, you can manage it. Today I'll be addressing specific thing pertaining to Aspiring Writers (those who aren't professionally published yet, but are working towards it in one way or another).<br />
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Before we get to that, I want to give you a bit more information on what <b>chronic stress</b> does to your body and mind. While small episodes of stress can be handled by the body just fine—this is what stress hormones were designed for—prolonged exposure to "stress hormones" has a negative impact on your body.<br />
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There are three stress hormones: Adrenaline, Norepinephrine, and Cortisol. Adrenaline is that "flight or fight" hormone that is your first line of defense in a dangerous situation. It's the hormone that gets released when you're crossing a street and a car almost hits you but you jump out of the way in time. Norepinephrine is basically that backup to adrenaline, with similar function should adrenal glands not do their job. In small spurts these hormones are great—they heighten your awareness and reflexes and focus so that you can survive a situation. In the long term? They fray your nerves because you're in a constant state of overdrive. This is where insomnia and anxiety/depression can come in.<br />
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And then there's the last stress hormone: Cortisol. You have probably heard of this one. It acts slower than the other two, but it released within minutes instead of fractions of seconds. Ideal amounts of cortisol help you maintain blood pressure and fluid balance and other non-immediate body functions in a stressful situation. But prolonged release, thus too much Cortisol, can cause a whole slew of trouble—suppressed immune system, high blood pressure and sugar (both of which contribute to a risk of obesity and diabetes), decreased libido, and even acne can be increased by excess cortisol.<br />
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It's like your body is stuck at top speed. Imagine if you always drove your car with the petal to the metal. And then you'd have to break hard at every stop. That stress on your car would run it into the ground. That's sorta how chronic stress runs your body into the ground.<br />
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For writers, this starts the moment we decide we want to publish.<br />
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If that stress goes unmanaged, it will continue until our bodies or minds or both give out and force us to slow down.<br />
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<b>Sources Of Stress For Aspiring Writers:</b><br />
So let's talk about where Aspiring Writers may find extra stress being added to their lives. Some of these sources are different from Debuts or Veterans, but that doesn't mean they aren't significant and hard to face. *Activate List Mode*<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
• Learning how to write a novel. It's hard! It never stops being hard, but those first finished novels are a huge, stressful, wonderful deal. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
• Learning how to edit a novel. This might be more stressful than writing, because as a newer author you may not know the rules. You have to learn the rules. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
• Learning how to take criticism and employ it in your work. You've tried so hard. You are proud of what you've done but also a bit terrified because deep down inside you know it's not good. Criticism hurts. Trying to accept it can be a struggle. It's stressful to admit that your work is flawed and you might not even know how to fix it.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
• Queries. Everything about that process is stressful. The end.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
• Rejections. While there's rejection at every phase of publishing, it's new and especially stressful for the aspiring writer. And you can get pummeled with it. I once got 10 agent rejections in a day. Talk about a mental beating. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
• Figuring out Indie Publishing. While Traditional Publishing is stressful, that doesn't make Indie any less. If you've chosen that route, your first time is not just trying to figure out the writing but the printing and editing and marketing and taxes and it's A LOT. And you don't have any idea if it'll pay off or not. Maybe you're not getting agent rejections, but you're bracing yourself to be rejected by readers and even by those who still look down on indies.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
• Establishing a writing schedule. It can be hard to find time and rhythm at first, especially with a family, job, friends, etc. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
• Facing new social situations. Maybe you're going to your first conferences. First book signings. First writing classes. While exciting, it can also be stressful for writers who tend to skew introvert. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
• Jealousy and wanting and waiting. You've made writing friends you love! ...but then one gets an agent way before you and another sells in days while you're being rejected left and right. When will it be your turn? With it ever be? That prolonged wait of torture is the very definition of chronic stress.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
• Social media. You might be new to it. You might be using it as a writer more than before and it feels weird. Either way, you'll see All The Things and why don't you have that? And why is that thing so awful and sad? And there's this huge fight in the writing community. And omg do I need to weigh in on all this? </blockquote>
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<b>Results Of All These New Stressors:</b><br />
Whew, writing all that down made me stressed! The most difficult part of Aspiring Writer stress is this: You can't really <i>get rid of</i> most of these stressors. If you want to be published, you MUST improve your writing and take criticism and finish novels and query/indie and face rejection and get involved in the community. That's part of being a writer! So it's like you're trying to stuff all this into your life, which I imagine is already pretty busy. That is a recipe for stress.<br />
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Now, I need to be clear here, that I'm not saying writing is a horrible thing. Some of this you might LOVE. Not all of these things are stressors to everyone. Some will eat up criticism but struggle in the writing of a first draft. Some will stress over the query where others will find it easy. These are all <i>possible</i> stressors, and all these new tasks <i>combined</i> add up to additional tasks and thus additional stress in your life. You can love being a writer and still be stressed by it.<br />
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Got it? Okay. Good.<br />
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So if you're adding all this new stuff that comes with being a writer, the next logical step is this: Other stuff in your life might start taking a back seat. It's a natural result because humans can only do so much (despite what many a woman has been told, you cannot actually do it all and not suffer the consequences).<br />
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Here's where I caution you that this can be dangerous if you're not aware of what you're doing.<br />
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DANGER AHEAD.<br />
<br />
It's one thing to stop watching so much TV because now you're writing. It's another thing to stop paying attention to your spouse or children because you're writing. Ignoring cleaning the house might not be so bad here and there, but ignoring that exercise routine you once had could actually contribute to even more stress. Skipping dinner in favor of fast food here and there doesn't hurt, but if it's instant food everyday because you're so busy writing...that will change your health. Skipping a date with a friend once might be okay, but ignoring your friends for weeks on end because you've fallen into the wonder of the writing community will hurt people in your life.<br />
<br />
Take a pause. Assess your priorities. Evaluate how your actions are impacting your life.<br />
<br />
Writing (or anything really) shouldn't be <i>hurting</i> the rest of your life. Publishing is great, but I promise you it is not worth losing friendships over. It's not worth losing your family over. And it's most definitely not worth losing your health over.<br />
<br />
Some Aspiring Writers run the risk of rushing. Wanting publishing so much they put the rest of their lives on hold. They ignore all the stress warning signs and brute force through the pain. They end up paying the piper later if they're not careful.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Reducing Aspiring Writer Stress:</b><br />
So what do you do to stop this dangerous spiral? Well, a lot of that depends on what you're specifically struggling with. If social media is causing you tons of stress, that one is relatively easy to turn off and reduce that stress. But if it's drafting that is killer for you? You will need a fully different coping plan, such as timed writing sessions or alpha readers to cheer you on or working on your "it's okay to write crap" chant.<br />
<br />
We can talk about specifics in the comments if you'd like. Here are some general question to assess in this phase:<br />
<br />
• <b>What in your life can go without dire consequences?</b> Maybe it's your afternoon nap. Maybe it's that TV show you can watch on weekends instead. Maybe it has to be that part time job or hitting every PTA meeting or even skipping picking up the living room. I don't know what yours are, but something has to go. Me? I stopped quilting. Yeah, I quilted a lot before I wrote books. But I was poor and it was expensive so writing came first. I miss sewing, but I could not do both.<br />
<br />
• <b>What might you need to keep in your life to reduce stress? </b>I highly suggest not giving up that exercise routine or your healthier eating habits. If you go for a walk each day, keep doing that! Studies have shown that there is a link between physical activity and creativity. If you love that nightly Kdrama, for the love, watch an episode or two! (Maybe not five and sleep deprive yourself oil 3AM.) For me, I need to do yoga consistently. Sometimes I stop and I become a huge ball of stress though nothing else in my life has changed.<br />
<br />
• <b>Are you feeling rushed to publish? </b>Rushing, feeling like you're running out of time, feeling like if you don't publish NOW you NEVER will...all of this is a huge stressor. There is no rush. The rush is in your head and it will suck the joy out of writing so fast. Try to figure out why you're rushing it. Try to find a way to slow down.<br />
<br />
• <b>How is The Long Wait impacting your life? </b>For me, that was the silent killer of my mentality. The extra stress of hoping for that email everyday wore down my heart and body until I had a mental breakdown. But if I had been wiser I would have used that time more positively. I obsessed over the wait, made it my whole life. Everything else in my life? I acted like it all sucked and didn't matter because I couldn't get published. Tip: DO NOT DO THAT. Tip: Find positive things to do that aren't writing to do during these long waits. I bake, draw, play video games, yoga, garden, etc. Having a full list of things that bring you joy—combined with an acceptance that you can't control when publication will happen—eases that waiting stress a lot.<br />
<br />
• <b>Are You Ignoring Warning Signs? </b>Anger. Despair. Outbursts or wallowing. These are signs of stress—they're "fight or flight" reactions triggered by chronic stress. I was so angry when I was trying to get published...I just didn't realize how bad it was until I saw fear in my kids' eyes. I was <i>sad</i> and constantly wallowing in my failure and eating my feelings and having epic pity parties. Sleepless nights. Lack of motivation for things you previously enjoyed. No desire to connect with friends or family or spouse. That is not actually normal. You are experiencing the effects of prolonged stress. You need to take a step back and reevaluate how you can reduce stress.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>There Is Light At The End Of The Tunnel. Sorta.</b><br />
Eventually, you will figure out how to be a writer and also be a person who isn't a writer. It takes time to find the balance. It also takes time to learn how to adapt when things go off kilter again. But you will learn, and you will get used to writing and publishing being part of your life. The rejections will start to hurt less. Your writing will improve and you will grow accustomed to criticism. The stressors will lessen, though they won't entirely go away. And new ones will come.<br />
<br />
It's essential that you find your ways to cope with stress in this phase, because, I'm afraid, it only get more stressful as you sell a book and become published. If you haven't established stress management now, your risks for health complications only increases. So why not take it seriously now? I wish I had. It would have made the last five years a lot easier if I had made stress management a priority.<br />
<br />
Questions? Need help with stress? Feel free to ask in comments or email me if it's personal. I'm happy to listen and help where I can.<br />
<br />
<br />Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-39516086510183994292017-01-19T08:47:00.003-08:002017-01-19T08:48:07.596-08:00Coping With Writer Stress: The Reality (Part 1)Writing is a stressful job. If you haven't felt that stress yet...well, I'm gonna guess you're still in the early, honeymoon phases of being a writer. Pursuing publishing, becoming a debut, and continuing to publish are all hugely stressful things on their own—combine them with high competition, few traditional publishing spots, and a populace who, in general, prefers video to reading and you have a veritable blood bath for your hopes and dreams.<br />
<br />
Even success brings a certain amount of stress: To <i>stay</i> successful. To meet your publishers ever-high expectations. To live up to readers' vision of what you <i>should</i> be and <i>should </i>write. To navigate social media in ever-growing hostile territory.<br />
<br />
Stress. It's a beast. Do you know what stress can do to you?<br />
<br />
This is a list from <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-lifestyle/stress-management/in-depth/stress-symptoms/art-20050987">the MayoClinic</a>:<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Common effects of stress on your body</span></h4>
<ul style="color: #111111; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px 24px; orphans: 2; padding: 0px; widows: 2;">
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Headache</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Muscle tension or pain</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Chest pain</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Fatigue</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Change in sex drive</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Stomach upset</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Sleep problems</span></li>
</ul>
<h4 style="color: #111111; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-variant-ligatures: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; orphans: 2; padding: 0px; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Common effects of stress on your mood</span></h4>
<ul style="color: #111111; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px 24px; orphans: 2; padding: 0px; widows: 2;">
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Anxiety</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Restlessness</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Lack of motivation or focus</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Feeling overwhelmed</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Irritability or anger</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Sadness or depression</span></li>
</ul>
<h4 style="color: #111111; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-variant-ligatures: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; orphans: 2; padding: 0px; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Common effects of stress on your behavior</span></h4>
<ul style="color: #111111; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px 24px; orphans: 2; padding: 0px; widows: 2;">
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Overeating or undereating</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Angry outbursts</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Drug or alcohol abuse</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Tobacco use</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Social withdrawal</span></li>
<li style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Exercising less often</span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto;">Maybe these don't seem like a big deal to you, but take a moment to imagine the impact not over one day or one month but for <i>years. </i>Writing is going to be your career, your life. Imagine facing these everyday for the foreseeable future. Take a moment to think about what this might do to your overall health and happiness. </span><span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto;">And not just </span><i style="orphans: auto; widows: auto;">your</i><span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto;"> health, but the health of your relationships as well. Prolonged stress can change you, and as a result is can hurt your spouse, your family, your friends if you aren't careful. </span></div>
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<span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto;">Spoiler: Stress wears you down. Some people deal with it better than others, but we all deal with it. Make no mistake. You are not immune, and it is unwise to pretend you are.</span></div>
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<span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
Writer stress has taken a huge toll on my own life. I can check off almost all those things on that list, which have led to even more health issues. That much stress has killed my immune system and my anxiety breakdown of 2010 was directly related to publishing. I've been medicated for anxiety and depression since then. The MayoClinic says stress can lead to health problems like high blood pressure, heart disease, obesity, and diabetes. Well, guess what? I'm 33 and I was diagnosed with Latent Autoimmune Diabetes this last November, after a year filled with sickness and hospital visits, and a year previous laden with a deep depression. </div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
This is what a decade of writing and poor stress management can do.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I don't think any of this is coincidence. The stress of my writing life brought out, perhaps accelerated, health issues I was already at risk for. And because of this, I've now become a huge advocate for the importance of managing your health as a writer, both mentally and physically. I can tell you from personal experience that creativity struggles when you're sick. Productivity is crippled entirely when you are suffering from the effects of stress and other health issues. And if you push yourself regardless? Well, you ARE going to pay for it. Somehow, in some way, your body will push back. You really don't want it to push back, because it will show no mercy.</div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
So how does one manage writer stress? I won't pretend I have all the answers, but I have found some I want to share. Because this is important, and I don't want any of you to end up like me. I want writers to be happy and healthy as they create. It is possible. There are general "de-stresser" principles out there, sure, but I want to also talk about writer-specific tactics. Stay tuned over the next few days to finish this four-part series.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
To come:</div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
Coping With Writer Stress: For The Aspiring Writer</div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
Coping With Writer Stress: For The Debut Author</div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
Coping With Writer Stress: For The Veteran</div>
<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-4594365839993862192017-01-03T09:53:00.001-08:002017-01-03T09:53:43.888-08:00When You Get Good Enough And Yet...Learning to write is a long process, one that is challenging and frustrating and rewarding in many ways. There's always something to improve, always more to do, and that's both the fun and torture of it all.<br />
<br />
I remember when I was just starting out. I had a vague sense I wasn't good enough to be published. And I was right, though I didn't necessarily know how to improve. For the most part, a new writer will start out not being good enough to be published. It's okay! You're at the beginning.<br />
<br />
I didn't realize at the time how <i>nice</i> the concept of "sucking at writing" was. That sounds weird, but let me explain. Back when I was struggling to get to a level of publishable writing, I could always go back to that very conclusion: <i>My writing isn't good enough yet. Better keep learning and practicing and growing.</i><br />
<b><br /></b>
That's actually a really cool place to be. Where there is room still to grow. Where you can go back to the drawing board and tell yourself that if you just try harder and learn more and get better at writing, THEN you will get published. As you hear at just about every conference out there, "If you just keep going, eventually it'll happen." Right? Right.<br />
<br />
But then something weird happens.<br />
<br />
You actually REACH the writing level that is considered publishable.<br />
<br />
Not that you still don't have room for improvement. Not that you have mastered all the writing and can rest on your laurels. That's not what I'm saying here—I'm only saying that, yes, there is a "level" where your writing becomes good enough. The actual words and sentences and plot and characters all make sense and work together. You've become a decent self-editor who can see the flaws in your work. You can resolve those mistake in revision and make a damn good book. You have crossed the threshold, so to speak.<br />
<br />
At this point, some people get published. Some. People.<br />
<br />
Conferences and inspirational posts and those who constantly say "Never! Give! Up!" will perhaps imply that ALL people who reach publishable writing level will get published. They may even imply that those same threshold-reaching authors will STAY published. I wish I could tell you that was true, but I think we all know deep down that it isn't. There just aren't enough spots.<br />
<br />
So what do you do when you're the author who is "good enough" and yet you can't seem to get published or stay published?<br />
<br />
Honestly, I don't actually know.<br />
<br />
But it's hella frustrating, isn't it? I mean, it is for me. It's the number one thing that crushes my love of writing and stories and publishing and all of it. Because I'm sitting here nine books in (4 traditionally published [2 U.K. only] and 5 indie), and I still can't seem to convince anyone in the U.S. that I'm worth buying a story from. It's been five years since my only deal in America for my original work. It looks like it'll go on indefinitely at this point. It's not as if I haven't been trying. I have been on submission to editors all this time. I have been "writing the next book." And the next and the next and the next. I'm pushing closer to 30 novels written now, and still nothing. It took me 8 years to get published that first time, maybe I got three more to make it another eight. Who knows?<br />
<br />
It would be so much easier if I could just say to myself "I'm not good enough yet. I'll just keep learning and improving." But...well, I don't want to sound cocky but I AM GOOD ENOUGH. Not that I'm perfect by any means, but I have been published and I have worked to improve with every novel. I do truly believe what I'm writing now is my best stuff...<br />
<br />
...And yet...and yet...it feels like none of that matters. For whatever reason, my stories aren't on market or not the editor's taste or "good but not quite alluring enough to offer." And that makes me want to pull my hair out and give up so much of the time. The stubborn teen in me is all "Well if you hate me then I HATE YOU TOO." And I want to stop writing forever and flip the bird to publishing and move on with my life.<br />
<br />
But I can't. Cuz the stories don't go away no matter how much I want them to.<br />
<br />
And I know I'm good enough, which surprisingly hurts more than when I knew I sucked. Because it reveals the truth of the matter—that sometimes being good enough doesn't mean a thing. There are so many authors who are good enough and in the same shitty place that I'm in.<br />
<br />
At this point it feels like I'm beating my head against a wall that refuses to pay attention to all the damn effort I've put into this. No one ever tells you that, yes, while all your hard work may be worth it and you may get and stay published, the opposite is also true: Your hard work could be ignored indefinitely. No one wants to deal with that reality. I'm still trying to decide if it means something when it gets you "nowhere." People here will probably tell me it does, but it sure as hell doesn't feel like it most of the time.<br />
<br />
I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this, except to say that if you are in this boat I FEEL YOU SO MUCH. You aren't the only one. Whether you are published or not, there are so many authors around you who are in this boat of being "close but not close enough." And it's just the worst. I wish there were more spots, for me and for you.<br />
<br />
I don't have much advice, but the only thing that has helped me stay remotely sane is just doing whatever the hell I want to at this point. If I want to write, I do. If I don't, I don't. Not like I have deadlines to meet. If I want to spend weeks doing house projects or getting fit or bingeing on video games, I just do it. And I don't feel guilty about it anymore. Because at this point, I know it's not me who has the problem. And you don't have a problem either. This is just the shit side of the business people don't like to talk about, and we get to be on it. May as well find happiness in other stuff while we're here.<br />
<br />
<br />Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-80528991917063598362016-09-15T07:09:00.003-07:002016-09-15T07:43:35.312-07:00The Book I *Could* Have Written But Didn'tWay back in 2008, I was an aspiring writer with quick fingers, recklessly typing out story after story after story. Six books, in fact, came out of me in 2008. From zombies to dragons to elves and even a girl who could talk to plants...yeah.<br />
<br />
But, for all my recklessness, there was one book I decided not to write.<br />
<br />
It was about a girl living on the Blackfoot Reservation. There was gonna be spirit animals and shamans and cliches galore. I was excited about it! As with all my other stories, I began to do some research into the region and culture and people and history. And the more I read, the more I got...a weird feeling. Basically, it said:<br />
<br />
I don't know if I'm the right person to tell this story.<br />
<br />
My feelings weren't that articulated at the time. I can boil that feeling down to this one sentence after a good eight years of thinking about why this particular story pushed back at me.<br />
<br />
You see, I've kinda naturally included diversity in my writing since the beginning. I've been thinking about it before it was something people talked about every day online. I've been trying—and often times failing—to sell books with diverse MCs. My very first sub to editors, in fact, was a diverse MC...and I learned very quickly the realities of publishing in that respect.<br />
<br />
So why this story? Why this Native American girl? What was it that made me step back?<br />
<br />
Most importantly, I felt out of my depth. And I think this is key—the more I researched...the LESS confident I got. Usually as a writer, researching and learning and trying to embody that character becomes easier. This time? NOPE. It got harder, more confusing. I realized a lot of my ideas wouldn't work. And not in a "rework" sense but in a straight up "your ideas were wrong from the beginning sense."<br />
<br />
But people like to say "challenge yourself." And "if you're afraid of a story it's the one you should tell." Which, I suppose, is true in some sense but can be taken way too far in another sense.<br />
<br />
Finally, I decided I needed to get an answer from someone who knew much better than I. Because I happened to work at the Multicultural Office at my university (I'm a white-passing Maori, so I ended up being able to get this job that changed my life and perspective in so many ways), I happened to have a diverse group of friends and acquaintances though I live in an extremely white state.<br />
<br />
So I emailed one of my Native friends. She is Navajo, grew up in that world. She isn't a writer or anything, but she is the girl I pictured as I was planning this story though she wasn't Blackfoot. I love and respect her, and so of course my white-passing self burdened her with speaking for all the Native Tribes and Nations.<br />
<br />
But you know what? I'm glad I asked.<br />
<br />
Because the email she sent back basically went like this, "I mean, I guess you're allowed to write whatever you want, but your story sounds cliche and I think Natives would be offended by it. Other people write dumb stuff about us all the time, and it's frustrating, and mostly I just wish that my own people could publish their own writing about their own culture and lives."<br />
<br />
There was a little knee-jerk reaction in me that said "Aw, but I wanna write this because I love it. Pout pout pout. Wah wah wah. Freedom of speech and stuff."<br />
<br />
But then there was a bigger reaction, one I'm eternally glad I listened to: "You know what? She's right. I have felt out of my depth on this from the beginning, and now she's telling me I AM. I should listen to her. I have more stories to tell—this one deserves to be told by someone who won't mess it up as much as I will."<br />
<br />
And so I didn't write it. I have no regrets. In fact, I'm proud of myself.<br />
<br />
That isn't to say I stopped writing diversely. I've written quite a variety of diverse characters in my small repertoire (many of which aren't published). That also isn't to say I haven't messed up a few things even in the stories I did choose to pursue and publish. I have! I've grown and learned by writing diversely, and yeah of course there are things I would have done differently. But the key in the stories I DID write: Research made me more confident, helped me resolve my own ignorance, and pushed me forward to make it better, unlike this story where it made me less confident I could do it justice.<br />
<br />
There's been a lot of talk about who "should" be writing which stories. And there will always be that natural push back of "But I can write whatever I want it's fiction and not real!"<br />
<br />
I'm not gonna say you're wrong if you think that, but I will ask you to pause a moment and think a bit deeper. Because I do wonder: Can we not do better than that?<br />
<br />
The call for better representation isn't about hitting baseline decency. It's about raising the bar. It's about providing more beautiful voices from more beautiful human experiences. It's about asking the hard questions, and even more, doing the hard things that will give everyone a chance to not only see themselves in books, but to BE the one writing them.<br />
<br />
This story of mine happened in 2008. Eight whole years ago. I wish I could say to my sweet, amazing Navajo friend that publishing hasn't continued to fail her people and other Native Americans but it has. I still hope for that to change—and I know now that my voice isn't the one to be heard but HERS and that is the beginning of it all.<br />
<br />Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5774363178370829558.post-51798275333113121352016-09-12T10:11:00.002-07:002016-09-12T12:09:08.672-07:00The Magic Of Writing With No ExpectationsI've written under many circumstances. When I was aspiring to be published traditionally, I would write in hopes that I could fit a certain market and that shaped how I wrote books. When I finally sold I wrote in hopes that I could STAY in said market. When I realized I wouldn't ever really fit...I began rebelliously writing whatever the hell I wanted. Sometimes people would sell books like that, I was told. It hasn't happened to me yet. I'm still "outside" as much as ever.<br />
<br />
And long ago, I used to write with truly zero expectations on me, imposed by myself or others. This, I think, is a magical thing. Truly magical. If you write you know what I'm talking about.<br />
<br />
When I was a teen, I would go down to my quiet computer room in the basement. My dad had gifted me the old Apple MacIntosh. I had it ALL to myself! It didn't have much on it, but it did have a word processor and that's all I needed. Turning on my boom box, I would sit down there and melt into the worlds in my head. I would spend hours down there, dreaming up stories and feeling like everything I came up with was amazing. It was the best.<br />
<br />
It didn't last.<br />
<br />
A little criticism fueled my self-doubt and soon I stopped writing stories. The MacIntosh died. I lost everything I hadn't printed—which is a bit of a relief since there was A LOT of bad poetry on there.<br />
<br />
I didn't feel that magic again for about five years. I finished high school and went to college, having tucked my dream of authorhood deep down where I hoped it wouldn't bother me. But, despite my fears and determination to have a rational career, it came back. And I started writing, and the magic was waiting there for me as I let myself explore and be imaginative.<br />
<br />
For two years I played, not daring to attempt or think of publication. Mostly I was afraid of failure, but I think part of me also knew that things would <i>change</i> when I decided to try for traditional publication. Things wouldn't be quite the same.<br />
<br />
I was right. It's hard to hold on to that magic once you make the decision to publish. Some writers are better at it than others. But slowly, it began to slip away from me. With each attempt to publish and then STAY published...that magic, that creativity, that confidence...it all began to slip away.<br />
<br />
I lost it a few times. Without that magic, I wanted to give up. Writing wasn't worth it without that joy. Every now and then, as I tired to make new stories I would feel that fleeting spec of magic still in me, but by then I was too afraid to let more in. Because magic can be painful, too. You can love things so much that the impending disappointment aches before it has even happened. And it does happen.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I'm rambling, but I suppose I want to say: Hold on to the magic of writing.<br />
<br />
It's not silly. It's not superfluous. It's essential.<br />
<br />
Right now, I happen to be in an interesting new and yet familiar place—I have zero expectations on me as a writer. It's liberating and strange. It feels like both a failure and a mercy. Because I am finding magic again. And I am exploring worlds in my head that are just for me. I am writing what I want with no mind for what other people like. I'm letting this world and these characters surround me, instead of pushing them back in fear that I won't be able to share them. I'm opening up again—opening up to <i>myself</i>—after years of being scared of how all my books would fail.<br />
<br />
The magic is here. In this place where I've ended up. And I missed it so very much.<br />
<br />
<br />Natalie Whipplehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978251567306345129noreply@blogger.com6