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Thanks Pat

 April 24, 2013 - Author: emily.timbol

My favorite restaurant in Jacksonville is Derby on Park. It’s a recently renovated cafe that was converted from a greasy spoon to a gourmet diner. Last month when I got my new job offer, I went there with some friends to celebrate.

We were sitting on the outdoor covered patio, lit by twinkle lights and candles, when a group of people at the bar watching basketball started shouting. There are TV’s on the patio-TV’s that often show sports-but Derby is not a sports bar. It’s a restaurant owned and waited by mostly gay men and women. When Ryan and I went there for Valentine’s Day, we were one of two straight couples sitting at the rose petal covered tables. On most nights the atmosphere is quiet and subdued.

Not this night.

Soon the shouting turned into loud celebration. The group of men were jumping up and down and screaming as if they’d just won the lottery. My friends and I stopped talking to stare, at the same time the tallest guy turned around and looked at us, both hands raised above his head.

“I just won $15,000!!”

Before any of us could respond, he stumbled over to our table, pulled up a chair, and plopped down. “Can I have some of that?” he said, reaching for the Caprese salad in front of my friend Lisa.

“Uh, sure, go right ahead,” she said.

He did not look like the typical guy I saw at Derby. Khaki shorts, boat shoes, tucked in polo, and a baseball cap. I’d have bet half of what he just won that he was in some kind of frat in college. I looked over at his friends, who had the same “bro” style, and loud, raucous attitude. Part of me was pissed they were interrupting my celebration dinner at a restaurant they didn’t belong in. Part of me was grateful for a good story to write about later.

“So, uh, how’d you win fifteen grand?” I asked.

“Vegas baby!” he swayed a little in the chair.

“Waiter! Hey!” he gestured to Matt, our stressed out looking server. “Bottle of wine for my friends here!”

“So man, what’s your name? What do you do?” my friend Dave asked. He looked at Ryan and me and shrugged. Free wine is free wine.

“I’m Pat, and I’m in the air force!”

“Oh really, like Top Gun*?” I said. He did have a bit of a Tom Skerritt mustache going.

“Pssssshh,” he said, “I’m not that cool-but hey,” he drunkely attempted a whisper, “I might get laid tonight!”

I backed away and rolled my eyes, “Not by anyone here you’re not.”

“Nope, cus I’m gaaaaaay!”

I choked on the nacho I was eating. Met the eyes of everyone at my table and saw they were in equal states of shock.

Dave leaned forward. “Are you just messing with us? Because we’re cool with that if you are, the friends we were just talking about are gay.”

Pat nodded his head up and down. “Yep. I mean nope. I’m gay!”

I turned my eyes from my friends and directed them at him again. He looked totally different. No longer did he seem like a douchey frat guy. Now he looked like my friend Mike, who was one of the trendy “gaybro’s” everyone keeps writing about. Plus, Pat had that mustache, how could I have missed that? 

I felt like a total hypocrite.

Unlike some people, who would have met Pat, liked him just fine, then found out he was gay and felt shocked and put off, I felt the opposite. I at first saw a drunken fratty douche at a bar, and angrily judged him. Then the moment I found out he was gay, I instantly liked him more. I reverse homophobia’d him.

Pat’s friend came over, and put his hand on Pat’s shoulders. He was maybe two beers less drunk.

“Sorry about my friend here, he’s just really excited. Is he bothering you?”

By this point the bottle of wine he had bought us arrived, so we all shook our heads. “Nope!”

Pat got distracted and wandered off, and his friend sat down.

“So are you two, like, together?” I asked.

He laughed and scrunched his face up in disgust, waving his hands. “Uhhh no. He is not my type.”

While Pat was very “bro”, his friend was more easily identifiable as gay. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, showing off his waxed chest.

Eventually the conversation steered towards what it’s like to be gay and in the military, and Pat’s friends thoughts on the repeal of don’t ask don’t tell. By the time he and his group left for the next bar, both the bottle of wine and my ill feelings for Pat’s friends were long gone.

Later that night, I thought about how my impression of Pat changed the instant I found out he was gay. How what had at first annoyed me about him, became endearing and humorous. How three little letters turned him from someone I wanted nothing to do with, to someone with whom I gladly shared a bottle of wine. It wasn’t fair. It was completely hypocritical, and probably slightly offensive. But it was something instinctual, that I couldn’t help. I’ve spent so much time making friendships in the community that I can’t help but be drawn to gay people.

If Pat hadn’t drunkenly stumbled to our table, I’d never have talked to him. I’d never have known he was a part of a group of people whose rights I am passionate about. Which made me realize something. Pat was just one of many people I interact with everyday. People I, to be totally honest, usually drop into categories with nothing more than a glance.

Pretty skinny blonde. I hate her.

Ugh. McCain bumper sticker. Not letting them in traffic.

POPPED COLLAR. Oh God. I bet he reeks of Abercrombie.

Until the interaction with Pat, I hadn’t even realized how bad it had gotten. How many people I looked at and dismissed, or alternatively, decided were worth being nice to, without knowing a thing about them. I need to work on that. It’s not good.

I’m just really thankful that the person who taught me this lesson was a drunk gay air-force man with a Tom Skerrit mustache. Because otherwise, I would have had neither a lesson, or a good story.

Or a free bottle of wine.

 

*I realized later (thanks to a friend) that I was way off about Top Gun being airforce. It was about Navy. Oh well.

2 Comments - Categories: Uncategorized

Struggling With The American Dream

 April 17, 2013 - Author: emily.timbol

Monday I started a new job.  After working three years for a small company that exploded into one of the largest e-commerce sites on the internet, it was time for me to move on. When I started working at my old company, I knew almost nothing about IT, or the role I’d be filling. This was not something I went to school for, or ever envisioned myself doing. It was something I fell into, only because I needed a job, and a good friend of mine who was a valuable employee recommended me. Thanks to the chance his company took on me, I was able to learn skills that are worth a lot of money. These skills are what led me to the job I have now. One at an even larger company. It’s a job that is demanding, difficult, and high stress.

But, it’s a job that is paying me more money than I ever anticipated earning.

Driving home from work today, exhausted, I thought about the strange place that I am in right now. For the first time in my life, I don’t have to worry about money. That girl who grew up knowing her parents loved her, but couldn’t afford to buy her the things her friends had, now has the money to buy what she wants.

Within a couple months, my credit cards will be paid off. Within the year, my student loans. I’ll finally be able to replace my eleven year old car. I forgot when payday was, for the first time since I began working 12 years ago.

If I was someone who was working towards the American dream of getting a good job, working hard, and making a lot of money, my mission would be accomplished. All before 30.

But while I’m very grateful for my job, I’m struggling with my dream. My dream that doesn’t involve making lots of money, but making a difference with my writing. A dream that I can’t seem to make a reality, no matter how hard I work towards it.

I find myself in a difficult place. I’m so grateful for where I am financially. But I’m terrified that three, six, ten, twenty years will go by with me working towards a dream that’s never been mine. But I have no idea though how to make my dreams happen, because I am not the one in charge of their future. Agents are in charge. Publishers are in charge. And the 56 rejections I have received so far have given me their resounding answer.

No.

At what point do I give up, and let this dream die? Or do I keep working towards it, until eventually, someone says yes? Working hard at my “day job” (which is bleeding into nights) in the meantime? This is the place I find myself in, without any clear answers.

The one thing I can find solace in at this point is that this struggle is not unique. I know I am not alone, and that I am blessed to have a job at all, let alone one that pays me enough to not have to worry about money.

So fellow writer friends/artists, how do you deal with the struggle between work and your dream? Have you ever felt like it was time to give up? What keeps you going?

 

2 Comments - Categories: Uncategorized

The Writerly Blog Hop

 April 3, 2013 - Author: emily.timbol
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Seventeen years ago I attempted to write my first book. I was ten years old. Everyday after school I sat in the cheap fold out chair in front of the computer, my feet dangling just above the carpet, while I pecked at the keyboard. It took a couple weeks for about 30 pages to appear. My story was about a young girl with curly hair in the witness protection program, trying to find her parent’s killer, so she could get her life back. But after 30 pages, it got too hard to keep the characters and events together, and to come up with ideas. The novelty of writing a book wore off. So I quit.
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While a freshman in college, eight years later, I was struggling with a crush on a guy from high school who had ended up at the same out-of-town university as me. To work through these feelings, I decided to revisit my old love of writing. Every night after class I’d plop down at my cheap cardboard brown desk, my fingers flying over the keys of my laptop. This time, I made it 60 pages into my screenplay about a (you guessed it) curly haired girl and the guy who finally realized he loved her. Once complete, I read back what I had wrote, horrified. It was crap. Drivel. Terrible and immature. I sealed the manuscript into a manilla envelope, and shoved it in a drawer. Instead of working to make it better, once again, I quit.

I’m now 27, and have spent the past three years writing, editing, and submitting my memoir to agents and publishers. While doing that, I also become a regular blogger for the Huffington Post, a member of the Burnside Writers Collective, and a contributor to Red Letter Christians. I’ve come a long way since my feet first dangled in front of a computer screen.

My book is done. And at 63,000 words, it’s a lot more than 60 pages. It’s been something I’ve committed to for years, not weeks or days.  And unlike my youthful writing, I invited lots and lots of people to not just read it, but critique it. Tear it apart. Tell me how to make it better.

Yet, after all this time, I still struggle with two things. Wanting to quit. And not feeling like a writer.

Like Kirsten, who started this blog hop, when I first pictured my life as a writer, it was one  filled with thick glossy book covers embossed with my name. Sitting on (built-in) bookshelves in a large, white, expensive home. On the beach or in the mountains maybe. A home I kept when I wasn’t living in my high rise apartment in Chicago/NYC/Seattle. I’d have an agent, a publisher, and a bank account that reflected this fame my creativity had brought me.

My life looks nothing like that.

I have no agent. No publisher. No glossy covered book with my name on it. My house, while lovely, is nowhere near the mountains, let alone white. And because of these things, I often feel like I have no right to call myself a writer. A failure, yes, as I have an inbox filled with rejection emails from agents. Writer, no.

But the more I connect with other writers, and participate in things like this blog hop, the more I see that the things that I think make me a failure, are what actually make me a writer. Writing, for one. And persistence in the face of a landslide of rejection, for another. To write is to be rejected. To be a writer, is to overcome rejection, and keep writing.

Even though I don’t have the bank account, agent, or hell, even desk of a writer, I still know that, as long as I keep putting fingers to keys, a writer is what I’ll be. Glossy book cover or not.

9 Comments - Categories: Uncategorized

Why I Am Unrelenting in My Fight For Marriage Equality

 March 27, 2013 - Author: emily.timbol
equality

The first time I saw video of Martin Luther King Jr. speaking his dream to the crowd on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, I felt an ache like I’d never known. My entire body tingled with the overwhelming desire to be there, among the crowd. To not just witness, but take part in this kind of mass gathering for justice. In that moment I realized I was tired of just feeling convicted, when faced with evil in the world. I wanted to go out, and DO something. Fight the wrong. Become one of the thousands marching, using bodies as tools in the fight for good. That speech, and those people drinking in King’s words, set my heart ablaze.

Since as long as I can remember, there’s been a part of me that burns brightly whenever it comes across a fight for good.

Movies that highlight this eternal struggle of good over evil, with good prevailing at the end, can captivate me like no other. Books that follow a character as he wrestles with his own fears and weakness, only to overcome them for the good of others, will always hold the most special place in my heart. It’s a chicken and the egg thing, to try and figure out which came first, my belief in Christ, or my love for justice. One fuels the other, but which originated first  I’ll probably never know. What I do know, is that my love for Christ spurns my deep desire to fight for justice.

Up until a few years ago, I thought my fight would never come.

Then, when my best friend came out, I saw before me an entire struggle for justice that I was never aware existed. This struggle was personal.  With dread, I saw that the people who I was closest to, the people group that I was a part of, were largely on the wrong side. Good, honest, God honoring people, were fighting for what they thought was justice, but what I, and so many others, saw was discrimination.

This was no longer a romanticized look at a history I wished to be a part of. This was a hard, difficult choice I needed to make, in regards to the history that was being made, right at that moment.

I had to choose a side.

After prayer, scripture study, time with the Holy Spirit, and many, many life-altering conversations with gay and lesbian friends and family, I chose a side. And I’ve not yet regretted it. Even among constant strife with family, difficult conversations with friends, and a period of time where I felt rejected by church.

I don’t regret it because every time I take the conversation outside of Facebook, and Twitter, and the internet, and into the real world, I see, and hear, with my own eyes and ears, what I’m fighting for.

These people.

These people who have been told, over and over again, by Christians, that their rights don’t matter. These people who have been bullied, mocked, fired, harassed, beat up, and rejected because of something they did not choose and cannot change. Here’s the thing. Until you’ve gone out, and talked to these people, eaten with them, and most importantly, listened to them, this fight is not real for you. It’s not about you. It’s just words on a screen. A box to check on a form. Until you, or someone in your life is the one being persecuted over their sexuality, and told their rights don’t matter, gay marriage is just a thing you have an opinion on. Not a fight you have a dog in.

Everything changed for me when I started spending time in the gay community. When gay people became not just people, but friends. That hasn’t clouded my judgement, or view of scripture, it’s cleared my heart. It’s allowed me to open myself up to the Holy Spirit’s promptings, and finally, FINALLY, do the work He put me on this Earth for. The work of fighting injustice. Especially injustice carried out in Jesus name.

While I was marching up and down the sidewalk last night, in a sea of people carrying signs, chanting that all they wanted was equal rights, I was filled with joy. Joy is a word I rarely use, because joy is different than happiness. You can be happy over a movie, meal, or fun evening with friends. But you can only experience joy, real, life altering joy, when your soul is engaged in something affirming. Happiness can be superficial, but joy is eternal.

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As my voice and body blended into the crowd of others around me, all going in the same direction, fighting for the same thing, I was overcome with that joy for one, pure reason. The side I had chosen was fulfilling that deep longing in my heart for justice. While walking, I silently thanked God, for bringing me there, and being there with me.

I also prayed, that like before, good would prevail in the end.

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In Defense of Rob Portman

 March 19, 2013 - Author: emily.timbol

Four days ago Ohio Senator Rob Portman wrote an op-ed for The Columbus Dispatch. In it he explained his change of heart on gay marriage, brought on by his son’s coming out. My initial response to this was, “good for him! Hopefully this will make a difference.”

Turns out my reaction was rare. Most gay rights advocates on the left, like me, had other things to say.

“Here’s a guy who seemed to have no problem supporting an agenda that discriminates generally, and against LGBT individuals specifically, until someone who was about as close to him as any person could be was effected by that very agenda. Now he wants to change the rules.”

“What kind of person makes a public stand on a ‘moral’ issue and then changes their position when it impacts someone in their own family?”

“People like Portman stridently work against other people’s interests until a crucial moment, both shaming and enlightening, when it becomes their interest too.”

These angry response op-eds and blogs initially baffled me. How could anyone be upset at someone who changed a position to match their own?

Then I thought about it some more, and one word began to stand out. Anger. It made more sense. People on the left are angry. LGBT citizens, and activists are angry. And I don’t blame them. I’m angry too. I’ve been angry, and upset, and hurt, and frustrated, since I first started working on the fight for equality.

Started.

Because I had to start somewhere.

There are some people who are born and raised to have the political and religious beliefs they have now. Personally, I believe this is most people. The majority of people that are raised conservative will remain conservative, and those raised with one faith will likely keep it. I’m in the minority. I was raised conservative, both politically and religiously, and after college (not because of it, I wasn’t brainwashed by liberal professors) I moved to the left. My political beliefs changed, and while I’m still rooted in Christ, my view of what that looks like has evolved.

Like Rob Portman, it took someone close to me coming out to challenge my beliefs about equality and religion.

What so many people on the left need to know, is that there is nothing wrong with this. In fact, this is the only real way that the majority of people change. For anything. Not just LGBT issues. Many Americans only begin to care passionately about something once they are personally affected by it.

They march against cancer when their son is diagnosed with Leukemia.

They join MADD when their daughter is killed by a drunk driver.

They become advocates for equality when their best friend comes out.

Famous gay rights activist Harvey Milk knew the power that personal relationships can have on change. That’s why one of his most famous quotes was this:

Every gay person must come out. As difficult as it is, you must tell your immediate family. You must tell your relatives. You must tell your friends if indeed they are your friends. You must tell the people you work with. You must tell the people in the stores you shop in. Once they realize that we are indeed their children, that we are indeed everywhere, every myth, every lie, every innuendo will be destroyed once and all. And once you do, you will feel so much better”

Here’s what I wish more people on the left understood; I get that you’re angry. I’m angry too. But what I realized, is that being angry at people does no good. I’m close with people on both sides. So I’ve seen first hand that yelling, screaming, name calling, and attacking, does not elicit change. It just drives a further wedge. What does change people is love, caring, and kindness.

That’s why so many people, like me, and Rob Portman, were changed when our friends and family came out. Because these were people we loved, who loved us. Suddenly, we realized that all that anger we’d previously had towards something we didn’t understand, was really directed at someone we loved. See the difference? Anger drove us into the same beliefs and patterns, but love changed.

I’m glad that Rob Portman is now an advocate, and I don’t believe it’s, “too little, too late.”

It’s never too late to decide to love.

2 Comments - Categories: Uncategorized

Why Words Matter, The “R” Word Included.

 March 14, 2013 - Author: emily.timbol

This morning at work, I overheard two of my co-workers discussing a big project they developed.

Coworker one: “This is so retarded.”

Coworker two: ”Well if they [the warehouse workers]  are too retarded to figure it out, that’s their problem.”

When my first co-worker used the “R”word (which he does often) I cringed, but ignored it. When the second one chimed in, I spoke up.

“Don’t say retarded.”

“Oh,” said co-worker one, “are you offended? Well, we can’t just toss out half the language just because some people get offended too easily.”

“Yeah”, said the other, “some people just need to get a thicker skin.”

I seethed. They walked over to my cube, and I said to both of them, “What if I told you I had a brother with down syndrome? Who has been called this his whole life? And it really hurts me when people use that word?”

“Well do you?” said one of them.

“No”, I said, “but that’s not the point. Just because you’re not offended doesn’t mean it’s not offensive.”

They both took turns mocking me, not listening to anything I was saying, so I just returned to facing my computer. I used it to express that anger the way I do best – on Facebook and Twitter. What resulted was a lengthy debate with a friend whose opinion I greatly value, who mostly seemed to agree that people in this society get offended too easily*.

At this point I was beyond angry. I was hurt, upset, and feeling attacked. All for daring to express my offense. People were angry with me, for being offended by their language.

In this scenario, the thing that made people the most angry, was not a word used to degrade others, but the act of being offended.

But you know what? There is nothing wrong with being offended.

I am offended when people tell me that words don’t matter.

Words absolutely do matter.

Words are what bring change. Hate. Fear. And Love. Words are what start wars, and end them. Words can both bring knowledge, and perpetuate ignorance.

I didn’t always feel this way. For most of my life, I thought like my friends and co-workers did. That nothing comes from being offended.

Then my best friend told me he was gay, and the word, “faggot” became real. It wasn’t just a word anymore. It was a dagger thrown at someone I loved, for the purpose of inflicting pain.

Then I heard all kinds of words differently. “Gay”, and “Queer”, words I used to say almost daily to express my displeasure with something, no longer seemed, “just words.” Because suddenly, they had meaning. Only, this wasn’t exactly true. They always had meaning. They just never had meaning to me. But they surely had meaning to some of the people who were around me when I carelessly used them.

Words can kill. Historically, people have used words to degrade, dehumanize, and demean people so that the murder of them is not seen as injustice. This was done to “nigger” slaves in the 1800′s, and Jews in the 20th century. Yes, guns, whips, and gas chambers are the tools that carried out these executions. But the words used to dehumanize the victims is what allowed so many people to not care, for so long.

Words still kill. Gay and Lesbian teens are five times more likely to commit suicide than their straight counterparts. This is not because these kids don’t have “thick” enough skin. This is because there are people in this country who believe their first amendment right to say whatever they want is more important than the lives of those around them.

I’m glad that people throughout history got offended. I’m glad they didn’t just, “grow a thicker skin”, but stopped staying silent about what offended them. If it weren’t for these people, we would still have segregation, Jim Crow laws, and women who aren’t legally allowed to vote.

Just as it is my co-workers right to say whatever they want (within limits), it is my right to be offended. And I will continue to be offended when people use words for the purpose of demeaning, insulting, or attacking others. And when the “R” word is used not how it was intended, as a medical term describing impaired cognitive functioning, but as a lazily hurled insult, I have every right to be offended. And I have every right to speak up.

Words matter. As a writer, I know this. As a woman, I know this. And as someone who has the ability to look beyond my own privilege, gained by the color of my skin and socio-economic status, I know this.

I just wish my co-workers knew this as well.

I guess it’s my job to make sure they do.

 

 

 

*After I told my friend on Facebook the context of the comments made by my co-workers he apologized and agreed they were out of line.

 

 

5 Comments - Categories: Uncategorized

I Got “Spirit Coached”…and it Was Awesome

 March 6, 2013 - Author: emily.timbol

There are two possible explanations for why I continue to have a vibrant, passionate love for the gay community. One explanation is that after my best friend of fifteen years came out to me, God led me on a spiritual journey which ended with my belief that LGBT people deserve better treatment from the church and law.

The second explanation is dessert.

Specifically, this dessert.

Jeff Squares

Now, this is the chocolate version, but what you’re looking at is called a Jeff Square. It’s a brownie like dessert, best served a la mode, warm, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. When you’re eating it, your eyes roll back in your head and Meg-Ryan-in-Harry-Met-Sally type sounds escape your mouth. It’s incredible.

And it’s the invention of the man on the left of this below picture, surprisingly enough, named Jeff. I met Jeff close to three years ago, shortly after my best friend came out. At the time, he and the man on the right, owned Three Layers, a small neighborhood coffee shop that I fell in love with the moment I stepped inside.

The other guy in the picture is Shawn, Jeff’s husband. Jeff & Shawn were the first married gay couple I ever met. The fact that they were kind, warm, funny, and made ridiculously delicious desserts, made me feel comfortable enough around them to truly listen when they spoke. I’ll never forget the conservation we had where Jeff said, “I wish more Christians realized gay marriage isn’t all about sex. We’re married-we aren’t spending every night having sex-we’re fighting over who takes the garbage out!”

It was a funny statement, but one that showed me how sad it was that so many people would only see sex, when looking at this couple I loved.

Recently, they sold the cafe, and Shawn decided to pursue a career as a “Spirit Coach.” I’ll admit, when I heard this, I rolled my eyes. And not in the way I do when I eat Jeff squares. I rolled them in the condescendingly judgmental way.

“Spirit Coach,” I scoffed, “What a load of hippy-dippy bologna.”

Last week when Shawn sent me a tweet, saying he wanted me to call him about “something” I had a hunch what it was. He wanted to “Spirit Coach” me. ME. The person so practical, she makes spreadsheets to calm herself down. People who enjoy color-coding spreadsheets do not have Spirit Coaches.

But since I love the guy, I relented, and called him up.

After a short greeting, and letting him know how much time I had to chat, he got right to the point.

“So Emily, I just want you to know that I’m not looking for more clients, and I’m not in the practice of calling people up just to give them my services. But God has put you on my heart recently, and I feel that he wants me to share something with you.”

I’m such an asshole. I thought. I can’t believe how judgmental I was, before even talking to him.

“Sure,” I said to Shawn. “Share away.”

We ran through some simple exercises  where he would ask me to do word associations, or answer simple questions like, “what season would you say you’re in.” I answered truthfully, but didn’t take much stock in what I was saying.

“So what words would you use to describe the process of publishing?”

That threw me for a loop. I had just answered a question about my desk lamp.

“uhm,” I said, “well, I’d say it’s awful. Stressful. Depressing. Demoralizing. Fruitless. Soul-crushing.” I paused. “Oh also, failure. That word comes to mind too.”

I stared at my fingernails while I waited for him to respond.

“Then why are you trying to get your book published?”

Another shock I had to recover from. Good question.

“Well, I’m trying to get this book published because I feel like what I have to say is important. It can help people. And I am sure that God gave me a gift for putting things into words, and wants me to share that with others. I didn’t write a book just for me, I wrote it for other people to read.”

“Exactly,” Shawn said. “So why then, do you have such a depressing, heavy perspective on publishing?”

I started to feel my defenses creep up. Because I’ve had thirty-five freaking people tell me I’m not good enough to publish, that’s why. 

But I didn’t say that. I don’t really remember what I said. But I remember Shawn’s response.

“Emily, I asked you to call me, and I asked you all those questions, because I wanted you to see the importance of perspective. I see all the things you post on Twitter and Facebook, about how much it sucks and is horrible trying to get published, and I see this weight you’re carrying around. What I want you to see, is that this is just your perspective.”

I began to interrupt him but stopped.

“Here’s another perspective you could have,” he continued, “one of trying to get this book published, knowing the whole time that God is behind you and with you, and wanting you to succeed.”

Huh. Well. Hadn’t thought of that. 

“Oh,” I said.

Shawn laughed, a friendly, not mocking chuckle. “Do you think being depressed the whole time will affect your chances at all of getting published?”

“No”

“Then why are you?”

“Ha!” I said, “I have a good answer for that! Because I’d rather be prepped for failure, expecting the worst every day, then be optimistic  and be totally crushed when my dream of getting published never happens.”

“So you’re telling me,” Shawn said, “you’d rather spend months being constantly depressed  because of a failure that hasn’t happened, instead of experience that depression just once?”

Damnit.

“I don’t have an answer for that,” I said.

“That’s OK. But do you see now, how perspective can affect you? How you don’t have to view this process as an awful terrible thing, but as something God is carrying you through?”

“Well now I do yeah.”

I thanked Shawn, and hung up the phone. Sat there on my bed for a moment, flabbergasted. Not only had I been “Spirit Coached,” but I had LIKED it. No. NEEDED it. Right before jumping off the bed to go join Ryan for my quickly cooling dinner in the other room, a thought hit me.

Of course I would get this kind of godly spiritual wisdom from a gay spirit coach. How other way was God going to get a message across to me that I would actually listen to?

Later that night, I fell asleep thankful for two things. 1) Shawn, and 2) A God who loves and and knows me so well, that He knew to speak to me through the only person I would listen to.

A gay spirit coach married to a man who created my favorite dessert.

It doesn’t get much more divine than that.

 

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Fantasy Vs. Reality

 February 27, 2013 - Author: emily.timbol

The movie “The Notebook” came out my sophomore year of college. At the time I saw it, I was 19, in a terribly unhealthy relationship, and desperately wanting to believe in the fantasy of my own real life, “Noah.”

By the time I started college, I’d been in dozens of relationships that just didn’t pan out. There was Duncan, the quarterback of the football team, whose locker was next to mine. Matt, the guy on the debate team who sometimes gave me rides home. Taylor Hanson. Elijah Wood. I was quite the player. At least in my mind. None of these guys, of course, knew that were were, “dating.” That’s because the entire relationship, from the “meet-cute,” to the teary eyed fight in the rain, to the perfect white rose petaled wedding, was orchestrated entirely in my mind. It was like my brain was taken over by a Taylor Swift version of Sims.  Full conversations, scenes, fights, conflicts, make-ups (PG-13 promise), and perfect zoomed in camera kisses were fantasized. I’ll even admit, as embarrassing as this is, that the only way I was able to fall asleep every night, for years, was to play these movie like fantasies in my mind. My daydreams were better than my real dreams, after all. They were certainly better than reality.

To say this kind of fantasizing is unhealthy is akin to saying eating a double-down for lunch everyday is unhealthy. Major understatement. It’s really no wonder that my college relationship crashed and burned in less than a year, and that it took me almost five years to enter into another one. During those five years of singleness, I purposely stopped reading emotionally manipulative books like Nicholas Sparks’, and quit watching every Kate Hudson or Sandra Bullock rom-com. I forced myself to stop feeding my fantasy life. Like an alcoholic who calls their sponsor when they have a craving, whenever the urge to fantasize hit, I’d stop, shake my head, and force myself to do something else. Eventually, the temptation to fantasize became less strong. After a couple years, I settled into a life of contentment with just myself.  No fantasy’s of my crush rowing me out into the middle of a CGI swan filled lake to confess his undying love for me (that he showed no signs of for years.)

When I met my now husband, I was far removed from this dangerous past of  fantasizing relationships. I knew how to catch myself when I was slipping into “unreasonable expectations” land.  By the time we got married, I had been “sober” for years.

It wasn’t until a few months ago, that this decades old itch began to tickle my brain, begging to be scratched. Only this time, my romantic life being fully satisfied, the urge to fantasize was focused on something else entirely. Now, my brain began to wonder about what my life would be like, if I got that call from an agent or publisher. My fantasy shifted from swans on a lake and a rose petal covered aisle, to Oprah’s couch and a verified Twitter account. For the first time in over five years, when driving home from work, or doing the dishes, I had to force myself to snap out of my old habit.

Because make no mistake-this fantasy was just as destructive.

Replacing Duncan the quarterback with Harper Collins the publisher doesn’t reduce the danger. The danger lies in allowing my expectations and fantasy to take over my reality. What I didn’t realize until years after I quit my bad habit, was how many incredible things in my life I ignored, while I was focusing on what I didn’t have. Instead of valuing the people around me, and spending time working on things I could actually control, I took the easy way out. I accomplished everything I wanted to without actually accomplishing anything. Instead oflearning to love myself, accepting the truth that no man would ever make me happy as long as I hated myself, I instead, retreated into my mind.

It hit me the other day, 10 minutes into a fantasy involving a NYC book release party, that if I allow myself to slip into this habit again, it has the potential to rob me from any joy I might have if and when my book does get published. Because it doesn’t matter how successful I may or may not be-I’ll never be as successful as the fantasy me could be. I’ll never be as beautiful, cool, rich, funny, and loved, as the movie version of me already is. Reality never matches up to fantasy. So if I allow myself to start to desire the fantasy success, any real success will automatically be cheapened. Brushed off. Over looked.

Ironically, what has helped me most to curb this desire to daydream, is my marriage. Having a real, everyday relationship with a man I love and am attracted to, but who also is not Taylor Hanson, has made me realize that many times what I think I want, is the exact opposite of what I need. What I need, is to be patient, thankful, and determined to work hard to reach my goal of eventually getting published. Whether that’s three months or thirty years from now. What I don’t need, is to give up, instead settling for the fantasy of getting published, which requires no patience or work whatsoever. Reality might be work, but if marriage is any indicator, the more work you put in, the better and more fulfilling it is.

No offense, of course, to Taylor Hanson.

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The Numbers Game

 February 19, 2013 - Author: emily.timbol

I just sent off my 50th submission for my manuscript. Fifty. Five-O.

More than half of those sent have already been replied to with a curt, “thanks but no thanks” e-mail. Some just sat waiting until the four, or six, or eight week period that I would have received contact (had there been interest) passed without a word.

Twenty-seven rejections as of writing this.

That’s a lot of numbers. And I hate numbers. Always have. When I was a little kid, numbers stressed me out. The very first time I ever cried in school was in third grade, when the teacher wrote up a simple long division equation on the board, and my little brain couldn’t comprehend what it was seeing. Terrified, since everything else always came easy to me, I burst into tears.

Later, after puberty, I hated numbers for a very different reason.

The scale.

Every morning, starting when I was a portly little 5th grader, I’d step on the scale, and determine my self-worth for the day based on the number peeking out between my toes. A couple higher and I was worthless, disgusting, a failure. A few lower and I was happy, successful, on my way to someday being pretty.

It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I saw the dysfunction in that daily torture, and tossed my scale in the trash. Once I accepted my body for what it was, and how it looked,  I started to treat it better. Exercising out of enjoyment and not punishment. Feeding it nutrients and not just junk. It was only then the numbers assigned to my weight didn’t bother me.

But numbers still did.

Now, every morning I wake up and check different numbers.

How many Twitter followers I have.

How many Twitter followers my friends have.

How many people, “liked” or commented on my latest Huffington Post article.

The number of  days/weeks since my latest submission, until I have to consider yet another query rejected.

And of course, the number of submissions I have left, until I get to that “magical” number everyone keeps telling me to reach for, 100.

As of this morning, I am half-way to that number. Half-way on the journey to 100. The journey that’s just as nerve-wracking, exhausting, demoralizing, and stressful as I feared it would be when I first started out on it five months ago.

With that said, I am thankful that I can see now, after twenty-seven years (one for every rejection I’ve received so far) that I am worth more than a number. My self-confidence and esteem should not be based on an arbitrary amount that I decide to place value on. If I was working towards only a number, then I would have given up a long time ago. Much to the chagrin of my 382 Twitter followers.

The publishing process is not a sprint, it’s a marathon. And at this halfway mark, tired, weary, and a little beat-up, I can say with full confidence, that if I dig deep, I have it in me to cross that finish line. Hopefully, what’s waiting for me on the other side is not just the number “100,” but also the reward I’m really looking for-an agent and publisher who sees the value in bringing my book to print.

So that’s the number I’m trying to force myself to focus on. One. It only takes one person who believes in me and my book, to finish this race. Just one.

One is a number I can handle.

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