Me, The "Real" Writer

I made the intention to write more on ye ole little blog, and what did I do, not write at all last week. Forgive me Father, for I am a Sinner.

Yesterday, as part of my "day job" we had our annual meeting of the minds, planning for the upcoming year ahead as well as look to the two approaching. As part of that annual review, my Editor-In-Chief gives the round up of byline articles. (A byline article in our publishing house is considering a full-length feature, so about 3,000 words, with photos.) I came in with 27: the most of any of our writers. By kind of a lot. (Six to be exact.) If one where to use editorial math, that's about one full-length college term paper every ten days.

Last year was really challenging at work in all the ways I never saw coming. But I wrote 27 features. I did 27 interviews, countless nights in Hampton Inns, and a few hundred thousand typos. I proved something to my superiors. Most importantly, I proved something to myself.

See, when you are a real writer—nothing against the bloggers out there hustling for a few hundred bucks in sponsored posts or freelance gigs, but when you are a writer whose family has health insurance because of your ability to tickle the keys, after years of schooling and seemingly insurmountable debt, it's a little different. There's something to prove not because you're out there hustlin', but because you sit in a space in a bullpen with taped up photos of your family and your favorite pen for jotting down notes.

There's always something to prove because you get to do this wonderful thing, you can be this super creative and undefined mess on a daily basis that’s a little bit magic, a little bit insane and a whole lot of nothingness.

But you have to prove your worth. I feel like I have to prove my worth, every single day. Prove every penny spent to put you in a coffee shop waiting for a 7:58 a.m. flight to nowhere is worth it. Inherently, I feel pressure attached to that.

Perhaps it's because I am a working mother now, and life as a writer and a mother isn’t how I saw it going in my mind. There are too many days where I am half a to-do list short or up too late drinking wine and watching television because I haven’t seen my husband, aside from a passing glance over morning coffee, in weeks.

Maybe my feelings of inadequacy at work stem from feelings of inadequacy at home. Lord knows I wouldn’t be the first working mother in that position, nor would I be the last.

Yet, when my boss and de facto mentor, read the totals yesterday morning everything came together. I belonged at the table I was sitting at. I felt a sense of pride in myself and my work that was almost selfish.

I had my "Hell yea mother fuckers, I volunteer, and mother twins, my husband doesn't abhor me most of the time, and I still cranked out more than you and they all did not affirmatively suck!!" moment. It felt so, so good.

Then it didn't. Then the doubt crept in and I was back in that CHOA-Egleston hospital room looking at my tiny son with all his wires and tubes and cords and I was so lost and unsure.

That's what being a real writer is. It's not the fun columns about breaking glass ceilings or finding clever ways to use hunting analogies in letters from the editor; it's realizing your shit can sometimes not stink, but only fleetingly. Luckily, in my case at least, the same fleeting confidence is what pushes me to write more, better, clearer, from the heart.

I'm not a poet; I'm not an essayist. I'm not a mommy blogger or a lifestyle blogger. I'm an English and Communications grad with a job in publishing I have no clue what I am doing with. And I'm just going to be okay. It will all work itself out because ten years ago I was going to be Rick Bragg or Elin Hilderbrand. Today I am Jessica Johnson and that means something. I've already turned in my first byline feature.

New year, newish me

I realized during my hiatus from this slice of internet that I missed sharing myself. It's funny, as a full-time writer, I cranked out more stories in 2016 than I have ever before (final count isn't in yet but it was probably close to 40 full length features with at least 10 opinion pieces and at least 5 columns of other sorts) but my heart wasn't always in it. Perhaps that's why I let this little blog of mine slide. I felt like I was always "too busy" to ramble about my kitchen disasters or semi-unwieldy craft projects.

But if I am being honest, it's because I just got lazy and let everything else become more important. This slice of the internet is for me, and I would be lying if I didn't look back on some of the entries from when I was in college and laugh. The girl who wrote those had no idea where life would take her.

Perhaps that's why I am starting fresh.

I love my life. Not in a smug, I'm a better mother/wife/writer/friend/volunteer than you way, but in a very real I am content in my labels as mother, wife, writer, friend, volunteer way. Each and every day I wake up tired with an arthritic back and bad hips, but I feel decently happy to try to conquer my to-do list at home and at work.

2016 wasn't my best year. My marriage wasn't always social media perfect and I struggled. I really struggled in who I was and what I wanted in all aspects of my life. I like to think that mimicked the state of our country—some days were good, some days it was total hell in a hand-basket chaos.

I still struggle with who I am and what I want. But in this, effectively the first "real" day of 2017 I am starting fresh.

In a handful of days a new person will assume head of our country, and while he wasn't my pick, Lord god he wasn't my pick, I love our country and I am raising two children of my own and offering (sometimes unwanted) opinions on the raising of two more, so for all our sakes I hope he matures, grows and leads with love. I want the same things for my life in 2017: I hope I mature, I grow and I lead my life with love.

My intentions for this year are simple and follow along with my desire to just be "better." I intend to show myself more grace, try to retain more patience with Fitzgerald and Alexander, finally take 500 pure barre classes, read more, say a rosary with Fitz and Alex once each week and stick to sharing more of my true self in everything I do (at work, at home and on this blog).

I'm going to share my kitchen disasters. (And successes, there are lots of successes!) I am going to blather about sales I want to shop and the drive-myself-insane projects I do with the twins and my stepkids. I am going to blog my books so I can hold myself accountable to the intention of "read more." It takes 21 days to form a habit, today is day one.

'Timber Processing' Man of the Year

My job is unlike most. I'm not just a writer, I'm a cool writer. Being a trade magazine writer concentrating on the forest products industry means I have a lot of useless knowledge of supply chains, a working understanding of lots of heavy machinery, and perhaps most importantly, a realization that I am not like the rest in this field. A feeling of otherness I have never experienced before.

As a upper-middle class white girl from Atlanta that went to the right schools and ended up in a sorority at Alabama, I've never felt "otherness." Then I became Jessica Johnson, Associate Editor with Hatton-Brown Publishers. Since I began the Woods Barbie journey, things sure have changed—but the otherness never went away. If anything, it was amplified.

I remember as clear as a bell meeting old Tommy Battle in Wadley, Ga. in the meaty part of a Southern summer seven months pregnant with Fitz and Alex. It was hell. He stared at my belly for a good five minutes before speaking. Then he was unsure he wanted me to poke around his hardwood sawmill; I ignored him and walked right on in, asking the questions I needed to, showing him I wasn't some shrinking violet. When we finished, I got in the car, drove to a Hampton Inn, promptly took off my maternity work gear and laid on the bed with the air on 50° trying to cool off. I was not shrinking violet but I was hot as hell. I felt like I had something to prove. I feel like I have something to prove.

The otherness changed drastically though in late 2015. My boss announced that for the first time in 28 years, the annual Timber Processing Man of the Year award, an award that recognizes a figure in the sawmill business that is involved in their community, runs an excellent and high producing mill, and is involved in furthering the positive face of the lumber business, was going to be Jill Snider Brewer.

As the only woman on the editorial staff I was tasked with writing the story on Jill, her mill and why she was worthy of the award. It was a huge honor for her and for me. The following is an excerpt of the editorial I wrote for the Man of the Year issue, which hits mailboxes around the world this week. It was my "I am woman hear me roar" moment. It was the definitive point where I decided to stop noticing my otherness and just do my damn job. Stop acting like I have something to prove and realize I've proved it. I deserve what I've gotten and everything I have coming because I haven't stopped working hard. I now just have to keep the path.

From One Woman To Another

 I’m really proud of what came about from just two girls at two very different points of their sawmill exposure having a conversation. Above all else, Jill Snider Brewer inspired me. I’m a twentysomething young mother with a lot to learn about life and about sawmilling. She told me repeatedly she didn’t have all the answers, but the more I listened, the more I realized how much her comments about running a sawmill actually apply to real life.

When I spoke with Jill about the importance, and perhaps greater ineptitude of certain folks (read: fathers) on details she laughed it off. We then wound the conversation back to the topic of the day. I noticed how she was shy at first to tell me about her accomplishments and overall signature on Snider Industries. She told me at first she wasn’t so sure she wanted to accept the award at all. Throughout the interview she kept attempting to deflect the spotlight. Defaulting to her employees and her father as the real face of Snider Industries. “I’m always happy to be in the background, hopefully making everything successful,” she told me. 

That’s when it all came full circle. A real leader whether, in the home, in the front office or in the filing room, doesn’t try to be in the spotlight, they only care about setting everyone up for success.

I’ve read nearly all 28 Man of the Year stories, and that’s one thing they all have in common: a desire to set their mill, its employees, their communities and the lumber industry as a whole up for success.

It just took 28 years, and a woman, to articulate it.

It's Not Easy: Mothering, Malro and Me

From the moment I found out I was pregnant with the twins I went through a few really difficult times. When you live in the Bible belt and don’t do things in the conventional way, people talk. And people judge. And people suck.

In fact, as clear as a bell I can think of one girl who was so jealous that I got pregnant, she was, and continues to be, mean to me. It took me a long time to realize her jealousy was why she was so wretched to me, and while it makes me sad, it also makes me angry. Angry because mothering is freaking hard and I got enough of my own guilt about working and being a good mom and a good wife and making it to Church on time that I don't need a bitchy acquaintance.

But mainly it makes me angry because of December 5, 2014: The day I handed my newborn son to a stranger with the very real feeling I might not see him again. How dare she take out her jealousy on me that I got pregnant "easily with twins" and everything fell right into place.

For the entire time the twins were in-utero I was in incredible amounts of pain in my hips, back, fingers and belly. I was unable to eat for days at a time. I struggled to walk. I didn't talk about it because it wasn't anyone's business and it was just part of an extremely high-rick pregnancy.

Yes, I delivered them full term, vaginally. I also lost so much blood I had to receive a blood transfusion and came very close to receiving it through a PICC line. There’s always more to the snippets of things you hear…

Then there was December 5, 2014. Yea, it was so easy to hand a two-month-old over for surgery and not know what was going to happen. To be in actual hell for four hours while a nice man you met four hours prior was moving your newborn’s intestines around to save his life. Yea, that was real easy.

 

I don't want this reflection to come from a place of anger—I am so incredibly thankful for CHOA-Egleston, Dr. Meisel and God for watching out for Alex; for making Alex "all better." We were so incredibly blessed throughout Alex's entire malrotation surgery and recovery; I have a lot of guilt when I think about it. He hit the milestones he was supposed to right on track.

But what I didn't think about would be the after. The indelible mark I would be left with. In the immediate days after we left the hospital I did nothing but cry and worry and feel sick to my stomach. I watched Squeaks like a hawk.

Overtime my fear abated, but never left. Every single time he eats, I feel nervous. When he goes a few days without regular loose bowel movements I wake up in cold sweats, go into his room and make sure he's still breathing and not covered in green vomit.

I hear myself constantly say, "You have to be careful with Alex," which is nearly always countered with, "Stop being overprotective."

The worry faded, but it never went away because for those three weeks we waited for surgery and the week we were in the cocoon of CHOA-Egleston 4226, everything went smoothly. So, obviously the other shoe is going to drop and rock my world.


Except it hasn't really. A few days ago, after a few weeks of Fitzgerald struggling to make dirty diapers of any kind, Mark asked me, "Do you think we should have him tested?"

There it was, the other shoe. I survived one malro baby; I could do it again. But Fitz isn't showing any malro signs. He eats like a horse. In fact, he eats too much bread, which is why he's always constipated. I frequently catch him snatching crackers off Alex's plate. That's why he's clogged and he enjoys daily doses of milk of magnesia.

Intestinal malrotation affects one in 500 live American births. It is a congenital condition that happens during the first trimester of pregnancy and can show signs immediately after birth or never at all or sometime in between. It's a scary thing to deal with. Once you've survived a malro baby, it never ever leaves you.

Yea, it might be easy to have sex and get pregnant, but mothering? The day in and day out? It might seem easy on instagram but it actually is really, really hard.

Tomorrow marks one year. I don't know how I will feel as the day progresses. I am so glad I listened to my little voice, that I fought for my son, that Dr. Meisel saved his life and gave me a ferocious toddler who loves Peeps and ice water just like his momma. But damn, it hasn't been easy.

There is one element of tomorrow that will be extremely easy. As a family of four we will all watch the SEC Championship game together, no machines, no cords, no nothing. Just us and our beloved Tide. I'm so grateful for that! Roll tide, beat the gators!!

 

Paris

I don't think I am in the place where I can say anything about this without wanting to cry, or without really feeling like it's my place to say something. See, I feel like here in Alabama, far away from Paris and New York and Brussels and London and all the "big cities" we're sheltered. No one is going to target us—for all they know, we are a bunch of hayseeds. Hell, we kinda are. 


But my heart is still heavy, how could it not be? 

I won't try to say anything except that I love this cartoon. I love everything it stands for, everything it means.

In an old house in Paris that is covered with vines, live twelve little girls whose country still shines.

Benjamin Schwartz, The New Yorker, Daily Cartoon

September 3rd.

Happy birthday!

I feel like today is the most perfect day to reflect on our last visit. As soon as I found out I would be going to San Diego at the end of July for work, I knew I wanted to come see you. No, not wanted, would be going to see you. I called the PR company organizing the junket and said "Hey, I’ll be finding my own ride to the resort—I have an incredibly important stop to make first."

In the cab on the way, I was looking at the window, already crying and emotional because when I walked outside there wasn't a white Chevy Corsica with a red MADD ribbon waiting at the curb. You weren't there to pick me up like you had been for the 16 years I came to see you—including all those summers I flew solo, feeling like the most grown up grown up ever. I remember looking out the window once we got close to Bonita trying to remember what looked familiar. Was the Longs still there we went to the day after Christmas every year to buy cheap wrapping paper and hard candies? How about that Carl's Junior's where I begged for chicken stars every single day. Some of the places we passed seemed familiar, but I’m not sure. None of it mattered though, because we weren’t going to 3129 Calle Abajo.

When we finally got to the cemetery, the office was closed, so I wasn't exactly sure where you were. Then all of a sudden, as I was ready to give up, I just had this feeling I needed to look at one more section. And there you were.

I think I actually crumbled to the ground in sobs. I miss you. I miss you everyday—especially now, even more now, that I am a mother.

 

Things have been screwed up a little and I so could have used a big hug and some Carl's Junior's. Have you help me talk it out a little. I really have no idea what I am doing. None.

I spent a few minutes hanging out with you and PopPop before I had to go fix my makeup and mingle with our biggest advertiser.

It wasn't enough time.

I don't think I’ll ever have enough time. I miss you.

Happy birthday! I hope Heaven is throwing you one hell of a party. I can't wait to join you. We can watch Deal or No Deal and I'll get you Taco Bell, no I still won't eat that crap!, and you can tell me about how exactly you juggled being a working mom—I should have asked you those kinds of questions because I don’t know if I am doing it right. I hope you're proud. I miss you. I love you.