Author: Betsy Horvath

Distractions
dis·trac·tion

dəˈstrakSH(ə)n/noun
1. 1. a thing that prevents someone from giving full attention to something else. “the company found passenger travel a distraction from the main business of moving freight.”
synonyms: diversion, interruption, disturbance, interference, hindrance “a distraction from the real issues.”
1. 2. extreme agitation of the mind or emotions. “he knew she was nervous by her uncharacteristic air of distraction”
synonyms: frenzy, hysteria, mental distress, madness, insanity, mania
Distractions can come in many shapes and sizes. Sometimes they aren’t all that pleasant – “what’s going on with my health?” “what’s going on with my job?” “what’s going on with my money?”

Sometimes they are warm and fuzzy and very cute.

Exhibit A – Meet Mr. Masha Miguel de Cervantes Horvath (known informally as “Mickey”).

Mickey is an incredibly delightful, wonderful, awesome, fluffball of a cat. I am so glad that he came into my life, and into my home. It’s not his fault that I turned him into a distraction of epic proportions, a distraction creating inertia that lasted for almost the entire month of September. No, this had nothing at all to do with him, and everything, as it turns out, to do with me and my fears.

As I entered into the month of September, I realized that, since the first drafts were finished for both my next novel and my novella, I needed to move forward get working on the second drafts. And I choked. Honestly, I always choke going from the first draft to the second draft. I’m always SURE I won’t be able to straighten out the book and come up with something even remotely decent. I look at the mess I’ve created, and I don’t have the slightest clue what to do about it.   This time, the feeling was worse than normal, augmented by a MASSIVE amount of insecurity about the books already published.

Enter Mickey. He’d been dumped, starving, at the house of a woman I know. She couldn’t keep him, and I’d been thinking about bringing in a third cat, so she told me about him needing a home.

I’d like to tell you that I made the calm, rational decision to adopt this sweet little guy, and then concentrated on breaking through my anxiety and mental roadblocks and moving forward with my work.

I’d like to tell you I was a professional.

I’d like to tell you that I did not descend into madness.

But I can’t.

No, I didn’t focus on the real reasons for all of my anxiety and insecurity and doubt and fear.

I focused on Mickey.

First I had to stress about whether or not I was doing the right thing. My other two cats are at opposite ends of the spectrum – Eddie is definitely Alpha. Tasha is definitely Omega. Where would Mickey fit in? Could he fit in? I take my responsibilities as a pet owner very seriously. Would bringing him in be fair to all of them?

Then, once I’d visited Mickey, realized he had exactly the right personality for my house, and decided to take him, I had to stress about whether I’d made the right decision. Had I done the right thing? Had I made a huge mistake? What if I brought him home and Eddie was aggressive to him? How should I introduce them? How could I make sure he didn’t get hurt? How should I set up my house? There was a delay in me getting him, so I had to stress about when to bring him home. What day would be best? Should I take him to the vet first? Would he let me handle him since he hardly knew me?

When he was finally with me, I had to stress about introductions and how to ease the transition with the other two cats. I put him in a little spare room I have, and sat with him, playing with him, stressing about whether or not he was lonely, and about Eddie, and how he seemed to be afraid, and what would happen when the two met face to face?

Do you know what happened?

Eddie hissed at Mickey a little bit and chased him once or twice.

It got better the next day.

And better still the next.

And now they’re on the way to becoming good friends. Mickey is part of my household, and I can’t imagine life without him.

And it’s October.

And Betsy blinks open her eyes, looks around and says, “What’s going on? What did I do in September?”

And the answer is – not much.

I stressed.

Because I stressed, I fell back into my habitual patterns for dealing with it – I ate inappropriately for my diabetic condition, and I did not sleep.

Because I ate inappropriately and I did not sleep, the stress increased.

Rinse and repeat.

I focused on Mickey, obsessed about him. I stressed, and I ate, and I did not sleep, and I did not write. Even more importantly, I did not work on the real problem.

Because the real problem, the problem I was trying to avoid with all of this stressing and eating and not sleeping, was the fact that my first drafts were finished, and I was terrified to move forward with them. Even when I told myself that I was working on my writing, what I was doing was more in line with dealing with insecurity about the books already finished, rather than moving to finish the ones I’m currently working on.

So, what’s the point of me sharing all of this? Other than exposing my neurosis, what’s the purpose of this exploration into Betsy’s psyche?

It’s only to say that distractions come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of awfulness or wonderfulness. They can crop up when you least expect them, out of a perfectly sunny sky.   Anything, really, can become a distraction – from a sweet and wonderful little cat, to the horrible presidential election, to the newest Netflix TV show.   We create these distractions, and we focus on them so we don’t have to focus on something else that might be more difficult and more important.

Yes, I had to decide what I wanted to do about Mickey. Yes, I had to make sure I felt like I was making the right decision. Yes, I had to deal with that situation, and I’m so glad that I made the decision I did. Mickey IS extremely important. But I did not need to spend the entire month of September stressing about him. The impotent, unproductive stress WAS the distraction. I focused on that instead of moving forward, taking the next step, pushing through my fear and the barriers set up by the part of my mind that says I CAN’T.

It happens so often, at so many points in our lives.   We’re sailing in our little boats, and then a current comes and knocks us off course. If we don’t notice what’s going on, we can sail around in circles.

The trick, I guess, is to see it, and steer back into the stream again.

I’m going to go hug Mickey, and Eddie, and Tasha. And then I’m getting back to work.
October 2, 2016
Striving for Sanity

I don’t want to burst anyone’s bubble, but I’m kind of a neurotic mess of a girl. I’m compulsive, obsessive, obsessive-compulsive, addictive, paranoid, anxious, and fearful, to name a few of my more endearing traits.

But other than that, I’m fine.

I’ve been a bit more insane than usual over the last few weeks / months. The election did it to me. The news of what’s happening in the world did it to me. The good people dying. The rising hatred and divisiveness on the Internet. The breathless flame-wars on social media. The shouts of radio talk hosts, or cable news anchors, or bloggers. Everyone who wants to tell you what you should think, and believe, and do.

It truly has been a long, hot summer.

There are still many, many messages of joy and peace and love out there—I know this for a fact. But joy and peace and love don’t get you ratings or clicks or views and, thus, advertisers. So it’s the ugliness we tend to see the most of.

In the face of all of this, I feel helpless, and that just makes things worse. I realized a few weeks ago, that I needed to find a constructive way to respond, at least in my own mind. I needed to find a way to walk my path, even when the world seems like it’s spinning out of control all around me. To live, and not get swept up in the tornado.

Oh, by the way, there are tornados, too. And hurricanes. And massive flooding. And earthquakes.

Anyway, I knew that I needed to protect myself – my “self” – or I’d go nuts.

“Go?” I hear you say.

Smart alecks.

So, here’s the first step I decided to take. I turned off the wifi router.

And peace descended upon the Palatial Horvath Estate.

I don’t have cable or a smart phone, and my antenna only picks up three stations, so turning off the wifi connection basically cuts me off from all media. And when I’m at my day job, I’m actually, you know, working. So even though I can’t turn off the Internet connection there, it’s not as bad.

I need to dole out my Internet connectivity in small chunks because my compulsive / addictive personality demands it. I do still need to connect, but deciding when I want to be online instead of just having it always on and available, gives me the power to choose. It means I won’t be looking at social media or email as much, so hopefully, I won’t miss anything time-sensitive. But since I will still be looking at it, I shouldn’t miss anything important.

The second thing I’m doing is writing with focused intensity (see the last blog post).

You see, it occurred to me that the only thing I can do to make my little sliver of the world even the teensiest bit better is to write, and work towards my goals. To live as fully and as well as I possibly can.

But, wait, you say. That makes absolutely no sense. How do my pathetic attempts at writing impact anything whatsoever?

I don’t know, but it’s all I’ve got. All I can be is who and what I am. I don’t help anyone or anything by trying to lie and be someone else. I don’t help anything if I try to be what other people tell me I should be, or if I hide under the bed because I’m so afraid, or if I get caught up in all of the ugliness and spin around in a circle because I’m going insane.

Well, more insane than normal.

And me being more insane than normal is not pretty.

Yes, there are a lot of horrible things in the world, and my writing doesn’t do anything about any of them. But it’s essential to me. And if I turn away from something that’s essential to me, only to be pulled into watching and opining about the gale force winds blowing around us, I’m nothing. Just a leaf. Or dust, as the song goes.

If I’m doing something I love, something that’s essential to me, then maybe I’ll be more fully present in my life, more able to help the people around me. And maybe that will help the world a little bit, too.

At the very least, I might keep my sanity.

But don’t count on it.

September 4, 2016
The Magic of Finishing the First Step

I’m sorry I haven’t been around much the last couple of weeks. I decided to put the blog and the newsletter (have you subscribed to my newsletter yet? Hmmmm?) on hold for a little while so I could work on my current manuscript with more focused intensity. Then, last week, I had a few days off from my day job and was able to work on it with an even more focused, focused intensity.

It was awesome. I’ve never really written much more than 5,000 words in a day. Last week. when I was off, I had three days in a row between 7,000-8,000 words – or over 22,000 words in three days (basically, a short novella). That’s not a lot for some people, but it sure is a lot for me. Better, it seemed to kick things up a notch, because even after I went back to work, I was able to keep writing at a higher level.

And now?

I hurt. My wrists are numb. The tendinitis in my forefinger and thumb is throbbing. My shoulders ache. My neck is stiff. And my butt…well,let’s not talk about my butt, except to say that I HAVE to save for a standing desk.

But the first draft of “Welcome to Hardy Falls, Book 2” is finished.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not good. It’s not close to being good. Heck, it’s not even readable. I’m not sure that I can read it, and I know what’s supposed to happen. It’s at least 30,000 words too long, and will require a LOT of editing.

But I typed the words “The End”.

And it was finished.

Why was I so concerned with focused intensity, anyway? Why was I racing to the finish line like I was on fire? Why did I hurt my body, ignore my cats, friends, and family, let my house fall into decay, and basically chain myself to my desk?

Because finishing was important.

See, I had been working on the manuscript for so long, been down in the weeds for so long, that it didn’t even feel like a book anymore. It felt like total crap. Like I was just kidding myself and being an idiot. Like I’m not good, I’ll never be any good, I’m a complete impostor. Why was I fooling myself thinking I could do this again? I should just scrap the whole thing. I really, Really, REALLY wanted to scrap the whole thing. What the heck was the point, anyway?

I could only think of one answer.

The point was to finish. The point was to complete the first step.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that the book didn’t have to be good right now. It didn’t matter if wasn’t readable at this point. I’ll be going over it at least two more times, so I’ll be able to fix things. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t perfect. It didn’t matter if the words did not flow like wine from my fingers to the keyboard. It didn’t matter if it was incomplete. It didn’t matter if it repeated itself. It didn’t matter that I know for a fact people won’t like all of it, even after it’s done and polished. It didn’t matter that, even worse than being disliked, most people will be indifferent. At this point, the book didn’t have to have the right facts, or the right grammar, or the right continuity.

The only thing that mattered right now was getting the first draft finished. There needed to be words from beginning to end, and those words didn’t have to be perfect. They just had to be written.

So I sprinted for the finish line like the devil himself was chasing me.

Maybe he was.

It would have been so, so easy to just give up. To turn away. To call myself an idiot and move on to the next distraction. To sink into social media or Netflix. To…stop.

Yes, I sprinted. I sprinted as if my life depended on it. I sprinted because I was terrified that I would stop. I was terrified I would let the distractions get me. I was terrified I would let my absolutely sincere doubts stop me. My lack of confidence. My lack of skill. My lack of progress.

I sprinted, and I finally finished (even though at the end I felt like I was wringing drops of water out of a wet bath towel).

I’m happy that the first draft is done. But I have to remind myself that this is only the first step. There are a lot of challenges ahead, and a heck of a more work to do. The second draft will be difficult because I’ll have to cut so many words to get to the length I want. And everything takes longer than I think it will, so I’ll get impatient with myself. I’m scared that I’ll read the first draft and it will suck so badly that I’ll be devastated. There’s the danger that I’ll let my fears stop me, so I’m afraid of my fear and how I’ll respond to it.

But a wise woman (Nora Roberts) once said that you can’t edit something that’s not there. And now that the first draft is finished, there’s something there to edit and polish and eventually publish.

And that, my friends, is the magic of finishing the first step. Because taking the first step means you can now take the second.

By the way, just as an aside, what makes me even happier is that today I wrote the first 7,000 words for the first draft of the next story. Another step in the right direction.

August 28, 2016
New Frontier

Welcome to a wee bit of a short story, starring Betsy–a humble author, and Harry–a white gerbil who is the Guide on Betsy’s Quest to become a successful independent humble author. Harry is on a quest of his own–he wants to transform from gerbil to white hare or even a white stag (all of the best Quests are Guided by stags). Thus far, he is unsuccessful.

But today… today he seems different. Jaunty, even. And he’s dressed…weird. Whatever is going on?

Let’s see….

Betsy is lounging in her brain, thinking of nothing, when the door to her office opens and Harry strides in. He looks different than usual. Taller. More confident. And he’s wearing a hat with a floppy brim and long white feather, leather breeches, and thigh-high boots. This is a little disturbing.

“Comst thou with me, wench,” he says, and, turning, leaves the room.

Betsy blinks several times. Then, figuring she’s not getting much done anyway, gets up and follows him.

“Where are we going?” she asks when she catches up to him.

“Thou shalt see.” Harry says, striding forward

“Thou? What’s with the thou?”

“Comest on.”

“Why are you talking that way?” Betsy skips a little so she can keep pace with him. His breeches and boots might squeak, but Harry is moving very quickly.

Harry does not answer. Instead, he leads her through the corridors of her mind to a meadow where Betsy has lain for many hours looking at stars and fireworks and magical creatures. As they walk past the great lake in the middle of the meadow, Betsy hears water splashing. She sees her Muse, dressed in bright, shining finery, cupping her hands, dipping them into the water, and then bringing them up to her face.

“Hey, Muse,” Betsy calls. “What are you doing?”

“I am bathing in inspiration,” Muse holds out her hand. “Come on in.”

“Nay, wench!” Harry snaps. “Do not distract this one. We canst not stop now!”

The Muse slowly lowers her arms, and, equally slowly raises her eyebrows.

“Excuse me?”

Harry turns as pale as a white rodent can, and falls to his knees.

“I am sorry, my queen,” he says with his nose to the ground.

The Muse nods. “Forgiven.” Waves hand. “Go forth my good man.”

Betsy blinks at both of them. “Why is everyone talking this way?”

“Come.” Harry jumps to his feet, grabs her hand, and drags her along after him.

They walk across the meadow to a mountain. They walk up the mountain. They walk down the other side. They walk up another mountain. Betsy, who is not a supreme physical specimen, thinks she is going to die.

Finally, Harry pauses at the crest of a hill and gestures.

“Behold,” he says grandly.

Betsy frowns at him. “The power of cheese?”

Harry takes off his hat and slaps her with it. “Nay!” He gestures again. “Behold.”

Betsy turns and sees several mountains before her. There are cities perched on the top of each one. One of them is pretty close; the others range out from it.

“What’s all this, then?”

“This is where your journey is taking you.” Harry points to the closest mountain. “There we see your current work in progress.” To the next. “There is Welcome to Hardy Falls 2.5” The next. “There is Welcome to Hardy Falls 3”. He points to the one furthest away. “The spin off.”

“Huh.” Betsy studies the mountains and the cities. “The one closest to us seems pretty big and well-developed.”

“’Tis because you have traveled there many times now and can see the territory and terrain.”

“Uh huh. And the others cities look a little more barren.”

Harry gestures with a sweep of his cloak. “You have traveled to yon cities and gazed upon them, but thou hast not as yet mapped them completely. Whenst thou dost go and mark time within their streets, they shall blossom and bloom.”

Betsy considers him. “You sound like Shakespeare.”

Harry sweeps off his hat and bows. “Many thanks, milady.”

“Great.” Betsy considers the mountain ranges and the cities. “So where are we anyway?”

“Behold thy new frontier.”

“Th…my new frontier?”

“Yea, verily. Thou hast crossed out of the first valley and now seekest thy fortunes beyond the walls of thine own city.”

“I have? I do?” Betsy blinks. “When did that happen?”

“Why, when thou didst persist in thy Quest. When thou created these cities within thy mind and aimethst thine arrows at them. Whenst thou sawest past the next folio to all that is beyond.”

“Yeah?” Betsy rocks back on her heels. “No crap?”

“Noneth.”

“So, that’s good, right?”

“Aye.” Harry glares at her. “But thy journey is still long, my girl. Thou canst not rest on thy laurels and eateth bon-bons.”

Betsy frowns. “It’s a lot of work. Maybe I’m too late to get to all the places I want to go.”

Harry shrugs. “Then go where thou canst.”

Betsy looks down at him. “And you’ll still Guide me?”

Harry bows. “’Twould be my pleasure, my lady.”

“And are you going to keep talking this way all the time? Because I have to say it’s getting kind of old.”

“Nah.” Harry takes off his hat and shakes out his cape. “It’s kind of a pain in the butt to add all the “sts”. But I wanted to be, you know, artsy fartsy when I showed you.”

“Showed me the cities?”

“Those, and….” Harry turns around, lifts his cape, wiggles his little butt. “Look!”

Harry’s long thin gerbil tail is different. It’s short! It’s puffy! It’s…

“Harry!” Betsy exclaims. “Your tail! It looks like a rabbit’s tail! Are you…?”

“Yep!” Harry turns around, does a little dance. “My ears are longer too. I’ll be upgraded to a White Hare Quest Guide before you know it!”

“Harry!” Betsy clasps hands to breast. “You’re growing! You’re actually growing!”

“I am.” Harry jumps up onto Betsy’s shoulder and looks her right in the eye. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“You are too.”

To be continued….

July 31, 2016
The Third Thing

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a blog post about the three big things in my life and what they are. In case you didn’t read that post, my three big things are 1) family/life responsibilities, 2) work, and 3) writing (or story-telling). I hope that I will always have family / life responsibilities. I will always need to support myself and my life. Those two things are non-negotiable. But the third thing…well, the third thing is the reflection of who I am.

I know that I can only handle three big things in my life. I try more than three, and I start dropping balls or plates or whatever. Maybe there are some people out there who can handle more, but I think most are like me. Three big things.

The third thing can get you in trouble, because it’s the thing that’s not defined by the parameters of human society. That’s the thing defined by YOU. I submit that if you can find your third thing, you will be able to fully live your life.

And I have to believe that if I fully live my life, if I fully inhabit the person I am, then I will be able to contribute something to the world and those around me.

Even if that something is, in my case, only a few hours of entertainment.

Here’s how it works in my life.

I know that my third big thing is writing – specifically, telling stories. In the future, storytelling might mean beaming a thought from mind to mind. In the past, it meant sitting around the campfire or jesting in a court. But today it means video, audio, or writing. At the moment, I write.

And yes, I write romance. I don’t ONLY write romance, but that’s what I’m focusing on for now. I’m not writing classic works of fiction here, just things that might entertain the people who find them. But telling stories is my center point, my point of balance. And writing them down makes me a better person.

Wait, what? How does me writing romance novels that hardly anyone knows about help anything?

Well, when I’m not writing, when I’m not sinking into the creative process, I feel empty. I feel two-dimensional and pale, like I’m a line drawing instead of color animation. That’s when I fall into addictive behaviors. That’s when I get so annoyed I can’t stand it. That’s when I have bad thoughts about myself and the people around me, and want to lash out at them. That’s when I get soooo angry. That’s when I’m so tired I can’t function. I often think that the people I work with should be encouraging me to write in the morning before I get to the office. When I don’t, especially when I’m in a destructive pattern where I haven’t worked for several days, I’m manic, depressed, and, I’m sure, a joy to be around.

When I am fully involved in my creative process – in other words, living from my center – I feel energized and at peace with myself and, by extension, those around me. I feel “full”. When I feel “full” (of life, I guess), I have more to give other people. I don’t feel like a victim, I feel like a participant in the process of life. I’ve tapped into the basic part of me, of who I am. Even though I’m only writing silly romance novels not many people know about, or blog posts, or newsletters.

I’m blessed to know what my third thing is. I might lose sight of it from time to time, because there are so many other pretty things in life to explore, but deep down I know. Not everyone knows. But the point is, we all have it.

Your third thing might be gardening. Or running. Or hospitality. Or compassion. Or traveling. Or teaching. Or designing games to play with your kids. Or painting. Or dance. Or balancing spreadsheets. Or translating. Or working at an animal shelter. Or working in a soup kitchen. Or writing songs. Or training your pet cockatoo. Or…or…or…

Your third thing is whatever makes you feel the most intensely you.

Whatever that thing is, you should try to do it. I’m not special; everyone can tap the deep well of creativity and joy.

If we spend all of our time on social media, or obsessively surfing the Internet, or listening to talking heads expounding on the news, we won’t go to the well. Then we’ll be empty and angry.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you don’t know what your third big thing is, try to find it. And if you think you have fifty big things, maybe take a look at them. It could be one of them should be big, and the rest should be small.

No matter our circumstances, we all have this miracle of a life. Let’s not waste it. Let’s be the best people we can possibly be. The time we have is too precious to do otherwise.

July 10, 2016
Lost In The Underbrush

Last weekend, I found myself at a point in my manuscript that’s, sadly, very familiar. I have found myself in the exact same place in all of the other books I’ve written (whether published or unpublished).

I realized I didn’t know where the hell I was going.

Until then, I had THOUGHT I knew where I was going.

I was sure I had a plan. An outline, if you will.

I thought I’d put in all the footsteps and building blocks and whatnot to get to my destination.

I thought I saw the destination, and was working towards it.

But, somehow, someway, I’d gotten lost in the underbrush.

And I didn’t know where the hell I was.

In fact, I looked up from my manuscript last weekend and realized I wasn’t going anywhere. I was just spinning around in a circle with no real objective in sight.

So what happened?

I think part of it was, even though I’d thought I had planned where I was going, I really hadn’t. I had a vague idea in mind of where I wanted to end up. I was writing in a general direction, not with a specific objective.

Which is fine if you never want to get anywhere.

Upon further reflection, I was relieved to see that the words I’d written, the threads I’d created, were still good. The story was there, I could see the outline (heh!) of the path I wanted to take. But it was overgrown with shrubs that needed to be trimmed or replanted.

Actually, that’s not too bad. I need to take what is already there, and shape it up. Get those wild shrubs under control. But the ground itself is good, and the plants are healthy.

When I’ve run into this problem before, it’s often been a wee bit more challenging. Sometimes there’s a problem with the garden itself. The path I’m walking isn’t right. The plants are sickly. Then everything needs to be moved or scrapped completely.

Sometimes I think the problem is the garden, the base of the story. I throw everything away, when all I really needed to do was weed.

And isn’t this a little like life? Or my life anyway.

We think we’re on a path, we think we can see it, we think we’re following it, we think we’re good.

And then we realize we don’t know where the hell we are.

We’ve gotten lost in the underbrush, or distracted by the pretty flowers, or fallen asleep under a tree.

Maybe the path is basically good, and it’s just covered with weeds. Then all we need to do is clean it up so we can see it clearly again.

Maybe the path is bad. Then we need to lay the course for a new one and move.

In both cases, some of the plants growing along the way might need to be discarded. Some might just need to be pruned or moved to a different place. But we can’t assume that we should throw everything away simply because we’re lost.

Things we’ve done, people we’ve known, places we’ve been – these are all the words in the stories of our lives. Maybe we’ve lost our way to our destination, maybe we need to weed our path a little, maybe we need to change where our story is heading, but we can’t discount or discard the experiences we’ve had along the way just because we don’t know where the hell we are.

Fortunately, I didn’t immediately trash my entire manuscript. I could have. I could have thrown it all away in disgust, thinking it was worthless. I certainly have done that in the past. But I stopped, and evaluated the situation first. (which is a bit of a miracle).

Then, this time, for this book, I saw that the story was there, waiting for me to find it again.

July 3, 2016